The sense of relief was so intense, when Buffy's hands on his body became gentle, and her mouth sought out his for a tender kiss, that for a few moments all Spike could do was to respond, to lose himself in the sensations of pleasure and affection that she was creating in his body and his heart. In spite of everything she had done to him, he still loved her, still craved her affection, and thirstily drank up every last drop of tenderness she saw fit to spare him.

Even if only moments before, she had been pouring out torture and degradation, instead of kisses and soft embraces.

It was only when Buffy pushed him down on the bed, scraping the battered and torn injury on his back against the sheets, staining them with his blood, that Spike finally found the will to protest.

"Buffy," he barely dared to venture a quiet plea, still afraid that the wrong word might still set her off again. "love, please -- I can't. Please -- not tonight. I'm -- I'm in a lot of pain, still, and I-I'm so bloody tired -- please, Buffy..."

"Shhh," she advised him in a gentle whisper, pinning him down with her body on top of his. "Quiet, Baby -- don't ruin this..."

As her kisses traveled slowly down from his face to his throat, and her hands slowly, seductively, made their way over his body, Spike felt himself surrendering again, as her touch ignited the ever-present fire of need he always felt for her.

It was easier than it should have been to banish the images from his mind, images of the brutal abuse she had inflicted on him mere minutes earlier. He knew that he *should* be thinking about it -- should be pushing her away and insisting on drawing an end to this encounter immediately -- because if he allowed this now, it would only be worse next time she lost her temper.

But then, there was the question of whether or not Buffy would *allow* herself to be pushed away -- whether or not she would let him end this dangerous affair between them at all. It was a question that was best considered at a later time, when he was alone, and could take the time to remember, to think through all that had happened, and try to come to some sort of solution.

But the truth was, at the moment -- he didn't *want* to remember it.

All he wanted was to feel her loving him, cherishing him without words, as she was doing in that moment -- effectively driving the more disturbing, frightening thoughts from his mind -- if only for the moment.

Until Buffy did something that forced him to remember again.

A bolt of panic broke through the deceptive euphoria brought on by her touch, when Spike felt the first cold circle of steel go around his right wrist. He opened his eyes, looking up at it, noticing that it felt tighter than usual -- and realizing that she had wound the chain around the bedpost a couple of times, leaving him almost no slack whatsoever; and she was now winding the chain of the other shackle around the other bedpost in the same way.

When she was through, he would not be able to move at all.

He raised his wide, fearful eyes, staring up at Buffy in a silent plea, shaking his head slightly -- but she just smiled as she jerked the other shackle tight, her right hand still pinning his free wrist to the mattress above his head.

"No," he objected in a slightly shaky voice, struggling against her grip -- until the strain of the effort tore at his wounds, and he winced in pain, giving up his attempts to break her grip on his wrist for the moment. She was straddling his waist now, rendering his legs effectively useless to him -- though they hadn't been much use before, entangled as they were in his own jeans, still down around his lower thighs.

"Buffy," he pleaded weakly, "Buffy, please -- I *don't* want to do this! Don't put those bloody things on me, I *don't* want..."

His words broke off in a startled, frightened little cry as she brought her knee to rest between his legs, not quite hurting him -- yet -- but uncomfortably close to his exposed groin.

"What's rule number one, Sweetheart?" Buffy asked him in a soft, deceptively patient voice, smirking down at him with a malicious sparkle in her eyes.

Spike swallowed convulsively, wracking his mind to remember what it was that she was talking about -- aware through his rising panic that above all else, he had to give her the answer she wanted, *now*, or suffer the consequences. As he remembered what she was talking about, Spike grimaced, closing his eyes, before grinding out the words in defeat.

"Don't fight you."

"Yeah -- and you're fighting me," Buffy pointed out unnecessarily, tightening her grip on his wrist until it was painful, though her smile remained calm. "Wonder what I should do about that, Baby?"

Fear overwhelmed the last of Spike's resistance, as he met her eyes pleadingly and whispered, "I'm sorry, love -- I didn't mean to -- please, I..."

"Shut up."

Recognizing the dangerous edge that had crept back into her voice, replacing the tenderness of moments before, Spike obediently was quiet, waiting for her to go on, and hoping against hope that she would let the matter go at that.

She didn't.

"I think I'm going to have to punish you, Sweetheart." The Slayer's perfect lips formed a playful pout, as she met his eyes with a wicked smirk in her own, and reached again for the other shackle, locking it firmly around his other wrist.

Panic began to close in, and Spike pulled uselessly against the bonds, his breath coming in harsh gasps as she rose up off him and began to pull his jeans the rest of the way off, already reaching for the shackles attached to the foot of the bed, ready to adjust them to her liking -- and take away any small shred of power over his own body Spike might have left.

"Buffy, no," he begged her. "Don't -- let me up, love, please, I'm telling you *no*, I don't want you to do this!"

As his legs came free of the denim that had bound them, he kicked out instinctively in a futile effort to free himself -- and in an unlucky stroke of fate, managed to kick out at just such an angle as to catch the Slayer across the face, as she was leaning down to adjust the shackles.

Buffy let out an indignant cry of more surprise than pain, before her eyes narrowed and her jaw set in anger, and she gripped the ankle of the offending leg in her hand, pulling his leg taut and glaring at him menacingly. A slight flick of her wrist had the bones within a fraction of an inch from breaking, and drew a sharp, fearful cry of fearful anticipation from Spike's lips.

"You know, I don't have to put the shackles on," she remarked softly, evenly. "There are other ways of making sure you don't move your legs."

"No," Spike whispered, shaking his head, a deep dread building in his heart as he was suddenly sure that she was going to snap his ankle right then and there. "No, Buffy, don't -- do whatever you want, love, I'm sorry...I'm sorry, please..."

He flinched when she jerked his ankle again -- but only to pull it toward the shackle at the end of the taut chain, fastening it firmly, and then moving to the other one. His assessment had been accurate -- when she was done, Spike found that his body was spread taut on the bed, the total absence of any give in the chains leaving him unable to move at all.

He was completely at her mercy.

"Buffy, love," he murmured in a soft, shallow sort of voice, struggling to keep his tone even and calm, "love, I'm sorry for -- for whatever it is that I've done to -- to upset you. Please -- don't do this, love...don't...don't hurt me..." The last words were a whisper of shame and submission, and he could not bring himself to look at her as he spoke them.

Buffy smiled sympathetically as she moved to the head of the bed, and brushed his hair back from his eyes tenderly. "You know," she said softly, raising her eyebrows expectantly. "I'm pretty sure I told you to shut up."

With those words, she took the gag she had used so many times before from the drawer in the nightstand, and, against Spike's weak attempts to prevent it, pressed it into his mouth and fastened it tightly behind his head. But she did not stop there, adding an item she had never used on him before -- a wide, black leather strap that she wrapped around his eyes, leaving him blind, and utterly helpless.

When she had finished her preparations, she gripped a handful of Spike's blonde curls, and yanked his head back, leaning in close to his ear to whisper, "I think you need to be reminded just whose you are, Baby..."

The only protest the bound vampire could make was a weak, pleading whimper behind the gag, as he tried desperately to make her understand that he *knew* he was hers, there was no need for this terrifying ordeal to take place...

But the problem was -- Buffy *wanted* it to take place.

And for the next couple of hours, she took her time, taking her pleasure of him in every way her cruel imagination could devise. Spike already knew that she enjoyed hurting him -- marking his flesh with whatever she could find...blades, holy water, her own sharp fingernails...and tonight, she made use of all of those tactics.

By the time she was finished, Spike was trembling with the pain of her torment, and the exhaustion of the strain of his taut, bound limbs. He was still blindfolded, though Buffy had removed the gag quite some time earlier in the evening.

"Let's make some better use of that dirty, lying mouth of yours," she had sneered -- and he had known that he had no choice but to do as she said.

Now, he was too weary and broken down to even attempt to suppress the sob that rose in his throat, as he listened to the sounds of her getting dressed again, preparing to leave.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed softly. "Buffy, I'm sorry, love...please...I'm so sorry..."

They seemed the only words his broken heart and mind could compose in that moment.

Buffy was silent as she finished fastening her own jeans, and then he heard her footsteps approaching the head of the bed. He did his best not to flinch away from her, as she stroked her fingertips affectionately down the side of his bruised cheek, before leaning down to place a tender kiss there.

"I know you are," she said softly. "And I forgive you, Baby." She sighed wearily, and he could almost envision her shaking her head sadly as she added, "But I'm really not sure you get it yet, Spike."

His heart sank at the thought that after all she had put him through that night, completely against his will, she might not be finished yet.

"I do," he barely managed to get the words out through the sobs that nearly choked him, rising up in his throat. "Buffy, I do...I'm yours, I know I am...just please, don't...don't..."

He did not even know what to ask her not to do.

There was no telling what she might have in mind.

The unexpected replacement of the gag in his mouth took the choice from his mind, as she fastened it more tightly than before, and then checked to make sure that his blindfold was secure as well.

"I don't think you really do, Spike," she informed him softly. "But you will." She leaned in close, brushing his damp, disheveled hair back gently as she went on, "You need to understand that I'll do whatever I want to do with you -- whenever I want to do it -- and what you want doesn't really factor into it, Spike. You're a *thing* -- a soulless, evil thing. And by rights, I should kill you."

He felt her lips form a smile against his throat as she added, "I only keep you alive because I enjoy you -- so you'd better make sure I *keep* enjoying you."

She rose up away from him then, sending a fresh wave of panic through him as he felt her pull the sheet up over him up to his neck, covering his body completely, and realized that she did not mean to hurt him anymore -- not right then, anyway -- or to unchain him, either.

She meant to leave him there.

"Let's see if this little lesson helps you get it through your head, Baby," Buffy said with an audible smirk. "You're mine -- and you'll get out of those chains when and if I decide to let you out. I'll keep you here as long as I want to. Do you understand?"

Knowing what was expected of him, Spike nodded immediately, his entire body shaking with fear and a rising, hopeless despair.

"Good," she said, sounding satisfied as she leaned down to kiss his cheek again, before pulling the sheet up over his head as well, leaving him completely hidden from view.

As he heard her footsteps moving away, Spike struggled to cry out against the gag, to plead with her not to leave him here like this, helpless and bound, easy prey to anything or anyone who might decide to come into his crypt -- and worst of all -- *alone*.

But she paid no heed to his attempted cries -- and in a matter of moments, her footsteps had completely died away.

She was gone.

And Spike was completely alone.