Title: Rescued
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: NC-17
Beta: theladymerlin
Warnings: non-con, angst, violence, torture, language, m/m
Genre: Hurt/comfort
Disclaimer: The characters belong solely to Joss Whedon et co.
Status: Complete
Summary: Takes place nine years after As5. Spike was captured during the battle in LA and has been trapped in a demon brothel ever since. When Xander finds out, he decides to help.



Rescued


by
Singedbylife



Part One



There were two of them this time.

Humans both of them. A guy of medium build, the other one of similar height but weighing at least 100 pounds more.

Greasy t-shirts, leather vests, cowboy boots. A faint smell of gasoline and motor oil. Bikers or truck drivers.

The fat one kept his sparse hair tied back in a thin ponytail trailing down his broad back. The other man’s hair was trimmed short in a burr. The latter had something looking like a Hulibee Beard going on but not quite achieving the look so far. Tattoos of flaming hearts, names, skulls, and the bleeding Ghost Rider and the like covered their arms. How very original.

The fat one behind him pulled Spike’s head back grabbing onto his hair. Spike clenched his jaw trying hard not to make a sound. He hated it when tossers like these made him wince or cry out even though it was very hard not to. The man’s other hand was already busy jabbing two thick fingers up into him, roughly scissoring and stretching him painfully. Spike couldn’t help but whimper pathetically at the stinging, tearing sensation. Christ, it hurt!

Every day he came to, tight as a newborn babe. Every day, each rape hurt just as much as the ones the day before.

“Nnngh,” he moaned through clenched teeth, in futile protest between the pants, and gasps, which he now had to make in order to somehow be able to bear the assault. Three thick fingers were inside him now, curling, and stretching and damaging him, making him bleed. God, it hurt so much! He arched his back uselessly trying to escape the pain.

The man in front of him had climbed the three steps and stood near his head. “You ready yet, Carl?” he asked while he undid his fly and pulled down his jeans.

“Almost,” came the grunted reply. Carl continued jabbing and stretching a bit. Then he finally pulled out his fat fingers from Spike’s arse and began fisting himself, getting ready to push his cock hard into Spike’s abused and bleeding hole. Getting ready for the two of them to start their small agreed mini gang bang rape.

Nothing like going for synchronization and timed orgasms, when you were raping in tandem. Spike swallowed and closed his eyes, trying to get himself ready as well.

“That’s good,” the man in front of Spike replied, licking his lips. Impatiently, he slapped Spike’s face. “Look at me, creep,” he said. Spike opened his eyes.

“This is gonna be good, isn’t it, you filthy little slut? You gonna suck me good, aren’t you, bitch?”

Spike didn’t reply, only kept peering warily at the man. His head was still pulled back tight by Carl.

“Carl, let go of its head, man. I want that blow job now.”

The man grabbed hold of Spike’s shoulders to get into position and Spike couldn’t help but cry out. His shoulders hurt! The guy’s dick hung dangling in front of his face but Spike couldn’t reach it with his mouth because the wanker, Carl, still hadn’t let go of his hair.

The slapping sound of Carl trying to get his dick up and ready continued behind Spike’s back. Sounded like Carl was becoming frantic. In fact, sounded like Carl had a bit of a problem. Probably had one too many beers in order to do the job.

Spike sighed wearily at the thought. The humans who came to use him often did. Trying to drink up enough courage all evening before they got up and went to get what they'd paid for; meeting an actual vampire and fuck it. It meant that they would often be too sodding drunk to just be quick about it. Instead, they would fool around, humiliate him, piss on him. Or use the toys on the shelves clumsily and wrong and very painfully.

Right now, Carl here reeked of beers, and the kind of animalistic repelling lust that brain deficient human males got when they would get together in a group in front of a lone, naked victim.

The kind of lust that made them attack as a pack. That made them assault and rape and most times, kill the defenseless victim. Never caring for pleas for mercy. Never stopping.

That was the kind of lust that Carl stank of. The same kind rolled off Carl’s raping fuck buddy.

It was going to be a long day.





Part Two

As Xander came closer to the old, abandoned factory building, his nostrils were met by a myriad of unpleasant smells. Turpentine, fungus, left over garbage, some poor animal lying drowned and rotting under an open manhole cover. And a familiar but no less unpleasant scent: demon goo.

He’d went by Amtrak from Boston to Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station. Wouldn’t do to use his car. Then he'd grabbed a cab outside the train station and continued across the Delaware to the depressing industrial grounds of Philadelphia’s neighboring city. The cab driver had dropped him off, warning him about the area. Although, when eyeing Xander a bit closer, he had decided to shut his mouth. Xander had smiled reassuringly, shrugged and handed him his payment. As soon as Xander was out of the car, the cab driver hadn’t hesitated to turn his car around and speed off to get back to the approximate safety of the City of Brotherly Love.

Xander had continued on foot the rest of the way. He was in Campden, New Jersey.

He wrinkled his nose and sniffed a little to get used to the smells. The surroundings were spooky and unsettling. Old deserted factory sites tended to be that way late at night and Campden’s wasn’t an exception. The building he was about to enter was an old ramshackle warehouse. He’d gotten the address from one of his few demon acquaintances.

When they’d originally begun searching for Spike, Willow hadn’t been able to tell exactly where Spike was being held but she’d been able to make an educated guess based on the signal she’d caught, indicating that he would be somewhere close to this area. Once they’d gotten the only address that seemed right, based on information about what kind of activities were taking place in this address, they’d begun making their plan to rescue Spike. Willow had even flown over to visit Xander in Boston for a couple of days in order to get everything ready and under control. She couldn’t stay, though. Too much work to do back at HQ in London. But it would be early morning in London and she’d be ready to do her part. This was their agreed time for engaging Mission Rescue the Vamp and Retreat.

When Xander had initially been told that Spike didn’t die in the Hellmouth, he had been angry. He’d felt cheated. Anya had died. Why had Spike been the one to come out of it unharmed? Of course by then, he’d also been told and believed that Spike had died a second time (or was it a third time?) during some big battle in LA. A battle during which, Angel had perished as well. Then… well, years had gone by since then and Xander had grown up. Things had changed. He had changed. Buffy had stayed in Europe, eventually marrying a European guy. She’d seemed genuinely happy the last time he had seen her. That had been five years ago. They didn’t stay in touch much. Just the obligatory text message of a Christmas Greeting or a ditto Happy Birthday wish. Willow had become involved with the coven in England and was now working full time at the new Watchers’ Council. Giles had passed away last year. Heart attack.

Dawn was back in California. She had finished college and was working in one of LA’s bigger art galleries. They weren’t in contact, though. Willow had told him.

As for Xander, well… those first years after the Hellmouth, Xander had gone along with the rest of the Scoobies. He’d traveled to Europe, eventually accepted the challenging job of going to Africa to help the council find new slayers. And to begin with it had been exciting. It had kept him busy, very busy, and helped him move on after losing Anya.

But after three years, he had grown weary of the whole deal. He was risking his life, getting beaten up by demons and having to deal with demonstrative, teenage Slayers. It was crazy! He was a building constructor for Pete’s sake, not some magical supernatural being or a studious watcher. He’d made his decision and left the council on short notice, much to Giles’ dismay and moved back to the States. Not to California this time. Instead, he’d decided to try out something new, make a fresh start. He’d found a nice apartment in Boston. It wasn’t big but it was comfy. The Council had paid the down payment. Giles had made sure of that, despite the fact that he’d still been rather disappointed with Xander’s choice of leaving. Xander had found a job in a small construction company, and his boss and co-workers were okay. He’d lived there for a little over seven years, now. He hadn’t made any new close friends but every now and then, he did go out for a round of pool or a couple of beers with some of the guys from work.

He hadn’t fallen in love with anyone since Anya. He’d had a couple of short lived affairs over the years and discovered a few new truths about himself, but nothing serious had come out of it. He couldn’t figure out if it was his fault or not. Perhaps he hadn’t shared enough of his past or invested enough of his emotions for the relationships to work. He hadn’t really wanted to. And he probably could have been more attentive when they in turn had tried to open up and share their thoughts and feelings with him. Maybe they just hadn’t been right. Besides, he still had time. He wasn’t even thirty-two yet. And so what if he was lonely most of the time? He didn’t regret his decision. He would have been lonely and risking his life, had he stayed in Africa.

When Willow had called, shortly after Xander had moved back to the States and told Xander about how Spike had come back alive after burning in the Hellmouth and about how he’d gotten involved with Angel in LA and died again, those events had already taken place years ago. Xander’s feelings had been mixed. Mostly he’d felt upset. Angry at Spike and sort of angry at Willow too, for not telling him sooner. She couldn’t explain why she hadn’t, only that she’d meant to do it for a long time. She hadn’t wanted to tell Buffy. It would only upset her and Buffy didn’t need that but Willow felt she just needed to tell someone.

After that telephone call, Xander had begun thinking more and more about the anomaly that was Spike. Had thought a lot about him, in fact. Had even gradually come to the conclusion that he kinda regretted not getting on friendlier terms with the vampire, while he’d had the opportunity. Spike was an ass but Xander had to admit there was so much more to Spike than just that. And then, last month, Willow’s call had been about Spike again. This time, her news concerned Spike’s death once more.

She’d been doing some work on a new kind of locator spell, where she was trying to get in contact with entities from other dimensions in order to learn more about said dimensions. During her research, she had thought of Spike. Not that she wanted to bring him back, of course. She’d learned that lesson, after all. No, she'd merely wanted to see if she would be able to locate an actual hell dimension via Spike’s spiritual remains because maybe, who knew, one day that might come in handy. And if she succeeded, she'd figured that Spike, being a champion, would make the attempt safer for her, meaning that she probably wouldn't risk getting a hellish lash back. She'd waved a bit back and forth in her typical Willowy style but Xander had gathered that she’d used Spike as a sort of concentration point. She hadn’t succeeded. Which was to say, she hadn’t managed to get in contact with an actual hell dimension. But she had found a signal belonging to Spike. Only, as it turned out, he was not in some spiritual state at all but right here in the US. To cut a long story short, Spike was still very much undead.

The idea of Spike being around again had triggered something inside Xander and he’d been quick to suggest that they find him and contact him. But when it became clear that Spike’s signal always showed up in the exact same location, Xander had been the one to guess that something was wrong. Someone or something had to be keeping Spike captive because the Spike, he knew, would never stay in the same spot day in and day out. He was far too restless for that. Willow had agreed. And then they’d gone to work. Which was how he’d ended up here. Standing in an empty street in the middle of the night in front of a building rumored to be a Demon’s Brothel.





Part Three

Spike ached. Inside and outside.

He was never not in pain, couldn’t rightly remember how it felt like not to be in pain. In fact, his entire existence was measured up by nothing but various degrees of pain.

Right now he was visited by the familiar pain from slashes healing on his backside. That particular pain had been keeping him busy since his last feeding.

It could have been worse, though. His time could have been spent in the more unpleasant company of pain from shattered bones. Or pain from flayed off skin. Or pain from being buggered bloody by a huge dildo or cock.

No, this kind of pain, the mending one, was not the worst of his constant companions. And it was hardly the first time a client had used the thin rattan cane on his back and buttocks. When wielded correctly, it was excruciating. When used by an amateur such as the last one, he was able to handle the strokes better. Besides, it could have been the bull whip. Or the cat of nine tails. Or the thin spiked metal chain and that hurt like hell no matter how skilled, the wielder was.

Of course, it didn’t make a lot of difference when the cane was put to use the way it had been. The client had been big and inhumanly strong and he had been whipping Spike’s back for a long, long time before finally grunting something unintelligible and ejaculating his yolk-like, smelly cum all over Spike’s bleeding back. Spike had counted that a blessing... After all, no matter how foul the jizz was or how much it stung as it ran down his damaged back, blending in with the rivulets of blood trickling down his bum and thighs, it would have been much worse had the client wanted to come inside him. All Fyarl demons were huge but this one had been bloody gigantic.

Torture, rape, and pain. Nothing but torture, rape, and pain. It was a wonder he hadn’t gone insane long ago. Why hadn’t he? It would be such bliss not to know what was being done to him. Not to constantly be aware of the sexual abuse and the torment which took place every bleeding day and night for all he knew. It was hard to tell the time. Hard to guess at how many years he’d been held prisoner and hard to tell whether the sun was up or down. He’d lost track of everything. All he knew was that he had been stuck here since the final battle in LA… which had to be ages ago.

Another sorry fact was that he was never given any true rest. He was never allowed to lie down. Never able to truly mend, never able to stretch his aching limbs or rest his weary back, never able to forget for even a second that he was reduced to being nothing but a fuck toy…

Never a kind word, or a gentle touch, or a caring look, the tiniest bit of comfort, never … 

A tremble coursed through his pale, thin frame and tears of frustration and self-pity began to fill his eyes. A sob worked its way up his abused throat and fuck! It hurt! His throat was burning with its intensity. The useless crying hurt his neck, and his long dead lungs, and bawling his eyes out wouldn’t help him, wouldn’t change a damn thing besides making him hurt all the more!

Closing his eyes hard and clenching his jaw, he managed to prevent the next sob from erupting. He breathed in through his nose, long and hard but not too hard, ‘cause that hurt, too. Finally, he managed to gain a little control and he opened his mouth, licked his chapped lips and breathed in and out in a measured steady pace. The exercise helped. There, all better now. Just the dull pain left to keep him upset, that's all. He was used to that. Pain was tangible and he could deal with it. Most of the time. His stupid thinking on the other hand was not that easy to control. Didn’t do to think too much. Just focus on the pain.

Slowly, he lifted his head and looked at the dark surroundings. They had been the same for what seemed an eternity. Tall dark cement walls painted a dark red. The tile floor with a drain in the middle. No windows. Two lamps hanging down suspended from the ceiling high above him, casting a yellow garish light. A radiator placed near the corner keeping the room somewhat heated and next to that a long rolled up hose connected to a faucet. Behind him was the only door to his cell and a wall decorated with metal shelves containing a wide selection of whips, chains, gags, plugs, dildos and such. Anything to make a vampire hurt and anything to please a sadist’s fucked-up mind.

Spike had been subjected to each and every one of those items too many times to count. Had screamed in terror and pain while being viciously raped by one or more men or demons too many times to count…

Again, those sodding tears threatened to spill.

Oh, god, he didn't think he could take it anymore! If only he were dead. Please, please, please, why couldn’t he just be dead? Just like Angel, that lucky son of a bitch! He’d watched Angel dust, and Gunn die, he’d heard Illyria mourn Wesley in her detached way before she too disappeared in a blaze of fire. But he hadn’t gotten to die. No, not him, not Spike. Wouldn’t do if old Spike got a lucky break, now would it? No, Spike had been knocked unconscious during the battle and woken up here. Never knowing who took him or why. Besides the obvious reason, that was. Nobody had ever responded to anything he had asked since his captivity had begun so long ago. Not like they would listen to a half breed fuck toy anyway. That’s all he was to them. Him having a soul mattered bugger all to the lot of them. Down here, he was a thing.

It’d been so hard to understand that, though. To realize for real, that they didn’t think of him as a living or unliving being. That they didn’t care about him or his thoughts or feelings.

He had always been so sodding naïve. For a man, who had been denied any true affection his entire unlife, and, truth be told, his entire life if one discounted his mother, he really was stubbornly, stupidly naïve. Again and again, he'd tried to get recognition from the people surrounding him, from those he loved or from those who mattered to him. Whether they had been Drusilla, Angel, Buffy, the Niblet, Fred, or even the bloody Scoobies. His affection had never been returned, not really.

However, not until ending up here had he finally understood that the sodding Powers that Be simply didn’t deem him worthy of anything and especially not of love or care. Spike was simply beneath everything...

And the worst thing was that deep down, he had always known that, felt the truth of that but he had adamantly, and foolishly refused to acknowledge it. If he had, he would have staked himself a long time ago. But now he knew. Oh god. Yes, now he knew. And it hurt.

Maybe the PTBs would decide against all odds to give him a break and the next sick wanker who'd come in would become too agitated during Play Time an’ just finally, finally, snap and kill him? After all, dying and going to Hell couldn't be worse than this, could it?

Spike let his head fall back from the emotional and physical exhaustion and closed his eyes, once again trying to stifle the painful, pitiful sobs that constantly threatened to sear his chest. The motion caused his neck and back to seize further up. His shoulders and upper neck muscles had long ago turned into rock hard knots of dull burning pain caused by the strain of vainly trying to support his body which was suspended in an upright vertical position. His arms were stretched taught outwards to his sides and above his head, keeping his upper body in a perfect Y-shape. The tight chains, hooked on to either wall around his wrists, chafed his skin, and made blood run idly down his arms in thin trickles whenever he was being fed. The rest of the time, the area was just dried out sore-looking meat.

He was positioned on his knees. His legs were spread wide and strapped to an elevated concrete platform with thick leather cuffs behind his knees and around his ankles. The platform was shaped like an angular horizontal U or rather two Ls lying down and opposing one another, enabling those who used him to step right up behind him, grab his hips, push their cocks into his torn channel and fuck him. The straps and his kneeling position made sure he didn’t sway too much. That would be too much of a bother to the clients and that wouldn’t do. The men could also choose to step up on the platform in front of him using the three small built in steps and have a go at his head.

He had long ago stopped fighting the rapes. Never thought of changing into game face and bite the fuckers’ cocks off ‘cause he had tried that, hadn’t he? Didn’t go well.

Sure, it had been exhilarating to spit out the rubber like piece of cock after sucking out as much blood from it as possible. Had been fun and invigorating to watch the raping wanker bleed and scream and thrash. But afterwards, it hadn’t been so funny. The guards had come in. They had removed the nearly unconscious client and then proceeded to beat Spike senseless, using fists, boots and thick iron clubs.

He had woken up in the same position as ever and had barely lifted his head all the way back up before a fist connected with his chin, splitting his lip, and the first lash of a bull whip landed heavily on his battered back. They had whipped him until there wasn’t a single spot left unharmed. Thankfully, he had lost consciousness in the end.

Whenever he had woken up, however, they had continued flogging him, kicking him, screaming at him. He didn’t know how many days this had gone on but it had seemed to last forever. They didn’t feed him and his body – thin before – had wasted away during the punishments. Then one day, ice cold water had been hurled over his unconscious body and he had come to with a yelp. A guard had grabbed his hair and pulled his head back hard and poured blood down his gasping and desperate mouth. It was not enough, not nearly enough, but it was sustenance and he couldn’t help but drink it. Spilled blood had trickled down his chin and neck and he'd mourned every lost drop of it.

Another bucket of ice water had been emptied over his face and then the guard had proceeded to cut off his hair with a trimmer. It had grown long in all the time he had been held prisoner. Dark curls ending in white bleached tips lay about him as the guard unceremoniously trimmed him like he was a chained up dog on a bloody grooming table. 

He could only watch as the last remnants of whom he had been were swiftly swept up and thrown out in the trashcan behind him in the corner. Then the guard had left him alone.

He had cried for a long time, twisting his neck in order to stare at that trashcan before he'd passed out.

When he woke up, the guards had returned. Five of them this time.

They had dry fucked him, first with their rusty iron clubs, then with their fists. His voice had given up trying to scream properly and had turned into a hoarse rasping helpless sound that he couldn’t recognize or control. Still, it had continued to escape from his lips begging for them to stop, please stop. Finally, they had each and every one fucked him hard in his mouth. So yeah, he had learned his lesson. No more biting. No rest for the wicked. No rest for him. No rest, not ever.

He knew he had been in the cell for years. The guards got older, and some of them were replaced by younger ones. The way they treated him didn’t change. He’d figured out of course, long ago, that he was in a demon slave brothel. The guards were mostly humans and didn’t often use him. The clients were a wide array of demons and humans alike and they did. They were sent in every day. They all fucked him or abused him one way or the other and some of them liked to beat the shit out of him while they were at it.

Once every day, he was fed. A plastic cup with a straw was held up in front of him. He sucked up the cold blood as quickly as he could. Sometimes, if he wasn’t quick enough, the bored guard would yank the cup away and leave him with the straw hanging in his mouth, blood dripping down onto his chest. That was bad. Meant his wounds wouldn’t mend and his abuse would be all the more painful the next day. Sometimes, they simply forgot to feed him.

Spike closed his eyes. He was so bloody tired. Earlier today he had had one of his regular hose downs. He was still shivering slightly from the cold of it. He was clean but he looked and felt like hell. No one would ever mistake this place for a luxury brothel. Bruised or half dirty, he was always deemed ready for the next client. The clients didn’t come here to be cuddled or lied to anyway. They just came for some violence and a quick fuck. And Spike fulfilled both of those needs.





Part Four

Xander squared his shoulders, and knocked on the door. When nothing happened, he turned the handle and pushed the door open.

A huge man sat attendance on a chair beside a small table just inside the room. A lamp cast a single light, leaving the rest of the room dark and gloomy. “Yeah?” the man asked while never stopping the punching of his iPhone – he was playing a war game by the sound of it. Nothing like a little virtual violence in between letting customers in to do some of the very real kind to whomever poor bastards were locked up in here. At least, Xander suspected that there were beings locked up in here but from the looks of it there weren’t anybody around at all but this guy.

The air felt thick and suffocating and Xander stifled a shiver of nervous uneasiness. He felt tiny drops of sweat protrude on his upper lip. Air-condition would have been of the good.

“Hi there,” he nodded at the guard. The man didn't reply but looked at Xander with a level and somewhat blank stare.

Okaay… better just get down to business then... “I’ve heard you have some special wares for sale. That true?” he asked, trying to keep his voice a shade lower than usual.

The black leather pants he wore clung uncomfortably tight to his legs and he had to shift a little to make room for his itching bulk, but he figured the gesture fit his role anyhow. He'd put on a black wife beater and a baggy loose hanging dark coat. Deviant bad ass guy here, bro! He narrowed his eye and looked at the man without saying anything more, knowing that the eye patch usually did the trick, making him look meaner, and more savage than he felt.

“That depends on what kind of wares you’re talking about,” the man replied in a one note tone. He seemed bored and not really caring one whit what so ever. He didn’t even look back up at Xander from his seat.

Xander licked his lips. His mouth felt very dry. “Well, I heard talk that you got some interesting… creatures here. The kind that you can get to fool around with if you have the right money for it.”

“Yeah, we‘ve got some interesting creatures here all right,” the man replied. “Not all of them are for sale, though.” He wasn’t showing any sign of nerves or suspicion, just stating a fact. But his confirmation meant that they had been following the right lead. So far, so good.

Xander nodded. The place was demon run so naturally not all kinds of demons were for sale. The owners probably wouldn’t like to have their own kind imprisoned and rented out as whores. And the demons that frequented the brothel wouldn't want to come here if the place was full of sex slaves of their own breed. Neither would most humans.

“Great," he said. "I was getting a little tired of not being able to explore all aspects of my favorite games, if you know what I mean... Humans tend to get a little boring to play with in the long run.”

Still, no reaction. Damn, he felt like a fool but he had to keep on going.

“’Sides, my kinda games seem to attract the wrong kind of attention,” Xander continued. “The kind where I could end up in jail for hurting someone. Unintentionally, of course. I was told that wouldn’t be a problem here? Come on, big guy. Give me some kind of proof that I’m in the right place!

The guy snorted. “The Law don’t really mean nothing in here if that’s what you mean.” He put down his phone with a sigh, got up from his chair and looked down at Xander, making it clear that the Law didn’t really mean anything to him either. Xander swallowed.

“What’s your name?”

“Alex Whittman,” Xander replied a little too quickly. Damn.

The guard snorted again. “Right, Alex Whittman,” he said in a tone clearly indicating that he might be a big dumb brute but not a total idiot. “Hands on the wall and spread out your legs.”

“Hey, that really isn’t ne…” Xander began but stopped before he made a bigger fool out of himself. Of course, they had to make sure he didn’t carry any weapons. Neither demons nor humans did exactly well with bullet wounds in their heads or knives buried deep in their stomachs. Besides, he hadn’t brought any weapons with him so he needn’t worry. That was, none of the ordinary kind, of course.

The frisk was quickly over. Then he was told to remove his coat and place it on the chair and empty the pockets. Xander did so with a sinking feeling in his stomach. True, he didn’t carry any concealed weapons but the contents placed on the little table next to the man’s chair did appear slightly odd. There was his old wallet, emptied of ID and driver’s license, a comb, a pack of gum, an unopened pack of condoms, a can of lube, and finally a shaker of salt. It was the last item which stood out and made the man raise his eyes questioningly at Xander.

Doing his best not to blush and lose his cover because he was here as a bad guy, right, Xander looked the man straight in the eyes and said “I like to sprinkle a little salt while I do my playing. Makes a good show. That a problem?”

The man looked surprised, then he laughed, and shook his head still grinning. “If that’s what you like then I don’t see no harm in it. To each his own, I guess,” he said shaking his head, still chuckling a little. Xander’s face heated but he grabbed his coat and put back his stuff in the pockets. Except the can of lube, which he stuffed down the back pocket of his pants.

“Do you have any requests? Know something about what we have in here?”

Xander felt a drop of sweat running down his forehead and into his eye patch. It was so damn hot. Sweat from his lover back ran down between his ass cheeks and he shifted again.

“Yeah, I've been told a little. And well, to hell with it. You obviously know there's more to this world than meets the eye, right?”

The man lifted his eyebrows but otherwise didn't respond. Xander continued “A long time ago, I came across a vampire. It killed my best friend. While I was watching.” Actually, Xander had killed Jesse but that was beside the point. And the story was a lie anyway.

Xander continued. ”I’ve always wanted to get up close to one of those fuckers and make them understand just how I felt about that.”

The guard snorted again. “Oh, yeah. Vamps. Filthy bloodsucking half breeds. We’ve got those. What are you into, male or female?”

Xander’s heart dropped. God, this was real, wasn’t it? He was about to enter a demon brothel as a buying customer. Client. Whatever.

“I think tonight, I’m into male,” he replied and slapped lightly on his back pocket containing the lube. The man snorted and pulled his lips back in what probably amounted to a smile. “And later, who knows?” he continued and smiled back in what he hoped looked as creepy as the smile on the man’s face. As if in afterthought, he added, ”The one who killed my friend was a small guy vamp, real skinny looking. I’m thinking I’d like to meet one similar to that one. Just to get in the right mood, you know. Seems right. Do you have any that fits that description?”

“Oh, yeah, we’ve got just the right one for you. And it‘s been here for years so you won’t get any trouble, playing your games with that one. It’s all tamed. And you don’t have to use your lube. Freak isn’t used to being cuddled anyway. Let me tell ya, with vampires, it’s all about blood and pain. Disgusting s'what they are. But they make for a damn good fuck. The one I'm thinking you're gonna try out has a real sweet ass. And they can take just about anything you wanna do to them.”

At that, the man smirked and wriggled his left eyebrow at Xander who managed to smile weakly back. His mind reeled. That son of bitch had had Spike. Had been fucking him. Xander wanted to punch the creep right in the middle of his ugly, grinning face.

“Just make sure you don’t kill it,” the guy continued. “Bosses don’t like that. S’not good for business and it won’t be nice for you if something like that should to happen. Bosses don’t give a shit about your personal boohoo history with vamps.”

Xander’s heart dropped further down, his mind still spinning. Sure, he'd known Spike would be here. Willow’s locator spell and all of their research had said so. He'd known what kind of place it was. Dressed for it... Still, it was something else to stand here and listen to that creepy raping asshole, realizing that Spike had spent the past nine years or more in this hellhole as an enslaved rent out whore. To know that Spike had been raped and abused by strangers in however way they wanted him for all those years.

Spike didn’t deserve this. He'd gotten a soul. Had helped save the world. Sacrificed himself, for crying out loud. Him being kept prisoner here was just all kinds of wrong.

Spike, I swear to you, if you are in here, it won’t be long now. Help is coming, pal. Help is on the way. Hang tight!

“You listening?” The guard said irritated. “I said no staking, no chopping its head off, no fire, no maiming, no cutting and no making it drink holy water. You can fuck it, beat it, whip it, throw salt into its wounds if that’s what’ll get you off but that’s it, you get that?”

“Sure, yeah, sure,” Xander replied and drew in a quick breath to steady himself, hoping it sounded like he was all good and eager and ready to get busy… hurting Spike… instead of trying not to vomit right there on top of the man’s dark tennis shoes.

He looked the man straight in the eyes. “How much do I have to pay for two hours?”





Part Five


After the money exchange, Xander was led back into the building to an old elevator. The doorman or rather, the guard had called another one on his phone and that one – a tall, lean, bearded man in his forties, gestured for Xander to follow him into the elevator car and Xander did.

It was an old elevator and the rattling car moved very slowly towards its destination somewhere below ground level. Neither of them spoke during the ride and Xander’s heart was beating rapidly despite his best efforts to calm himself down. But it was damn near impossible to do so because he was terrified of what he might see, when the doors opened. And of what he was about to do. Or in the very least attempt to do. On the other hand, he was feeling weirdly excited. Almost exhilarated and he couldn’t wait to get to Spike and hopefully get him the hell out of here.

The suspense was killing him.

He glanced at the man next to him, who was staring straight ahead at the elevator’s closed sliding doors, looking relaxed or indifferent. Xander was anything but. His throat felt like it was closing up and he tried to clear it silently but couldn't do it. It came out a croaking cough.

When in Africa, he'd experienced some pretty intense moments but this beat them all. Xander wasn’t a coward but he wasn't exactly a hero either and it'd been a long time since he'd been living the action filled life that was working around Slayers. He was completely out of practice. What if he made a stupid mistake and screwed up everything? Please, don't let me screw up!

The car came to a halt with a bump. So... This was it. Xander braced himself when the guard opened the door before he stepped out in what appeared to be a crowded bar room.

The first thing he noticed was that Spike wasn't here. Which was kind of a relief and a major disappointment at the same time. Xander didn't know what to expect when he actually got to meet Spike. Had no idea how a demon slave whore would be introduced to his customers. Would Spike have to offer himself to Xander somehow? God, Xander didn't hope so. Spike would likely kill him before he got a chance to explain himself. Or would Spike be kept behind a glass panel with other demons ready to be picked and used? Would he be forced to do a striptease? And if so, would he be wearing silky gauze and sequins, or tight silver hotpants or... Christ, Xander had no idea what to expect and every freaking scenario was fucking far out and downright crazy. But he had to try and prepare for anything, no matter how humiliating or dangerous it was gonna be for either of them.

The music in the room was loud and the smell of sweat was intense. There were all kinds of demons there. Fyarls, M’fashniks, Krathlaks, you name it. And, as expected, there were humans too. Most of them were dressed in gear similar to Xander’s but somehow fitting it better. Which probably had something to do with the fact that they weren’t faking it. These guys were not your average good Samaritans. Not by a long shot.

There weren’t any women as far as Xander could see except for some bluish tainted demon girls dancing on a small elevated scene. They weren’t exactly enticing unless you had a thing for sagging neck skin.

Xander scanned the room further to see if he could find Spike anywhere among the crowd. But he couldn't. In fact, as far as Xander could tell, there weren’t any vampires present at all. He wasn't able to sense a vampire the way a Slayer could but he'd picked up a few tricks over the years both in Sunnydale and in Africa. He could be wrong, of course. It was always hard to tell with vamps when they weren’t wearing their game faces. But no one looked oddly pale or sexy or perfect or… well, undead.

Reading the sign behind the counter saying “We only Serve Pure Breeds” made him know that his assumption was right. This wasn't a vamp friendly place at all.

He remembered Giles telling him that vampires were considered "less worthy" by a lot of so called full blooded demons. The main reason being that a vampire had to leach on to a human vessel in order to exist. You couldn’t get a normal vampire without that human connection. Other demons bred with each other without problems and were therefore “pure". And that creepy guard upstairs had been referring to vampires as disgusting half breeds. So, yeah, of course Spike had to end up in a racist demon slave brothel. And the silly thing was that when it came to vampires, they were all 100 per cent pure demons no matter how they´d come to be.

Except for two, of course. And there was only one of them left now. The one he wanted to rescue.

The guard gestured with a sideways movement of his head that Xander should come along.

The bar was lit up with dim lighted lamps, the dancing scene with blue spotlights. The dull beat of techno music boomed through the room. Occasionally, some garbled demon voice was heard, hooting or shouting something at the dancing demon girls. Xander didn’t understand a word but it probably meant “Let’s see them hooters” or “Come to Daddy, baby” and the likes. Demons had peculiar tastes.

They eased passed the bar and into a narrow maroon colored hallway. On their way to their destination, they passed a doorway opening up to what looked like a small fighting arena with chain fixtures bolted into the floor. "Guess the customers don’t like a fair fight," Xander thought. Big surprise. At the moment, the arena was empty. “No Fights Mondays thru Thursdays”, a sign read.

They made a turn and arrived at another dimly lit hallway, this one a bit wider with a high ceiling. On either side of the hallway were a row of heavily bolted metal doors. Another human brothel employee sat guard at a small booth. To his right, a number of small black and white screens showed what was kept behind the metal doors.

Vampires.

Or it could be humanoid demons. All of them appeared to be half breeds and there was one occupying each cell. Most of them were females and Xander’s stomach roiled at how they were lying strapped down on their backs on narrow cots. He blocked them out as his eye frantically scanned the screens for the only one of those poor creatures that he could actually save.

On the last screen, the back of a small figure was shown. His head was hanging down in front of him and Xander could only see his shoulders and arms… And his ass and his spread out legs. Oh, god! He was naked and there was no mistake. Xander knew that back.

Spike.

It was horrible. But at least Spike was here. Now all Xander had to do was to go in and begin the spell and… A thought hit him which made his blood run cold. He looked at the guard sitting down.

“Hey! Are you monitoring me when I’m in there?”

If that was the case, that was so not of the good. How the hell was he gonna get the spell ready and Spike to cooperate without the guards noticing that something was up? He needed at least half an hour in order for the damn thing to work and for Willow to find out their exact location! "Well?" he asked. The man at the booth lifted an eyebrow and smiled an oily smile while flicking a lazy gaze towards the screens. Three of them were black at the moment.

The guard licked his lips. “Nah, seen it all already. You don’t have to worry. I’ll turn off the screen after you enter and turn it on ten minutes before you have to leave. That way you’ll know when your time’s up anyway. The system makes a buzz five minutes before the camera starts filming,” he drawled. “So if you don’t want to show your behind, you best hurry up a little when that happens.”

Xander fought down a shudder and a feeling of dread. Huh, yeah right, I’ll bet you’ll turn it off, asshole! You’ll watch as much as you can, you sick, twisted pervert!

Well, he could still do this. He had to. He cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Spike’s prone form on the monitor. Best get on with it. There wasn’t any other way.

“Okay. I want that one.”



Index Next


Leave Feedback on Live Journal



Contact Author

Visit the Author's LiveJournal

Home Authors Categories New Stories Non Spander