Out of Bounds
Chapter Four
Buffy winced and pulled the comforter closer around her as Spike’s punishment continued, a steady rain of blows falling on his bare bottom. She didn’t really want to watch, but Willow seemed to expect her to and right now the witch was the last person she wanted to annoy. So she looked on with a mixture of awe at both the intensity of the spanking and Spike’s response to it, and sympathy for the pain the vampire must be in.
She knew only too well from the spanking she had just gotten how badly the hairbrush hurt, but Spike seemed to show little sign of the pain. Oh, he flinched from time to time, and had gasped once when the brush landed on his upper thighs, but other than that and the growing color on his ass, there was no indication that the spanking was affecting him. “Dear God,” she thought, “by this time I was crying and promising to behave! And this is only the beginning; Willow said he would be strapped and caned as well. I guess I should be thankful I got off so easily. I have no idea what that would be like. Heck, I’m not even sure what she meant by being strapped.”
Soon, Buffy learned exactly what Willow had meant, when the witch laid down the hairbrush and told Spike to stand and strip. As he obeyed, the redhead rose and picked up an item that the Slayer guessed was the strap. It looked like a doubled length of leather about 3 inches wide, attached to a wooden handle. The leather loop was somewhere between 18 and 24 inches in length and looked to Buffy as if it would cross both of the vampire’s bottom cheeks with each stroke. “That has got to hurt,” she thought.
As the Slayer looked on, the witch ordered Spike to bend over and rest his hands on the seat of her chair. Once he was in place, she brought the strap down across his butt.
The doubled strap made a loud crack as it impacted with the vampire’s butt and Buffy winced at the sound. Again and again the blows landed, leaving dark red lines in their wake where the edges of the strap bit into the already reddened flesh. Still, to her amazement, Spike hardly made a sound. He flinched more under the strokes of the strap, and shifted his feet form time to time in order to maintain his balance, but only the smallest sounds of pain escaped his lips. Then Willow began to scold and question Spike as she had done with the Slayer earlier.
“Who are you; what are you?”
“Your sub, Mistress. Your William.”
“And who am I?”
“Mistress Willow; my Mistress.”
“And who do you belong to?”
“You, Mistress, I belong to you.”
“That’s right, William; you are mine. And you are to obey me, are you not?”
“Yes, Mistress, I must obey you.”
“But you didn’t, did you, William?”
“No, Mistress, I didn’t. I’m sorry, Mistress. I shouldn’t have disobeyed you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. But you are paying for that.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Are you permitted to pleasure yourself with others, William?”
“No, Mistress. My body is yours alone.”
“Then what the hell were you doing fucking her, William?”
Each exchange was accompanied by a number of hard, steady strokes, and though he gave little sign of pain, Buffy knew that Spike was suffering. “It’s not just the pain, either,” she thought. The witch’s anger was obvious, particularly in that last remark, and it was clear from the sound of Spike’s voice how much that hurt him. “I hope she really can forgive him. I know she said she’d forgiven me, but I don’t see how she really could have.” She winced as Willow struck the vampire across the thighs and he choked off a cry of pain.
“Never, never, never touch her again, William. Do you understand me?” the redhead demanded, laying a series of stripes across the vampire’s almost-untouched thighs. “I don’t care if you think it’s innocent. I don’t care if it’s just flirting. You may not touch anyone in an even remotely sexual manner! Not Buffy, not anyone else.”
“No, Mistress,” he gasped, obviously struggling not to move. “I won’t, Mistress. No one but you, I promise, I promise!” His voice was rough with suppressed tears. “I’m sorry, Mistress.”
Sympathetic tears gathered in Buffy’s eyes, as she continued to watch.
Sometime later, Spike breathed a sigh of relief as Willow set the strap down on the table. He straightened and stood quietly, waiting for his Mistress’ next command. His body ached. He’d managed to hold his position during the strapping; it had been hard, but he’d done it. The caning would be much more difficult. “I hate being caned,” he thought. “It always makes me feel like I did back in school, like a ponce who could never get anything right. Only times I don’t hate it are when she’s gotten me so far out into sub-space that even the cane’s just more pleasure. This sure as hell isn’t one of those times.”
“How many strokes do you think you should get, William?” Willow asked, picking up a slender cane.
“As many as you see fit, Mistress,” he answered quietly. “It’ll be at least 2 dozen. Might be three, though I bloody well hope not.”
“Let’s see. How many times was I out of town since you and Buffy started fucking?”
“You were gone on 5 trips, Mistress, and I was with Buffy each time,” he replied. “What’s she driving at? She can’t mean to base the count on that, can she?”
“Then I think 5 dozen will do. A dozen for each time you were unfaithful.” Spike winced visibly and Willow snapped, “Be glad I’m not making it a dozen for every single time you screwed her.”
He bowed his head, accepting Willow’s words. She was right, she could have made it much worse, but the idea of 60 canes strokes was chilling. His bum was already throbbing and he could feel bruises forming where the edges of the strap had caught particularly sensitive areas. Frankly, he didn’t know how he could take that many cane strokes even if they were only the reasonably gently ones used in play, which wasn’t likely.
“Face down on the bench, William,” she directed, pointing to a leather-covered piece of furniture somewhat lower and narrower than a massage table.
“Yes Mistress,” Spike answered and lay down, resting his head on the small pillow at one end. Willow then adjusted his position to her liking, slipping a small cushion under his hips to lift his butt slightly and make it a better target.
As she did this, she spoke softly so that only Spike would hear. “I’m going to secure your arms and legs, love. You’ve done very well so far, and I’m proud of you for that. But you won’t be able to hold position any longer unless I restrain you. Every one of the cane strokes will be full strength. I intend you to remember this punishment for a long time.”
Spike obediently stretched his limbs towards the corners of the long low padded bench, and his Mistress chained his wrists and ankles to the legs. She gave him little slack; he would be able to struggle some, but not much.
“She’s right, I know she is,” he thought. “I won’t be able to stay still. Hell it’ll be all I can do not to break down completely. Five dozen full-strength strokes! Dear God, I don’t think I’ve ever taken more than 5 like that from her. We just don’t play at that level—not with the cane! I’ve no idea what 60 will be like. It won’t be good, that’s for sure. Damnation, I wish I had never gotten myself into this. I love Willow so much, but look what I’ve done to her. It’s no wonder she’s brassed off.” Regret overwhelmed Spike and his eyes filled with tears. He was startled when Willow began to stroke his hair, and looked up at her with sorrow.
“I’m sorry, Mistress. I never meant to hurt you. So sorry. I love you so much, Mistress. Please forgive me. Forgive me.”
“I will, William, I will. First, though, I need to finish your punishment,” she said soothingly. “Now, I’m going to give you the caning in sections: 2 dozen with the medium cane; 2 dozen with the heavy one; then the final 12 with whatever cane I choose. You are to count the strokes in groups, thanking me at the end of each group. Understand?”
“Yes, Mistress, 24, then 24, then 12. Count, and thank you for punishing me.” He dropped his head, waiting for the first stroke.
“Very well.” Willow picked up the medium weight cane and brought it down across Spike’s cheeks.
“One, Mistress.” The cane hurt more than Spike expected; clearly he had forgotten what a full-strength blow from his Mistress felt like. He jerked with each stroke that fell.
“Two, Mistress. Three, Mistress. Four, Mistress. Five, Mistress.” After only five strokes he realized that the caning would drive him to tears in the end, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to simply let go. Willow had brought him to the point of tears in either play or punishment only a few times, and Spike found it nearly impossible to break though that barrier without extreme pain.
“The difference is, this time it’s not just catharsis, this time I really deserve it,” he thought, “I deserve to be bawling like a baby. I nearly destroyed our relationship just for a few fucks with the Slayer. God I’m an idiot.”
“Six, Mistress. Aaah! Seven, Mistress.” Spike felt each stroke as a line of searing fire across his cheeks, and the cumulative pain was building to an incredible intensity. Usually, when his Mistress used a cane or other harsh toy on him she would allow adequate time between cuts for him to absorb the pain of each and deal with it before the next one fell. This time, however, the blows fell much more quickly. By the twelfth stroke, Spike was crying out with each blow, and pulling futilely against his restraints. By the twentieth, his cries were sharper and louder and the counting was mingled with choked sobs and wails.
“Twenty-one, Mistress, twenty-two, twenty-three, Mistress. Please, Mistress! Twenty-four Mistress.”
When Willow paused to change canes, the vampire whimpered. “Gods above and below, it’s not even half done!” he thought, nearly panicking. “I don’t know how I can take another 3 dozen strokes. I’ll break down; I know I will. And in front of the Slayer, too.” This might not have been the most severe beating he had ever had, Angelus had whipped him until he had passed out on a number of occasions, but it was certainly the worst since he had left his grandsire’s keeping.
“Do you have something to say to me,” Willow prompted him gently as she picked up the heavier cane.
“Thank you, Mistress,” he said, remembering her instructions, “Thank you for punishing me.”
She smiled down at him sadly. “I wish I didn’t have to, William.” Then, resting the cane across his cheeks, she asked, “Are you ready? I can give you another moment or two if you need it.”
“Thank you, Mistress, but I think I’d rather get it over with,” Spike answered.
“Very well. Twenty-four strokes. Count. Just the numbers this time.”
Then the cane came down—hard—on the vampire’s red, sore bottom and he cried out. “One.” The heavy, half-inch thick cane lacked the sting of the thinner one, but the pain was deeper, longer lasting. It was the kind of pain that spoke to him of lingering bruises and nights spent on his stomach. “Two.” With each stroke the pain built, and Willow was giving him even less time in-between these strokes than the last set.
“Three. Please, Mistress! Four, five, six! I’m sorry, Mistress!” As the pain increased, so did Spike’s pleas and cries. By the end of the first dozen of this set, he was begging continually and struggling as much as his bonds would allow. If the restraints and bench had not been magically strengthened he would certainly have broken free.
“Thirteen, fourteen. God, no! No more, Mistress, no more,” he pled, tears beginning to gather in his eyes. “Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen! Please stop, please, I’ll be good, Mistress.” The next 6 strokes landed on Spike’s upper thighs, turning his cries into near-screams and his pleas into incoherent entreaties. As Willow delivered the last stroke to the incredibly sensitive juncture of his thighs and bum, tears spilled from his eyes and he barely managed to choke out the final count and his gratitude for the punishment.
He continued to weep as he felt Willow stroke his hair. Her soft reassurances calmed him somewhat, but he couldn’t stop the tears.
“I’m sorry; I’m sorry; I’m sorry,” he babbled as shame and pain overwhelmed him. His Mistress continued to soothe him, her hands gentle and calming on his skin. Gradually, his tears subsided and Spike began to steel himself for the remaining punishment, but when he watched Willow pick up the final implement she had laid out, he blanched.
The cane, one they had used only once or twice before, was very thin and made of a firm but springy material that reminded Spike of the whalebone used to stiffen the bodices of his mother’s dresses. It was, by far, the most intense toy in their collection and had been used in play only with very light strokes. Even then, it had stung and burned almost too much to be pleasurable.
“Christ, no! Not that one. Not full strength. Not with the state my arse and thighs are in. It’ll cut me to ribbons!” He began struggling, irrationally trying to get away. “Please, no. I can’t… Not that! Please, Mistress, mercy please. I can’t take it; I can’t!” he begged. It no longer mattered that Buffy was watching, that he was shaming himself in front of her. All that mattered was begging for mercy.
“You can take it, William, and you will.” As she spoke Willow tightened the bonds holding him to the bench and when she had finished, he was virtually unable to move. “I know it will hurt, love, hurt badly, but you know as well as I that you deserve every bit of this. Now,” she went on, her voice softening, “it’s almost over; only another twelve strokes, all right? I’ll let you off counting them.”
He took a deep breath and nodded shakily. “I’ll get through this somehow. I don’t have any choice.” Closing his eyes tightly, he tried in vain to keep his body from tensing when he felt Willow rest the cane gently on his rear. Then it was lifted and he heard the whistle as it cut through the air before it landed on his already abused body.
With that first blow Spike lost the few shreds of control and dignity that remained to him. He screamed and began crying once again. The cane felt like a red-hot wire slicing into his skin, and he knew he was bleeding. The second stroke fell, and the third, and he could only cry out in pain, tears running freely down his cheeks as he wept. Willow administered the strokes in an even, measured fashion, beginning at the top of the vampire’s bum and moving downward. As the sixth cut landed where his thighs met his bottom cheeks, Spike’s wail was almost indistinguishable from a sob.
“Only 6 more,” he thought, “only 6 more.” He believed he was beyond screaming, but the next stroke, rather than falling on his ass as he had expected, was delivered across his thighs. The pain—worse than any that had come before—tore another scream from him. After that his strength was truly gone and he was unable to do anything more than sob and gasp for unneeded breath as the remaining blows cut across his legs.
Then it was over. The caning stopped. He couldn’t stop crying, though, and only vaguely registered it when Willow released his arms and legs from their bonds, and wrapped a blanket around his shaking form. As she gathered him into her arms, Spike raised his tear-stained face to her and begged once more for her forgiveness.
“I’m sorry Mistress. Please forgive me. I’ll never do anything like it again. I’m sorry I hurt you. I was wrong; I was bad. Thank you for punishing me.”
