Part 90:

“Over my lap.”

Spike’s eyes widened.

“Don’t make me repeat myself again, boy,” Angel murmured softly.

Spike blinked, clearly hearing Angelus in both the tone and the words.  He quickly dropped over the waiting lap, the crop, flogger and plug still clutched in his hand.  Angelus had been a hard task-master and teacher, never stinting on his punishments, despite his sometimes overly indulgent treatment of his youngest childe.  Spike had been whipped and flayed and broken and bruised more times than he could count by the darker vampire, but he’d also had more subtle forms of punishment inflicted.  Sometimes his lessons had been imparted with reminders that were less physically harsh but more emotionally intense.  Spanking was certainly that – the humiliating position alone ensuring it – but more than anything else it was an intimate form of punishment.  No physical separation was allowed, the two bodies in close contact throughout the ordeal, linked by torso and hand, with Angel’s voice always right at his ear.

Not that Angelus’ spankings couldn’t be extremely painful – they most definitely could – but strangely enough he usually reserved this form of punishment for the most important lessons of all, and because of that, he’d used it quite sparingly.  Those few times stood out starkly in Spike’s memory, and despite the relative infrequency of it, he well remembered the position required of him now, and assumed it immediately, leaning his upper body far over his sire’s knee, spreading his thighs as much as the space allowed and arching his back so that his ass was presented.

Angel wrapped an arm around the smaller vampire’s upper back, gripping him just under his right arm.  “Flogger,” he commanded, holding out his hand expectantly.

Spike transferred the crop and plug to his left hand and held the right one out and back.  As soon as the flogger was taken from him, he pulled his hand down and clasped both about the other two articles, resting his knuckles against the floor.

The small whip in Angel’s hands was commonly called a penis flogger, and for good reason; its ten-inch multi-tailed suede strips were short, soft and supple – perfect for the whipping of genitals.  It made it a useful tool for the close-up attentions required of a spanking as well.  Of course the name was also derived from the traditional design of its buttery-smooth leather handle, which was shaped like – and often used as – its namesake.

The first lash came quickly, flicking lightly across Spike’s upper back.  More followed, each spaced evenly apart and overlapping the previous one by a small amount as the leather laid pink stripes upon pale skin down his back, buttocks and thighs.  The lashes jolted him forward when they reached the top of his thighs, the impact shuddering through those muscles into the exposed balls resting between them.  Angel took care not to touch him directly on that sensitive spot, though, instead methodically working his way down to the back of his childe’s knees.

“Feet up,” he ordered.

Spike lifted his feet so that the back of his calves could be reached, and Angel never stopped, laying down another series of strokes along those quivering muscles, and ending with two lashes to the soles of his pale, slender feet.  Angel hadn’t asked him to count, as he usually did with his whippings, but Spike had done it silently nonetheless.  Exactly twenty strokes had fallen from shoulder to sole.

It didn’t really hurt, but Spike hadn’t expected that, not yet at least.  Angelus knew how to administer a good spanking as well as he knew how to strip skin from flesh, muscle and bone inch by inch.  His skin was warmed by the first pass of the suede strips down his body, borrowed blood rising to the surface in response.  The twenty lashes laid down on the return trip up were firmer, and it was then that the now-sensitized flesh began to tingle with the much-anticipated precursor to pain.  One more round trip was made, and each leg of the journey consisted of twenty lashes, each one an evenly-spaced and evenly-timed stroke, each one becoming steadily stronger than the one that had preceded it.

Both the strength used, and the weapon chosen, ensured that no skin was broken.  The pain was there, but it wasn’t comparable in any way to what would have happened had the bullwhip been used.  Still, during the third score set of strokes, Spike had to clench his jaw against the growing discomfort, and on the fourth he let if fall open and simply tried to ride it out, harsh gusts of breath panting between parted lips.

“Crop,” Angel said, jarring Spike from the Zen-like state he’d managed to achieve in the preceding minutes.  He hadn’t realized until that moment that the lashing had stopped.  His pause was barely noticeable, or at least Angel chose to ignore it, for he said nothing.  Spike made the hand-off, clutching the returned flogger in both hands along with the plug, fists squeezed tight and knuckles white as he waited for the first blow of the whip that could be wielded with considerably more impact, despite its innocuous appearance.

But it didn’t come.  Instead Angel’s fingers moved slowly over the red-tinged flesh of his childe’s back, stroking and soothing the now-heated skin.

“So warm,” he murmured, as though to himself.  His fingers shifted away, closing fully about the handle of the crop again, and then the spongy, rectangular tab of leather took their place, rubbing over the hyper-stimulated skin.  He moved it slowly, touching here and there in a random, almost hypnotic fashion, lulling Spike back into the hazy state he’d been lost in near the end of the flogging.

The crop’s most effective use was not in a swift slap from a distance.  An experienced wielder of it would instead lay it flat on the area to be lashed, then with a flick of the wrist send a wave undulating along the handle that ended in the leather tab rising and falling with a quick, sharp smack on the flesh beneath it.  Angel definitely was an experienced wielder.

The leather rubbed soothingly over Spike’s back, buttocks and thighs, the first lash falling unexpectedly in the midst of those soft caresses upon his flank, near where the outer thigh met the hip.  Spike jumped and yelped, jolted out of the warm haze caused by the caressing strokes of the leather on his hot skin.  More soft strokes followed, but Spike didn’t let himself drift away again, and when the next strike fell upon the fullest part of one rounded cheek, he jerked helplessly on Angel’s lap, but managed not to let a sound out.  Next the crop was turned so that the side edge of the leather tab rubbed along the seam between both cheeks, stroking over the puckered entrance and further down to crease between the two balls resting in their sac.  Spike tensed when the crop was turned again so that the flat of the leather rubbed directly upon one ball, but then it slid away and the tension in his muscles eased.  The crop continued downward, stroking over one sensitive inner thigh, where a third lash was unexpectedly laid.

Angel followed no predictable pattern.  He stroked over flesh already warmed by the flogger for a long, leisurely time, sometimes flicking his wrist to deliver a sharp smack.  Now and then Spike felt cool fingers replacing the soft leather as they rubbed and soothed his reddened flesh.  It was this, more than the lashes themselves that finally forced a whimper past his lips.  The tab moved down his legs, switching back and forth between them, and after a command to lift his feet again, it rubbed over both soles, leaving one hard slap on the ball of his right foot that made him clench his toes helplessly in response.

The return trip back up his legs further sensitized already well-worked flesh.  This time, when the leather reached his full sac, a strike fell on one full ball.  Spike arched at the unexpectedness of it and cried out sharply, pain shuddering through him.  He instinctively pulled his thighs together to protect that sensitive spot, and Angel’s hand delved between them and pulled them open again.

“You know better,” he said.

Angel withdrew his hand and immediately the leather was returned, this time to the other ball.

“Keep them open,” Angel instructed.

Spike held his thighs spread wide, his muscles quivering as the leather rubbed over his exposed and vulnerable flesh.  It was the knowledge that the blow would fall, and the waiting anticipation that made the vampire tense so strongly.  A few seconds later the second lash was finally delivered.  The blond jerked on his knee, but clenched his teeth so that only the lowest, almost sub-audible groan, escaped him.  This time he kept his knees spread open wide.

The lashes that followed were no longer unpredictable.  Over and over Angel’s wrist flicked, slapping the leather tab along rounded cheeks, hard muscled thighs and tautly stretched balls.  Spike jerked helplessly with each slap, which in turn caused his growing erection to surge against his sire’s thighs.  His head swam as the pain built, and along with it the inevitable pain-filled pleasure that was part and parcel of his demon.  Soon a steady stream of moans, whimpers and muffled curses issued from between his lips.

Suddenly the lashes ceased and a cool hand returned to stroke soothingly along his now bright red flesh.

“Shhh,” Angel whispered.  “It’s ok, you’re ok, I’ve got you.”

The words sparked the memory of them together with the human pets in Angel’s bed just a few days ago, when he had held and touched his childe.  That time the intent had been to give pleasure, but despite the punishment being delivered now, the result was the same; Spike calmed down almost immediately, his body slumping loose and relaxed across his sire’s lap.

It was at this point that Angel shifted the blond over his lap, reaching beneath him and repositioning his body so that his childe’s straining erection was caught and held between his own taut thighs.

Spike tensed on his sire’s lap again.  The flogger had been used and the crop had been used.  There were only two options left, and he suspected he knew what the third choice would be before the fourth was brought into play.

“Plug,” Angel said softly.

Bingo.  Sometimes being right sucked.

Spike gritted his teeth and tried to relax his muscles as he held the plug out behind him.  It was plucked from his hand and the crop was pressed back against his palm.  He quickly brought his hand back down to join the other, clasping them together, flogger and crop clutched tight in his fingers near the floor.

A moment later the arm resting across his upper shoulders slid down and then Angel’s hand wedged itself between his butt cheeks and spread him open even further, exposing the rosebud pucker hidden there.  Then he heard a wet, sucking sound.  That was new.  Angelus had never bothered with any sort of preparation at all during punishment.  And with the smallest plug, really, it was hardly necessary.  Spike sighed, his own soul, despite his undignified and exposed position over Angel’s lap, fluttering with sympathy.  He recognized the cool marble, now slick with his sire’s spit, when it pressed against his pucker.  The pressure built – he was very tight there, always had been – but in a moment it pushed through the outer ring and was quickly seated.

Then Angel reached between the spread thighs, from the back, cupped the blonde’s balls and pulled them backward, stretching the delicate skin of his perineum.  “Close them now,” his sire said, clearly referring to the splayed-wide thighs.

Spike groaned, but did as he was told, pulling his legs shut and holding them together tight.  He’d done it before with the intent to cover and protect his balls, but now the very opposite was true, his balls trapped by both his buttocks and thighs to peek out from between them, just below the pale ivory disk.  The small plug suddenly seemed bigger with his thighs pressed together tight.  The sympathy he’d felt a moment before disappeared as Spike was forced to focus again on his precarious predicament, cock trapped in front, balls in back, and stuffed like a goose for a Christmas dinner.

That’s when the true spanking began.

Angelus considered the use of anything but a bare hand to be little more than foreplay for a good spanking.  Ultimately it had to be naked palm against naked flesh, delivering the most intimate of punishment from one creature to another.  Angel’s large hand caressed the rounded cheeks waiting, then lifted and fell in a solid blow against the lower curve of his childe’s butt, striking directly upon the exposed balls and plug.  Spike jerked forward and howled, both in response to the pain and the resultant friction on his trapped cock.  He wasn’t given any time to acclimate to that smack before another one came, followed quickly by another, and then yet another.

Angel’s hand was a far more insidious instrument than just about anything else at this close range, and Spike was soon writhing and panting harshly.  The pain grew quickly, and though he’d certainly experienced far worse before, it was the intimacy and vulnerability of his position before his sire that made it all the more intense.  After ten minutes the first hoarse sob escaped him, and then there was no stopping it.  He tried to be quiet, pulling up his hands to muffle the cries against it.  He knew Angel could smell his tears anyway.

“I don’t regret you, Spike,” Angel said, his voice appearing abruptly in the silence.  The words were a continuation of the last thing he’d said before the spanking began, and he spoke them as though there hadn’t been a thirty minutes interval of silence since then.  A hitching sob escaped his childe to fill the room at those words.  “But there are many things about you that I’ve regretted through the years.”

Spike shook his head, tears spattering his hands, but didn’t say anything, sobs now consuming him as the sharp smacks continued unabated.  He was pathetically grateful that the spanking itself gave him reason enough to cry, and hoped that Angel attributed his tears to the physical pain alone.

“I regret leaving you a hundred years ago.”

Two more hard blows landed on Spike’s upper thighs, jolting him forward as he squeezed his muscles hard upon the inserted plug.

“I can’t tell you how many times after China I wished I’d taken you with me when I left again, even though I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

Five slaps followed, each one stronger than the last, as though the regret and frustration he’d felt then were manifesting itself here and now.

“I regret sending you off the sub without instructions for where to find me afterwards.”

Another slap, this one on the upper curves of his childe’s now bright red bottom.

“I regret not telling you the truth about the soul then, when I had the chance.”

The next smack fell on the fullest part of the blonde’s cheeks, just above the marble disk.  Beneath him, Spike felt Angel growing impossibly harder as his own cock surged between his sire’s thighs, trapped there by a preternatural power and will.  Spike couldn’t stop crying now, the sobs wrenched from his throat until it felt hoarse and raw.  Tears and snot ran down his face, but he didn’t even bother to try and wipe them away, knowing that it was futile.

“I regret deceiving you when we met up again in Sunnydale.  I know how that made you feel.”

Three more blows, these raining down in a random pattern from hip to thigh.

“I regret ignoring you while you were in Sunnydale and I especially regret not taking you back to LA with me when I saw you tied to that damn chair.  When Giles told me about the chip afterwards, I vamped out in front of him.  I could have killed him then, I was so angry.  But still I didn’t come for you – I regret that almost more than I can bear.”

A series of hard smacks followed.

“I think Giles realized the truth about us then.  He’d never really trusted me, not before Jenny and certainly not after, but I think that knowledge, more than anything else, has kept him wary of me and everything I did, especially where Buffy was concerned.”

Angel was quiet for a few minutes, and that silence only highlighted that his childe’s pathetic sobs had increased upon mention of the Slayer.  The spanking continued, though, and the tears continue to fall.

“I regret trying to find a substitute for you with Buffy and rubbing your nose in it,” he finally said quietly, acknowledging what had remained silent between them for too long.

Another interval of silence followed as Angel let Spike digest that bit of information.  The sobs never stopped, but there was a new tone to them, and Angel recognized it as emotional pain superseding the physical.  He increased the strength of his blows to help Spike maintain the pretence that it was the physical pain he responded to, and not anything else.

“And I really, really – and each of those words was punctuated with an especially sharp smack – regret telling you that I’d accepted no longer having sire rights over you,” Angel said.  “Because it wasn’t true.”

Spike gasped and his sobs increased in volume.

“I’ll never accept that.  I can’t.  No matter what happens, I’m your sire and you’re my childe.   You’re mine, you belong to me.”

The sobs turned to pitiful wails.

“I’ll never let you go, do you understand me?” Angel demanded, the blows increasing in strength.  “Never.”

Three hard strikes landed in the same place, directly on the disk and his balls, and Spike jerked and moaned beneath his hand.

“You’re my boy.   Say it.”

“Da!” Spike cried out hoarsely.

“Say it,” Angel demanded again, the blows raining down upon reddened and bruised flesh.

“I’m yours, Da, your boy.  I’ll always be yours,” the blond cried out hoarsely, bucking beneath the relentless hand.

“What was the first thing I taught you, boy?” Angel asked, his hand rising and falling in cadence with the words.

“Obey your sire,” Spike said without hesitation.

The spanking abruptly ceased.