Standard Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns all of Buffy, Laurell K. Hamilton owns all of Anita. I own none of either and will make nothing from them.
"Hey, Willow, did you hear?" the leather-clad bodybuilder said as he made his way through the Torture room. "The boss had his baby. A little girl."
"Bacchus, I told you that I don't like to be interrupted when I'm in here," the half naked redhead said with a slight snarl. She was on break and the Torture Room with it's psychic imprints of pain and sex soothed her mind and her mind definitely needed to be soothed after her last client, the Japanese businessman with the Mommy complex. The unwanted memories chased all of the peace from her and she focused on the cause of the interruption.
She could see him trying not to be too obvious about looking at her chest. She only had two thin leather straps that crossed between her breasts on her top half. The tips were better if she showed a lot of flesh. Cutting fools up so that they could get their rocks off, didn't earn a lot of opportunities to get great tips otherwise. She strolled over to him and was pleased that he took a small step backwards.
"Umm...I'm sorry, Willow, I just thought you'd like to hear the news." He swallowed hard. She was the only female member of the staff and all the guys hounded her. The ones that claimed to have nailed her wouldn't talk about it beyond that but they all said they'd jump at the chance to do it again. He looked firmly at the ground until her breasts came into view and then he quickly stared at the ceiling.
"Bacchus, what do I care if Narcissus had his child. I'm not a hyena, I just work here." She pressed against him and slowly put her hands on his muscular chest. "Look at me Bacchus," she commanded, as soon as his gaze met hers, she barreled past his feeble shields and rolled into his mind. She watched his transformation, his first lover. She knew what he fantasized about when he was alone. "The Executioner shooting you is what you jerk off to? You're a sick little boy. Get on your knees!" He fell immediately as she unbuckled her pants. "Good boy."
As she walked out of the club in the hour before dawn, she buttoned up the red silk shirt she had put on in case she was stopped by the police again.Ridiculous
, she thought, I used to herd people like cattle to the slaughter and now I have to work for a living like one of the normals.
She climbed into her black Porsche convertible and started the high-performance engine. She loved to go fast, to practically fly, Speed limits to her were a starting point. That may be why I send half of my check to City Hall every week,
she mused as the sportscar roared through the twists and turns of residential St.Louis while Marilyn Manson blared on her stereo system. She smiled thinking of the Normals being woken up by the pounding base that she had paid the garage so much to produce.
As she ripped around a 35 MPH curve at 70, she waved at the City Police car parked in the alley. Officer Mastriola hadn't bothered to stop her again after she had kept him in her bedroom for three days. The memories of his crying and begging made her smile. "Tool," she said as she cruised down the road in front of her rolling green lawn. Pulling into her long driveway, she lowered the volume and idled to the rear of the large manor that was her home. She could see steam coming off of the illuminated jacuzzi by her red tiled pool. Swimming in the heated pool always gave her the impression that she was floating in blood.
"And again, whoever you are. You have excellent taste," she said aloud as she got out of the parked car after sliding it into the four car garage. She petted her blue and white '69 GT500 as she checked to make sure that the mechanics at the dealership had stopped the oil leak on her new crimson red Harley. "Excellent taste." The red haired woman walked to the back door of her home and entered into the rear kitchen. It was the room that she had first found herself in a year ago.
She remembered the sugarsweet version of herself not letting the others kill her and then they sent her back to the moment of her death anyway. "Morons." Learning the new rules of this world happened instantly. Getting used to them took a lot longer. Vampires were people too!
"Gag me." She checked the mail on the table and seen the newspaper had a cover story of the Executioner and Jean-Claude's wolf Jason being involved in some gunfight or something. "Media Whore." As long as she paid her monthly tithe and showed up once a week to kiss his ass, the Master of the City let her stay in town. Pretty boy had nothing on The Master or Xander for that matter
. "Rump ranger."
"Did you say something, Ma'am?" Angelica, her seventeen year old sexy and innocent blond neighbor asked as she walked into the room. Her pomme de sang was wearing only little pink panties and a see-through babydoll tee-shirt. Her perfectly smooth skin glowed in the doorway to the darkened room beyond. Her puffy nipples tightened and made the cloth crest between them as she watched her mistress study her.
"Nothing important, Sweetie," she murmured as she raised the shirt over the French girl's head and pulled her nubile body close. Sinking her fangs into her second favorite spot on the willing girl, right in the side of Angelica's small breast, she thought again that whoever it was that sent her here and gave her the house, the vehicles, the bank account, the job, and this sweet piece of meat, was really tops on her list. Tops, being Willow Rose really did not suck...