estepheia
NC-17 Angel/Spike
Angel is a corrupt cop whose life is at rock bottom
when he catches a thief in his home.
warnings for non-con; dark tone, but Spike comes out of it alive and safe
See Disclaimer of Ownership here
Panting harshly, his cock slowly softening in Spike's ass, Angel hung draped over the shaking body of his prisoner trying to piece together something resembling coherent thought. He'd been had, he was certain of it. Cheated out of hearing his prisoner beg and shout and whimper. Worse, Spike's speedy climax had cheated him out of shoving the dildo deeply into his prisoner's throat and riding the convulsions of Spike's body as he gagged around the plastic cock.
And yet, Blondie had only done what Angel had ordered him to do. Fuck!
Angel sniffed. They were both more than rank, covered in shiny sheen of sweat. There was no point in demanding that Spike pay for his shower; if he dug his heels in, Angel would be stuck with the stench.
Stubborn little shit! But his ass was to die for.
"Next time you don't come unless I tell you to, is that clear?" Angel said in a sour tone, as he shoved his hand-cuffed prisoner under the running shower.
Spike nodded meekly, careful to hide every trace of his glee.
Fifteen hundred and fifty.
It didn't matter that the water was stone cold.
And that's how things went for the next few days.
Spike spent most of his hours cuffed to Angel's bed, unless he had to use the bathroom or unless Angel told him to shower. He even ate there, sad, unappealing meals that still beat prison chow by a mile.
Once, Angel ordered him to clean the bathroom with a toothbrush. Spike didn't mind. Apparently, that took most of the fun out of the punishment, because Angel invented no more tasks along those lines. Instead, he used his prisoner three or four times a day. On top of his considerable sexual appetite and kinky imagination, the bastard also had frightening stamina.
Every evening Spike turned his back on Angel's half of the bed, even though it meant facing the huge mirror that covered the wall on his side of the bed. Every evening he stared at the spider web of cracks in the glass and at the one long fracture that zigzagged down like a jagged dagger and cut his reflection in half. He tried not to think about Tara and home, and about whether he still had a job if—no, when he finally made it out of here. He held on to the slow countdown instead:
Fourteen hundred. Twelve fifty. One grand. Nine hundred….
Snakes and Ladders, that's all it was, Spike reminded himself, before squeezing his eyes shut and forcing himself to sleep.
In the mornings Spike always woke with a flinch, cuffs rattling. Pulse hammering in his throat, he'd watch a faint hue of peach crawl into the bedroom from the balcony door, while listening to Angel's even, untroubled breathing behind him. Waiting for the man to shove his morning hard-on up his ass.
"Say you want me to fuck you," Angel said one morning, pushing slick fingers into Spike's body, hitting the prostate with every thrust.
"I want you to fuck me," Spike said promptly – in his most bored voice.
"Again, with more enthusiasm," Angel commanded, smacking Spike's backside with his palm.
"Please, fuck me," Spike said, managing to sound even less convincing, more like an illiterate actor trying to rehearse a porn script. He knew Angel was watching his face in the mirror and tried to keep his smirk under lock and key.
Angel did not ask again.
However, it turned out he owned an impressive collection of floggers and paddles and with them he proceeded to make Spike gasp and whimper. But he never got him to beg, either way.
The only time they ever talked was when Angel gave orders or when he said how he wanted it. Sometimes they haggled. A few times Angel tried to strike up a conversation, about the penal system, Spike's time in prison, even hockey. Spike's answers were always curt, closed off.
At the time of his son's match in another part of town, Angel sat on his prisoner's chest and fucked his mouth for almost an hour, sometimes in slow shallow thrusts, sometimes slamming deep into his throat. Every time Spike gagged, his whole body arching and bucking underneath Angel's weight, Angel felt like a bull rider. Afterwards Angel jerked off, giving Spike a pearl necklace to go with his prong collar, but he still felt restless, dissatisfied. He dug out his biggest toy, a dildo over two inches thick, slicked it up and slowly and meticulously fucked his whore with that, concentrating on his task, never wasting a thought on innings and batting scores.
It soon got him hard again. He left he toy inside, and fucked Spike's throat again. This time he made him swallow.
Afterwards, he un-cuffed Spike's right hand. "You can get off now," he said, pouring himself a stiff drink. "Take out the toy, if you want."
He watched Spike fumble with the strap of the cock ring. The thing was difficult to remove one-handed, but Angel felt no compunction to help. With visible relief, Spike freed his boner. Then he grabbed the dildo and gingerly pulled it out and placed both objects on the towel Angel had placed on the bed.
"You want to watch me beat off it's gonna cost you," Spike said.
Feeling cheated, Angel chained him up again and headed off to take a shower.
On the fourth day, Angel finally caved and asked something he'd wondered about ever since spotting the silver wedding band on Spike's hand.
"How long have you been married?"
Spike frowned but did not reply.
"Do you have kids?"
"You gonna fuck me, or what?" Spike lay on his back, thighs parted, a bored look on his face, while Angel knelt between his legs.
"I asked you something," Angel said calmly, as he rolled the condom over his cock.
"And I didn't answer. 'S none of your business."
"What if I pay you?" Angel asked, smiling. He squirted a dollop of Astroglide on his palm and began to slick himself up. "Twenty bucks. And another twenty for the name of your wife." At this rate their whole arrangement would be over sooner, so Angel was actually depriving himself, but hey, if a waitress kept his coffee cup full he'd tip her too. Good money for good services rendered, that was his motto.
Spike glowered at him. "You wanna put it to me? Fine. Go on, give it to me. But you don't get the buddy number or the boyfriend experience. Fuck me, or don't. But stay out of my head."
Angel froze. "You ungrateful son-of-a-bitch. I'm offering you an easy way to work off some of your debt and you throw it in my face."
"So sue me."
Blood was thundering in his ears, pounding in his veins, his cock. Before he knew it, Angel had yanked Spike's thighs apart, and aligned his cock. With an angry, balls-deep thrust, Angel slammed inside, eliciting a yelp. It was the first time he took Spike without preparing him first.
Later, after he'd rolled off and tossed the used condom into the trash, Angel was silent for a long time.
His prisoner still lay on his back, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Occasionally his body was rocked by something that could have been a sob. His wrists were still cuffed to the headboard, but he had some freedom of movement, enough to cover his eyes with his right upper arm.
Angel was aware that his prisoner hadn't been hard once during that last fuck. Which was okay, after all this… thing wasn't about Spike getting his rocks off, it was about Spike paying back his debt to society.
Still, maybe it was better if this thing, this tryst, came to an end soon….
"Have you ever been fisted?" Angel asked conversationally.
The supine body flinched. Sheets rustled, as knees were hastily drawn up, until the man lay curled in a fetal position.
The sight of his prisoner's fear sent a stab of arousal to Angel's groin. It also annoyed him. Didn't Spike know that he could trust Angel to be careful?
"Three hundred," Angel said, knowing that this would bring Spike's debt down to nil.
"No," his prisoner snapped.
"I don't mean now," Angel said hastily. "Tomorrow. Think about it."
"The answer's 'no.'" Spike shifted, uncurled, getting ready to put up a fight. "Christ, don't you ever get enough?"
Their eyes met.
'I could force you,' Angel almost said, but the words got stuck in his throat.
'I'll fight you, if you do,' Spike's gaze seemed to say.
"What makes you think you've got a choice?" Angel said slowly.
"I'm your whore, not your slave. You gonna play by your own rules or not?" Spike challenged him.
"I just thought you'd be in a hurry to get out." Angel shrugged, deliberately turning away. He'd just have to find something else to keep this interesting.
go back to the last chapter
go back to the story’s index
Browse more fiction
Enjoy this fic?
Leave the author a comment on their fic site
Plagiarizing fanfiction or reposting without permission is bad. No, really.