You do not have to have read "Fulfilling a Fantasy" (approx. 6,300 words) to read this, but it will probably make a difference in how you see the fic overall. If you haven't read the other, do be warned of a continuing dom/sub theme.
(And, yay, I actually wrote something! Thanks to reremouse for helping it not be crap.)
He sees the silver chain around Spike's neck and gets hard. Instantly. It's been a long day and he's tired, but it's Pavlovian. Spike's the sex-slave, but Xander's the one who's been trained.
Spike can't really be asleep—can't have missed the open and close of the heavy front door, the slap of Xander's briefcase against the kitchen counter, the "Hey, honey, I'm home"—but he plays the part perfectly, not stirring a bit as Xander stands at the foot of the bed and slips off his suit jacket, tossing it over a chair in the corner without taking his eyes off the sight before him.
It can't be accidental, the naked sprawl, the tantalizing drape of white satin over alabaster skin, as clean and pure as Xander's thoughts aren't, framing more than covering, offering more than hiding.
Mine, Xander thinks as he unbuttons and peels off his shirt, peeling off the site manager and trying to don the master persona. Mine, he repeats as the belt slides out of its loops and drops to floor. Mine. He bends over to unlace and slide off his dress shoes, his head hovering near Spike's naked foot. He wants to take it in his hand, lick along the pale arch, make Spike shiver and squirm. But later. Mine. His fingers fumble a bit at the button of his slacks, but finally the zipper lowers, and the slacks pool at his feet. What would the men at the site think if they knew their supervisor never wore anything under his pants? Xander's grin is wicked. Hell, what would they think if they knew that he came home to this? His lover. His whore. His slut. His. Mine.
He's got the headspace now and Xander steps forward and pulls off the sheet in one fluid motion, sparing only a second to admire the perfect curve of Spike's ass—his ass, all his—before grasping Spike's hips and lifting, burying himself to the hilt. He goes in easy, so easy, just like he knew he would and he can see it in his mind—Spike's preparations for his homecoming.
Spike in the shower, cleaning himself from head to foot, inside and out, with the soap that smells and tastes of cucumbers, Xander's favorite. Spike standing in the bathroom, drying himself just as thoroughly, forgoing the tube of gel—because he knows Xander hates not being able to run his fingers through Spike's hair—and picking up the tube of lube instead. Spike, with one foot propped on the toilet seat, squeezing the slick onto his fingers and slowly working those fingers into himself, coating every inch of his loosening passage, making sure not to brush his prostate—because Spike knows that Xander is the one who decides when and how he comes. Spike in the bedroom, laying himself out just so on Xander's bed, arranging the sheet with the eye of an artist, and then waiting. Waiting for his owner. Waiting to be taken.
The images flow through Xander's mind and they're working for him. He can feel cock growing and hardening, pressing out against the tightness that surrounds it as Spike writhes and whimpers beneath him, all pretense of sleep gone.
And Spike is trying to work his hips, work himself on Xander's cock, but Xander holds tight to those hips, holds them still. Because if Spike moves now, it'll be over for Xander in seconds, and he knows that's not what Spike wants, needs. But unless ordered, Spike will not be denied, and Xander has no way to stop the internal clenching and squeezing that's pushing him closer and closer to the edge.
"Gonna punish you for that," Xander says, but he doesn't get the tone quite right, so he tries again, orders Spike to beg instead, and starts moving, thrusting into Spike to the rhythm of the desperate pleas.
"Yes… please…. Xander… Xander… don't stop… please… Take me…. Fill me… Use me…"
And Xander doesn't stop. Not until he's taken Spike, filled Spike, used Spike. Not until the orgasm crashes through him leaving his body brainless and boneless in its wake. He collapses onto Spike, but then rolls off slowly, stretching out on his back. Spike curls around him instantly, wrapping and clinging like a jungle vine—in a jungle where vines have raging erections that you can feel pressing against your hip.
Xander wants to let Spike take care of that, but that's not how it goes. Spike wants to wait. Spike needs to wait, to be made to wait. What does that song say? You gotta be cruel to be kind, in the right measure…
But Xander wouldn't mind just staying like this, fingers threaded through Spike's ungelled hair, cool, soft skin soothing his overheated body, wet little tongue lapping at his neck. Spike is like a cuddly house pet… with benefits. Still, if they don't move now, Xander'll be asleep in seconds and he still owes Spike punishment and, eventually, release. A shower would be nice, but he doubts his legs would support him…
"Bath," he says and Spike immediately slides his body over Xander's—and, mmm, sliding is of the good—and off the bed, into the bathroom to start the water running.
"Candles. Bubble bath," Xander calls out and he can hear Spike setting it all up, watches the light in the bathroom go out, replaced by a soft glow. And it's a strange life Xander leads these days—getting off work and driving home and never knowing for certain who exactly he'll find when he gets there.
It takes a bit of cajoling, but Xander eventually coaxes his limbs into supporting him and carrying him into the bathroom. He finds Spike kneeling on the fuzzy bathmat and imagines Spike would like for him to take a step forward, bringing his cock within range of Spike's oh-so-talented mouth. Spike would like for him to tangle his fingers in Spike's hair as those lips close around the head and slide down the shaft. Spike would like for him to hold Spike's head in place while he fucks Spike's mouth hard and fast. Spike would like for him to come down Spike's throat or to pull out and come all over Spike's face and chest, marking Spike as his.
And in spite of its recent workout, Xander's cock is beginning to show some interest in that scenario, but Xander doesn't step forward. Instead he tilts his head toward the tub and Spike follows the unspoken command, rising up and then lowering himself into the tub. Xander climbs in after Spike, situating himself between Spike's thighs, his back to Spike's front, letting the hot water and the scented steam—along with the strong hands that come up to knead the knots out of his back and shoulders—melt him into a puddle of very contented goo.
When he's too gooey to sit forward anymore, he melts back against Spike's chest and Spike's hands slip down off his back to wrap around his waist and Xander picks up those hands and plays idly with Spike's fingers, which play idly along Xander's torso and it's so perfect… except that it's not.
Because Spike is still hard, pressing against Xander's back. And it's not that Xander minds the feeling exactly, but Spike should be gooey, too. They should be two puddles of very contented goo, boneless and brainless and melting into each other amid the water and the steam and the bubbles.
"Get in in front of me," Xander says and Spike immediately slides out from behind Xander—and again, sliding is so of the good—then slips back in in front of Xander, giving Xander full access to much more than Spike's hands.
With slow, goo-like rhythms, Xander nibbles and nips at Spike's neck as he slides one hand up to tease at the rings at Spike's nipples and the other hand down to circle Spike's cock. Whispering sweetly dirty things against damp skin, Xander jerks Spike slowly to the edge, pushing him gently over with one word: "Come."
Spike tenses, arches and then slumps back against Xander, and now there's nothing in the tub except two gooey bodies, and a bit of gooey spunk, and it's closer to perfect, but just not quite there. Xander wants gooey words, too.
He reaches up with both hands and traces his fingers along the collar around the Spike's neck, from front to back, before unclasping the chain and dropping it onto the tub's edge in a little coiled pile. He strokes his fingers through Spike's damp curls as Spike comes back to himself.
"Hey," Spike says.
"Hey."
"Thought you were gonna punish me."
Xander shrugs—a motion Spike can't see but can feel. "Next time, okay? Kinda in the mood for the boyfriend tonight. Disappointed?"
"Nah," Spike says, picking up Xander's hands and playing idly with Xander's fingers, which play idly along Spike's torso. A silent minute passes and then Spike is out of the tub again and sliding back in behind Xander, arms and legs encircling his lover as he asks, "So, luv, how was your day?"
And that's perfect.