TITLE    : Cincinnati Apocalypse Ch. 02
STORYID  : cincinnati-apocalypse-ch-02
SUMMARY  : Forces gather, for good and for ill.
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2007-02-03
CATEGORY : celebrity-stories
FLAGS    : h
TAGS     : |shemale|


The problem with Americans--one of the many, anyway--Giles thought, was that they had too much of everything, including too much money and too much time on their hands. What else could explain the vulgar extravagance of a place like Disneyland?



The staff at the entrance turnstiles--guards, really, the former Watcher mused--had given him a hand-painted map--well, a brochure containing a tri-fold photograph of a hand=painted map--of the gigantic amusement park, showing its division into various "lands": Opening off the Town Square, Main Street, a promenade between false-fronted buildings resembling a pristine small town's chief boulevard led, to the left, to an implausible Adventureland and, to the right, to an equally unlikely Tomorrowland. Beyond Adventureland was New Orleans Square (so, presumably the park was in Louisiana, not Anaheim, California, after all, Giles told himself) and, beyond it, Critter Country. To the right of Critter Country lay Frontierland, then Fantasyland, and, finally, the circular park came round, as it were, once more, to Tomorrowland. The vast size of the park was intimidating, even with the map in hand, especially when he had to find one person among the thousands who milled and strolled about the wide lanes, crowded the various people movers, and waited in long, serpentine lines that folded back upon themselves numerous times as the park's visitors waited their turn for the few minutes' thrill this or that attraction or ride promised to provide. Americans, Giles told himself for the hundredth time since he'd become a resident of the United States nearly a decade ago, were definitely insane, there was no doubt about it. No wonder the demons had chosen to locate not one but two (and maybe more) of the inter-dimensional portals between their realm and the Earth, the Hellmouths, in such a country.



As he sought the Chosen One, Giles' gaze met many an incredible sight. Horse-drawn streetcars and double-decker buses transported passengers through throngs of passengers as the vehicles passed streetlamps blossoming with a bouquet lights inside frosted-white globes; brick sidewalks that fronted manicured parks planted with trees, green lawns, topiary, and banks and tiers of bright flowers; and decorative Victorian mansions. Among the multitudes, Disney characters strolled the neat streets, pausing to shake hands or hug children; to wave at no one in particular and, therefore, at everyone in general; or to do a couple of shuffling dance steps. Small bands, mimes, clowns, and other performers entertained groups of patrons who paused to see them play instruments and sing, juggle, walk on stilts, or act out a few simple slapstick routines. High overhead, in the central park, the American flag waved, as if awarding its red-white-and-blue approval to the performers' antics and bestowing a patriotic blessing upon the theme park itself.



"Americans!" Giles muttered, searching the hordes of guests for a glimpse of blonde hair; a petite, slender woman wearing a halter top and a mini-skirt or blue jeans (assuming that the one he sought was wearing such an outfit at all, which was a fairly safe bet, considering her keen fashion sense); or a necklace bearing a cross.



He saw not one, but several young women who met this description. None of them was the one he sought. Giles was thankful he'd thought of a stratagem by which he might gain the assistance of strangers in locating his quarry. He just hoped it worked.



Well, he thought, there was no time like the present to find out.



Giles surveyed the crowded street, seeking a likely candidate upon whom to try his ploy.



There! he thought. Winnie the Pooh! The honey-loving bear with the head stuffed with straw or sawdust or whatever it had inside instead of brains or Intel had always struck the former librarian as being rather dull, even for a fictional character-become-a-cartoon-become-a-costumed-Disney-theme-park character. Of course, Giles was well aware, the person inside the cumbersome Pooh costume might be anything but stupid. Still, the silliness of the character was somehow encouraging, and Winnie the Pooh seemed a good mark.



Drawing himself up to his full height, Giles dodged pedestrians, buses, and trolleys, making his way across the immaculate street to the spot at which Pooh stood, surrounded by admiring children.



He bided his time, waiting for the youngsters to collect their hugs and well wishes. When the band of tots moved on, Giles, reaching into his jacket, stepped forward.



"Mr. Pooh?" he said, feeling even stupider than he must have sounded, as he drew his wallet from the pocket inside his jacket, "I'm Special Agent Wheeling, FBI." He left the flap of his wallet drop, revealing the fake badge he'd purchased at a toy store. It was a solid-looking, respectable-looking but non-descript badge that bore the letters "FBI" in its center. He was hoping the Pooh person had never seen an FBI badge before (not that he or she was seeing one now) and that the star would look convincing.



"Mmpff," Winnie the Pooh replied. "Ummffph yaumpfgh."



"What?" Giles asked.



The bear waved a paw, signaling Giles to follow before leaving the curb, walking around a nearby corner, and stepping into a narrow alley between two buildings.



Warily, Giles had followed the costumed character. He watched the bear closely as the person within the costume, after a bit of a struggle, removed the ponderous head, revealing herself as a pretty, elfin-faced redheaded woman with a pixie's hairstyle. "I'm Gail," she identified herself. Then, she translated what she'd tried to say a few moments ago, encumbered by the Winnie the Pooh costume: "What can I do for you?"



Giles showed her a photograph in his wallet. "I'm looking for this woman. Have you seen her?"



"What'd she do?"



Giles ignored her query, repeating his own question. "Have you seen her?"



Gail shook her head. "I don't see much of anything inside this outfit."



"Are you certain?" Giles asked. "Please. Take your time. Be sure. This is a matter of some urgency."



Gail shook her head. "Sorry, but I'll keep my eye out for her, not that it's likely to do much good inside this costume."



"Thanks." Giles turned to leave.



"Wait. How do I reach you, if I do see her?"



"Oh." He hadn't thought of such an eventuality. He hesitated. "Call the L. A. office of the Bureau," he answered. "Ask for me, Special Agent Wheeling."



Gail watched the tall, good-looking man in the three-piece tweed suit stride back into the crowds. Funny, she thought, how an FBI agent had a British accent. She shrugged, took a deep breath, and, hating Walt Disney and all he stood for, pulled the hot, heavy, restrictive costume head back over her own head, strolled back onto the Town Square, and was almost immediately assailed by a group of wide-eyed, shouting children who were as delighted to encounter Winnie the Pooh as Gail was disappointed to see them.



Buffy had brought a jacket with her to Disneyland so she could put it on when the temperature dropped along with the sun, but, unfortunately, she'd left it in a locker, planning to pick it up later today, in the afternoon. She could certainly use it about now. Had she had it, she could have held it in front of her, to hide the bulge of her male genitals. Now that the artificial log in which she, her boyfriend Nathan, seated behind her, and Dawn, who sat in front of them, had braved the final, 85-foot plunge down Splash Mountain's flume. As it was, it was time to disembark from the canoe, and she had nothing with which to hide her cock and balls except her purse, which was absurdly small--tiny, in fact.



Dawn's purse wasn't, though! Buffy thought. "Dawn, let me see your purse," she called to her younger sister.



"Why?" Dawn demanded.



"Just let me see it."



"No."



"Dawn!"



"Okay, okay!" Mercifully, she handed her humongous purse back, over her shoulder.



Buffy snatched it from her sister's hand. "My God! This thing weighs a ton! What do you have in here, anyway?"



"Stuff," Dawn said, her tone petulant. "My stuff."



"I don't know how you manage to lug this thing around with you all day," Buffy said. She started to lift the flap to examine the handbag's contents.



"Don't go digging through my purse," Dawn ordered. "Give it to me."



"I need it."



"For what?"



"I just do. I'll tell you later, okay?"



Dawn considered her sister's statement. She shrugged. "Okay, just don't go digging through it."



For the past several years, Dawn had been a kleptomaniac. No one knew. No one even suspected. She'd never been arrested. She'd never even been spotted by store detectives or security guards. Even here, today, she'd stolen pounds of merchandise from a dozen shops and stores along Main Street without arousing anyone's suspicions. That's why her bag was so heavy. It was full of ill-gotten gains--jewelry, novelties, souvenirs, trinkets. Stealing from Mickey Mouse was a new low, Dawn thought. It wasn't something she was proud of having done, but she couldn't help it. She was as addicted to shoplifting as gamblers were to betting against the odds, as drunks were to alcohol, and as drug addicts were to the poisons of their choice.



Dawn was intelligent, and, although she gave little conscious thought to analyzing the motives of her behavior, she understood, almost intuitively, why she was driven to steal even things for which she had little or no use. Were she the moon, instead of a girl (or a cosmic key given human form as a girl), she'd be ever eclipsed by the power and the glory that was her big sister. In every way, without needing even to bother trying, Buffy was better than Dawn. Although Dawn was pretty, Buffy was prettier. She was also stronger, faster, had more stamina, was quicker witted, funnier, more sociable--and on and on the list went. They only thing that Buffy wasn't that Dawn was, Dawn thought, was stealthier. Buffy didn't need to be sneaky very often. As a result, she wasn't too good at skulking except when she was hunting a vampire to slay. Dawn, to the contrary, was very adept at hiding, at stealth, at sneakiness, and at dishonesty. As a shoplifter, she was an amazing thief. At home, her dresser's drawers were full of testaments to her skill at stealing--proof that, in this area, at least, she excelled over Buffy.



Her need to be better than Buffy in at least one area of life was one reason that Dawn stole. Another was that stealing undermined her older sister's purpose as the Slayer. As the Chosen One, Buffy's life was dedicated to protecting people from evil. The wickedness from which Buffy protected others wasn't anything as mild as shoplifting; it encompassed more important things like rescuing people and saving the world. Nevertheless, a criminal activity, no matter how paltry, was opposed to the good that Buffy both represented and accomplished. As such, Dawn's shoplifting was a symbolic slap in the face to Buffy. It allowed Dawn to gain the upper hand, if only in secret and symbolically. To flaunt her criminality, Dawn didn't even bother to remove the price tags from the items she stole!



There was a third motive for Dawn's shoplifting, too. If and when she was caught, there'd be hell to pay, which would make Dawn the center of a lot of attention--from the outraged shopkeeper or manager, from the police, and, finally, from Buffy. More than anything, Dawn, craved her big sister's attention and love, but Buffy was always too busy saving the world to have time for Dawn and her needs. If Dawn's shoplifting sprees eventually got her into trouble with the law, though, Buffy, as her legal guardian, would have to pay attention to her. Until then, her successes proved her superiority over Buffy where furtiveness was concerned, at least, and was a jibe at Buffy's status and work as the Chosen One. Plus there was the loot itself. A girl could get a whole lot more by stealing than she could by shopping.



"Whoa! What's this!" Nathan cried.



Buffy clutched Dawn's handbag more tightly to her groin, wondering in horror if her date had spied the unsightly bulge of her male genitals in the crotch of her jeans. "Uh, what's what?" she managed to mutter.



"Isn't that Dawn?" he asked.



It was. Or, actually, it wasn't. It was a photograph of her, lifting her top to expose her breasts--what there were of them--to the camera that had flashed as the canoe had topped forward and slid down the steep drop that ended the Splash Mountain ride in a plunge down the flume and a huge splash of water. Dawn's tits were on display to the world--or, at least, to the Disneyland guests who milled about the attraction's exit.



The Slayer stared at her little sister's naked chest. The sleek orbs with their stiff, standing nipples and swollen areolas showed her that Dawn wasn't so "little" a sister as she'd been only a year or so ago. "Dawn!" Buffy cried, horrified.



Dawn grinned.



"How could you?" the Slayer demanded.



"It's easy," Dawn answered, clasping her top. "Want me to show you?"



"What's gotten into you?"



"Buffy, don't you think we should buy the picture?" Nathan asked.



"Buy it?" Buffy repeated. "Why on earth should we buy that?"



"So someone else doesn't?" he asked.



"Good thinking," Buffy admitted.



Dawn didn't know how her photograph had gotten past the Disneyland Tit Police, as, she knew from discussions with her friends, it was the theme park's policy to destroy such photographs rather than to display them for sale, and the staff was usually very strict in enforcing this policy. Maybe one of the guys in charge of the vendor's stand thought Dawn was a hottie and wanted to showcase her breasts, she reasoned--or hoped.



"How much is a photo?" Buffy asked the clerk behind the booth's counter. Naturally, to increase Buffy's mortification, the clerk was a guy, and a geeky one, at that. According to his name badge, he was Dalton.



"Ten bucks."



"I'd like to buy that one," she said, pointing in the general direction of Dawn's risqué picture.



"Which one?" Dalton asked.



"That one," Nathan intervened on Buffy's behalf. He pointed directly at the photograph of Dawn.



Dalton grinned as, turning, he spotted the picture. "Good choice," he said, taking the photograph down from the wall behind him and setting it on the countertop. "You want a frame for it?" he asked.



Looking at Dawn, Buffy replied, "No, we're going to burn it."



"Wow. That's a shame," Dalton opined. He winked at Dawn. "She has quite a rack."



Dawn's grin widened. "Thanks."



"I'll thank you to keep your gross opinions to yourself," Buffy reprimanded him, "before I speak to your supervisor, who is--let me guess--Mickey Mouse?"



After Buffy paid for the photograph, ripped it into confetti-size pieces, and discarded it in a nearby trash receptacle, Nathan said, "So, ladies, where to next?"



"The lockers," Buffy answered. "I want to get my jacket."



Nathan looked puzzled. The temperature was hovering around ninety degrees Fahrenheit. "You cold?"



"Not yet, but the sun will be going down, and--"



"Buffy, it's only three o'clock," he advised her.



"I know, but if we get it now, we won't have to get it later, and--"



Nathan laughed, shaking his head. Her reasoning made no sense, but he'd learned long ago not to point out fallacious logic to a female. "Okay," he replied, "you've convinced me."



"Can I have my purse back now?" Dawn whined. "Please?"



"No," Buffy said.



"Why not?"



Buffy kept possession of the handbag, using it to conceal the bulge of her cock and balls. "I'm not speaking to you after what you did," Buffy snapped, hoping this tactic would end her sister's complaints and inquiries.



Dawn snapped back, "Fine!"



Nathan, walking between them, was glad he'd been born a guy and was, therefore, able to live a simple life without breasts, purses, and PMS.



"Americans," Giles muttered again.



He'd employed his toy FBI badge twice more and had been sent in opposite directions by Disneyland employees who'd claimed to have seen Buffy. They could be telling the truth. Disneyland was huge, and the impulsive and spontaneous impulses of young people often pulled them this way and that, preventing them from following a more methodical approach to whatever business was at hand. However, it was also possible that the employees had seen a girl--or girls--who, to them, resembled the Slayer. There were, after all, quite a few pretty blondes in Southern California. Of course, there was a third possibility as well. The employees could have deliberately misdirected him, playing a practical joke on him. In any case, despite his impersonating an FBI agent, he was no closer to finding Buffy than he'd entered the park an hour or so ago, and it was vital that he find her, before it was too late, as, once again, the fate of the world was at stake.



An apocalypse was at hand--or, more precisely--was imminent in--of all places--Cincinnati, Ohio. Buffy's presence was needed--again.



And, here Giles was, at Disneyland, where he had about as much hope of finding Buffy as he would a conservative politician at the Democratic National Convention. Nevertheless, he told himself, he must persevere--the fate of the world and all that.



He'd given up on his impersonation of an FBI agent. His new strategy, which, he told himself, was just as lame, was to look for blondes about Buffy's size, hoping against hope that, sooner or later, he might spot her or her little sister, Dawn. "Not bloody likely," he muttered, searching the crowds for anyone who resembled the Slayer. There were a lot of young women, many of them blondes, walking this way and that along the theme park's Main Street, but none of them was The One Girl In All The World.



Buffy strode quickly through the throngs of Disneyland guests, some of whom cast angry glances in her direction as they stepped hurriedly aside to avoid her colliding with them and others of whom made rude remarks. Buffy ignored the gazes and the curses alike, concentrating solely on reaching the locker in which she'd stuffed her jacket for safekeeping and upon her keeping Dawn's purse jammed against her crotch. They'd left Splash Mountain and Critter Country far behind and were closing fast on Main Street, where the lockers were located.



"Wait up!" Nathan called.



"What's the rush?" Dawn called, straggling behind both her sister and Buffy's boyfriend. "It's not like we're going to Cincinnati."



Nathan frowned. Looking over his shoulder at the youngest of their group, he repeated, "Cincinnati?"



Dawn gave a curt nod of her head. "Cincinnati."



"Buffy?" Nathan called, "are you going to Cincinnati?"



"No!" Buffy called back, not bothering to pause or look back. The lockers were just ahead, halfway down Main Street, and nothing would keep her from them and the retrieval of her jacket. Once she'd tied the coat around her waist to make a makeshift apron of the garment, she could return Dawn's handbag to her. More importantly, she could sort out her very confused thoughts concerning her late acquisition of a cock and a pair of balls to go along with her cunt and tits. No doubt, something hellish was going on somewhere and, once again, she was the victim of it.



Had she not asked her friend, Willow the witch, to delete the memories of her previous experience as Buffy the Shemale Vampire Slayer from her mind, the Slayer would have known that her present state was caused by the recurrent side-effects of a Feral demon's nasty bite several weeks ago. Then, after having anal sex with her mentor (the price of admission to the demon dimension where Willow had been being held by the devil Baphomet), Buffy had saved the day once more, this time rescuing Willow, whom Xander's jilted bride Anya, a vengeance demon, had dispatched there to avenge her cruel treatment by the witch's best friend (Xander). It was all very complicated, but even the complexity of the bizarre adventures, during which Buffy had learned about Xander's bisexuality, had had sex with Anya and Willow (and Giles), and had been gang-taped by a horde of really nasty demons, mattered; Buffy, thanks to Willow, had no recollection of any of them. Therefore, her acquisition of male genitals had come as a complete and terrifying shock to her. She wanted answers, but, first, she wanted her jacket.

<hr pg="2" />Giles was looking over his shoulder when he tripped over something--or someone--big. Impossibly big. Bigger than a Hell's Angel or Dog the Bounty Hunter.



"Oof!" he cried as he fell forward, scraping his palms as he used his hands to break his fall. He looked up and back, to see that his luck, which was bad, was holding true. Of all people or, he supposed he should say, dogs, he'd tripped over none other than Mickey Mouse's dog, Pluto.



"Oaf?" The muffled voice inside the gargantuan head of the Pluto-costumed entertainer cried. "You tripped over me. If anyone's the oaf, it's you."



"I didn't say 'oaf,'" Giles replied. "I said 'oof.'"



"Why would anybody say 'oof'?" Pluto demanded. "It's not even a word."



"It's an interjection," Giles informed the costumed canine.



"That doesn't count," Pluto retorted, "whatever that is."



"It's the eighth part of speech," Giles declared, "and it does count."



The children who'd been visiting with Pluto when Giles tripped over him looked uneasy. A few started to back away. They'd been loyal fans of Disney all their young lives, and they knew that Pluto didn't talk. He couldn't talk, even if he'd wanted to do so. Now, Goofy, that was a different story. Although he was also a dog, Goofy could talk, and he did talk, often and hilariously.



But not Pluto.



Pluto never talked.



Sure that they were correct about Pluto's inability to speak, the youngsters fled, terrified to find that one of their beloved characters was an imposter. No doubt, as such, he had bad intentions.



"Now, see what you've done?" Pluto asked, peeved. "You've frightened off the children."



"Giles?" an astonished voice cried.



The Englishman spun, eyes wide, grinning. The young woman's voice wasn't merely familiar; it was unmistakable. "Buffy?"



The Slayer, pretty as ever, blonde as ever, and energetic as ever, was dressed in a tight, thin top that revealed her nipples way too clearly for her former mentor's comfort, skin-tight jeans, and knee-high boots with high heels. She wore a black leather jacket around her waist, with the bulk of it in front, rather than behind, so that it resembled an apron. This was a style of dress, Giles thought, that was decidedly odd, even by Buffy's standards.



Behind her, a handsome young man ran toward them, and behind him, always the straggler, Dawn brought up the rear.



"What are you doing here?" the Slayer asked.



"Faith sent me," he said.



"If it's about Cincinnati," Buffy began, "I--"



Giles nodded. "It is."



"Well, that's just too bad. I have no inten--"



"It's an apocalypse."



Buffy frowned, rolling her eyes. "Another one?"



Nathan had arrived, and he said, "What's an apocalypse?"



"You don't want to know," Buffy and Giles answered in unison.



"Giles?" Dawn said, as she joined the others. "What are you doing here?"



"I've come to get you--or, more precisely, to get Buffy. To take her--both of you--back with me, to Cincinnati."



"Cincinnati? You mean the city in Ohio?" Nathan asked, looking from Giles to Buffy.



"That's the one," Buffy agreed.



"Wait just a minute," Nathan said. "I mean, we have something going here, together, and--"



"Drat! I wanted to see Toon Town," Dawn lamented, "where the sidewalks talk to you."



Faith had fucked Xander fast and furiously, more raping him than making love to him. Astraddle his thighs, she'd pounded his erect member with her gushing cunt, savagely riding him. The faster she'd driven her pussy down upon his stiff, standing cock, the faster she wanted--the faster she needed--to thrust her sex onto and against and around his prick, and the harder she drove her juicy gash--someone had called it, grossly but appropriately, "the wound that never heals"--the harder she needed to do so. Before long, she was a frenzied, punishing attacker, assaulting Xander with not only her voracious cunt but with her entire body, mind, and soul as well. She'd raped the poor bastard as much as if she'd held a knife to his throat and forced herself upon him.



Not that Xander was complaining.



He never had, and, Faith was pretty sure, he wouldn't now, as she introduced him to Mr. Pointy. If he did, well, she'd give him something to complain about.



Faith's predecessor, the Slayer from Jamaica named Kendra, had given Buffy her "lucky stake," with which she'd killed many vampires. She'd named it "Mr. Pointy," which had prompted Buffy to tell her, "Remind me to get you a stuffed animal." Faith thought the name made a cute and appropriate name for the strap-on dildo she'd purchased a few years back and carried with her in her suitcase whenever she relocated to another town, always willing to mix business with pleasure. She was pretty sure that Xander wouldn't let his manliness--what there was of it--get in his way of being fucked by a beautiful woman. In her experience, most men didn't.



Faith had opted for a step-through harness that she pulled up, over her thighs, so that the straps fit snugly over her buttocks and around her waist. The silicone cock, a nine-inch "circumcised" beauty in purple with a permanently exposed pink glans, jutted from the hole through which she inserted it at about the same level as Xander's own prick protruded from his groin. Donning the harness was an easy task, as Faith had adjusted the straps numerous times in the past, and they needed little further adjustment, as she maintained her girlish figure easily, both as a matter of her superior Slayer's metabolism and her extraordinary amount of exercise in staking vamps, demons, and other creatures of the night. Sliding a condom over the silicone cylinder, she felt its weight and bounce as it jiggled and swayed in the harness. It felt good, she thought.



Her movements finally got the better of Xander's determination to sleep after orgasm, like a typical male, and he rolled over, an annoyed expression on his face. "What are you doing?" he demanded. Then, he saw the strapped-on dildo, and his eyes widened. "What the fuck?"



"I'm glad you didn't drift off on me," Faith told him. "I have a little something in store for you." She flicked the nine-inch dildo, and it bobbed in place. "Actually, I have quite a lot in store for you."



"No way!" Xander protested. "You're not sticking that monster up my ass!"



Faith smiled at his bravado. Most men felt that they had to at least pretend to resist. With a few soft words, they could easily be talked into trying anal sex. Most of them, of course, had already been on the giving and the receiving end of a cock, orally, anally, or otherwise, but their misguided machismo prevented them from acknowledging the truth of the matter. Most of them, including Xander, it appeared, had to pretend they were too manly to submit to a cock up their asses.



"Have you forgotten who I am?" Faith asked. "What I am?"



"You're a Slayer. Big deal. You're still not sticking that--"



"And what are you?" she challenged him.



"You know who I am."



Her smile broadened. "Not who you are. What you are."



"I'm a man."



"Are you?"



"You're damned right I am."



"Today," Faith told him, "you're going to be my bitch."



"In your dreams."



Faith held his gaze with hers. "The same way you were Anya's bitch all those times."



Xander's face exhibited an array of changing expressions, mirroring his confusion, horror, humiliation, anxiety, and dread.



"That's right," Faith informed him, "big mouth Anya told us everything."



"Us?"



She grinned even more widely. "Buffy, Willow, even Dawn."



Xander's lower jaw dropped. "Dawn?"



"We all know you've had a strap-on up your ass," she assured him. "We all know that Anya played the man as often as she let you be the dominant partner. Even Dawn knows, so spare us both a lot of unnecessary drama and denial, okay? Don't act like you don't know what to do; just do it."



Xander hesitated, tears gathering in his eyes. "We can't," he protested lamely. "We have to monitor the radio. Giles could call, or Buffy, or--"



"I turned the radio off."



"Faith! We can't do that! What if--"



"The sooner you roll your ass over and spread your cheeks, the sooner I'll turn the damned thing on again."



Xander felt the tears spill from his flooded eyes. "Please, Faith--"



"I'm waiting," she said. "If you don't keep me waiting another second, I might not even tell the others about this."



Having descended the high mountain in the their rented Volkswagen, with Riley and Michelle cramped in the backseat as their passengers, Willow walked with Riley while, a few paces behind them, Kennedy walked beside Michelle. Although, on the drive back into town, Willow and Riley had caught one another up on what they'd been doing since they'd last seen one another, they'd decided to stroll the streets of Rio de Janeiro together before going their separate ways at dawn. 



"So you're big rogue-demon-hunter guy?" Willow remarked, casting a sidewise glance at Riley. "I'm impressed."



The commando grinned. "And Kennedy," he said, referring to Willow's current lover. "I'm impressed."



Willow smiled. "Michelle's not too hard on the eyes, either." She thought about how Riley and Buffy had once been a couple, and she felt a surge of loyalty for her friend, the Slayer. "Of course," she added hastily, "she's no Buffy."



"That's true," Riley replied, rather curtly, "but she'll do."



"Oh, gee, Riley, I didn't mean to--"



"Forget it," he told her. "You're loyalty's refreshing."



Willow shrugged. "It's nothing. Buffy brings that out in people."



"I guess she didn't bring it out in me," Riley admitted.



Great! Willow chided herself. Twice now, she'd opened her mouth and inserted her foot. "Riley, I--" she started.



"It's okay," Riley stopped her. "Like I said, Michelle will do. Actually, she's quite a girl."



Willow gave her friend a lascivious smile. "She has quite a package, all right."



"She has the personality to go with it."



"Kennedy does, too."



As Kennedy and Michelle strolled the streets of one of the world's most romantic cities, Kennedy couldn't help but to steal a few glances at her companion. Although Kennedy had no intention whatsoever of ever cheating on Willow, a girl could look, she thought, as long as she was willing not to touch.



A tall, lithe-limbed woman with close-cropped blonde hair, Michelle was big-bosomed, with wider hips than was currently popular among the faggot fashion designers who dictated women's sex appeal. She had long legs, too, and flawless skin. Her eyes were long of lash and hazel of iris. Kennedy could see what had attracted Riley to her. If Kennedy weren't already in a relationship with Willow and Michelle were gay instead of straight, Kennedy herself would have been interested in the statuesque beauty--and more than merely interested--way more.



"I'm sorry," the Slayer said, realizing that Michelle had addressed her. "I didn't catch that."



"I was just wondering," she repeated, "how long you and Willow have--um--been-- ah--together."



"Less than a year. How about you and Riley?"



"Going on three."



"You must be keeping his batteries charged--oops. Sorry. I didn't mean--"



Michelle chuckled. "It's okay," she said. "I do keep his batteries charged, as you say."



"Me, too--with Will, I mean."



"Do you mind if I ask you a question?"



"You just did."



"Another one, then? A personal one?"



"Shoot--but metaphorically, commando girl."



"If you don't want to answer, that's fine; I'll under--"



"Would you ask, already?"



"Well, I was just wondering--which one of you is the--well, you know--the 'guy.'"



Kennedy spluttered. "It doesn't work like that. Not exactly."



"Oh."



They walked a few steps in silence.



Michelle was afraid she might have insulted or offended Kennedy. Then, Kennedy whispered, "Willow is, but don't tell her I told you so."



Michelle smiled, relieved that she hadn't offended her newfound friend. "Your secret's safe with me."



Ahead, Riley said, "Even by night, Rio's beautiful. It must be breathtaking by day."



"It is," Willow agreed. "Seen from the foot of the statue of Christ the Redeemer, the cluttered blocks of high-rise buildings shrink to inconsequential, barely noticeable toy size; the beach is a crescent sliver of white, beyond which the blue Atlantic ripples serenely; the great egg shape of Sugarloaf rises from its green-cloaked base, a stone tower against both sea; and, beyond, a ring of craggy peaks fade into the distance, merging with the sky."



"Wow, Willow!" Riley said. "You should have been a poet. "Michelle and I got here a week ago, and we've seen a little of the town, but I wouldn't have been able to describe it like you did."



The witch blushed. "Thanks."



"The beaches are beautiful, too."



"Yeah, there's something about that white sand."



"I wasn't talking about the sand. The other day, I saw the most amazing blonde, wearing a bright red-orange thong bikini. She was stooped over, splashing water onto her ankles and calves, and--"



Willow giggled. "Down, boy!"



"Her ass was tanned, like the rest of her. It was smooth and tight and perfect, just like--"



"'Down, boy,' I said. Heel!" Willow gave him a mischievous smile. "You want Michelle to know you're checking out the feminine pulchritude?"



Riley laughed. "I think she knows."



A shrill beep-beep-beep pierced the air.



Rattled, Willow demanded, "What the hell is that?"



Michelle, leaving Kennedy's side, hurried forward. "It's Giles."



In unison, one sounding as surprised as the other, Willow and Riley exclaimed, "Rupert Giles?"



"The same," Michelle confirmed. "Well, not Giles himself--he left a message with Eagle Eye."



Willow cocked an eyebrow at Riley. "Eagle Eye?"



Riley looked embarrassed. "Our control's codename." He looked at Michelle. "What's the message?"



"He wants us to locate Willow and Kennedy, bring them to Cincinnati."



"Did he say why?"



"Apocalypse."



"Again?" Willow cried.



"He sent a warning, too," Michelle added.



"Go ahead," Riley prompted.



"He says for Kennedy to look out for the husbandmen."



Kennedy had stepped up to join Willow. "I don't like the sound of that, for two reasons: 'husband' and 'men.' No offense, Riley."



"What are husbandmen?" Willow quipped. "Mutant Ninja Turtle wannabes?"



"I can answer this one," Riley volunteered. "I was raised on a farm, in Iowa, with corn and vegetables and livestock and stuff."



"Okay," Kennedy said. "What, exactly, am I supposed to be looking out for, then?"



"Someone who plows and cultivates a field."



"A farmer?" Willow asked.



"Could be, but a husbandman can also be somebody that breeds animals."



"You're a farmer!" Kennedy cried, adopting a karate stance.



"Down girl," Michelle said. "Riley has no intention of breeding with you." She gave her husband an arch look. "Do you?"



"Of course not!" Riley assured her.



Kennedy maintained her stance.



"Relax," Willow advised her.



"You sure?" Kennedy asked, eyeing Riley closely.



"I'm sure," Willow reassured her.



Kennedy dropped the attack posture.



"I'm pretty sure, anyway," Willow told her.



"Willow!" Kennedy chided the witch.



The witch laughed. "Okay, okay, I'm totally sure."



"The call was forwarded to Eagle Eye from L. A.," Michelle informed the group. "From Anaheim, to be more exact."



Willow frowned. "I thought he was in Cincinnati, with Faith and Xander." She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "Don't tell me he's traipsing around Disneyland or something, shirking his duties," she joked.



"Ohmygod!" Kennedy cried, wide eyed.



The others turned to her.



"What" Willow demanded.



"In the old days of sexism and misogyny and patriarchy, women were regarded as field to be planted."



"Just make it quick, okay?" Xander pleaded.



Faith smacked him hard across the ass. "Quiet!" she commanded.



"Ouch!" Xander blubbered through his tears.



The pink glans of the purple latex dildo was poised at the portal to Xander's bowels, and she concentrated, wanting to insert the bulbous tip into his well-lubricated asshole without using her hands.



The artificial penis wavered a bit, and she paused.



"Can't we get this over with?" Xander wailed.



Faith smacked his ass harder, swatting him four times in rapid succession, reddening his buttocks. "I said shut up!" she ordered. "One more word, and I won't only fuck you twice as long, but I'll fuck you twice as hard as well."



Xander had never felt as humiliated as he felt now, on his elbows and knees, legs wide spread, his raised buttocks parted, utterly at the mercy of someone else, and a woman hardly out of her teens at that, about to be taken up the ass with a fake dick that was almost as long and thick as his forearm--and by someone, her age and sex notwithstanding, who possessed superhuman strength and endurance, minimal sympathy and compassion, and only the merest shred of a conscience.



From the first day they'd met, Faith had demonstrated her belief in her superiority as a feminine version of Nietzsche's superman, and, although she'd softened a little, it was very little. Without someone like Buffy or Willow to keep her in check, she could be very dangerous, even without an artificial cock strapped to her groin. With one, she could easily be lethal. Under the circumstances, he told himself, he'd do well to keep his mouth shut.



The wobbly cock, jutting from her groin like a pole, felt heavy and awkward, Faith thought. It also felt sexy as hell. It gave her the power of the phallus, heightening her sexuality. Although she retained her femininity, it also made her feel the way she imagined men--real men, not pussyboys like Xander--must feel when they fucked a girl. This was how the vampires Angel and Spike--and even the soldier boy, Riley Finn--must have felt when they'd fucked Buffy.



The sense of strength and power were exhilarating, as was the thought that Xander, a male, if not a man, was nothing more to her than an orifice to be penetrated, a core to be invaded, occupied, and reamed. In butt-fucking him, Faith wouldn't be taking his manhood. Anya had done that long ago or, perhaps, another guy had stripped him of his virginity even before the vengeance demon had strapped on her first dildo. However, Faith could and would reinforce Xander's awareness of his submissiveness and his inferiority. At the same time, she'd assert her own dominance and superiority. In making him her slave, she'd become his mistress. Already, before she'd done anything more than lather his anus with lubricant, she'd reduced him to tears. Before she was done plunging her phallus into his rectum, she'd have mortified and humiliated him to such an extent that he'd never recover--or forget.



Faith crouched above and behind Xander, the heavy dildo pointed between his parted buttocks. She gave her hips a slight, experimental thrust, and the artificial erection slid away from its target, his anus, and slid up, along the cleavage of his ass. She drew her hips back again, repositioned the end of the phallus against Xander's asshole, and paused.



A man, she knew, felt a connection, through his penis, with the flesh of his partner. He felt the firm resistance of his lover's sphincter as he pressed his cock into the other's bottom. He felt his companion's asshole spread before the advance of his hard column of flesh and felt the sudden roominess beyond as he forced his member through the circular barrier and into his lover's rectum. There was a connection between him and his partner. The flesh and blood of his penis were embraced and engulfed by the flesh and blood of the other's anus and bowels. If his cock wobbled, the wobbling was not something outside him or even something that was merely attached to him. It was, instead, a wobbling with which he was both one and separate. Even when he missed his mark, as Faith had just missed hers, his cock rubbed along the cleft between the other's buttocks.

<hr pg="3" />Faith felt no sensation in her artificial penis, for it lacked nerves and could feel nothing. She felt deprived. In playing the male, she'd like to feel what a man felt, not merely a simulation or a facsimile of what he felt. She wanted to feel the actual feelings themselves. Instead, her cock-that-wasn't-a-cock, although it poked and slid and, eventually, would pierce and slide, fucking like a real prick, it would remain what it was--a mere dildo, unable to join, to feel, to overcome the gulf that she forever felt between herself and others. In the final analysis, the strap-on dildo was artificial, not actual, and it kept her apart from Xander rather than uniting her with him.



On the other hand, precisely because the dildo maintained, rather than dissolved, the estrangement that Faith felt between herself and others, between herself and even a young man she was going to fuck--in a moment, would be fucking--in the ass, it was sexy. Its inability to truly unite her with Xander--or with whoever she was fucking--was exciting. It was arousing. Already, her cunt was liquid with passion. The dildo's inability to feel or to join reminded Faith that it was merely a thing, an instrument, a tool and that, as such, it gave her only the semblance of power. In the final analysis, she remained as impotent in overcoming the separation between herself and others as she was as a woman or as a Slayer. Power could never overcome the gulf that yawned between one person and another.



Some claimed that love could do so. If love could accomplish such a feat, that would be a miracle. But faith had never known such love. She'd never known love at all until it had been too late for her to believe in it, to embrace it, to accept it. All she'd ever known was power, the ability to dominate and to control. Power, though, was, at best, a mere substitute for love, and, worse yet, power was something that destroyed but could not create, something that could bring pain but not pleasure, or that could cause death but not life.



The tiny opening into Xander's innermost depths would open to admit her. She would shove the purple phallus through his anus, past his sphincter, and into his bowels, and she would fuck him fast and hard and long. She would possess him, master him, stealing his self-respect and what was left of his manhood, reducing him to tears. In lieu of love, that had to be enough.



Faith wiggled her hips, and the end of the eternally hard, nine-inch dildo settled into the tiny depression of Xander's anus. She eased her hips forward, and, this time, the artificial prick did not slide away from its target. It slid home, stretching the circle of Xander's anus wider than Faith would have believed possible, and she watched its thick length slide through the sphincter, vanishing between--and into--Xander's impaled buttocks.



Instinctively, Xander tried to lunge forward, but he had little room, and Faith followed his lead, plunging the phallus even further into his skewered ass. He moaned, surrendering. His muscles went limp, and Faith heard him whimpering. He'd made up his mind to be her bitch. He'd submitted. His soft sobs told her of the anguish in his mind and the torment of his soul at being unmanned by her, a woman he knew was stronger and more agile, had greater staying power, and could move faster and more precisely than he could ever hope to be or to perform.



His moans were music to her ears, and Faith smiled as she drew back her hips, watching the dildo emerge through his speared asshole, becoming visible, inch by slow inch, as she withdrew it, slowly, between his buttocks. "Bitch!" she cried, triumph and derision equally present in her tone.



The dildo quavered, its pink glans still inside the circle of Xander's wide-stretched anus. His cock and balls hung, limp and soft, between his legs. Faith reached around him, cupping his genitals in her hand. She gave them a hard squeeze. "You'll get hard," she predicted. "Before I'm through with you, you'll be stiff with desire, slut!"



The dildo's head still inside Xander's asshole, Faith tightened the muscles in her own buttocks, the sinews in her thighs and belly constricting as the Slayer prepared to drive the thick, firm prick back into his buttocks, filling him to the very hilt, until the fake balls at the base of the fake cock pressed firmly against the bottom curves of Xander's ass, flattening his butt-cheeks between the crushing force of her groin.



However, before the Slayer could accomplish her intention, the wall of the motel room, the window in its center, part of the splintered doorframe, and the combination air conditioner-heating unit exploded inwardly, showering the startled couple in bed with glass, wood, and metal debris.



"What the hell?" Faith thundered as she saw the demon-things step through the hole they'd crashed through the side of the room.



Covered in shaggy hides, with bulbous heads amid wavering tentacles; broad shoulders; deep chests; short, but powerful, arms; and thick, squat legs, there were three of them--all with huge erections and balls the size of a punching bag. They were amazingly fast, too. Before Faith could do more than cry out, the fiends were upon her. With a mighty swipe of an arm, the first to arrive at the side of the bed, batted her away from Xander, the end of the dildo popping from his reamed asshole, and, ignoring him altogether, seized Faith by the neck. The others were upon her as well, within an instant, before Xander realized that Faith was no longer in bed with him and her dildo was no longer lodged inside his bottom.



<i>. . . to be continued. . . .</i>

