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I've finished the novel (apart from the readthrough and polish) and I treated myself by writing a fragment of mildly kinky (handcuff and spanking fantasy) fic, set after episode 1.02 of Psych. The first lines are a quotation from the episode.
I'm fic-deprived and my fic-to-read pile is about to fall over, it's so high but it's good to have finished 'Hourglass' ahead of schedule and it's great to write fic again. It's been too long since I spanked someone ;-)
"Do you want me to cuff him?"
"Why? Why would I want that?"
"Just a suggestion."
Lassiter had to admit that the Chief's puzzled, almost exasperated look wasn't unreasonable in retrospect, but at the same time, as he shifted in an attempt to get comfortable -- what was with his sheets tonight? Why were they determined to thwart him? -- cuffing Spencer seemed so eminently the right course of action so very often that the words had slipped out before he could censor them.
He lay very, very still, so that his sheets had no excuse to twist and wrinkle up under his sweat-damp back, and gave the question of Spencer in cuffs some serious thought. Just why was it such an appealing idea, anyway?
The man was annoying, yes, but so were most of the people he knew and Carlton never pictured them in cuffs. Spencer was also completely and utterly faking the psychic thing in some as yet unknown way -- but he'd find out, oh, yes, he would, and then Mr. Shawn Spencer would be in more than cuffs. He'd be in hot water. Up to his neck.
An image of Spencer lounging in a steaming bath, one leg raised languidly high as he soaped it slid into Lassiter's head. He allowed himself that digression because soap and Spencer went well together. Both were slippery, dangerous -- Lassiter knew many useful, interesting statistics about bathroom accidents and was willing to quote them as needed, whilst maintaining somewhat contrarily that being well-groomed was essential and the hell with the risks involved -- and both smelled as if they'd taste good but probably wouldn't. Definitely wouldn't in the case of the soap as he'd discovered at the age of five with a bar flavored with black cherry.
Soap was deceptive.
In the darkness of his bedroom he dwelled with uneasy pleasure on Spencer's hands travelling, soap-slicked, over his water-pinked body, fingers delving into hidden places with a complete lack of shame. He'd sing. Yes. Spencer struck Lassiter as a singer. A warbler. The notes would smack into the walls and bounce back like --
Smacking. Another thought to consider. Another way to turn skin pink, then rosy-apple, cherry-bomb red. Spencer over his knee, reduced to a mewling, whining, begging, but silent in all the ways that mattered, mess, that ridiculous hair flattened by sweat, each strand darkened, those expressive, imperious hands clutching, scrabbling, clinging to his leg as his hand rose and fell, not punishing Spencer exactly, just…redressing the balance.
Making Spencer feel as helpless as he did these days.
Would Spencer cry? Maybe. Deliberate, facile, fake tears, yes, absolutely, but Lassiter knew that he could get genuine emotion from Spencer if he was given a free hand. Spencer's eyes wide, brimming, then squinched shut as his mouth fell open on a gasp, wetness spilling out over flushed hot cheeks…
His sheets weren't just tangled now, they were wet. Clinging to his stomach, in fact and his heart was racing, the beats tripping over themselves as his pleasure-shocked body recovered from a slam-bang of a climax.
He'd just come without touching himself, without doing anything but picture Spencer in cuffs, in a bath, in tears.
Lassiter turned and exhaled, a yearning, desperate whisper that might be 'please' escaping him, trusting his pillow to be discreet.
The way he'd had to be for years.
I'm fic-deprived and my fic-to-read pile is about to fall over, it's so high but it's good to have finished 'Hourglass' ahead of schedule and it's great to write fic again. It's been too long since I spanked someone ;-)
"Do you want me to cuff him?"
"Why? Why would I want that?"
"Just a suggestion."
Lassiter had to admit that the Chief's puzzled, almost exasperated look wasn't unreasonable in retrospect, but at the same time, as he shifted in an attempt to get comfortable -- what was with his sheets tonight? Why were they determined to thwart him? -- cuffing Spencer seemed so eminently the right course of action so very often that the words had slipped out before he could censor them.
He lay very, very still, so that his sheets had no excuse to twist and wrinkle up under his sweat-damp back, and gave the question of Spencer in cuffs some serious thought. Just why was it such an appealing idea, anyway?
The man was annoying, yes, but so were most of the people he knew and Carlton never pictured them in cuffs. Spencer was also completely and utterly faking the psychic thing in some as yet unknown way -- but he'd find out, oh, yes, he would, and then Mr. Shawn Spencer would be in more than cuffs. He'd be in hot water. Up to his neck.
An image of Spencer lounging in a steaming bath, one leg raised languidly high as he soaped it slid into Lassiter's head. He allowed himself that digression because soap and Spencer went well together. Both were slippery, dangerous -- Lassiter knew many useful, interesting statistics about bathroom accidents and was willing to quote them as needed, whilst maintaining somewhat contrarily that being well-groomed was essential and the hell with the risks involved -- and both smelled as if they'd taste good but probably wouldn't. Definitely wouldn't in the case of the soap as he'd discovered at the age of five with a bar flavored with black cherry.
Soap was deceptive.
In the darkness of his bedroom he dwelled with uneasy pleasure on Spencer's hands travelling, soap-slicked, over his water-pinked body, fingers delving into hidden places with a complete lack of shame. He'd sing. Yes. Spencer struck Lassiter as a singer. A warbler. The notes would smack into the walls and bounce back like --
Smacking. Another thought to consider. Another way to turn skin pink, then rosy-apple, cherry-bomb red. Spencer over his knee, reduced to a mewling, whining, begging, but silent in all the ways that mattered, mess, that ridiculous hair flattened by sweat, each strand darkened, those expressive, imperious hands clutching, scrabbling, clinging to his leg as his hand rose and fell, not punishing Spencer exactly, just…redressing the balance.
Making Spencer feel as helpless as he did these days.
Would Spencer cry? Maybe. Deliberate, facile, fake tears, yes, absolutely, but Lassiter knew that he could get genuine emotion from Spencer if he was given a free hand. Spencer's eyes wide, brimming, then squinched shut as his mouth fell open on a gasp, wetness spilling out over flushed hot cheeks…
His sheets weren't just tangled now, they were wet. Clinging to his stomach, in fact and his heart was racing, the beats tripping over themselves as his pleasure-shocked body recovered from a slam-bang of a climax.
He'd just come without touching himself, without doing anything but picture Spencer in cuffs, in a bath, in tears.
Lassiter turned and exhaled, a yearning, desperate whisper that might be 'please' escaping him, trusting his pillow to be discreet.
The way he'd had to be for years.
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