The Laws of Fiction
Dear reader, I make no apologies for the explicitness, the bizarreness, the disturbing nature of the following story. For all its excesses, it has one overriding virtue – it is all 100% true, in every humiliating detail. You would do well to pay attention, you who are fellow artisans in the subtle art of erotic fiction, for what I have to say is a matter of vital urgency to you. (You who merely read this stuff and don”t write it may count yourselves fortunate not to be one of us.)
I write this from my sickbed. Only last week, I was in excellent shape. I had just returned from my customary annual four weeks in Tuscany, and I was lean as a lath and never fitter, although my skin is pale, so that I can”t sunbathe. I woke up the morning after my return and, following my custom, I put together my frugal breakfast of All-Bran, peaches and semi-skimmed. Refreshed, I went to the shower.
I had soaped myself off and washed my cropped hair, and as the water ran down my naked body I was composing a scene in my mind, something involving that lusciously olive-skinned Italian media student I had been introduced to. My member stirred and I stroked it absently, but not with any serious intent. I always find that, when one is about to create erotica that will stir the loins of others, it”s better to refrain from emission beforehand. “There goes another novel,” as Balzac used to sigh, after emptying his load into the grateful womb of his mistress. The French master was seldom wrong. But I digress.
The image of whatever-her-name, the student, was still vivid in my mind; tall, sulky, broad-hipped, her breasts bulging inside her top, her jeans tight around her bottom. What a splendid creature she had been. My virility was standing well to attention, by now. I thought she might do very well for a short piece I had in mind, something about sweaty holiday sex in a stuffy hotel room during siesta time. I mentally cast her as the Girl on the Beach, and I had soon plucked her from her sun-lounger, whisked her indoors and and flung her face-down beneath me on the bed, her clothes off and her naked brown buttocks bumping against my pelvis, while she moaned deliriously from the sheer force of my –
The shower curtain was yanked back. I exclaimed aloud, in shock. Standing there, in my bathroom, was the Italian media student, the shower curtain in one hand, shower-water spraying onto her lime-green boob tube. She was glaring at me. I just had the presence of mind to put my hands over my excitement.
“You!” she barked. “You are a filthy disgusting man!” Her fine nostrils flared with outrage, and her full lips were scowling.
How in the world had she got here? How had she gained access to my apartment? Questions like these whirled through my mind.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, looking around desperately for a towel.
“A lot of us want to talk to you,” she said, and she grabbed me by the wrist and hauled me out of the shower. She was a strong girl, and I could not resist as she led me, wet, naked and stumbling, into my bedroom.
My first impression was that somebody was having a funeral reception in there. It seemed to be crammed with people having a bad time. I realised, as the Italian media student threw me onto my own bed, that they were all staring at me. I rolled onto my stomach to hide my shrinking manhood, and looked up at them.
They were strangely familiar. Most of them were in more or less of a state of undress.
With sinking horror, I realised that they were all my characters.
There were scores of them, possibly hundreds. How so many people managed to fit into my bedroom I don”t know, but they did. There was Trudi, the innocent pigtailed shepherdess heroine of my very first story, which had featured her as the focus of a three-way gang-bang with three strapping farm boys. (There, too, were the farm boys, bulging in their lederhosen.) I recognised the dripping, resentful face of Helene, the beautiful but cold and authoritarian young Army lieutenant whom I had made to be brutally fisted in the barracks shower by a mixed squad of mutinous soldiers. There, naked but for straps, buckles and ball-gag, was Jan, the thinly disguised portrait of my faithless ex-girlfriend. I had created Jan out of revenge, and made her the unwilling star of a highly invasive S&M scenario with a bunch of ruthless leather boys disguised as policemen. And, oh dear, standing next to Jan with a protective hand on her shoulder, was Jill the ex-girlfriend, her inspiration, wearing that light cotton print frock I”d always liked, twirling a strap-on in one hand and looking at me with a face of thunder.
Yes, the people I had used for inspiration, they were all there too: Aileen, the fine-boned arts administrator who had consistently refused to go out with me and who, as a result, I had made the protagonist of an especially dark and humiliating she-discovers-that-she-likes-being-dominated-by-other-women story; she was there, wearing only dungarees, her neck in a studded collar with a chain, the other end of which was held by a hefty, visibly indignant denim-clad bull-dyke. Standing nude, with her back to me, giving me dagger”s looks over her shoulder, was short-haired, bespectacled Christine, the first girl I had ever had anal sex with, and who (under various names) had been a regular source of material ever since because of the very memorable pitch and urgency of the moans she had emitted while I had been tunnelling into her sweet puckered anus. I realised with shame that I had played that scene so many times that I could no longer remember what the front of her body looked like, which was presumably why she was looking at me over her shoulder. I saw nineteen-year-old Lesley, the blonde and buxom piano student with whom I had, albeit only in my imagination, played so many games of strip chess. Now she was covering herself with two cushions and frowning at me. That voluptuous Northern girl who worked in the next office and wore tank tops that showed her tattoos; friendly, flirty Siobhan, the tall receptionist; that plump blonde girl I”d seen in the street that time and kept running into all day. They were all there, they had all been used to flesh out a character, and they were not best pleased about it.
And, sweet Jesus, there too were all the celebrities I had written all those fantasies about, now staring at me like I was a vile inhuman worm. There was Suzanne Vega, wrapped in a sheet, looking stern because I had made her explore different kinds of sexuality with Ani DiFranco, who was standing next to her, wearing only a guitar slung at crotch level and a fuck-you expression. Katerina Witt, the gorgeous figure-skater-turned-model from the former East Germany, was crouched naked beneath a small waterfall in the corner, her lovely face as hard as stone; I could hardly blame her for that, after I”d put together that story in which she”d gone skinny-dipping in a forest and been comprehensively ravished by the vegetation. Denise Lewis, the stunning British athlete, was standing naked and unashamed with her fists on her muscular hips, her ebony skin gleaming in the morning light; she probably wanted to get me back for that time I”d had the Williams sisters DP her in a changing room. Sure enough, the two tennis stars were close behind her, staring at me with loathing.
“What do you want?” I asked fearfully.
“You have a lot of nerve, pal,” said Ani DiFranco.
“I”m just a writer!” I protested. “They”re just stories!”
“Is that all we are to you?” Christine said coldly. “Just objects of fantasy? Look at me! You probably can”t even remember what my breasts look like, let alone anything about my personality. I”m just an ass and a moan to you.”
“Not just that,” I said. “Also the way the muscles moved in your back…” The Italian media student, who was standing next to the bed, slapped my naked bottom hard, and I yelped. I was acutely conscious of the fact that I was naked, and the focus of the angry attention of so many women and men. I tried to cover my arousal with my cupped hands.
“You”ve listened to my music,” said Suzanne Vega. “Haven”t my thoughtful, sensitive songs about love and longing taught you “anything?” You don”t imagine “I” sit around writing pornography all the time, do you?”
“I love your songs!” I said, pulling the sheet over my hips. The Italian student pulled it away, though. “I admire the plangent melancholy of “Gypsy” as much as the next person, and I thought your album “99.9F°” was a really effective, more hard-edged departure from your previous style. But I was sitting around and I was horny, and what the hell, you go with what you get…”
Suzanne rolled her eyes. Ani DiFranco shook her dreadlocked head in disgust. There was a general clicking of tongues from everyone in the room.
“Don”t you have any respect for women at all?” asked Helene the Army lieutenant, hugging herself and shivering while she dripped onto the carpet.
“I love women!” I said hotly. “Look at how many times I put you in girl-on-girl scenes. I would love to be a woman and get up to some of the things that I”ve made you do!”
“But what about what “we” would have liked to do?” said Aileen, and her angry-looking girlfriend with the Elvis quiff nodded. “I”m as straight as anybody,” Aileen went on. “I”ve never looked twice at a woman. I don”t even have “fantasies” about women. I find the whole thing a bit icky, if you want to know. And just cause I won”t sleep with you, you have me tied to a bed while Heather here drops hot wax onto my nipples and teases my labia with a bullwhip! Honestly, you have absolutely no consideration for other people”s feelings.”
“Same here,” said cherubic Lesley, flushing a very becoming pink. “Every time you”re around, I”m losing my clothes, and then you”re doing “all” kinds of kinky stuff with me. Did it ever occur to you that I have a life? That I need to practice? Not “once” have you ever sat me at a piano.”
“What about me?” Christine cried, her head still craned back over her shoulder. “One time, just “one time” out of the dozen times we had sex, I let this guy fuck me up the arse, because he kept begging and I”d never tried it. Now I”m Christine the Stunt Bottom. Christine the Sobbing Moan of Desire. Every time one of you comes because some guy is plugging your rear entry, it”s me who provides the soundtrack. You”d think I didn”t have any other orifices. Look at me! I can”t even stand straight!”
There was a chorus of support. I thought desperately, and a memory popped into my mind of Christine coming out of the shower. That was it! Small breasts, slight bulge of the stomach, navel ring, didn”t shave her pubes. There was a soft “pop” and Christine sighed, then she turned around – at last fully visible, front and back – and rubbed her neck, wincing. She glanced down at herself.
“Too little, too late,” she grumbled.
“At least you had ze sex mit ze humans,” complained Katerina Witt, from her watery bower. She slicked her wet hair back from her face. “I go for a svim and ze next zing I know, I am being fucked by ze shrubbery. It is “sehr” humiliating for a former Olympic athlete.”
“What about putting me in a changing room with Venus and Serena Williams?” Denise Lewis pointed out. “I”m track and field. They”re tennis. It”s not even the same stadium.”
“And what about us?” said a strapping young man in a police uniform, with a thick moustache and shades. He stood with four other buffed men, similarly clad. “The men in your stories? You don”t even bother to give us “names”. You just use us as surrogate cocks, and sometimes for a bit of walking-on-the-wild-side, when you want to pretend you”re bisexual. Since when do you know what it”s like to be gay? You didn”t have to grow up with the heartache and the persecution. You”ve never risked being beaten up for propositioning anyone. You live your whole life in the sunlight.”
“That”s not strictly true,” I stammered, trying in vain to cover my nudity. “I don”t tan at all. I once got second degree burns because I”d forgotten to put sunblock on.”
“Don”t confuse the issue, asshole,” growled Ani DiFranco, waving her guitar in a threatening manner. “You just make it all up, with no sense of responsibility. God, half my songs are about the difficulty of balancing art and life. But you just suck it all up and shit it all out as – what? As “porn”.” Suzanne Vega nodded solemnly and patted Ani on the shoulder.
“Well, a lot of people get pleasure from my work,” I said, blushing furiously and trying to sound reasonable. “You should see the emails I get sent. That saga I did about the botanists investigating the sex tree, that got a huge response.”
“And who paid the price?” said an angry female voice. Four people pushed their way to the front of the crowd, a young man, a plump young woman, a black girl with glasses and a tall attractive older woman, all of them naked, bruised and streaked with some kind of white goo that looked like sap. The young man bore a worrying physical resemblance to myself.
“You really put us through the mill,” said the plump young woman fiercely. “And you couldn”t let it go, could you? I don”t know how many times that damn tree has fucked us every which way. Even your stand-in here has had enough of your bullshit.” The young man nodded, looking at me with distaste. It was very strange having my double accusing me of exploiting him. My head was starting to spin.
“Well,” I said hotly, “what do you want from me, anyway? What am I supposed to do about it?”
“We just thought it was time for a little payback,” said my twin. “We think it”s high time you had a taste of your own literary medicine.”
“W-what do you mean?” I cried, shrinking back in horror. But the three strapping Austrian farm boys were approaching the bed, wearing too-broad grins, their interest in me all too horribly evident from the stretching of their lederhosen. Trudi the shepherdess was sauntering up to me as well, her dimpled mouth leering evilly.
“Three-way, “ja”?” she said. “Soon you too will know what it is like to be the centre of attention.”
“And after they”ve had their fun,” said Jill, my ex, twirling the strap-on in her slim fingers, “I think my fictional representative here wants to introduce you to some new friends.” I stared in horrified disbelief from here, to the trussed-up Jan, who winked at me, and from her to the five gay cops, all of whom were smiling at me with peculiar intensity.
“No!” I cried. “No! You can”t be serious! You can”t do that! I”m not a fictional character, I”m an “author!” I call the shots around here!”
“Not any more, imaginative boy,” said Christine. Jill tossed her the strap-on, which Christine caught one-handed and proceeded to buckle onto her slender hips, smiling at me and sliding her specs down to the end of her nose with an elegant pinkie.
“No!” I begged, as the farm boys climbed onto the bed and encircled me. “Please! No! Don”t! I”m – I”m not gay! I”m just a writer! I don”t do this!”
“Relax, “liebchen”,” said the tallest of the farm boys, as he unbuttoned his lederhosen, letting his enormous “Knockwurst” dangle before my terrified eyes. “Just let it happen, and play up for the folks at home. You”re the star now.” His friends grabbed me, manhandled me onto my hands and knees, and ignoring my pleas for mercy, he thrust his Johnson into my whimpering mouth.
Well, dear reader, neither time nor space permit the recounting of every last detail of the orgy that followed, but sixty seconds later the tallest farm boy was stifling my moans with the sheer girth of his member; another was luxuriating on his stomach beneath me, forcing his cute round tushie inexorably down onto my own rigid cock, while the third was behind me, pumping his long slender “schlong” into my until-then-virgin asshole. All three of these experiences were quite new to me, and I was so ashamed of my own arousal (a purely physical reflex, I can assure you) that I wept tears of humiliation. The arse of the slender youth beneath me was tight, but well lubricated, and the friction worked all too well at keeping me rigid; meanwhile, the vigorous agitation of the stocky boy”s length in my own rectum was causing new and overwhelming sensations in the region of my prostate. All this took place to encouraging cheers and mocking jeers from the rest of the assembly, especially from the buxom Trudi, who sat backwards on a chair and puffed a cigarette whilst making obscene remarks in some recondite dialect of Lower German.
When Hans, Kurt and Rudolf finally came – one down my throat, the other up my ass and the last on my freshly laundered bedsheet – there was a round of applause. They pulled out of me unceremoniously and left me prone and gasping on the bed – and immensely frustrated, because I had not myself achieved climax. But I scarcely had time to get my breath before the five husky policemen had pounced on me, and begun trussing my limp naked form with all manner of straps, buckles and chains. I was hooded, and a rubber plug was inserted in my moist back passage, then I was – I can hardly bear to type the words – spanked to within an inch of my life.
To be truthful, the hood at least spared me the indignity of seeing the undoubted triumph on the face of the onlookers, although their catcalls were all too audible. I sobbed into my gag, conscious that my ordeal was only beginning.
This particular episode climaxed when five separate jets of sticky fluid splashed over my back and buttocks, and I was untrussed and unhooded with the same brutal efficiency that I had expected. My pert round buttocks were blazing, and my poor hole was quivering with the multiple assaults. I wept, and begged for them to stop. But there was a long way to go yet.
My next assailant was the svelte Christine. If I had hoped that a mere strap-on would be marginally more tolerable than what I had already been through, I was wrong. During our earlier acquaintance, when we had been going out, I had thought her a quiet, studious, rather meek and mousy girl, who I had successfully emotionally blackmailed into letting me penetrate her anally because “she needed to live more in the moment”. Once she had mounted my hips I saw, and above all felt, the true intensity of Christine Living In The Moment. She was merciless, drilling me like a roadmender and splitting me like an apple, while I drooled and moaned and howled for mercy. But her mercy was far from tender. My asshole was starting to feel about as wide and capacious as the Dublin Port Tunnel. She gasped and sweated and swore, pumping her slender hips into me like she was trying to play pinball with her pubic bone. And all along, my poor cock strained for relief, for a single hospitable orifice where it might be allowed to empty itself, but Christine was imperious. At the height of her frenzy, she let out a single piercing cry, then pulled out of me and sprawled on the bedspread, sighing with satisfaction. I seem to remember Suzanne Vega leading her to the side and giving the trembling girl a drink of water, before rough hands were picking me up and leading me over to Katerina Witt”s waterfall. It wasn”t long before I was once again subjected to invasion of my most private apertures; my nude body was covered with thick, crawling, succulent vines, probing at my every orifice and invading me as I writhed, my screams muffled by the leaves that had enveloped my head.
And so it went on. Every single character there visited upon me the same ravishment that I had, in my imagination, visited upon them, at least as far as anatomy permitted. And each time, they were ever so careful to ensure that it would not last long enough for me to be allowed release. All the most baroque and depraved productions of my literary career came back to haunt me, and in many cases cum in my face while they were doing it. I was kept hydrated by sips of water; I was kept from passing out by sharp bouts of spanking.
Doyle looked at Willow in astonishment and thought his jaw would hit the floor. This pretty, fragile young woman went to Hell to get Angel back. He just couldn’t believe it. He tried to say something, but could only move his jaw up and down like some deranged fish. Either that or stutter.
After only a moment or two, Willow took pity on Doyle and placed a finger on his chin and pushed it closed. “People always do that when they find out I went to Hell. It wasn’t a big deal. I just wanted my friend back.”
Doyle’s jaw dropped open again, but thankfully words would actually come out this time. “No big deal? Are ye crazy? This is Hell we’re talking about! You could’ve been killed!” Doyle was flailing his arms and looking around to make sure no one was listening to their conversation.
Willow stood up and pointed a finger at Doyle, her anger suddenly consuming her. “No I’m not crazy,” Willow replied her cheeks flushing a dark red that almost matched her hair. Doyle found it strangely arousing. “I would do anything for him. Haven’t you ever had something like that? Someone you would do anything for?” Willow picked up her trash and, with tears running down her cheeks, she threw her trash away and ran out the door.
Doyle halfheartedly smiled at everyone who looked over at their table. He threw away his coffee cup and headed outside, not sure that he knew what he was going to say.
Willow ran to the car and pulled open the glove compartment looking for her tissues. She found them and pulled one out of the package. She wiped her eyes and then made a small growling noise as she felt her nose starting to run. She grabbed another tissue and blew her nose. She was blowing her nose when Doyle came out and leaned against the side of the car and waited for her to finish.
Willow was startled when Doyle’s voice reached out to her. “I do, ye know. Have someone I care about that much, I mean. Someone I would go to Hell for. Do anything she asked.” Doyle stared off into the horizon, not making eye contact with Willow. He didn’t think he could after what transpired in the cafe. Doyle’s voice softened until Willow had to lean closer to hear. “I love her so much. More than any woman I’ve ever known. She doesn’t know it as I haven’t told her.”
Willow sniffled. “Why haven’t you told her? I mean the most she can do is not return your love.” She ran a hand through her hair, which was hanging down into her face.
“That’s where you’re wrong, lass. You know that whole ‘let’s be friends’ nonsense that women say to men when they don’t want to go out with them?” Doyle waited for Willow to nod. “That is the worst thing that can happen. If a woman rejects a man, then it’s over and done with. The man can move on. With that whole ‘friends’ thing, it isn’t over. The man and the woman still see each other and the fact is that the guy has bared his soul, so to speak, and they both have to deal with that feeling day in and day out. I don’t know if I can handle that. And that is why I won’t tell her how I feel.” Doyle leaned back against the side of the car, trying to push away his anger. He knew he shouldn’t feel angry towards Willow, but he just couldn’t help it.
Willow blinked at Doyle’s sudden display of rage. Even in the short time she had known him, she was sure he was a clam person. Maybe he had fits of concern, but not anger. It just wasn’t Doyle. “I…I’m sorry I upset you. I didn’t know…”
Doyle chuckled. “That’s okay, lass. You didn’t know. Exactly. Now you do, so maybe you’ll be a little wiser in the future.” Doyle glanced down at his watch. “We should head back to the office and see if Angel’s back yet. After all, it was Angel to stopped by to see, right?”
“Sure,” was all Willow said as she climbed into the seat. There was a slightly uncomfortable silence between her and Doyle as she drove back to Angel’s office. When they got back to the office, there was no sign of Angel or Cordelia. There was, on Angel’s desk, a note for Doyle from Angel saying that he had to go pick up something and would be back around sunset.
“Well, Willow. I guess it’s just the two of us for another couple of hours. Anything you want to do? Anything you want to see here in the big city? I mean, this is L.A. This is the city that never sleeps. Forget New York. So. What’s it gonna be?”
Willow giggled at his wild patter. He almost sounded like a carnival barker. “Well,” Willow said once the giggles had subsided. “I’ve always wanted my picture taken in front of the big ‘Hollywood’ sign up in the hills.” She looked at Doyle with her head down, feeling really silly.
“That’s it? That’s what you want to do? Your picture in front of the Hollywood sign?”
“Yeah. Pretty silly, I guess.”
“Silly, lass? Nah. I think it’s the most wonderful thing that you could have thought up. I’ll get directions and we’ll get going.”
They went into Angel’s office and got out the maps and figured out the best way to get to the Hollywood Hills. It was going to be rough, what with construction and all. Still, after about an hour and a half, they reached a spot that was famous for people having their picture taken in front of the sign. Willow sighed and Doyle was suddenly concerned.
“What is it, Willow? Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“Well, I was kind of hoping we could get a little closer. But this will be fine.” Willow sighed again slightly and Doyle was heartbroken, dying to do anything to make it right. Doyle thought for a moment and then called to Willow.
“Willow, get in the car. I’m driving. I know exactly where to go.” Doyle hurried to start the car and barely waited until Willow had gotten into the passenger seat to gun the engine and head off into the hills.
Doyle drive for about forty five minutes, taking turns and twists like it was second nature. Willow felt the buzz of magic about her. “Doyle? What are you doing? Where are we going?”
Doyle smiled at Willow’s concern. “Lass, don’t worry. You’re a witch. You know bad magic when you feel it.”
Willow gasped, partly from what Doyle had said and partly from the magic she was feeling. “How did you know I was a…oh yeah. You’re part demon. Silly me.” Willow was glad that Doyle was concentrating on the road so that he didn’t notice her blush.
Doyle chuckled and drove on for another five minutes. He stopped the car and turned the ignition off. “We’re here, Willow. What do you think?”
Willow stepped out of the car and looked up. They were standing at the base of the Hollywood sign. Willow gaped for several seconds before she sputtered “How did you…when did we…oh, thank you, Doyle!” She ran around the car and gave Doyle a great big hug, holding on for a couple of seconds longer than necessary, not that Doyle minded.
Willow went back to the car and leaned over the seat to get her camera out of the glove compartment. Doyle took the opportunity to enjoy the view he got when Willow leaned over. “Okay, Doyle. You know how to use a camera, right?”
“What do I look like? Someone who…uh…doesn’t know how to use a camera?” Doyle tried to come up with something clever and witty to say, but Willow was laughing at what he was saying already, so he quit trying. “Well, go on. Go over there so I can take your picture.”
Willow walked over and leaned against the ‘Y’, crossed her arms and smiled. Doyle focused on her and then pulled his head to the side of the camera. “Is that all you’ve got? It’s going to take a better pose than that to be a model.”
Willow blushed again and thought for a minute. “Okay,” she said. “How’s this?” With that, she faced the sign and then leaned into the ‘Y’ with her head turned back over her shoulder, her hair falling gently over her face.
Doyle focused again and nearly dropped the camera when he got her in focus. She almost looked like she was offering herself to him, but he knew that couldn’t happen. They had only just met.
“Doyle? What do you think?”
‘Oh my.’ “Um…that’s great, lass. Hold on one more second.” Doyle clicked the picture and then burned the image into his mind. He didn’t want to forget what she looked like at that instant.
When Doyle’s finger pushed the shutter button, something happened. As he snapped the picture, he thought about how beautiful Willow was, just how sexy she was. Then, they connected.
Waves of magic flowed between the half-demon and the witch. In that instant, they were joined, both of them following the path of Doyle’s fantasy about her.
—
In Doyle’s mind, they were in his bed, sheets twisted around them, both of them moaning and making grunting noises as they pleased one another.
Doyle moved on top of her, back and forth, Willow’s legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer with every thrust. His mouth covered her upper body in kisses, licking and sucking on every available inch of skin.
Willow pulled his mouth to her, biting his lips and then licking them, groaning with every one of his movements. He held his arms close to her, his hands moving up and down her body, when Willow held him with her legs and rolled over on top of him, grinning down, her red hair hanging in his face.
She moved up and down on him quickly, her head thrown back, small noises coming from the back of her throat. Doyle let his hands roam up her body, caressing her small, pert breasts, her nipples hard as diamonds, her hand resting on his stomach as she rode him.
His hands moved to her hips, pulling her down hard with each thrust, Willow suddenly crying out, her muscles clenching around him as she orgasmed, her entire body flushed. Doyle kept thrusting up into her, Willow whining high in her throat as the aftershocks ran through her body. All of this set Doyle off and he flooded into her, each shake of her body making him groan, his groin pulsing with each ejaculation.
Willow lay down on top of him, both breathing heavy and deeply as their orgasms subsided. “Goddess, Doyle. That was amazing,” she said, still slowly moving on him. She climbed off of him and lay down next to Doyle, her hand resting on his chest.
“Aye, lass, it was. You were incredible.” He ran his fingers through her hair and over her damp forehead.
—
With a shake of his head, Doyle realized he was still standing on the hill right below the ‘Y’ of the Hollywood sign and Willow was still where she had been, but her head was leaning against the giant letter, her shoulders moving up and down as though crying.
“Willow,” he cried, moving toward her, slinging the camera around his neck.
He raced to her and touched her shoulder and realized she wasn’t crying, she was just breathing deeply, her face flushed, her skin warm. Like she had had an orgasm.
“Doyle,” she gasped. “What just happened?”
Doyle realized that they had both gotten caught up in his fantasy. He was pretty sure Willow knew what happened, too. He opened his mouth but no words came out. He opened it again with the same result. Thinking of nothing he could say or do, he gently wrapped an arm around her shoulder and led her back to the car.
“Doyle, what happened out there?”
“I don’t know, lass. I honestly don’t know.”
“Okay. Maybe it was a magic thing. I mean, you’re half-demon and I’m a witch, so maybe it was the magic that connected everything and made me…us…do…that.” Willow frowned in the dusk.
“I don’t know, Willow. But it happened. And I’m sorry.” Doyle gripped the steering wheel hard with both hands.
“Doyle,” Willow said softly. He grunted in response. “I’m not,” she said with a grin.
—
They got out of the car back at Angel’s building, Doyle unsure of what was going to happen next. Then, Willow surprised him.
She came up and hugged him. “Thanks.” She gave him a quick soft kiss on the lips.
Doyle was stunned. “What was that for?”
Willow stepped back and looked at him. “For taking care of me because Angel’s not here. A girl needs a big strong man to protect her in the concrete jungle.” Willow laughed at her own joke and realized it was starting to get dark. “And for what happened up there.” She looked around. “We better head in. I don’t want to miss Angel.”
Doyle sighed inwardly. He wanted to take her out dancing, anything to spend more time with her, getting to know his new friend. ‘Friend,’ Doyle reminded himself. ‘Angel would kill me if I ever did anything bad to her. I know I would certainly kill me.’
They slowly walked up the stairs, Willow taking Doyle’s hand. He and Willow were quiet for some time when Willow turned to him. “Can I ask you a question? I mean, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Doyle turned, giving her a puzzled look. “No. Go ahead and ask. I have nothing to hide. Well, not from you, anyway. But those loan sharks are completely wrong.”
Willow laughed at Doyle’s ranting. She found them funny, even though he could be completely serious about the loan sharks. “Well, I was wondering…”
—
When they got back to the office, there was still no sign of Angel, but Willow decided they should stay in, so that she could see him. She and Doyle sat on the office couch, talking and laughing.
“So, I have another question,” Willow said. Doyle turned his head lazily towards her. “Ask away, fair maiden.”
“What’s Angel like these days? I mean, back in Sunnydale, he brooded a lot and he didn’t hang out much, though I certainly tried. But for some reason, he never wanted to come near the rest of us, especially after he and Buffy broke up. Once that happened, he brooded even more, if that’s possible.”
“Well,” Doyle said reflectively. “Angel’s different. He takes this saving souls business very seriously. I mean, he’s trying to purge himself of guilt. He gets a little bit better with every soul he saves. But he still broods, still wears all the dark clothes…”
“And he hates it when people put their feet on his coffee table.” Both Doyle and Willow jumped as Angel walked in, Doyle reflexively putting an arm around Willow, trying to protect her from danger.
“Good Lord, man,” Doyle started. Are ye trying to give us both heart attacks?”
Angel laughed and then noticed whom Doyle was sitting on the couch with. “Willow! What are you doing here?”
Willow laughed at the two of them and then recited her story about the computer conference and stopping out and running into Doyle and what a great time they had.
“Well, I’m glad that Doyle here was able to take care of you while I was gone. I ran into some demons picking on some homeless people when I was on my way back here.” He looked Willow up and down and then hugged her, actually glad to see one of the old gang. At least Buffy hadn’t shown up with Willow. That would have been…interesting to say the least.
Willow, Doyle and Angel stayed up for a few more hours until Willow started to yawn. “Well, I should get to my hotel. It’s only a few blocks from here.” Willow stood up and stretched and looked happily sleepy at the others.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here, Willow? It’s not like I actually use my bed. At least not much.” Angel had a look of concern on his face.
“Oh please, man. Like she would want to stay in that drab dump down there. She’d be ‘blahed’ to death due to lack of color.” Angel glared at Doyle.
“Oh. And I suppose your apartment is a much more colorful place to live. I guess that’s what you get for not cleaning the place or doing the laundry.” It was Doyle’s turn to glare back at Angel. After a minute, both men started to laugh at themselves and each other.
“I think I’ll be fine back at my hotel. I’ll stop by and see you guys tomorrow.” Willow walked over and gave Angel a hug and then turned to Doyle. “I had a great time today. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She gave Doyle a hug and another one of those mind blowing little kisses on the cheek.”
“Good night, Willow.” Angel said.
“Good night, fair maiden.” Doyle said once he had reluctantly let her go.
“Good night Angel. Good night, Francis.” With a quick spin, Willow was out the door and on her way down the steps.
Doyle sighed and watched her go. He wanted to run down and take her in his arms again. That was just heavenly.
Angel sighed as well. “Doyle, thanks for taking care of her. I’m going downstairs to check on some research.” Angel noticed Doyle was hardly paying attention. “Oh. And by the way…” Angel waited for a moment for Doyle to turn around.
“Yeah?”
“Francis?” Angel ran, laughing, into his office and into the elevator as he heard Doyle fighting with the locked door.
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