The Local Bar—aside from having the blandest, most suspicious name he'd ever heard—was demon run and not a bar at all. Giles suspected it was a vampire brothel where the talent fed on the clientele. He and Spike went to check out his hunch in the daytime. The vampire was immediately disappointed when it turned out the club was not a brothel, but a legitimate business which catered to singles who wanted to meet in a safe environment to indulge their kinks. Spike had been further disappointed that the club didn't allow vampires membership.
The Pylean proprietor stopped Giles on his way out the door and slid a gold key into his jacket pocket with her long, green fingers.
"In case you would like to confirm what I've said. I owe the slayer a great deal and am more than happy to cooperate with her friends," she said.
Spike arched an eyebrow at the exchange. They left, dashing to Spike's DeSoto while the vampire smoked beneath a wool blanket. When they were safe in the blacked-out interior of the car, Spike smirked at him.
"I think Greensleeves mistook you for a man back there," the vampire said.
"She didn't make the same error with you."
Spike scoffed.
"Like I give a toss. You may need a bit of contrived tumble, but I don't have to break the bloody Divinci code to get a shag. As if I'd even want to now." The bleached blond trailed off and Giles allowed the conversation to end. They shared a sympathetic silence on the way home. Spike dropped him off in a shady spot near his apartment.
"Patrol tonight?" Giles asked.
"Who's staying with the bit?"
"Xander and Anya. I believe Anya wanted to watch a television program rather than risking her life for dubious, non-monetary reward, as she put it."
"At least she's forthright. It's good. I need some action after this little snooze of a reconnaissance mission."
"Yes, well, thank you for your help," Giles said.
Spike looked stunned by Giles' gratitude and gave him a short nod before Giles made a break for his flat.
That night, after patrolling and checking on Dawn, Giles went to The Local Bar. He had only intended to verify the owner's story, or so he'd told himself as he showered, then dressed. He flashed the key at the door and was led down a red hallway by a young blonde in fishnet stockings. Behind a blue, velvet curtain at the end of the hall was a low lit room full of black, leather couches. The music was soft and inoffensive, not his taste at all. Every one of the people sitting alone glanced up at him, appraising his suitability, he supposed. The hostess gave him a toothsome smile.
"If you make a friend, there are private rooms down the corridor. No touching in the common areas. Everyone here has a clean bill of health—including you. Congratulations," she said, doing a slight dip.
"I haven't submitted to an examination, how is that possible?"
She grinned, a little too broadly, and Giles began to wonder if she was actually human.
"Magic. Pregnancy is still an issue, prophylactics are complimentary and located at the left of the entrance to each private room. Make sure you clean any equipment that may come into play after each use."
"Urm, yes, thank you," Giles said, feeling unsettled. The hostess was not swayed from her professional spiel by his discomfort.
"If you wish for a session to end, say 'sanctuary.' Your partner can also stop a scene in this way, however you'll both be transported out of the club. Normally our clients agree upon terms prior to commencement of their interaction. If more than one person complains about you, or if 'sanctuary' is used on three, separate occasions during your sessions, your membership will be revoked. One of the services I provide is to suggest potential compatibility. The woman sitting in the corner would best suit your needs." The blonde pointed to a thin lady with short, dark hair who was musing at her martini.
"Needs?" Giles repeated in disgust.
"I'm an empathe demon. This," she said, sweeping her hand along her voluptuous body, "is a glamour."
"Why—"
"I like my privacy, too," she said, shrugging her impossible, porcelain shoulder. "Now if you're all caught up, Mr. Giles, I'll be at the door." The blonde—or whatever she was—swayed back through the curtain. Uncertain of his next move, he went over to the lady the hostess had mentioned.
The dark-haired woman watched him approach. She had a pixie hair-style that set off her round face in a pleasant way. Few women could pull off the look without looking masculine, but she was delicate, like a brunette Tinkerbell. Her eyes were large and they sparkled, but he couldn't discern their color in the dim interior. She wore dark red lipstick on her thin lips, much of it smudging on the rim of her glass. The moss green dress she had on was conservative, with a high neck and a skirt that fell to the ankle. It was a fascinating choice considering where she was. Most of the other patrons were decked out in revealing, bright clothes. Even the men had on their shiniest garments.
Giles slid into the booth across from her. She was familiar, and he tried to recall when he might have known her. Though her skin was smoother than milk, he guessed she was over thirty, so she wasn't a former student. If she was, his evening would be over. Giles preferred certain lines to be sharply defined.
"Hello," he said.
Giles raised a finger in the air to signal the waitress.
She smiled, caution in her timid gesture. "Hi. I'm Jenny."
He coughed, feeling as though someone had punched him in the stomach.
"Ripper."
"I-I've seen you before. I know you."
"Is that right, love?" He hung a nickname around her neck because he couldn't bear calling the stranger Jenny.
"You and your friend saved my life."
A red-haired server in nothing more than a black apron and high heels walked to their table. Jenny seemed to shrink in the presence of the Amazon. He wasn't sure if this was from embarrassment or fear.
"What type of Scotch do you have?" he asked.
"We have a single malt Talisker that might suit your tastes."
"Splendid, and I'd also fancy the pack of Embassy Regals I saw behind the bar." Giles hadn't smoked in years, but the urge was overwhelming. They had his brand, though they shouldn't. Embassy Regal cigarettes weren't sold in the States. He glanced at the girl across from him. "For you, pet?"
"Dirty martini."
The nearly naked waitress jiggled to the bar.
"You were telling me about our previous meeting. I'm sorry, I don't remember the specifics," he said.
"I almost died."
He reached out to touch her hand, but she withdrew it, hiding her fists beneath the red table.
"If we touch, they'll throw us out," she whispered.
"Of course, I've already forgotten. I seem to be doing a great deal of that as of late."
A brief smile lightened her face before it was gone.
"It's all right. It would be petty of me to hold that against you after you saved my life."
"What happened?"
"A few years ago. I stopped by the grocery store to pick up dinner. When I was leaving with my Lean Cuisine, this monster charged me. He was dirty and his face was horrible. You pulled him off of me before he could tear out my throat and then the girl you were with stabbed him through the heart. He melted. You both ignored me after it was over, except she called me, 'soup for one.' As in, lucky we got to 'soup for one' in time before that baddy had himself a single serving. That was the summation of my life."
"Again, I apologize. The work necessitated that sort of distance and she adopted a glib persona," Giles said, taking off his glasses and whipping out his pocket square to give them a wipe.
He suddenly recalled the woman before him in great detail. They'd encountered her during Buffy's sophomore year, when they were trying to find a way to defeat the Master. He hadn't even known his Jenny then. This Jenny had been wearing a business suit and glasses, her hair much longer.
He'd chastened Buffy for her flippant attitude, worried it would get her killed. How was he to know this would be just the opposite? Buffy's conscientiousness, her loving nature would be her undoing. Giles was suddenly glad he wasn't wearing his glasses, as his eyes were becoming wet. He pinched the bridge of his nose and swept the tears away inconspicuously before putting his spectacles back on.
The server returned, plopping their drinks in front of them, along with his smokes. He paid the waitress and she drifted away. Giles ripped the cellophane off of the pack and withdrew one of the cigarettes. Jenny arched a manicured brow and tweezed two fingers together, so he gave her one, too. He found a box of matches on the table and lit one by striking it against the red, brick wall. In the flare, he noticed Jenny's eyes were green, just like Buffy's had been. Even that fact didn't give him pause.
Giles knew he would have sex with her, or whatever else she asked of him in the confines of this unsavory place. It was a snap decision born of an ineffable pain that had swamped him since Buffy's death. The proprietress, the hostess, even Spike—all of them were right. He wanted this, whatever it turned out to be. He needed this.
He brought the flame to the end of her smoke and she took a drag. Then he did the same with his, burning his fingers in the process. Giles dropped the crumbling match into the black ashtray and touched the side of his glass to cool his singed fingers.
He inhaled deeply, feeling his lungs ache in a comforting way.
"Do you want to go to a back room, love?" He exhaled a plume through his nose, throwing a veil between them.
She sipped her martini and then licked the remainder of her lipstick off with a swipe of her tongue.
"As soon as we finish our drinks." She took another long pull on her cigarette.
He downed his Scotch in one go, neglecting to savor the notes of peat. His eagerness inspired her smile.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
He sensed from the way she asked, the question was born from conventional politeness and she didn't really want to know. That was fine, as he didn't really want to tell her.
"Lonely, I suppose. Although, if we hadn't met I'm certain I would not have stayed. You are exquisite."
She blushed.
"I've never heard that word outside of a restaurant review."
"Perhaps that's my day job," Giles said, blowing on the lit end of his cigarette to watch the red embers bloom.
"When you're not fighting vampires or seducing strange women."
"It's an odd life." He realized then that it need not be his life any more. Buffy was gone. England and his family estate were waiting. The coven in Hampstead had offered him a permanent community to retire whilst still doing good. Dawn remained a concern, but Willow and Tara had reassured him she would be happiest with them. Giles believed they were right. He knew nothing of caring for a young girl—aside from the type of instruction that would send her to an early death, of course.
Jenny tilted her head at him, her eyes glistening.
"Are you all right?"
"Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "Problems at work."
"No, I get it. Sometimes you don't know if a Merlot is precocious or just a little fruity."
He grinned at her.
"Precisely."
She drained her glass and then slid out of her seat.
"Would you come with me?" she asked.
He nodded and stubbed out his cigarette. They walked past the other couples submerged in conversation. The single men stared at Jenny as though they were junkies and she was their drug of choice. Giles wished he could put a possessive hand on her back, but didn't want to risk expulsion when they were so close.
They tripped past another blue, velvet curtain, into a darkened hall lined with mirrored doors. He watched her reflected profile slide past along the corridor, like the images spinning in a Zoetrope. She was just ahead and he could hear her boots clacking on the floor, her skirt against her legs. There was only one door ajar. She went to the unoccupied room and slipped inside, the space swallowing her whole. Giles hesitated, looking at himself in full length on the wall.
Yes.
He followed Jenny.
The room was like a candy store for perverts—And god, I know, I'm one, he thought. Just as the hostess said, there was a condom dispenser by the door. The walls were painted red, as was the concrete floor which sloped down to a drain in the middle. A bed draped in black satin was central to the room. On either side were black, lacquered cabinets open to reveal all manner of sexual device. In the corner was a vertical, iron table with shackles, the likes of which a Frankenstein's monster would rest upon. She was looking at him, her eyes moist and apologetic.
"When were your fingers broken?" she asked, reaching for him. She took his wrist and began to examine his hand. Giles was taken aback. That was literally the last thing he had expected her to say.
"A few years ago, urm, three years."
"You were tortured?"
"How did you know that?" he asked, sharply.
"I'm a forensic anthropologist." She turned his arm over and had him extend both hands, as though measuring their length. Her touch was feather-light and business-like. He wondered if she'd be as dispassionate with the rest of him.
"So when you look at me you see a battered corpse?"
She gave him a short laugh, like a hmm, and held both his hands.
"No, I see a fragile, responsive body. If you want we can be gentle. I usually tie up my partners, but if you'd like—"
"I'm at your mercy, love. Do as you'd like."
"You mustn't let me hurt you. I don't want to traumatize you and we could alter the game—"
"Jenny, there have been a few instances in my life where I've had to withstand a great deal. None of them have come to define me. I'm with you, however you want me." He meant it, too. The trauma he suffered at the hands of Angelus paled to seeing Buffy stretched out on the ground like a fallen saint. He wanted a bright flash of pain to fade that image, if only for an instant.
"If you want to end the scene, just say stop." Jenny stroked the palm of his left hand soothingly.
"I would have thought you'd want a safe word, isn't that the parlance?"
"Like marmalade or Idaho?" She smirked. "Stop is just fine."
"Certainly." Giles knew her language very well. As a young man playing hookie from his destiny as a watcher, he'd experimented with all manner of social deviance.
"Please take off your clothes now," she said, letting go of him. Giles divested himself of his jacket, and she held out a hand to take it, which made him smile.
"A lover and a valet?"
"I give the full service."
He unfastened the cuff of his green and brown striped shirt and watched her impassive face. She began helping him to unbutton his shirt as though she could no longer resist touching him. He unlooped his brown, paisley tie and she draped it over her shoulder. Jenny slid her hands beneath his undershirt, sighing at the contact.
"May I kiss you?" he asked. She hesitated, then something inside her seemed to break and her lips were on his. Her mouth had the flavor of smoke, olives and mulled juniper berries. She tasted bad for him, which made him want her more.
"May I touch you, mistress?" he whispered against her mouth. She pulled away and looked at him, sloe-eyed, her cheeks flushed pink.
"No, but you'll be rewarded for asking first. Finish undressing and go over to the bed."
He took off his shoes, trousers and socks, then the underclothes. Though she stood before him fully clothed, he didn't feel ashamed in her presence. There was kindness in her eyes and safety in her strange demands. While she went to hang his garments in a closet by the door, he went to the bed.
The satin cover was campy in the extreme, and crackled with static electricity as he slid the comforter down. He laid back on the black satin, realizing there was a mirror on the ceiling. His skin was appallingly pale, except for his forearms, which were a shade darker than the rest and merely very pale.
Reclining, his stomach lost its trace of middle-aged dough. Despite his daily exercise, there remained that moribund softness which refused to disappear, ironically, since he quit smoking. The other men she'd had were probably younger. Their phantom perfection crowded the room. She came to him, covering his inadequacies with the warmth of her form. From overhead her green dress reminded him of a mermaid's tail. He was making love to a strange creature from another world. A siren dragging him to a (hopefully) little death.
"What now, mistress?" he asked.
She stole away for a moment. When she came back, there was a bottle of oil in one hand and a stick with leather streamers attached to it in the other—a toothless cat o' nine tails. There was no doubt she knew her way around the real implements of pain, but she'd chosen the toy to tease him. Perhaps she was testing to see what he could handle. Giles was certain he would surprise her with his capacity for enduring pain.
She dragged the ribbons of leather across his chest. The strands flowed like a black river across his hardening penis, making his blood surge.
"More, please more," he whispered. She snapped the leather against his skin, creating a delicious sting.
"Speak when spoken to," she hissed, vamping at him. He nodded, giving her a smile that was anything but submissive. She thwacked his inner thighs, making his legs jerk.
"On your stomach."
He flipped over, noticing for the first time there were shackles in the black headboard. The cheap, polyester sheets against his skin made felt indescribably filthy, especially pressing against his erection. The mattress beneath crinkled, like it was sealed in plastic. He felt her moving behind him and glanced at her as her small, thin hands encircled his wrists in the tacky, fur-lined restraints. She smelled indistinctly floral, like she'd applied an expensive perfume in the morning and it had been diluted by the natural scent of her body.
"Fuck, I want you," he murmured. She responded by giving him a hard crack on the ass before grabbing his jaw.
"I think you want me to hit you. You want to be punished?"
He realized by the way she spoke, she'd probably already forgotten the name he'd given her. For some reason that made him even more turned on.
"God, yes."
"Beg."
"Hurt me. Please."
The concern in her eyes as she studied him made Giles think the plain truth had been the wrong answer. Though he lived with the humbling nag of chronic pain whenever he used his hands, he still longed for the quiet a sharp slap could bring. Pain brought the world to a fine point, to the intersection of the stiff fingers against the uncooperative guitar string or gripping the errant pen. Pain was indelibly part of his pleasure now. He appreciated its lethe-like qualities; the ease with which he was able to forget other agonies when under the strap.
She stood, leaving him alone beneath the indifferent gaze of the mirror. A second later she returned with a black riding crop in her hand. She dragged the flattened, triangular tip up his spine like a leather tongue. Then she drew it back and smacked him hard on his ass.
"You'll have a mark tomorrow, but you like that, don't you?"
"Yes, mistress."
She struck him again and again, until there were triangular welts freckling his skin. The burn spread beneath his legs to warm his testicles and heat his cock. When his bottom looked like a strawberry, she traced the crease beneath, then nudged his legs further apart. The tip scraped against the delicate skin between his anus and balls, then scratched at his testicles. She adjusted on the bed, shoving the halves of his ass apart with her hands. Something cool dripped into the cleft that she spread around with her fingers. Then she started to work a digit into the tight iris of muscle. He hadn't been touched that way in a long, long time but he remembered what was required of him; to relax and open up. She fit in another finger, and he could hear her panting behind him. He closed his eyes, unable to control the dribble coming from the corner of his mouth. Her warm, smooth hand slid under his body and squeezed his cock. He moved back to impale himself on one hand and forward to fuck the other. Sounds rose from his throat in a nonsensical torrent. For a little while his body was overloaded with such pleasure that all other thought was obliterated. He was jerking, at the mercy of her expert hands and spurting semen all over the kitschy sheets.
"You made a mess. That makes you a very bad boy."
"Punishment in order?" He looked over his shoulder to see her grinning at him. She leaned down and kissed the nape of his neck.
"I think you've had enough for one night and I have to get home." She set him free, rubbing his wrists before springing away from the bed.
"That door over there leads to a bathroom." She pointed and stood up. "Your clothes are in the closet beside it. Give me a few minutes to freshen up and leave before you go in."
"Urm. Yes, certainly."
"I'm sorry to be so brusque. That's my way. I come here on Monday nights at ten. It would bring me a great deal of pleasure to see you again," she said.
"Yes."
She nodded and then went to the small room. He didn't know what to make of what he'd just done and was uncertain if he'd just agreed to do it again.