Hidden Desire

by SpikesKat

A week goes by and you find yourself casting covert glances at Giles at odd times. On the off chance your eyes do happen to collide, you do a weird shuffling of whatever happens to be in your hand at the time, stammer for a minute while you grasp at straws for a joke to gloss over the awkward moment. 

You earn a frown and sometimes even manage to bring about a put-upon sigh for your efforts. 

You take it and anything else Giles throws your way, because it means that he hasn’t guessed at your growing infatuation – obsession – then duck your head and hunch your shoulders, appropriately chastised for making light of “a serious situation, Xander”. You return your attention back to whatever it is you’re supposed to be working on, and pray he can’t see the blush that has turned your face a bright red and subsequently worked its way up to the tips of your ears. 

Explaining that away… well, let’s just say you don’t want to go there. Ever. Times infinity! 

Instead of reading, though, you try to figure out what your dick sees in the guy. Father figure much? And since when did tweed and suspenders become a turn on? 

Today is no different. Furtive glances out of the corner of your eye. Wistful sigh. 

Wistful sigh? 

You look away from where Giles is pacing, tip of his glasses munched thoughtfully in contemplation as he reads, and focus on what you’re supposed to be doing, but not before catching Buffy’s brows raised in enquiry bordering on Horrorsville. You feel your face flame, though you give her your patented, “what? Huh? No I wasn’t just imagining your watcher without his clothes on. Really, Buff, your slaying time must be interfering with your rest, maybe you should take the night off because the lack of sleep is affecting your brain – come here let me pat your shoulder in sympathy” look. 

For added effect, you smile disarmingly. 

All the while you wonder about the imbroglio your life has become. You frown to yourself and blame Giles for filling your head full of thousand dollar words – a week ago you wouldn’t have known an imbroglio from an igloo... or even an Ikladosh demon. 

Like the one your stomach had the pleasure of meeting the other night, or at least its rather meaty fists. Thankfully, Buffy had trounced the thing before you wound up making a trip to the hospital because your guts were littered all over the cemetery. 

Yay for slayer powers! 

Double yay for the watcher that rushed to your side in a panic, voice filled with concern as he asked after your person and roamed his hands thoroughly – if a bit impersonally –over your body while checking for possible injuries. You barely heard Willow’s echoing sentiments. 

Needless to say, shower time was spent recounting the night’s events, and if your orgasm left you so weak you spent the remainder of your time on your knees as you soaped up then washed off, well, again, no one’s business but your own. 

Buffy shakes her head at you and rolls her eyes, returns to whatever she was doing. Which was nothing, just like you. 

‘Yes!’ you shout, but only inside your head. 

Diversionary tactic number six thousand three hundred twenty-four is a success. 

You think that maybe you can go with tried and true number one and offer up a donut run. On the way you can dip into the boy’s bathroom and take care of the unbearable pressure in your groin, the one that has been a constant problem of late. 

Damn your teenaged hormones anyway! 

You could probably win an award for the number of times you’ve played slap happy with your dick… not that that is something you want to advertise. But seriously, it’s a wonder your arm hasn’t gone numb, or that it’s not bigger than the other given all the recent exercise. 

“Who’s up for donuts?” you sorta squeak out. You’ve gotten harder just imagining some alone time. 

Pretty sick, but you’ve given up questioning yourself. To thine own self be true. 

Great! Now you’re quoting Shakespeare. 

Giles’ fault. All Giles’ fault. 

There’s a chorus of agreement from the others and you stand, make sure your shirt is covering the prominent bulge in your pants before stepping away from the concealment the table provides. 

Giles gives you money and you want to linger over the exchange. Want to feel again the tiny electric jolt as your fingers accidentally on purpose brush across his palm as you take the bills he’s holding out. 

Then you’re out of the library and rushing to the bathroom. 

~*~*~*~*~

You care not that you’ve got one hand braced against the wall for support, pants and underwear down around your ankles, the other on your cock and fisting it like there’s no tomorrow. You angle your hips over the toilet in the hopes of getting your cum in the bowl rather than have it shoot all over the place. 

You bite your lip to hold back a groan as you near the end. You feel your balls draw up. Another hard pull or two and you know it’ll send you over. 

The imaginary smack to your butt has you thrusting forward into your hand. 

“Giles!” Surprise, want, and so much need in your voice. “Yes. Spank me again. Harder. I—” Your voice echoes quietly in the empty room.

You feel the next blow, flat palm against bare ass. Feel the sting and know you’ll have the imprint on your ass cheek for hours. 

You come all over the wall, the back of the toilet – thankfully you keep from getting it on yourself, except for the hand that can’t seem to stop stroking. 

When you’re through, you stagger back and collapse against the closed stall door, panting harshly.

Little do you realize that the object of your fantasy is standing with the bathroom door partially open, frozen in place. How he slowly backs up and lets it close with little to no sound.

Not that you would have heard it with the pounding of your heart and the ringing in your ears because what’s left of your brains have shot out your dick.

The End... again, or so I thought. Apparently, it's now a trilogy, with the third part, Nothing Happens Unless First A Dream.

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