At his mercy

How would you like me to initiate you into pure debauchery, an experience worthy of the writings of the divine Marquis de Sade? Don't worry, a little suffering, my darling, can prevent any desire for ****, and I would so love to know your limits.

Buffy trembled, yet she still wanted more. She hesitated and made a half-hearted face.

• Okay, but if this gets out, I'll rip your heart out.

He handcuffed her and said,

• Come follow me to my playroom. She has known cries of incredible pain, but now she will experience your cries, which will be a hymn of pleasure and suffering that will do nothing.

Buffy, still naked, followed him obediently, her heart beating like crazy, yet she felt more alive than ever. She discovered the room, which was worthy of Sade, Casanova, and the Inquisition. Spike shrugged.

• We have fun as we can, he led her to a St. Andrew's cross. When her arms and legs were spread and bound with leather cuffs, she shuddered with delight. He blindfolded her.
• No need to see, you'll feel like never before; it will heighten your other senses.

Spike slid his fingers along Buffy's inner thigh, savoring the tension of her muscles beneath his touch. The blindfold amplified every sensation: the cool air against her damp skin, the bite of the leather restraints, the rough grain of the wooden cross digging into her back. His voice enveloped her like smoke as he leaned down, his fangs grazing the hollow of her ear.

• Let's see how much pleasure you can take before begging me to stop."

The first crack of the whip struck her ribs hard, a sharp sting that made her gasp.

Spike traced an icy finger along her thigh, making her skin shiver with the deliberately slow touch. The air smelled of leather, hot wax, and that acrid scent of desire mixed with a hint of fear.

"You're shaking..." he whispered, his raspy voice caressing her ear as his nails dug in just enough to mark, without tearing. "No escape now, my sweet slayer."

The whip fell at a divine pace. Spike had centuries of experience as a vampire, each blow hitting only the most sensitive points, but without trying to hurt, just to multiply the pain and pleasure. Buffy was slowly losing her footing, her **** overcoming reason. Spike knew what she wanted and managed to give it to her.

• Yes! Yes! You're driving me crazy again.

Spike's lips stretched into a feral smile, while the last scream still trembled on Buffy's. His cold fingers traced the red marks left by the whip, each touch sending new shivers through her restrained body. The air thickened, permeated with the mingled scent of their sweat, copper, and the faint ozone crackle of supernatural energy.

"Do you think this is all you can take, Slayer?" he purred, running a sharp fingernail down the center of her stomach, slowly enough to cause muscle contractions of anticipation. "We've barely scratched the surface."

With that, he tilted the St. Andrew's cross so that Buffy was facing the ceiling. She heard a match strike, and for a moment nothing happened when suddenly a burning drop fell on her right breast, wax.