Buffy had slid the bottom of her sundress up, along her silk-smooth thighs, and gently, then more insistently, rubbed the hardening bud of her clitoris through her panties, and a thrill had shot through her, leaping the many thousands of synapses between arrays of nerve endings, tightening her muscles, and quickening the flow of blood through her veins and arteries. In its own mechanical, clinical way, her Slayer's body responded to her touch, despite her abstraction and her detachment, but her heart, her soul-if she still had one-wasn't in it. She sighed, settling back, against Nathan's upper body. Even his cupping, squeezing, and caressing of her breasts and his stroking and tweaking of her swollen nipples seemed more gropes than fondling. She bore his attentions for his sake, not hers. As their artificial log conveyed them, by means of a clanking chain, up the ride's long, steep, final incline, Nathan ground his hips into the small of Buffy's back, letting her feel the firm-soft half-erection that had blossomed in his jeans, flowering just for her, and the Slayer made a mental note of his message: I want you.
I want you, too, Buffy thought, and then their canoe was plummeting down the first of the several dips of the canal that would follow, and there was a great splash of water and everyone around her shrieked and laughed. Vaguely, Buffy heard Dawn's voice and Nathan's, also screaming and laughing, but her own was silent.
Naked, Faith Lahane looked beautiful straddling him. She looked down upon Xander, whose cock she was riding as if she were a rodeo cowgirl bent upon winning first prize by staying on a bucking bronco longer than any of her competitors. Of course, the only competitor she had was herself, since only the two of them occupied the seedy motel room.
Faith's breasts, larger and darker than Buffy's, jiggled and bounced upon her chest as the dark-haired Slayer lifted and plunged and shifted and swayed and rocked up and down, back and forth, left and right.
