My Life is Different Ch. 12

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the final chapter of "My Life is Different". It's the least erotic of all the stories I write for this website, and it's the one that generates the least amount of fan-mail. I've also pretty much run out of ideas for things for Buffy and Willow to do. Buffy the Vampire Slayer was once my favorite TV show, and I've enjoyed breathing some new life back into an old favorite, but it's time for me to call it quits, and focus on other stories now.

* * *

My face was in between Buffy's thighs, and she made happy, contented moaning and gasping sounds. I ran my tongue across the swollen, pink folds of her pubic lips, and savored the taste. I swear by Diana, there isn't a woman alive who tastes better than Buffy. I mean...it's not like I've stuck my tongue into a lot of women, but Buffy is a real nummy treat. She's delicious.

And; not to brag; but Buffy loves it when I feast on her pink, delicious vulva. I kiss, I nibble, I engulf, and I drink the nectar that is secreted from her womanhood, and Buffy responds by spreading her legs wider and unashamedly offering herself up to me.

"Oh, my God, Will," Buffy gasped when her skin was feverishly hot, and her orgasm seemed imminent. Her hips lurched and quivered, and her pelvis thrust itself into my mouth and squirmed away several times, as Buffy seemed to completely lose control of her body from the waist down.

When the orgasm finally hit, Buffy utterly lost the ability to communicate verbally and was reduced to making vowel sounds as her sex spasmed and she panted uncontrollably, and her hips squirmed and her thighs trembled and shook in a really erotic, adorable sort of way.

The juices from Buffy's sex flowed out of her in copious amounts, and I licked them up like a kitten licks up cream. Buffy continued to make vowel-sounds long after I had licked her vulva clean.

When next we kissed, Buffy could taste her own juices as her tongue probed my mouth. It seemed only fair to me that she got to sample the delicious sexy goodness that tasted of Buffy's liquid orgasms.

My tongue mingled with hers as we kissed, and we both moaned into each other's mouth. I pressed my naked body against hers, and her skin still felt feverishly hot.

Her bare thighs pressed against my thighs, her bare breasts casually brushed against my breasts and the side of her face nuzzled against my face. Her skin was soft and smooth and hot, and I could still feel a sexual heat radiating from her naked body.

Her fingertips touched me everywhere as we kissed, and erotic tingles seemed to resonate across my body wherever her lips or fingertips contacted my skin. The effect of each touch was cumulative, making me feel more and more aroused.

"Lie down on your back, Will," Buffy said when we both came up for air, "I wanna try something."

Our shower was massive, with enough space for me to lie down and spread my arms and legs out. I didn't know what Buffy had in mind, but I trusted her. I laid down on the floor, my body throbbing with anticipation, and waited to see what happened next.

Buffy worked the knobs of the shower, turned the water off, and laid down, face up with her butt near mine. It was awkward, the way we were positioned, but when Buffy explained what she was planning it started to make sense.

"Okay, have you ever heard of tribbing?" Buffy asked me.

I'd read about tribbing before, but I'd never tried it. I never even gave it much thought before Buffy asked me about it. However, with Buffy and I both naked, and our bodies close together, the word "tribbing" suddenly sounded phenomenally erotic and exciting.

"Spread your legs far apart," Buffy instructed me, "If we're going to position our naughty bits properly, we can't have our legs getting in the way."

Buff and I both spread our legs indecently far apart, with our legs partially outside of the confines of the shower, and we both raised our hips up, arching our pelvises several inches up above the shower floor.

It was almost like trying to fit two puzzle pieces together, as I maneuvered my hips forward and guided my vulva closer to Buffy's. There was a magical feeling of erotic tingles as my swollen, hypersensitive pubic lips made blissful contact with that moist, magical place between Buffy's thighs.

"Oh, God," I gasped in a weak, girlish voice.

"Right there with ya, Will," Buffy replied, and she began to gently rub the glistening, tumescent folds of her labia into mine.

How many yummy nerve endings are in a woman's labia? I didn't know, but it felt like a lot. It felt like millions. As Buffy shifted her weight, and moved her hips this way and that, her pubic lips rubbed against mine, stimulating an entire symphony of delicious responses that began in my vulva and resonated across my entire body.

"Oh, God," I exclaimed again. I apologize for not being very articulate, but very little blood was reaching my brain. My loins seemed to be monopolizing the blood supply. My swollen clitoris throbbed, and I could hear a throbbing in my ears that seemed to sync up with the throbbing in between my legs.

I felt millions of protracted shivers along my vulva, my thighs and my abdomen as the strength of the orgasm grew inside me. It was like a tidal wave building strength deep beneath the surface of the ocean, for hundreds and hundreds of miles before it even rose up and crashed into the shore.

My orgasm had been building even before my sensitive, swollen pubic lips had formed an intimate union with Buffy's, however rubbing my sex against Buffy's had dramatically increased the potency of my budding orgasm. When it came crashing to the shore, it was going to be overwhelming.

Buffy's left thigh rubbed against my right thigh, and I could feel the feverish heat on her skin. My insides felt throbbing and magical. There was a potent energy deep inside of me, cycling, growing stronger, and then Buffy let out a fierce, feminine, wanton cry and shoved her beautiful pelvis into my vulva with a kind of erotic enthusiasm that almost overpowered me.

Then the tidal wave broke, and my legs gave out. My hips collapsed onto the smooth, acrylic surface of the floor, my naked butt bounced once or twice after it hit the slick, white shower floor, and I screamed and writhed as the orgasm took over and a rush of overwhelming endorphins flooded my naked body, and caused me to squirm in ecstasy.

"Oh God, Oh God, Oh God," I exclaimed weakly and I lay there, naked and panting, savoring the feelings of post-orgasmic bliss until I finally passed out.

* * * * *

It was hours later when I woke up. I was still naked, and still lying down, however I was no longer in the shower, and I was no longer wet. I was lying on my bed, dry and comfy, almost as if some very considerate person had toweled me dry and carried me from the shower and placed me gently in my bed. All the lights were turned off, and it was too dark to see, but I could still use my fingertips to explore the blankets and the pillow on the surface of my mattress.

I stretched my legs and reached out with my arms, feeling around with my fingers, hoping to locate Buffy somewhere, but I soon realized I was alone.

"Where'd she goes?" I asked the empty bed. The empty bed gave no reply, so I carefully raised myself up into a sitting position, and then into a standing position.

Buffy wasn't in the bedroom, and when I checked the hallway, she wasn't there either.

Then, I went back to the bedroom, and grabbed a t-shirt and a pair of hip-hugger panties. Buffy and I didn't live alone, and I didn't want to accidentally run into Terri again while I was naked. She'd gotten to ogle my naked body too many times already. I wasn't in a hurry to give her another opportunity to gawk at my naked butt.

After I was kinda dressed, I continued to search the house for my girlfriend.

"Buffy?" I called out, and eventually found her in the kitchen. She had a loaf of bread in front of her, a variety of sliced cheeses, sandwich meats and a plastic container of deli mustard.

"Hey, Will," Buffy said, "You hungry?"

I hadn't been thinking about anything as mundane as food until Buffy asked the question, but as soon as she asked it, my tummy began to rumble. When was the last time I had eaten? About ten hours ago? It only made sense that I'd be hungry at this point.

"Kinda," I said, and Buffy made me a pastrami sandwich with mustard.

I bit into it, and it was perfect. There was lots of pastrami, and just enough mustard to compliment the taste of the meat without overpowering it. My taste buds were in heaven. Buffy made a turkey and swiss sandwich for herself. For a while we just ate in silence, taking time to leisurely chew our food and savor the tastes. When you live in a town where you could be gruesomely murdered and dismembered without warning, you should really take the time to enjoy life's little joys. The pastrami sandwich that you're eating now, could be your last meal ever. Savor the flavor while you can. Tomorrow you might be dead.

"So, these gauntlets," Buffy asked, "Any ideas?"

I licked mustard from my fingers and said, "I dunno. I kinda get the feeling that Ethan Rayne is playing another sick game with us, and he's neglected to tell us what the rules are. I mean, even if we find them, is it a good idea to turn them over to Queen Titania? Is she any more trustworthy than Queen Mab or King Dovregubben?"

"That Ellis Island guy seems to think we can trust her," Buffy said.

"Elisedd," I said, correcting Buffy, "And he's biased. He could be like those Republicans who said that Richard Nixon could be trusted, right before the Saturday Night Massacre."

"The Saturday Night what?" Buffy asked.

"The Saturday Night Massacre," I replied. Buffy just gave me a phenomenally blank look, and then I tried again.

"1973," I said, "Richard Nixon ordered Attorney General Richardson to fire Independent Special Prosecutor Archibald Cox. Richardson refused and resigned in protest. Nixon then ordered Deputy Attorney General William Ruckelshaus to fire Cox. Ruckelshaus also refused, however, by making multiple attempts to fire the person who was investigating him, Nixon made himself look guilty as hell."

"Was this before or after Nixon was impeached?" Buffy asked.

I sighed, and then in a clam, quiet and patient voice, I replied, "Before."

I love Buffy. She a hero. She's brave, athletic, resilient, strong, agile, and sexy as hell, but she was never very good when it came to history class.

"My point is, just because Elisedd trusts Queen Titania doesn't mean we should. Maybe giving her a powerful weapon like the Wild Hunt will lead to millions of Sidhe getting killed. Maybe we can't trust anybody with that kind of power."

"So, what do we do?" Buffy asked me. "If we find the Gauntlets, do we not give them to Elisedd? Do we just keep them here in Sunnydale?"

"I haven't figured that one out yet," I responded honestly.

"You see, the way I see it," Buffy ruminated, "the longer those Gauntlets are in Sunnydale, the more ogres, trolls, changelings, leprechauns, naiads and other Grimm Brother fairy-tale creatures we can expect to show up in our town. And things were bad enough on the Hellmouth when it was just vampires, werewolves and fear demons."

"Yeah, obviously," I said, agreeing with my girlfriend.

"So, maybe we should just give Gauntlets to the guy who will take them to Queen Titania," Buffy said, "At least they'll be out of Sunnydale, and fairy-tale creatures will stop showing up in our town, trying to sniff them out."

I didn't have a lot of time to formulate an answer to that, as there was a sudden, resounding clatter of someone or something smashing open the front door to our home.

This was really bad timing. All I was wearing was a t-shirt and a pair of panties. If a supernatural bad-guy is going to smash their way into your home, they should really wait until you've had a chance to put on some pants first.

There were no weapons nearby, so Buffy marched towards the sound of destruction and imminent violence, completely unarmed. It was a reckless move, but also brave and heroic.

This is what life is like when your girlfriend is the Slayer. She never runs from violence. She always runs towards it.

I'm not the Slayer. I suppose I could have run away, but I'm Buffy's girlfriend, and I didn't want to abandon her. I do know some spells, so I might be able to help.

I was just a few steps behind Buffy and I saw what had smashed our door off its hinges just a few seconds after Buffy did.

Professor Walsh.

Well, that's not quite accurate. What we were really looking at was a changeling, or some sort of Sidhe that had worked a glamour to look like Professor Walsh. I had spoken to Agent Scully of the FBI, and she assured me that the real Professor Walsh was currently locked up at the Chino Correctional Institute for Women.

"Give me the package," the doppelganger said, using a voice that sounded eerily like Professor Walsh's.

"Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin," Buffy said, defiantly.

The doppelganger furrowed her brow in apparent confusion. I guess her parents didn't read her bedtime stories when she was a little kid.

"The package isn't even here," I said, standing a few feet behind Buffy, "And you're not even Professor Walsh. You're just using a glamour to mask your true face."

"That's probably true," the Not-Walsh said, and then she reached into the interior of her blazer and pulled out a handgun. I wasn't an expert on firearms, but this thing looked deadly to me, and then she pointed it directly at me.

"But, this handgun is very real, and if you don't want to find out how real the pain is when a bullet shatters your kneecap, I suggest you turn over the package to me immediately."

"And if you don't want to be chopped up into little, bite-sized pieces," Buffy countered, "You'll stop pointing that thing at my girlfriend."

"Ah, I see," the Walsh-imposter said, "I had thought that Ms. Rosenberg was the adversary I had to contend with, however, it now looks like you're the true threat here."

Then, she pointed her weapon at Buffy and I had maybe half a second of warning before she pulled the trigger.

I threw my hands up in a mystical gesture, palms out, fingers splayed, and I shouted the words, "Protego mihi, bona Dea!"

A mystic barrier materialized at the exact same second that the imposter pulled the trigger on her weapon. The barrier was large enough to protect both Buffy and myself, and the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off my invisible barrier. I would have shouted in jubilant triumph, except I was in too much pain.

Even though none of the bullets hit me, my skull pounded like a little man was slamming it with a hammer. There was a brutal burst of pain from somewhere just behind my eyes every time a bullet slammed into my shield. The pain was so brutal, it was blurring my vision. If this sort of intense, punishing pain kept up, I wouldn't be able to maintain my shield for long... maybe a second or two.

I swear, when I read through that book on how to create mystic barriers, it never said anything about reflex sympathetic pain whenever my mystic barrier was assaulted. You'd think they would have mentioned an important detail like that.

The imposter's handgun wasn't a revolver, it was a semiautomatic. That meant she could fire round after round at us, much more quickly. The rapid fire gave me no time to recover, and within seconds the pain was too much, and I ended up passing out.

I'm not sure how long I was out, but the next time I opened my eyes, Daryl was there. I saw Daryl hit the Walsh-imposter in the face with a left jab, and then another left jab, and then she smashed the imposter in the face with a roundhouse kick.

For a stripper, she had some awesome combat skills.

I must have passed out again, because the next time I opened my eyes, the imposter was gone, and Daryl was lying on the ground. She was still alive, however her blue jeans were soaked in blood, and there was a look of intense physical agony on her face.

The next time I opened my eyes, a paramedic was kneeling over me and asking me how many fingers he was holding up.

"Um, two?"

Apparently, that was the right answer, however I still ended up being shoved into an ambulance. Apparently, an army of cops and EMTs had been called to the scene when neighbors reported hearing gunshots. I had been found on the ground, unconscious and with a copious amount of blood on my face. It seems that when the imposter assaulted my shield with multiple rounds of nine-millimeter ammunition, it inflicted some sort of damage to me physically and I got a really ugly nosebleed as a result. Also, I passed out. They were probably worried about the possibility of a concussion.

The EMTs had no idea what had happened to me, and Buffy didn't want to tell them the truth, so she said that Professor Walsh had smashed me in the face with her handgun. It was a good story, so I decided to go along with it.

The next time I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed at Sunnydale Memorial. The pain in my head was gone, and I wondered if I had been given some sort of painkillers.

"I think she's awake," I heard a female voice say.

And then, the FBI agent with the red hair appeared at my bedside. Her voice was a lot kinder and gentler than it was the first time we met.

"Willow, it's Agent Scully," she said softly, "We met earlier today. Do you remember?"

"You were on my campus," I replied, "You were asking questions about that woman who looked like Professor Walsh."

"That's right," Agent Scully confirmed, "A number of witnesses are saying that the same woman who attacked Professor Arenholz at your school, also attacked you at your home. Can you tell me anything about that?"

Suddenly, I remembered Daryl on the ground, covered in blood. I'm guessing that she got shot, and I wondered if she was even still alive. Did she get killed, trying to protect Buffy and me?

My eyes widened at the thought, and I sat straight up in bed.

"Daryl," I exclaimed, and I tried to get up out of bed and go look for her, "She got shot."

Agent Scully put a hand out to stop me and said, "I already checked on Miss Deardon. She was shot twice in the leg, but both bullets missed the femoral artery. Her doctors tell me that she's going to make a full recovery. I need you to remain calm and tell me everything that you can remember."

"She got shot trying to protect me and Buffy," I said emphatically, as if that somehow changed everything.

"Willow, you and Daryl and Buffy are all safe now. The Sunnydale Police Department is working with the FBI and the California State Police to help catch this woman. And, there's about a dozen cops outside that door keeping watch. And we can place Buffy, Daryl and you all in protective custody after you leave the hospital."

I let some of the tension seep out of my body, and I laid back down.

"Okay," I said.

"Now, what can you tell me about the woman who attacked you?" she asked.

"She had a handgun," I started out, "Not a revolver, the other kind."

"Uh huh," Agent Scully responded, "We recovered that from the crime scene. We're hoping to get some fingerprints off it. Anything else?"

"She looked like Professor Walsh, and she sounded like Professor Walsh," I said, "but I think she was some kind of imposter."

"Okay," Agent Scully said patiently, "And why do you think that?"

"Okay, Professor Walsh is like fifty years old," I said, "but the woman who attacked Professor Arenholz, Daryl and me, moves like a woman in peak physical condition. She moves like a nineteen-year-old athlete that's spent her entire life training for the Olympics. Also, Buffy and I were in Professor Walsh's class, and the woman who attacked me acted like she had never met me before today."