Buffy Beaten update

In French class, Cordelia was daydreaming.

She was used to Xander eying her, the creepy pervert, staring at her way more than any other boyfriend she’d ever had. Not like any man she’d ever known, really. More like he wanted to… own her. Possess her. Completely have her. Like there was a depth to his desire for her that went way beyond getting his cock wet.

Now that she was in a different class than him—because imagine Xander Harris learning French—she found herself missing Xander’s eyes. She thought about how it would feel to have him looking at her again, that combination of seeing in his eyes, as if she were everything to him. A goddess to be worshipped, a bitch to be disdained, some kind of challenger to be fought. And her pussy clenched, as if Xander were caressing her now. She felt wetness covering her slit.

When Cordelia closed her eyes, she could see the bulge of Xander’s erection inside his jeans—think of how it reacted to her, how it pounded through his denim. Her cunt rippled with spasms of pure need. If she thought about him much longer, she would cream herself, but Cordelia couldn’t bring herself to care. Not that she was fantasizing about an A-1 Loser, not that she was actually in some kind of relationship with said loser, and not that she was making herself so fucking horny that she could’ve done him right then and there. No wonder she had jacked him off in the middle of gym. She was becoming a model slut… and Cordelia liked it.

This had gone on long enough. She just had to leave class, either to relieve herself or to stop feeling these things. She got up slowly—could she hear her cunt dripping or was that more of her overactive imagination? Her legs felt rubbery as they took her weight, her clit like a smoldering ember in her panties. It felt like her pussy was about to burst into flames. Or, given how wet it was, come to a boil…

“Ms. Chase,” said the substitute teacher, and for a moment Cordelia panicked. Had he heard it? Smelled it from across the room?

But no. Mr. Stratford was sweeping by her desk, setting her test down before her, grade glaring in red. 64.

“Sixty-four?” Cordelia gasped. It was like he’d thrown a bucket of cold water on her overactive libido, but Cordelia was hardly grateful. “Teacher, that’s a D!”

“Yes, it is,” Stratford agreed, continuing to distribute graded papers through the glass. “At least we can rest assured you’re doing well in math.”

Titters went up through the class and Cordelia fumed even hotter. Not only was he failing her, he was humiliating her too?

“I cannot get a D in French! I’ve been to France!”

“Must not’ve been a long trip,” Stratford quipped mercilessly. And for the first time since Xander Harris, Cordelia found herself speechless.

She could’ve sworn she had a comeback, but the bell rang then, drowning it out—even if it was only the kind of word that would’ve gotten her detention if it’d been heard.

***

After school, Buffy met up with her friends at the Bronze. For once, the loud music and hazy lights didn’t seem welcoming, but overpowering. Making it hard to think, hard to hold a conversation. Buffy had wanted to meet up with them to compare notes on the last few days. She hadn’t been out to the graveyard yet, but she got the feeling it would be slim pickings again. No demons, no vampires, not even—anything. 

What did that mean? Was it the calm before the storm? Were they all planning something? Or was it like Halloween and all the monsters had decided to stay in—though it wasn’t even October—some other special occasion, not yearly, but coming around once every century or millennium, like a, like… like the thing where two planets…

Buffy scratched at her blonde locks. That was another thing! She felt not only weaker, but slower mentally. She’d never been an A student, but lately, her thoughts just seemed more distant… harder to jump to. She hadn’t wanted to mention it; who wanted to admit to being dumber than usual? And none of it was affecting her slaying, since there was no slaying. But she wanted to bring it up somehow… Work her way around to the subject in some clever way, if she could think up a segue to the topic when the music was pounding and the air was full of smoke, the lights blazing in her face despite the dimness of the club, and now a waiter appeared at the booth where she and her friends had gathered, setting down a bottle of Gordon’s Gin and four glasses. 

“Sorry for the wait,” the man said, and departed, lost instantly in the cloud of sweating, gyrating bodies that took up the dance floor.

Buffy looked at the bottle. That was most definitely not two liters of Diet Coke. “Excuse me!” she called after him, hand raised for his attention. “We didn’t order this! Hey, we’re not even old enough to—“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Xander said quickly, reaching over to take her outstretched hand by the wrist and pull it down. “Buff, are you nuts? This is a golden opportunity! Thanks to the vicissitudes of the service industry, we get all the alcohol we can drink without so much as a single fake ID between us!”

Buffy resisted the urge to ask him what ‘vicissitudes’ were. “We’re not supposed to,” she said, her argument stalling on that point.

“Buffy’s right,” Willow said, backing her up regardless.

“’Buffy’s right,’” Cordelia mimicked, in a mockingly mincing take on Willow’s nervy voice. “God, you could use a drink, carrot-top. Maybe that’ll give you enough testosterone to finally French Buffy instead of just giving her come-hither looks.”

“Shut up,” Willow muttered feebly under her breath. “I don’t want people to… come hither…”

Buffy thought dimly of picking the bottle up and escorting it back to the bar, explaining their server’s mistake, but with an assertiveness she was more used to in herself, Xander picked it up and worked the cap off. 

“What’s the big deal?” Xander asked. “Between the four of us, it’s not like one bottle is going to get us blotto. And we’re not going to get in any trouble. Hell, if they say anything, they’re the ones in trouble for giving us the bottle in the first place. We’re innocent young children. We probably think it’s Sprite or something.”

He poured for all of them. Buffy thought he made a disturbing amount of sense, for Xander. He shoved the first filled glass in front of her.

“Drink up, Buffster. If anyone’s earned it, you have.”

“You should,” Cordelia agreed, almost winking at Buffy. “That’s a good brand.” She spoke with experience so obvious that it counted as a weapon. “But if you don’t think you’re mature enough to handle it…”

Buffy picked up the glass and downed her first sip. She had been worried that it would burn, but it didn’t. It tasted good—sweet and a little fruity. She found herself giggling as it ran down her throat to warm her tummy. 

“Not bad,” she said.

Xander slapped down a full glass in front of Willow. “Will, your turn.”

Willow stared at the glass like she was trying to detect poison in it, until Cordelia swiped it from her. “Hey!”

“If you don’t want any,” Cordelia condescended, “more for us. Right, Xand?”

“Yeah,” Xander agreed reluctantly, eying the redhead. He poured for himself, but stopped the flow in relief when Willow reached out to take the newly poured glass. She drank quickly, coughed, then held her stomach.

“Wow,” Willow said. “Wow, that’s really… I think I had a lot. Was that a lot?”

“For a beginner,” Cordelia said, mixing the slightest bit of sympathy in with her patronizing attitude.

“You tried it,” Xander said. “That’s the important thing.”

“I want some more,” Buffy piped up ingratiatingly. “I liked it.”

“I did too!” Willow cried, as if arguing.

“Will you let me have some? I haven’t gotten any,” Xander said as he filled the last glass. He drank from it, taking his guard off the bottle. Buffy snatched it, feeling a certain euphoria from exercising her Slayer reflexes. She topped off both herself and Willow. 

And why not? Wasn’t this what normal teenagers did? If anything was worse than the halfway incomplete hunger and arousal she felt after a slay-job, it had to be this endless frustration. Nothing to do, no way to be useful. All her skills and instincts wasted while she was at her physical peak. No wonder she felt dilapidated. She was fading away without her purpose in life. Why not fill the void the way that everyone else did, with her friends, with life, maybe a drink or a cute boy or… some dancing…

It was hard to think—someone always refilling her glass—the gin keeping her throat wet and her belly warm—but her rowdy thoughts repeated with an insistent throbbing. She deserved this. She’d earned it. She’d been robbed of it, being made the Slayer, and that’d screwed her up so much that she couldn’t enjoy even a taste of normalcy… Fuck that. If the boogeymen wanted to stay under the bed and in the closet (hee!), she’d let them. She’d have plenty of fun before she had to go back to being Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Only a finger of gin remained in the bottle now. It didn’t tempt Buffy. Her belly was leaden and full, a good fullness, radiating out from the core of her body, itching in her limbs and in her pussy. The music was pulsing, throbbing directly into her thighs. Buffy got up, drawn lightly onto the dance floor, and she let the music flow through her, thanking the gin for making her so light and wet that nothing could be trapped in her, it all went right through…

***

“A D. A fucking D!” Cordelia ranted. The gin had uninhibited her even more than usual, turning the slight Mr. Stratford had delivered to her into a never-ending flow of aggravation. “Have you ever heard anything so unfair?”

“Maybe you should’ve studied,” Willow suggested. The gin made her woozy, clouded over, a little giggly and unencumbered. She stared at Xander openly, enjoying the sight of his angular jaw, his slender but firm musculature, the way his clothes clung to his body as if the same rapt appreciation as her own. Smiling, she ran her hand down the leg of Xander’s jeans. He didn’t appear to notice, but she shuddered as she felt the warmth of his flesh through the denim.

Cordelia sneered at her, although it seemed to take some effort to work her intoxicated face into the arrangement she desired. “I’m not the kind of person who needs to study, okay? I am just a… a good student. And I get good grades. Because that’s the kind of person I am! A winner! I’m not the lady you give bad grades to! Look at me! Look at how I’m dressed! Do I look like I get bad grades? No! People like you have to study. People don’t know what sort of person you are. You could be anybody…”

Xander was not listening to Cordelia’s stream of verbiage or to Willow’s feeble attempts to debate her. He gripped the bottleneck of the gin possessively. The drink had made him sullen, withholding, but on the inside, he was alive with thoughts of Miss French, and even worse, imagining what else could’ve happened to her if he had the swaggering confidence he felt now. 

He remembered how she had milked him bone-dry, not stopping until he was spent. Then his cock had fallen from her lips, flopping down on his thigh like some monster fish she’d reeled in after hours of battle. And Miss French had lifted her head, chin dripping, smiling up at him with the happiness of a well-fed cocksucker. He wanted Cordelia too, the same way. He wanted Cordelia looking up at him with that cock-drunk satisfaction.

Slugging back the last of the bottle, Xander barely waited to swallow before he kissed Cordelia with ferocious lust, closing his hands on the C-cup breasts that her low-cut top showed off to such aplomb. He sank down to kiss the generous expanses revealed of her cleavage, the space between her breasts particularly tasting of sweet sweat and a trace of her perfume. 

“Xander… Xander…” Cordelia was muttering, both embarrassed and aroused as his hand slipped down under her leather pants, her panties, to where her cunt was wet and juicy. She was dripping with need, and each drop of her honey that Xander felt lining her sex tempted him more. Her panties were soaked and that made him feel like a ravenous wolf, wanting to tease out even more of her fiery passion, leave her naked and panting and madly aroused from his feast. He slid his fingers inside her wetness, feeling her clench tightly on the intrusion, and wanted his cock to feel the same snug fit inside her. Cordelia wanted it too: she was jerking her wet pussy at his fingers so desperately that it was hard to believe she wanted anything else.

Sucking on her deliciously round breasts through top and bra, Xander brought his hand out of her moist panties and furtively sniffed it, enjoying the little preview of Cordelia’s fragrance. Jesus… as tart as she was on the outside, she was equally sweet on the inside. He left her breasts alone, her top damp with his saliva, to lick his fingertips and further enjoy the delicious taste his nose had been treated to. 

“God, you’re a freak, Xand,” Cordelia moaned. The liquor had made her like some malfunctioning robot, playing the old, worn-out dialogue while her flushed face showed only lust and admiration. “You’re fucking… fucking making out with me… right here… in front of everyone… Xander…”

Xander pulled at her legs, sweeping them up from under the table so that they laid across the seat cushions. And with Cordelia lying down in front of him, he pulled down her pants along with her panties so he could look down between her trembling thighs, seeing the rosiest, most kissable pussy he’d ever seen, even in a magazine. Tiny, tight, looking impossibly like a beckoning set of lips, and glistening with the wetness he still felt on his fingers, Cordelia’s sex was a perfect rosebud, justification enough for all of her arrogance.

Xander wondered if it was even possible that he would be the first to lick it… love it… fuck it with his rock-hard erection as he’d practiced on Miss French’s face.

“You like that, Harris?” Cordelia asked, and even she seemed unsure whether she was bullying him or cajoling him. “You like looking at my pussy? Look at my pussy, Xander. Look at it… fucking look at it…” Whatever point she was be making seemed lost now, eclipsed by whatever Cordelia felt having him stare at her most private, most taboo place. “God, Xander, you’re looking at me…”

Buffy cried out from the dance floor as if in agony. She twisted her head from side to side, her long blonde hair sweeping across the shoulders of her blouse, while her face contorted like she was in the first searing throes of orgasm. Her hands delved over her skirt, pressing its loose folds between her thighs, and she rocked her crotch greedily against the pressure her own touch provided.

Xander looked up from Cordelia, watching in fascination as Buffy bucked and thrashed, less like she was dancing and more like she was being fucked. Her every move seemed to follow the same cataclysmic explosion Xander had felt when he came in Miss French’s mouth. He wondered if girls felt orgasms the same way that guys did. Maybe it wasn’t as good for them. Maybe that was why they didn’t want to have sex as bad as every guy he’d ever met. 

But Buffy certainly looked like she was enjoying herself. She turned away from Xander, her hands at her groin pulling her skirt tightly against her pert buttocks, displaying every curve of them as she circled her hips. Then she came back around, still pitching forward against her clasped hands, struggling for breath through sweaty lips as her dance grew hotter, more intense.

In the din of the Bronze, with its dim shadows and piercing lights and the crush of anonymity in so many grinding bodies, Willow felt forgotten. But that was okay. As much as it pained her to see Xander drawn to every woman but her, with Cordelia lain out in front of him like a not-so-virgin sacrifice and Buffy dancing for him like she was getting off on his gaze—a part of Willow enjoyed not having to endure the agony of being seen the way they were. She was small. Quiet. Invisible. No one noticed as she licked her lips, staring at the bulging erection in Xander’s pants. No one, not Buffy, not Cordelia, was touching it. It was like it was all for her.

Willow reached out to rub the outline of his cock. She felt her own sex quiver with need, and while Xander was lost between Buffy and Cordelia and the alcohol, she took his prick in her hand, squeezing and stroking it, her eyes burning into its fat contours so she could commit both its sight and feel to memory. The swollen knob was dripping and she ran her thumb over the dampness that darkened a patch of his jeans’ crotch.

Lifting her hand off his member before her courage ran out, Willow smiled lewdly at the unseeing Xander, rubbing her thumb across her lips to taste secondhand the sweetness of his cock. When she looked back down at his prick, it seemed to be throbbing even more powerfully in his jeans. Willow wondered if he thought Cordelia had touched it. Maybe he was so drunk that he thought Buffy had done it.

“Xander…” Cordelia keened, her head lolling to the side as she passed out, her pants still down, pussy on display. Willow looked at it. It certainly did look nice. She could see why Xander had liked looking at it. Maybe, if he ever did get with Buffy, that would leave Cordelia all to Willow.

Willow giggled at the thought. She sucked her thumb again, trying to get some more of Xander’s taste. She didn’t dare touch his cock anymore. When it was that big, pounding that hard, it couldn’t take much more to set it off. And she couldn’t take Xander coming in his pants. It’d be such a waste. As big a waste as Cordelia just lying there with her pussy totally ignored…