Last weekend, my bff Ely came to visit me, and one day while she was here, we went to Hippie Hollow and went skinny dipping, did some spells, and shot some photos, including this Polaroid. It was a magical day, and I love this photo she took of me.
Have you ever been to a nude park or beach before? Do you still shoot with Polaroids? Let me know in the comments! Also stay tuned in the upcoming weeks for more photos from our trip.
“Don’t say her name.”
I’m tied tight, spread eagle on hard marble. The thick metal binding my wrists and ankles is cold, contrasting with my flushed skin. Sweat drips down my neck like blood. He notices. He does that thing with his lips.
I try to keep my cool. I’m in control, right? If anyone walked in on us, they would certainly think otherwise.
“You miss her, don’t you?” I ask.
He growls, and one black nail-polished finger traces my cheek.
“No, I don’t,” he whispers, in the accent that makes my cunt clench and my blood race.
It’s like he’s ignoring the rest of my (naked) body. He knows my cheek it about the last place I want him to touch right now. He grins, and I feel like he can read my thoughts.
“Yes you do,” I tease. “I bet you’ll think of her tight, sweet pussy when you fuck me.”
His teeth are sharp, but so are my words.
“Shut up!” he says, gripping my chin firmly.
He tilts my head up. I’m sure he can smell how wet I am by now. He looks down my length, examining my round, luscious breasts, my hardened nipples, my smooth legs, my little bush, my lips.
“You’ll regret taunting me later, pet,” he breathes, rolling his eyes slightly.
His skin is almost glowing in the moonlight. If I wasn’t tied, I’d grip his peroxide blonde hair and jump on top of him. But that’s not the game tonight. Speaking of games, it’s about time I get things moving already. I can’t wait any longer.
“Oh, someone’s touchy,” I say, locking my blue eyes with his, “I guess vampires don’t take rejection well. Especially rejection from the Slayer.”
He doesn’t move, but I can feel him stiffen. I know exactly what to say to make him hurt. To make him want to hurt me.
“So it’s gonna be like that, love?”
He steps away cooly, rumbling in his nearby chest. His strained expression changes to a cruel smile as he holds up the black metal clamps, and before I can even tense up, my nipples are on fire. For a moment I wonder if this was a bad idea, but it’s too late to go back now.
“What would she think about you fucking another cute little blonde girl?”
Before I can say more, he’s on top of me, hovering about an inch above, one hand supporting his weight, the other pulling my panties up towards him. Hard. He moves so fast. The black cotton digs into my labia. He pulls it up tighter, and it hurts like hell. I don’t flinch.
“Aww, you miss her so much, don’t you?” I ask in taunting almost baby talk. “The Slay—.”
“Don’t say her bloody name,” he grunts, ripping my panties off easily.
Who knew cotton could hurt so much?
“Don’t. Say. Her. Name,” he says again as he pulls the chain connecting my breasts, the clamps snapping off, leaving my nipples throbbing.
“Slayer!” I hiss. I bite at his ear, but I can’t reach. His free hand fumbles with his zipper, his other tightly around my neck. He’s no longer hovering. I’m caught beneath his weight, his icy skin pressed against my warmth. I can barely breathe, and I’m tingling all over.
His huge, hard cock tells me he loves my teasing, even if he claims otherwise. We lock eyes again, and he rubs his cheek against mine softly, almost sweetly. But I don’t want him sweet, not tonight.
“Buffy” I whisper…
I’m silenced by his nearly lethal grip, by his cold cock parting my warm, wet lips.
“You’ll regret that,” he growls, thrusting hard.
I almost believe him.
For more Spike fan fic, check out Let’s Play a Game!