Respect Mah Authoritah!   

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