Third Drawer Down

by Jane Davitt




The panties are in the third drawer down, the one reserved for gifts of clothing from his family that he doesn't want to wear or use but can't quite bring himself to throw out.

Handkerchiefs seem to be high on their list of things to get him. He's not sure why. He rarely gets a cold and he never cries.

The panties are a bright splash of yellow, a frivolous froth of lace-edged satin and silk against the sober white cotton of the handkerchief boxes and the six pairs of gloves that are all too small.

He pauses, a pair of tweed -- tweed -- slippers in his hand that probably won't fit anyway -- the drawer's pretty crowded -- and stares at the panties for longer than he needs to. It's perfectly obvious what they are, after all, and he doesn't need the pineapples scattered over them to know Spencer put them there.

He lets the slippers drop to the floor, a double thud, heavy, ominous, his own 'duh-duh-duh-duh sound effect, and reaches in.

They're light. One tentative tug and they slide free, a silky slither, sensuous, seductive.

They're bad panties. So naughty, so skimpy, translucent in all the wrong places, flirty-dirty panties, and they're, oh God, they're his size. Man-sized. He doesn't know he knows that, but he does.

He should drop them. Walk away. Call Spencer and tell him that he'll kneel for him, lick whatever ridiculous place on Spencer he's told to lick, beg, grovel, squirm, but he'll do it decently naked, not wearing... His fingers clutch and tighten. His breath's emerging in long, shuddering gasps, painful to hear. His chest hurts and he's abruptly, achingly hard.

And angry.

Since their last discussion, with Shawn airily admitting that the games they'd played had been his way of getting Carlton as a lover, not his personal kink, their relationship had changed. Less games, less kneeling, less deliciously abject abasement.

Sometimes he missed it. Mostly Shawn kept him too busy to care. And really, when he thought about it, Shawn was still doing just enough to keep that particular itch of Carlton's scratched. The murmured "Blow me, Lassie. Try not to bite this time," with just enough of an edge that Carlton had shivered before opening his mouth, the way Shawn perched on his desk, once resting his feet on Carlton's thigh -- God, he'd raged about it at the time, knocking those impertinent feet aside, but he'd wanted them to stay there and they both knew it.

He'd once spent two hours as Shawn's footstool during a TV marathon Shawn had insisted he needed to watch. His back had locked up, and he'd gotten the Phineas and Ferb theme song embedded so deeply into his brain it'd need surgery to remove it, but he'd loved every moment.

Serving and protecting. It was his job and Shawn, lazy, reckless Shawn, needed both.

"Lassie! You found them. Bad boy for peeking. Santa's not the only one with a naughty list, you know."

Carlton doesn't jump, though he turns around. He's gotten used to Shawn materializing out of thin air. For a man who makes so much noise, dragging disturbance and chaos in his wake, Shawn can sneak around as silently as a cat on the hunt. "It's my drawer, Spencer."

"With my belongings in it. Possession is eleven-tenths of the law."

"Nine-tenths, and that's not factually accurate."

"I've heard it--" Shawn pauses and frowns. "I say that too much."

"Excess is your middle name." Carlton holds up the panties, if only to distract Shawn from the erection he's got that just won't subside. Not with Shawn right there in his bedroom, eyes sparkling, a glint in them that tells Carlton he's about to get lucky because he's about to get Shawn. "No. Not even for you."

"Hmm?" Shawn's gaze is flickering from the panties to a more southerly point. "Not even for me, no, what?"

That takes him a moment to unravel and while he's untangling words, Shawn deftly snags the panties and dangles them from a finger. "You said once your arm healed, it'd be my turn. My kinks."

"Dressing me up in ladies' underwear is your kink?" He can't keep the incredulity out of his voice. It's not shock. He'd expected something more off-beat than that.

This was Shawn, after all.

"You? Silly Lassie. You're too much of a manly man for that. All that chest hair would be so distracting."

Shawn's nervous. Carlton calms down enough to notice it, without losing any of his arousal. Even if he still hasn't worked out what's turning him on. He doesn't want to slip into those panties and feel the smooth, light coolness of them against his skin. Really.

"They were for me," Shawn continues, his tongue passing over his lips, a quick flash of pink. "I wanted to wear them when you spanked me."

"Oh." It's the best he can do. "I see."

Shawn sidles up closer, his breath sugar-spiced and warm. "You don't want to?"

Wistful is a strange look on Shawn. It disturbs Carlton. He's too used to Shawn in control, imperious, demanding, delicately cruel. That's the Shawn he fell in -- has feelings for.

Still. He'd promised.

He snatches the panties back and shoves them into his pocket, not caring that the bulge they make is ruining the line of his pants. His cock's doing that already. Shawn pouts, then smiles when Carlton hooks a finger into the loop of Shawn's belt and drags him in for a kiss.

"Spencer, I'm going to spank you so hard those panties turn red."

"Promises, promises."

Shawn's eyes are huge, his face flushed. He looks like a kid about to get to sit on the real Santa's knee and get everything he's ever wanted just for the asking.

He can do this. He can.

He leads Spencer over to the bed, sits down and puts Spencer in front of him. "Get undressed. I want to see you naked, then I want to watch you put these on."

He drapes the panties across one knee, smoothing out the creases with his hand.

Shawn makes a whimpering sound that tightens Carlton's balls to hear it, and sheds his clothes rapidly. His dick's darkly red, the soft curl of foreskin drawn back to expose the crown, filmed over and messy.

Carlton leans in and tastes, cleaning up all that mess. He wants that salt-bitter tang on his tongue when he spanks Shawn. Shawn sways in place, gulps loudly. "If I come when we're doing this..."

"Don't." Carlton frowns sternly at him, knowing that Shawn will disobey him, wanting him to. He can't think of anything more satisfying than feeling Shawn shudder and jerk through a climax he can't hold back because Carlton's hand, Carlton's strength is turning him on so much.

Shawn bites his lip, then puts out his hand.

Carlton grins at him, fierce and savage, then reaches up and rubs the panties over Shawn's lips, a slow, possessive caress. Shawn opens his mouth, exhales, leaving the lace damp from his breath. "Put them on." It's an order and for once, Shawn does as he's told. He's gratifyingly clumsy as he stands on one leg, then the other, amusing when he reaches in to juggle his junk around to lie snugly inside the silken prison.

Breathtaking when his hands drop to his side.

Carlton stares at him and shakes his head. "How do you think of this stuff?"

Shawn shrugs. Carlton can't take his eyes away from the panties, but he can infer the shrug from the shimmy of Shawn's hips. Shawn's cock is pushing against the thin fabric, shaping it obscenely, a banana in a field of pineapples. The panties ride low enough that the tip of Shawn's cock peeks out coyly. It doesn't need to, but Shawn's adjustments have left it pointing up and Carlton just has to take another taste, this time through the lace and satin.

Shawn's moan is raw, as if it's scraping his throat, clawing its way out. Carlton bites at the hard shape, worries at it, knowing he's not hurting Shawn. Much.

He's acting as much as Shawn ever was, but it doesn't mean he's not enjoying this. Being in control in the bedroom isn't his thing, but pleasing Shawn is, so he can do this. In his head, he listens to instructions Shawn never gave him and pretends he's obeying them.

It helps.

When Shawn's moaning, shamelessly rubbing himself against Carlton's mouth and tongue, a tumble of explicit incoherence that would've gotten his mouth soaped out a generation before, Carlton leans back and pulls Shawn across his lap roughly, carelessly.

Shawn sprawls out, panting, his legs flailing, kicking like a swimmer. Carlton places his hand on the small of Shawn's back and says, "Lie still," making it a flat, uncompromising order. He uses that voice to criminals, to scum he's arrested.

Shawn shivers and whines, but a moment later, he's in position, the sweet curve of his ass thrust up, waiting for Carlton's hand.

He strokes all that silkiness and makes it a gentle touch. It's the last Shawn's going to get for a while. He doesn't know how far Shawn wants to take this, but asking would ruin the mood. He'll play it by ear. By now, he knows when Shawn's protests and complaints are genuine and he's pretty sure he'll know a serious plea to stop when he hears one.

The first slap of his hand is too tentative, the second and third not much better. Shawn stirs restlessly, but wonder of wonders doesn't say anything.

He doesn't need to.

Carlton grits his teeth. He can do this. He can...hurt Shawn. Shawn wants him to -- and it's not as if Carlton doesn't enjoy being just where Shawn is.

"Warmed up, are we?" he murmurs. "Brace yourself, Spencer. I don't like people breaking in and rummaging through my drawers. Time to pay."

"Is that a specific time of the day or like Miller time?"

Carlton answers with a solid crack that stings his hand and makes Shawn yelp like a puppy whose tail's been trodden on.

He closes his eyes, then opens them hurriedly when his next slap lands on Shawn's thigh, prompting a squeal of protest and leaving an angry flare of dark pink on the pale skin.

Carlton bites back an apology, takes a really deep, long breath, then wallops Shawn's ass with gusto and accuracy for a full three minutes. It's not easy to do it, but disappointing Shawn -- failing -- scares the shit out of him. If he fails, Shawn might leave him. Santa Barbara has to be full of men -- and women -- only too eager to spank Shawn. Carlton's probably arrested a few of them.

Shawn falls silent at about the same time that the translucent yellow panties turn sunset pink, as the skin beneath them changes color. It would worry Carlton, but Shawn's head is turned toward him and nothing he can see in Shawn's expression makes him think Shawn's had enough. Shawn's just concentrating on what's being done to him, his face screwed up, his eyes screwed closed.

He's enjoying this and because of that, Carlton realizes he's enjoying it too.

Maybe a little too much.

His climax rushes through him, inescapable, unavoidable, triggered by Shawn's ecstatic, shuddering gasp after a slap lands precisely where the one before it had. Shawn gasps, then says his name, screams it, loud and proud.

He can't spank Shawn when he's coming, his shorts and the front of his pants soaked through, his face as scarlet as Shawn's ass. He tries, but they're feeble pats and he's making sounds Shawn's got good reason to recognize. Climaxing silently is an art Carlton learned as a teenager in his bedroom and learned to forget in his first week as Shawn's lover.

Shawn likes him to be noisy, vocal, and uninhibited. Carlton sometimes manages two out of three.

When he can catch his breath again, he puts his hand, the hot one, the sore one, on Shawn's hair, a clumsy apology of a touch, and waits, miserable even if his body is singing an exultant hallelujah.

"You're such a bad boy, Lassie." Shawn's voice steadies after the first word and by the last it's lightly amused. "I'm not allowed to come, but you are?"

Caught between shame and uncertainty, Carlton stammers out Shawn's name, but he's cut off before he can work out what Shawn wants from him.

It's a kindness he's not sure he's earned.

Shawn twists, agile and lithe, though he winces, and stands in front of Carlton.

Same position as a few minutes before, but there's no doubt who's in charge now.

Shawn takes Carlton's hand and turns it palm up, studying it with his lips pursed. "Can't even spank me without hurting yourself. Or was that on purpose? Was Lassie too selfish to give it up his fun and let this be about me?"

Dumbly, he shakes his head. Shawn's hand always looks like that after he's spanked Carlton. Shawn's not being fair.

God, he loves it when Shawn's unfair.

"And you really need to work on your technique. That was a C-plus if I'm feeling kind and when am I ever kind to you, Lassie?"

He glances up, meets Shawn's gaze. There's enough anxiety there for him to find his voice. "I'll do it better next time. I'm sorry. I wanted it to be good for you, but I'm not--"

Shawn's hand's across his mouth, muffling his words, a second later, forcefully enough that it could be mistaken for a slap.

"Apologize and I won't let you blow me. You want that, don't you? Want to see me come all over these panties, the way you came in yours?"

He nods. What else can he do? It's true. And because he can see how much Shawn wants it too --hard to miss with the evidence right in front of him -- he slides his hands around to cup that hot in every sense of the word ass and pulls Shawn in.

It's astonishing how much heat Shawn's skin is radiating after such a short session. Carlton's spent thirty minutes over Shawn's knee and not gotten this tender and raw. He quells a flash of guilt and lets himself feel some pride instead. Shawn's happy with him. Shawn's wriggling, pressing his ass against the cradle of Carlton's palms and somehow managing to push forward at the same time so that his satin-sheathed cock can get some friction against Carlton's chin and face.

Carlton can't suck more than the tip of Shawn's cock with the panties on, but he doesn't suggest peeling them off. He'll manage. It won't take long.

He digs his fingers into yielding flesh and licks, sucks, bites, kisses until Shawn chokes out a gasp and comes. Carlton swallows some of it because he wants to, then draws back and watches the milky white spurts jerk out and fall down, raining droplets and leaving thick smears on skin and panties and eventually, inevitably, the carpet.

When Shawn leaves, there's always a mess to clean up.

He moves his hands to hold an unsteady Shawn up and nuzzles against Shawn's belly, smelling the ripe stink of come and sweat, memorizing it.

They don't say anything for a while, then Shawn sighs and pulls back. "You need to get out of those wet things, Lassie. You'll catch your death."

It is getting a little clammy. Carlton stands and walks over to the laundry hamper in the corner, his back turned modestly to Shawn and undresses.

Something soft strikes his bare ass and he turns, his hand slapping his side as he goes for his gun, a reflex Shawn punishes with a pitying smirk. The panties are by his feet, small, innocent-looking, fragile.

"Put them on."

"What? No!" Carlton pictures it and feels his spent cock start to thicken and fill. He wants to feel that wet cling and know what it is that's smeared across his cock and balls. Wants to feel it dry, itchy, irritating, a constant reminder. Wants to-- "I'm not wearing your underwear, Spencer!"

"Oh, Lassie." Shawn sighs and shakes his head. "Some detective you are. They're at least a size too big for my slim, svelteness. I bought them for you, silly. Now put them on."

The last words aren't a request.

Slowly, his heart hammering, Carlton bends and picks up the panties. They're damp, the lace torn where his hand caught it, still warm from Shawn's body.

"Please -- Shawn -- please."

Shawn comes to him, wraps his arms around Carlton and kisses him. The tip of his tongue darts into Carlton's mouth and retreats quickly. Shawn still kisses like a teenager. It's endearing and off-putting.

""You don't need to beg," Shawn murmurs kindly. "I said you could put them on."

He turns his head and Carlton follows his gaze.

Shawn's looking at the slippers.

Oh God. They're from his mother. Shawn can't possibly use them to--

He whispers 'please' again.


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