Lolita

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: : The usual.

Distribution: The Mystic Muse http://mysticmuse.net

Ask first.

Spoilers: Season 1

Feedback: Yeah! However comma... all flames will be passed on to my personal vengeance demon!

Pairing: Buffy/Giles

Author's Notes: Oh, and a teensy bit of s&m but nothing heavy. Oh, and... uh... probably a little something statutory. If it squicks you out... deal.

He was standing in the center of the room, waiting for her. It had been dark for some time, and she was late. She knew that he absolutely despised tardiness, but she was late. She would have to be punished.

The rest of the building was long empty; he knew for a certainty that he was the only person in the whole complex. He liked it that way. He didn't want any... untimely interruptions.

And then suddenly there she was. The entire room, vast though it was, was suddenly filled with her presence. She was babbling an apology—her mother, a telephone call from her father, supper, something. He didn't particularly care what the excuse was, although he was quite sure it was valid and true. She wouldn't lie to him. She didn't dare.

She stopped in front of him in her usual spot and he examined her from head to heels. Her hair was pulled back tightly in two golden braids which hung just past her shoulders. Her shirt was white, button-up, unbuttoned nearly to her navel and exposing a lovely expanse of tanned skin all around her white sports bra. Her skirt was a heart-stoppingly short kilt in a red-and-blue plaid that he recognized as one of the Fraser dress plaids. She wore white cotton socks and shiny black shoes. She was lovely, a vision with frightened green eyes.

He shook his head at her, stilling her babbled apologies. "I do not tolerate tardiness, Buffy. You are aware of this." His voice was soft and held no hint of recrimination, but her eyes filled with tears anyway and she ducked her head.

"I'm sorry, sir," she whispered.

"Are you, then?" he asked. His voice was still soft, but now there was a hint of steel behind it. "Well, then." He walked away from her, across the library and behind the counter. She stood stock-still where he'd left her. She knew better than to move. She had learnt her lessons well.

He picked up the item he'd been looking for and slipped it into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back, underneath his tweed coat. He came out from behind the counter then, walked over to her, and wrapped his arms around her from behind, gently cupping her breasts in his hands. Her hot, young body against his caused his cock to begin to stir. But he wasn't ready to indulge himself yet. First he had a transgression to deal with.

He stroked her nipples through the cotton of her sports bra until they were stiff and straining against the binding material, then he let her go and nudged her closer to the table. "Now, then," he said softly. "How late were you, Buffy?"

She didn't even need to glance at the clock. "Thirteen minutes, sir," she answered.

"Thirteen minutes. My goodness." He pushed her shoulders gently and she obeyed the subtle command, leaning forward and bracing her hands against the edge of the table. It was a position she was familiar with, for rarely did one of their sessions go by that she did not commit some transgression which warranted punishment.

He slid his hand under her kilt, pleased to find nothing under it but Buffy. Her feet were braced roughly shoulder-width apart, and he was thus able to slide one finger between her folds to find her already wet and ready for him. "My goodness," he repeated, thoroughly wetting his finger and trailing it up to her anus, where he pushed it gently into the opening there.

She gasped at the sensation, this tiny penetration that, though minuscule, was able to send fire throughout her entire body. He made gentle thrusts with his fingertip, not much, but she was so well-trained that the slight stimulation was enough to bring her to her first orgasm of the night. He smiled at the sight of her slick juices beginning to run down her leg and pulled his finger out of her ass. He walked back to the counter, pulled the small container of baby wipes out from under the counter, and carefully cleaned his hand, then returned to her. "Was that nice, Buffy?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir," she gasped. "Thank you, sir."

"Good." He reached for the object he'd stowed at his back earlier and pulled it out, slapping it gently against the palm of his hand. "Now, then. About those thirteen minutes." He drew the edge of the ruler he held along the skin at the hem of her kilt. "I think we shall call the account square with one lick per minute. Does that sound fair to you, Buffy?"

His voice was deceptively soft, but she knew him well enough that she'd have had to be completely mad to contradict him. Were she to disagree, he was apt to start counting the words that came out of her mouth and add a lick for each one. She nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good girl," he praised her softly, smiling for the first time since she'd entered the library. "Well, then. I suppose we'd best get on with it, then, hadn't we?"

"Yes, sir," she whispered, her throat gone dry in mingled fear and anticipation.

She was the Slayer. They both knew that. Had she at any point not wanted his attentions, she could have turned around and broken his arm. They both knew that, as well. But she didn't turn around. She simply gripped the edge of the table tighter and waited for the first blow to fall.

It wasn't hard, but it was sharp and it stung. She sucked in a breath before counting aloud as he expected her to. "One, sir."

Then came the next smack of wood on flesh, in a different spot. "Two, sir."

Another. "Three, sir."

He was landing his blows carefully, making sure not to overlap until he had already covered each spot of skin at least once. "Four, sir. Five, sir. Six, sir. Seven, sir."

He paused for a moment to run his hand across her bright red ass. Sometimes he wondered if she didn't do things deliberately to be punished. He knew she liked to play rough when they played as equals. He laid another stripe across two that had already been there. "Eight, sir. Nine, sir. Ten, sir."

She was breathing carefully through each lash, careful not to cry out because she knew he didn't like that. He wanted her to take what she had coming without a lot of yowling. "Eleven, sir. Twelve, sir. Thirteen, sir." And then it was over. She panted slightly as the adrenaline rushed through her body. Relief at the end of the thrashing flooded her and she had to fight to keep her knees from buckling.

He walked over to the counter again, replacing the ruler where he'd found it. Then he returned to her side. "On your knees, Buffy," he said quietly. "Hands behind your back."

She obeyed, and needed no further instruction. This was what always followed a spanking. It was instinctive. She leaned toward him and grasped the tab of his zipper in her teeth, pulling it down. His erection was straining against the fabric and it didn't take much manipulation with her nose and her tongue to get the fabric out of the way so that his long penis confronted her. She licked it gently all along the underside, then leaned forward to nuzzle into and lick at his balls. Then she took the head of his cock into her mouth and began a slow descent on his shaft, taking most of it into her mouth before she couldn't any more.

He laid a hand on that bright golden head, silently encouraging her to continue. She knew exactly what she was doing—God knew she'd done it often enough to know exactly what he liked. And she did it. She pleasured him with lips, tongue and teeth, never taking her clasped hands out from behind her back. Her eyes were closed as she sucked and licked at him, but his were not—they were locked onto the incredible sight of her face as she sucked him.

And then he knew he couldn't take any more or he'd come in her mouth. He pulled her off him and turned her back toward the table, which she now bent forward over, rather than simply leaning against. He rucked her kilt up around her waist and slid the head of his cock into her. She gasped at the sensation, and he began to slowly push himself farther and farther into her. She was so tight, so hot and wet for him, that he nearly lost his head when he felt his balls brush against her and knew that he was completely buried in her. He waited a moment for her to adjust to him before he began a slow, steady thrusting rhythm.

She felt completely filled with him inside of her. She had never known such a sensation before, this feeling of fullness and the overwhelming pleasure that came with it. She couldn't speak, couldn't make a sound, until he began to thrust within her. Then she suddenly found the ability to give voice to the sensations which were flooding her body. "Oh, God, Giles... yes... oh, yes... oh.... uhhh... Giles..."

Her voice, her sweet voice, calling his name, sent him over the edge. His thrusts became harder, more demanding, and she pushed her hips back against him, also demanding more of him. And then he knew he was there, and he reached beneath her to rub at her clit.

The hard, animalistic thrusts deep into her were almost enough to drive her mad, but when he massaged her clit, she was lost. She gasped and bucked against him, her body going rigid for a long moment before she moaned, "Oh, Giles..." and her channel began to spasm around him as the orgasm wracked her body.

He felt her walls clamp down on him and, with one final thrust and a moan of her name, he shot his hot seed deep into her body.

For a long moment, all was quiet. Then he slowly withdrew from her, rolled her over on the table, and pulled her into his arms. "Oh, Buffy..." he whispered. "I love you so."

"I love you, too, Giles," she whispered back, adoration for him shining in her eyes when he met them. "I love you so much."

"Did you bring your bag?" he asked her.

She nodded. "It's in the car. And Mom's gone on her gallery thing. She won't be back till next Friday."

"Good. Plenty of time. Well, then," he said briskly, carrying her over to the counter and seating her atop it. "Let's get cleaned up and go to Mississippi, shall we?"

She rolled her eyes as he reached for the baby wipes. "You would think someplace closer than Mississippi would have legal underage marriage."

"They do, love," he said quietly. "You just have to have parental consent."

She giggled and squealed as he touched sensitive flesh with cold wipe. "Yeah, I can see my mom signing that field trip paper, can't you?" As she grinned at him, he shook his head at her silliness and let her down off the counter. They both adjusted their clothes, then headed out of the library to the parking lot.

"Looking forward to becoming Mrs. Giles?" he asked her as he held open the door of the car for her to climb in.

"More than you know," she replied fervently. Then she looked nervous. "California does have to recognize this marriage, don't they? You're not gonna get carted off for contributing to the delinquency or anything, are you?"

He laughed. "I certainly hope not."

The End

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