Intervention Girls by Finknottle

She was sitting on the floor of a storage room in the basement of City Hall. It was like sitting in a cement box. She was throwing a small glowing orb. With each throw it bounced hard off the floor, ricocheted upward from the opposite wall, and then rebounded off the ceiling to slap back hard and stinging into her waiting palm.

She had been doing this over and over again, just like Steve McQueen in that old World War II movie. The orb was a little smaller than a baseball and felt weird to hold, because it was formed of mystic energy made manifest, but it bounced well enough. Unlike 'ole Steve-a-reno, she didn't have a glove and her hand was starting to hurt. The little sucker seemed to be gaining energy as it made the round trips; spider webs of cracks and spurts of dust coming now with the strikes. Too, it was starting to glow brighter, shining with convoluted opalescent veins of amethyst and sparks of silver.

Pretty, she thought, but is it working? Am I doing anything here other that giving myself rosy palms? 'Cause there's better ways to do that!

She got her answer almost immediately. Screams of anguished pain correlating nicely to the collision of orb with wall or ceiling had begun to be audible. They were distant still, but drawing nearer. She had left the door ajar, so she heard easily enough, plaintive cries and about half a dozen sets of footsteps echoing down the stairwell from upstairs.

Faith continued her task, smiling grimly and putting even more of her considerable Slayer strength behind each throw.

Now the tortured cries were near. In between the inarticulate sounds of pain torn from a human throat came panting words, "Spread out you idiots! Find it, find it!"

"Oh, I don't know…Hrrrrnnnnh! Oh, God, that hurt! Maybe that supernatural glow coming from over there is a pretty good clue, what do you think? Now look!"

"Well, of course, 'here it is'! Now kill whoever has it and bring me the sphere! And the body too!"

Faith caught the orb and looked up expectantly. The doorway filled with vamps. Those not already 'game-faced' vamped out when they saw her.

"What do you mean?" said the human voice, and a moment later the man that went with it was pushing aside the vampires to look in at her.

"Oh, no…Pumpkin, what are you doing down here?" the Mayor asked, and, in the light from the orb, his face looked ashen, pale as those of his undead minions.

Faith raised her hand as if to throw again, but the Mayor stepped in, waving his arms frantically.

Faith had been sitting on the ground, leaning back against the wall, but now she was on her feet in one catlike move, tossing the glowing orb into the air.

The Mayor's panicked eyes followed it up and back down to where it landed gently in the Slayer's palm.

He held his hand out expectantly, but Faith made no move to place the orb there.

"Aw, common…" she said. "You know these Schlemiel spheres don't last long. Sure, while it is around, your invulnerable ass can be made to feel pain – lots of it – but they're – how did the text put it? – thermodynamically unstable on any plane, so you won't have to worry too much longer. 'Course, while it's still around…"

"Schlemellwechterlef sphere," the Mayor corrected automatically, then his eyes began to widen.

"And just how do you know about them?" he asked. And, sure, he was asking was asking, but she could see in his eyes that he knew.

The Mayor's eyes widened. "Pumpkin…" he said sadly, voice trailing off into uncomfortable silence. He sighed and shook his head and laughed without humor. When he spoke, Faith winced to hear the disappointment in his voice. "Why? Haven't I been good to you? I've given you toys, money, new friends, a place where you're accepted – and respected – for who and what you are. You never had that before. Not from your own family, certainly not from the other side. So, you want to tell me why?"

This was turning out to be harder than she thought it would. Problem was, she really did love the guy, couldn't have made the Shlepper-whatever-it-was if she didn't, since its creation required betrayal within mutual love, as the ancient text had put it. He was the closest thing to a father she'd ever had, fer Christ's sake, but…

She dropped the tough girl attitude and sighed deeply. When she spoke it was earnestly, genuinely trying to make him understand. "Look, I'm sorry, but I just can't do it, ya know? The powers that be made me Slayer for a reason and it wasn't to work for the bad guys. God knows, I'm not perfect…"

"Hey! You want to leave Blondie out of this? Like I said, I'm not perfect, and I lose my way often enough, but, when it comes right down to it, I'm just not built for evil."

"You know what your problem is, don't you?" said one of the vamps. "It's that pesky soul." The others nodded again.

"You should let one of us turn you," said another. "There's never been a Slayer turned before, you'd be the first, and without the soul, all your doubts would be gone. You could embrace evil wholly and completely."

"Yeah, it'd be beautiful," said the first, and all the others nodded and made a chorus of encouraging sounds.

"Oh, wow! Look, I appreciate the offer, and everyone – all you guys – everyone's been really great to me, but this," she gestured helplessly with her hands, "it's just not gonna work out." And looking directly at the Mayor she said, "I'm sorry, but I have to quit."

"Hey," and he too gestured helplessly, "I understand, some things just weren't meant to be."

"Absolutely! Hey, I've given you unconditional love and acceptance. I don't take that back. I've loved you from the moment you became my girl, and I'll never stop loving you. I have to kill you, of course, but I'll still love you, even when you're gone."

"Good to know," said Faith, and slammed the Schuvvi-whatever-it-was into the wall. As the Mayor doubled over in pain she grabbed her battle axe from where she had hidden it on a nearby self. It was her favorite, a gift from her, perfectly balanced and deadly. It had been a long time since she had felt right about even holding the thing, but it felt perfect enough in her hand now.

She didn't go for the kill on any of them, not right away. First get a little room to maneuver, she thought, throwing the orb hard. The Mayor cried out as it zinged off one vampire's skull and caromed off another. He continued to make little bleating noises as it landed and bounced around in the larger space outside the storage room. Then Faith, swinging with two hands, was hacking through the mass of vampires clogging the doorway. She used speed and what momentum she could build in the small area to spin and chop. No kills as she had predicted, but, by the time she battled through the ones that didn't scatter, many of her foes were badly maimed and loose body parts littered the ground.

Immediately on reaching the more open area beyond the door, Faith rounded on the vamps. They were trying to rush out of the room and at her, but, instead, found themselves bottlenecked by the narrow opening. True, she was a little stymied herself – battle conditions making it difficult for her to deliver flat sweeping arcs to decapitate and dust – but she was happy enough to continue crushing and cleaving her opponents for now.

This area of the basement was dark and disused, a nest of rusting pipes and peeling paint, mostly coming off the old boiler and the associated equipment that had been used to supply heat back when the upstairs radiators had actually worked. It was full of deep spaces and dark shadows, and from one of these, something launched itself and slammed into her like a ton of bricks.

Demon, she realized, even while it was taking her down. She did not recognize the species, but it was leathery, roared loudly, and had bad, bad breath. And there were fangs, lots of them. Then she was twisting in mid air to take most of the impact on her left shoulder, which hurt like hell, but saved her from a cracked skull.

The demon might have managed to keep her pinned had it kept its full weight upon her. Instead, it shifted its considerable bulk, trying, or so it seemed, to find a comfortable position from which to eat her face. Faith, however, had other ideas, and this small opening was all she needed.

Rocking back she brought her knees up and got her feet planted firmly in its torso. The stench was horrible, overpowering, but she was able to hold the rest of the attack at bay. Even so she was almost overcome by nausea and she wondered if the horrid stench was part of the thing's weaponry. All the while, it bellowed malodorous cries of rage – or hunger maybe – snapping its jaws and threatening to drip thick swinging cords of gelatinous drool upon Faith's upturned face.

Stink-Boy, if boy he was, flew a good ten feet. It would have gone further, but its flight path was interrupted by the furnace. It slammed into it with a satisfying iron clang and then slid down to land in a Wily Coyote-like heap. As, it did so, the heavy iron door swung open to reveal a bed of hellishly glowing coals.

Faith smiled grimly, understanding his confusion; prior to the Mayor's election the furnace had lain fallow for decades. And, while no longer part of the central heating, his Honor, a real waste not want not kind of guy, had found other uses for it, specifically in the area of creative persuasion. Simply put, when the duties of his office – leastways as he interpreted them – called for torture, the Mayor found that red hot pokers and pincers never failed to impress. Since there was no torture scheduled for that evening, his confusion in finding it lit and well stoked was only natural. He would not have been reassured to learn that it was Faith who was responsible this unauthorized use of city property. And, while she had not quite intended if for use at this juncture, a good Slayer knows how to make things happen in battle.

Faith kicked out and regained her feet in the classic Slayer move even as the demon was climbing back to its own. Rushing forward, she kicked it in its leathery ass to keep the thing off balance and then she lifted the lower end and shoved the lumpy head into the inferno. She held it in place, despite the frantic struggles, reflecting on how much better the butt end smelled than the other half. It was only when she sensed the ring of vampires pressing in that she pulled it out and used the smoldering carcass, for the thing was now dead, to bowl some of them over.

In the milliseconds of free time this bought her, she looked about for the axe, which had been knocked from her grasp, but was no where to be found. There was an ancient mop, resting in a bucket of equal antiquity, sitting on an iron grating down which post torture effluvium was often sluiced. This she snatched up and snapped over her knee. Gratifyingly, she got a good break, the mop handle cleaving diagonally into two jaggedly pointy lengths of weathered gray wood. Then they were upon her.

The half with the mop head she used primarily as a shield and cudgel, although she did dust one vamp using the pointy end for a blind reverse strike. The remaining four fell quickly as she spun among them wielding her makeshift stakes.

She fought hurriedly, wanting to get to the sphere thingy again before the Mayor could. In fact, she took out the last two vampires near simultaneously, a well placed crescent kick having positioned one between her and the other, so a that a single deep lunging strike dusted them both with only a barely perceptible delay.

In the soft pattering and the echoing silence that followed, Faith felt a sense of regret no less keen than the pain in her shoulder that Buffy had not been here to witness her battle, or, better yet, to have shared it with her.

Where are you, B? her heart cried out. Stupidest thing I ever did was lose you!

The glow of the orb, though somewhat diminished now, was easy to spot in the dim lighting. She had been expecting to see the Mayor scampering to take possession of it, but he was nowhere to be seen. Neither was her axe. She moved instantly upon that realization. Even so, the blade bit into her back with searing pain, grating along and cutting a furrow in her ribs, but, thanks to Slayer speed, not breaking through them.

Faith used the filthy mop end to bitch slap the Mayor. The blow had considerable force – pain having juiced her already substantial Slayer strength. The Mayor spun about like a top, releasing the axe, probably not accidentally, so that it flew off at a deadly flashing tangent straight toward Faith. There was no time to focus and catch weapon, but she dodged easily and it went skittering away.

Ironically, the sound of the axe, a gift from Buffy, bouncing on the concrete and getting its beautiful finish all messed up pissed her off far more than that the Mayor had used it to badly wound her. She waded in and put every bit of herself – rage, frustration, pain, and considerable skill – behind a rising upper cut to the midsection. She had dropped the mop handles to grab a handful of expensive silk lapel as she delivered the blow, so that, while he was lifted off his feet, he did not go flying off into the shadows. Instead, he hovered like a tennis ball tossed up for a serve. Faith got a firm two handed grip his honor and slammed him down hard into the cement floor.

It had been a gorgeous, violent, savage attack, but one that was totally wasted – except for the emotional release factor – impervious as the Mayor was to physical damage. No not wasted entirely; the Mayor was now making retching sounds – Jeeze, man, sounds like he's gonna hurl – and swiping frantically at his face. Seeing the sheen there and getting a disgustingly familiar whiff, Faith burst out laughing.

"Not enough moist towelettes in the world, are there?" Faith asked, stooping to retrieve her axe, chuckling despite the pain and the blood oozing thickly down her back. She may not have been able to smash his face by driving it into the ground, but had certainly slimed it up. Apparently she had piled driven his face into a nice puddle of thick, stinky demon saliva.

She moved now to where the sphere lay pulsing with its strange lights and picked it up, then strolled back to the Mayor. He had taken off his expensive silk suit jacket and was using it to wipe his face.

"Man, I'm going to have to get the cleaning staff down here A.S.A.P., this place is filthy," he said, looking distastefully and the snot-like muck soiling the expensive material. "Yuck!"

"Well", Faith kept her voice equally casual and pleasant, "this is a torture chamber. Speaking of which…" And she raised her arm as if to throw the sphere again.

"What? You want me to beg? Is that it?" he asked, stepping in front of her and smiling broadly. On the surface, he looked his usual, pathologically cheerful self, but there was a telltale bead of sweat crawling snaillike down one side of his forehead that said otherwise.

Faith lowered her arm thoughtfully, as if giving this thought some consideration.

"Hey!" he said, smile was all toothy, voice quite hearty. "I'm sure it would! But, uh, let's not go that route. I mean, it'd be what? Cool? Cool to watch me suffer, but you have your future to think about. I mean, you can't exactly go back to the other side, now can you? Frankly, I don't see why you'd want to leave, but, hey, you want to quit? Fine, quit! Only stop now and you'll get to enjoy your early retirement."

"No! Not at all! But," he added earnestly, "it could be. How about it? We put together a nice little severance package for you. Two days from now, you're far away and lying in the sun, free and clear, not working for either side. Just Faith looking out for Faith. What do you say?"

Schlemellwechterlef sphere: Faith might not be able to say its name, but she had made one nonetheless! A snatch of conversation between the Mayor and his chief sorcerer had not been much to go on, but Faith had been all WWWD – what would Willow do? – and, amazingly, had gotten the job done. The Wiccan, she felt, would have been proud of her, if she hadn't been so busy hating her guts anyway!

Yep! The right herbs, the right phase of the moon, little chanting, a lot of stabbing in effigy, and you could create something to make the invulnerable feel pain – at least temporarily – even it you still couldn't do any permanent damage to them. The twist was that it could not be made by an ally. Its creation required betrayal, preferably by a loved one; the bigger the backstabbing, the easier the magic to work, and Faith had found it disturbingly easy to construct the sphere.

I'm no good to anybody, she thought. Not to the good guys, not to the bad guys, not to myself.

Faith became aware of the Mayor holding out his hand, still waiting. She held out the glowing orb, waited until she saw the flicker of triumph in his eyes, then squeezed.

There was shock in the Mayor's eyes and he did not seem able to breathe. He clutched his chest and his face turned purple. She tightened her grip harder still and he made a sound midway between a squeak and shriek, then he pitched forward onto his face.

Faith relaxed her grip on the orb, which glowed and flashed with cold yet feverish light. She watched as the Mayor, released from the pain, struggled rise on rubbery, uncooperative limbs. She waited until he had fought to his knees and looked up to meet her gaze. Then she flicked her gaze to the open furnace door and back to him again. She watched as comprehension dawned and savored his rising panic, then she wound up and threw.

"You know," he said, eyes on the energy ball as it sped toward the glowing coals and their shimmering impossible heats, "a simple letter of resignation would have been sufficient!"

Then the thing had buried itself with a hiss and shower of sparks and the Mayor was on the ground, writhing in mindless agony.

Faith stood over him, looking down with something close to regret. Before she could get into any deep soul searching, however, she notice the light coming from the furnace. It was incandescently bright.

With that thought in mind, she stepped over the thrashing body, collected the axe – Jeeze, will ya look at the scratches! – and headed for the stairwell going up to the lobby.

On the way up, she passed a vampire coming down. She dusted him almost with out thinking about it. In the lobby she met a human, one of the Mayor's flunkies, who asked her if she thought she had heard something funny.

"Can't really stop to chat with ya, but let's jus' say you might wanna rethink yer career in civil service. Severance payback is hell!"

Then she was booking up the wide marble stairs heading for the gallery and the offices of the city fathers – bought, corrupted, or damned, one and all – past her former boss' office, and through a door a little further down.

Every step made the gash in her back sting like hell. It hurt to breathe too. She could feel the blood running down her back, oozing in a sticky flow in her ass crack, running down her legs. It was pooling annoyingly in her left sneaker. Smiling grimly, she pictured how the neat freak Mayor would react to how she was messing up his headquarters. Or, rather, how he would react once he stopped writhing on the floor, screaming and wetting his pants.

By the time she stumbled into her little room, Faith was feeling kind of woozy. It was probably the blood loss, but, then again, she always felt a little woozy in this room. It had once belonged to the Deputy Mayor, the man Faith had murdered. (No, make that 'manslaughtered' she thought. I meant to slay a vampire, not slaughter a human!) It had been refurnished into a studio apartment in order to give Faith a living space at City Hall.

While it couldn't match the opulence of her downtown penthouse digs, it did serve its purpose, though, most recently, not in the way her employer had intended. Its close proximity (just a connecting door away) from the Mayor's seat of power had made it the perfect location for creating the sphere, the very ambiance of betrayal the room possessed – for had not Faith betrayed everything she believed in after the Deputy Mayor's death? – serving to center her in this willful act of treachery visited upon her now former boss.

She moved to the bed and sat down. There was a small pack there. Aside from the battle axe and what she wore, it contained everything she'd brought with her when entering the Mayor's employ. It was all she intended to take with her now.

Resisting the urge to lie down, she reached for the bedside phone and punched in a number. It rang a long time. When finally the answering machine came on disappointment warred with relief. She really had wanted to hear that voice one more time, even if all it did was tell her what a worthless piece of shit she was before hanging up.

She opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment something like a hot desert wind and a scream tore through the room. It seemed to move through her. There was no pain, but there was a smell and a taste of hot iron, and it was hard to catch her breath. Then it was gone.

Damn, she thought. That had to be the Shlemelecterwhatever going gabloowie! Ain't got much time left here.

"Hey, Buffy," Faith spoke into the receiver, urgent and low. She had not intended to use Blondie's full name, but felt glad that she had; maybe it would be the deciding factor in keeping her from hanging up! "I guess you know who this is. I just called to say I'm sorry," she said, thinking, Jeeze, will ya listen to me! I sound like I'm apologizing for fergettin' her birthday or somethin', not for betraying her and everything I ever tried to believe in! "I'm sorry to be doing this by phone, but I wanted you to hear that me say that, at least once, and I'm kinda' thinkin' I'm not ever gonna get the chance to tell ya in person. I don't know, I mean maybe…"

Faith realized she had trailed off into an extended silence. Silence except for the slight electrical buzz of the open phone line. She sighed, long and shuddering, thick with things bubbling to the surface. When she spoke again, it was hard to hold it all in, but – dammit! – she was not going to go all boo-hooey here.

Slayer senses kicked in. She had heard or felt something, she wasn't even sure what, but something.

She lowered the receiver to her lap and listened. Several pairs of footsteps in the corridor outside and the Mayor's office next door. Not so unusual for this place at night, but – and this is what had made Slayer mode kick in – they were all trying not to make any noise. Dead give away that was.

The receiver in her hand suddenly felt dead. She held it up to her ear and there was no sound, the little background electric buzz of an open live line was gone. The lights for the buttons on the touch pad were gone too.

Dang! she thought. That didn't take long. Thought fer sure I'd have had a little longer. Oh, well…

Faith cradled the receiver and stood, wincing as her wound pulled open and oozed some fresh blood.

Not a whole lot of action going on outside foe-wise, as in 'numbers of'. True, she was two stories up, but the jump was down to soft turf, and she could handle it easily enough, even wounded. It was just going to hurt a lot, was all, and with that she could deal.

Yep, going out the window was definitely the smart move. Trying for the front door would be suicide.

Buffy Summers was patrolling the park. At least that was what she was supposed to be doing, that and some general scouting of the City Hall vicinity. In reality, most of her effort was being expended in trying not to think about penises. She was doing her best to avoid thoughts of both the organ in general and of that male member attached to Rupert Giles in particular.

She was failing miserably. It was as fruitless as trying not to think about zebras! No sooner would she squelch the image of one turgid, throbbing phallus, when another would come galumphing across the mental horizon to take its place.

It was no longer surprising that, until recently, none of these sexual fantasies had belonged to her. Since her aspect of the demon incident, Buffy had grown used to the transplanted species splashing about in the antediluvian swamp of her libido. What was icky and disturbing – in the omigodineedashower sense of things – was how this batch of salty/sweet crotch dwelling cogitations had been birthed in the surprisingly steamy mind of none other than her own mother, Joyce Summers.

And none – no, make that, none!, or, perhaps, even NONE! – of the little mental techniques she had developed for filtering out extraneous foreign thought was having any effect on this particular bunch.

Joyce Summers memories of sex with Rupert Giles had been formed at a time when she had been magically whammied back to the emotional state of a sixteen year old. In other words, back to a time when her thought processes – especially the ones dealing with smelly, sweaty, wonderful sex – were nearly identical to those presently operating in the mind of her Slayer daughter. It didn't matter that Joyce's sexual awakening had taken place on the other side of the orientation coin from Buffy's; the feelings – emotional and erotic – that she felt toward Rupert Giles were remarkable similar to those Buffy felt towards Willow and Michelle.

That's why I can't block them out, Buffy realized. They're like my own thoughts, only less comfortable.

As bad as it was remembering sex with Giles, it was even worse reliving her mother's intense disappointment at having failed to suck his cock. Joyce Summers, Buffy now realized, was an inveterate cocksucker. While making love in broad daylight (twice) on the hood of police car added great spice to the act of coitus, it also infused the proceedings with such urgency that foreplay was, of necessity, reduced to removing the bare minimum of clothing requisite to the intended act.

It had been about an hour since the Slayer and her two girlfriends had left Giles and her mother at the safe house, forty-five minutes since she had kissed the two redheads at the door of Willow's house and begun her patrol. Plenty of time for mom to have had all her questions answered.

By now, Joyce Summers knew what it felt like to hold the warm weight of Giles balls in her hand, what they smelled like, how they tasted. Preparatory to actual sucking, she would have stroked the shaft while nibbling and licking its underside, would have milked a glistening pearl or two of precum to tip of the head and swirled her tongue there to taste (um…salty, sweet), would have thrilled as Giles shuddered at these ministrations.

Her mother, Buffy unwillingly knew, loved to be touched when she gave head. If Giles hands had not automatically sought to caress her cheek or reach between their bodies to catch her breast, Joyce Summers would have guided them there. From her peeks into Giles' mind, Buffy knew that was not likely to been an issue. How, she wondered, would her mom have felt when she felt the Watchers strong hands tangle fiercely in her hair to take possession of her as she worshiped (there was no other word for it) his cock with her mouth.

It so unfair! She was being tortured by her mother's unrequited lust after it had – presumably – been requited. And since she was no longer a mind reader, thank-you very much, she would never know the peace of having successfully scratched that particular itch. Here she was, tramping around the park in her sweats and watch cap, wringing the life out of Mr. Pointy, daydreaming about sucking her Watcher, while her mother probably had his nuts resting on her chin right this God damned minute!

"I'm a lesbian fer Christ's sake!" she screamed, sinking to her knees on the springy turf. "Will somebody please get these God damned cocks out of my head?"

And with that she clapped her hand to mouth and peered over it with eyes that had suddenly gone very wide.

The answer came to her as she unfurled the Slayer sensor array and focused outward for what was really the first time since she had entered the park.

"Better than thinking about sucking Giles," she said aloud, getting to feet and absently brushing at her dampened knees.

As always, since Faith's betrayal, thoughts of the younger Slayer brought a weltering storm of conflicting emotions into Buffy's heart. Anger, shocked disbelief, and the harsh resolve of duty, yes, but beneath that a layer of abiding sadness for the loss of kinship, and, deeper still, a terrible yearning for what might have been.

Buffy had been amused by the younger girl's flirtations, but had thought of it as nothing more than a crush. Now she wondered. Recent masturbatory goodness – when she could separate her fantasies from those of her mother – had centered about some of the post-slayage wind downs spent with Faith.

Replayed in Buffy's mind were the subtle, seemingly innocent touches the other girl would manage to bestow at those times. How oft, contriving to walk arm in arm with the elder Slayer, she had managed it then, by artful connivance, to brush the soft weight of her breast repeatedly against the pleasantly bemused Buffy. How there always seemed to be a bit of graveyard earth on her butt that Faith would find and exclaim over while reaching to swipe it away.

As guileless and chaste as these gestures pretended to be, Buffy knew better. To her heightened senses, the smell of Faith's need at such times was almost overpowering, and while existence of the state alone did not prove Buffy to be its subject, myriad other things did. Not that Buffy was willing to take this for granted, especially when it was so delightful to test her theory! She too began to notice that her companion's denim clad rump was often in need of a good dusting, she too allowed her hands to stray and purposefully tarry. Dim light and graveyard shadow could not wholly conceal Faith's reactions, and, if Buffy did not know the truth of the girl's heart, she saw, at least, how well spoken and honest was her lust.

At such times, Buffy had to fight hard against her natural inclination, which was to throw the younger girl up against a tree and take her. It was only the reality of the wanton identical redheads she called her own that held her in check, that and the memory of last year's brief infidelity with Angel and the myriad tragedies it had birthed!

The guilty pleasure of her illicit affair had been so overbalanced on the side of guilt, and so short on anything resembling pleasure, as to be a joke worthy of the gods. Lying there while Angel thrust and grunted, she had felt nothing but a self loathing as cold as the sweat his dead body dripped upon her. In lightning flashes of insight she had come to know several things in quick succession:

First, the 'love' she felt for Angel was no deeper than close friendship. Second, that she was betraying that friendship now by shamelessly using him, trying to cling (and how ironic that she had chosen a dead guy for the purpose) to the last the last vestiges of her hope for a 'normal' – read 'straight' – life. Third, that whatever claims she had made to like both boys and girls 'that' way was a lie, that she was no more bi than she was straight, that she was, in fact, simply gay.

Lying there, praying Angel would finish, she had chided herself how she had begun to believe her own lies, how the stories she had traded with Michelle of nascent sexual exploration with boys had been, from her end at least, utter prevarication. In fact, but for some pre-pubertal 'show you mine, show me yours' sessions – mostly instigated by Michelle during Michigan summering – Buffy had had no sexual contact with a male – until Angel. In the midst of the actual act, however, Buffy had found that she had not really thought things through.

Ironically, had Buffy been honest and simply asked Angel to stop, then a tremendous burden of pain, horror, and death might have been avoided. But, though she had been shocked to find that Angel was totally oblivious to her disgust, and though, more than anything, she had wanted the ordeal to be over – especially since the little spells he kept in place to give the illusion of warmth and humanity had fallen by the wayside in the excitement of the sex act, leaving Buffy all too aware that she was fucking a living corpse – in the end she said nothing, the genuine affection she felt towards him holding her back.

Let him have this one moment of pure happiness, she had thought, and then I'll find a way to end this gracefully.

So she had watched him with a clinical detachment, almost as if she had been outside herself. She had murmured encouraging sounds, experimented with touch, lingering where her fingers or raking nails raised his excitement, and – inwardly thanking Meg Ryan for showing her how it was done – carefully faked her own orgasm. The last, more than anything, drove Angel's passion over the top and she felt icy sperm pour in numbing waves into her vagina, felt the cold sticky wet of it seep out of her to run chillily over her anus. And all the while she planned how best to extract herself from his bed so she could find her Willow and Michelle, longing for the comfort of their arms, and all the while wondering how she could ever face them again.

And then, of course, it all went to hell, almost literally! Angel lost his soul, leaving Angelus free to go on his murderous rampage, and to work his plans to bring about Armageddon. Too, he had made sure that Buffy's mother, Watcher, and all the Scoobies – most especially Willow and Michelle – knew the precise role the Slayer had played in setting him free of Angel's restraints.

Michelle, who understood the urge to promiscuity, even though she had learned to resist it, might have understood and more readily forgiven, but Willow's heart was broken. She refused all but the minimum contact with Buffy necessary for the Scoobies to function. Michelle, for her part, would not take one in her bed without the other, so all three girls were miserable and lonely. The lowest point came when Willow, too freaked to be alone after Angelus broke into her room to do in her fish, spent the night sleeping on Xander's floor, rather than turn to Buffy for protection.

Locked outside the boundaries of Willow and Michelle's love, Buffy had been inconsolable. She functioned like a well-oiled automaton, but nothing more. She went where her worried Watcher bid her go and dealt out the slayage under his direction, but performed her duties without passion. Only with the murder of Jenny Calendar and the subsequent torture of Giles did she regain direction, at least outwardly. More than ever though, Giles feared for her, because it seemed there was nothing left of Buffy and only the Slayer remained. Willow might have reached her then, but she refused to try.

When, in the ultimate battle, Buffy found that she must slay not Angelus, but Angel with his soul restored, moreover, consign him to hell in order to save the world, she performed her duty, but then finally, inevitably broke. The girl who left her brief note and took her quiet bus ride out of town was naught but an empty shell, a dried up husk with hollow eyes that saw only places empty of life.

Such was her state when Michelle and Willow finally managed to find her in one of L.A.'s rougher neighborhoods.

"Go away," was all she said when they approached her, harsh words spoken between clenched teeth, heavy with the weight of finality. But Willow and Michelle did not go away. Everyday they took the first bus out of Sunnydale for L.A. Each night they took the last bus back. In between they made themselves available to Buffy. The first few days the pair were everywhere Buffy turned, waiting outside her cheap hotel, following her to the diner where she worked, trailing her back at night. This, though, seemed too stalkerish, so they quickly fell into a pattern of a one or two daily meetings and a try at conversation, usually at the days end.

One evening Willow's 'Goodnight, Buffy' had been rewarded with a grunt and, "You two need some sun block, you're getting burnt." Buffy didn't make eye contact while saying this, but these were the first words she had spoken to them since 'Go away', so watching the Slayer step past a wino to vanish into her hotel, Willow and Michelle were absurdly cheered by this utterance.

"I think that was only one sentence – two phrases linked by a comma – but…"

"No, sweetie, it didn't rate a semicolon…but we're making progress. She's definitely weakening."

So delighted were the two redheads, talking excitedly, making the nightly trek back to the bus station, they failed to notice anything was amiss. Not until rough hands seized them and dragged them kicking and fighting into an alley. Willow was thrown to the ground at the base of a chain link fence, skinning her palms on the rough ground, then had the wind knocked out of her as Michelle followed. Climbing to their feet they saw the silhouettes of their attackers illumed by the distant street lights, smelled their cigarette smoke and sweat stink, heard their mocking laughter.

Both the girls had grown used to not screaming for help when faced with danger. In Sunnydale, help wasn't likely to come, you fought back and made your own luck. Here in L.A. they did not have the usual trusty stakes and crossbow, but Willow felt her foot brush against something that rolled and she bent low to grasp an empty wine bottle.

Willow held the bottle by the neck and smashed it against the wall. Then, gritting her teeth, she charged. She heard the ripping of cloth and heard 'like it when they fight' scream like a girl as the glass cut him, then felt hands pulling her off him, heaving to throw her back into the fence. She fought to keep both her balance and the makeshift weapon, felt Michelle steadying her.

The street thugs were laughing, not at her, but at her attacker-cum-victim. He yowled with anger and pain. Willow heard the sound of his switch blade and then he was running right back at her. She held her weapon two handed and braced for action, action that never came.

Instead of closing with her, the shadowy figure of the street punk had flown up and backwards. He made startled little bleating noises as he sailed through the air, right up until the sickening thud of his landing ended them. Then a familiar voice belonging to a new, smaller silhouette moving casually among the others, spoke into the silence.

"Hmph! You're human scum. Sorry, I'm used to the tougher kind…You know, demony or undead. Don't worry, though, I can do this without killing anyone. I think…"

It had been too dark for Willow and Michelle to see the battle properly, but then again, it didn't last very long. There had been a small shadow moving swiftly among the larger, curses, scuffling, the impact of fist on flesh, the muted thud of a heel edge driving into an abdomen and an escaping whoosh of breath. There had been the muted snapping of ribs, bodies crashing to the ground, the skittering of dropped knives, and ring of brass knuckles on pavement.

The last one had had a gun, a revolver, a .357 at least from the ear deafening boom of the two shots he managed to get off. Light from the first muzzle blast had briefly revealed the Slayer, still in her pink and white uniform, bent backwards at the knees like a limbo dancer passing beneath the bar. The lurid, orange flash from the gun barrel was parallel to her body, but passed safely over it, the shot missing by scant inches. Less than a second later, another concussive crack and flash that lit the alley and showed the Slayer, now airborne, high above the panicked gunman's head, knees drawn in ready to kick. In the darkness that followed, there had been a muffled thud and then silence. Then there had been only the Buffy's silhouette, a small shadow backlit by the light from the distant street.

"Buffy…" Michelle had begun, but the figure had turned and was beginning to walk away.

That had been all Willow could take. The game plan of being there for Buffy, but not pressuring her, had gone straight out the window.

"God damn it, Buffy," Willow had stormed down the alley after the Slayer, nearly tripping over one of the thugs, managing to stay on her feet only with Michelle's assistance. "Don't you dare walk away from us!" she had screamed, stumbling onward. "We love you, God damn it," she said, her voice thick with tears, "please talk to us."

They had caught up to Buffy near the mouth of the alley and Willow had grabbed her wrist and resolutely halted. For a moment she was sure Buffy was going to pull away and move off, but the Slayer made no move to free herself from Willow's grasp. Instead Willow had felt Buffy's hand grope for and take her own. She'd stared in amazement at the sight, as if the world had never seen two sets of fingers intertwined, then she slowly raised her gaze and met the eyes of the Slayer. No, not the Slayer's, they were Buffy eyes, and they were full of pain. Then Buffy had shook her head, made a sound midway between a laugh and a hiccup, and then she was moving into Willow's arms, reaching to snag Michelle's sleeve and pull her into the embrace. It was the last thing she did before the dam inside her broke and let out all the past months anguished lonely pain.

Neither of the redheads had ever seen Buffy so distraught. She cried and cried, shaking uncontrollably with deep shuddering sobs, and all they could do was silently hold her and wait.

At length, Buffy had let go and wiped her tear streaked face on her sleeve. Then she had blown a startlingly large amount of snot into her apron, grimacing embarrassedly while Willow and Michelle chuckled appreciatively. Then she had looked up with her red, puffy, but excruciatingly beautiful green eyes, and said, or rather more or less tearfully hiccupped, "Please take me home now. I think I'm through with my post-Armageddon depression."

And they had. Not to 'home', per se, but to the safe house and the upstairs bedroom there.

They had not made love that first night back together, just cuddled and slept, and Buffy had awoke the next morning, one third of the grand total of naked, warm, sleep tousled girl parts tangled in soft flannel sheets. Michelle was snoring inches away from her face, and Buffy savored the sour stink of her cousin's morning breath as if it had been the scent of sweetest honeysuckle. Too, she smiled indulgently when she felt Willow fart against her thigh. She herself had a horribly dry mouth, she was famished, and had to pee to the point of extreme pain. Still she lay there and just took it all in, unwilling to move, willing it to last forever. Never had she thought to belong to this once more. Never, had been her solemn promise that bright and sunny morning, would she ever again do anything to endanger it.

And she had remembered that promise in post-patrol times with Faith in obvious sexual need and interest. And while she had been willing to engage in a little harmless flirtation – just to test her observations – she had never let it go any further than that.

Still, fantasy wasn't cheating, and imagining how things might have gone had she allowed it had become choice grist for the self-pleasuring mill. (Ironically, Buffy had, on more than one occasion, brought herself to orgasm nested between the post-coital after-dozing Willow and Michelle, for sometimes even that pair of trusty lust bunnies could not hold pace with Slayer lust, and Buffy, left in need, had taken matters into her own hands.) In her fantasies, Buffy always took the lead, showing a confused but willing Faith the ropes, guiding her to a grateful acceptance of her sexuality and pledges of undying love.

Patrolling the park now, Buffy shifted into one such fantasy, and this proved superior to reliving her mother's sexual memories on at least two accounts: First, it rid her of, or at least temporarily shelved, some very major ick. Second, it focused her. For some reason, thoughts of Faith, even those unrelated to their calling, always did somehow seem to focus Buffy on the slayage.

So she wandered the park and her thoughts turned to hands, hands that slipped beneath leather to cup and feel, hands that wandered freely over the body of and garnished the appreciation and the love of the younger Slayer. (Who, she told herself, I hate by the way…) And all the while she stretched out her considerably enhanced human senses, as well as her special Slayer sense, her ability to sense evil as a feeling of wrongness in her, as Merrick had put it, female parts.

This Slayer sense, she knew, was connected to her enhanced sexual capacity. When faced with evil, she felt compelled to destroy it, a feeling that went far beyond the notion that the removal of evil from the world was a good thing, but rather something moving into the realm of genuine undeniable need, as great as the drive to eat, drink, or have sex. On the rare occasions when evil escaped her or where strategy required her to temporarily let it go, she later felt an annoying, deep inside ache that seemed quite suspiciously similar to those blue balls that Xander was always talking about. In contrast, the emotional release that came with consummated slayage was almost orgasmic in nature, a sunshine glow in her chest that quickly settled lower, much lower, making everything alright. It one of nature's little bonuses, a nice perk that helped to hold the very real fear of death and dismemberment at bay, that allowed her to function and do her duty.

So how, Buffy wondered (even as she wondered what sounds the younger Slayer would make when she nipped her nips), does Faith do it? It has to be the same for her. So how can she even tolerate working for the Mayor?

Whoa! she thought, Something wicked this way comes! Something big! Or…And looking across the large open, moonlit area – she was deep in the outfield of the number one softball field – she saw the movement in the wooded area beyond, branches shaking and moving shadows that indicated…A whole lot of littler evil!

As she watched, a small figure stumbled from beneath the tree shadows and began running towards her.

Faith! Buffy's eyes widened at the realization as she braced for action. So she wants to play…Okay I'm ready for her.

By the time, though, the number of figures trailing behind Faith was about a dozen, some of them large and demon shaped, Buffy was rethinking things.

Little outnumbered here…And she began to beat a hasty retreat back the way she had come.

Buffy had made it no more than a dozen steps, though, when she realized that something wasn't adding up. Faith's gait had been ragged and erratic, far removed from her usual effortless stride. And if this was a trap, why spring it at so ineffectual a time? Halting, Buffy looked back, and what she saw made her blood freeze.

The demons and vamps – more than a dozen, a small mob of them – had Faith surrounded on the infield. She was trapped in a circle of them and they were pushing her stumbling figure back and forth, like bullies torturing some kid in a playground. Only this was real torture, with only one inevitable conclusion.

They're not after me at all, Buffy realized, they don't even know I'm here. This is all about Faith. They were after her. They're going to kill…

A Slayer is faster than any Olympian. When she runs the wind whips past her with the force of a gale. Rushing to Faith's rescue that night, Buffy turned the air she moved through into a hurricane, a tunnel of wind she hurtled down while her feet pounded the turf and her shock turned into rage, her rage into a growl, her growl into a pure, sweet, wordless battle cry, and then she was among them, a small blond juggernaut moving at the speed of love.

Buffy ran full speed at the mob of vampires and demons surrounding Faith. She could not see, but, to judge from the cheers and hooting, things were not going well for the young Slayer.

Buffy saw the scene through a red haze of anger that she rode like a cresting wave, a phenomenon of awesome power that engulfed her and yet which she somehow remained apart from. She marveled at the duality of it, this shocking, almost berserk rage, coupled to cold professional detachment.

When she wanted to frighten an opponent Buffy often threatened to 'show them what a Slayer really is', but truth was that not even she knew the limits of what she was actually capable of. Nearing the edge of the group, leaping over their startled heads, sailing through the air, watching the action from her inner place of utter stillness, all the while knowing that havoc was about to reign, Buffy realized she was about to find out.

In the center of the ring stood a tall vampire using one hand to hold up a beaten and battered figure that was barely recognizable as Faith. The Slayer's hair was matted with blood, more of the dark ooze having run down to mask her features. One hand struggled weakly to break the choking, vice-like grip that held her, feet dangling inches above the ground. The other held a battle axe, but that one hung limply at her side, fingers all but losing their grip on the weapon's handle, as if she were not even aware she was holding it. Indeed, she seemed barely conscious at all.

Buffy took in the entire scene at a glance, including the look of surprise on the vampire's demon contorted features. Then, still flying through the air towards him, she lashed out, all her supernatural strength concentrated in the one inch square of her heel connecting her kick to the vampire's neck. So violent was the attack, so focused its power, the undead tissue of the spinal cord ripped and the vamp disintegrated on the spot, leaving Faith to fall limply to the ground.

One of the other vampires started to make some remark meant to be frightening. He got a syllable or two out before Mr. Pointy took him. Mr. Pointy took two others before they had a chance to move. Then all was confusion as some of the vamps tried to rush in while others tried to flee. Buffy took advantage of this, staking the brave and timid alike as they stumbled into one another.

The undead of Sunnydale were used to a Buffy who traded quips as well as blows, a Slayer who teased and taunted as she fought them. Those who survived that night would speak a of a Slayer possessed by the true force of the ancients, a vessel for their will, untouched by fear, disdainful of pain, and unacquainted with mercy.

To put it in Biblical terms, she smote them, and they fell back in great dismay. All very 'yea' and 'hallelujah', but it could not last. There were just too many and she was one.

A reptilian demon rushed in and sent Buffy reeling with a blow that would have broken the back of an ordinary human, and which also, not insignificantly, knocked Mr. Pointy from her hand. Staggered, disarmed, and momentarily vulnerable, she let a vamp connect with a hard right that spun her head, sending her to the turf. As she struggled to regain her footing, two of the undead stepped in, each grabbing an arm. Buffy immediately realized she was being held steady as a target for the reptilian demon who was charging down upon her like a scaly, slit-eyed locomotive.

Buffy back flipped with quick, neat economy, landing in the same place, but the move effectively breaking their hold. She immediately caught each by a wrist and squeezed, the sound of bones breaking not fully masked by the resultant screams. Then she side stepped, pulling one of the vamps into the path of the reptilian demon. She let go as the scaly monstrosity whizzed by, close enough for the hothouse reek of its breath to wrinkle her nose, and the thing, which bore resemblance to the 'Creature from the Black Lagoon', slammed into the vampire.

As the two evil things went bump and tumble into the night, Buffy doubled her grip on the other vampire and spun about in several quick circles, like she was getting ready to throw the hammer in some track and field event. He screamed in agony, bone grinding against bone, as his body bowled down those among the others who tried to charge in. The cries rose in urgency when Buffy released and the wounded vampire flew off in a short level tangent that ended with a hard collision into reptile demon, who had just regained its feet.

From here, though, things quickly grew dicey again, and Buffy was very much pressed. Well as she was fighting, which was brilliantly, thank-you very much, there were just too many. Sooner or later, one would get in a blow that would allow another to rip out her throat. It was inevitable, and, unless something changed, Buffy realized, she and Faith were going to die here tonight.

Amazingly Buffy had forgotten all about her – and so had the baddies! While Buffy was assailed from all sides, Faith lay in her crumpled heap outside the circle of action.

An idea came to Buffy, though she hesitated in applying it, the risk to the fallen Slayer being great, but in the end she decided there was simply no choice. If she didn't get help, they were both doomed anyway.

"Faith!" Buffy called out the other's name harshly. "Get up damn it! Faith! Damn it, get your ass up! I need you! Now!"

The small tangle of denim, black leather, and dark, tumbled hair gave no sign of movement – but a vampire near the edge of the fray did. He detached himself from the combat, backed away, and caught Buffy's eye. Already game faced, the smile on his demonically contorted features spoke of his enjoyment at Buffy's agony, at her extreme distress over what she had done: Faith might have gone unnoticed for some time, might have recovered and had some chance at escape. Now Buffy had reminded this one that a Slayer lay helpless, her sweet heart's blood ready for the feast.

Panicked with the danger to Faith, Buffy redoubled her efforts, punches and kicks coming ever more frenzied with growing desperation. But the ranks of undead and unholy closed thickly, and Buffy understood with sick certainty that she would not reach Faith in time. She watched in horror as the smiling vampire reached down and casually hoisted Faith aloft by her thick, dark hair, could do naught to stop the fanged mouth moving ever closer to the pale, soft neck.

The heel of the dark Slayer's palm came up and slammed shut the jaws of her attacker. It was not a very strong or effective blow, but it made the vamp bite his tongue, causing considerable hurt. He flung her to the ground in anger, but then immediately charged again, roaring with pain and rage.

Faith had gone to the ground empty handed. When she came up, it was with her battle axe. She had been flung nearly on top of it, and, though one eye was swollen shut and blood from a scalp wound half blinded the other, her hand had touched the smooth haft of the weapon and closed upon its comforting length, knowing it tactilely even before her concussed brain could recognize it consciously.

It was more instinct than volition that made her pivot and bury the weapon into the torso of the charging vampire, but the cobwebs were definitely clearing as she spun opposite, swing higher to shear off his head. Through the settling dust she glimpsed…

Faith no sooner saw that Buffy was unarmed than she freed a stake from its holster inside her leather coat and threw it hard, not to the blonde Slayer, but into the non-beating heart of one of the fiends menacing her. Blondie did not disappoint her either, reaching smoothly into the maelstrom of dust to seize the length of wood.

And then thought, although now inescapable, had become a detriment; any train of thought of the one involving the other had to derailed, lest it interfere with the dance of death that was the slayage.

No time for Faith to wonder at still living, let alone dealing out damage, when a minute before she had been defeated and dying. No room in the action for Buffy to dwell upon the wisdom of helping an enemy, nor to consider the very contrary opinions of her heart toward that designation. There was only the deadly pas de deux of two Slayers fighting together against a host of deadly and horrid foes.

They should have fallen that night. The odds, impossible for one, were not much the less bitter for two. But there was that power – pure, sweet, ancient and uncaring –the will of PTB made manifest in the vessel of the Slayer – times two.

So they fought on until their limbs were numb, every breath a lungful of fire. Fought beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond desire for victory, fought until there was only that power and their wills and bodies to give it shape.

And the vampires and demons came in waves, battering at the two besieged figures that stood like rocks in storm tossed surf. And, like waves, they broke, exploding in sprays of powder or gouts of blood.

Despite the impossible skill of the two Slayers, it seemed that they must be crushed and beaten, for the sheer numbers arrayed against them allowed for not the smallest margin of error. But Buffy and Faith made no errors, despite the blows they took. And then, after a seemingly endless series of attacks blocked or parried, of lightening quick counters, of deadly blows sensed and ducked by the merest of margins, of cheating death again and again, there came a subtle moment when everyone realized at once how the ranks of evil had thinned, and how, it seemed, Buffy and Faith were actually winning.

"Screw this!" snarled a demon. "No one said anything about two Slayers!" Then he turned and tramped off into the night.

There was a pause then where everyone backed gently away from the panting Slayers, looked at each other, took stock, and fled.

One vampire who's clothes did not quite fit, who had tape holding together the bridge of his horned framed glasses, stopped, and, posturing dramatically, said, "You may have triumphed today Slayers, but know you this… The undead cannot be stopped! We will…"

Another vampire came up and spun him around saying, "For evil's sake! I know you were a nerd when you were alive, but do you have to be one for the rest of eternity? Can't you just get over it? Remind me why I bothered turning you." Then over his shoulder to the Slayers, "Sorry, he gets carried away – forgets this is real life!"

Buffy and Faith stared in numb disbelief at their retreating enemies. Only when they were alone and were sure that it was over did they allow themselves to sink slowly to their knees before simply collapsing onto the cool, damp turf.

"Yay us," Buffy added, but sounding a little distracted. (She was fascinated by the trembling in her limbs, muscles twitching in utter exhaustion; not a sensation too common in the life of a Slayer, that.) "We should get out of here," she added, "they…"

Buffy did not want to move, desired only to lie on the infield ground, staring up at the night sky, luxuriating in all the not moving of it, but she forced herself into a sitting position as Faith did the same.

"We've got to tell Giles and…" Buffy started, stopped suddenly, lapsing into shocked silence.

Faith tilted her head, bringing the uninjured eye to bear on Buffy. She chuckled mirthlessly. "Forgot about it there for a minute, didn't 'ja?"

"I envy you, B," she said, pulling a cigarette out of her crushed pack, straightening it as best she could, putting it to her lips, fumbling with the lighter.

Buffy saw with renewed shock how bruised and torn Faith's hands were, noted now, with the heat of battle past, how stiff and awkwardly she moved. A freshet of breeze carried a coppery scent, and, eyes widening, she saw paleness in the other girl's skin that could not be accounted for by the moonlight.

She's lost a lot of blood, Buffy thought, reaching out to steady the lighter for Faith.

The moment their hands touched Buffy felt a shock of energy, a connection between her and the younger girl. Not so strong as the telepathy during her 'aspect of the demon' days, but more than just empathy, and very, very real. She could feel Faith's confusion, was shaken by the overwhelming sadness and loss, by her desire to…, to…

Die! Buffy forced herself to embrace the thought. Omigod! Was she out here trying to get killed.

Faith too had shown reaction to physical contact and now the older Slayer wondered if the flow of emotions worked both ways. She took a deep breath and slowly released it, willing her own doubts and questions to quiet, willing her calm to flow through her fingers into Faith. She felt the younger girl move closer to something resembling peace, but felt too the resistance.

Sighing, Buffy gathered both of Faith's hands into her own, raised them up. She flicked the wheel of the lighter the other girl still held. It sparked and it flared into life. She moved the flame to where Faith could use it to light the cigarette dangling from her lips, snapped the lighter closed and released Faith's hands, breaking contact. Immediately, she felt an emotional sinking and sense of loss. In the orange glow from the burning tobacco, rising as Faith inhaled, Buffy studied the expression on the other girl's battered features. She saw pain, mourning, and, yes, a hunger that matched her own. Mentally shrugging off what that hunger might mean, what ramifications it might have upon her life, she came to a decision.

"Faith," she said – and, oh God, just how does Willow do that resolve face thing? "Faith, I'm taking you home."

And then Faith's one eye, the one that was not swollen shut, opened very wide and the cigarette dropped from her startled lips as she tried to cry out her warning.

Buffy moved to dodge, but there wasn't time. Something rough and leathery and moving low to the ground slammed hard into her. Some part of it – a shoulder, maybe – had struck her sharply on the head, so she was already seeing stars even as the full weight of the thing came crashing down upon her. She tried to struggle against it, but her stunned brain couldn't seem to get the message to her limbs. Danger signals were going off in her mind, but she could not heed them.

Then, as if from afar, Buffy heard a cry of effort, the whish of a blade, and then something between a thunk and a crunch. Immediately, the demon lying on top of her twitched once and exhaled a shuddering death rattle of stale, fetid breath, settling into utter stillness.

Recovering quickly now, Buffy threw off the carcass and regained her feet. She saw that her attacker had been the 'Creature from the Black Lagoon' demon; apparently it had been playing large reptilian possum thingy. She saw too, and with no surprise, that Faith's axe was buried deeply between the thing's shoulder blades. What she did not see was Faith.

Willow poked her head out kitchen and looked toward the entrance foyer of her parent's house.

"She's home," the Wiccan called, and moments later she and Michelle were gathered around Buffy in the entryway. When they saw the disheveled state of the Slayer's clothing and noted the new bruises, the pair of them practically bounced with excitement.

While identical to Willow in every respect, Michelle Flaherty was not, as she appeared, twin, or indeed any blood relation to the Wiccan. Rather she was actually cousin to the Slayer.

So uncanny, however, was the resemblance between the two redheads, the possibility of magical influences had never thoroughly been ruled out. But while Giles scratched his head and consulted ancient tomes, Buffy – always aware of life's brevity – simply thanked her lucky stars – or perhaps The Powers that Be – for having granted their Slayer twice the love and twice the comfort.

Buffy had, of course, been floored by the uncanny resemblance between her band geek cousin Michelle Flaherty and nerdy, computer geek Willow Rosenberg upon meeting the latter during her first day at Sunnydale High School. She had felt an immediate rush of lust upon meeting this quiet, shy, intelligent, and amazingly beautiful girl. In the end, though, she put it down to natural fall out from recent weeks spent summering with the identical, but sexually precocious, Michelle.

Putting aside her yearnings, she formed a fast friendship with Willow, all the while unaware the other girl secretly – and guiltily – reciprocated her feelings. So, all look and no touch making Buffy a randy girl, she kept her hands to herself and her time spent with Willow was horridly pure and chaste. All the while, of course, she was masturbating to visions of her best friend and thinking that her next trip to Michigan and carnally inclined cousin Michelle could come no too soon.

In the meantime, though, her life was the very essence of frustration: To sit next to Willow at Scoobie meetings, to feel her sweet breath on your cheek when she leaned in to shout over the music at The Bronze, to be surrounded by her scent and warmth lying under the covers at pajama party sleepovers. To do all these things and not move the few inches necessary to nuzzle her cheek or press her body to your own was nearly unendurable.

All this changed, however, when Michelle herself arrived in Sunnydale. She had been hastily shipped off by her parents to attend St. Thesbia Preparatory School, a well known Catholic institution for brilliant but troubled girls.

Michelle's particular brand of trouble had been her nymphomaniacal sex drive – or, more precisely, her parent's reactions to it. Accordingly, she had been sent West – 'Westward ho the 'ho'! she'd joked – from Michigan to California, in order to escape a reputation which troubled her not at all, but which caused Mommy and Daddy much consternation.

St. Thespia in Sunnydale, California was the perfect choice, not just for the excellence of its academic and music programs, but also because Aunt Joyce and Cousin Buffy lived right nearby. Michelle would be allowed to spend weekends and holidays with her relations, granting respite from her otherwise cloistered life, and Joyce would be able to keep an eye on her niece, permitting her to report back to the girl's parents whether or not their daughter was sticking to the promise she had made not to 'bone' anymore boys until she was eighteen years old.

All this had come about while Buffy vacationed in Los Angeles, staying with her father after having survived her first year in Sunnydale. When word came about Michelle's imminent matriculation, the need for action was clear, and she called home immediately. Under no circumstances, was Buffy's mother to allow Willow Rosenberg and Michelle Flaherty to meet one another! Buffy pleaded that she had been given a rare, unique, opportunity to stage the mother of all surprises, so please, please, please, mom, don't let them meet on another and spoil it all!

Joyce Summers had happily agreed to her daughter's request. So, when Buffy arrived back from L.A., stepped off the bus, and found herself greeted by her mother, Willow, and Michelle, she was nonplussed to say the least.

"Mother!" she had complained, whiny and pouting, but adorable nonetheless. "You promised!"

Joyce Summers had smiled philosophically and shrugged her shoulders while Willow just laughed.

"It's alright, Buffy. It's not her fault! Michelle and I found each other by accident. I – uh – had some trouble with my bike and had to stop at St. Lesbia…"

"Yeah, that's right," Willow squeaked, "St. Thesbia! Anyway, I had some real trouble, and when I stopped there…"

Willow had babbled happily through the remainder of her story. A story which, Buffy realized was being made up solely for her mom's benefit. She'd caught the subtle stress underlining the word 'trouble' and immediately known her friend was speaking of the fangy, blood-sucky kind of trouble. So she dropped it for the time being.

Later, though, lying in her cousin's arms, she got the real story. How Willow, alone one night, had been pursued by three vampires. How she had staked two and hidden out in from the third at St. Thesbia, pretending to be a Catholic School girl. How, in the process, she had been mistaken for Michelle, who was conveniently absent, spending time with Aunt Joyce, and how, later that night, she and Michelle had finally met and dusted the last vamp together.

It was when the story had finally wound down, when there was less talk and more cuddling – and hands starting to roam in happy, familiar places – that the girl holding Buffy had spoken.

"I know," Buffy sighed, lost in the smell of Michelle's hair. Nice, but since when had it started to smell like strawberries?

"No, I mean, she really likes you. And I don't think she's entirely straight either!"

Buffy snorted, "I should be so lucky!" And then, suddenly nervous, "Hey, I didn't mean that you're not good enough or…"

Buffy sighed, "I want to! I do. I mean… You just don't know the pain! Wanting her, needing her, day after day, and…" The Slayer stopped suddenly, voice breaking. "But I can't tell her, Michelle, I just can't! What if she freaked and I lost her forever? I'd die if that happened! I mean," Buffy had hiccupped, asked miserably, "how do you tell your best friend that you love her?"

"You just did. I love you too, Buffy. Ever since the day we met. I just never had the guts to tell anyone I was gay – until I met Michelle."

The Slayer, for whom reality was beginning to dawn, had looked up then into soft, loving, hazel eyes, and asked hesitantly, "Willow?"

"In the soon to be sinning flesh! Only could we skip the shocked incredulity and get back to the talking about how you love me part?"

And so they had, eventually sneaking out to join Michelle, who was over at the Rosenberg's, pretending to be Willow. This had not proven hard, as the Rosenbergs were out of town again – as usual.

Michelle had been asleep in front of Willow's computer, wearing nothing but her Band Camp t-shirt. It was obvious that she had fallen asleep while masturbating to internet porn – explanation enough for why she had woken up so horny.

As it turned out, when it came to conducting sneaky love affairs, the girls pretty much sucked. So, when they officially came out a few months later, they were more just confirming suspicions than providing new information.

Joyce Summers, while not surprised by the girls' announcement, had found it put her in an awkward position. She knew Michelle's parents would expect her to pass along information such as that their daughter was a bisexual with two lesbian lovers. She also knew that she was going to do no such thing.

Joyce Summers, if nothing else, was a realist. That Michelle needed an outlet beyond simple masturbation for her exceptionally high sex drive was a given. That she had found it with Willow and Buffy was better news than that she was sneaking around to find it from local Sunnydale males. And, by her sister's own words, she knew that Michelle had promised her aggrieved parents only that she would not 'bone' anymore boys anymore until she was past her eighteenth birthday. Technically, she was not honor bound to report girl-girl – or girl-girl-girl, for that matter – sex to anyone!

More than that, Joyce simply did not have it in her to demand that the girls put off physical love, for in the week prior to the girls' outing, there had been an outing of another sort, one that had literally changed reality as she had known it. And, while she was still having trouble wrapping her mind around the concept of 'my daughter the superhero', she had seen enough to know that to ask the girls to wait for the future, was to ask them to wait for something they might not have; life in Sunnydale could be dangerous – as the Slayer's dishabille this night well illustrated:

Buffy, who was still looking at the front door in a perplexed, somewhat preoccupied fashion, answered distractedly, "Oh, I don't know… Maybe a couple of dozen…"

"A couple of dozen!" the redheads exclaimed, and now they did indeed bounce up and down, high-fiving and woo-hooing each other.

Buffy still not paying close – or really any – attention to her girlfriends, did finally notice their antics, but misinterpreted them.

"No, no, don't worry! I'm fine," Buffy tried to reassure them. "It was just…" her voice trailed off as she noticed her lovers' glee. "It's just that… Uh, you're not worried about me at all, are you?"

"Oh, no," said Willow. "We always worry about you. I mean, hello, out there risking your life and all. It just that…"

"So naturally," Willow explained, "we like it when you've had a busy night…"

"My God," Buffy shook her head. "Stereo babbling… And the wonder just keeps on coming! And, hey – I exclaim, perceptibly brightening – I get a surprise? What is it?"

"Well, if we told you," Willow said, taking the Slayer's arm, trying to herd her upstairs, "it wouldn't be much of a surprise! Now let's get you cleaned up, Missy."

Michelle started to follow, but was stopped by Willow. "No, Sweetie, you need to cook dinner. I'll clean the Buffy."

"Yes, but you'd do it with a razor. I use witchcraft. Your blade would leave those icky red bumps."

"My spell will leave her smooth and perfect. Besides," Willowed added triumphantly, "I'm gonna do it up special."

"Damn!" Michelle muttered, stomping off to the kitchen, all onboard with knowledge of the defeat, but not much with the liking of it. "I hate it when you're smarter than me! And not fair that that happens to be all the time!"

Willow led the Slayer up to the Rosenberg's master bedroom and its large, adjoining, sybaritic bathroom.

"You know, don't you?" Buffy said. "I heal much too quickly to get those red bumps…"

"Shh…" Willow hissed. "Your cousin has good ears! Besides, I really am gonna give you a special. And…" Willow couldn't help but notice Buffy was beginning to look distracted again, "Besides... Giles was crowned King of Denmark today. He's adopting Xander who's going to change his name to Hamlet. By the way, do you mind if I start calling your mom Gertrude?"

"You seem just a tad distracted. Like your mind is still out there, on patrol or something. Whereas I," Willow moved in close, molded her body to the Slayer's, "am right here."

"Umm…" Buffy murmured appreciatively, her body melting into the lovely Willow warmth. "It's just that… Just that something happened out there tonight. In fact, I better just tell you… Not supposed to be secret keeper girl anymore."

Buffy considered this. "No, no… I mean, we could… No, I think how we handle this has to be a group decision. Faith…"

"Shh…" Willow smiled, pressed her finger to Buffy's lips. "Can't do anything now, right? So let it all wait until the morning, 'kay? Spill your guts then and you'll be forgiven for any secrets you keep tonight. Deal?"

"Good, because you've had quite enough hero related activity for one night, Missy!" Willow said, beginning to strip off Buffy's clothes. "You need some down time, some T.L.C. Of course, we're planning on following that with some hot sex, but now should be tender and peaceful and..."

Willow babbled on happily. She did so love attending her Slayer after the hunt; it touched somehow upon all the dualities that made Buffy so appealing:

Here the preternatural, superhuman warrior, all grace incarnate in grass stained Nikes and comfy sweats. Here a little dirt smeared ragamuffin, raising her hands so Willow could strip off her top. Here the ripple and flow of leonine muscle beneath silky skin, presence and power to disdain raw scrapes and purpling bruises – all suddenly belied by childlike plaint of 'Owie, owie, owie!", golden hair momentarily tangling as Willow pulled the sports bra over the girl-warrior's head.

There was complexity, too, woven into the cloth of the Wiccan's emotional response to this amazing being. Kneeling before Buffy, preparatory to stripping the bottom half of her, Willow felt almost tremblingly worshipful one moment, but then almost cannibalistically predatory the next!

Must be the effect of Slayer them Slayer phememones! Willow thought. Then, hooking thumbs into the waist line of sweats and panties, she yanked them to Buffy's ankles with one violent motion.

With the barrier of cloth removed, the heady aroma of Buffy sex, just inches from Willow nose, was wonderfully erotic. Willow felt strong, sexually empowered and in control.

Willow had forgotten to take off Buffy's Nikes, a fact she discovered when she tried aid the Slayer in stepping out of the otherwise shed clothing pooled at her ankles. She managed well enough during removal of the first shoe, but then over balanced and fell back on her derriere while taking off the second. Buffy promptly snorted, giggled, then – seeing Willow's expression – dissolved into helpless laughter.

Determined not to let her clumsy, nerd persona get in the way of her inner, sultry seductress, the young Wiccan quickly regained her knees and reached around the Slayer to cup two handfuls of glorious ass cheeks. She squeezed very hard, knowing how much Buffy could take, how much she liked the rough stuff. Then she began to nuzzle the stubbly mound in frank and shameless appraisal of the rich, musky sexual aromas emanating there.

Willow heard a low growl then and, looking up, it suddenly dawned upon her that she may have gone just a little too far a little too soon. The shivers and gasps she had expected, that and a refocusing away from the comic relief, back to the sensuality of the moment. What she found when she looked up was a hungry predator staring down at her like she was a plate of the only hors d' oeuvre on the plate at the conclusion of Yom Kippur fasting!

She had meant to tease the Buffy. What she had done was awaken the lust of the Slayer.

Ulp! Wouldn't be fair, starting without, Michelle. Gotta be good! Gotta be good! Gotta be good! Willow thought, backing away.

"Okay, Missy, time to get you washed. There, I'll turn it on for you. Uh, the water, I mean!" Willow added, reaching into the shower stall and twisting the knob. "Now get in there and get started while I get undressed."

Buffy made and low sound, something between a purr and a growl. She looked ready to protest, but grumblingly sidling past the Wiccan and stepping into the shower, but not without a long, ravenous, sideways look that left Willow breathless and feeling her own aching need.

A moment later, though, Willow's self-exhortations were interrupted by a yelp from Buffy.

By the time Willow had stripped and climbed in, Buffy had adjusted the water from frigid to hot and steamy. She was letting the stream pelt her shoulders. Willow reached up and adjusted the massaging head to give a hard, pulsing, needlelike spray and Buffy crooned with pleasure, arching catlike, oblivious to everything except hot water drumming fatigue poisons out of aching muscles.

This suited the witch just fine: Keyed up as the Slayer was, Willow had grave doubts about finishing the shower without segueing into full blown sex. And although, hot, crazy monkey-girl mating rituals were definitely on the agenda, Will was in full resolve not to let it start without Michelle. Not that the girls, when not tripling, didn't double up in non-jealous abandon, but Michelle deserved full measure in the first flush of what promised to be Slayer lust of epic proportions. For one moment, in fact, Willow considered slipping out and leaving Buffy to finish bathing alone, but rejected this immediately.

Post-slayage aftercare was not something that always happened – sometimes patrol was light and it wasn't really needed, and sometimes it was needed, but life just somehow got in the way. But on those occasions Willow sensed Buffy needing the extra T.L.C. – and this was one of them – on those occasions she made the care, feeding, and cherishing of Buffy her mission. So, armed with noble intentions, but mindful how close the fuse was burning to the powder keg, Willow entered the shower and approached her Slayer.

The bathing facilities in the Rosenberg master bath were nothing short of luxurious and the shower stall could have housed the Scoobie gang in its entirety. The petite well muscled blonde standing under the stream of steaming water seemed very small. She was facing away from Willow, leaning against the dark green tiled wall, water swirling down of her back and around the pink round, buttocks. For a moment, Willow was simply captivated by the site, but then noticed that Buffy's legs were trembling – violently.

Forgetting any mental cautions about limiting physical contact, she closed the distance between them and enveloped Buffy from behind, joining her under the near scalding water. She felt the body beneath her shudder with the contact, felt a small hand grope for and tightly hold her own, then the girl under he took a long shuddering breath that ended in a piteous wail and wracking sobs. Willow said nothing, laid her cool cheek against Buffy's hot one and waited.

Buffy often had crying jags after slaying, particularly if patrol had been hard, or if there were other stressors complicating her life. Before, no one had known this, no one except the Slayer herself. Now Michelle and Willow knew, but held Buffy's secret as their own. Not that there was any reason for Buffy to be ashamed, Goddess knew! But she remembered her own shock at first witnessing a brief, but stormy, catharsis. She remembered how Buffy, had tried to deny it, had fought to keep it hidden, to maintain her usual posture of quiet, bemused strength and control; remembered how she and Michelle had confronted Buffy about it, made her spill her guts to them.

More than anything, this had driven home how the power and responsibility of the Slayer had been placed upon two very human shoulders. What she and Michelle had come to realize, and then had helped Buffy to understand, was that the brief firestorms of nameless sorrow, groundless guilt, and lonely yearnings were part and parcel of her Slayer healing, but related to her emotional well being, rather than the mere physical repair of traumas garnered in the pursuit of slayage.

Most often, these outbursts had no direct bearing on anything Buffy could name, but occasionally they did. When the storm had raged, died, and the girl in her arms was at peace, Willow reached up to gentle the flow and ease the temperature of the water. Then she turned Buffy, who beamed at her happily.

"Sure," Willow smiled and leaned into the Slayer, enjoying slippery feel of wet naked girl, "it's a date."

"Hmm…" Buffy purred and shifted her weight. The movement was casual, but purposed, Willow found, placing the Slayer's thigh between her legs. The firm, smooth flesh wasn't touching her yet, not exactly, but it couldn't have been much closer, brushing against and stirring the small tuft of pubic hair adorning the red head's mound. She could feel the Buffy's warmth and longed to rub against it, but resisted, remembering Michelle.

"Hungry right now!" Willow completed, backing away, reaching for the wash cloth and soap. "We better get you washed up and ready to eat. Uh… Your dinner, I mean!"

She grabbed the soap and set to work before Buffy could voice any objections. It was a bar of the current house fave – lavender with little rough, exfoliating thingies in it. Buffy crooned with delight at as Willow worked the bar all over her body, groaning and purring with application of scratchy goodness worked well into all her various nooks and crannies. She sighed with contentment as Willow went to work with similarly scented shampoo and conditioner, cooing at the capable fingers nimbly massaging her scalp. She made sounds not quite fitting into any category – but completely adorable nonetheless – as Willow cooled down the water and rinsed her clean from head to toe.

Then she opened her eyes, smiled her prettiest – the very picture of innocence – and said, "You missed a few spots."

"You're kidding," said Willow, who thought she'd been pretty complete, except of course for… Uh oh! "Uh… Where?"

Buffy placed her right foot on the tiles of the little rounded shower seat built into the corner. With her left hand she touched her soft folds. "Here…" she said, then, brushing the fingers of the other hand to her anus, "…and here."

For someone standing in a spray of water, Willow Rosenberg's mouth suddenly felt very dry. "Uh… I, uh… just thought I'd let you do that yourself," she said softly, quite sure the words couldn't be heard over the pounding of her heart.

"Nuh-uh!" Buffy said, ignoring the proffered washcloth and soap. "I want you to do it!"

"I… Oh… Uh… Okay," Willow said, breathlessly, sinking slowly to her knees and looking up to find her eyes, nose, and mouth scant inches away from Buffy's beautiful, beautiful, perfect, pink sex.

Rosenberg, you slut, she said to herself, you were so damned worried about the Slayer's lust, you forgot all about your own! Really think you're getting out of here without tasting that?

Willow soaped up the washcloth and slowly raised it to Buffy's waiting mound, knowing that the trembling in her hands would not be missed.

Buffy's gave a deep sigh of contentment as Willow gently, lovingly cleaned her sex. She purred when Willow's efforts were refocused to her backside, sucking in breath when the warm soapy cloth was pressed into the small tight canal. "Love your attention to detail, Will. Want to be clean for you there. Please, though, don't forget my fuzzies."

"Oh, I think we can fix that up." Willow said, smiling and putting aside the cleaning accouterments. She inspected Buffy's partially sprouted bush on Buffy's genitalia critically. "I was thinking that a change from completely hairless could be nice, so I've been wanting to let you grow out a bit. Give the artist in me something to work with and all…"

"No, its fun to watch you with the squirmies – really cute and all – but there's no need for you to suffer. If you don't mind, though, I could make with the magic, lengthen the fur a bit – instantly of course – and then use my faster pussycat, trim, trim spell to finish 'er up."

Willow drew a deep breath, let it out, and gathered her energies. She raised her hands to Buffy's mons, but stopped short of actual contact. The she spoke a single word.

The effect was instantaneous, a blue wave of energy emerging from Willow and washing over Buffy's pussy. Immediately, the stubble of pubic hair lengthened luxuriously and curled. It did indeed look a lot like what happened to Oz on full moon boogie nights.

(Nice boy, that Oz, really smart. If I wasn't gay, coulda' gone for him in a big way.)

Again she spoke and once more blue energy flowed and crackled, fitting itself like a glove to Buffy's genitals. Willow made gestures and the glowing field flowed away from the one area she didn't wish it to be. Then a gesture, a flash, and the unwanted hair was gone. A quick pass of her hand over the patch of blond curls remaining and they were trimmed to precisely the length the Wiccan wished them to be.

Perfect! Willow thought. Buffy's gonna love this! Now just one more little touch!

And that was literally all it was – on more little touch: the witch reaching an elegant finger to make one more mini lightning storm – only this time ruby red – flashing at the inverted apex of Buffy's pubic triangle, zapping into the Slayer top of the cleft leading down to her clit, and the job was done.

Willow admired her handiwork, pleased and thrilled with the result: The Slayer now had a perfect, little blonde pubic hair stake pointing the way to her genitals. What made it work so well was the splash 'blood' Willow had magicked into the pointy, business end simply by changing the hair color there to Michelle's and her own shade of red. So hard had she been concentrating, though, on her witchcraft, that she failed to notice the other effects her efforts produced in her subject.

Buffy had gasped at the wave of energy, she had clawed at the tile with the second, and she had gone utterly still as the magical essence of Willow had flowed over and into her genitals.

Looking up now, Willow belated noticed the Slayer, head thrown back, breathing in ragged gasps.

There was no pain. Buffy had not hurt her, though she had moved almost too fast for the eye to see. The Slayer's hands had never left her and Willow hit the wall as gently as if she had been laid upon a feather bed, but she had been moved in no more than the space between two syllables.

Buffy lips were nuzzling Willow's throat, just at the pulse point. She felt, as much as heard, the low moan, and the Slayer's hot breath, contrasting with the cool water coursing over their bodies, made Willow shiver. Buffy's slick body, pressed hard against her own, was trembling violently from head to toe, not, Willow knew, with pain or anger, but with pure animal arousal. With this knowledge the witch began to tremble as well.

Goddess! Guess I didn't hurt her, she thought, relief and understanding supplanting momentary panic. Magical pube grooming and Slayer lust… Should've known better than to mix 'em… Oh, Goddess!

Buffy's lips and tongue were moving softly, languidly. Willow heard a moan of pleasure and knew that the Slayer was savoring the taste of her skin.

She moaned to feel the Slayer's lips smile and the soft nuzzling resume. She nearly swooned when the grip holding her tightened and the tongue began tasting again. Images sprang to her mind – a lioness, hunkered down by the kill, licking her prey before the feast – and she felt helpless and protected and loved and vulnerable and free and possessed all at once.

The Slayer's thigh pressed between her own and Willow rocked her pelvis forward to increase the friction. She whimpered as the pressure of muscular flesh pressing into soft wet center was withdrawn, then Buffy was moving down her body and Willow found herself the delighted recipient of soft velvety licks and none too gentle love bites. Nipples, breasts, belly, the Slayer moved ever downward. Hands trailed behind the busy mouth, finding enterprise equally in rough and gentle caress.

Willow was very aroused, knew she was close to coming. She felt the Slayer's breath on her genitals and knew it would take but a single kiss there bestowed to tip her over the edge of her impending orgasm.

And then, instead of burying her tongue deep in Willow's cleft, Buffy was bolting out of the shower.

Willow stood under the running water, too dumbfounded even to take the moment or two it would have needed to finish off on her own. She wondered briefly is the smell of her sex had somehow offended, but then, looking past the bolting blonde, she understood.

There, at the door from the upstairs hall, stood Michelle. In one hand, she held a steaming plate of food, in the other, a small electric fan, the better to waft the savory aromas to where they could seduce Buffy's highly tuned sense of smell.

Oh, well… thought Willow, trying not to feel angry with Michelle nor jealous at being tossed aside for a meal. Slayer appetites and all… Buffy's gotta eat, I just wish she had, well, eaten me first!

Willow shut off the water and joined the chase, not even bothering to grab towels. She nearly fell on the slippery tiles, got traction on the bathroom rug, and was up to speed by time she reached the upstairs hall. She was just in time to see Michelle, shrieking with mixed delight and terror – it can be a scary thing to be chased a Slayer, even a friendly one – turn to go running down the stairs. Buffy's wet, naked form, however, simply vaulted over the rail, streaming silver water droplets, to land predatorily before Michelle, cutting off her retreat.

A low sound – something more than a purr, but less than a growl – emanated from the Slayer. Willow found she was holding her breath. She felt certain she had never seen anything so fiercely beautiful as the nude form of her super hero lover – Buffy the Jungle Woman! – rising slowly from her crouch – unless it was the lithe form and casual carnality of the trapped Michelle.

In truth, Willow always felt a shade narcissistic to be so turned on to Michelle, which was understandable since they could have passed for identical twins. As much as Willow had broken out of her 'softer side of Sears' shell, there were still times she wondered what anyone could see in her. Then she would look at Michelle – and know.

"Well, sure," Michelle said, teasingly, feigning ignorance of the Slayer's obvious need, "but don't you think you should say the magic word first?"

"Puhleezze!" Buffy shrieked, hands darting forward, snatching the burger from the plate and scattering a few fries.

Uh-huh, thought Willow, knowing what was coming. Gonna be need some magical carpet cleaning in the morning, you betcha!

For one long moment, the Slayer held her prey at arms length and stared longingly at the immense thickness of it, at the beefy monstrousness of the patty, at the bright, crisp lettuce and fresh tomato, at the molten, oozy, cheesy, mustard, ketchupy, don't hold the mayo goodness of it. Then, looking more like a vampire about to feed than a superhuman teenager, Buffy drew the burger in, mouth opening slowly, chest heaving and, taking an enormous bite, chewed and swallowed.

"That-is-so-g-g-good!" she cried before tearing off another mouthful, bright teeth flashing.

Willow ambled down to stand on the stairs beside Michelle, a little above their ravenously feeding lover.

"Good to see her eat after the slaying, isn't it?" said Michelle. Her arm – the one not still holding the dinner plate and its mountain of French fries – moving to snake affectionately around Willow waist. "Hey, you're still all wet!"

"Well, what did you expect? And anyway…" Willow said, turning to nibble Michelle's ear, "…for you, I'm always wet!"

"Mmm…," Michelle purred appreciatively, hand reaching between Willow's ass cheeks to cup her sex from behind. "Yes, I should say you are! Sorry if I interrupted something good."

"Something great actually! But it's okay. Besides, didn't really want to start without you anyway. Things just got out of hand. Magical energy in the pussy issues actually… Buffy got kind of worked up with her trim."

"Thanks! Um, you didn't bring any napkins, did you? Slayer's getting a might greasy there!" Willow observed. And, indeed, in the passion of her animal-like feeding, much of the juice from the burger (rare she like her burgers, the Slayer did!) had run down her chin and onto her freshly cleaned neck and breasts.

"Aw, napkins are no fun. Besides," Michelle winked, handing the plate to Willow, "I have a better way."

Buffy, having by this time finished the burger, spotted the fries. Still in post-slayage feeding frenzy, she stuffed her face with large, un-ladylike, ketchup drenched handfuls, belching loudly from time to time. She scarcely noticed as Michelle moved into position and began to lick her clean.

At first Buffy remained fixated on the food. She did not even seem to notice the Catholic School girl licking ketchup drippings from her breasts. Eventually, though, the mountain of fries diminished and the sounds the Slayer made became less the satisfied grunts of assuaged hunger, than frank moaning bespeaking other appetites. Finally, when Buffy was leaning back against the banister, eyes closed, head thrown back to afford better access to laving tongue, Willow laid the plate aside and joined Michelle in the pleasure of tongue bathing the Slayer.

It was a slow enjoyable process beginning with salty-good fingertips and departing from there for parts well known. There was delving into deep places, regions of the Buffyscape in which no remnant of dinner could logically have been expected to be found, but which quivered quite nicely with under the combined efforts of double dosed red-headed lust.

Eventually, all pretense of cleanup dropped and the girls were simply making out. It was when Willow had abandoned suckling Buffy's nipples and was just beginning to run her hands over the cotton pantied delights beneath Michelle's blue plaid skirt that she suddenly remembered.

Buffy's surprise! Can't forget about that! We've got to move this orgy upstairs! Now, while we still can!

So, instead of reacquainting her face with the warmth and the wet, Willow settled for applying a single sharp swat to Michelle's charming bottom. Just to get her attention, of course. Unfortunately, her redheaded doppelganger – her head thrown back and the Slayer sucking hungrily at her pulse point – was too far gone to notice it, or, well, just about anything. No, matter, that's what increments of increasing force were meant for! And it was upon the third or fourth additional butt swat – Willow now swinging hard enough to make her palm sting – that she finally got some reaction: Quite predictably, it was one of pleasure and positive reinforcement.

It was being flipped upside down by Buffy that had turned Michelle's statement from words of encouragement into plaintive shriek, the Slayer, having noted Willow's actions, had obviously chosen to lend an assist.

"You go, Willow!" said Buffy, easily holding the band geek upside down, one cable steeled arm around the struggling girl's waist. Her other hand, meanwhile, was pulling down the nunnery issued under thing, exposing the delicious heart shaped bottom.

Truly such an ass, thus presented, requires no adornment, comprising in and of itself a perfect whole of fondle enabled, kissable, butt cheeks begging to be slap worthy perfection. And yet, so charming was the color rising on Michelle's freshly spanked, upended derriere, so perfect the nesting fringe of plaid skirt, that Willow found nature impossibly improved.

It was not easy, under the circumstances, but Willow reached out and tried to tug the underwear back into place, saying, "No, uh, let's go upstairs first."

"And that would be 'why'?" Buffy asked, refusing to loosen her grip on the panties.

"Well, uh… More room in bedroom. I really want my arm swing to be unrestricted," Willow rejoined, tightening her grip and tugging all the harder at the white cotton.

"Aw, c'mon, you've got plenty of room! Besides," Buffy grinned wickedly, "it's kinkier out here!"

"Huh? Why is it any kinkier to spank someone out here than in the bedroom?" Willow inquired, adding a second hand and pulling with all her might, but still not able to pull to budge the panties against Buffy's casual, offhand strength. "Now, if my parents were here I could understand it, but…"

"Guys…" squeaked Michelle, feet flapping for emphasis, "…blood rushing to my head – issue becoming!"

"And scratch one pair of Catholic School issued unmentionables," Buffy smirked. "Kinda' looks nicer this way though."

"Yeah," Willow sighed, "does make you kind of want to rip everything off of her, doesn't it?"

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get her to the bedroom, Missy, and start ripping!"

So naked Buffy flipped her semi-clad (and, therefore, semi-naked) cousin over her shoulder and charged upstairs, while naked Willow, hair still wet from the shower, followed close behind. Michelle, bouncing along, looking backwards, fixed Willow with an expression of incredulity and mouthed the words: Girl, what the fuck?

Willow mouthed her reply exaggeratedly so Michelle could read her lips, but likewise made no sound, lest their exchange be audible to Slayer hearing: The surprise! Upstairs… Buffy's surprise!

Michelle, though, was still not getting it, so Willow made a circle with the fingers of one hand and jammed the index finger of the other rapidly in and out of it. Michelle's universal sex translator kicked in and she slapped her forehead, nodded vehemently and said aloud, "Yeah, upstairs, great idea. Let's move this orgy to the bedroom where it belongs. Get along, lil' Buffy! Mush!"

Obediently, Buffy sped up, taking the corner sharply, causing Michelle to cry out with fear and delight as she clung tightly to the careening Slayer. Willow, glad to be on her own two feet, giggled and sprinted after them.

Buffy ran past Willow's room with its miniscule twin bed and past Willow's parent's bedroom, which – though it had acreage enough in the mattress department – would have been just too ewww! to fuck in.

Instead, she made a beeline straight for the larger of the Rosenberg's guest rooms. It boasted a king sized beg and was the default bachelorette love pad of choice whenever the Wiccan's folks were out to town, which was damned near all the time. At the door Michelle pleaded breathlessly to be let down, threatening to pee on the Slayer if she did not comply. Grumbling something about them not making Catholic School Girls like they used to, Buffy put her cousin down and reached for the doorknob…

Not much dismayed by the threat of being urinated on – water sports being on the K.U.C. (Kinks Under Consideration) list – Buffy nearly launched an all out tickle assault on her helpless cousin, just to see what would happen.

In the end, though, with hunger satisfied, she was simply too horny to do anything that would delay getting to the warm, moist, squishy experiences she planned on relishing all the live long night. So she put down her deliciously disheveled, giggly, Catholic School Girl cousin, reached for the doorknob, and, completely missing the knowing looks of anticipation exchanged by her two lovers, opened the door and stepped across the threshold.

Buffy had taken precisely one and a half steps into the room when she something shifted her into alert mode. She stopped abruptly, blocking doorway, half-crouched, arms spread wide to block Willow and Michelle, and to shield them from any harm. She did not sense evil, but she had heard – something. And there it was again, a muffled, scuffling noise, coming from…

Buffy watched as the top drawer on the night stand began to work its way open. It was as if some small, lively animal had been shut inside and was struggling now to free itself. Finally a gap of about one inch had been created and Buffy could now see that the thing inside was trying to force its way up. Eventually, there came a moment when she realized what it was and her eyes widened and her jaw dropped.

Buffy watched with mixed shock and fascination as a disembodied penis with a pair of firm, round balls freed itself, not from a pair of trousers as could be fairly expected, but from a sock drawer. It was surprisingly limber for so rigid an organ, hooking the ridge its glans onto the lip of the dresser top and swinging itself up smartly.

She found herself automatically cataloguing the description for later regurgitation, as she had been trained to do: About seven inches tall (or is that long?), not counting the testicles, fair complexion, clean shaven, and no identifying marks. With a slight edge of hysteria to the thought, she found herself wondering is she could pick the penis out of a police lineup.

"I've seen a person without a penis, but never a penis without a person," whispered Michelle. "Curiouser and curiouser!"

But the penis did seem to hear, or at least sense them somehow. The thick head darted from side to side, searching, and then it fixed on their position. The turgid shaft strained toward them longingly, the small, mouth-like slit opening and closing, testing the air, tasting it for their scent.

Then it hunkered down, gathering itself like a jungle cat, and sprang, arcing through the air like a fleshy arrow, flying straight for the Slayer.

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Intervention Girls

by Finknottle

Copyright © 2003

finknottle777@yahoo.com