Bath Time


by Saber ShadowKitten
The Bath Series, story 1



"Rubber ducky, you're da one. You make bath time lotshov fun. Hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm." Spike pushed the yellow, floating duck with his hand as he knelt next to the filling tub. It bobbed drunkenly, much like the blond vampire, hitting the porcelain wall with a squeak. "Well, Mr. Ducky, lookshlike it's jus' you an' me an' Jack an' Jim."

He tilted up the bottle of Jim Beam and drank steadily until it was almost empty. "Yup, jus' us mates. No nutters, no witches, no sexy little Schlayers in tight little clothes with a schweet little arse. Hmm, lookshlike little Spikey's gonna be joining us, too."

Not bothering to stand, Spike climbed over the edge of the tub into the hot water. "Ahh, now that feelshnice," he said, the water just below his chin. "Don't it feel nice, Mr. Ducky?" Lifting his foot, he shut off the water, knocking a bottle of vanilla scented body wash into the tub.

Spike watched the floating bottle, sinking lower so his eyes were just above the water. *Prepare for impact,* he thought as the object came closer to him. *Bones, get that duck out of here. Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a duck herder!*

His eyes crossed as the bottle floated right in front of him. *Danger! Danger, Will Robinson! Save me, you overgrown trash compactor!* When it hit him, he surged up out of the water, grabbing it tightly with both hands. "Run Cap'n Nemo! It'sha giant sheep! Aaaahhh!"

The bottle was pulled under the water while Spike continued to dramatically scream. Then, he let go and it popped up to the surface, making him jump. "Tricky, aren't you, Cap'n? But dat sheep isheven trickier. She'shjus' gotta wrap her little wooly legsha ‘round you and hold on tight. So very tight and ride and ride ya ‘til ya go blind. Why don't sheep shrink in the rain? I wonder if Schlayer's shrink in the rain. I wonder if the Schlayer would wrap her wooly legsha ‘round me an' ride and ride and ride..."

Spike grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniel off the floor next to the tub and guzzled it, sliding back down into the water until his hard shaft hit the body wash that had floated towards his feet. He tossed the JD aside when it was empty, the glass ringing as it broke against the ground. The rubber duck bounced with the ripples made from his action, turning its yellow face towards him.

"What are you lookin' at?" he asked the duck. "You think you can have her? Ha! No one can have her but me! Not my foofy shire, not that wanker chum of hers, or dat witch or dat woof or dat Watsher or dat ovver Watsher...why does she got two Watshers? I wanna be her Watscher. I watsher all the time."

He grabbed the duck, making it squeak, and held it up to his face. "Didja know that when she kicks in those tight little skirts, I ken see up her name an' address?" he whispered conspiratorially. "Whassat? You better not be lookin' at my Schlayer!" He tossed the duck over the edge of the tub, where it bounced on the floor with another squeak. "My Schlayer. Bad ducky. An' you!"

Spike's hand shot out and snatched the body wash. "You're as bad as the duck! It'sha conspirashy, I tell ya! Do, do, do, do, do, do," he sang off key, the X-files theme running through his addled brain. He opened the bottle and sniffed, his cock jumping when the vanilla scent hit him. "Mmm, Schlayer. Cap'n Nemo, you didn't tell me you schmelled like the Schlayer."

Holding out his hand, he poured a healthy amount of the liquid into it, then set the bottle on the edge of the tub. Rubbing his hands together, his mind conjured up Buffy wearing the tight tank top she wore the time he kidnaped the witch and a super short, black skirt. "Ooh, Schlayer's lookin' shaggable. Wanna shag wit' lil' ol' me? You do? How bloody wonderful."

He hit the plug, the water slowly draining away, revealing Spike's extremely hard cock. When the water was just over his thighs, he toed up the stopper again, then wrapped a soapy hand around himself. "Fuck me, fushy wushy. Fushy wushy washa woman and what a woman fushy wushy was," he giggled, then groaned as he ran his hand up his shaft.

Behind his closed lids, he pictured Buffy's legs wrapped around him, her short skirt hiked up around her waist. As he stroked himself, the Slayer began impaling herself over and over on his cock. Her breasts jutted tantalizingly up at him with each thrust and he shuddered, causing the water to lap over his legs. His other hand slipped down beneath the surface to cup his sac, gently squeezing and manipulating his balls.

"Cor, Schlayer, you are so tight, so very tight. Hot and schweet and all mine," he muttered, his hand pumping faster. In his mind, Buffy's head was thrown back, her blond hair hanging behind her as she moaned in pleasure. "Give it to me baby, uh-huh, uh-huh. Come on, Schlayer. Ride me hard. Ride me like you fight me."

Spike's cock was slick and bubbly from the soap as his hand ran over it again and again. He felt his sac tightening under his other hand and he squeezed his eyes tightly. "Please, Schlayer. Buffy...fuck...Buffaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!"

Cold semen shot from him, hitting the water with little plops and streaming along the back of his soapy hand. He kept going until the sensation got too pleasurable, bordering on pain before letting his hand flop in the water, the other relaxing between his legs. In his head, Buffy stared at him with a pleased smile on her face and she started to speak.

"Spike, what the hell are you doing in my bathtub?!"

Spike frowned, his eyes still shut. "Wassat, luv?"

"You. Bathtub. What the hell?"

The echo pierced his foggy head and he opened his eyes. Turning his head, he saw a furious Buffy standing in the open bathroom doorway, arms crossed and glaring at him. "Schlayer? How'dja get way over there?" He narrowed his eyes at the bottle of body wash on the edge of the tub. "Cap'n, did you chaseroff?"

Buffy growled and grabbed a towel off the towel bar on the wall. She threw it at him, not moving from her place. "Out."

He pushed himself to his feet, clutching the towel in one hand over him, the ends of it wet from landing in the water. He took a step out of the tub, right onto the rubber duck, which squeaked in protest. His other leg followed and he wobbled unsteadily on the duck for a moment before he set it down. Right on the broken glass.

"YEOW!" Spike yelled, stumbling forward off of the duck and into more glass. He stopped moving, lifting his toes up in the air as he bit his bottom lip, his eyes welling with tears.

Buffy sighed and walked over to him. Without a word, she hoisted him over her shoulder in a fireman's carry, the towel falling to the floor. She carried him to her bedroom and practically threw him onto her bed. "Stay," she ordered before leaving the room, a blush coloring her cheeks at the state of his undress.

"Woof woof," he mumbled, laying back on the bed and throwing an arm over his eyes. "Good doggy. Good poodle. The other white meat. Woof."

The Slayer returned to the room, catching the last ‘woof' and she rolled her eyes as she stared down at the open first aid kit in her hands. "Ok, Ernie. Time to play opera-" She looked up and saw him sprawled across her bed, showing off all his assets quite well. Her face flamed as she hurried to the side of the bed and threw a pillow across his lap.

Spike raised his arm, lifting his head to look at her. His eyes darted to the pillow, then back up. "Gonna go to schleep down there, Schlayer? I won't mind. Not at all. Not one bit. Nope. No. Nunca. Nien. Non. Nosiree, Bob."

"Alright, language man," she said, kneeling on the floor in front of his extended feet. Shards of glass were imbedded into the soles and she winced in sympathy, then shook her head for that action. Grabbing the tweezers, she began to pull out the glass. She suddenly heard a purring sound and frowned. "Since when do I have a cat?" Then, she realized the sound was emanating from the vampire on the bed and she giggled.

Finishing her task, she tossed the tweezers back into the kit and closed the lid. She wasn't going to bother bandaging the wounds, considering they'd be healed by the time he regained consciousness. Pushing to her feet, she was wondering when she decided to become the Florence Nightingale of the undead when she saw it. Bending, she took a closer look at the tattoo on his ankle, curious as to if he had to have it done before he was turned.

Then she knew. He didn't.

For on Spike's ankle was a red heart with a brown stake shoved in it, the word ‘Slayer' written across the tattooed wood.


End 1