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snoggedTitle: Triple X Tease
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Co. own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I don’t.
Pairing: Spike/Angel
Word Count: 1621
Rating/Warnings: FRAO/NC-17; adult language (including sexual slurs), exhibitionism, voyeurism, public masturbation
Setting: Alternate Universe
Summary: Spike’s a stripper and Angel’s the voyeur
Beta: Fellow pervert in crime who I love with all my heart:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ash_carpenter.
Dedicated tohello_spikey who wanted to see her favorite boy shaking his money maker for a crowd. Please forgive me for being so late with this.
The blinking, neon lights are gaudy and large, promising triple X entertainment in shock green and electric orange. Angel can’t help but get the feeling that he should just walk away, should just head down the street, stumble into his apartment, pour himself four fingers of gin, and wait for the rats to come nibble off his flesh.
It’s not like this club will magically give him back the sense that the world is his oyster. That was robbed from him long ago. By the wife that took the youth from his veins and left him with nothing but an easy chair and the last shreds of his humility.
Without a second thought, his hand circles the door knob and he wrenches it open, smiling vaguely at the brunette woman adorned in black sequins and a dirty smile when he crosses the threshold. His eyes drift to the stage, growing wide at the sight of the black man in the center, spinning around a metal pole as his ass flexes and muscles undulate. It’s an impressive, distracting display and he barely hears the woman start to talk in his ear as he stares.
“Welcome to Heaven, sir. My name is Lilah and I’ll be your St. Peter of sorts into these pearly gates.” She laughs and it sounds like chimes ringing in the breeze. “We hope you find your stay quite…” She pauses, eyes raking across his body, smirking at the bare outline of his cock starting to press against his jeans. “Comfortable.”
Angel nods politely and makes his way to a far booth, plopping his ass down onto the worn, leather seat. The black man twists his body as the melody line of the song changes, pulling himself into a downwards lotus position as the men and women around Angel cheer and catcall.
In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, a waiter slides a drink onto his table and a sultry grin curls his lips as he waits for Angel to tip him. Reluctantly, Angel pulls out his wallet, not even sure this guy deserves a tip on the basis that he didn’t even take an order but to his credit, he did bring Angel the exact drink he’d been imaging going home to so maybe a few dollars wouldn’t hurt.
The waiter plucks the money from his fingers and the man up front finishes his show, disappearing from sight as Lilah steps gracefully onto the stage. Angel can’t say that he’s thrilled by her constant presence and he hates the fact that she radiates the same uber-bitch quality of his ex-wife, only difference being that Lilah’s got more style and flair than that sewer hag.
“Ladies and gents, hold onto your hats. The Pearly Gates is nearly bursting with excitement for the show in store for you this evening. Our next dancer is hot off the revues in Vegas and he’s just eager to show you what he’s working with. So let’s give a warm California welcome to…Spike!”
Raucous applause rings in Angel’s ears as his eyes lock onto the golden, shimmering curtains at the back of the runway. He draws in a breath as the curtain pulls back, revealing an athletic, lithe blond man in tight leather pants, a dog collar, a long black duster, and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. The appearance makes Angel think of a motorcycle man that’s fully prepared to rev the audience’s engines and willing to do anything that will make the pile of money in front of him grow from the floor to the head of his cock.
Prettiest fucking boy Angel had ever laid eyes on and he knows it won’t take long before the bulge in his wallet flattens down to pancake size.
Seven Nation Army starts up through the speakers and Spike struts down the aisle, winking as his hips shake back and forth to the steady rhythm. He reaches out and grabs the pole, tongue darting out to lick the metal edge. Angel’s breath hitches as the lewd display slowly unfurls before him. As Spike whores himself to the pole, legs bending around it, clothed cock rubbing against it.
Fuck…This is exactly the kind of shit that brings in the Benjamins. Also, the exact sort of shit that makes his dick ache and twitch, taking on a life of its own as it maps out its exit strategy. Angel shifts in his seat, trying to ignore the building pressure that seems determined to bust a hole through his jeans.
On stage, Spike drops to his knees, thrusting his pelvis towards the audience, smirking as the dollar bills fly towards him. It doesn’t matter who they’re coming from. Boy, girls, burly fuckers. He wants it all and he knows just how to get it. His hands grab the lapels of his coat, sliding it down his shoulders, letting the lights pick up on the delicate sparkle of the metal chain between his nipples. One man is brave enough to reach forward and tug at the chain, sending tremors of pleasure and pain through his hardened nipples and aching body. It hurts so good but God damn does he love watching them beg for it, crawl for it. In this room, he’s the fucking king and the audience is just here to worship him.
Angel sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as he watches Spike’s performance with voyeuristic enjoyment. His hand slides down the front of his pants, cupping his pulsing erection and he groans with need. He could get himself off right here, right under the ice blue eyes of Spike, right under the damn, pointed nose of that fucking Lilah woman. He groans desperately, palming his crotch and he can see Spike’s eyes meet with his.
That’s right, you little slut. Watch me come for you. Bet you’re just gonna eat this up when you go home with your drinking buddies. Gonna brag about the man who couldn’t keep it in his pants for your filthy little show.
Spike keeps dancing, keeps showing the audience just how much of a dirty boy he is as his hand smacks the curve of his ass flesh and he works the zipper of his tight pants. In a flash, he shimmies out of the molded leather and goes back to the pole, showing off his sequined thong as he humps the metal. His eyes travel across the room, taking in the delirious smiles of his enraptured crowd before they settle on the muscular brunet sitting alone in one of the booths. As the pole bumps against his dick, he can’t help but notice the brunet’s tortured look, the look of a man desperate to be fucked into a frenzy. In the normal world, it’s probably fucked up to get off on a dude that’s jacking off to your image but in this world, anything goes.
And Spike can’t help but dance a little bit faster and a little bit harder, knowing that someone is watching him like that.
Desperate for more contact, Angel unzips his jeans and slides his hand inside. His movements are still restricted, but he’s got enough room to wrap his hand around his cock, can still move in quick, short strokes. His thumb passes over a pulsing vein and his prick leaps wildly inside his hand. His grip tightens like a vice and he slowly jacks himself, leaning back against the seat, eyes never wavering from the movements on stage.
As the music changes, Spike drops to all fours, circling the pole like a bitch in heat. His muscles ache and undulate as he works his body for all its got and his hands feel sticky from the spilled alcohol and faint traces of stripper cum that show up when the violet black light hits them. He rolls his hips, pushing his ass further into the air, and his ears strain to hear the groans of his voyeur over the din of the room.
Angel groans deeply as he imagines pushing Spike against the tiled wall of the bathroom, imagines mounting him on stage, imagines the tight ring of muscles resistant to take him at first but soon willing to relax and swallow him whole. He could fuck Spike for hours, for days, for months, for years. His legs reel upwards, knocking his knees against the base of the table. Fuck…he can feel his dick twitch, can feel his balls draw up; can feel the thick column of flesh begging to let go of his load. Agonizing pleasure rolls over him waves as the coil inside him tightens and releases, warm spunk spilling onto his hand and the inside of his jeans.
Spike’s jaw drops, forming an ‘o’ as he sees the intense orgasm slide through his voyeur. He can’t help but think that he made that happen. He made that hot fucking scene happen right here in this damn strip club and the dollar signs are already sparkling in his head as he thinks about what else he could do to get this guy off. When the music stops, he slides off the stage, bee-lining straight for the man in the booth, much to the dismay of the rest of the spectators.
But before he even gets there to offer up his services for a lap dance and then some, the voyeur is gone. Fucking vanished right out the door without even stopping to bloody say hello and shake his fucking hand. All Spike has of this memory is the rolled up wad of cash on the table, bound together with a silver clip.
A fifty dollar bill for his efforts and in the right light, a cum stain on the worn leather seat.
Asshole.
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Co. own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I don’t.
Pairing: Spike/Angel
Word Count: 1621
Rating/Warnings: FRAO/NC-17; adult language (including sexual slurs), exhibitionism, voyeurism, public masturbation
Setting: Alternate Universe
Summary: Spike’s a stripper and Angel’s the voyeur
Beta: Fellow pervert in crime who I love with all my heart:
ash_carpenter. Dedicated to
hello_spikey who wanted to see her favorite boy shaking his money maker for a crowd. Please forgive me for being so late with this.The blinking, neon lights are gaudy and large, promising triple X entertainment in shock green and electric orange. Angel can’t help but get the feeling that he should just walk away, should just head down the street, stumble into his apartment, pour himself four fingers of gin, and wait for the rats to come nibble off his flesh.
It’s not like this club will magically give him back the sense that the world is his oyster. That was robbed from him long ago. By the wife that took the youth from his veins and left him with nothing but an easy chair and the last shreds of his humility.
Without a second thought, his hand circles the door knob and he wrenches it open, smiling vaguely at the brunette woman adorned in black sequins and a dirty smile when he crosses the threshold. His eyes drift to the stage, growing wide at the sight of the black man in the center, spinning around a metal pole as his ass flexes and muscles undulate. It’s an impressive, distracting display and he barely hears the woman start to talk in his ear as he stares.
“Welcome to Heaven, sir. My name is Lilah and I’ll be your St. Peter of sorts into these pearly gates.” She laughs and it sounds like chimes ringing in the breeze. “We hope you find your stay quite…” She pauses, eyes raking across his body, smirking at the bare outline of his cock starting to press against his jeans. “Comfortable.”
Angel nods politely and makes his way to a far booth, plopping his ass down onto the worn, leather seat. The black man twists his body as the melody line of the song changes, pulling himself into a downwards lotus position as the men and women around Angel cheer and catcall.
In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, a waiter slides a drink onto his table and a sultry grin curls his lips as he waits for Angel to tip him. Reluctantly, Angel pulls out his wallet, not even sure this guy deserves a tip on the basis that he didn’t even take an order but to his credit, he did bring Angel the exact drink he’d been imaging going home to so maybe a few dollars wouldn’t hurt.
The waiter plucks the money from his fingers and the man up front finishes his show, disappearing from sight as Lilah steps gracefully onto the stage. Angel can’t say that he’s thrilled by her constant presence and he hates the fact that she radiates the same uber-bitch quality of his ex-wife, only difference being that Lilah’s got more style and flair than that sewer hag.
“Ladies and gents, hold onto your hats. The Pearly Gates is nearly bursting with excitement for the show in store for you this evening. Our next dancer is hot off the revues in Vegas and he’s just eager to show you what he’s working with. So let’s give a warm California welcome to…Spike!”
Raucous applause rings in Angel’s ears as his eyes lock onto the golden, shimmering curtains at the back of the runway. He draws in a breath as the curtain pulls back, revealing an athletic, lithe blond man in tight leather pants, a dog collar, a long black duster, and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. The appearance makes Angel think of a motorcycle man that’s fully prepared to rev the audience’s engines and willing to do anything that will make the pile of money in front of him grow from the floor to the head of his cock.
Prettiest fucking boy Angel had ever laid eyes on and he knows it won’t take long before the bulge in his wallet flattens down to pancake size.
Seven Nation Army starts up through the speakers and Spike struts down the aisle, winking as his hips shake back and forth to the steady rhythm. He reaches out and grabs the pole, tongue darting out to lick the metal edge. Angel’s breath hitches as the lewd display slowly unfurls before him. As Spike whores himself to the pole, legs bending around it, clothed cock rubbing against it.
Fuck…This is exactly the kind of shit that brings in the Benjamins. Also, the exact sort of shit that makes his dick ache and twitch, taking on a life of its own as it maps out its exit strategy. Angel shifts in his seat, trying to ignore the building pressure that seems determined to bust a hole through his jeans.
On stage, Spike drops to his knees, thrusting his pelvis towards the audience, smirking as the dollar bills fly towards him. It doesn’t matter who they’re coming from. Boy, girls, burly fuckers. He wants it all and he knows just how to get it. His hands grab the lapels of his coat, sliding it down his shoulders, letting the lights pick up on the delicate sparkle of the metal chain between his nipples. One man is brave enough to reach forward and tug at the chain, sending tremors of pleasure and pain through his hardened nipples and aching body. It hurts so good but God damn does he love watching them beg for it, crawl for it. In this room, he’s the fucking king and the audience is just here to worship him.
Angel sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as he watches Spike’s performance with voyeuristic enjoyment. His hand slides down the front of his pants, cupping his pulsing erection and he groans with need. He could get himself off right here, right under the ice blue eyes of Spike, right under the damn, pointed nose of that fucking Lilah woman. He groans desperately, palming his crotch and he can see Spike’s eyes meet with his.
That’s right, you little slut. Watch me come for you. Bet you’re just gonna eat this up when you go home with your drinking buddies. Gonna brag about the man who couldn’t keep it in his pants for your filthy little show.
Spike keeps dancing, keeps showing the audience just how much of a dirty boy he is as his hand smacks the curve of his ass flesh and he works the zipper of his tight pants. In a flash, he shimmies out of the molded leather and goes back to the pole, showing off his sequined thong as he humps the metal. His eyes travel across the room, taking in the delirious smiles of his enraptured crowd before they settle on the muscular brunet sitting alone in one of the booths. As the pole bumps against his dick, he can’t help but notice the brunet’s tortured look, the look of a man desperate to be fucked into a frenzy. In the normal world, it’s probably fucked up to get off on a dude that’s jacking off to your image but in this world, anything goes.
And Spike can’t help but dance a little bit faster and a little bit harder, knowing that someone is watching him like that.
Desperate for more contact, Angel unzips his jeans and slides his hand inside. His movements are still restricted, but he’s got enough room to wrap his hand around his cock, can still move in quick, short strokes. His thumb passes over a pulsing vein and his prick leaps wildly inside his hand. His grip tightens like a vice and he slowly jacks himself, leaning back against the seat, eyes never wavering from the movements on stage.
As the music changes, Spike drops to all fours, circling the pole like a bitch in heat. His muscles ache and undulate as he works his body for all its got and his hands feel sticky from the spilled alcohol and faint traces of stripper cum that show up when the violet black light hits them. He rolls his hips, pushing his ass further into the air, and his ears strain to hear the groans of his voyeur over the din of the room.
Angel groans deeply as he imagines pushing Spike against the tiled wall of the bathroom, imagines mounting him on stage, imagines the tight ring of muscles resistant to take him at first but soon willing to relax and swallow him whole. He could fuck Spike for hours, for days, for months, for years. His legs reel upwards, knocking his knees against the base of the table. Fuck…he can feel his dick twitch, can feel his balls draw up; can feel the thick column of flesh begging to let go of his load. Agonizing pleasure rolls over him waves as the coil inside him tightens and releases, warm spunk spilling onto his hand and the inside of his jeans.
Spike’s jaw drops, forming an ‘o’ as he sees the intense orgasm slide through his voyeur. He can’t help but think that he made that happen. He made that hot fucking scene happen right here in this damn strip club and the dollar signs are already sparkling in his head as he thinks about what else he could do to get this guy off. When the music stops, he slides off the stage, bee-lining straight for the man in the booth, much to the dismay of the rest of the spectators.
But before he even gets there to offer up his services for a lap dance and then some, the voyeur is gone. Fucking vanished right out the door without even stopping to bloody say hello and shake his fucking hand. All Spike has of this memory is the rolled up wad of cash on the table, bound together with a silver clip.
A fifty dollar bill for his efforts and in the right light, a cum stain on the worn leather seat.
Asshole.