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Other Pervert
by Elena B
"Other Pervert" by Elena B. - ElenaBtVS@yahoo.ca
Summary: Xander thinks about stuff.
Author Notes: To Hecubus, With Love
Thanks to Trudy who suggested the idea.
Story Notes: WARNING: this story contains; perversion, fetish, creme
rinse, kinks, sex, Teletubbies, bdsm, and an explanation for the Farrah
hair.
Warnings: het, BDSM, other: see story notes
Disclaimer: I do not own Xander, though I sure would like to.
Author's Website: http://bifictionalbedlam.slashcity.net/guests/elena.html
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Fetish?
No. I wouldn't call it a fetish.
Fetishes involve whips and leather and standing upright for hours with nothing
restraining you but your Mistress' voice while begging for a touch, a slap, a kiss; pleading for permission to come. I'm not into that.
It's something that I've always been aware of. It's always been there. It's a partiality.
A predilection. A penchant. A proclivity, a propensity, a pervasion, a perversion. It's a
perversion. It's something perverse. I'm a pervert.
Not like those guys. Not like those guys who sneak under the bleachers to look at girls'
underpants and then take pictures. Those guys are disturbed.
It's just a normal, wholesome thing that I enjoy. A lot. Twisting it a little. Kinking it.
That makes it sound worse than it is. It's not wrong. It's just a little kink. It's not
disgusting. Not like that website I saw.
What kind of diseased mind comes up with Teletubby porn?
Don't look at me like that. You can't not click on that link. I defy anyone to resist looking
at that site. You can't tear your eyes off of it. It's mesmerising.
Man. Once you find out where Tubby-custard comes from ... there's just no way to get that out
of your head. Makes you feel like you've been rolling around in dirt.
My perversion is clean.
Squeaky-clean.
Silky-soft and manageable.
Right. Well, like I was saying...
It's something that I've always been aware of.
I remember the first time. Mom took me for a haircut. I must have been, what, eleven. The
shampoo-lady bent me backward over a sink, her arms encircled my head, her fingers rubbed and
rubbed. Her breasts pressed against my cheek, I could smell her perfume and the apple-scent of
the creme rinse, her fingers pushed, her nails scraped. God. It was like electricity running
from my scalp down my body. I was never so happy to be covered by a pink vinyl cape. And then,
the rough tousling of a towel, the subtle tug of a comb, the sibilant snick of scissors. And so
it started.
I used to let me hair grow really long. Dad hated it, called me a fag. I didn't care. No, of
course I cared. But I was used to him saying stuff like that and it was so much better when my
hair was long. It would get tangled and matted; my head would snap back every time the comb
caught in a snarl, and the lady would apologise so nicely. It would take longer, too. I'd start
by saying just a trim, and the scissors would snip. Then I'd say just an inch more and the comb
would score my scalp and the hairdresser might bite her lip in concentration. Then, oh, no, did
I say part on the left? My mistake. And fingers would run through my hair and cool water would
mist around me. And then I'd say cut it off, cut it all off and the scissors would fly and curls
would drop on my chest and around my feet and hair would drift in the air...
I was shaving every day by the time I was twelve. By no means did I need to shave. Well, I did
need to do it. Not for the beard, that was non-existent, but for the release. You know how guys
wake up hard in the morning? Well they do. It's a biological function. Has to do with cortisol
and circadian rhythm and tumescence. It is not a symptom of deviance; it's perfectly natural.
Anyway, I discovered that shaving took care of that. The hot towel against my face, the silky
shave cream rubbed against my skin, the sharpness of the razor. Such a purely sensual sensation.
My face felt like it had been peeled, but Sgt. Rock sure was happy.
Sgt. Rock. You know how guys nickname.... Never mind.
For so many years it was a solitary thing, something private. And then there was Cordelia.
Not that I told Cordelia about my ... peculiarity. In a way, I didn't have to. I loved listening
to her talk. Don't get me wrong, it was great to have an actual girl to kiss and grope and rub up
against, but, man, could Cordy talk hair. She could go on for hours. I remember once she talked
for seventy-three minutes, Will timed her, about a new conditioner; how it smelled, how it made
her hair feel, the way it coated the shaft, wet and glistening... Willow commiserated with me
afterwards. Said she could tell I was bored out of my mind because of the way my eyes had glazed
over.
There are some things that you just can't tell your best friend.
I wonder, I really wonder what might have happened if Will had never cut her hair. Or if Cordy
had been more than just talk. I remember being in Willow's room, dressed in that damn tuxedo,
feeling like grown-up. And then she came out from behind the screen, wearing that navy dress,
and I looked at her, really looked for the first time in, possibly, ever. And it was like I was
eleven again; like it was the very first time.
She must have had a recent trim; the ends were just too sharp, too pristine. They pricked bluntly
against my palm when I ran my hand across her hair. When I leaned down to kiss her, the barest
whisper of my lips against hers, I caught the intoxicating scent of baby shampoo. My head swam
and I swayed deeper into her arms.
It was like an erotic nightmare. Like when you're dreaming about running your fingers through
Buffy's soft blonde hair and there's a shift and the hair brightens and starts to curl around
your hand and you lean in and suddenly, holy shit!, it's Spike....
Just gotta catch my breath for a second.
So I'm living the nightmare. I'm dating Cordy, Queen C, a cheerleader, a Chase, and all I can
think about is Willow. About the crisp autumn fall of her hair, about the sharp V of russet
against the white of her forehead. I kept hinting to Cordy, all but begging her to cut her hair,
just a little bit. Just a snip. Didn't have to be anything radical, maybe just some bangs or a
few layers. But she wanted long hair for the prom. And everything fell all to hell.
I lost her. My Cordy, the one that I had that no one else knew about; the soft girl with the
raucous laugh and the citrus smoothing spray. I think about her, sometimes. I think about what
might have been. I think about Cordelia with short hair. My god. Imagine how that would be.
Cordy with short hair.
I was so miserable that I went to my Dad's barber. It was the single least erotic experience of
my life, closely followed by Faith. What a mess that was. No, it was hot, I mean, it was sex,
but it was so dirty. All stringy and lank, sticky with sweat and hairspray.
How long have I been standing here? My nose is itchy. Must resist the temptation. Must not
scratch. Mind over matter, mastery over your body. Think about something else, anything but the
satisfaction of raking your nails against sensitive flesh, the painful relief... Think about a
waterfall. Yeah, cold water rushing through a riverbed, thundering over an escarpment, crashing
into the churning surf... Shit. Now my nose itches and I have to pee.
"What are you doing, Xander?"
I scritch open an eye and peer at Anya. She's standing in the doorway; the harsh light from the
bathroom casts her into sharp silhouette.
"Were you planning on going somewhere?"
I open both eyes, wide-eyed innocence incarnate.
"The instructions say to leave on for twenty to fifty minutes, depending on the degree of
lightening desired."
I can smell something harshly chemical.
"So, tell me, what degree of lightening do you desire?"
She's teasing me. I furtively lick at my dry lips.
"I think that you want the full treatment, don't you? Do you think that you deserve it?"
I can feel my penis stir, hardening.
"I don't want to over-process. It might damage my hair. Leave it all brittle and dull with split
ends."
I can feel myself soften.
"And then I'd have to cut it. I'd have to get it cut short."
Is it hot in here?
"Maybe I'd have to get my head shaved."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. With a growl I lunge for her, pushing her against the wall, pulling open her
robe, lifting her legs, spreading them. I bury my face against her, feeling the soft scratch of
stubble against my cheek, tasting her lust on my tongue.
She throws her head back; I can hear it thump against the wall. Her thighs tighten around my head,
her heels drum against my back. She surrounds me; her taste, her smell, her sharp keening cries.
She's gasping out orders now. Commanding me to fuck her properly. I ignore her. There's always
the possibility that I can't hear her, I'm in so deep. I have to smile, I can feel my teeth
scrape against her clit; you're not the boss of me.
Ow. Ow. Owie, owie, owie.
She's twisted her hand in my hair, pulling. I can't resist the pressure on my scalp; tears sting
my eyes. I look up at her, eyes as wet as my mouth. She's snarling, pretty face contorted with
lust and rage.
"Xander," her voice seems hardly human, a demonic bark, "I told you to fuck me, and you will do
it."
Instinct takes over. Stimulus, response. I push her legs off my shoulders; she slides down my
torso as I straighten up. We meet in the middle. It's a perfect fit. I push into her, straining
upwards, reaching. The chemical smell is stronger now. My face is pushed against hers in a
devouring kiss; her fingers tug at my hair, little hurts, teasing now, not punishing. So close.
So very close...
The sharp beepbeepbeepbeep startles me and I break rhythm. Anya pushes at my hands, moving away
from me.
"Time to rinse," her cheerful tone is spoiled somewhat by the panting.
We're stopping? Now? I put all of my frustrated horror in my gaze. She smirks.
"I want you to stand there until I'm finished. Do not move a muscle, do you understand me?"
I don't answer her; I don't speak, I don't nod, I don't blink; I've learned this lesson.
"There's a good boy." She reaches down and pats me on the head. "If you're really good, maybe
I'll let you brush my hair dry."
I can't stop my lips from curling up, and her answering smile is dazzling.
The bathroom door closes. I can hear the water running. I stand very still, her desire drying on
me.
Can you imagine how it feels? To find someone who will bend to fit your kinks? To willingly,
eagerly warp yourself to fit hers? And now we nest together perfectly. We click together like
Lego. Sometimes I don't know where she ends and I begin.
She's calling me now. Commanding me to come to her. Ordering me to pleasure her. Begging me to
love her forever. So much is said in that single word.
Her voice, harder now, she doesn't like repeating herself
"Pervert."
I move happily to my lover, my Mistress, my future.
Other pervert.
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