sunnydale waitress (not_your_girl) wrote,
sunnydale waitress


TITLE: Brassed Off
AUTHOR: Sunnydale Waitress
RATING: NC-17. Sex, descriptions of, and violence in.
CHARACTERS: Buffy, Angel, Faith
SUMMARY: First person POVs. Joss gave us the perfect set up. Faith in leather pants, Buffy chained to the wall in Angel’s living room, a box of toys on the coffee table. I’m just finishing it.
SPOILERS: Season Three Faith arc, particularly Enemies
DEDICATIONS: To Sara, cuz she wanted porn.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: PWP. Pretty much completely. My first one. Be proud.
DISCLAIMER: “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and all related characters, storylines, etc. are solely the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, FOX 20th Century, and all related parties. No copyright infringement is intended.
DISTRIBUTION: List archives. Anyone else, please just ask.


“You know, in all our time together, I can’t believe we never tried chains.” Angel smirked as he tightened the last manacle, locking it tight around my wrist with a smart click.

“You bastard.”

He rolled his eyes in a deeply exaggerated impression of Angelus. “Play nice, kitten. It’s gonna be a long night.”

I tried and pulled a little against the cuffs, the chains. They held fast, and nothing gave, not even a little bit. The son of a bitch.

He ran the back of his hand along the curve of my cheek, then smiled a little and turned away, leaving me angry and hurt and unable to do anything but watch him walk his pretty ass to Faith, sitting happily on the long stone coffee table in front of the mansion’s impressive fireplace. He handed her the key to my cuffs, dangling shining silver in the firelight from the long chain it was on, and she slipped it over her dark head.

“Is she a good fuck?” she demanded petulantly, looking up at him from her perch.

My stomach twisted around itself and sank.

He shrugged. “She was new when I had her. Not experienced at all.” He paused. I didn’t breathe. “But great muscles. A tug you wouldn’t believe.”

I felt myself getting hot all over, uncomfortable, itchy hot that stretches your skin, like your embarrassment’s trying to climb out through your pores. Faith just grinned. “Alright, B! Think you can crush a soda can in that little vice of yours?”

I thought maybe it had succeeded with bursting from my skin. I blushed more, and then turned my eyes away from them, couldn’t stand to look at them with them looking at me. “A soda can?” Angel asked, and I thought I might die right there on the spot, just from humiliation.

“I’m from a little dive of a neighborhood. Real hick ghetto of Boston. Gotta have something to do during the long winter nights . . .” she paused, trying to gage his reaction. “So I joined the Girl Scouts.”

I looked up at that. Embarrassment aside, this was not something to take lightly.

“Hard to imagine you as a Girl Scout.”

“Well . . . to be perfectly honest, it was mostly scouting for girls, but I did learn that neat little trick with the Pepsi can, not to mention a few other things that would make Miss Rebecca of Sunnyhell Farms over there blush all the way down to her soft, dimpled . . .” she paused again, obviously enjoying my discomfort. “. . . knees.”

Angel chuckled. “I’d kind of like you to prove that.”

She raised a dark eyebrow. “That I can make Miss Ne’er Do Wrong blush from stern to starboard? Cheeks to cheeks? Lips to lips?”

“No. I meant that thing you learned in Girl Scouts.”

She eyed him for a moment, then brought a hand up and briefly brushed her fingers down the zipper of his pants. I saw red for a minute, all anger senses on maximum. Hands off, bitch. “Yeah, well, I think I can prove it to you without offending some tree hugging recycling types, huh?”

“I’d much prefer it that way, but I’ll keep the Pepsi thing in mind in case I ever have a party and I’m without entertainment.”

You have parties?”

That was my thought. I love him, but he’s not really Joe Sociable.

He looked angry at her, though. “Think that’s funny? I ought to beat your nasty little ass to Hell and back for that.”

Something moving in me stopped. Angel didn’t curse. He just didn’t. And he never spoke heatedly like that, with a passion sometimes, yes, but never dirty like that.

“I hear Hell’s nice this time of year, and,” she replied cheekily, rising, “I think that you’re just itching to find a good excuse to take that belt off and giving me a good whippin’.” She turned from him, placed both hands on the low coffee table in front of her, raising her tight ass into the air. She gave a seductive little shake, knowing full well where his eyes were. We both knew; me too.

“Any excuse,” he said softly, fingering his belt. “It doesn’t have to be a good one.”

Slowly, deliberately, he unbuckled his belt, slid it slithering from its casings. He held it in his hands for a moment, balancing the weight, feeling it, smooth as soap, in his hands. He held the cool silver buckle in one palm, wrapped a length of dark leather around his hand once. He pulled it taut with the other hand, the relaxed it, pulled it taut again. Faith stood still, listening to him flex the leather and knowing what was coming.

“Getting a little intense, isn’t it?” Angel asked softly. I looked over at him from her; his tone was quiet, but I knew he was speaking to me. He had never, would never, use that voice with Faith. Waiting a moment for an answer, and receiving none, he continued. “Just know that everything I do to her, will be done to you.”

I opened my mouth to say something, to protest, to cry, to beg, but my mouth was dry, my throat rasping and empty of words. I shut my mouth and watched, swallowing thickly and trying to keep frightened tears from my eyes.

Angel nodded once as though I’d spoken, then raised his belt like a whip and brought it down hard against Faith’s ass. She jumped a little, gasping in what sounded to me more like pleasure than pain.

My heart stopped for a minute, just in shock.

”I think this would be a lot more effective were you not wearing those pants.”

“I can take them off,” Faith said breathlessly.

“I think you had better take everything off. The next time I open my mouth to speak to you, you best be naked.”

She jumped up, snapped to attention, slipping off her boots and unzipping her tight pants. Voyeur though he was, he turned to me, still chained to the wall, while she was throwing off her clothing.

“Think I’m being too hard on her?”

My eyes widened. “Why are you asking me?”

He smiled. “Everything I do to her will be done to you.”

My mouth dropped. Nice fashion statement. Open again. Angel turned around just in time to see Faith bending over the table again, spreading her long, shapely legs in a search-me straddle.

“Good girl,” he murmured, walking over to her and giving her a good smack on the upper thigh with the flat of his hand.

She jumped a little. He took a step back and the belt rose again. And fell. It hit across the curve of her bottom hard, leaving a dark red mark that I saw as a smear of crimson. I flinched; Faith cried out, half moan, half strangled scream.

“Again?” he asked softly, dusting his fingers over the already fading mark, down her tight ass, between her spread legs, and up. “You’re already sopping.” He looked down at her with slight distaste. “And trembling. Come on, girl, you’re a Slayer; you’re supposed to have a high tolerance for pain. You can’t take a spanking?”

She didn’t say anything. He unwrapped the portion of the belt from his hand, folded it over, and slapped it down across her bottom. She jerked and moaned. “I asked you a question.” He didn’t raise his voice. Not that he ever did.

“Again,” she gasped.

He hit her again. She quivered a little, gasping. Brought one of her legs in a little, flexed the muscles in her ass and the small of her back. Angel frowned and smacked her a couple more times with the belt. “Stop that.” She went back to her straddle, but I couldn’t figure out what she’d done wrong, to make him so angry. I felt myself blush again when I realized that Faith was trying to get some friction on her clit, and that that violated some part of the game they were playing.

Angel unfolded and redoubled the belt, then brought it down hard against Faith’s pale ass. She jerked a little again, and a small whimper escaped as tears ran down her cheeks, slickness down her inner thighs.


“Yes,” she whispered hoarsely. Angel had asked her for her consent, but to me, it didn’t really seem like a choice.

I turned my eyes away until he was done, but I couldn’t really shut out the sounds of the slapping leather, or her grunts and groans and crying, try as though I might. After that stopped, there was a short silence, and I looked back over to make sure that nothing worse was going down.

Faith was on her knees, still half-bent over the coffee table, dark head buried in her arms. Angel knelt behind her, put his arms around her, and stood, lifting her up with him. Turned her around, set her down on the table, facing him.

“Please,” she whispered, eyes rimmed red.

I didn’t understand. He wasn’t touching her. Oh. I felt my face heat again. That was it. He wasn’t touching her.

I didn’t want him to. I felt bad for Faith, having taken that punishment for seemingly no reason, but still, he was mine, Goddammit, and I didn’t need him feeling up other girls. Especially not Faith. So I wished and willed him to back away from her, to leave her sitting and sulking on the table. But he didn’t. He slid a hand between her legs, moved it back and forth to a slow rhythm. I averted my eyes again, but I could hear Faith’s moaning and her breaths becoming increasingly short.


I looked over at him; by the way he was looking at me, I could tell that he’d been doing so for some time and that he was a little annoyed that I wasn’t more in the game. Well, fuck him. But I supposed Faith was doing that, too, so really, I didn’t need to be in the game at all . . .

“I love you,” I said dumbly.

It was really an inappropriate thing to say, and he looked a little confused. “I’m sorry?”

“I love you. And . . . I haven’t been with anyone but you, and I even stayed loyal to you when you were evil, and how long have you been sleeping with Faith?”

“Not like you’re giving him anything to write home about, B,” Faith gasped.

“I’m not sleeping with Faith,” Angel protested quietly. I felt flames flicker across my eyes again.

“You have your hands . . .” It angered and embarrassed me to say exactly where his hands were, “. . . there, and you . . . you tell me that you’re not sleeping with her?” I wanted to cry.

“I’m not sleeping with her,” he repeated, and then did something that made Faith arch her back and hiss.

“But, but you’re . . .”

“Giving her a hand job?” he asked dully, as though it was a perfectly ordinary thing. Oh, well, tonight I went to the store, and made dinner, and gave Faith a hand job. How was your day? “She deserves it.”

“She didn’t do anything.” I was kind of getting desperate, my voice cracked unattractively with emotion and I really didn’t have any reasoning to back that up with.

“I’ve done everything,” said Faith, not helping right now, thank you very much, F.

“I’m not going to get her aroused and then not let her come,” Angel said calmly. I went to the store and made dinner and then got Faith aroused and didn’t let her come. “That’s cruel.”

“Then . . . why did you get her . . . why did you do that in the first place?! If you’re not sleeping with her.”

He smiled. “And I’m not.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I reminded him sulkily.

“I thought maybe it would be a good experience for you. Anyway, it was your idea, getting us all together.”

“It was not my idea for you to fuck Faith!”

He looked at me, face way too Goddamned calm, hand still making Faith pant. “Does it really bother you that much?” He jerked his wrist, and Faith cried out, shuddered, and then was still. He withdrew his hand and left her sitting on the table, shaking.

He walked over to me, got very close, smiling. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

I blushed. “You can’t fuck me. You’ll lose your soul if we –”

“I’ll lose my soul if I make love to you. Fucking is a little bit different.” He laughed a little. “Basically the same end products, but a little less intimacy and a little fewer emotional byproducts.” I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, he continued. “Not that I don’t want to make love to you. Because I do. But this makes things a little less complicated, don’t you think?” He cupped my face in his hand, traced my lips with his thumb. I shivered a little. “I can’t do everything to you that I want, but I can come pretty close, and keep my soul.”

He looked over his shoulder briefly. “And I promise you, I am not fucking Faith. Although,” he continued, smiling a little, “I’ve considered letting her fuck you.” I blushed. “Have you ever even kissed a girl, Buffy?” He wasn’t trying to make me uncomfortable; he really wanted to know. He was searching my face for reaction with some great interest.

I shook my head. “No.” It barely came out, and if it wasn’t for paranormal hearing, I’m sure he wouldn’t have caught it.

“Maybe it’s high time you do,” he whispered, still looking at me intently.

“I – I – I . . . I don’t know.”

He shrugged. “I’m not going to force you into anything you don’t want to do,” he said casually, “except that I did mean it when I said that anything I did to Faith, was going to be done to you.”

My muscles went taut, and my stomach dropped again.

“So . . .” he looked over his shoulder. “Faith, come here.”

She rose and walked over to him a little shakily. He took the key in his hand and used it to pull her close enough that he could unlock my cuffs. That done, she walked away, picked up and put on her clothes, and sat down on the couch. I rubbed my sore wrists, keeping my eyes on Angel and wondering when I’d get some feeling back in my belly.

He left me, walked over to the coffee table and picked up his belt again. He looked at it for a long moment, stretched it taut and then doubled it over, held it in one hand. Looking at me. After a minute, I realized he was waiting.

“Come on, now,” he said softly, keeping his tone amiable. Almost nice. Slowly, I walked toward him, convinced not by his tone but by fear of the punishment for disobeying him being worse than what he was about to do to me.

“Take your clothes off.”

“Angel –”

“Do you want me to do it for you?” It wasn’t a threat. An actual offer.

“I . . .” I met his eyes. He was looking at me with some concern, but he didn’t look like he was about to back down off this whole stupid thing. “Yes.”

He dropped his belt to the coffee table and walked over to me, coming close. Without any ado whatsoever, he slipped his hands under my shirt and pulled it off over my head. My first and only thought: he must have some experience. He didn’t hit my earrings, muss my hair, or brush my face doing it. But, like Willow said, if he’s been dating two hundred years, and he only had two different girls a year . . . no, bad thoughts. The air in the mansion was cold, and my skin went a little taut as the cool hit it. I kicked off my shoes before he had to undo them, and he unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans. Dropping to his knees and placing a soft kiss on my stomach, he helped me step out of my pants, which he folded and dropped to the floor. It was almost cute, how anal he was about such little things. But that was kinda the definition of anal, and . . . his arms around me, not fumbling with the hooks on my bra like a high school guy, but unclasping it in one simple movement, easily and gently, and slipping the straps from my shoulders and the cups from my breasts . . . the cold air hit them, too, and I went hard immediately, skin going goosebumpy and nipples pebbling. I blushed, embarrassed that he was seeing not only my breasts, but my arousal as well. He didn’t leer or say anything about my breasts or my flush, just smiled slightly and went on with his business. He dropped to his knees again and took off my socks, then ran his hands starting at my knees, up my thighs . . . oh, God, why did he have to do it that way, alert all my skin to exactly what he was doing? He ran his hands up my thighs, slipped his fingers under the waistband of my panties, and pulled those down, completely without warning, sliding his hands all the way down the length of my legs again. I blushed further; he rose and smiled. Kissed my forehead softly. So chaste, when he was standing close enough that my alert nipples brushed his chest, God, his shirt couldn’t have been that thick, and he wasn’t blind . . . I blushed some more, the heat spreading out over my cheeks, down my neck, over the top of my breasts. Great. Very attractive, Buffy.

He put his hand under my chin, lifted it up a little to look him in the face, thumb on my lips again. Damn him. He knew I was sensitive there, the bastard.

“Enough pre-show,” Faith called from the couch.

Angel frowned, then looked back at me, the annoyance easing from his face. “You ready?”

I didn’t think I could make words at this point, but I surprised myself by responding. “I guess so.”

He nodded and took me gently by the arm, leading me over to the coffee table. I leaned over it the way I’d seen Faith do, without him even telling me to or anything. Spread my legs, to be open the way he’d wanted her. He leaned over to retrieve his belt, a little closer to me than the occasion necessitated. While he was so close, I took the opportunity to talk to him while Faith couldn’t hear. “Angel?”

He didn’t come up from his position, bent over the coffee table, close to me. “Hmm?”

I lowered my eyes. “Be gentle?”

He laughed a little, not at me, not cruelly. “We’ll see.”

He came up, straightened. I could hear him behind me, the rustle of the leather as it slithered past and against itself, and I closed my eyes, trying to brace myself for the first blow.

I had nothing on it. He smacked the belt against my bottom, and a storm of pain exploded through me. I didn’t think he’d hit so hard, not on the first blow . . . I grunted a little, steadied myself in my position.

“You alright there, B?” Her tone was mocking. A flush of embarrassment went through me. This was humiliating, being spanked, being dominated, especially having her watch. It hurt, and it was humiliating, and so I was astounded to realize the wetness on my legs wasn’t sweat, but my own arousal . . . Angel waited a few beats more than he should have and then struck me again, and this time I realized that a good portion of the wave of feeling exploding through me when he hit was the tightness between my legs . . . I flushed darker, felt like I was going to cry.

There was a sharp slapping noise as the belt came down again, on the soft flesh of my upper thighs just below my buttocks. I cried out a little, from pain and the confusing throbbing, and then gasped, not able to right myself after this one. He waited a minute for me to steady myself; when I couldn’t, he asked softly, “Again?” He sounded concerned. Dammit, I was going to beat Faith on this, show her what I was made of.

I swallowed thickly. “Again,” I repeated, not really recognizing my own voice.

The muscles in my ass and lower back contracted as the belt came down again. I held my breath and tried to steady myself, which was difficult because the room was suddenly swimming.

Somewhere, I heard Angel. “More?”

“Please,” I gasped, my head thinking: are you insane? Whatthehelliswrongwithyou?

He slapped the belt against my taut, burning skin four times in rapid succession; almost so quick that I couldn’t distinguish one wave of pain and lust before the next one melted into it. I heard him move, felt him move closer to me. He dropped his belt on the coffee table next to me; I didn’t look up. I felt him as he slid his hand to my belly, holding me with a very deliberate support. I looked down at the belt, legs shaking, clit throbbing, wondering why he’d stopped hitting me. Then I stopped wondering. His hand came down against my bottom, palm flat. I jumped a little and gave a little moan. It came down again, again, a dozen more times, at least. He knew what he was doing; it didn’t hurt as much as the belt, but the skin to skin contact and his physical closeness to me made the inferno between my legs rage all the more. Tears streamed down my face, burning against my hot cheeks.


He didn’t move, just stayed hovering above me, resting his hand on my sore bottom.

“Angel, please, my . . .” I didn’t want to say it. I was shy saying it to him, but loathe to do it in front of Faith. I lowered my voice. She’d hear me, I knew she would, but I needed this. “. . . my clit. Angel. Please.”

He was still for a minute, not moving, not speaking. My stomach flip-flopped, and the pain and tightness everywhere was unbearable. I needed friction, I knew that, but I felt like I was going to explode, like if I didn’t have him in me and his hands his mouth on me that I’d die, just explode to ashes like the phoenix.

Slowly, he turned me around to face him. He kissed me, then dropped to his knees in front of me.

“Spread your legs.”

I did. He put one hand on my lower back, the other on my hip, support, and then, Jesus God, his mouth . . . I melted against him, and he had to steady me as I started to turn into water and collapse all over the floor. I gripped onto his shoulders, and he held me, and worked me with his tongue, finding a good fast tempo that made me twitch and dig my fingernails into his flesh with every other pass. My breath shortened as I tensed and tensed and tensed . . . I came hard, building up into a peak so hard I thought I’d break in half and then releasing to shuddering and collapsing into Angel’s lap. He brought me close, held me in a gentle embrace, kissed my face, petting me.

“You alright?”

I wondered why he asked, and realized I’d started crying again. I sniffled and wiped my eyes on the back of my hand. “I’ll be okay.” I buried my face in the joint of his neck and cried.

He held me.

Faith, to her credit, didn’t say a word.

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