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The Silken Cage: Journey	By : margotlefaye Category: -Buffy the Vampire Slayer > Het - Male/Female > Angel(us)/Buffy > Angel(us)/Buffy Views: 21206 -:- Recommendations : 3 -:- Currently Reading : 6
Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel or any of the characters therefrom. No profit is being made from this work of fanfic, which is intended as commentary on the original, not as a derivative work. No infringement intended.

Chapter List
- 1-The Silken Cage: Journey
- 2-Part 2
- 3-Part 3
- 4-Part 4
- 5-Part 5
- 6-Part 6
- 7-Part 7
- 8-Part 8
- 9-Part 9
- 10-Part 10
- 11-Part 11
- 12-Part 12
- 13-Part 13
- 14-Part 14
- 15-Part 15a
- 16-Part 15b
- 17-Part 16
- 18-Part 17
- 19-Part 18
- 20-Part 19
- 21-Part 20
- 22-Part 21
- 23-Part 22a
- 24-Part 22b
- 25-Part 23
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She fell asleep again almost immediately, her mind worn out by all that had happened, her body worn out by his repeated ravishment and the significant loss of blood. Her Slayer's recuperative powers ensured that she would heal quickly, but she hadn't had enough time to regain her full strength. And she knew that Angelus' own strength, greatly augmented by her gift of blood to him when he had still been Angel, was now further enhanced. She couldn't deal with the ramifications of that, right now. Sleep was so much easier, so much more inviting...

Angelus stared down at the girl huddled on the bed. Bruised-looking shadows marred the skin beneath her eyes; her mouth was drawn and tight. Even in sleep, she suffered because of him. The demon in him was deeply satisfied by that. She gave him so much, the pleasure of her body, the nourishment of her blood, the delight of her despair. It was only fair that he give her something in return. What a pity he hadn't thought to do this last year. Tormenting Spike with Dru had paled so quickly, in a way that tormenting Buffy never would. Well, waking Acathla had seemed a better idea, and he had her now, so there was no cause to regret the past. He had plans for the Slayer, his Slayer, plans to keep her with him for years, human…and eternally after that. He smiled at the thought, as he began to dress.

This time when she woke, the smell of the sea was overlain with something else.

"Wakey, wakey, lover," Angelus taunted. He was wearing leather pants and one of the silk shirts he favored, this one as black as his nature. "Time to eat. Gotta keep up your strength, you know." Buffy used her still-bound hands to lever herself into a sitting position on the bed.

"What do you want?" she asked tiredly.

He didn't answer, but lifted her, still wrapped in the thin bedcover, and carried her to a chair near the cabin's one small table. He settled her onto his lap and reached over her to grab something from the table. He brought back a deep ceramic spoon, the kind used in Chinese and Japanese restaurants. It was full of some light, warm aromatic liquid. He held it to her lips. She turned her head away. "I can feed myself," she said quietly.

"Not with your hands bound, lover, and what do you think the chances are of my letting you go?"

She turned back to him, her eyes sparking with defiance. "Wrong question. I know what those chances are: none. The real question is, why am I here at all?"

"And the answer to that ought to be obvious as well. Open your mouth."

"I--" He shut her up by tilting the warm broth past her lips as soon as she attempted to speak. Buffy swallowed. Whatever he was feeding her, it was good. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. But this was too intimate, the way she was seated on his lap, like a baby, while he spoon-fed her. It was a travesty of what a lover might do, what Angel might have done had she been weak and needed care.

"Please," she said with as much dignity as she could. "Let me feed myself."

"No," he said bluntly, holding another spoonful of broth to her lips. She was hungry, and of all the battles that remained to be fought with him, this seemed the least important. Buffy opened her mouth. He fed her slow, delicate spoonfuls. The broth had long, thin noodles, and thin slices of vegetables in it, as well as a few pieces of fish. It was tasty, and filling, better than she might have expected. She didn't struggle again.

Her mind was working, though. The soup he was feeding her and the spoon he used were a giveaway. Wherever this freighter was bound, it was crewed by men from the orient. She stole a glance over her shoulder at the small table. The bowl from which he fed her was ceramic, glazed a plain earth-toned green. She'd bet Japan or Korea rather than China, but she was too unfamiliar with other Asian countries to know if perhaps there were further clues she had overlooked. Would it matter? Were Japanese or Chinese crewmen any more likely to speak English than their Korean or Vietnamese counterparts? Would she even be able to get to them, to get the help she needed? More important, were they Angelus' unwitting dupes, or his knowing allies? That alone might make the difference between fighting Angelus here or waiting until they docked. Too many unanswered questions. She had to learn more before she could effectively plan.

She conscientiously finished the soup. Why disdain the nourishment? She would, indeed, have to keep her strength up, and not simply so he could drain it from her by taking her blood and rousing her passion. She would need all the strength she could muster if she was going to get the upper hand over him.

After she was finished, Angelus carefully blotted her mouth with a napkin, and carried her to a small door at one end of the room. Her slight weight didn’t inconvenience him. He easily opened the door, and set her on her feet inside a tiny bathroom.

"Clean up and get dressed. I put out fresh clothes for you on the commode by the sink."

Silently she held out her wrists. He quirked an eyebrow. Exasperated, she demanded, "How am I supposed to do anything with my hands still bound?"

"You'll manage," he said with that smug grin she hated. "You always were the clever one, Buff. You'll figure it out." At least he gave her privacy by pulling the door shut. She noticed that there was no lock.

She did manage. Awkwardly, but thoroughly. She used the facilities, washed her hands, brushed her teeth and managed to get a hairbrush through her tangled mane. She eyed the narrow shower thoughtfully. She'd showered before she had gone to the Bronze the night before. Though it seemed a lifetime ago, it was less than a day. While a shower was an appealing thought, it wasn't an absolute necessity, yet. The idea of having to put up with wet silk confining her wrists, however, was about as unappealing a scenario as she could come up with. She decided that until Angelus undid her bonds, he would just have to put up with a less-than-squeaky-clean Buffy.

She turned her attention to the clothes. The panties were a gossamer thin rose-pink silk. Not rayon or nylon, and not a synthetic. Though there were no labels she could see, Buffy knew the difference. She stepped into them and managed to drag them up her hips, one side at a time. They were cool and soft against her flesh, almost like Angelus' touch. She shivered, turning to the next garment. The half-slip was the same fabric and color. She dragged that on as well. There were no stockings, but she frequently went barelegged, though usually in the summer, rather than the fall. Buffy picked up the last garment. A dress. How Angelus expected her to get into that with her hands tied…

It was strapless, she saw. There was a boned bodice, a sweetheart neckline, and elasticized shirring in the back to hold the dress in place. She merely had to slip it over her head and slide it down. Trust Angelus to pick a garment that wouldn't inconvenience his attempts to keep her prisoner.

More rose-pink silk, this time a heavier fabric weight, but still soft and supple, in the same shade as the undergarments. Yards of it softly gathered to form a bell-shaped skirt. There was only a tiny mirror in the cabin, barely enough to show her head and shoulders. But she knew the color suited her, and that the dress flattered her. Angelus had an artist's eye, after all. Profligate bastard, Buffy thought bitterly. She knew how expensive silk was. His providing her with such costly things reinforced what she suspected. His plans for her were long term. At least, she was in no immediate danger of death, unless she provoked him. She didn't feel particularly reassured by this revelation. Angelus was twisted, dark, evil. Torture was not merely a useful way of dealing with enemies; it was a pastime he had raised to an art form. That the torture to which he intended to subject her was sensual didn't mean that he would shy away from physical brutality if the whim moved him. Buffy shivered anew. When she struck out at him, she had better be sure to take him out on the first blow.

That she would strike was a given. He was the most vicious creature she had ever met, and she couldn't afford to remain at his mercy. Nor could she afford to let him escape again, to destroy more innocents, to cut another path of destruction through another part of the world. She had lost last night. She didn't dare lose again.

Buffy pried open the door, leaving the covers on the floor of the cabin. If he wasn't going to make things easy on her, she'd be damned if she went out of her way to make things easy on him. He looked up from where he was sitting by the table and stared at her, a slow, unpleasant smile crossing his face. Buffy's heart sank. The hunger in his eyes was blatant. She might find herself undressed again in moments. She took a step backward. His eyes narrowed and the smile disappeared.

"Come here," he demanded. Buffy said nothing, and remained unmoving. Her options were limited, but she wouldn't simply let him walk all over her.

"You don't want to make me ask again," he warned her, his voice velvet with threat. That pleasant, caressing voice terrified her. The demon before her was mercurial and unpredictable. He had her at a disadvantage, and if she wanted to live long enough to kill him she shouldn't press her luck. Pick your battles, she reminded herself. She took a step forward. Slowly. Lingering was the only defiance she could allow herself.

In the long run, it didn't matter. The cabin was small, the chair in which he sat only a few feet from the door of the bathroom. It only took a few steps for her to reach him, and for him to pull her back onto his lap.

His mouth claimed hers even as one cool hand went around her shoulders to hold her close. The other slid up her ribs and over the bodice of the dress, to slip below the so-convenient neckline and reach for one full breast. Buffy was deeply ashamed that her nipple hardened instantly beneath his hand...and that moisture began to gather between her thighs. But she couldn't stop her response.

He deepened the kiss, forcing her mouth open, his invading tongue drinking down the taste of her. Angel's mouth, Angel's taste, Angel's kisses. More demanding, it was true. And if a kiss could be cruel, Angelus' was. But it was the mouth and the taste she had desired for three long years, being offered to her freely now. With nowhere to run on the open sea, she took the offering.

The hand fondling her breasts gave them a last affectionate squeeze and pulled out of her bodice…which he promptly tugged down so that her breasts were exposed. He broke off his ravishment of her mouth and bent his head to take one nipple between his lips. Buffy cried out, arching into him, pressing her breast further into the laving coolness. His tongue swirled over her nipple, eliciting another high, sweet cry.

Then his hand found another place to fondle, sliding up her naked thigh, beneath her skirt. He didn't bother to remover her panties, but stroked against the already damp scrap of fabric, caressing her womanhood through the silk. Buffy trembled in his arms.

He lifted his head from her breast, smirked down at her, and stood, carrying her to the bed.

"You taste so damned good, lover," he said huskily as he set her down on the mattress. He had deposited her toward the foot of the bed, so that her legs dangled off the side. He surprised her by not joining her. Instead, he knelt on the floor of the cabin, sliding both hands along her bare legs. Buffy looked at him questioningly, but she didn't have long to wait. "I could feast on you forever," he growled, pulling her legs slowly apart. He settled between them, moving the skirt and slip out of his way so that they were raised to her waist. He smiled at the expanse of bare flesh before him, and began to drop cool, lingering kisses from her tiny feet up her firm calves to her rounded thighs. Buffy began panting. Such cool kisses, such controlled passion. She knew what he wanted. She'd heard of this act, but it was something Angel and she had never gotten to share. Now, Angelus was going to be the one who initiated her into this particular form of lovemaking…

Lovemaking. Could she even call it that? Wasn't it just lust on his part? Loss and longing on hers? Whatever it was, her hatred for him wasn't enough to protect her from her desire for him.

She thought about pulling her legs out of his grasp, about defying him. But his grip on her limbs, though not painful, still revealed that he had indeed benefited from the draught of her blood that she had forced Angel to drink. She knew her limits. She knew without trying that she would be unable to break his grip, and she had no desire to anger him while she was still at such a disadvantage. Pick your battles, she repeated to herself. Her new mantra. But he had already chosen the battleground.

His lips lingered on her thighs, and he opened his mouth, licking and nipping by turns. It almost tickled. If he had been Angel, she would have been reduced to a giggling, writhing, wreck…would have begged him to stop, would have begged him to go on. He wasn't Angel. So she tried to stay still, to just let him do what he wanted and not let it affect her.

His battle. His weapons. His war.

He blew on the damp fabric covering her womanhood, and she whimpered at the chill touch of his breath on her sensitive nub. Her body did not care that he wasn't Angel. Her body recognized its mate. Her hips lifted to bring her core closer to the source of tantalizing sensation.

She heard his hateful laugh, before he blew a second time across the fabric. With a whimper, she bucked her hips upward once more.

"Buffy, Buffy, Buffy," he whispered. "So damned responsive, so damned wet and hot for me. You’re a banquet for me, flesh and blood of the most delectable kind…"

His mouth opened over the wet silk and Buffy found herself wailing. In moments, his saliva and her inner moisture had so thoroughly soaked the fabric that it was almost translucent. But it provided just a hint of smoothness against her aching little bud. His mouth and tongue worried the bit of flesh through the cloth until Buffy was mewling, mindless, thrashing on the bed in desperation to reach the pinnacle he had shown her before.

He wouldn't let her. His movements slowed down. He pulled back. She was weeping, despising herself for needing him so badly, she was on the verge of begging him to continue. But this time, she didn't have to endure that humiliation.

Angelus pulled away, but only so that he could drag the now useless panties from her hips and down her legs. Then he was back between her thighs, lifting her supple legs over his shoulders so that they lay against his back. He leaned in toward her again, his face a breath above her wet, open sex.

"Delicious…and you smell so fucking good." She gasped at his crudity, then gasped again as he fiercely sucked her little bud into his mouth.

There had never been anything like this. How could she have imagined anything like this? Cool, wet flesh…the feel of his lips and tongue. He was sucking on her like she was the sweetest drink he'd ever tasted and he didn't want to waste a drop. Buffy was sobbing, wanting to deny the utterly enchanting sensuality of this act, wanting to feel anything but the fire that curled in her belly and began to surge through all her limbs.

Her body denied there was anything wrong. Her hips lifted insistently towards him, her heels pressed along his back, her knees tightened about his head. Her body wanted to get closer to the cause of these sensations, and closer, until there was nothing between them, nothing separating Buffy from Angel…from Angelus…

Then he bit gently with blunt teeth and every nerve in her body danced in ecstasy,

"Angel!" the cry was wrenched from her, as her hips bucked against his mouth.

And suddenly everything changed. With a growl, he pulled away from her, cutting off the source of exquisite sensation and curtailing the orgasm she had begun to achieve.

But not for long.

"Not Angel, Buffy," he snarled, as he quickly undid his zipper and freed his hard cock. "Don't ever think I'm Angel." Despite her mewled protest, he pulled her thighs wider apart, dragging her to the edge of the bed. Still kneeling, he thrust forcefully inside her, renewing the climax of which she had been cheated. Helpless, she arched into him, meeting his thrust.

Her body was on fire, every sensation focused on her liquid, aching womb as he thrust into her, rubbing against tissues already stimulated to orgasm by the action of his tongue and teeth. Buffy clenched around him, helpless in the most intense climax he had yet given her. Her hips met his, matched his, accepting him ever deeper into her molten, shaking core.

So hot, so wet, so tight. Trembling, for him. Coming, for him. Not that wimpy cunt he had been forced to share this flesh with: for him, Angelus. It was his cock buried inside her, his prick making her writhe. His teeth and tongue and lips had brought her to orgasm and he would never let her forget that it had been he, Angelus, who had pleasured her, not a ghost.

Her sweet little sheath clamped around him, milking him. He could hold out, extend her pleasure, but why? Her cry had angered him. He was feeling selfish. He let himself come, instead, pouring his cold seed into her tight, clenching passage.

The feel of him pumping inside her, spilling his seed, deepened the satisfaction she felt, extending her own orgasm as she surged up against him, needing to be close to him, needing as much contact as she could get with him, despite the clothing that kept her from being skin-to-skin with him, as she desperately craved to be.

He liked her like this, wanton and needy. He wrapped his arms around her upper torso, pulling her closer, kissing her fiercely. His demon leapt free, and his fangs pressed roughly against her mouth, already bruised by his hungry kisses. A trickle of blood began to form on her ravaged lips, but he licked it away, greedy for every drop. It wasn't enough, but he didn't want to risk weakening her more than he already had.

He held onto her, kissing her, until the crises passed for both of them. Until the tension left her body and she was once more all yielding softness, too weakened by satisfaction to fight him or defy him. He broke the kiss, his demon retreating, and smiled down at her.

She looked dazed and sleepy; worn out once more by his virile attentions. How utterly delightful. He kissed her again, and let her go.
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The Silken Cage: Journey