Buffy update (Patreon)

Willow almost skipped into Buffy’s room, so happy was she over how Buffy was performing as her slave. If Buffy had planned it—and of course she had, but Willow knew Buffy and knew she couldn’t plan things that well—it could not be better. Buffy had shown just the right amount of actual hesitance and play-acted resistance for Willow to prove herself as Buffy’s mistress. It was glorious. She wished she could signal Buffy to be disobedient a little more often, but with a girl as willful as Buffy, she supposed that would happen on its own. She would just have to relish the opportunity to punish her the next time it came.

Sporting a big smile, Willow fingered the chains that ran off of Buffy’s bed. She couldn’t believe she had a slave of her own; a partner to act out all her fantasies with. And especially she couldn’t believe that it was Buffy, the perfect, most deserving slave Willow could ever have asked for, the one Buffy had always pictured as she read naughty stories about enacting the most horrible punishments on sweet, innocent—but oh so disobedient—slaves. 

Maybe it wasn’t her who’d gotten lucky. Maybe Buffy had gotten more than she’d expected. She’d always pegged the blonde as a little vanilla. Look how she compared to Faith, the relationship she’d had with Angel. Then again, look at how she was drawn to Faith, drawn to Angel and Angelus. Buffy was like some fast car that wanted to be driven fast, but needed a race car driver to put her through her paces, not just some reckless idiot who might truly harm her. Willow would take good care of her slave, just like the Mistresses in her favorite stories took care of their property.

Almost giggling, her smile was so wide, Willow gathered up Buffy’s school outfit from Friday, forming a little pile on the bed. She even looked in the hamper for Buffy’s panties, bra, and socks, even her shoes. She put everything into her own bag, along with the spell book and the sample of Buffy’s pubic hair. It would all make a good reminder of Buffy’s last days as a free woman: the last clothes she had chosen for herself. From now on, Buffy would wear what Willow dressed her in.

She’d always wished she had a body like Buffy’s, to dress in all the latest fashions. Now, by proxy, she would. 

Opening Buffy’s underwear drawer, Willow ran her hands over Buffy’s underthings—almost all worn for comfort and athletics—and she concentrated. She didn’t know if the spell would go this far, but the only way to know was to try. Buffy was worth the attempt.

Willow’s pendant glowed and all of Buffy’s underwear disappeared, followed shortly after by her socks. Willow checked her bag, finding those were still in place, then a wave of dizziness hit her and she dropped to her knees. She supposed that had taxed the spell. Willow shook the cobwebs out until she was clearheaded again. She would have to research this spell. Buffy obviously wasn’t as vanilla as Willow had thought. It was quite possible the spell had all kinds of naughty possibilities that Buffy was just waiting for her to discover.

For now, though, her plans would have to change. Willow searched through Buffy’s room, grabbing up all of her shoes, and she threw them into Buffy’s closet. She scowled as she saw all the clothing in there—all the things Buffy might wear without her permission. She was quickly growing to hate these reminders of the time when Buffy wasn’t under her control. She especially didn’t want Buffy to have to face them, those distractions. 

She shut the closet, put both her hands on the door, and concentrated until the pendant glowed. If Willow had done it right, Buffy would be unable to open her closet or any of the cabinets that had clothing inside. It wasn’t as satisfying as sending all of Buffy’s underwear to the cornfield, but it was more efficient. And that was what a good Mistress was supposed to be, after all.

Willow took Buffy’s blow dryer and put it on Buffy’s dressing table. She took her bag and moved it downstairs, putting it away in a corner of the entrance hallway. With that sorted out, it seemed a good time to check on her slave.

Buffy had been quick, diligent, and obedient while Willow was away. She stood shivering, wet, but clean as Willow came into the bathroom. 

Willow snapped the chain leash back onto Buffy’s collar and removed the wall chain, laughing to herself at the little dance she had to do to get them all the right away around. Then she toweled Buffy dry, enjoying it more for how she could take care of Buffy and touch her without awkwardness than for the ripe feel of her body. Willow actually did it without groping her at all. She didn’t want to spoil Buffy, after all.

That done, Willow used her leash once more to lead Buffy back into the bedroom. She took her to the dressing table and sat her down. “Dry your hair,” she said. “Make yourself look pretty. And once you’re ready, come downstairs to the kitchen. Can’t have my pet going hungry just because there’s so many other things that mouth can do…”

***

As Willow left the room, Buffy felt the ring gag disappear. She worked her jaw, basking in the ability to open and close her mouth of her own free will. She just wished Willow was still there so she could say something. Then again…

For now, Buffy decided, she should do as she was told. Her first priority was to avoid punishment. Her chance to explain the horrible mistake that’d been made would come soon enough. Willow couldn’t remain ignorant of the truth forever.

She blow-dried her hair and put on some light make-up, taking comfort in the familiar motions. She wasn’t Willow’s property, wasn’t doing as she was told. She was Buffy Summers and she was doing what she did every morning. That’s who she saw when she looked in the mirror. Buffy Summers. Just like any other morning.

Finished, Buffy stood to go downstairs and explain everything to Willow in a calm, rational manner. She knew Willow. She’d feel bad enough about what had happened. So the best thing for both of them was to be calm and rational, to keep playing the explanation she’d make to Willow over and over in her head until she’d spoken every word of it out loud.

Then she saw in the mirror that Willow’s strap-on was lying on her mattress.

Seeing it laid out there, like some monument to the defilement Buffy had experienced, muted the refrain of that calm, rational explanation. A seething fury took over as Buffy remembered just how it had felt, having every inch of that thing pumped into her ass. Shuffling over, Buffy grabbed hold of the harness. Going downstairs in her hobbled state was cumbersome, but that only heightened her drive, refining her anger into a crisp, cool edge that was all for Willow. Willow had to pay, that was it. Willow had to feel what she’d felt.

Entering the kitchen, it seemed the gods were smiling on Buffy’s new plan. Willow was facing away from her. Buffy freed up her hands by putting the harness in her mouth and crept toward the redhead. Willow was talking but Buffy wasn’t listening. Not even when she was right behind Willow. 

She reached for Willow’s neck, thinking only of choking Willow into unconsciousness and then fucking her with her own strap-on. Then she could only think of the searing pain that was shooting through her skull, pushing her body backwards like a wave had swept over her. She teetered but kept her balance, though the harness slipped from her hand and dropped to the floor.

Willow turned around in a little jump, startled by the sound. She saw Buffy, then saw the strap-on lying at her feet. “What’s that doing there?” Willow asked, so surprised that the sentence was a genuine question rather than the imperious demand of a dominatrix.

“I was… wanting to clean it,” Buffy said, caught completely off-guard and desperate to avoid punishment.

Willow smiled. “That’s good thinking, Buff. But throwing it at my feet?” Her smile widened. “That’s just disrespectful. Turn around. Bend over. Let’s see if this time we can beat the naughty out of you.”

Buffy did as asked as if she were a marionette having its strings pulled. She heard the strap flexing as Willow readied it and promised herself she wouldn’t scream.

***

An endless minute later, when Buffy’s quick lesson in manners had concluded, Buffy was left with a burning butt and Willow with a twinge in her wrist. She rotated it, thinking how spoiled she herself was to turn her nose up at Buffy offering her all these chances to discipline her. A little carpal tunnel syndrome was worth getting to blister Buffy’s bottom.

“Put the strap-on in the sink and clean it up,” Willow ordered. “And this time let’s make sure you do it with the respect your Mistress deserves.”

Buffy got down on her hands and knees, whinging as the motion sent fresh pain through her whipped ass, and used her mouth to pick up the harness. She got up, bore it to the kitchen sink, and cleaned it quickly. 

“Sit at the kitchen counter now, slave,” Willow ordered. “Eat up. You’ll need lots of energy.”

Buffy did as ordered, finding herself ravenous, barely able to stop herself from just swallowing her mother’s breakfast whole. Willow ate more slowly, observing Buffy’s practical inhalation of her food with the same ardor one would have watched a puppy nipping at a bone.

The thought snapped Buffy out of the trancelike state her strapping had put her in; she became aware of the foul taste in her mouth from picking up the strap-on in it. She’d tried to attack Willow; what’s more, magic had stopped her. Either thought was strange, both were impossible. She couldn’t comprehend how she’d gotten into this situation in such a short amount of time.

***

There’s something missing, Willow thought to herself, fondly watching Buffy eat. She imagined herself fixing Buffy a nice proper meal, or more likely ordering Buffy to do so, and then enjoying Buffy’s delighted enjoyment of the treat. She could always order Buffy a pizza or something, if she thought Buffy had earned it. She’d heard the Slayer metabolism laughed at excess calories.

Excess… that was what was missing. Sitting where they were, Willow could see Buffy’s breasts, but not anything else of her naked body. If only Buffy could fed herself while chained to the bed. It was something Willow would have to research. She wanted to enjoy Buffy every hour of every day, as Buffy deserved, as a work of art whose beauty was appreciated every second it was in Willow’s possession. Selfish, perhaps, but she wanted to exhibit Buffy to herself, Buffy’s most receptive audience, for every second of every day. That was how loved she wanted Buffy to feel.

Willow finished with her meal—long after Buffy had—and collected the strap-on from the sink. “Come on Buffy. Living room. Let’s work off some of that big breakfast.”

Fortified by her full belly, even if it was marred by the flaming reminder of her pained buttocks on the stool, Buffy slid to the ground and shuffled after Willow. It was time to talk. No more delays, no more vengeful fantasies. She couldn’t fight her way out of this, damnit, she had to be cool and collected!

In the living room, Willow sat down on the couch. Her pendant glowed, and Buffy’s heart skipped a beat, fearing the worst. But it was just the hobble chain dissolving and Buffy used that fact to fortify herself, to remind herself that this was Willow and Willow didn’t want to hurt her, not really. She just had to explain everything to her.

“Kneel down,” Willow said, lit and shadowed by the strange glow from the pendant.

Buffy did as she was told, hesitantly, feeling the rage from her smoldering thoughts bubbling under the surface. She couldn’t afford to lose her cool.

“Spread your thighs open,” Willow told her, pinching her lips together when Buffy blushed in shame. So cute. So sexy… “Rest that butt on your ankles and arch your back.”

Buffy did so, gasping in surprise as her hands clicked free from their small chains. The pendant was still glowing, almost hurting Buffy’s eyes with its pinprick radioactivity as her hands were tugged to her upper back. There, they connected to two more chains coming from the back of her collar. The two chains in front remained, sliding across the tops of her breasts with every movement she made.

“Okay, Willow, look,” Buffy began shakily, the sound of her own voice almost foreign to her after so many frantic words had gone unsaid. Perhaps the most unbelievable thing of the crazy day and night she’d spent with Willow was that this, this was what she was finally able to say—

“Buffy,” Willow said, firm and resolute. “We need to talk.”

She knows. She finally realized. She’s going to apologize. Buffy breathed a sigh of relief.

Willow sat up straighter, looking down at Buffy with a mixture of fondness and regality. “I accept. I’ll be your Mistress. I’ll own you and take care of you and make sure you’re a good girl, just like you were anything else that belongs to me. Because you do belong to me. You’re my property.”

After the almost orgasmic thought that Willow had realized her mistake and this was over, the truth came at Buffy like a driving blow to her gut. “Willow, wait, I…”

“I admit, I was a bit thrown at first. I never thought you’d do something like this… surprise me like that…”

“Yes, Willow, it was meant to be a surprise, the magic was meant to a surprise, but…”

“It was,” Willow told her. “The best kind of surprise. And it makes perfect sense, because the only thing that isn’t a surprise is that you couldn’t just come out and say what you wanted. You just had to show me. Slayer in a nutshell. It’s actually really romantic.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Buffy said, nearly speechless with Willow’s lack of understanding. “But it wasn’t—“

“Of course it wasn’t. It’s dirty and sick and wrong, of course. But, deep down, it means a lot to me that you wanted this. It’s not like anyone would cast this kind of spell by accident. That’s what really got me. That you so clearly wanted this, and wanted it so much. No matter how I discipline you, it’ll always be romantic to me, because that’s the way it started. And I promise I’ll do my best to give you the discipline you so obviously need and deserve, my slave.”

Buffy gritted her teeth. Why couldn’t Willow understand?

The bitch of it was, hearing Willow talk so sweetly about how much Buffy’s submission meant to her actually made Buffy reluctant to disabuse her of the notion. She couldn’t punch Willow out, but could she be equally violent with her words, telling Willow just how much she hated what Willow found loving and joyous? No, no, even after all she’d done, Willow deserved better than that. She deserved at least for Buffy to try something to spare her feelings.

“Thank you, Willow. But, uh, are you sure?” Buffy fidgeted around, hoping she could make her discomfort palpable enough for Willow to notice. Surely she had to see the disconnect between how much she loved it and how much Buffy hated it. Because she did hate it. All of it. “I mean, we could just call it off. No harm done. Taking me on as a slave is a big responsibility. I’m lazy. Unreliable. No good at following orders. Just ask Giles.”

Buffy forced an uneasy laugh. She couldn’t believe she was running herself down just to salve Willow’s ego, but as long as it got her out of being Willow’s bitch, who really cared if it wasn’t the most enlightened solution to the problem.

Willow tilted her head to the side, thinking it over, but from her lazy smile, there was no doubt in her mind as to what to do next. “I know, Buff. But that’s why it’s so important that I be your Mistress. Because I can motivate you the way he can’t. I think you might end up a much better Slayer as my bitch than you ever were on your own. I mean, we’ve already established that you can heal from me fucking your ass—we don’t even have to worry about you being able to walk after I sodomize you!”

Okay, fuck saving face, she needs a dose of reality. “That’s not it, Willow. The truth is that I messed up. I didn’t know what the spell would do. I don’t want this. I don’t like being your slave and I’m not a lesbian and it hurt like hell when you fucked my ass.” Buffy could barely breathe after that had finished rushing out of her, it took so much out of the Slayer. But God, did it feel good to say…

And Willow laughed uproariously, slapping her knee. “You really are so funny, Buffy. C’mon, no one could be stupid enough to mess up that spell. I know you have your blonde moments, but pissing in the bathtub and cleaning the strap-on I fucked you with? Were those accidents too?”

Buffy looked beseechingly at Willow, her eyes shimmering with thoughts of freedom. She knew she had to convince Willow or she’d never get loose. “Please, Willow. All I wanted was for us to do magic together. I thought the spell was to capture vampires, you have to believe me. Please, please, stop this. I know it was a horrible mistake to make and you probably feel awful about it, but I can forgive you. I know you just wanted—what you thought I wanted. So we’ll be friends, like this never happened, and we’ll never speak of it again.”

Willow stopped laughing. But she smiled as she saw the lust in Buffy’s eyes. 

For a brief moment, she’d considered that Buffy might be telling the truth, and the notion was… spine-tingling. It was sick and she would never do it, but the fantasy of fucking Buffy against her will, having her as an unwilling slave…

And now, Buffy was offering her that fantasy. Pretending not to like her own slavery just to make it that much more twisted, that much more sick and satisfying.

But Buffy was hers. She’d had ample opportunity to stop. So if anything, this was her testing Willow’s resolve as her Mistress. It was clear that Buffy needed a strict hand. And she’d once been one of those popular girls like Cordelia who were adept at manipulating everyone and everything to get what she wanted. 

Willow didn’t mind the little game, but she reminded herself to be careful of Buffy topping from the bottom. Buffy was allowed to beg and plead and volunteer herself for any punishment she liked, but at the end of the day, what she really wanted and needed was for Willow to be her mistress. Willow couldn’t forget that. And she wouldn’t.

“Well, if you want to play it that way, fine. I don’t mind if you want to pretend I’m some evil predator and you’re my unwilling victim. I’ve never really been the bad girl, but for you—with you—I think I’ll really enjoy it. We both will.”

“But… but…” Buffy started, crushed, staggered that Willow wouldn’t believe her.

Willow waved her hand. “Enough chatter. It’s settled. I’m the Mistress. You’re the slave. And from now on—and even you’re not blonde enough to forget this rule—you’ll address me as Mistress Willow whenever we’re alone. And you should know that, despite how much you like being punished, I’ll take it as a personal spite if you disobey my wishes over something so basic. So you’d better call me Mistress Willow in your dreams. I should be able to hear it even when you’re gagged, even with my strap-on down your throat. Am I clear?”

Again Buffy wanted to spring up and shake the sense into Willow that the redhead was clearly lacking. But as if directed by the magic, her eyes ran to Willow’s side, where the strap-on was waiting. Seeing Willow’s fingers idly tracing up and down the full, thick shaft, Buffy’s anus twitched in remembered agony. She couldn’t risk another punishment. Not yet, not now.

She balled her bound hands into fists. “Yes, Mistress Willow,” she choked out quietly. 

“You look so humiliated,” Willow said, biting her lip. “I think I should record that for posterity. After a few weeks of my discipline, you certainly won’t be so embarrassed by something as simple as calling me by my proper title. And I did find your mom’s Polaroid camera…”

She picked it up from the couch—it had been lying on the opposite side of her from the strap-on, where Buffy hadn’t noticed it—and snapped a picture of Buffy. The bright flash and the sound of it whirring like a fatal gunshot echoing around both grated on Buffy like the aftereffects of torture. 

Willow set the camera down on the windowsill behind the couch, then became absorbed in watching the photo develop. Clearly, having physical proof, eternal evidence of Buffy’s submission and slavery and what Willow had done to her, was intoxicating in the extreme.

Buffy’s mind raced. Pictures were bad. Very bad. Even a photograph of her like this, naked and bound and shamed, would be heart-stopping… much less Willow taking a picture of some of the things she’d done to Buffy. Just standing up and turning around would reveal the bruises left by Willow’s thundering strikes to her bottom. And that would be so much worse. Imagine her mother seeing that, or Faith. Imagine them thinking she actually enjoyed that sick, perverted nonsense?

Buffy stood up. Her earlier experience in the kitchen and its repercussions were still fresh in Buffy’s mind, and on her buttocks, but maybe it was a fluke. Willow’s magic had certainly been finicky enough for that before. And what did she have to lose, when Willow wouldn’t listen to reason? What, should she worry that Willow would punish her? Willow was already planning to do that. Buffy shivered. Planning to do that again and again and again, make me feel like this again and again and again—

Her hands still bound behind her back, Buffy raised her right foreleg, ready to kick Willow as hard as she could. Maybe a broken bone or two would convince Willow that this was no game, would pay her back for how she’d made Buffy feel, for the sick and awful things she’d made Buffy do and experience and enjoy—

Just as before, there was a hot bolt of pain behind Buffy’s eyes. This time, she could discern that there was a physical effect accompanying it, an invisible force grabbing her extended leg and forcing it higher up, sideways, away from Willow in the most convoluted way imaginable, as if the magic itself were trying to teach Buffy a lesson.

Willow heard a grunt and turned around, letting out a delighted giggle as she saw Buffy balancing on her left foot and holding her right leg as high as the cheerleader she was. 

“Great pose, Buffy,” she said. Adorably, Buffy was flushed with embarrassment, despite how Willow knew she loved it. 

Taking up the camera again, she got down on one knee—like I’m marrying her, she thought—and held the camera right in front of Buffy’s exposed cunt. As much as she’d loved the feel and taste of it, she also loved the simple aesthetic of its sight, with those slightly parted lips speaking of the arousal Buffy felt.

Willow snapped one picture of it, then immediately pivoted to include Buffy’s face in the frame, leaving no doubt whose pussy it was. Snap. The photo developed and Willow saw tears in Buffy’s eyes, impossibly photogenic. Just one picture and already tears of joy. Willow should’ve committed Buffy’s slavery to film far sooner.

Actually, that picture left a little doubt as to exactly whose pussy it was. Placing her head against Buffy’s thigh, Willow held the camera at arm’s length and took a picture of herself beside her slave’s cunt. She smiled as she took it, thinking that she would leave this picture with Buffy, so she would always be able to remind herself just who her pussy really belonged to.