My fucking Childe gets off on being humiliated.

That's the only sense I can make out of this.

Now, it's not like I didn't know this about him before. Or like I'm not aware of my own hand in the development of his...tastes...

It's part of the reason why I put up with this. With him.

All right. It's the only reason.

Guilt is a powerful sonofabitch.

But he underestimates me, almost as much as he underestimates himself. He underestimates *us*. No, not *that* kind of us. There...isn't that kind of us. There never was, no matter what you might have heard whispered.

He underestimates the sheer, raw power of hatred as a bond. In the end, it's the strongest one really. It's the only one that lasts.

I can count on my one hand all the people I've ever really loved. Some days its more like one finger...But they're ((she's)) not here now. So I go to bed every night alone, and I wake up every morning alone, and the hours in between, I spend in the society of mortals, and I'm still alone.

What I have left is this. Anger. Rage. Fury. Hate. That doesn't ever leave me.

I have the company of my demon.

It's that fellowship that leads him to seek me out again and again. I know it, although he doesn't think I do. I know exactly what he thinks of me. Exactly what he feels. And what he doesn't. Of course I do.

I'm his Sire.

Fine, he was evil on wheels even as a human. Yes, I knew what he was. But it wasn't why I turned him. You wanna know why I turned him?

Cause he was standing there.

You were expecting something more profound?

Sorry to disappoint you, but the simple truth is that I turned him cause I wanted to. And hey, that is one of the major perks of being a Vampire. You get to pretty much do whatever you want to.

And when I first saw him, what I wanted was to fuck him. So I did. More than a century hasn't dimmed that memory for me. The scent of muck and filth in the alley all but drowned out by the heady aroma of his fear. The taste of the icy wind in his hair, in his blood. The feel of his muscles clenching around my cock in futile opposition while I raped him. The potent knowledge that I could do it again and again for all eternity.

The privileges of being a Sire.

He was young and he was pretty and he had an impossibly tight ass and he was standing there and Mares eat oats and so I turned him.

So much for romance.

Let me just share this with all of you Anne Rice fans out there. There is nothing remotely romantic about what I am. I know you're not going to believe me. I know I could use up all my unnecessary oxygen assuring you of this, and you'll still look at my white skin and my yellow eyes with wonder and with awe. When really, you ought to be screaming and running in the other
direction. But let me share another little fact I've learned in over two centuries of un-living.

Humans, by and large, are incredibly stupid creatures.

They either completely deny the existence of monsters like myself, or they turn us into caricatures worthy of their adoration. Trust me. I'm not worthy of it. None of my kind are. And my soul doesn't make me any different. It just gives me a prettier mask.

Oh hell, I can play the Gentleman Vampire. I do a right fine job at it, if my time in Sunnydale is any indication. It wasn't exactly acting, either, don't get me wrong.

I cannot play at things I don't feel. I truly did feel compassion and love for the group of mortals on the Hellmouth. Especially for one of them..... The problem is, it's just not natural for me to do so. It took every ounce of strength to hold onto the tenuous thread of humanity that my soul gives me. It took every ounce of will to squelch the shrieking of my demon each time one of them got too close.

And I could hear their heart beat. And I could feel their blood pumping through their veins. Thump-Thump Thump-Thump. There is no music like that on Earth.

Yea. I'll romance you right off your feet, sweet thing. I'll wine you and dine you and I'll slow dance with you in a black tux. I'll bring you roses and I'll read you poetry. I'll give you gentle kisses in the rain, and I'll wipe the sweat off your worried brow,
and I'll hold you and comfort you when things go bump in the night.

Just do yourself a favor. Don't invite me in. Cause there just isn't anyone who can protect you from me.

Believe me. You don't want to see me happy.

I got happy once. It didn't end well.

Which brings me back to my Childe. I know you're dying to ask why I hung out there in those chains as long as I did. Why I let him whip me and smash in bendable body parts with a mallet. Why I let him burn me and scar me and carve me up like a Thanksgiving Ham. Did I leave anything out? Oh yea. The seven pokers.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to pull metal splinters out of your back when you can't use a mirror?

No. I guess not.

Back to why I allowed him to do it. There are several answers, I suppose.

The first I already mentioned. Guilt. As a Catholic, I was pretty much born guilty. Came with the Rosary and the First Communion. As a demon, that all went the way of my soul. Now that they're all back, (well, everything but the
Rosary. I have an aversion to bursting into flames) they are back with a vengeance.

Of course, the amusing thing is that I don't just feel guilty about *what* I did to him when I was soulless. Or even about the fact that I enjoyed the hell out of it.

No.

I feel guilty because I still enjoy it. The seductive memories that beckon me daily, even while I struggle to pay attention to Cordelia's ramblings about a case we may be working on. The sweet dreams that visit me nightly even when I think for certain that this time I've worked too much, drank too much, slept too little to dream this time.

They come.

And I love them.

I miss raping. I miss killing. I miss bloodshed and torture and mayhem and......

I miss being ...simple.

I miss being in control.

I miss being at the top of the food chain.

And so, I feel guilty. All the way down to my restored Catholic soul.

Nothing like a little torment to ease your guilts. Isn't that what Hell is all about? Which brings me round to another point.

I spent a really long time in Hell. Long enough to get the *I survived Hades* tee-shirt they give away. Long enough that seven hot pokers and a pocketknife really aren't going to do much more than lull me to sleep.

But, it made him feel better, which in turn made me feel better, so I let him do it.

The last reason is a bit more pathetic. Do you have any idea what it's like *NEVER* to be touched by another living soul? No. Guess that's sort of up there with pulling metal splinters out for you. Humans are social animals. Babies die, even if they are well fed and kept warm, if they don't get held regularly. People in institutions die from sheer lack of intimacy.

Well, I exist like that all the time. Only, I can't die. Cause I'm already dead. I can feel lonely though. I can feel wretchedly, suicidally lonely. But I can never, never allow myself to get too close. I don't even let Cordy hug me. And really, I don't fear a moments true happiness from that corner. But if I give in once, I'll only do it again. I'm weak. I know this. And any one time may just be the last. And I'll walk this Earth as contemptible as I am and as miserable as I feel forever before I'll go back to Hell again.

So I stay in a cage. It's a pretty one. It has a nice smile and great hair from what I've been told. But it's a cage. And no one pets the animal inside.

And when it's been ages since someone put their arm on your shoulder or patted your knee, you know what? A good lashing isn't that poor a substitute. Especially when it's from someone you've known for so damned long.

So why did I break the chains finally when he decided to try to rape me?

That one is easier.

Spike is mine.

I realize that to humans, such a declaration has a very different connotation than it does to Vampires. To you it means coupling and belonging.

To me it means control and power.

It means he gets the right of my protection. It means I won't likely kill him unless I'm really really pushed. It means I'll kill anyone who tries to take him from me in any way without my consent.

It means I own his ass.

Anyway you want to interpret that.

I lucked out a bit with my Siring. Darla lacked the necessary equipment to, shall we say, Top me in that regard. Course that was made up for in spades by the one night I spent with that hideous looking Sire of hers. Spike would never believe me, but all the power in the world, all the consummate, delicious power I drank in and inherited in his rich and ancient blood, just
doesn't quite erase the memories of being butt-fucked by the fruit bat.

Then there was the whole stint in Hell. They're really into that there.

So let me guarantee you that there was simply no goddamn way I was going to let that scrawny, arrogant, self-serving, peroxide *brat* do that to me.

So you want to know if I took any pleasure in taking him down a notch? Or three?

My soul's still intact so Im not going to tell you it was perfect bliss.

But, I came.

Course, so did he.

I was raised with a Nobleman's social graces. I was schooled to become a much better man than I actually ever succeeded in becoming. I am not, by my nature, vulgar. But there simply is no nice way to say this. When it comes down to sex between me and my Childe, Spike is always going to be the bitch.

Look, even as my evil twin I respected his cocky attitude. I liked his zest for life and death. But he's never been the most reliable fellow when it comes to making the important decisions. He does not think with the right head. He's rash and
reckless and he pushes too damned far too damned fast.

He has no idea how many times I saved his undead ass. Not out of love. Out of rite. I made him, and its my duty to keep him walking. It's also my duty to keep him in line. You have no idea how hard it is to keep an attention disordered Neo-Gothic punk bloodsucker in line.... But hey, I signed on for it, I'll do the dirty work.

Which includes reminding him of his place, should he forget. Which he tends to do. At least every couple of years or so.

And the boy is like a puppy. A stupid, stubborn puppy with a bad attitude and a full frontal lobotomy. Sometimes, its just gotta be the rolled up newspaper on the nose.

Or in his case, a thorough grinding into the dirt of an abandoned warehouse. Whatever works.

I know he will be back for me.

Probably not with a much better plan the next time around. Strategy and follow through are not my boys forte. ((Who the hell can't tell the difference between real and phony enchanted chains for pity's sake? ))

We'll see what happens. How far he tries go. How far I want to let it go.

We've got forever to get this done. I'm not worried.

When I think about him too much, all the guilt and all the rage and all the pain just coalesce. And he's just one light in a sea of many.

~Finis