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Author: Chad
E-mail: chad_m_@hotmail.com
Rated: R
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, but the story is.
Summary: Buffy gets a vibrator and Angel freaks out. B/A (Angel POV)
Note: Smut. And a note to women who feel like they need a vibrator when they got the real thing in their man . . . that’s a big no-no. Unless you’re gonna use it for pleasurable purposes . . . for both parties of course.
Dedication: To Baby Blues, Happy Graduation Day. After 4 years of suffering high school, you’re finally here. You’ve made it this far and I’m so proud of you. Your hard work and determination finally paid off and now . . . all is finally over. Then . . . you get to start college. Yep, you’re almost done. *wink* I love you and congratulations! Party @ BB’s house tonight! I’ll bring myself . . . and the alcohol!!
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I know my wife very well. I’ve had 12 years to get to know her mind, body, and soul. Yes, we were separated for quite sometime during those 12 years, but I still knew her, somehow, I felt her and knew when she was hurt, when she was happy, when her heart ached longingly for something she didn’t really know or understand, but I pictured that to be me.
I know that my wife loves me, trusts me with everything that she’s made of. I feel more than just giddy knowing about it, I feel blessed, making me want to shout to the world that this woman is mine and mine alone. I can’t get enough of her. Everyday is an adventure whenever I’m with her. Everyday I seem to discover something new and exciting about her . . . a new freckle on her nose, the way she sometimes pouts when she’s thinking, or the way she always and unconsciously plays footsie with me in bed as she slowly drifts off to sleep.
And now, after three years of marriage, I have the confidence to say that I know my wife. Know her so well that I know that she wouldn’t go behind my back and cheat on me . . . with a vibrator.
It all began this afternoon. As usual, I was in the kitchen making dinner for two when the doorbell rang. Decked out in a chef’s hat that always amused my wife if not turned her on and an apron that said ‘Kiss me, I’m Irish,’ which Xander had ‘humorously’ gotten for me when I turned human almost four years ago.
Lowering the stove temperature to medium low and chopping up the rest of the tomatoes, I took off my hat and apron, not wanting to make a fool of myself in front of anyone whether I already knew them or not (I didn’t need to feed Xander more ammo to jibe me with). After tasting a bit of my sauce, I quickly made me way to the front entrance of the Hyperion Hotel as I kneaded a knot on my shoulder with my left hand.
I opened the door.
“Hello,” a UPS delivery man greeted brightly in his brown uniform, “Is Mrs. Buffy Summers O’Neil home?”
I shook my head. “My wife’s not here at the moment,” I replied, noticing a group of women up on a balcony from a building across the street, margaritas in hand and staring at either me or the UPS guy with the brown shorts.
“Oh, well, this package is for her,” he said, handing me a box big enough to fit a cordless phone or a tall stack of CD’s. “It was scheduled to come in tomorrow, but we figure, the earlier, the better, eh?” he chuckled.
I smiled hesitantly and nodded. Maybe it was the packaging fumes or the tacky brown that made him act so . . . flighty? The distant whistling of the Margarita Women could be heard in the distance and UPS Guy turned and waved at them with a bright Tom Cruise smile, as though he was some sort of celebrity in this side of town. And when one of the women up at the balcony greeted him by his name, a rather intimate sign, I concluded that he did more than just deliver letters and packages, but put his own parcel into good use as well.
Frowning, I finally took the plain white box.
Buffy never said anything about getting any delivery of any sort. “What is it?” I asked, shaking it a bit.
But before he could answer, the box came alive in my grasp. The sound of something vibrating emitting from the package. I stared at it in shock, unable to get a hold of my surprise.
“What the . . . ?” I looked up at UPS Guy in question.
He stared wide-eyed at the simple white package with Buffy’s name printed neatly on it in bold black letters. I madly shook it again, praying to the PTB it would somehow turn off just as it had turned on, but instead, the vibrating became stronger and faster.
“Dear God,” UPS Guy said, eyes wide as he stared at the box in sick fascination.
Not knowing what to do, I placed it on the floor, snatching the clipboard UPS Guy had in his hand, wanting to sign the needed papers quickly so he’ll leave and I can contemplate why Buffy decided to buy a vibrator. And if I come up with empty answers, I’d like to brood alone until my wife comes home and explains herself. But both our interests came swiftly down at the package that moved skittishly across the floor, tipping forward and falling on it’s side before moving at a pretty impressive speed towards the steps like a little runaway critter in a box. And considering what was inside it, I would guess it kinda was.
I signed the papers and shoved UPS Guy out of my front steps, throwing the clip board after him. Even the sound of a rather loud thump and an “Oof” didn’t stop me from slamming the door closed and locking it. I sometimes forget that my strength is still with me.
I stared after the package (which was presently falling down the few steps towards the main lobby) like it was my worst enemy.
With a growl I didn’t quite get rid of after I turned human, and I didn’t really want to considering the fact that it turned my wife on like no other and drew her closer to . . . Anyway . . . I grabbed the offending box and shook it frantically. Wanting the damn vibrations to stop.
I abruptly stopped dead on my tracks. A picture of my wife naked and in bed came slashing through my mind like a sudden lightning bolt hitting me on the head or a bite on the ass. It would have been such a pleasant and arousing picture if the image of a vibrator inside her as she writhed in pleasure didn’t accompany it.
I held up the box in front of my face and shook it again. I knew it was maddening. I was getting jealous over a vibrator. Yes. A vibrator. A counterfeit phallus that poorly mimics the real thing. It wasn’t even alive . . .
I paused.
‘Not literally,’ I thought as I frowned down at the box.
I wanted to open it. To see for myself.
Knowing my wife, it would either be blue, her favorite color, or . . .
“What the hell am I saying?” I mumbled to myself, wanting to slap my forehead and hit myself numerous times. I did not want to go through the many possibilities of what the damn thing looked like. Blue, brown, made out of silver or gold, even dotted with diamonds . . . in the end, it was the same thing. A vibrator.
I reached the kitchen and placed it on the table, wanting to put my mind on something else other than the threat to my manly pride. But as I checked on my roasting potatoes and homemade Alfredo sauce, my attention went straight back to the box dancing across the wooden table like a jittery little elf on a caffeine high.
I almost laughed at the picture . . . but didn’t.
My interest went back and forth from the boiling pasta noodles and to the evil monstrosity that clattered on my kitchen table. I mean, why, in God’s green earth, would Buffy want to buy a damn vibrator? Why? It wasn’t like I was lacking or denying her anything. I gave my wife something good everyday, and it always ended up with her screaming and clawing at my back like a banshee in heat. Not that it bothered me or anything.
I brooded as I walked down an empty stairwell to the dark and dingy cellar to get a bottle of wine. I began wondering if I was missing something. Maybe I didn’t have that certain . . . edge anymore. What if Buffy now considers me boring in bed?
I stared at the numerous stacks of wine bottles in shock.
Was that it? I asked myself, shuffling my feet across the dusty floor. What if I’ve lost my touch? What I call my Midas touch . . .
I racked my brain for the reason what I was doing wrong. I always made sure my wife and I got at least 2 to 3 orgasms a day, at the very least. And I made sure she, herself, got more because . . . well . . . she’s my wife. And it’s my duty, as her husband, to provide those climaxes, not some over grown plastic that needs a battery to get the job done!
I huffed and grabbed a bottle off the shelf, not really caring if I got the right type of wine and year. I was angry. My wife had gotten a vibrator without consulting me.
I stopped at that.
This was so frustrating. Like she would consult me before buying a vibrator. What was she going to say, “Hey, honey. I wanna try something new. Do you think I can get a vibrator? Something that’s a bit bigger than yours and has the boundless stamina of an Energizer Bunny.”
I groaned at that thought and rubbed my achy shoulder. Usually I would ask Buffy to massage me when she got home, but I wasn’t feeling very open and affectionate with my wife at that moment. I can live with the pain just as she would live with the vibrator for the rest of her life. If she ever used that thing, that was it. I was not going to be a substitute if she ran out of batteries.
Bitter and more than a bit resentful, I returned to the kitchen, my eyes landing swiftly on the white package that had now ended up on the floor, doing a little jig on the white tiles.
With a loud growl, I slammed the wine bottle on the kitchen counter and grabbed the offending box, shaking it and slamming my hand against it, wanting the vibrating to stop before my mind went mad and I ended up sitting in the corner, rocking back and forth, my fingers twiddling as I talked about dancing fairies and purple dragons.
And suddenly . . . it stopped.
I took a deep breath and smiled a bit. But that smile came too quickly when the package started vibrating . . . again. I glared at it, clenching my teeth in anger. I turned and stalked towards the bathroom, flipping on the light.
I gazed at myself in the mirror, placed the box in the sink and began unbuckling my belt. Let’s see what this vibrator has that I don’t. Shoving my boxers and pants down to my knees, I grabbed the parcel and tore it open with teeth and nails as different thoughts ran through my mind.
What? Did it put up a light show? Did it also play music? Can it make coffee?!
I stared down at my manhood, noting it’s flaccid state. Yeah, it may not be up and ready now, but it will be. It’s not like I’m gonna get all hot and bothered with a thought of my wife and a VIBRATOR.
With an eruption of anger, I continued ripping the carton box in shreds, wanting to prove and see for myself that my prick was bigger and better than any bloody vibrator out there known to man kind and . . .
“Angel? Honey? You home?” a voice called outside the bathroom door.
“Oh sh . . . ”
A knock and then the door burst open, “Ang . . . holly sh . . . ”
I looked up and found my wife, clutching the brass doorknob and staring at me with wide and shocked eyes.
“Hi,” was all I could manage to say.
Silence . . .
. . . That was then followed by an assortment of laughter and snorting in the background. I looked behind her in time to see Xander, Willow, Giles, Dawn, and Spike standing in the hallway, not bothering to hide their amusements with Buffy’s sister and best friend hiding their chuckles behind their hands as they fought to keep from staring. Giles was left hiding his grin as he took off his glasses and began cleaning the lenses. But Xander and Spike didn’t even bother concealing it as they guffawed, looking as though they were close to dying from their amusement.
Buffy, snapping out of her shock and trance, entered the bathroom along with me and slammed the door shut. “What the hell are you doing?” she whispered hysterically, looking mad enough to throttle me and shove her new ‘friend’ down my throat.
My anger won out through my embarrassed state. I glared at her. I have been humiliated more than once today and it was all because of her and her God damn vibrator.
“What am I doing?” I held up the box, waving it in front of her face like a little flag, “You bought a vibrator! How do you think I’m supposed to feel about that? Overjoyed? Ecstatic? Do you know how I feel? what this is doing to my pride and-and . . . manhood?” I ended in a breathless whisper.
She glared at me and snatched the box from my grasp. I stared at her as she took out the object inside and shoved it in front of my face. “It’s a back massager, Angel,” she clarified, waving it return, “I bough it for your shoulder.”
I stared at it suspiciously and studied the slightly curved handle and the head that looked more like a tooth brush rather than the head of a penis.
“Oh.”
She placed it against my shoulder and I slowly began relaxing against the low and smooth vibrations. I looked at her as she gazed up at me expectantly. “Ohhhh,” was the only thing I could say as she sighed, gave me a kiss on the cheek, patted my slowly hardening cock and said, “Hi, honey. I’m home,” and left the bathroom, keeping the door open.
“Ey, peaches . . . nice toosh.”
I frowned and yanked my pants back up, slamming the door in their laughing faces. I stared at the massager my wife got me and couldn’t help but smile to myself. Twelve years . . . and I still have much to know.
~{End}~
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