the pearl


Bed her only on the finest velvet and furs, her skin softer than satin, finer than silk, plush and decadent against your skin. Kiss her in the moonlight, and only the moonlight, the sunlight creasing and marring her beauty — sacred beauty for all eternity.

Glorious decadent whore, lifetimes of the finest things wrapped around her, and she laughs falsely as you approach her, flirtatious, coquetteish, artifical.

When she lets you — lets you — you are bewildered, fumbling, a pathetic creature never worthy of her, never worthy of her legs wrapping around you, those long soft luminescent legs against you as she straddles you, and slowly rides you to the end.

She will break you. She will be your destruction, leaving you broken and angry, frustrated and weeping, because she is not yours. She will never be yours. She can not be owned by a single man, by a single woman, by a single creature, no matter how strong, no matter how powerful. You are neither strong or powerful, a effete coward hiding behind a borrowed persona — she caught you out slumming, and the shame is still there.

You're nothing to her. You're amusement. She will kiss you, she will fuck you, but she will leave — she will always leave.

She is Whore. She is Mother. She is Darla.

And you are nothing.

Not even "Spike".

This Angel/Buffy the Vampire Slayer story was written by Kate Bolin. If you liked it, there's plenty more at And you can feedback her at