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secretary_fic ::hugs her hard:: They're here.
If you've been reading the fic, you'll know why she chose them, but, as chapter 37 is a long way back, here's a reminder of how that poem gained the significance it now has. Cut for length and smut. For those who haven't read it, just to set the scene, it's very early in their relationship, Faith is tied to the bed, and Wes has just finished reciting some poetry to her, in French, while doing other things with his mouth too. God, I love this Wesley. And, forgot to mention, this particular bit was written by the incrediblelovesbitca.
"I want you to come," she says, her voice quiet and resolute. "It's not fair if you don't get to come too." And anyway if he doesn't get inside her soon, she's going to dissolve into a sticky little puddle, which would be a bitch for him to get out of his 300 thread count sheets.
He places a lingering kiss on her syrupy cunt, his tongue delving deliciously for a few blissful seconds before he drags himself reluctantly away and pulls himself up. His lips glisten with her.
"Very well," he agrees and she can't quite work out the challenge that she's picking up in the mild tone of his voice. "Why don't you return the favor?"
If he's not going to fuck her, then he can bet that she's going to give him the mother of all blow jobs. Suck his soul right out of the end of his cock. Especially when he looks so pretty as he rocks back on his haunches and slowly begins to unbutton his shirt.
"So, did you have anything particular in mind? I'm sure I have a copy, I have a very extensive library."
What the fuck?
"I thought you wanted me to suck you off," she says indignantly, once again pulling at her bonds, until he raps his knuckles lightly against her knee.
"Delightful as that sounds, I don't know how you're going to manage that if you're reciting poetry," he points out.
The one poem that she could recite from memory begins with the line, There was a girl from Nantucket, which would be a bit of a buzz kill. Shit, the only books in their house are her mother's Harlequin romances and a car manual that her father left behind.
She can't do this. She's not like him and she's struggling properly now, against the ties that bind her. She's ruined it all again, simply by being Faith, by wanting to surprise him and earn one of those blinding, carefree smiles that he so rarely gifts her with. Like her blowjobs are that good anyway.
He pauses before pulling his shirt off his shoulders. His skin looks tanned and taut in the muted glow of the room and in any other circumstances, she's be eating him up with her eyes, cataloguing the sense memory so she could pull it out on a darker day. But now, she's turned her head away from him, angry tears spilling down her face.
"Faith," he begins carefully. "It was just a suggestion. There are a thousand and one other things we can do that involve me..."
And then she remembers it. Of course, she does. She had to spend three hours after Ms. Gernstein's English class memorizing it after she got a detention for lobbing spitballs at Buffy Summers' shiny blonde head. And after about one hour in, when she'd already committed the words to memory, she suddenly got what Ms. Gernstein had spent two years trying to drum into her and sat there in a daze, awed by the simple beauty of the words.
"I know… there is a poem I know," she interrupts in a small voice and he doesn't call her on it for once. "But you have to promise me that you won't read anything more into it, other than it's a really cool poem."
He looks ever so slightly pissed off. "I wouldn't dream of it," he says dryly. But his hands have stopped moving because she can kill a mood as quickly as she can type his letters.
"Wes?"
"Faith."
"Will you do two things for me first?"
He treats her to just the merest hint of a sigh. "You're being terribly demanding tonight. Very well. What would you like me to do?"
"Can you take the rest of your clothes off and, well, will you… you should kiss me."
The bastard just gives her a curt nod and then he's shifting off the bed and stepping into the shadows so she can only hear the chink of his belt buckle, the rasp of a zipper, rustling sounds as he strips off.
"I still don't get how you're going to come," she remarks, twitching slightly as he comes into view and presses his hands down on the bed by her feet, so she gets the faintest hint of a lean chest, the indentation of his hipbone.
He places his knee on the bed and begins a long, slow crawl over her body, his cock leaving a slick trail against her skin. "It's really not your problem," he assures her, pausing to place a hot, open-mouthed kiss on her nipple. "You just have to lie perfectly still and recite your poem."
His weight is heavy against her pelvis, as he straddles her. Too high for her to really feel the benefit of his cock where she needs it most and he's so hard that it's almost flat to his belly as he leans over and tickles the closed seam of her lips with his tongue.
She puts everything she is, everything she wants to be for him, in the kiss. Wishing her hands were free to hold her to him, wind her fingers through his hair and mess him up just a little bit. His tongue is sinuous in her mouth, stroking hers and she tugs his bottom lip between her teeth when she feels him begin to pull away, desperate to have him just a little bit longer.
He reaches behind him and she cries out as he swipes the flat of his hand against her still sensitive, still soaked cunt.
His hand is slathered with her juices and she frowns as he anoints the inner curve of her breasts with the sticky glaze. Then his hand is gathering up more and more and more so she tries to arch her hips and grind against his palm but he's focused on his task, tutting at her, and soon her breasts are gleaming in the lamplight.
When he moves up her body, cupping her tits in his hands and squeezing them together, all she has to do is lower her head and she's perfectly placed to lick the head of his cock lasciviously. Been so long since she tasted him and the salt tang on the tip of her tongue makes her moan slightly as he closes his eyes tight and moves his shaft away from her hungry mouth.
"Please…" she whines plaintively.
He doesn't answer, just clutches her breasts tighter and pushes his cock into the damp channel between them while her mouth falls open in disbelief.
This shouldn't be sexy. The one time she did this before was in the back seat of the football captain's best friend's car after she absolutely refused to give him head. But now with Wes' thumbs brushing against her tightly budded nipples on the down stroke and the hotsoftwet feel of him pushing and pulling between her breasts, she totally gets it. Feels herself getting wetter and wetter, as the head of his cock slowly comes towards her, leaving a silvery trail on her chest.
"Oh God," she breathes. "That's so fucking hot."
She gets a choked laugh as he flings his head back. He's gone without far too long and if he'd just let her take him in her mouth, she could…
"I'm waiting, Faith." Only he could sound so in command, so in control as he fucks himself between her breasts.
She has to close her eyes because all she can see is him in front of her. All that burnished flesh rearing up and then retreating is kinda distracting.
"I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
Or arrow of carnations that propagate fire;
I love you as certain dark things are loved.
She doesn't have his gift of making words sound like kisses but the words mean something to her. More so now than when she clutched them to her and they were a secret that no one else knew about. Her voice is nothing more than a rasped whisper as he makes a small noise of surprise and thrusts unsteadily before finding his rhythm again.
Secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
Hidden within itself the light of those flowers.
His head lowers and he's nuzzling her neck, sucking the tender patch of skin behind her ear. "Oh," he sighs. Then "oh" again.
And thanks to your love, darkly in my body
Lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or where.
I love you straightforwardly without complexities or pride.
She can feel him shaking, trembling, the muscles in his arms rippling as his hands tighten painfully on the soft flesh spilling between his fingers. He draws back, still straddling her, and begins to jack himself off. Long elegant fingers moving hurriedly along his length, twisting over the damp head and all the time his eyes are burning into hers. Like he can't tear his gaze away.
All she can give him right now is these words, tumbling out of her.
I love you because I know no other way,
But this, in which there is no I or you
He shouts her name as he comes, his seed spurting out, adorning her chest and neck and he's still hard, as he collapses next to her on the bed and rests his head on her shoulder.
So close that your hand on my chest, is my hand.
So close that when you close your eyes, I fall asleep."
Her words hang heavy in the air, still wanting to make their presence felt as she tries to kiss the top of his head.
"I think you should untie me now," she says finally, when his breathing has evened out and he's sprawled on his back, one burning hot hand splayed out on the pooch of her belly.
"I think that's a very good idea," he replies gravely. And then he leans over, trapping her with one arm so he can give her one of those devastatingly sweet kisses. "Thank you. That was beautiful."
"I told you it was a cool poem," she says with a certain degree of smugness which gets her a rolling of his eyes and a sly tug on her nipple.
cheesygirl has made two sharable icons, for secretary_fic ::hugs her hard:: They're here. If you've been reading the fic, you'll know why she chose them, but, as chapter 37 is a long way back, here's a reminder of how that poem gained the significance it now has. Cut for length and smut. For those who haven't read it, just to set the scene, it's very early in their relationship, Faith is tied to the bed, and Wes has just finished reciting some poetry to her, in French, while doing other things with his mouth too. God, I love this Wesley. And, forgot to mention, this particular bit was written by the incredible
lovesbitca."I want you to come," she says, her voice quiet and resolute. "It's not fair if you don't get to come too." And anyway if he doesn't get inside her soon, she's going to dissolve into a sticky little puddle, which would be a bitch for him to get out of his 300 thread count sheets.
He places a lingering kiss on her syrupy cunt, his tongue delving deliciously for a few blissful seconds before he drags himself reluctantly away and pulls himself up. His lips glisten with her.
"Very well," he agrees and she can't quite work out the challenge that she's picking up in the mild tone of his voice. "Why don't you return the favor?"
If he's not going to fuck her, then he can bet that she's going to give him the mother of all blow jobs. Suck his soul right out of the end of his cock. Especially when he looks so pretty as he rocks back on his haunches and slowly begins to unbutton his shirt.
"So, did you have anything particular in mind? I'm sure I have a copy, I have a very extensive library."
What the fuck?
"I thought you wanted me to suck you off," she says indignantly, once again pulling at her bonds, until he raps his knuckles lightly against her knee.
"Delightful as that sounds, I don't know how you're going to manage that if you're reciting poetry," he points out.
The one poem that she could recite from memory begins with the line, There was a girl from Nantucket, which would be a bit of a buzz kill. Shit, the only books in their house are her mother's Harlequin romances and a car manual that her father left behind.
She can't do this. She's not like him and she's struggling properly now, against the ties that bind her. She's ruined it all again, simply by being Faith, by wanting to surprise him and earn one of those blinding, carefree smiles that he so rarely gifts her with. Like her blowjobs are that good anyway.
He pauses before pulling his shirt off his shoulders. His skin looks tanned and taut in the muted glow of the room and in any other circumstances, she's be eating him up with her eyes, cataloguing the sense memory so she could pull it out on a darker day. But now, she's turned her head away from him, angry tears spilling down her face.
"Faith," he begins carefully. "It was just a suggestion. There are a thousand and one other things we can do that involve me..."
And then she remembers it. Of course, she does. She had to spend three hours after Ms. Gernstein's English class memorizing it after she got a detention for lobbing spitballs at Buffy Summers' shiny blonde head. And after about one hour in, when she'd already committed the words to memory, she suddenly got what Ms. Gernstein had spent two years trying to drum into her and sat there in a daze, awed by the simple beauty of the words.
"I know… there is a poem I know," she interrupts in a small voice and he doesn't call her on it for once. "But you have to promise me that you won't read anything more into it, other than it's a really cool poem."
He looks ever so slightly pissed off. "I wouldn't dream of it," he says dryly. But his hands have stopped moving because she can kill a mood as quickly as she can type his letters.
"Wes?"
"Faith."
"Will you do two things for me first?"
He treats her to just the merest hint of a sigh. "You're being terribly demanding tonight. Very well. What would you like me to do?"
"Can you take the rest of your clothes off and, well, will you… you should kiss me."
The bastard just gives her a curt nod and then he's shifting off the bed and stepping into the shadows so she can only hear the chink of his belt buckle, the rasp of a zipper, rustling sounds as he strips off.
"I still don't get how you're going to come," she remarks, twitching slightly as he comes into view and presses his hands down on the bed by her feet, so she gets the faintest hint of a lean chest, the indentation of his hipbone.
He places his knee on the bed and begins a long, slow crawl over her body, his cock leaving a slick trail against her skin. "It's really not your problem," he assures her, pausing to place a hot, open-mouthed kiss on her nipple. "You just have to lie perfectly still and recite your poem."
His weight is heavy against her pelvis, as he straddles her. Too high for her to really feel the benefit of his cock where she needs it most and he's so hard that it's almost flat to his belly as he leans over and tickles the closed seam of her lips with his tongue.
She puts everything she is, everything she wants to be for him, in the kiss. Wishing her hands were free to hold her to him, wind her fingers through his hair and mess him up just a little bit. His tongue is sinuous in her mouth, stroking hers and she tugs his bottom lip between her teeth when she feels him begin to pull away, desperate to have him just a little bit longer.
He reaches behind him and she cries out as he swipes the flat of his hand against her still sensitive, still soaked cunt.
His hand is slathered with her juices and she frowns as he anoints the inner curve of her breasts with the sticky glaze. Then his hand is gathering up more and more and more so she tries to arch her hips and grind against his palm but he's focused on his task, tutting at her, and soon her breasts are gleaming in the lamplight.
When he moves up her body, cupping her tits in his hands and squeezing them together, all she has to do is lower her head and she's perfectly placed to lick the head of his cock lasciviously. Been so long since she tasted him and the salt tang on the tip of her tongue makes her moan slightly as he closes his eyes tight and moves his shaft away from her hungry mouth.
"Please…" she whines plaintively.
He doesn't answer, just clutches her breasts tighter and pushes his cock into the damp channel between them while her mouth falls open in disbelief.
This shouldn't be sexy. The one time she did this before was in the back seat of the football captain's best friend's car after she absolutely refused to give him head. But now with Wes' thumbs brushing against her tightly budded nipples on the down stroke and the hotsoftwet feel of him pushing and pulling between her breasts, she totally gets it. Feels herself getting wetter and wetter, as the head of his cock slowly comes towards her, leaving a silvery trail on her chest.
"Oh God," she breathes. "That's so fucking hot."
She gets a choked laugh as he flings his head back. He's gone without far too long and if he'd just let her take him in her mouth, she could…
"I'm waiting, Faith." Only he could sound so in command, so in control as he fucks himself between her breasts.
She has to close her eyes because all she can see is him in front of her. All that burnished flesh rearing up and then retreating is kinda distracting.
"I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
Or arrow of carnations that propagate fire;
I love you as certain dark things are loved.
She doesn't have his gift of making words sound like kisses but the words mean something to her. More so now than when she clutched them to her and they were a secret that no one else knew about. Her voice is nothing more than a rasped whisper as he makes a small noise of surprise and thrusts unsteadily before finding his rhythm again.
Secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
Hidden within itself the light of those flowers.
His head lowers and he's nuzzling her neck, sucking the tender patch of skin behind her ear. "Oh," he sighs. Then "oh" again.
And thanks to your love, darkly in my body
Lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or where.
I love you straightforwardly without complexities or pride.
She can feel him shaking, trembling, the muscles in his arms rippling as his hands tighten painfully on the soft flesh spilling between his fingers. He draws back, still straddling her, and begins to jack himself off. Long elegant fingers moving hurriedly along his length, twisting over the damp head and all the time his eyes are burning into hers. Like he can't tear his gaze away.
All she can give him right now is these words, tumbling out of her.
I love you because I know no other way,
But this, in which there is no I or you
He shouts her name as he comes, his seed spurting out, adorning her chest and neck and he's still hard, as he collapses next to her on the bed and rests his head on her shoulder.
So close that your hand on my chest, is my hand.
So close that when you close your eyes, I fall asleep."
Her words hang heavy in the air, still wanting to make their presence felt as she tries to kiss the top of his head.
"I think you should untie me now," she says finally, when his breathing has evened out and he's sprawled on his back, one burning hot hand splayed out on the pooch of her belly.
"I think that's a very good idea," he replies gravely. And then he leans over, trapping her with one arm so he can give her one of those devastatingly sweet kisses. "Thank you. That was beautiful."
"I told you it was a cool poem," she says with a certain degree of smugness which gets her a rolling of his eyes and a sly tug on her nipple.