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
It was still dark when Spike woke up drenched in sweat. Claustrophobic alleys, police sirens, insurmountable walls – the nightmare faded fast, and the relentless staccato of footsteps that still rang in his ears turned out to be his own heartbeat. Two memories stayed crystal-clear though: the heavy hand on his shoulder, forcing him to his knees, and the cold pressure of a gun barrel against his head.
Spike recoiled when a hand shook his shoulder.
"Just a dream," a slurred voice came out of the dark, carrying an irritated note. "Go back to sleep." The hand was withdrawn. Moments later, Spike heard even breathing. Angel was asleep again.
Spike stared into the dark, his heart battering his chest like an out-of-control animal trying to smash its cage, unable to go back to sleep.
Three hundred.
Thanks to the detective, Spike had learned more about prices for sexual favors than he'd ever wanted to know. Apparently there were places where a man could get a suck and swallow for five bucks and a pack of smokes. There were sixty suck and swallows in three hundred bucks. Sixty! Still, better than getting that man's huge fist rammed up his arse. Spike shuddered. Anything had to be better than that.
Spike knew one thing for sure. If he ever got out of here he'd never look at crack-whores quite the same way again.
The question was, did Angel accept 'no' for an answer? And once Spike had worked off his 'debt' – would Angel keep his word?
There were times when Spike was convinced that no matter what he did, he'd wind up as another 11-44, discovered in some back alley dumpster by your typical street bum scavenging for cans. For the cops he'd be just a dead ex-con hustler killed by his John, but what about Tara? The thought that she'd have to ID his autopsied remains in the morgue made Spike's stomach churn.
After lying awake for what seemed like hours, his eyes finally drifted shut.
Spike woke in an empty bed, but he wasn't alone.
Angel sat, fully dressed, less than two yards away, in the room's only armchair, watching him, his expression inscrutable. The gun lay in his lap, still snug in its holster. Judging by the amount of sunlight in the room, it had to be mid-morning, but in spite of the early hour there was a drink in the detective's left hand, and alcohol on his breath. There was no telling for how long he'd been watching Spike sleep.
"I'd make it good," Angel said, balling his right hand to a fist and studying it from various angles.
"No." Spike was suddenly wide-awake.
"I was hoping you'd draw a line at that," Angel said, smiling. "Because now we get to play a little game, you and I."
"What game?"
"Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't know what you're doing? That you're holding back, trying to shortchange me?"
Spike's heart sank.
"Don't get me wrong," Angel continued amiably. "It takes guts to cross me, and I admire that in a man, but surely you know by now that I'm holding all the aces." He patted the gun in his lap.
"What game?" Spike repeated.
"You see, when you broke in here, you didn't just break the law; you crossed a line. You showed your disrespect – for society and for me. If you don't respect me, how can I trust you to behave, once I let you go? And how can I respect you, and the lines you draw?"
Angel paused.
"Stop pussyfootin' around," Spike spat. "Just say it."
"Respect my rules, and I'll respect yours."
"'Do as you're told, or get fisted,'" Spike translated, feeling faint.
"I see we understand each other."
Angel leaned forward and unlocked one of the cuffs long enough to free him from the bed and to remove the bandages from his injured wrists, then chained his wrists in front of his body, giving him the freedom to manipulate objects like the faucets in the bath or the shower head.
Then Angel wound a chain around Spike's ankles, reducing his movements to an undignified shuffle. It was one of his standard precautions before allowing Spike to use the bathroom.
"Get yourself cleaned up. In and out."
Spike got up.
"Oh and don't even think about jerking off in there. Until this is over you only come when I tell you to."
By the time Spike returned from the bathroom, fresh and clean, hair hanging in damp curls, Angel was done with his preparations. He'd cleared the surface of the bedside table, and laid out a selection of dildos in a neat row. Condoms, lube, and latex gloves were also in easy reach. His heart was racing and his dick was already stirring with anticipation.
Spike's step faltered at the sight of the toys, but he said nothing. Good.
Angel pointed at a spot on the floor in front of the bed. "Kneel."
Spike shuffled to the appointed spot and slowly sank to his knees.
"Put those on. Tight." A black leather strap lay on the bed, together with two small metal objects that were connected by a thin chain. A cock ring and nipple clamps.
Hampered not just by the cuffs but also by obvious inexperience, his prisoner fumbled with the spring-loaded clamps, opening and closing the little metal jaws to get a feel for them. His expression was one of thinly veiled nervousness.
"Play with your nipples first," Angel demanded, slowly rubbing his swelling cock through the fabric of his pants.
Spike shot him an angry glance, but he did as he was told. He moistened his index finger with saliva, then circled the dusky nubs with his fingernail, scratching and tweaking them. They puckered into perky little cherry pips, as though eager for the clamp.
Spike winced when the first clamp bit into his sensitized flesh. Angel grinned, knowing that the clamps had quite a bite – not that he'd tried them on himself. Now the second clamp, yes. Angel could feel his cock grow heavy and hard in his grip.
Spike sat for moment, regarding the new additions to his chest with distaste, before he gave the chain a tentative tug. Satisfied that the clamps were holding he reached for the leather strap.
After less than a minute he was done and let his hands sink, palms flat on his thighs, the chain strung tight between his wrists, cutting across his soft dick. With the metal prod collar round his long neck and the thin chain round his ankles, Spike looked like a fetish photographer's wet dream. Especially with the tiny beads of water that occasionally dripped from his wet hair to paint wet streaks across his evenly tanned torso.
Angel swallowed, rock-hard, a tight sensation in his nuts that was bordering on painful. He stood up. A black scarf dangled from his left hand, long enough to trail over the impeccably white carpet. With sure, economic movements he tied the scarf around his prisoner's head, blindfolding him.
"Stay where you are."
He heard Angel head downstairs, a jaunty spring in his step. About five minutes later, five minutes that Spike spent cursing inwardly in order to keep himself from trembling with apprehension, Angel came back up, lugging something up the stairs. The twin snap of locks opening identified the object as some kind of case.
Humming, Angel fiddled with the contents, but Spike couldn't for the life of him identify what those were, until finally he heard the tell-tale clickety-click of a shutter opening and closing.
What the—? Pictures. The bastard was taking pictures.
"Sit still!" Angel snapped.
Rules. Spike quickly lowered his head, snapping back into his submissive pose. Just another hoop to jump. What was one more humiliation compared to what had already been done to him?
More clickety-clicks. Then: "Touch yourself. Stroke your cock. Get it hard."
Spike did not hesitate. The handcuffs rattled lightly with each upward and downward movement. After just a few practiced strokes, blood welled into his dick, causing it to rapidly swell and harden. The snug leather strap that had been a mild nuisance until now, made itself felt, tight and slightly chafing. Also, with each passing moment the clamps were getting more uncomfortable.
The blindfold was a double-edged thing. Frightening, because Spike couldn't see what was coming, and soothing, because it made hiding inside his own head easier. He could just turn on the porn reels in his head, summon memories without too much distraction. He wondered if Angel was aware of that and whether Angel had ever allowed anyone to blindfold him. Probably not. The man was a fucking control-freak. No wonder his wife had upped and left.
Spike tried to ignore the circumstances he was in. Instead he concentrated on keeping his strokes slow and even.
Downstairs the doorbell rang.
Spike's hand stilled. A groceries delivery? Dominoes? A sexy next door neighbor asking for a cup of coffee?
"Who said you could stop? Keep moving," Angel demanded, no longer taking pictures. "Keep it hard." Spike heard him set down the camera, and then his self-appointed prison-warden hurried down the stairs.
Spike resumed stroking, but in a slower rhythm, as he listened avidly to Angel answering the door.
He was intensely aware of the plush carpet under his bare knees, and the insistent pinch on his swollen nipples. Without sight, every other sensation seemed so much more intense. The blindfold was so tight, that the fabric exerted a dull pressure against his eyeballs, making all eye-movements kind of scraping. The room was warm, yet Spike could not repress a shiver when wetness from his hair trickled down his spine. His heels dug into his butt, but at least he wasn't sitting on a plug this time. Although that was probably going to change. Angel sure liked his toys.
Voices drifted up the staircase, too low to make out individual words. The front door was shut, but the muted conversation continued. A visitor? Police? Should Spike yell? Bring attention to himself?
Yeah. And be found in this humiliating situation. Brilliant plan. Spike found himself going soft at the thought, which was no good. Luckily, the cock ring kept him from going completely limp. Angel was only looking for an excuse to get his way. Of course that thought didn't help matters either. Spike squeezed harder, desperately trying to coax himself back to full hardness.
Angel's heavy tread pounded up the winding staircase, followed by lighter footsteps.
Oh shit, Angel was bringing his visitor upstairs!
Spike swallowed, fighting down a surge of panic. Shame washed over him like a hot gust of wind. He had to hand it to the bastard, Angel sure knew how to rub salt into open wounds.
The carpet muffled their footsteps, but Spike knew Angel and his visitor had stopped beside him. He could sense their proximity in his gut, on an instinctual level that had nothing to do with the conscious interpretation of sound and smell and body heat.
Spike flinched when a warm, dry hand lightly touched his shoulder.
"Hey man, you sure he wants this?" A male voice spoke up. A good voice, Spike thought, young, with a twinge of genuine concern. "He seems kinda, I dunno…" The voice petered off uncertainly.
"He's just nervous," Angel dismissed the question. "You know how it is, you talk about this kind of thing beforehand, how you want to play the scene, but when it's time to go through with it…." Angel chuckled. "Don't worry. He'll be fine once we get started."
So now Angel was letting his buddies use him? 'Fine' wasn't quite the word Spike would have used.
"Tell him, Spike," Angel said, laying a heavy hand on Spike's shoulder, "Tell Charlie that you're a happy camper."
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