TITLE: DO YOU LOVE ME THAT MUCH? 1/?
AUTHOR: theCAT
PAIRING: Buffy/Giles
RATING: extremely NC17
SUMMARY: Prophecy begins a journey for Buffy and Giles. Post-Grave. Magic Box bit the dust when Willow went over the edge. In my universe Willow went to the Coven in Great Britain and but Giles stayed with Buffy. Willow is now back stabilized, and the Big Evil is a brewing. But as this is PWP, smut for the sake of sex, who the heck cares.
DISCLAIMER: I am borrowing Giles to give him the sex life that Mutilating Enemy seems to think he doesn’t need. All characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and anyone else who has provided money for their production and publicity.
WARNING: This is Plot, what Plot, PWP Smut for the sake of smut and sex, Pure Dee Sex and Erotica.
Well, it was supposed to be PWP but the damned thing went and grew the complication of a small plot and a small problem that needed slaying. Please pardon the occasional plot-thing interruptions. Your regularly scheduled smut will return as quickly as the extraneous plot forms can be dealt with.

Xander had left an hour before, taking a tired Anya with him. Willow was the last of the Scoobies, besides Buffy and Giles, sprawled at the table in the living room on Revello Street. She had announced she was too stubborn to quit researching until Giles quit. Dawn, after an hour of whining and begging, had been allowed to spend the weekend with her friend Jan. Quiet pervaded the house with only three adults present.

Giles glanced at the two young women dwarfed by the books on demonology set before them. A demon none of them had ever seen before had showed up in Sunnydale, raising havoc, and Buffy needed to know how to kill it. She had tried three times, and found that none of the usual methods worked. The demon bled well from sword and hatchet and war axe applications but seemed impervious to death, its wounds healing rapidly. Giles grunted in frustration and settled his glasses on his nose again.

Willow peered into Moriarity’s Demon Compendium, a large grey, loosely bound book he had inherited from Josiah Lord Spencer, his first cousin who had also been a Watcher. Her eyes gleamed in the light, and he watched her try to stifle a yawn by locking her jaws tightly. Buffy glared at Griffith’s Demonology. That book, though smaller, contained many references to obscure demons that only chose to appear in this dimension with great irregularity and under special circumstances. Giles had hopes that Buffy’s book would disgorge the answer to the problem demon. These hopes also provided him with an excuse to watch his Slayer leafing through the dusty pages, scowling at the archaic print and muttering imprecations at the dust loosed by each page turn. Watching her, because he hoped she would find the answer, provided an excuse more palatable to himself than the simple fact that he wanted to look at her. It avoided acknowledging that he needed to visually adore her because he had fallen in love with her so long ago that he had forgotten when it happened. Watching her was all he probably ever would do, as his sense of propriety kept her at the nearest arms length from him.

The Summers’ living room now held the lighted table that had once graced the Magic Box. That is where they sat, books spread out about them. Drapes pulled across the window that overlooked the street. The central source of light threw shadows into the corners of the room. Buffy’s beauty shown in the soft light, the waves in her hair spilling brightly like the finest silk. Giles smiled and turned a page in his own book. It was his joy to watch Buffy.

The evening hours had waned. It was nearing midnight. Buffy had left to patrol and had returned. So far their research had yielded nothing. So far, no one had been able to identify the demon, let alone its vulnerabilities. Giles felt the tension building. It increased in direct proportion to his fears for his Slayer.

Wes had called him from LA, to tell him of a prophecy Angel had located in a small journal found in the vaults of Wolfram and Hart. No one knew where the journal had come from. Lorne had found it right after they had moved into the WH offices. He’d scanned the book and passed it on to Angel who had read and understood some of the references. Angel sent Gunn to Sunnydale to deliver the small volume to Giles.

>From the Latin Giles had pieced together a pending threat. “When the Moon before Samhain turns the burning will begin. Yin shall bind to Yang. The Deathless will walk. Seek blending that all may balance. Without blending, the one shall end, drying up alone in the night. The other shall shatter and feed the mouth of Hell his blood.” He parsed the prophecy again, shuddering at its obscurity. How could so many words say nothing? His fear grew and again his eyes fixed on his Slayer. Would that he had the right to pull her into the safety of his arms. She read on, oblivious, shining against the shadows lurking the in corners of the room.

Giles shifted in his chair and then shifted again, ruing his obsession with Watching Buffy as she researched. In the California summer, Buffy’s clothing became minimalist. Summer in California lasted most of the year. And despite the fact that this was early October, tonight his Slayer seemed bent on making his life a merry hell. Of course, the fact that Giles desired his Slayer, loved her, didn’t help. But lately his love and need for her seemed to strengthen, to burn more intensely. He studied the expression on her face. Her nose wrinkled as she read.

Across the table from him Buffy Summers bent over a book, her thin strapped top gaping wide, showing the smooth curve of her breasts and the shadow of a hint of the valley between. Giles pants became unconscionably tight. He lowered his head over his book and casually slipped his hand into his lap and tugged at the crotch of his jeans. Damn denim, he thought. So comfortable until arousal sets in. Ought to remember how hair-trigger that is when she’s around and keep my eyes on my books. He sighed quietly and shifted to ease the seam pinching his aching testicles.

On the other side of the table the ‘she’ in question twisted her shoulders as her attention moved from the left page of the open book to the right. Under the soft material of her top, her breasts swayed, and Giles realized that she wore no bra. She must have removed it, he thought, when she showered after patrol. The Slayer rose over the book she read and stared at something intently. The puckered pink flesh of her aureole winked at him from her gaping neckline. Heat rose in his mid-gut and trickled down to the apex of his thighs, to his fiercely swelling penis. Christ, he thought, as his heavy sense of arousal increased and the crotch of his jeans pinched him more intensely, maybe the pain that is certain to set in momentarily will reduce this erection to a bitter memory.

His hand, already in his lap, spread out, covering the flesh thickening under the taut denim. Dear lord, he thought as his hand contacted his growing erection. He plucked at his jeans, moving his hardening flesh to relieve pressure on it. The pressure eased as his penis rose against his belly.

So long he had loved his Slayer, had wanted her desperately, needed her. His body craved hers. But these last few month, his craved to worship her. His libido, usually so controlled, seemed suddenly hair-trigger. Lust and desire grew in strength, seeking to overwhelm him so that he might join with her. Damnable hormones, he muttered softly, hating the fact that recently it seemed he could do nothing but react to Buffy like a randy teenaged male. Around her his body forgot he was a middle-aged man. The fires of his wanting burned hotter and his penis lustily prepared to relieve the pressures growing inside him. He stared at the blurring print, realizing that he was getting needier and harder and that this monolith growing in his jeans wasn’t going to go away without some assistance. And he needed it to go away before he dragged his Slayer over the table and onto his now painful erection.

Across the table, Buffy moved and Giles attention wandered upward again as she stretched, the midriff of her crop top rising to show the firm under curves of her breasts. A soft moan indicated her pleasure in the stretch.

Giles bit his lip, quelling the mad desire to grab his Slayer and feast on those luscious breasts. He leaped from his chair, moving quickly and decisively, the book he was reading held strategically in front of him as he headed to the stairs leading to the bedrooms in the house on Revello Drive. “I need something from an upstairs bookcase. I’ll be right back.”

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Buffy watched him dash toward the stairs, confused for a moment, until Willow called after him: “Giles, it’s midnight. I gotta go. I can’t see the print anymore. I’ll be back in the morning to work on this, okay?”

Giles paused halfway up the stairs and turned cautiously to answer her and for a moment the book failed to hide his lower body. Buffy got an eyeful of her Watcher’s jeans thrust up into the biggest tent she had ever seen. Ohmigod, she thought.

Giles moved the book he carried quickly and unobtrusively to hide his condition, and Buffy slipped on her most innocent expression as she met his gaze. “All right, Willow,” he answered the witch, “Have a good night, my dear.”

Willow waved, grabbed a couple of stakes, and headed out the door, on her way to the apartment she shared with Xander and Anya. The door closed with a thump behind her and she raced away into the night.

“Buffy . . . “ Giles began. He sounded breathless, she thought.

“I think we should call it a night, Giles,” Buffy interrupted. “My eyes are blurring here. Can’t see the print hardly, either. The dust is going to start making me sneeze. Why don’t we pick it up in the morning when Willow comes back? Dawn will be gone for the weekend. It’ll be quiet and we can spend the whole day with the research. Okay?”

She saw Rupert Giles shoulders rise and fall as he breathed a sigh of relief. “Certainly,” he said, trying to keep his voice cool. “I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

Buffy smiled sweetly and stood quickly, stretching again. The gap between her short shorts and her crop top spread, revealing the smooth curve of her breasts and her slender waist. She pretended not to notice this as she arched backward, hands at her waist, stretching. A sense of overwhelming arousal seethed from the staircase, bludgeoning her. Giles had frozen there as she stretched, seemingly unable to move. She rolled her shoulders, feeling the movement of her breasts under the soft cotton of her top. The material shifted against her nipples. Between what she sensed as a hot yearning pouring from Giles on the stairs and the soft caress of the cotton on her flesh, her nipples popped up into hard points. Suddenly Giles jumped. His breath caught. “Goodnight Buffy,” he managed to croak and hurried up the stairs.

“I’ll be up in a little while,” she called after him.

Buffy dashed about, turning off the lights and then dropped her shoes and crept silently up the stairs. The sight of her Watcher’s arousal stirred something powerful in the Slayer. It fed a yearning that had been growing for weeks. She realized she had caused the state of his penis. Nothing in these tomes they were reading could do that. Willow and Giles – non-issue, she thought. By the process of elimination, she was the cause of his sexual heat. She found that thrilling. The thrill fanned the blaze of a deep need in her for her Watcher. Something basic and hungry broke free in the Slayer and stood on a precipice howling.

She could feel him, feel his wanting, feel his need, like a weight on the air, a vibration. She paced along the hallway toward the stairs, yearning to answer the call he made. Her own hunger keened on the air, slicing it like a knife. A feeling she’d avoided looking at for years dug its way out of the place where she’d buried it, laying waste her fears.

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Giles rushed through the door into his room, flinging his shirt on the floor. He toed off his shoes, tore off his socks and grabbed a towel, heading for the bathroom. His need to ejaculate weighed thickly at the base of his pulsing erection. The need to stroke himself ground at him, heating the palm of his left hand. His arousal strained his jeans, blunting the thick tip of his penis. He slipped through the door, into the dim light cast by the single nightlight above the toilette and released a sharp moan of relief as he popped the top button on his fly. The fat glans of his penis poked out, stretching the cotton of his fitted boxers tautly. A satisfying heat followed the touch of his fingers, spreading the sticky wet leaking from the tip of his aroused flesh. He sighed and thrust up, leaving more precum wet against his cupped hand.

He shook himself. Need to get the pants off before you come all over them, he reminded himself and spread his zip open. His arousal surged free. He shimmied the constricting jeans down his hips and stepped out of them. He caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. His erection strained his boxers, like it had when he was a randy punk. Christ, what was happening to him? His need thickened in his guts, growing more desperate, it seemed, with each breath. His body shook with it. His penis thrust upward with such enthusiasm that it left his swollen testicles peeking from the left leg of his shorts. They hurt, his arousal causing pressures they needed to empty from themselves. He grabbed them, cupping their fierce heat in his cool palm. Giles sighed and closed his eyes, leaning against the sink his breath a low panting. His wanting filled his belly with a heavy heat. He hovered on the ragged edge of ejaculation. He needed release and he craved that release in his Slayer’s body, fool that he was, he told himself.

His penis pulsed with his rapid heartbeat, its flesh thrust tight in cotton stretched to its limit. Giles reached for the waist of his boxers, pulling the elastic out and cupping his hand around his penis, pushing it into his belly, to drop his shorts and free his painful erection. He dropped his boxers on top of his jeans. His hand stroked the length of his penis, along the tight flesh from his glans to the heavy sacs cradling his testicles, then from testicles back to his tip. He gripped himself just beneath the tight ridge of his leaking glans, squeezing. He was so close, he could feel his orgasm beginning to boil deep in his groin, but he wasn’t ready for that final release yet. He was so hot, so hard, so aroused, any move he made threatened to bring on an explosive ejaculation. But Giles wanted to enjoy the climb to his orgasm, take the sensual journey of self-stimulation, building to a heady and thorough climax that would empty him. Give him peace, at least for a while.

His sharp pinch on the tiny membrane at the base of his glans reduced his libido’s frenzied drive to erupt into orgasm. He growled at the telltale weeping of the single eye of his erection. Then he closed his eyes again and pictured his slayer, pictured her pert breasts peeping out from under the hem of her crop top. God, she was exquisite. Forbidden. Unaware. Her nipples had popped up against that cotton shirt she wore. They had tightened into little nubs that would feel like diamonds against his hot tongue. Giles’ breath caught hard in his belly, his body jerked, curling around his engorged penis. He squeezed himself again, moaning softly. His right hand cupped his free hanging balls, caressing them as they throbbed and roiled in his heat. It was an exquisite pain to be so aroused. He felt his need to come as a vibration building in intensity again, simply from the warmth of his hand on his hard cock.

He craved the opportunity to stroke himself more than once without spewing hot semen at his first stroke. If he had to hurt this much with arousal, the relief of it should provide pleasure, not just a blinding explosion of lust streaming white strings into the washrag. He let loose of his flesh and turned on the cold water, throwing a washrag into stream. Cold. The cold rag wrapped his over heated cock, cooling the pressure in his testicles. The pressure abated, but his erection did not. He cooled the cloth again and again wrapped his erection in it. The thrumming pulse that beat in his hard flesh quieted. He sighed as he softened a little, taking some of the sting out of his arousal. Would that the cooling of his blood could be shared with Buffy. Oh, Christ, he loved her, needed her. His thoughts skewed to his image of his Slayer wearing nothing but her skin. Feeling the heat flare again at his groin. He groaned and the sound became her name.

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Outside the door to the bathroom, the Slayer paused. Giles hadn’t closed the door. She had been able to see him in the nightlight’s dim illumination reflected in the mirror. Watching her Watcher. He was intensely aroused. She’d watched him bathe his hard cock with the cold cloth, watched him stroke himself. Listened to his agonized groan of sexual need. Heard that groan become her name, leaving his lips like an anguished prayer.

His eyes were still firmly closed and his movements short and jerky. His left hand stroked his erection lightly, as if he wanted to prolong his pleasure. His right clutched his testicles, gently tugging on them. Buffy dropped her shorts and tore her top off. Naked she had to be naked, as naked as he was. She crept silently into the bath, and as his hand drew back the skin of his penis from his glans, she gripped his hips and swallowed him.

“Oh, Christ,” he groaned. His eyes snapped open and he saw a blond head at his groin. Slender slipped around his hips. Tiny hands rubbed and fondled his bum. Elation surged in him, realizing who held him in her mouth, whose tongue moved sensuously on his flesh. Dear Lord was this happening? So aroused, so needing of her, he surged into her mouth, wondering what had brought her to him, then wondering if he had stepped over the boundary from reality into an hallucination. From each touch of her tongue.

She suckled him, pulling gently. Ecstasy shimmered along his flesh, along the sensitive vein she traced with the tip of her tongue. Her teeth nipped gently, teasing his taut glans. She held very still, her tiny hands tugging at his hips, encouraging him to move, to thrust himself into her mouth. She wanted, needed him to give himself to her. She craved the explosion of his orgasm. When he began a shallow thrusting, she slid her hands around his hips and replaced his hand on his shaft with her own. Her fingers stroked him firmly as he thrust into her mouth. Her other hand cupped his fevered testicles, tugging them gently. The pulsing pounded again, thrumming in his engorged flesh, settling heavily at the base of his cock. It grew there, a hot pressure, building toward eruption. Her wanton, suckling mouth urged him toward climax, begged his ejaculation.

He felt the rest of it boiling madly in his groin, surging high like a tidal wave to pick up his thick knot of need and move it outward. “Buffy,” he whimpered, trying to pull away, but failing as her mouth followed his retreat.

She released him for just an instant, her voice a sensual growl vibrating her lips against his tip. “Do it. Do it for me, Giles. Come for me!” Her swollen mouth sucked him in again.

He thrust, mindless now from her demands, his sexual heat a coagulating pressure, like molten lava. The flames building within her fed the fires of his fervor. He felt himself thicken, as waves of wild ecstasy surged through the channel in his flesh, burgeoning gouts of his love, his need, his want, his passion to be given to her. Explosive declarations of the power she wielded over him. His acknowledgement of his love, his dependence upon her as she claimed him, opening herself to him at the same time. His voice, his words formed a paean of exultation, a celebration as he offered all that he was to her and she accepted. “Aaaaah, coming,” he wailed, feeling his soul following the liquid heat surging from his penis, “Coming for you, luv—“

She sucked harder. Her tongue squeezed him with her Slayer strength, pulling his skin taut, building his pleasure in her until he thought he might faint from it. She gently held his straining testicles while his orgasm raged through him. He burst into her mouth in huge fervent spurts. She moaned with pleasure and pulled him into her so deeply that her lips pressed against the wiry hair at the root of his penis and he felt it was so much more of himself than the fiery liquid of his seed that burst from him into her hot and welcoming mouth.

She drank him down.

Rupert Giles thought he might die of the pleasure and of the love he felt for his Slayer. His hands gripped the sides of the sink, trying to support legs suddenly gone rubbery and weak.

He softened in her mouth. Buffy gripped his shaft again and licked him clean as she released him, beginning at his root and dragging the tip of her tongue along that sensitive vein, until it tickled his glans. “Good, so good,” she mumbled. “So sweet.” She purred as her mouth sucked him in again and he felt his passions burgeoning again.

“Buffy,” he groaned, his hips involuntarily thrusting, “Stop. You must stop.”

She looked up at him from where she crouched before him on the floor, fondling his partial erection with her fingers, stroking his testicles tenderly. “Why.” She buried her face in his pubic hair.

He looked down at her, non-plussed and couldn’t think of a single reason why. She was twenty-two, a woman, a grown Slayer-with-an-expiration-date-passed-twice, and her actions indicated that she wanted this, truly wanted this and she was enjoying what she was doing. She looked up, almost as if she read his mind. Her eyes glinted at him, hot and wet with passion and he watched bemused as her mouth suckled him again, quickly bringing him and his penis back to a state of raging arousal. Damnation, she had such power over him. She rose as his penis rose up his belly. She broke her suction on him and climbed up his body with her hands, until her face was at his level and she stood on tiptoe. “I want you,” she whispered. “I want . . . no, I need to love you, fuck you. Please.”

He picked her up and, arms full of Slayer, headed for his bed.

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