The Good Girl
Caves. In Pylea she had lived in a number of them, some big, some small. Always dark and always lonely, though Pylea was the sort of place where you craved invisibility, especially if you were human. No matter how well she hid, she was always found. She remembered hands, twisting and pulling, tying her up. Why those hands never took what was most dear, she never knew. Maybe they just didn't know what to do with their treasure and she certainly never told them.
She got used to having her limbs stretched and twisted, to the scratchy burn of the ropes that bound her. She would sometimes hold her breath so that her lungs felt stretched too, matching the exhaustion of the rest of her body. With each visit, she got closer and closer to something unnamable. Their intrusions became less frequent and she was almost disappointed - until shame hit her, full-force.
She had nearly lost herself in a masochist's wet dream and so she lost herself in numbers and theories instead - until he came and took her out of her cave. The man with the monster inside - her savior. She talked to him sometimes when he wasn't really there. As she scribbled on her walls she told him about Pylea and what they did to her and that sometimes she missed - craved - it. She felt that he, more than anyone else, would understand because of the line that he'd had to walk for so many years. She wanted to know how to keep control of herself, how to continue denying herself without going mad.
He answered her with his silence and with his dark eyes - Quiet as a mouse, Fred - before he faded away. And quiet she was because he was her hero. The silent strength he gave her enabled her to leave her cave in the Hyperion and join the rest of the world. Little by little she became reintegrated with society and all of its taco-y charms. And soon, where there were once numbers, there was Charles.
Every girl deserves to be completely worshipped and adored at least once in her life. She could be sunshine and laughter for Charles Gunn if she just tried hard enough. She was successful for a while, until Wesley returned. His newfound darkness screamed to her and she could hear it whenever he was near. She wanted to devour him head to toe, but she needed to lock him in a room with naught but a pen and a nice blank wall, so the screaming would stop. She wished that Wesley would go to Angel and just say he was sorry. Then Angel would forgive him and help Wesley hide his darkness.
Through layers of rose, she saw Angel as impervious to his wants and desires, the "cause" being his only mistress. Her trust, she thought, would never wane. It held true for a long while - until her savior let his monster out. And then she found herself in a cave again. It started one night with a fake amulet and a missed shot. His darkness was like nothing she'd ever known. It didn't scream, it sang. And oh, God, she wanted to sing back. Instead she had fired...and missed. She had promised that she wouldn't miss again and she prayed that she would never have to make good on that promise.
After that night, he silently serenaded her and she would plug her ears with her fingers so she wouldn't hear, so she wouldn't sing back. He grabbed her on a clear night just as she stepped into the garden to hose down Gunn's axe. He came at her hard and fast, the axe falling to the ground behind her. To her credit, she struggled, determined to pay heed to all that Angel had "taught" her. In the end though, it didn't matter. She was his.
"Aren't you a good girl?" His voice was a purr behind her and her hips involuntarily surged forward, searching for something. He didn't disappoint, placing his hand where she wanted -needed - it most. His fingers took a quick dip in her pussy but darted away as deftly as they had arrived. She stifled a moan at the loss, her face red with humiliation.
He laughed - only Cordy makes him laugh - and stroked her hair. "Careful, Winifred. I might get the impression that you like this."
She liked it too much, but it wasn't the source of her shame. She had knowingly put herself in this position and for that she was stupid. Winifred Burkle wasn't often stupid. Crazy? Yes, upon occasion, but stupid? Never. Yet here she was, playing `Seven Minutes in Heaven' with the Scourge of Europe. He could kill her as quickly as he could make her come.
The room he had her in was shadowed by golden candlelight and cloaked in silence. Dead silence. She couldn't hear anything outside the walls that surrounded her. She wasn't even sure how big the room was. And she was beginning not to care about anything but the feel of his all-too-knowing hands on her all-too-willing body. She was just tired of running. Running to Charles and running away from Angelus. Only one of them truly wanted her and it wasn't Charles Gunn. Charles let guilt cloud his darkness, while Angelus reveled in it. She wanted the darkness, every aching inch of it; wanted it to fill her belly and curl her toes.
He stood behind her, his body flush with hers, the evidence of his twisted desire bruising her back. His hands slowly made their way around to her stomach and up toward her nipples. Her breath quickened and her belly involuntarily clenched at his touch. His fingers twisted and pulled at the taut peaks before heading downward and quickly plunging into her cunt.
She almost shouted then, squeezing her thighs around his hand, and he chuckled in return. His fingers turned gentle as he rubbed her swollen clit. Her hips moved of their own volition and she began to sway.
"That's my girl. You'll be singing in no time, " he cooed, dropping his head to nuzzle then lick her neck.
Oh, he was the devil - had tied her hands above her head and left her standing, a whimpering fool in front of a floor length mirror. Her arms were tired, she felt stretched and vulnerable. All she could see was herself, skin glistening, dancing on invisible fingertips. All she could hear was the sound of her own pounding heart and Angelus's fingers as they moved within her.
Her eyes squeezed shut and she bit down hard on her lip as the coiled heat between her legs began to unravel into tentacles of white-hot lightning. His fingers moved faster and faster within her before stopping completely, leaving her hanging. Empty. She mewled softly, rubbing her legs together - anything to ease the ache. The sound of a zipper caught her attention and his fingers returned for an instant - thank you - but then were gone again.
A hand steadied her and she felt his naked cock against her back and - Oh, GOD - Charles had never gone there - and it hurt - and he crowed his pleasure, thrusting and thrusting. She hung limply, accepting his punishment - his fucking, watching her body jolted by nothing in the mirror. It was pain like death and it wasn't good and it wasn't fine and she wasn't going to have it.
She bucked backwards, nearly throwing him off balance and he got it. A tiny spark between her legs told her that he finally got it. His fingers were back, not gentle as before, but rough and demanding. The slow burn started again. She grunted her pleasure; delicacy be damned.
"Good girl, good girl," he crooned in her ear, his thrusts becoming more and more violent, but by this time she craved the violence. She met him, thrust for thrust until her body became blurred. Hands gripped her hips - tighter and tighter until with a final thrust he came. He rested his head on her shoulder, his hips making the slightest of movements.
She wanted more, needed more. "No!" she shouted between gritted teeth.
At her outburst he covered her mouth with his hand to silence her. She wasn't finished though, and she meant to have her pleasure. She licked his hand and opened her mouth.
He slowly walked from behind her to face her, slowly appraising her as if she were up for auction. He rubbed her bottom lip with his thumb and she sucked it into her mouth. He smiled, pleased with her submission. It was then that she bit down on his thumb as hard as she could, drawing blood. He reacted quickly, backhanding her and splitting her lip.
She licked her bloodied lips and stared at him. He grabbed a handful of her hair and snapped her head back, covering her mouth with his. He sucked at her lips, cleaning them with his tongue. With sharp teeth she bit his tongue and he moaned into her mouth as she lapped at his bloodied tongue with a thirst she had never known. She bucked forward, shoving him off her. He smiled. He knew her now.
He knelt before her and parted her lips with his fingers. His tongue brushed her clit once, twice, before attacking it with fervor. She looked at herself in the mirror, saw her sweat-glazed body, her tiny breasts, her pebbled nipples and smiled. This was her epiphany, her rain of fire. Darkness and violence and sweet, sweet madness. He chewed on her clit and she felt it building, spiraling out from her belly and on down to the core of her before exploding into a million shards of hot light.
Suspended from the ceiling, eyes rolled back into her head, and mouth opened wide, Winifred Burkle sang.