In bed with Captain Jack Sparrow, she became far far less edited. She became unedited in other parts of her life, too. But nothing quite like the abandonment of composure and careful construction that took place when she was brimming with pleasure. Her lips remained parted -- giving way to breath and moans. At some point she remembered that this house was empty and a kind of safety-switch flipped off, completely surrendering any form of self-policing.

Ready was such a laughable word at a moment like this. If asked aloud, she might have even laughed amidst whimpers and tight, audible breaths. Ready sounded like a choice but what Buffy felt now was something inevitable. Unchoosable except to choose and get lost. Her body tensed and her muscles clenched and her grip was borderline-crushing. A soft oh, God and Buffy was passing far beyond ready.