The View From Here

by Jane Davitt

The room tilted and Shawn found himself in an ungainly sprawl across Lassiter's knees. While he was still recovering from being grabbed, twisted, and slammed down onto a hard, bony surface, Lassie, exhibiting an intriguing competence in prepping for a spanking, calmly gathered in Shawn's flailing limbs and adjusted Shawn's position to suit him.

Shawn wasn't unfamiliar with this view of the world -- in this case, Lassiter's living room -- but it'd been many years since he'd been in this position and nothing about a paddling from Henry had been arousing. Not that his dick was entirely sure what to make of this even if Lassie's hands all over him and a menacing jungle cat snarl in the mix usually signaled fun times to come. A pissed off -- in the right way -- Lassie was Shawn's favorite chew toy.

Oh well, when in doubt, find more out. 'Find out more' scanned better, but didn't rhyme. Shawn liked catchy jingles better than good grammar.

"Uh, Lassie…not that I'm the kind of man to ever say no to a sexy spanking followed by whatever your deviously kinky mind dreams up -- and I know it can exceed expectations, last Tuesday proved that -- but you're already late for work, so unless you're bored of catching criminals, in which case I suspect bodysnatching aliens in the vicinity --"

 Lassiter had one large hand resting lightly on Shawn's ass. Shawn could feel the shape of every finger. It was the hand whose caresses reduced him to helplessly kissing whatever part of Lassie was closest, the hand that worked him over, made him give it up, all of it, everything, anything Lassiter wanted from him. He was bestest buddies with that hand and now it was going to --

Lassiter sighed. "Let me refresh your memory. Three days ago, you said, "Lassiter, if I --"

"I'm fairly sure I called you Lassiwassikins," Shawn said. He knew where this was going now. There was a long, deep scratch on Lassiter's hand, red and fresh, and a few ginger hairs clinging to his dark dress pants.

"You're still above ground and breathing, so I'm fairly sure you didn't," Lassiter said evenly. "You said if you forgot to feed Mrs. Hollister's cat again while she was in Florida, I was to spank your cute little tush red and rosy. I said that I was sure that wouldn't be necessary because if you wanted that from me, you could've gotten it without making an innocent animal suffer and you said that was good to know and how about now. I'd just found the perfect slipper to use when my hand got sore when you remembered that Project Runway was about to start and bailed on me."

Shawn was having trouble breathing. He tried to wriggle into a better position for his lungs -- outside, maybe, where there was all that fresh air -- and two hands clamped down firmly, one wrapped around his thigh, the other gripping his shoulder.

"She paid you to feed him and clean out his litter tray because you assured her that psychics and cats had a special bond."

"They do," Shawn said. "Which is why I know that little Ichabod is on a hunger strike, protesting the monopoly of white Persians in movies."

"I fed that vicious little furball for you," Lassiter continued. "I even dealt with the frankly disgusting contents of the litter tray."

"You're a saint amongst men," Shawn said with too much sincerity to be entirely convincing. "Uh, I had three waffles for breakfast with whipped cream, syrup, and a few scoops of chocolate ice cream so there's a strong possibility that I'll throw up in the next few minutes unless we cancel the spanking and settle for a tongue lashing. I promise to whimper after every sentence and say, 'Please, Lassie, can I have another?'.

"You're going to refuse the fee for taking care of that animal," Lassiter said inexorably, "and donate the amount you would've gotten to the local Humane Society."

Shawn was silent. This wasn't fun. This wasn't sexy. He was getting chewed-out by someone he'd disappointed. This was…familiar.

"Oh, my God, you're turning into my dad," he said, horrified beyond belief. "That's so wrong. That's so very --"

"Shut up, Spencer," Lassiter said in his best 'I must be obeyed' voice. It rarely worked, but he was getting better at it. "I'm just doing what I always do and giving you what you asked for."

"I asked for it, but I didn't think you'd --" Shawn bit his lip and stood up. Lassiter allowed him to do that, releasing Shawn instantly, which wasn't a surprise. Fake wriggles might get him Lassie coming on strong in the hold me down and hurt me good department but genuine discomfort never went unnoticed. "Please don't."

Lassiter folded his arms across his chest, his feet still planted in the perfect place to administer a spanking. Part of Shawn wanted to push his jeans down and get back over that knee, but he'd done too good a job of freaking himself out. A gleam of satisfaction in Lassiter's eyes told him that Lassie knew that, too. Twisted and devious -- they were his things, not Lassie's. This was so unfair.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Shawn said bitterly. "Ruining a perfectly good fantasy just because that overfed feline missed a meal or three."

"He didn't miss any," Lassiter corrected him. "I checked on you every day. Luckily." Lassiter stood. "I'm going to work. See you tonight."

It wasn't a question, which was the only saving grace about this whole, horrible morning. Well, apart from the waffles. They'd been tasty. Shawn wasn't sure what he'd do if Lassiter ever came to his senses and ended this tentative, fragile, relationship they'd evolved from a lot of fighting and screaming. They still did both, but it was different now.

Except, after six months of moving everything he owned in, bit by bit, and completely destroying Lassiter's system of organizing his cupboards, it wasn't that fragile. He lived with Lassiter pretty much. They slept together even on nights when they didn't have sex. That went above and beyond anything that Shawn had ever done with anyone else.

He let Lassiter get to the door and then cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."

Lassiter didn't turn around. He shrugged on his jacket, looking, even from the back, like a man with an unscratched itch. Maybe Shawn wasn't the only one who'd had a fantasy ruined. "Tell that to Ichabod."

"I don't speak Purr. Miaow, yes, I'm fluent in that, but Ichabod says my accent is atrocious and refuses to engage with me unless I wear a catnip mouse around my neck and I'm allergic to --" Shawn abandoned that particular digression. "Okay, forget the catnip. Lassie, don't go to work mad. Suppose I got shot today; how bad would you feel that you didn't kiss me good bye?" He could hear a whine of desperation in his voice. Lassie always kissed him good bye. Shawn had trained that kiss into him. "At least a kiss. Groping me wouldn't take up too much time, either, and I could try and beat our record for fastest blow job ever. I've worked out a way that I can shave a few seconds off by talking dirty to you as I'm crossing the room."

Lassiter turned, stalked over to him with the air of a man at his limit when it came to resisting his super-sexy boyfriend, and grabbed Shawn by the scruff of his neck, turning him, bending him over, and walloping his ass three times in swift, stinging succession. It felt wonderful. Exhilarating. Like a cold shower and a brisk rubdown with a rough towel.

Lassiter hauled Shawn close and said softly into his ear, his breath a warm tickle, "Apology accepted. Choose something I can use to give you the other twenty-seven with tonight. You haven't earned my hand. That's for Daddy's good boy."

Shawn made a mewling sound that Ichabod would've been proud of and managed a dazed nod. His ass was screaming for more, his dick aching, unsatisfied, hungry. Something told him that Lassiter was totally playing with him, but the end result was the same as if Lassie had been serious, because joking or not, Lassie would deliver on his promises. He always did.

"W-Why did the cat scratch you?" he asked to distract himself from falling to his knees and flat-out begging for the rest of his spanking after the quickest ever therapy session. It would work -- probably -- but it wasn't fair to make Lassie late for the third time that week.

Lassiter glanced down at the scratch and shrugged. "I tried to pet it."

"Oh." There was something really heartbreaking about Lassiter, kind, patron saint of cats, Lassiter, getting savaged when the cat always purred for Shawn and stropped his legs.

"I'm used to getting scratched when I'm being nice to someone," Lassiter said meaningfully. "Did you see my back this morning?"

Shawn made a pish-tosh sound. "Sign of affection, clearly, then. At least I know I was feeling particularly loving last night." Lassie nailing him with a sweaty urgency and a lot of moaning got to him every time. Maybe he should get a manicure this morning, though…after admiring his hopefully still pink ass in the mirror and then --

"Don't jerk off, either," Lassiter said on the way to the door, after a kiss delivered to Shawn's left earlobe. "I'll know -- and you really won't enjoy the spanking if you do."

"Why not?" Shawn couldn't help asking.

Lassiter turned his head and smirked. "Because there won't be one."

Lassiter knew him so well.

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