Hurt Me

BY : Hopalong_Pendergrass
Category: -Buffy the Vampire Slayer > Threesomes/Moresomes
Dragon prints: 8100
Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I make no money off this piece of fiction, and no claim toward the characters therein. Any attempt at rehosting this in the purpose of making money is illegal.

Tags: BDSM, Dom/sub, Male-dominant, MF, MFF, MFFF, MFFFF, MFFFFF. B/X, B/W/X, B/W/K/X, B/W/K/C/X, B/W/K/C/F/X, X/D. Harem.

Warning: If you are a fan of Spike, Angel or Angelus, this is not for you. Complaining about the pairings or relationships in this is stupid, because I don't go read Spuffy or Bangel fics and whine about the pairings there. My ship is no less weird or bad than yours. Just walk away and read the gajillion Spuffy or Bangel or Bangelus fics out there. I'm sure you can hit a few thousand by tossing a rock randomly at the Internet.

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1

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So Xander had started fucking her.

A lot.

It started the same night she'd crashed and burned their friendship like a Nascar racer, a few hours after she'd minxed it up on him at the Bronze in order to make Angel jealous. It hadn't worked. For one thing, Angel had just been angry and upset with her, and Xander...

They'd dropped off Willow first. After that she was supposed to take Xander home, too, and then head home to her house. That was the plan. They'd done it a hundred times before.

Instead, when they reached his house she idly noted that there was no car, and the house was dark. Xander shrugged, his face still pinched in cold anger. “Probably over at Rory's. Dad got his paycheck yesterday, so they'd be drinking most of it. Usually they're not back until Sunday, times like this.”

She fidgeted awkwardly. He'd barely spoken to her after the little dance routine, and when he did it was just to answer any questions. “O-oh. Okay. I'll...”

She made to leave, but found her wrist encircled in an iron grip. Turning, she found that Xander's eyes, always dark but now burning black, were fixed on her. “Where d'you think you're going?”

“H-home?” She hated that it came out so frail. Hell, why wasn't she just yanking her hand free? Not like he could stop her. She could tie him in a knot. Except...

He tilted his head. “I think you owe me a bit more than that.”

She shivered. Something about the way he said it lit a fire in her stomach that she wanted to ignore, wanted to claim was nothing, because this was Xander, not Angel. She loved Angel. He was the love of her life.

Really? Is that what he is?

Yes! She wasn't...she wouldn't react like that to Xander. At all.

So why aren't you pulling away?

She didn't have an answer to that.

Nor when he dragged her into the house and up to his room, pushed her onto his bed and told her to get undressed.

And she did.

 

It was strange, like someone else was in control of her, and yet she knew for a fact this was all her, that she could walk away any time. But she didn't. Instead she unbuttoned her pants and pulled off her top, unhooked her bra and removed her panties and socks.

When she looked back, he was naked as well.

Funny thing, she'd expected him to have a hard-on. An erection. But his penis – and good God, that thing was big – wasn't even twitching. She shivered again, and only partly because of the cool air in the room.

He sat down on the side of the bed, and motioned for her to get up. She did, and wondered why. Why she turned obediently when he twirled his hand around, why she obeyed when he told her to lie down on his lap with her butt up in the air.

 

The first swat was hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. Too hard to be the flat of his hand. She twisted her head around and realized he had a table tennis racket, just as he brought it down again.

“A-ha-haow!”

“Two.”

WHAP!

“Owww!”

“Three.”

WHAP!

“YaaAAooww! X-Xander, p-please!”

He stopped. “Xander what?

She almost told him to stop. Almost tore herself loose, punched him out, grabbed her clothes and ran out. Almost. That way she could have pretended it wasn't her. That he made her, and that she only almost did what she was about to do.

Instead she sobbed, and then whispered, “Puh-please...c-can I h-have another?”

He blinked. She'd always remember that as truth. That he'd blinked, taken aback.

And then he whacked her again.

And again.

And again.

Over and over and over until both of her buttocks were flaming red. And at some point her cries of pain became more throaty, raw, like groans and moans instead of yelps. Especially when he stopped, and started rubbing her tender, swollen pussy with his bare hand, lightly slapping it every now and then, causing flashes of pain mixed with something else.

Then he brought the fingers of that hand to her face and showed her the slick, oily dampness he'd gathered.

Then he fucked her mouth.

Hard.

 

There was no better way to describe it. He shoved her off his lap and pointed to his semi-erect penis. She stared at it blankly for several seconds before he grabbed her by the ponytail and yanked her head forward until her nostrils and mouth were both full of the musky scent of him and his cock.

It was even bigger now. Easily too big. And yet she obediently opened her mouth until her jaws ached, trying to fit it all in. The pain radiated from just under the cheekbones, and she suspected she'd pulled something, but then his cock was all the way in her throat, gagging her, driving all conscious thoughts out and leaving only panic, her arms flailing about.

It wasn't a blowjob. Not in the proper sense. Instead it was more like a forced invasion of her throat that left her snorting helplessly and drawing desperate breaths every time he allowed her the slightest give.

She could have stopped this.

But part of her stated outright that she deserved this. She'd earned it.

The strange part was that it wasn't wrong. Just not the way she'd expected. At some point she realized it was feeling like a...reward of some kind. A gift. Something that she had earned, a payment in what she wanted.

But...that couldn't be true. Could it? Was she – did she...like this? Even...want it?

At which point he pulled himself out of her throat, shoved her backwards onto the floor, flipped her over onto her belly and took her virginity.

 

There were no gentle caresses, like she'd fantasized with how she'd pictured it would be with Angel. No sweet strokes, no hazy vaselined lens work like in those late night movies she'd caught without her mother's knowledge.

Just this enormous hard cock tearing its way into her. If she'd had a hymen she would have screamed, but she'd been a cheerleader, so high kicks and jumps and splits had taken care of that obstruction years ago, if it had even existed. Instead his massive erection just slid right in, with plenty of her lubrication to grease the path.

She came right then and there, screaming in mixed pain and sinful pleasure.

No gentle caresses. No sweet lover words.

And yet she came so hard she felt a spray of her own cum exiting her and spattering across her thighs and probably the floor.

His face was next to her ear, and he growled. “You're dirty. A dirty girl.”

...and she came again, spasming like struck by lightning.

And then he started to thrust.

She was like a ragdoll on a spit, her nipples violently scraped into the rough carpet with each powerful thrust, her hands flailing behind her in some weird, uncoordinated attempt to do something useful with them. Every time he slammed into her cervix she came again, blubbering like a child and gibbering unintelligible crazy things because her tongue kept interfering with her speech.

 

By the time he emptied himself inside her for the last time she was a drooling, mindless shell, a thing, a vapid brainless jelly mould that only lived for the next orgasm, the sensation of his enormous cock hammering into her.

When he pulled out she was twitching, her pelvis still thrusting back in some kind of bizarre attempt at coaxing more out of him, and yet there was no Buffy there. Buffy had gone bye-bye some time ago. Her face was screwed up in moronic bliss, her eyes rolled up in stupefied ecstasy, her mascara smeared with tears and rugburn and sweat, her hair a crow's nest and her mouth swollen.

The thing that had been Buffy Summers let out a few grunting noises as it came down, slowly, and then blissfully fell asleep. She couldn't even claim to be herself until hours later when she finally woke up.

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She'd known the true meaning of the phrase 'walk of shame' that morning. When she woke up, he was gone. He hadn't said anything or woken her up, but her clothes were neatly folded on his chair, and a note told her to put the sheets in the nearby hamper.

She walked home bowlegged, her face beet red with shame and confusion and befuddled wonder. Her entire pelvic area felt like someone had applied a jackhammer to it, or a sandblaster. Raw and tender and very, very sore. Not to mention that she had considerable difficulty sitting down.

This wasn't her.

Was it?

Was this what she was? Was this what she wanted?

She was the Slayer. No mortal man could overpower her. She could wrestle demons and vampires, she sure as hell could push away some teenage boy.

But she hadn't. She'd taken it, and she'd...

...she'd enjoyed it. That was the worst (best) part. At no point had she felt anything but arousal coupled with the pain. No resentment, no anger, no hate, no fear.

Wait...

...no fear?

Holy... There hadn't been any. No fear. None whatsoever. She was the Slayer. No mortal man could overpower her. She hadn't been afraid. Not once. No matter what he did, he couldn't truly hurt her. Not without her permission.

She stopped. Stared at nothing for a few moments.

Not without her permission.

Then she turned around and stared at Xander's house, still not far from where she was standing.

Her cheeks turned red, and she smiled softly to herself before continuing home. Not particularly feeling any shame anymore, though still bowlegged.

 

Her mother had been angry, told her off. So she lied, said she'd been out all night but hadn't done anything else. In the end she was grounded for a week, and no TV or friends.

That was okay.

She kind of needed to heal up before 'hanging out with friends' again.

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The next couple of days were...hectic. Cordelia was taken, and used as bait. And while she ran off like a fool, they took the others.

When she returned, he just gave her a look of disdain that, to her great shame, made her panties wet. She was trembling by the time they reached the warehouse where they'd taken them.

Also, Angel kept looking at her oddly throughout it all.

Oh, Angel knew. Somehow, he knew. Whether it was smelling it off of her or Xander, or simply making the deduction from her body language, he knew.

She tried not to show it. To be subtle. But when Xander was near her, it was like her hands had a mind of their own, touching him, caressing when they could. As if her skin needed his touch somehow at all times when he was there. And when Xander just silently stared at her intensely after she returned from being fooled into chasing Cordelia, she'd felt herself grow wet. He hadn't even needed to speak, she just knew the next time they were truly alone together, he would show her the error of her ways.

Repeatedly. Thoroughly. Intimately.

So Angel had guessed. He looked...disappointed. And sad. And angry. But he said nothing.

He had no right to, in all honesty. She was no man's belonging. Not a prize to be won. What she did with Xander was...maybe others would think it sick or strange, but not to her. She'd never felt so free as when he'd...

Was that wrong? It didn't feel wrong. That was what scared her.

Can I have you?

She swallowed, stared at the hideous bones on the ground, and then yanked the sledgehammer away from Angel.

 

The scream was raw fury, anger, grief and pain, all the little pieces of her she usually hid away, and the first blow shattered the skull of the master to ashes. Whose Master? Not hers. Not. Hers.

She hammered away, screaming out her agony, her loathing, her self-hatred, until gentle hands plucked the hammer from her and soothed the pain away, stroking her hair, holding her close.

Warmth. The smell of cheap soap and detergent and deodorant and boy.

“It's okay. It's okay. It's okay. He's gone. He's all gone. You beat him.”

She wondered if it was okay that she didn't want to smell dead flesh against her, that this was so much better. The smell of a warm, living, breathing being. She burrowed into his chest, crying, letting out the last of it. For now. There would be other times. Times when she needed someone warm against her, someone to hold her, to let her breathe his scent.

And she said the words she knew she should have said months ago but had been too frightened to let out.

“...you can have me.”

His body stiffened against her, but he didn't stop stroking her hair or let her go. Then he relaxed again, and she felt his lips against her scalp, once more soothing the pain.

She saw the eyes of Willow, staring at them in horrified shock. Part of her wanted to blow a raspberry and say 'you snooze, you lose', but the rest of her opened an arm and waved at her to join in.

Soon, another body pressed against her and Xander. His arms were long and strong enough to embrace them both.

 

The conversation was...awkward. When Willow asked them, they told her the truth. Mostly. Sort of. They left out a few details they both seemed to feel was nobody's business.

When did this start?

About a day ago.

How serious is it?

...pretty serious.

Gasp! How could they?

How...how could they not?

Willow dropped the subject, seeming almost numb, and eventually went home. It was safe enough in this part of town, and she declined the offer when Buffy suggested she walk her.

That left her alone in her house with Xander.

Again.

He didn't...

...he didn't do anything, though. Part of her wanted him to. But somehow either he decided it was better left to the future or he wanted to tease her, because instead he just lay back on the couch, and pointed imperiously at his side. After a moment's confusion, she removed her shoes and crawled up next to him, laying down against him.

He stroked her hair again. Like she was a pet. His pet. The thought made her wet again. He seemed to sense it, and chuckled a little, causing her to blush profusely.

“I'm gonna have to have a talk one-on-one with her later. Make sure she understands.”

She blushed even deeper as her imagination immediately showed her imagery of Xander bending Willow over a table, giving the redhead a hard, powerful one-on-one 'talk', then Willow on the bed, taken from behind in the wrong hole, being made to 'understand'.

Hm. Okay. She...she kind of just realized she wanted him to have more than one. As long as she was the first. But there would be time for letting him know that later. He'd come around, with enough reason and logic. She had. Lots of reason and logic, over and over and over again.

“I, uh, I...I read some...stuff. After. About...how people make it work?” He sounded nervous, and she wanted to assure him there was nothing to worry about, he had her, she was his. The only Master she would ever acknowledge was him. And as she thought the M-word in that context for the first time, she came a little, shuddering against him.

Maybe he took it the wrong way, because he kissed the top of her head again, making her squirm and whine a little.

“They, uh, we need a safe...word? Yeah. A word we use when something isn't okay. Um. Like, I know I can't...I can't really make you do anything. Not if you don't want it. But you don't wanna hurt me, either, so maybe even though you should stop me, you'll hold back when I go too far? And, uh, to make sure that doesn't happen, we need a, uh, 'safe word'. Something that'll make me stop right then and there. Or vice versa.”

She couldn't help giggling. “O-okay. But y'know I can kick your butt, right?”

“I know. But, um, you shouldn't have to.” His hand slowly wandered downwards, cupping a breast briefly and brushing a finger against her rock-hard nipple. She shuddered again, her thighs rubbing against each other to keep her from leaking through her jeans. “So. Let's brainstorm. A good word, one we don't use often...like...Bonanza?”

Another giggle. “No. Angelcakes?”

Ugh. No. Tangerine.”

“Mmmmmhh...better. But no. Cinnamon.”

“...cinnamon?”

She felt his hand slowly meander down, moving in under her blouse and caressing her skin, then invading inside her denim jeans and under the strap of her panties. “Nnnnhhh...I like cinnamon.”

“Cinnamon it is. And you're wet.”

“Y-yeah.” She raised herself up on one elbow, looking into his eyes. There was only love, and a bit of fear, and confusion, and heartwarming trust. “Undress me...master?”

He bit his lower lip, and she wanted to come again right then and there because he looked so damn sexy doing that. “Sit up, slave. Straddle me.”

She grinned and obeyed him, making damned sure she straddled his pelvis. He was rock-hard beneath her. “Yes, master.”

“Raise your arms.” She did so, and he ran his fingers up to her sides, tickling her briefly before moving to unbutton it. Slowly. One. By. One. When her blouse fell open it was her time to bite her lip, slowly grinding against his pelvis. He smiled at her with amused warmth, and then slowly pulled the blouse up and over, freeing her of that particular prison. He folded it slowly, deliberately so, torturing her before putting it neatly on the coffee table. “Lie down. On me.”

She did so, and his hands stroked her back, causing her to almost draw blood from her own lip. Little shivers running through her as his hands made circular motions from her shoulders to her shoulder blades, down the sides of her spine to her lower back, then stopping just before reaching any further. Then his hands left her skin, causing her to whine impatiently again.

“A good slave endures. If you're a really good slave I might even use your name.”

Her breathing was like a bellows in her ears, heavy and ragged. Yes. Yes. Yes. He might use this slave's name. His fingers plucked at the clasp on her bra, undoing it.

“Sit up.”

She obeyed. The bra was also folded up, slowly. It occurred to her more rational mind that he was probably doing it that way to give himself time to think of what to do next. But she didn't care, because it was delicious, malicious torment to her. Here she was, upper half bare except for the cross around her neck. The one Angel gave her.

He didn't say anything at the sight of it. He just frowned a little, looking thoughtful. Then his hands danced down to her hips.

“Raise yourself.

She did so, and surprisingly skilled hands unbuttoned her fly, then slowly eased the hem of her jeans down. He didn't touch her panties, a pair of high-waisted ones that showed off her hips better. Instead he lightly pushed her back a little until she was seated on his upper legs, and pulled her feet up alongside his face.

He held her there for a moment, then began to pull her pants down towards him, a small tug at a time. Tug. Tug. Tug. She stared at his face, at all that concentration and focus on such a simple act.

All things come to an end, and so did her jeans. He folded them up neatly again, placed them on the table by the blouse and bra. Then he grabbed the scissors from the bowl on the table, the ones her mother used to cut out coupons and antique sales ads from the papers. He nodded back at her previous seat. “Sit.”

She scooted up, straddling his pelvis again. And then, snip, snip, her panties fell away, cut apart. She gasped in delighted outrage.

“I don't want to catch you wearing things like these again, slave.” He grinned at her, raised the panties to his face and sniffed the wet spot. “Ever. Not unless I gave them to you.”

“Y-yes, master.” Her grinding was getting desperate now, staining the front of his jeans.

“Up.” He waved the hand dismissively, and she obeyed while he put the scissors away. Then he stuffed the remains of her panties into his front left pocket, and unbuttoned his own fly.

Beneath her, it rose. It grazed against her nether lips, and she bit her lip again in anticipation. He placed one hand on her right hip, and the other around his cock, and then...

...started rubbing the tip against her vulva. Never penetrating, not more than a half inch at most. Sliding against her button, causing her to let out little moans each time. Her legs were trembling with the effort of keeping from just driving him into her, keeping herself from disobeying him.

He slowly stopped the torture, and held his manhood rigid and vertical beneath her. “You may sit, Buffy.”

 

Roughly half an hour later she was lying on top of him with the comforter draped across them, her pussy pleasantly and thoroughly fucked. So well that he was slowly shrinking while still inside her, because when he'd tried to pull out she'd held onto his waist with her thighs tightly, keeping him there. No condom this time either. Maybe they should start using them. The pill wasn't foolproof.

But then I wouldn't feel him inside me the same way. And it's worth the risk.

She felt herself warm up at the thought, and sighed. Everything about this was wrong in the eyes of society – they were 'too young', too 'immature', and yet it didn't feel wrong. It felt perfect.

Cinnamon was a good word. She liked cinnamon. The first doughnut he'd offered her during research had been cinnamon. Why had she forgotten that?

Also-

The door opened, and her mother stepped inside.

Stopped.

Stared.

Turned beet red in the face.

Turned around.

Closed the door.

Dropped her bags to the floor and stomped out into the kitchen, out of sight.

She stared at Xander in shock. “She – she wasn't supposed to be home until t-tomorrow!”

He swallowed. “Um...clothes?”

“Clothes!”

 

Getting dressed was very undignified and rushed, and they were blushing and fumbling all the way through it. About the point where Xander was fumbling with the buttons and trying to make the fabric reach across his chest, she realized he was trying to put on her blouse. She snorted with suppressed laughter. He looked up, puzzled, then down. “Aw, jeeze...”

Having switched shirts – though she paused to sniff his and give him a dark, lustful grin before handing it over – they finished dressing and made sure the couch wasn't stained. The wetness on the front of his jeans had dried, and didn't show, though her sensitive nose told her he'd have to wash those pronto or risk walking around smelling like her dried juices.

...not that she thought he'd mind. But they were both perverts now.

Her mother was whipping up pancake batter, looking so calm that it was a dead certainty she was furious. She also looked very much amused and trying desperately to keep it locked up. Her mother was a woman of many complexities.

“So.”

They blushed as if serially connected. Buffy glanced at Xander. “Um. Yeah.”

Joyce looked up, her eyes like burning coals, glaring straight at him. “From now on, even if you did before or not, you will never do that again without a condom. She's sixteen. I know you are too, which is why I'm not telling you two to stop. If you'd been older than her, this would have been a very different conversation, possibly with me holding a shotgun. But I'm thinking of both of you. You don't want to be a father at this age. Trust me on that.”

He nodded, pale as a ghost.

Heh. He might be her 'master', but even he obeyed She Who Ruled The Summers House without question.

“Second, you will come here for dinner whenever I'm home. I will want to meet your parents, though I gather from what little I've heard that this might not be the best experience. And the two of you are not allowed to sleep together in this house when I'm here. I know I can't stop you when I'm not, so I'm not going to make you make a promise I know you'll break.”

She slapped the frying pan onto the stove with a bit of a rattling bang, causing them both to jump. She switched the heat on and went to the refrigerator, taking out butter, maple syrup, canned whipped cream and the strawberry jam.

“Third, you two will strip the cushions from the couch and launder the seat covers. Tonight. And air the damn living room out, because it smells.”

Eager nods. So far they were getting off easy.

“Fourth, Buffy, you're grounded for another two weeks. When I'm home you will go straight home, no exceptions, no excuses. You will do your homework, and then be confined to your room. No television. No phone privileges unless phoned.” Joyce smirked. “That should cool the hormones a little.”

Her heart was sinking. No mas...Xander? No sex? But! “Y-yes mom.”

“Good. Now. Xander.” She turned the glare back on him in full fury. “If you ever hurt her, they will never find your body.”

Buffy glanced at him, and saw him swallow. “Y-yes Mrs Summers.”

“Call me Joyce. Please.” It wasn't a request.

“Yes, Mrs....J-Joyce.”

The anger melted away, and she grinned at him warmly. “Welcome to the family. How do you like your pancakes?”

He glanced at Buffy, and saw her little smile. He raised his gaze to her mother, looking suspiciously blank-faced. “I, um, really like cinnamon.”

Buffy let out a gigglesnort, shaking as she tried desperately to keep it down, especially when Joyce gave them both a confused look.

Oh, and as it turned out, cinnamon and maple syrup was a great combo.

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To Be Continued...



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