![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
In Which I am Unusually Cruel to William. ;) The first 4 chapters are in my memories.
Chapter 5
William wanted to die. He wished that a raging, rabid grizzly bear would burst into the shop and bite head off. After it bit the head off the poet who was currently the cause of his acute embarrassment. They were sitting near the back of the room, but the group was small enough that he was still too close to the stage. He didn’t dare look at Buffy, who was sitting beside him silently, without touching him at all. He knew his mother was on the other side of the room, almost directly across from him. If he lifted his eyes, he would be looking directly into her blue ones.
William kept his eyes glued to the tips of his shoes. He couldn’t stand to look at the girl on the stage, but he knew that she was young—probably his age—and beautiful. Occasionally he would glace at her from beneath his lashes, and catch the way her body writhed and moved like a snake to the rhythm of her poems. Her voice was low with a primal, musical quality that grabbed his imagination. She managed to give voice to the deep desires that pulsed in everybody, spoke of low feelings and emotions, sang of heady delight and pleasure, and he caught his breath.
Buffy shifted and her bare arm brushed against his. He could feel the heat of her skin through the fine material of his shirt. The room was small and closed and he could easily smell her perfume—sweet but not cloying. He wanted to lean against her and bury his face in her hair and inhaled deeply. He leaned toward her slightly, until their shoulders were touching. She didn’t pull away.
The elation at the contact, however, did not eclipse the humiliation. The poet’s voice dipped to a sultry murmur that sent chills down his back If the girl he wanted and wanted to impress, and his mother, weren’t in the room this would have been a very fascinating and enjoyable experience. As it were, he couldn’t get past his embarrassment to enjoy himself, and he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in Buffy’s mind. He wished he could casually lean over and ask her if she was enjoying herself, but his throat was closed, and he didn’t think he could ever speak to her again.
The poem stopped suddenly, and William felt like the silence had an edge. Like they were all balancing on a cliff, waiting for a breath from her pretty lips to send them over the edge.
“Is there anybody in the audience who would like to read?” She asked in a breathy voice. She held up a piece of paper. “I like the audience to be part of the show.”
Nobody responded. William clenched his hands on his legs and prayed that it would be somebody he didn’t know…if anybody volunteered at all. The silence blanketed them and she let it grow uncomfortable. Eyes darted around the room, wondering who would have the courage to stand up and read somebody else’s personal experiences to a group of friends and half-strangers.
Then, to William’s deep, unmitigated horror, a familiar voice said, “Oh, I’ll do it.”
He looked up quickly as his face, from his neck to the roots of his hair, turned a vibrant scarlet. He wanted to stand up and flee, but Buffy had shifted again and her fingers were touching his leg and she seemed interested, enthralled even. Still, he had to try.
“It’s getting late.”
“It’s a Friday night,” she murmured.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Well, you’re probably bored. I wouldn’t want you…”
“No, not at all. This is…fascinating. I want to stay.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. William wasn’t one to swear, but now a constant litany of profanity pounded in his brain. Where is that goddamned bear?
“Should I just start reading?” Anne asked.
“Yes,” the poet encouraged. “Don’t think about it. Just feel.”
Anne started slow, her words tumbling out of her mouth haltingly. The excitement from the earlier poetry had ebbed, and whatever spell that she had cast that kept him simultaneously uncomfortable and rooted to his seat was broken. He was ready to flee, and he was half way to his feet before Buffy put a hand on his arm. He paused, and then sunk down to the chair again.
William’s head was spinning and before he could get a hold of himself, he felt Buffy’s hot hand on his knee…then she ran it slowly up his leg and rested her fingers on the top of his thigh. Her fingertips brushed against the sensitive flesh of his inner-thigh, and she alternately applied pressure and relaxed. His muscles jumped with every move she made, and his groin tightened uncomfortably. He glanced over at her, but she was staring at his mother on the stage, and gave no hint on her face of what she was up to. There were rows of people in front of them—enough to block Buffy’s hands from his mother’s sight at least.
Anne’s voice grew stronger, and the poem rolled off her tongue smoothly. Her voice rose and fell as the passion grew, and William could hear that she was being transported to a different place and taking the entire audience with her. William did not want to go to the place. William wanted to run far, far away and never look back.
Buffy continued her casual exploration of his thigh, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do. And maybe it was. William didn’t know anymore. His blood pressure was sky-rocketing and his heart hammered loudly in his head. There seemed to be a pattern to the way she touched him. Caress, squeeze, rest. Caress, squeeze, rest. She was winding him as tight as a drum and, at the same time, lulling him into a false sense of security.
Casually she moved her hand lower on his thigh, and her knuckles grazed his now achingly hard cock. He jumped slightly and nearly yelped. She looked at him then, wicked green eyes laughing at him from behind soft eyelashes. It was at that moment, as his mother’s voice rose higher and higher, that he knew he was in way over his head.
The poem stopped suddenly, just as Buffy’s had was poised to brush against the top of his cock again, and he froze. He forced himself to look up at his mother, but she wasn’t even facing his direction. He didn’t know if the torture was finally over, or if she was just pausing for effect—either way his heart was in his throat and his palms were cold and sweaty.
Buffy’s hand moved, and lingered on the bulge in his pants. His eyes flew back to her, his mouth half open with shock. She winked at him. The poet began clapping enthusiastically. His mother bowed—he saw it out of the corner of his eye. The rest of the room rose to their feet to applaud Anne, but William didn’t dare move. She applied pressure with the flat of his hand for only a few seconds but to him, it was an eternity. She stood up suddenly and began applauding, leaving William dazed in his seat—unable and unwilling to get to his feet.
“Let’s get out of here,” he muttered.
“What? I want to stay and meet…”
“No.” William stood up now, and hoped that he didn’t look too ridiculous. “Come on.”
“But I wanted to congratulate her…”
“Buffy…please.”
She looked at the stage and the woman still standing there. Then she looked back to William. Understanding dawned in her eyes, and she nodded. “Right, let’s go to the IHOP.”
William wondered if the night was ever going to end—and a part of him hoped it never did.
Chapter 5
William wanted to die. He wished that a raging, rabid grizzly bear would burst into the shop and bite head off. After it bit the head off the poet who was currently the cause of his acute embarrassment. They were sitting near the back of the room, but the group was small enough that he was still too close to the stage. He didn’t dare look at Buffy, who was sitting beside him silently, without touching him at all. He knew his mother was on the other side of the room, almost directly across from him. If he lifted his eyes, he would be looking directly into her blue ones.
William kept his eyes glued to the tips of his shoes. He couldn’t stand to look at the girl on the stage, but he knew that she was young—probably his age—and beautiful. Occasionally he would glace at her from beneath his lashes, and catch the way her body writhed and moved like a snake to the rhythm of her poems. Her voice was low with a primal, musical quality that grabbed his imagination. She managed to give voice to the deep desires that pulsed in everybody, spoke of low feelings and emotions, sang of heady delight and pleasure, and he caught his breath.
Buffy shifted and her bare arm brushed against his. He could feel the heat of her skin through the fine material of his shirt. The room was small and closed and he could easily smell her perfume—sweet but not cloying. He wanted to lean against her and bury his face in her hair and inhaled deeply. He leaned toward her slightly, until their shoulders were touching. She didn’t pull away.
The elation at the contact, however, did not eclipse the humiliation. The poet’s voice dipped to a sultry murmur that sent chills down his back If the girl he wanted and wanted to impress, and his mother, weren’t in the room this would have been a very fascinating and enjoyable experience. As it were, he couldn’t get past his embarrassment to enjoy himself, and he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in Buffy’s mind. He wished he could casually lean over and ask her if she was enjoying herself, but his throat was closed, and he didn’t think he could ever speak to her again.
The poem stopped suddenly, and William felt like the silence had an edge. Like they were all balancing on a cliff, waiting for a breath from her pretty lips to send them over the edge.
“Is there anybody in the audience who would like to read?” She asked in a breathy voice. She held up a piece of paper. “I like the audience to be part of the show.”
Nobody responded. William clenched his hands on his legs and prayed that it would be somebody he didn’t know…if anybody volunteered at all. The silence blanketed them and she let it grow uncomfortable. Eyes darted around the room, wondering who would have the courage to stand up and read somebody else’s personal experiences to a group of friends and half-strangers.
Then, to William’s deep, unmitigated horror, a familiar voice said, “Oh, I’ll do it.”
He looked up quickly as his face, from his neck to the roots of his hair, turned a vibrant scarlet. He wanted to stand up and flee, but Buffy had shifted again and her fingers were touching his leg and she seemed interested, enthralled even. Still, he had to try.
“It’s getting late.”
“It’s a Friday night,” she murmured.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Well, you’re probably bored. I wouldn’t want you…”
“No, not at all. This is…fascinating. I want to stay.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. William wasn’t one to swear, but now a constant litany of profanity pounded in his brain. Where is that goddamned bear?
“Should I just start reading?” Anne asked.
“Yes,” the poet encouraged. “Don’t think about it. Just feel.”
Anne started slow, her words tumbling out of her mouth haltingly. The excitement from the earlier poetry had ebbed, and whatever spell that she had cast that kept him simultaneously uncomfortable and rooted to his seat was broken. He was ready to flee, and he was half way to his feet before Buffy put a hand on his arm. He paused, and then sunk down to the chair again.
William’s head was spinning and before he could get a hold of himself, he felt Buffy’s hot hand on his knee…then she ran it slowly up his leg and rested her fingers on the top of his thigh. Her fingertips brushed against the sensitive flesh of his inner-thigh, and she alternately applied pressure and relaxed. His muscles jumped with every move she made, and his groin tightened uncomfortably. He glanced over at her, but she was staring at his mother on the stage, and gave no hint on her face of what she was up to. There were rows of people in front of them—enough to block Buffy’s hands from his mother’s sight at least.
Anne’s voice grew stronger, and the poem rolled off her tongue smoothly. Her voice rose and fell as the passion grew, and William could hear that she was being transported to a different place and taking the entire audience with her. William did not want to go to the place. William wanted to run far, far away and never look back.
Buffy continued her casual exploration of his thigh, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do. And maybe it was. William didn’t know anymore. His blood pressure was sky-rocketing and his heart hammered loudly in his head. There seemed to be a pattern to the way she touched him. Caress, squeeze, rest. Caress, squeeze, rest. She was winding him as tight as a drum and, at the same time, lulling him into a false sense of security.
Casually she moved her hand lower on his thigh, and her knuckles grazed his now achingly hard cock. He jumped slightly and nearly yelped. She looked at him then, wicked green eyes laughing at him from behind soft eyelashes. It was at that moment, as his mother’s voice rose higher and higher, that he knew he was in way over his head.
The poem stopped suddenly, just as Buffy’s had was poised to brush against the top of his cock again, and he froze. He forced himself to look up at his mother, but she wasn’t even facing his direction. He didn’t know if the torture was finally over, or if she was just pausing for effect—either way his heart was in his throat and his palms were cold and sweaty.
Buffy’s hand moved, and lingered on the bulge in his pants. His eyes flew back to her, his mouth half open with shock. She winked at him. The poet began clapping enthusiastically. His mother bowed—he saw it out of the corner of his eye. The rest of the room rose to their feet to applaud Anne, but William didn’t dare move. She applied pressure with the flat of his hand for only a few seconds but to him, it was an eternity. She stood up suddenly and began applauding, leaving William dazed in his seat—unable and unwilling to get to his feet.
“Let’s get out of here,” he muttered.
“What? I want to stay and meet…”
“No.” William stood up now, and hoped that he didn’t look too ridiculous. “Come on.”
“But I wanted to congratulate her…”
“Buffy…please.”
She looked at the stage and the woman still standing there. Then she looked back to William. Understanding dawned in her eyes, and she nodded. “Right, let’s go to the IHOP.”
William wondered if the night was ever going to end—and a part of him hoped it never did.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
From:
ROTFLMAO!
You did it! You really went ahead and did it! ::bouncing:: You are a wicked, mean woman Pep! Poor William. Getting groped up by Buffy while his mom reads erotic poetry! BWAHAHAHAH!
So, are you sending the bear for the next chapter?! 'Cause he's gonna need therapy or death now... ::giggle::
M
From:
no subject
I wasn't planning on reading Mad World, then I did and got hooked. New Frontier didn't sound like my kind of story, but I got hopelessly addicted, somehow. The premise of this didn't appeal to me, and yet I find myself on the edge of my seat waiting to find out what happens.
Can't wait to find out how the rest of the date goes. :)
~raine
From:
no subject
From:
Hiya
From:
no subject
That was really something! Wow, you so have a knack for describing William's emotions. He's so relatable. Not that I really *want* to be feeling this stuff, but my god, the poor kid!
Hee ... it reminds me of why I DIDN'T date in high school. I didn't want to deal with all that hormonal emotion crap! (It was bad enough when I did start dating. Eeeww ... you really are torturing us making us go through this with William! Ouch!)
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
anyway, so, now I read it...another one of your stories to get honelessly addicted to and follow, stalking your LJ on a dayly basis..lol..
I like it, its nice that its in Williams POV in a way, and I also like it that its different. I've never read a story with buffy as the 'big bad wolf' and spike/william as the 'lamb' hehe..can't wait for more...
~Ree
From:
Congratulations!"