Disclaimer: Not mine, no money, don’t bother

Rating: NC-17 for m/m implication and twisted story line

Pairing: BF/RK

Author's Notes: No sleep and a caffeine high makes my brain more freaky than normal, I refuse to be held responsible for this story! Besides, this was another Serge Challenge.
The title is a quote from South Park ... yeah, I watch too much TV, what of it ;-)

For Sylvie, cos she asked ... again.

Once again this wasn't betaed so any mistakes are mine.

All comments, advice (on the story, not my mental health) and flames please send to wylt@hotmail.com, I need feedback like Kowalski needs Frase, gimme!

Respect Mah Authoritah! (c) Wylt, June 2000.

Benton Fraser stood bewildered with his pants puddled around his ankles, one thought and one thought only running through his mind: I Am A Mountie. I. Am. A. Mountie.

It helped to remind himself of that fact, helped him reach for his calm, logic returning, swiftly followed by confidence and peace.

Only to be hurled back into his previous state of bewilderment as movement opposite him caught his eye.

“It’s no good, y’know.”

The husky tones of his partner forced him to open eyes he hadn’t been aware he’d closed in order to stare at Ray. The new Ray, that is. *His* Ray. Blonde Ray, who stood staring at him with something like disappointment in his pale blue eyes.

Fraser swallowed nervously, licking his lips as he prayed his voice wouldn’t give.

“What isn’t, Ray?”

One long fingered hand rose to gesture at him. The hand that was empty. The hand that wasn’t holding the ... his ....

“I think it’s the starch,” Ray continued in a conversational tone.

Reflexively, Fraser glanced down at himself, at the starched white cotton boxer shorts currently concealing his ... nether regions from Ray’s amused view. Panic rose a notch, warring with the urge to run, fast, before logic took over once more and a small voice laughed that he’d not get far with his pants around his ankles. Funny how it sounded just like Ray.

“Take ‘em off, Frase.”

The hand that was holding the ... the ... last vestiges of his pride, he supposed, twitched and a soft ‘crack’ split the air, making him jump. He could do this. He would. He was a Mountie. But it would *really* help if Ray didn’t keep it so hot in here.

With another nervous swallow, Fraser pushed his shorts down suddenly trembly legs to puddle with his pride - pants. Pants. Puddle with his pants.

Ray licked his lips, a small frown of concentration crossing his brow even as his eyes raked over the muscular form of his lover. His occupied hand moved, rising slowly then moving with a blur of motion to the repeated sound of ... well, cracking.

“You gonna ...” Ray trailed off, motioning with his free hand.

The Canadian nodded reluctantly, turning to stand sideways on to his partner. For some perverse reason he wanted to see, see Ray, see ....

The arm rose, and Fraser tensed involuntarily, bracing himself. He was going to do it. Ray was actually going to do it. He was going to call his bluff, make him swallow his pride. Great Scott, he might even be enjoying this!

Sheer panic overwhelmed him, even as his butt muscles clenched; pert, firm flesh becoming even perter and firmer.

“Ray -” Damn his pride, but Ray obviously didn’t hear his whispered plea.

The arm swung back, blurring with motion once more, followed by the arc of the object clenched in one fist.

“Ray!” He screeched, terrified but unmoving.

Ray’s arm didn’t slow and the loud crack of Fraser’s Sam Browne hitting its target rolled through the air between them.

Benton Fraser stood bewildered with his pants *and* his boxers puddled around his ankles, muscles relaxing, teeth unclenching and eyelids opening.

Ray stood gazing back at him, a cocky, unrepentant grin threatening to split his face.

“Knew you’d cave under pressure.”

Fraser turned to stare blankly at the couch cushion flayed alive by the strength of Ray’s swing, struggling to suppress a shudder.

“I did not, I was merely ... attempting to communicate my readiness.”

“You screeched, Frase.”

“I most certainly did not.” Indignation coloured his usual polite tones.

“Fraser. I won the bet, remember? You screeched.”

“Voiced my concern.”

“Screeched.”

“Communicated my nervousness.”

“Screeched.”

Fraser quibbled, unwilling to let the matter rest. “Yelped.” He finally settled on, aiming for a compromise.

Ray lifted the thick leather belt threateningly. “Screeched.”

“Screeched.”

“Thankyou.”

“You’re welcome.”

Ray raised his eyebrows pointedly and, after a moments hesitation, Fraser added, “Sir.”

Ray *had* won the bet afterall.

Finis