TITLE    : Cincinnati Apocalypse Ch. 01
STORYID  : cincinnati-apocalypse-ch-01
SUMMARY  : Having closed one Hellmouth, Buffy must close a second.
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2007-01-10
CATEGORY : celebrity-stories
FLAGS    : 
TAGS     : |shemale|hermaphrodite|homosexual|gay|bisexual|transsexual|buffy the vampire slayer|balls|boobs|ass|


<b>Volume II - Cincinnati Apocalypse</b>



© 2007 by Cal Y. Pygia



1





"So, ladies," the dashing, dark-haired young man asked, looking back and forth between his date, Buffy Summers, and Buffy's kid sister, Dawn, who, as usual, had tagged along on their outing, not that the youth, Nathan Wells, minded--or, at least, not much, "where to next? Pirates of the Caribbean? Splash Mountain? Star Tours?"



"We've been there, done that," Dawn complained.



Most of her life, since becoming Buffy's little sister, Dawn had complained about something. Sometimes, it seemed that she complained about everything. It was part of the nature, Buffy figured, that the monks who'd created Dawn, had given her. She was a whiner. Before that, she'd been, as best anyone could gather, just pure energy, taking the form of a bright light, and, as such, an inter-dimensional key. Her past was something that both Buffy and Dawn tried not to think about.



"Dawn," Buffy warned.



"I want to ride the People Mover," Dawn said.



"That's not a ride," Buffy told her.



"You can ride it, so it's a ride," Dawn argued.



"Well, I don't want to ride it," Buffy replied.



Dawn looked at Buffy's boyfriend.



"Don't look at me," Nathan said. "You ladies fight it out and let me know what you decide. I'm not taking sides. I'm fair and impartial."



"You're my boyfriend," Buffy reminded him. "You're supposed to take my side."



"And incur the wrath of Dawnie? No way!"



"Don't call me 'Dawnie," Dawn objected. "I'm, like, fifteen." She looked at her sister. "Where do you want to go?"



"Anywhere but Cincinnati," Buffy quipped.



Dawn looked disgusted.



Buffy sighed. To Nathan, she said, "Give us a sec?"



"Sure."



Buffy took Dawn by the arm. "Come on," she hissed, tugging.



Reluctantly, Dawn followed.



After they'd walked a discrete distance away from Buffy's beau, Buffy stopped. She looked at her sister, who avoided eye contact with her. "Hey, I've done my part," Buffy defended herself. "I've saved the world--a lot. I died--twice. Besides, now that all the girls who could become Slayers have become Slayers, there are plenty of others to do the dirty work. I say we party."



"We should be in Cincinnati, with Faith and Xander and Giles," Dawn opined.



For seven years prior to meeting Nathan, Buffy had, with the help of Giles and a handful of loyal friends, fought the forces of darkness--demons, monsters, and vampires--that had come crawling out of, or had been attracted to, the Hellmouth in Sunnydale, California. A sort of portal between this world and a fierce demon dimension inhabited by fiends, both bloodsucking and otherwise, the Hellmouth had collapsed upon itself over a century ago, but, at the end of Buffy's reign as the current Slayer--before all girls who could become Slayers did so, increasing her number by thousands--the gateway had opened, and a numberless horde of demon warriors had attempted to take over the humans' world. The ensuing battle had cost the lives of Spike, a vampire and Buffy's sometime-paramour, and the former love of her friend Xander Harris' life, the vengeance demon Anyanka. It had also resulted in the total annihilation of Buffy's hometown, Sunnydale, which, in its entirety, had fallen into an immense crater (but not before its evacuation, fortunately for its unfortunate residents). Only afterward, when Buffy announced that the one and only Hellmouth had been shut down forever, did her former mentor and trainer, the Watcher Rupert Giles, inform her and her friends that there was another Hellmouth in Cincinnati, Ohio. Previously irresponsible and devil-may-care, the free-spirited rogue Slayer Faith Lahane had decided to take the fight to the secondary Hellmouth, and Xander, vowing to avenge the death of his former, but jilted, bride-to-be, had set out with her and Giles. They'd sought to enlist Buffy's aid, but she'd declined. "My Slaybelle days are done," she'd told them, announcing, "Dawn and I are going to Disneyland to have fun."



At first, Dawn couldn't blame her sister. Buffy had been through a lot. She'd been through hell, literally. She'd carried the world upon her shoulders. She'd died, not once, but twice. Disneyland hadn't seemed like much to ask for. After a month of Adventureland, Fantasyland, Frontierland, and Tomorrowland, though, Dawn had found that she did blame Buffy. As the Slayer--or, Dawn corrected herself, the primary Slayer--Buffy had responsibilities beyond herself and beyond those involved in looking after her little sister. Buffy, like it or not, was responsible for the world. She'd been called to be the Slayer, which meant that she'd been chosen to serve and to protect not just herself and her kid sister but all of humanity. Even Faith, as faithless as she'd sometimes been, understood that much. Faith was in Cincinnati, or headed there, where she belonged--and where Buffy, try as she might to avoid or deny it--also belonged and, Dawn suspected, knew she belonged.



"We should be right here, where we are," Buffy declared.



Dawn frowned, shaking her head. "Whatever."



"Don't take that tone with me," Buffy cautioned her.



"Whatever."



Buffy seized her sister's arm again. Dawn tried to shake her off, but Buffy, as always, was too strong. The Slayer marched her little sister back to Nathan. "We've decided on Splash Mountain," Buffy announced.



Nathan looked at Dawn, who looked decidedly unhappy. "Both of you?" he asked Buffy.



Buffy smiled at him, taking his hand in hers. "Both of us."



As the trio of Disneyland adventurers made their way through the throngs of eager tourists, Buffy smiled at the young couples, hand in hand, like Nathan and her; at the babies in strollers; at the exuberant boys and girls, their eyes animated with wonder and joy. She appreciated the spotless, well-swept, gracefully curving avenues; the trim shrubs; the bright flowers; the neat low walls of brick; the lush groundcover and vegetation that appeared throughout the park. She loved the beauty, the serenity, and the way that the park not only promised, but also seemed to take for granted, tranquility and bliss. She liked the fun, the excitement, the promise of adventure, the hokey glamour, and everything else about the giant playground, including how its creator, Walt Disney, had designed it deliberately so that parents could enjoy the rides and attractions alongside their children. It was even cool, she thought, the way "lands" that couldn't possibly exist side by side anywhere else in the world peacefully, in implausibly, coexisted here, a locomotive-drawn train of the 19th century beside a flying elephant next to a spaceship adjacent to a cow whose natural markings resembles the silhouette of the world's most famous cartoon mouse.



Most of all, though, she loved Main Street, USA. Although nothing more, really, than the main promenade that lead from the main gate into the interior of the theme park, admitting those who preferred to walk instead of ride one of the many people movers, and a façade for various specialty shops and stores, most of which sold Disney merchandise of one kind or another, Main Street nevertheless seemed a perfect example of the ideal American small town--or, at least, of the main street of such a town. To Buffy's way of thinking, it represented what Sunnydale should have been and what all American small towns should be. Orderly, beautiful, dignified, neat, clean, and tidy, it offered the appearance of peace and tranquility, the image of normalcy, the look of the ordinary that Buffy had longed for in her own life but had never had. Main Street, USA, represented the world as it should be, the Slayer thought. By contrast, Sunnydale had represented everything that the world should not be. Like the tombs to which Jesus referred, Sunnydale was outwardly beautiful, but, inwardly, it was fill of dead men's bones and all manner of decay. The only problem was that Sunnydale was real--or had been, before it had been destroyed--and Main Street, USA, like Disneyland itself, was just pretend. What did it say about the world, she wondered, when a fantasyland was preferable to reality?



The line for Splash Mountain was, as always, long, but, occupying herself with her own thoughts, with exchanges of dialogue with Nathan and Dawn, and with watching the people in the line that wound up the side of the artificial mountain, Buffy passed the time quickly.



Half an hour later, as the trio shuffled the last few feet up the inclining ramp, closing on their destination, Dawn announced, "I'm sitting by myself."



"You may have to share a seat with someone else," Buffy told her sister



"I'm sitting by myself," Dawn repeated.



The ride's attendant asked Nathan, "How many?"



"Three," he said.



"Which of you wants to sit alone?"



"She does," Buffy said, nodding at Dawn.



"Here you go, then," the attendant said, ushering Dawn to her own car in the long, wide, hollowed-out artificial log canoe that was actually the ride's vehicle.



Dawn stepped into her seat-compartment, and the log jostled, splashing water. The attendant started to help her to secure her seatbelt. "I can do it myself," Dawn snapped. Everybody, even strangers, thought she was just a helpless kid, Dawn thought, scowling.



"Sure thing, kid," the attendant replied.



"I'm not a kid!"



Behind her, Nathan climbed into the compartment that he would share with Buffy, and the Slayer took her place in front of him, resting her forearms on his legs, which came alongside her on either side.



With squeals, shouts, giggles, and snatches of conversation, the other passengers boarded the open craft. The artificial log dipped and jiggled.



Abruptly, a chain caught an attachment on the bottom of the log canoe, dragging the craft forward and up a steep incline that led it into a long, lazily wandering canal.



As the canoe followed the narrow channel past exhibits in which audio-animatronics sang snatches of The Song of the South movie soundtrack, Buffy thought about the incidents that had transpired in her and Dawn's lives since the destruction of the Sunnydale Hellmouth. Giles, Faith, and Xander had urged her to accompany them to Cincinnati, where another Hellmouth needed to be shut down, but she'd refused, earning their silent reproaches and Dawn's unspoken disappointment. She hadn't cared, and didn't care now. She'd done her part. Let others take up the cause, now that there were others--thousands if not millions of them--to do so. Buffy had given up a lot--everything--to perform her duties as the Slayer. Now that the chance had come to have a normal life, that's exactly what she intended to do. She was going to live a normal, everyday life, every day for the rest of her life, and she was going to enjoy every moment of it; she was going to bask in every moment of it. In doing so, she was also ensuring that Dawn would have a normal life, a safe life, a secure life.



After leaving Sunnydale, Buffy had brought Dawn here, to Los Angeles, where she'd enrolled her in school at the new Hemery High, which the school district had built on the site of the facility that Buffy, who'd resided in L. A. at the time, had inadvertently burned down in an attack on vampires that had assailed the gymnasium.



Having returned to her original hometown, Buffy had found a job waiting tables at a local restaurant, where she'd met Nathan, a nice, normal, everyday guy, and they'd been dating for over a month now. The boy had possibilities, she thought. He was kind, considerate, handsome, and intelligent. He made her laugh. More importantly, he helped her to forget the past and to think of herself as just an ordinary girl. At last, Buffy had found the life she'd always craved. She was beginning, for the first time since the days of her earliest childhood, to believe that life could be good and that she could be happy. Even Dawn's chronic whining didn't bother her anymore--well, not much.



Buffy was startled when a pair of hands, reaching between her upper arms and her ribs, clutched her breasts through the tight, thin tank top she was wearing, giving the firm-soft orbs a playful squeeze. She almost cried out, repressing the impulse to leap to her feet in the gently swaying canoe, spin around, and confront her attacker as she adopted a tried-and-true karate stance.



Attacker? My God, she wondered, was that how she thought of her boyfriend, as an attacker? She settled back, against Nathan's chest, allowing his hands to gently squeeze and caress her bosom. What could be wrong with a tender stroke and cuddle? Dawn was facing the front, caught up in the singing characters from a movie that none of them had ever seen and probably never would see, and, at this point along the route, the cavernous interior of the mountain was dark. Dawn wouldn't know that Nathan was copping a feel, and guys had to have a little tit and ass or they'd lose interest in a girl. Besides, it felt good to be wanted, good to be needed. Under the fabric of her top, her nipples responded to Nathan's touch, stiffening and swelling, and Buffy's pussy moistened, as if it were agreeable to being ravished here and now, the presence of her little sister and that of perfect strangers be damned.



Of course, Buffy herself had no such intention, but, she thought, there was no reason that she couldn't take a little of the edge off the passion building inside her by rubbing herself through the fabric of her panties. By lifting the skirt of her sundress, she could easily access her pussy through the silk panties she wore beneath the outer garment, and no one would be the wiser, as long as she exercised a modicum of self-control. Her panties were damp already, wet from the dewy moisture of her pussy. Inwardly, she shrugged. Her cunt juices would wash away easily enough. Over the decades that they'd worked on perfecting their product, the makers of laundry detergent had worked miracles in finding chemicals and combinations of chemicals that removed stains. Almost everything in life, it seemed, washed away, even blood, sweat, and tears. What couldn't be washed away could be buried. She thought of Angel, of Spike, of Anya, of Tara, of her mother, of herself. They'd all been laid to rest; the fortunate few among them had been able to remain at rest. Unlike the vampires she'd known and loved, Buffy hadn't been among those fortunate few, not even after dying twice. Ironically, both times she'd died, it had been one of her best friends, first Xander Harris and then Willow Rosenberg, who'd brought her back.



Buffy had slid the bottom of her sundress up, along her silk-smooth thighs, and gently, then more insistently, rubbed the hardening bud of her clitoris through her panties, and a thrill had shot through her, leaping the many thousands of synapses between arrays of nerve endings, tightening her muscles, and quickening the flow of blood through her veins and arteries. In its own mechanical, clinical way, her Slayer's body responded to her touch, despite her abstraction and her detachment, but her heart, her soul--if she still had one--wasn't in it. She sighed, settling back, against Nathan's upper body. Even his cupping, squeezing, and caressing of her breasts and his stroking and tweaking of her swollen nipples seemed more gropes than fondling. She bore his attentions for his sake, not hers. As their artificial log conveyed them, by means of a clanking chain, up the ride's long, steep, final incline, Nathan ground his hips into the small of Buffy's back, letting her feel the firm-soft half-erection that had blossomed in his jeans, flowering just for her, and the Slayer made a mental note of his message: I want you.



I want you, too, Buffy thought, and then their canoe was plummeting down the first of the several dips of the canal that would follow, and there was a great splash of water and everyone around her shrieked and laughed. Vaguely, Buffy heard Dawn's voice and Nathan's, also screaming and laughing, but her own was silent.







Naked, Faith Lahane looked beautiful straddling him. She looked down upon Xander, whose cock she was riding as if she were a rodeo cowgirl bent upon winning first prize by staying on a bucking bronco longer than any of her competitors. Of course, the only competitor she had was herself, since only the two of them occupied the seedy motel room.



Faith's breasts, larger and darker than Buffy's, jiggled and bounced upon her chest as the dark-haired Slayer lifted and plunged and shifted and swayed and rocked up and down, back and forth, left and right. Her liquid cunt was like a slippery sleeve of the most tender, wet gossamer, washing and bathing his stiff-standing cock and the tight, bunched pouch of his scrotum; ripples and tendrils of passion shot a hundred different directions throughout his body, and Xander, made passive by Faith's having taken, as usual--as always--the more assertive, dominant role in the sex that they'd been having, frequently, since leaving Sunnydale--or the huge pit that had been Sunnydale--could do nothing more than grimace, grunt, groan, roll his head from side to side upon the small, inadequate pillow, and wish he had something onto which to hold tightly, as Faith never so much made love to him as she ravished him. Still, Xander thought, rape was good, too, if the rapist was Faith.



They'd come east to Cincinnati, Ohio, because, according to Buffy's former mentor, the Watcher Rupert Giles, there was a second Hellmouth here. The Hellmouth was a gateway, or portal, between this world and a demon dimension--perhaps Hell itself--out of which demons, vampires, and other monsters sometimes crawled, crept, or fluttered forth, always with the worst intentions, and to which others of their ilk were drawn as moths to a light. The term Hellmouth, Xander had learned, originally referred to a prop that Medieval actors employed. To frighten their audiences, they confronting them with the device, which was sometimes mechanical, and was intended to represent the jaws of Satan or the gates of hell. That, at least, was one idea as to the origin of the word. The other notion was that the term was derived from a description of an actual portal to hell, as mentioned in Numbers 16: 30-33, wherein "Sheol" is the Hebrew equivalent of Hades:







. . . if the Lord make a new thing, and the earth open her mouth, and swallow them up, with all that appertain unto them, and they go down quick into the pit; then ye shall understand that these men have provoked the Lord.



And it came to pass, as he had made an end of speaking all these words, that the ground clave asunder that was under them:



And the earth opened her mouth, and swallowed them up, and their houses, and all the men that appertained unto Korah, and all their goods.



They, and all that appertained to them, went down alive into the pit, and the earth closed upon them: and they perished from among the congregation.



And all Israel that were round about them fled at the cry of them: for they said, Lest the earth swallow us up also.







It was the Watchers who'd given the word its current sense of meaning.



Xander had helped to fight the forces of darkness the first time that he and his friends, especially Buffy, had closed the Sunnydale Hellmouth. Mostly, he'd done so because of his loyalty to them, not so much because it was the right thing to do. Although most people, including Xander himself, regarded Xander as a moral man, Xander knew that he was motivated, primarily, by his sense of loyalty. Most of what he did consciously and deliberately--the good that he did, at least--was done because of his loyalty, his dedication, his devotion to those he loved. He'd given an eye, but he was also prepared to hive his life, in the aid of his friends. If saving the world was a collateral benefit, that was fine, but, for Xander, it was not the principal or even the most important result of his risking his life and limb in the long war against evil he'd fight alongside Buffy, Willow, Giles, Faith, and many others, including Anya.

<hr pg="2" />This time, however, his fight against the Cincinnati Hellmouth was more personal. This time, it wasn't about loyalty; it wasn't about saving the world. It was about vengeance. It was about Anya.



Although Xander hadn't seen Anya's death himself, Andrew Wells, who'd been with her at the time she'd died (when Xander should have been the one who was there), had told him how she'd met her fate. She'd died protecting Andrew's sorry ass during the fight at the Hellmouth. Attacked from behind, she'd been cut in half by a Harbinger's sword. Her companions had abandoned her body in the high school, which was--or had been--situated over the Hellmouth, to fall into the crater that resulted from the annihilation of the town. With the loss of even her corpse, all Xander had were his memories of her, which were many and mostly pleasant--but, alas, they were only memories.



Anya arrived in Sunnydale during Xander's junior year, lured by Cordelia Chase's ire toward him for having cheated on her with Willow. Although he and Willow had exchanged only kisses (and a few gropes), Cordie, hurt and disgusted upon discovering Xander's infidelity, spun on her stiletto heel (no easy feat, that, Xander mused) and stalked from the room, only to fall through the floor of the dilapidated house in which Spike had been holding Xander and Willow prisoners and had impaled herself upon an upward-pointing steel rod. Her impalement had put a damper on her relationship with Xander, causing Cordie to exhibit such rage that Anya, then known as Anyanka, visited Sunnydale and, using an enchanted amulet, granted Cordie's wish that Buffy Summers had never come to town. The result was chaos, as the community's vampires, having no one to resist them, took control of the town, making it their feeding ground. Fortunately, Giles had found a way to reverse Anya's spell.



For some reason, rather than dismember, behead, castrate, or kill him, Anya had taken a liking for Xander. Although she'd fled Sunnydale when its mayor, Richard Wilkins sought to ascend to pure demon form, she'd returned after Buffy and her friends, the Scoobies, Xander included, had thwarted that particular would-be apocalypse. After Anya let him sample her charms, which, true enough, despite her demonic nature, were charming, indeed, they'd began to date, Anya continuing to pose as a high school student.





He'd jilted her at the altar, though, afraid that his life with her would resemble that of his parents, who were miserable, his father a drunken lout and his mother a lazy harpy. Jilting Anya had been a major mistake, resulting, among other horrors, in Anya's having sent Willow into a demon dimension from which Buffy had been able to retrieve her only at the cost of both her physical safety and the loss of her virtue. Before their escape, Buffy and Willow alike had experienced extreme humiliation and degradation at the hands of the devil-king Baphomet and his army of lesser demons. In the process, Buffy had discovered Xander's bisexuality, having walked in on him while he was butt-fucking his friend, Chester. Fortunately, neither Buffy nor Xander remembered anything that had happened during this adventure--or misadventure--because Willow, at Buffy's request, had deleted their memories of the horrible events. Only the witch recalled what had happened to them, but neither Buffy nor Xander were aware that Willow still knew the truth about what had taken place both in the demon dimension and in Xander's basement apartment.



Anya had had the most exasperating, but endearing, way of blurting out her observations and opinions about everything, including sex, and, until Xander taught the demon the difference between public and private behavior, she'd often commented freely--and publicly--about the sexual conduct between them, announcing with wide-eyed innocence how much Xander had improved in performing cunnilingus, complimenting him on his proficiency in accommodating her strap-on dildo, or noting his difficulty in staying erect one night. Talk about embarrassment! Talk about humiliation! Talk about mortification!



Nevertheless, Xander had loved Anya, right up to the point that he'd lost her forever to the Harbinger's sword that had cut her in two during the Scoobies' last and greatest fight against the Hellmouth's nightmarish army. When Andrew had told him how Anya had sacrificed herself for him, Xander had replied, "That's my girl--always doing the stupid thing." His quip had come naturally, of itself, for that's who Xander was, at the core, a jester, a clown, a fool. Blessed (or cursed) with a quick wit and a genuinely funny sense of humor, he could always be counted on to lighten the mood--except when the love of his life had lost her life. The wisecrack hadn't been funny. It had been pathetic. Xander missed Anya more than he'd have believed it possible to miss anyone, and, in his time, which hadn't been all that long, really, Xander had seen a lot of death. Buffy had died, twice; her mom, Joyce, had died; Giles' girlfriend, Jenny Calendar, had been killed by the vampire Angel; Willow's girlfriend, Tara MacClay, had been killed by the annoying trio of nerds, one of whom was Andrew, who called themselves the Troika; the vampire Spike had been incinerated inside the Hellmouth; the Scoobies had killed Mayor Wilkins, blowing him to smithereens, whatever smithereens are, inside their high school library; Principal Snyder had been eaten alive by Mayor Wilkins, after the mayor had ascended to pure demon form during his commencement speech at their graduation ceremony and before he'd met his own doom at the Scoobies' hands--or, more precisely, the explosives they'd laid for him in the school's library; Faith, with whom Xander was now engaged in sex, had killed the assistant mayor--on and on the list of the dead went. No doubt about it, Xander, like the others, had seen way more than his share of death. None had hit him as hard as Anya's demise, though.



First and foremost, Xander had loved Anya because of herself, because of who she was--or had been. In his mind, she'd been the cutest of the Scoobies, which, considering how lovely Buffy, Willow, and Cordie were, was saying a lot. Her refreshing, if unintended, honesty had been endearing too, if, at the same time, frustrating. He'd also loved each of her mannerisms, expressions, and characteristics. He'd even loved her anger, although it could be extremely dangerous, even deadly. He'd also loved her beautiful face and her perfect body and the way she'd made love, with every ounce of her flesh, all of her considerable energy, and her entire soul.



Most of all, perhaps, Xander had loved her--and loved her still--because she'd made him feel not only alive but also like a man.



The other Scoobies, except for Cordelia (unless her razor-sharp tongue and unerring accuracy in pinpointing another person's weaknesses and hypocrisy could be counted), had powers and abilities that surpassed those of most other mortals. Buffy was the Slayer; Willow and Tara were witches; Giles was a Watcher and a warlock. Even Dawn, Buffy's little sister, was an inter-dimensional key neatly packaged in a cute little girl's form. Xander was nothing, a nobody. All he had was his wit, his courage, and his loyalty, none of which counted much in a fight against supernatural and paranormal forces and entities. Girls and women were more powerful than he was. He depended on them to save his sorry ass. Then, too, of course, he was bi. Sticking his dick into another guy's butt or being fucked in his own ass reinforced his lack of manliness. He was so unmanly that he was, part of the time, at least, some other man's bitch. But not when he'd been with Anya. With her, he'd been alive, he'd been a man, he'd been somebody, a contender, as Marlon Brando's character had declared in On the Waterfront. Without Anya, he was, again, a nothing and a nobody.



Or, as now, occasionally a boy toy for Faith, Buffy, or one of the other superwomen in his miserable life. He had one other gift, he guessed--at least the ladies seemed to think so: he was handsome, even with only one eye.



Atop him, Faith was continuing her assault, driving her impaled cunt down hard on Xander's stiff-standing member, taking his firm, swollen cock all the way up her sopping pussy, so that her ass cheeks crashed against his thighs and her breasts bounced and sprang and swayed. She raised her hips again, plummeting home, and repeated these same actions again and again, with the rapidity of a jackhammer, her Slayer's strength and stamina allowing her to move at phenomenal speed and with formidable force. As she fucked the man pinned beneath her flowing cunt, she masturbated, her forefinger furiously flipping the erect bud of her clitoris, and moaned as a hurricane of passion rose within her. Leaning forward, she kissed Xander savagely upon the lips as orgasm after orgasm wracked her frame.



Feeling her lips against his own, Xander returned her kiss, as well as he could, pinned beneath her as he was, and delighted in the feel of her boobs, soft and sleek as roses, pressing flat against his chest. Faith's tongue lapped his face. She licked his cheek. Xander winced, conscious of his missing eye. Before they'd come to bed, Xander had removed the patch that covered the crater that had been his left eye, before Caleb, the mad preacher and one of The First Evil's emissaries, had gouged it out, prior to the fight at the Hellmouth. Now, to his horror, Faith's saliva-slick tongue licked the scarred depression of flesh that had managed to grow over the empty socket that he usually hid behind his eye patch.



"Don't," he whispered.



Faith paid him no mind. The missing eye turned her on, as did amputated limbs, corpses, skulls and skeletons. Before he'd regained his own soul, Spike had told Buffy that there was a darkness in her; that, as a Slayer, despite God's having called and empowered her, she shared a similar darkness of soul with him, a soulless vampire. The same was true with regard to Faith. As a Slayer herself, called to replace Buffy after Buffy's second death, before Willow's spell had restored Buffy to life, Faith also shared a darkness of soul with the foes she fought. There was a fine line between light and darkness, right and wrong, love and hate, good and evil. Sometimes, Faith straddled those lines. Even when she wasn't teetering on the edge, she was attracted to the bad as well as the good, and disease, disfigurement, dismemberment, and death were symbols to her of the great evil within and beyond the world of appearances which spoke mightily to her. She gave the eye socket a final lick before kissing the disfigured flesh and rolled off her pinned lover, lying beside him, wet with her own juices, sweating and panting.



She ran her hand over Xander's softening cock, rubbing her fingers and palm through the wet forest of his pubic hair, spreading his semen over his loins. His seed was life, or the potential for life, which she'd extracted from him, and it was exciting to her, too, just as his eyeless socket was arousing, the former representing life and love and goodness; the latter, death and hatred and wickedness in high places. She repositioned herself on the bed they shared, licking up the nectar of his seed. When she'd gathered the last drop, she took his limp, soft prick into her mouth, collecting the smeared semen along the wilted shaft, wanting all of the thick, warm seed, all of the potential for life they'd squandered. His seed was rich and viscid, and it tasted of the sea.







Beneath them, the glittering city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, looked like a jewel set against the black velvet of the sea.



"It's beautiful," Willow said. "Almost everything is--from a distance."



Kennedy, seated beside her, so close that their arms and hips touched--except for the younger woman's left arm, which she had around the witch's shoulders--whispered into Willow's ear, "You're beautiful, too, up close and at a distance." She paused, then added, "Inside and out."



"Not as beautiful as you," Willow replied.



"We're even more beautiful together," Kennedy declared.



"Yeah, and humble."



Lifting aside the red veil of Willow's hair, Kennedy licked the contours of the witch's ear. Her tongue, soft and wet, tickled, and Willow giggled. "Let's be beautiful together," Kennedy suggested.



"We just were," Willow reminded her. "Hence, our nakedness."



"That's one of the good things about being women," Kennedy said. "We can have multiple orgasms, and we don't need to rest between times--or not much, anyway."



"Whoa, girl! Who put a tiger in your tank?"



Kennedy kissed her cheek. "You did."



"Don't you want to look at the stars? They're so bright, like diamonds."



"You're all I need to light up my life."



"You're such a poet," Willow remarked, "and a flatterer."



"One of the good things about being a lesbian," Kennedy offered, "is that you can be multiple with another girl. Let's be multiple, Will."



Willow smiled in the darkness, looking out at the distant sea, its blackness under the ebony vault of heaven making it mostly invisible. She could see, on occasion, only a glint of light on its dark surface, but she could imagine the sound of its surf, reassuring in its eternal, recurring visitation to the shore, and she could smell the scent of the ocean. She could feel the pull of the tide, too, but it wasn't the tide of the sea. It was an internal tide, a surge and rush of the sea within her loins. She lay back, feeling the rough ground at the top of the precipice over the side of which, legs dangling, she and Kennedy had been seated, hundreds of feet above the valley below that was lit with the blinking and flickering and pulsing lights of Rio. She turned, and Kennedy knelt before her, a worshiper at the altar of love.



In a moment, Kennedy was lying on her belly, her forearms along Willow's thighs, her face adjacent to the witch's trimmed red pubes and the slit within. She lowered her lips against the parted lips of her lover's cunt, planting kisses on the moist labia before licking the liquid slit, lifting her head to allow her tongue to travel the length of the furrow, to the throbbing, pulsing clitoris at its top. The tip of her tongue worried Willow's clit, lashing it fast and furiously. The nub of her sex hardened still more, and her pussy released another stream of warm, wonderful womanly fluids. Pausing to lap up the nectar of Willow's loins, Kennedy redoubled her efforts, alternating between short, rapid licks of her tongue to wash inside the gash of Willow's sex, bathing the tender, petal-soft, sopping interior of her vagina, before pressing more--and more insistent--kisses upon her mount of Venus. Kennedy felt Willow's love juices along her cheeks and upon her nose and chin, and she smelled the scent of her girlfriend's sex upon her skin; it smelled wonderful, Kennedy thought, drinking deeply from the sacred font. Swallowing the warm fluids of the witch's loins was bliss to her, and she swallowed noisily, hungrily, greedily.



Kennedy's expertise as a lover, which was due in part to her being a woman and in part to her love of Willow and her desire to pleasure the witch and, perhaps, in part, again, to her tireless stamina as a vampire Slayer, was undeniable, Willow thought. Her body responded thoroughly to the attentions Kennedy bestowed upon her. Her breath came fast, her nerves quivered, her muscles tightened, her heart quickened, and her pussy flooded itself with the fluids of her rising passion.



Before Kennedy, there had been Tara, and, before Tara, Oz. Willow had had lovers of both sexes. Before she'd discovered her true nature as a lesbian, she'd believed--or maybe assumed was more like it--that she was straight, and she'd made love with her boyfriend, actually reaching orgasms. She hadn't loved Oz, though, despite her belief that she'd loved him. He was kind and tender and loving toward her, as she'd been toward him, and, in her naïveté, she'd believed that she'd loved him. She might even have been relatively happy with him, for, despite his being a werewolf three nights running each month, Oz was a good, decent guy the other 27 or 28 days. He'd broken off their romance, not her. He'd been unable to control his transformations into the beast, and he was afraid that, one night, he might hurt her. He might kill her. Instead, he'd roamed the world, and he'd found a cure, or so he'd thought.



He'd returned to Sunnydale, but, by then, Willow had met Tara. Willow had fallen in love with her fellow witch. They'd become lovers. Oz had sensed their closeness, smelling Willow's scent on Tara. Transforming into his animal state, he'd have killed Tara if it hadn't been for the timely arrival of the cavalry, in the form of the Initiative, the elite military force that assisted scientists who, secretly, were investigating the vampires and the other "subhumans," as they called the demons and monsters that roamed Sunnydale by night (and, less often, by day).



Kennedy's tongue, lapping at her twat, brought Willow out of her reverie, as the intensity of the passion building within her reached a culmination. The witch's thighs flexed, acting as scissors against Kennedy's cheeks as they squeezed and released her head rapidly, again and again, and Willow's hips buck, her small breasts jiggling. Both her nipples and her clitoris were hard points. Internally, her body also reacted to the onset of orgasm. Her breath came fast, her heart pounded, her every nerve thrilled with excitement, and her muscles strained and jerked. Her cunt was a river in which Kennedy would gladly have drowned.



Even in the throes of orgasm, however, the ever-analytical Willow couldn't repress her thoughts entirely, and, lately, despite the beauty and devotion of her paramour, the witch's thoughts had been dark and gloomy, indeed. No matter the combination of personalities, bodies, and genitals, whether heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, or the combination of possibilities in group sex, it seemed that Willow was alone, that she was destined to live apart from others, to be always and forever by herself. In high school and college, she'd been a pariah, an outcast, and a recluse, accepted only by her fellow outcasts, the Scoobies, but being an outsider to society hadn't bothered her--well, not as much as it did now that Tara, murdered, had been taken from her--for no one, not even Kennedy, could ever replace Tara and the love that she and Willow had shared before her fellow witch's untimely demise at the hands or, more specifically, the guns, of the hated Troika. Not ever Willow's skinning the murderer alive had been vengeance enough; there could never be just compensation for the ugly murder of someone as sweet, intelligent, and gifted as the beautiful young woman with whom Willow had shared her life, her love, and her soul. Neither heterosexual, homosexual, nor bisexual love could fill the enormous, aching void that Willow had become. She sneered inwardly, as she thought that maybe being a hermaphrodite or a transsexual might do so. No, not even if she had both male and female genitals and characteristics would Willow be able to be all things to all people, including herself. Buffy's recent incarnation as a shemale vampire Slayer had demonstrated that. If such balms existed, they didn't come from sex and gender; if they existed at all, they must come from love and, it seemed, from a greater love than mere mortals could offer.



Willow moaned, her hips rolling and bucking against Kennedy's wet, shining face. She grabbed her lover by her hair, wanting Kennedy's eyes and nose and lips and cheeks and chin against her pubes forever. "Drink me," she pleaded, as if Kennedy, without her entreaty, might desist from the enjoyment of Willow's liquid feast.



Kennedy's own pubes were soaked. The juices of her cunt actually dripped from the trim hair that decorated her sex. She trembled, on the verge of orgasm herself, as she concentrated upon Willow, shutting out all the world but her lover's streaming sex as she urged the witch toward climax, both with her lips and her tongue and her will.

<hr pg="3" />"What was that?" Willow cried, half-sitting.



Kennedy ignored her lover's startled outburst, as she disregarded everything else, focused entirely upon her girlfriend's sopping cunt, rigid clitoris, and slick, wet labia.



Willow's hands pushed Kennedy away. "What was that?" she demanded again.



Kennedy glared at her. "What was what?" she asked crossly.



"Listen!" Willow hissed.



The cliff overlooking Rio de Janeiro was backed with a thick jungle, wherein darkness crept as shadows among the nearly impenetrable foliage of trees and brush, leaves, vines, and ferns. A few moments ago, there had been the cawing of birds, the chattering of monkeys, the whooping and hooting of other beasts that flew, climbed, slithered, and crept beneath the rain forest's vast canopy, although, in the throes of approaching orgasm, Willow had suppressed these sounds and, in the intensity of her concentration on pleasuring the witch, Kennedy had not heard them at all. Now, however, the forest was silent. An ominous, eerie stillness lay over the land.



The sound that had disturbed Willow occurred again: a heavy, rushing, whipping sound, as of some large creature running headlong past tree branches and through dense underbrush.



"What the hell is that?" Kennedy wondered, alert and poised to react to anything.



"I don't know," Willow replied, "but it sounds like it may be coming this way."



"We don't have to worry, though, with your being a witch and me a Slayer, right?"



Willow shot her a glance.



"Okay, so I'm worried," Kennedy admitted.



Willow shushed her, straining to hear.



The rushing sound seemed to have gotten louder, as if whatever was causing it were closer.



Something burst from the edge of the jungle, something huge and fast--something monstrous. A demon, for sure, Willow thought.



The size of a locomotive engine, with a bonnet-like structure of bone and armored plates for a hide, the thing had red eyes that glowed like coals, flickering orange and yellow, and a long, sweeping tail covered in scales that ended in a sharp-edged crescents of bone deadlier than the blades of any scimitar.



Willow had thrown up a hand, the words of a protective spell upon her lips, conjuring a force field, and Kennedy had drawn the sword from the scabbard that lay upon the cliff's edge among her cast-off clothing, ready to meet the behemoth's charge.



Neither need to have bothered, though. Fast and nimble as the gargantuan beast was for its size, it could not react quickly enough to the abrupt disappearance of the rain forest and the sudden cliff a mere half dozen yards between the last stands of trees and the starry night beyond the plummeting precipice, and it ran right over the edge of the abyss, tumbling into the void, a bleat of panic that sounded as if it were part elephant's trumpet and part banshee's wail piercing the darkness.



Kennedy turned widened eyes upon her companion. "I repeat: what the hell was that?" she asked.



"That," a masculine voice, familiar to Willow but strange to Kennedy, replied, "is a stego-demon."



Willow grinned, welcome radiating from her face. Arms wide, she ran, closing the short distance between the newcomer and herself, embraced him fiercely, and cried, "Riley!"



"That's quite a welcome," the blonde woman beside Riley Finn stated. "Although I'm his wife, I seldom greet Riley in the nude unless, maybe, it's our anniversary."



"Nude?" Willow looked down at herself. "Oh, my God! I'm naked!"



Riley laughed.



"How could anyone forget she's naked?" his wife wondered.



"She's Willow," Riley explained.



"Oh, well, then," his wife said, "that explains it."



Still laughing at the red-faced, mortified witch, Riley said, "It would, if you knew Willow."



Kennedy, who'd already pulled on her jeans and thrown on her blouse, looked at the naked witch. "Who's Riley?" she asked.



"A commando," Willow said, hastening to dress.



"A used-to-be-commando," Riley corrected her.



"That explains the camouflage uniforms, I guess."



Attired again, Willow gave her friend from days past an arch look. "What are you doing here, anyway?"



"I was going to ask you the same thing," Riley returned.



"I guess we all have a lot of explaining to do."



"Not me," Kennedy said.



"Or me," Riley's wife agreed.



Riley introduced his wife, Michelle, to the lesbians, and Willow introduced Kennedy to Riley and both herself and Kennedy to Michelle, explaining, "She's a Slayer."



"Another one?" Riley asked.



"The world's full of them these days," Willow remarked. "I guess you and I have a lot of explaining to do," Willow told Riley.



"Ladies first," the ex-commando said.







Ahead, a waterfall roared as the great canoe rode the clanking chain up Splash Mountain's final, longest, steepest incline, and the passengers cringed, gritted their teeth, closed their eyes, gripped the bars that ran alongside the inner walls of their vehicle, and waited, with bated breath, for the moment at which their conveyance would tip, plummeting headlong down the 85-foot-long plume.



Sitting in front of Buffy and Nathan, Dawn held the front of her tank top, just over her nipples, between the thumbs and curled forefingers of each hand, awaiting her cue.



The hollowed-out log canoe clanked its way to the top of the sloped track, having left the winding waterway that it had followed through the mostly dark, cavernous interior of the artificial mountain. Then, as it settled back into the plummeting channel of water with a slap and a splash, a chorus of screams, half joyous and half terrified, shattered the expectant stillness. Flashbulbs exploded, and Dawn lifted her top, exposing her small, teenage breasts to the cameras hidden over the attraction's exit.



The log in which she and her fellow passengers rode streaked downward, blurring the boulders and plants and spraying water they passed and the crowds milling and strolling and standing around the gigantic theme park below.



From her high school friends--back in the days when she'd had a high school to attend and friends with whom to visit--Dawn had heard of the "flash at Splash" tradition in which women flashed their breasts at the cameras mounted above Splash Mountain's exit. Disneyland's officials had heard of the practice, too, and they'd ordered the photographs seized and, presumably, destroyed, for few, if any, continued to find their way onto the Internet, as they had before the park's administrators had gotten wise to the custom. Nevertheless, exposing herself to the camera was exciting, Dawn thought, as was the knowledge that someone--a boy, rather than a girl, she hoped--would be treated to the spectacle of Dawn's exposing herself, grinning as she showed her boobs inside the plummeting canoe.



As the canoe sped down the water-filled chute, Nathan gave Buffy's breasts a final squeeze, and the Slayer gave her pussy a final stroke, preparing to tug the lower front of her sundress back into place around her thighs, noting as she did so that her panties were moist from the juices that had dampened her crotch. Nathan had signaled his desire to have sex with her, and Buffy's own pussy had signaled her desire to oblige him.



As she adjusted her dress, Buffy was horrified to discover that a stiff, swollen penis and balls inside a tight, risen scrotum had grown from her groin. She had no idea what the hell had caused such an impossible feat, but there'd been no mistaking the fact that she, Buffy Summers, was no longer a female. She had the genitals of both sexes.



Buffy had become a hermaphrodite!



There was no way she'd be able to fuck Nathan now, she thought, smoothing her sundress in place over the bulge of her erection. In fact, as soon as they'd disembarked from the canoe that streaked through the walls of water its impact had sent to either side of the rushing craft, she was going to find a way to get away from her date. She was going to snatch Dawn and get the hell out of Disneyland.



Buffy the shemale vampire slayer was going to find out what had caused her transformation from a female into a shemale, and, when she did, whoever or whatever was responsible for it was going to pay dearly.



The band of audio-animatronics struck up a rendition of Zip a-dee doo dah, and the merry mixture of harmonicas, fiddles, and banjos, celebrating Brer Rabbit's escape from Brer Fox and Brer Bear and his safe return to the Briar Patch, signaled the end of the ride and the beginning of yet another bizarre adventure for Buffy, full of danger and horror and pain, most likely, that indicated, once again, that, whatever the plans of the Powers That Be for her might be to the contrary, they simply had not destined her to live the life of a normal girl.



. . . to be continued . . . .

