The ground was cold and rough beneath him, scraping his ear as he coughed and gasped. The world spun, the ground becoming a night sky, as Shawn struggled to piece together where he was and what had happened. Cold rings clamped around his wrists, and a dark voice muttered somewhere above him. Shawn grunted, knees jerking, as he remembered.

Eyes wide, he wrenched his neck up and saw that Lassiter was sitting next to him, pulling his polished shoes back over his gartered socks and fastidiously tying the laces. He was grumbling again, something about how much "it" had cost. Shawn lifted his hands and finally realized that they had been cuffed. He frowned. Why had his hands been cuffed in front of him, rather than behind? Very un-Lassie-like. But then again, Lassiter was a very high, extremely aggressive, terrorist of a kite at this particular moment.

His options flashed through his head: one, play dead; two, make another break for it; three, strangle Lassie in a revenge chokehold; or four, play the submissive captive.

Lassiter abruptly turned to him, blue eyes red-rimmed and watery, face stony. Red marks stood out against his pale skin where Shawn had scratched him. Options one and two were out, then. Option three was still a possibility if Shawn played his cards right, but the detective was supercharged with drugs. It was called liftoff for a reason. If Shawn managed to get his arms around his neck, Lassiter could easily do a Killswitch WWE move and slam him face first to the ground, breaking every bone in Shawn's body. Option four was Shawn's best bet, at least until he judged two or three viable enough.

The detective pushed himself up to his feet, then reached down and grasped Shawn by the arm, jerking him upright. Shawn nearly swooned with the motion, his throat spasming painfully. Coughing, Shawn locked his knees and swayed, steadied only for a moment by Lassiter's grip before they were moving. Unable to keep up, Shawn stumbled, and the detective half led, half dragged him through the units. He did manage to commit the turns to memory, as he would need to be able to orient himself for his eventual escape. Not far from where Shawn had made his first breakaway attempt, Lassiter stopped in front of a blue rollup door.

Before releasing him, Lassiter unholstered his gun, made a show of switching off the safety, and aimed it at Shawn's head. Shawn watched him warily, standing as still as possible, which was difficult when the world spun and rocked underfoot. Lassiter pulled a keyring out of his pocket and tossed it at him. With a loud jangle, the keys hit Shawn's chest and clattered to the ground. He made no move.

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Pick them up. Open the door. Go inside."

Unhappily, Shawn obeyed. He knelt slowly, deliberately, in front of the heavy padlock at ground level, and picked up the keys. He examined the variety and quickly located one that seemed it would fit the lock, and it did. Tense silence hung like a wet quilt over them, broken only by the soft clicks of the tumbler, the clink of metal against metal, and their breathing. Flicking his tongue over his lips, Shawn unclasped the padlock and removed it, then looked up at Lassiter.

Standing over him with the gun's barrel a mere few inches from his head, Lassiter's eyes seemed black. His pupils had gone from pinpricks to fully dilated in the time it had taken Shawn to do his task. Shawn swallowed hard, reminding himself that waiting it out was the game. The longer Lassiter seemed unaware of Shawn, or at least didn't interact with him, the closer Lassiter came to coming down and regaining his senses, and the safer Shawn would be. Lassiter might even apologize for his behavior.

After a very long moment during which Shawn counted to seventy-three, the detective blinked and seemed to remember he was in the middle of abducting a man.

"Open it," he growled, punctuating his command with a jabbing gesture.

Shawn did. Still holding the keys and padlock in his cuffed hands, he pressed his elbows against the ribbed door and pushed upward. The chains and sheeting rattled as the door slid up, revealing a ten by fifteen space with a cement floor. To Shawn's eyes, it was a well-organized but strange setup. Cardboard boxes and plastic tubs were stacked neatly along each side wall, though the back wall was clear of possessions. Sheet-protected furniture were arranged toward the center, creating two narrow but accessible pathways to the back of the room. It was the empty back wall and the deep shadows of the ribbed metal sheeting that had created a strange sense of unease, though he couldn't have articulated why.

Shawn glanced up and spotted two interior cameras. The one in the back left corner was pointed directly at them, making entry without being seen an impossibility. The other was mounted next to the light switch on the right wall, just by the entrance, and pointed into the room, likely to provide a clearer image of an intruder's face as they turned to leave. Shawn wondered what Lassiter stored in those boxes that made him paranoid enough to invest in such a security system, independent of the facility's outdoor cameras mounted at each intersection.

There wasn't much time to wonder, as Lassiter ordered Shawn inside, nudging him with a sharp kick just below the ribs. Wincing and stifling another bout of coughing, Shawn shuffled forward on his knees until he reached a rocking chair doing its best impersonation of a ghost. Quietly placing the keys and padlock on the floor within easy sight, he picked himself up a little and perched on the seat's edge, his feet planted firmly on the floor to keep the chair—and himself—still. His heart sank as Lassiter rolled the door back down, leaving them in the dark. A moment later, the harsh overhead lights buzzed on, and Shawn squinted, resisting the reflex to raise his hands to shield his eyes.

Option two, making a run for it, was becoming increasingly unlikely. And as long as Lassiter had the gun in hand, the safety off, option three—incapacitating Lassiter—was not happening. Even with Lassiter in this irrational state, Shawn doubted that option one (playing dead) would work. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. All that was left was submission. Waiting. Bound hands in lap, puppy dog eyes downcast, and mouth closed, in the hopes that Lassiter would take pity on him. Or at least forget he was there.

Lassiter was still standing at the door, one hand pointing the Glock in the general vicinity of Shawn's left kneecap, the other hand holding the light switch. His pupils looked fairly normal, but there was a waxen sheen to his face that bespoke his current state. Blood had welled up in a few of the cuts Shawn had made to his face. If all that hadn't been indication enough of his out-of-the-ordinariness, the gruff monotony of his voice surely was.

"No one's around this time of night," he said. "Not the sort of people who would go to the police if they saw something. Or heard something."

The hairs on Shawn's nape stood up. He wondered if Lassiter could hear his heart hammering in his chest. His four options unhelpfully presented themselves to him once again. Except this time, a fifth came, and he grasped at it.

"Can I—" Shawn tried to wet his lips, but his tongue was parched. He gently cleared his throat and tried again. "Can I tell you something, Lassie?"

Mistake.

Sneering, Lassiter shifted the Glock so that it was pointed directly at Shawn's head again. "That's Detective Lassiter to you, Spencer."

"Detective," Shawn quickly amended, shoulders tense. "That's what I meant to say. Detective Lassiter, can I tell you something?"

"What."

"I think you've been drugged. With liftoff, somehow. You're acting—I mean, you're not yourself right now. I think maybe we should go to the hospital and get checked out, just in case? I can drive, if you want. Or! Or, we could call for an ambulance, or even Jules. Jules would come if we called. And Chief Vick, she would want to know if anything like this happened to anyone, especially you, because you're her head detective. But you already know that! I'm just saying it out loud because it's nice to hear it once in a while, right? What do you think? About calling someone, and maybe going to the hospital? Just in case?"

Shawn knew he was rambling, much less convincingly than he usually did in these kinds of situations, but for once Lassiter seemed to be listening, at least considering what he was saying. The detective adjusted his grip on the Glock, fingers uncurling and recurling in quick succession.

"I've been drugged," he said slowly, as though tasting the words.

Shawn nodded vigorously, setting off another throbbing pang in his skull.

As Lassiter stared off into space, Shawn could swear he saw actual gears turning in the man's head. His eyebrows twitched up and down as he internally argued with himself. The eyebrows turned downward with severity, and Shawn's stomach sank. The drugged, angry Lassie had won.

"You're not psychic," Lassiter growled, readjusting his grip on the Glock yet again. His bloodshot eyes found Shawn's. "You can't know whether I've been drugged. Not unless you saw it happen. Not unless you drugged me yourself."

Shaking his head, Shawn held up his hands. "I didn't. I promise, Detective."

"No." Lassiter rolled his neck and ground his teeth, then dragged his nails over his scalp. "No, you're right. That's giving you way too much credit. You didn't do it. Not by yourself. Someone else drugged me."

Shawn nodded, eyes following the barrel of the gun as Lassiter's aim wavered.

Lassiter stared into the distance again. Then his eyes narrowed. "You told them we were coming."

"No."

"Yes." The detective adjusted his grip and aim. "You're the mole, Spencer! They knew we were coming. That's why they cleaned up and cleared out before we got there."

Shawn shook his head, hardly able to breathe past the lump in his throat as Lassiter became increasingly agitated.

"If you hadn't stupidly announced it at the station," Lassiter barrelled on, "I would have caught them. They couldn't have known to drug me unless you told them I would catch them. So they had to do whatever they could to stop me. You conspired with them to drug me, didn't you? Admit it!"

Before Shawn could think of a response, Lassiter lowered the gun and frowned toward the back of the unit as he scratched at the back of his neck.

"No," he muttered. "No, that's not right. It's only partially right. There's something else."

Shawn cast his eyes around wildly for something, anything, but came up empty. All he had was a padlock and keys, scratchy white sheets, and solid wood furniture. He had the fleeting thought that if someone called Lassiter at that moment, the detective would answer, and they would realize Shawn needed help. But who would be calling at this time of night? Never had Shawn more fervently prayed for a high profile murder.

Lassiter raised the Glock again, and Shawn resisted the urge to flinch. "You're right that there are dirty cops," the detective said, gruff voice calm. "But if they wanted me out of the way, they would have killed me, not drugged me. That would give them away. They know I would be able to figure them out. So it wasn't an officer who drugged me.

"It has to be you. I have to admit, at first I didn't think you would be able to pull it off, Spencer." Lassiter laughed harshly, and Shawn clenched his jaw to hide his quivering chin. "But now I get it. You're working with them. You're the one who tips them off when we get close, and in return you get a cut. Not money, that would be too obvious. They give a share of the liftoff. That's how you were able to drug me. When that idiot made a break for it, it was no accident that he crashed right into you. That was the trade-off. You pocketed the liftoff while everyone was distracted with trying to catch him.

"Then you drugged the water. Did you drug the chief, too? No, that would be too obvious, even for an imbecile like you. You're trying to cover your tracks, one way or another. I should have known immediately it was you, Spencer. It's so obvious now. Always touching and grabbing me. Groping me. Obviously, you want me. And slipping me an aphrodisiac was the perfect ploy to get me into bed with you. Or so you thought."

A chill, followed by numbness, swept through Shawn's body. "I don't want to sleep with you!" he blurted. "Look, the dirty cops are at the station. We can go there, and I'll show you exactly who they are, and you can arrest all of us. You got us, man. You're way too smart for us. So let's just—It's Officer Yourse, for one! And there are more, but I need to go to the station, I have to work it out to be sure…"

Lassiter scoffed. "Let me guess. Your spirits are going to sniff out all the rotten apples."

"Yes!" Shawn nodded earnestly. "And you'll get all the credit. You caught me, so I'm taking a plea deal and I'll tell you the rest. You got us, Detective."

"You're a liar, Spencer."

"No!"

"Yes! You're a liar," Lassiter hissed. "You lie about everything. I know you do!"

"I promise!" Shawn gasped. "I'm telling you the truth! I swear! Even if I'm not, you can arrest me and take me in, and we can sort it all out in front of the chief! Hell, we can even get my dad involved if you want. He's arrested me once and always wanted to do it again. We can call him right now!"

The detective ground his teeth, then smirked wryly. "Your father, huh? The man whose fault it is you turned out like this? That's who should be involved in your booking and interrogation? Like it turned out so well last time!"

Shawn clamped his lips shut.

"Yes, it is his fault you're like this, isn't it?" Lassiter hissed. "Because he spoiled you. He's probably never disciplined you a day in your life, so you've always done whatever you wanted with no repercussions!"

He gesticulated wildly with the gun and Shawn tried to make himself smaller. Noticing, the detective leered at him.

"You missed out on a childhood experience," Lassiter said, conversational despite the gravel in his voice, "and it shows. They say it's never too late. I could teach you now."

After a dragging silence, Shawn chanced a glance up and saw that Lassiter was staring hard at him, clearly expecting a response. He lowered his eyes and swallowed convulsively. "No, thank you," he said, hardly a whisper.

A beat of stillness.

Then Lassiter moved, long strides crossing the space in two steps. Shawn grabbed the chair and tried to swing it between them, but the detective kicked it aside. Shawn staggered, disoriented and indecisive, the clatter of wood against concrete ringing in his ears. Before he could make up his mind to duck and run, Lassiter hauled the younger man up by the back of his shirt. Just as quickly as Shawn was up on his feet, Lassiter dragged him forward and tripped him. He slammed chest-first against the sheet-covered coffee table with an oomph! Knees and chin throbbing, Shawn craned his head back, trying to scramble upright and get his hands out from underneath himself. Lassiter shoved a knee onto his neck, the pressure just short of choking him. Defeated, Shawn let his outstretched hands white-knuckle the edges of the table and stayed still, sipping as much air as he could.

"I always prefer standard issue cuffs and chains," Lassiter said, stretching a hand toward one of the walls of boxes. "Zip ties, in a pinch." He popped open the lid of a gray plastic tub, reached in and easily fished out a roll of heavy duty packing tape in a bright red dispenser. "But this works just as well. It's handy for resealing boxes when I need to, as well as restraining criminals like yourself, Spencer."

Lassiter shifted his weight, cutting off Shawn's air. Shawn gurgled like a drowning fish, bucking his legs.

"Don't resist, Spencer," he drawled. "You'll only make it worse for yourself." The detective eased off after a minute, eyeing him for any further disturbances.

Shawn breathed heavily. "Detective, I—"

Lassiter jammed his knee into Shawn's throat again. The younger man rasped, but stilled.

"You really never learn, do you?"

When Shawn didn't respond except to gag, Lassiter rolled his eyes, then got up. He grabbed Shawn's arms and pulled him forward, forcibly bending his elbows over the corner. He positioned them to align with one leg of the table, then used his teeth to pull out a length of tape, which he wound into nearly opaque layers. Shawn wasn't getting out of it any time soon.

After giving Shawn's hands a sharp tug to test the bonds, Lassiter moved to the other end of the table. Shawn swiveled his head, craning his neck to watch nervously. Lassiter grasped the hem of Shawn's shirt and dragged it up, pulling it over Shawn's head to cowl him. When Shawn tried to shrug his head free, Lassiter leaned forward and pressed his head down onto the table. "Leave it," he said.

Then Lassiter returned his attention to undressing the younger man. He reached around to unbutton his jeans. Shawn jolted, nudging the table with a short bark. "Don't!" Shawn cried from beneath the shirt hooding him. "Please, don't. Seriously—I'm seriously not above begging. Please don't…"

The detective ignored him and yanked his pants down, followed by his shorts, exposing him. Heat flushed Shawn's face and neck as cool air brushed his bottom. The sound of peeling tape rent the air, and Shawn flinched as Lassiter slapped a length against his thigh, just above the knee. Pain seared his skin as Lassiter yanked and tugged his leg into alignment with the table's, tearing out a swathe of hairs. Shawn had never been one for waxing. But that wasn't important—his heart hammered in his parched throat as images of hospital records, investigative reports, and photographs of victims flashed unhelpfully through his mind. Focus!

"Detective?" Shawn hazarded as Lassiter began to bind his other leg. The garments bunched around his calves pulled taut, and the detective impatiently yanked them down to Shawn's ankles, giving more leeway. "Detective?" He called more urgently, but was ignored.

Task complete, Lassiter tossed the roll of packing tape aside with a loud clatter, then stood. "You've never been spanked before, have you?" he said.

"I have," Shawn replied quickly. "I have, so many times. It—it never worked on me, it's not…It doesn't take, Detective…"

"I can tell," he drawled, slowly unbuckling. The leather slithered sinisterly over the fabric of his slacks as he pulled it free. He looped the strappy end twice around his hand, letting the buckle hang.

Lassiter took a moment to observe Shawn's exposed body. His back was on full display. His buttocks as well. They shone almost white under the fluorescent lights, which buzzed annoyingly overhead. But there was a somewhat pleasant thrum under Lassiter's skin that counteracted the buzz; it was as though his blood sang in discordant harmony, or resonance had formed between his pulse and the light's frequency.

He squeezed the leather in his palm experimentally. Where to begin? He took a step back and lifted his hand. Then he swung.

The first lash slapped heavily across Shawn's hip, the metal buckle bouncing against the tabletop. Shawn yelped and jolted; Lassiter winced, hoping he hadn't damaged the varnish. The table was an antique. He took another step back, tuning out Spencer's gibbering, and adjusted his grip. He swung again, this time catching him across the shoulder blades. Pleasing red lines blossomed within seconds.

Lassiter caught his stride. The belt rose and fell across Shawn's back, buttocks, and thighs, punctuated by Shawn's screams and sobs as he writhed; stark stripes and chevrons patterned his flesh. When a spot of blood welled up on his buttock from a gouge left by the buckle's prong, Lassiter paused, ears ringing. His eyes raked the length of Shawn's body. He noted the places he missed, uncoiling the strap from his hand. He folded the belt in half, then bent and braced his hand between Shawn's shoulder blades. Lassiter felt the palpitations of Shawn's racing heart under his palm, the pressure of his gasping, hiccuping breaths pushing back.

"The criminal justice system could be much improved with corporal punishment like this," Lassiter mused aloud. "How many men do you think would go back to breaking the law if they knew this is what was waiting for them? They do something like this in Singapore. Only with a cane, not a belt."

Lassiter lifted and brought down the belt again, somewhat lazily, striking him across the buttocks and eliciting a short whine and squirm. He did it again, harder, and received a more earnest response.

"I wonder if you'd cry as much if I did this in public," he said. "It's pitiable, Spencer."

Shawn's voice cracked on the next lash, and on the next. Eventually, Lassiter stopped. He stared down at his handiwork, admiring the plaid of reds and purples against Shawn's shuddering sides. He rolled the belt into a coil and set it next to his harness on a stack of tubs. There was a heavy stir in his groin, and Lassiter was somewhat surprised to realize that he was fully erect.

He reached down to adjust himself, then paused. "You drugged me," he said. "You obviously knew this would happen—you chose to get in my car. Probably thought I'd go to your place with you, spend the night, huh?"

"N…no," Shawn whimpered.

"Makes sense," he nodded, massaging himself absently. "Always so handsy, throwing yourself at me. You're desperate for me to fuck you."

Shawn shook his head, choking back a sob.

He unzipped his pants. "You like it rough, don't you, Spencer?"

Shawn denied it desperately, tongue tripping over hoarse syllables, but Lassiter was already kneeling, dragging his blunt nails down Shawn's abused back and buttocks. "You wanted attention, didn't you? You got it now." He spat but otherwise shoved in without preparing Shawn, whose entire body was taut and trembling.

Lassiter spat again on his length and rocked his hips, eliciting a strained moan and more tension from Shawn. "Relax," the detective said huskily. "You'll enjoy it more."

"St—stop," Shawn huffed tearfully, teeth clenched.

"You're the type who wants what he can't have," Lassiter replied scathingly. "As soon as you get it, you don't want it anymore. Well, that's too bad. We already started. For once you're going to see something through to its end."

Between strangled groans and gasps, Shawn couldn't help but to let out small pleas for the detective to stop. Lassiter soon grew tired of it and delivered several blows to the kidney and ribs. Shawn retched and vomited, soiling the rough cloth beneath him, and his shirt and arms. He heaved for air, trying to twist his face away from the mess, and remained silent for what felt like an eternity. He bit his lip and tasted salt and copper.

When he finished, Lassiter pulled out and stood. He wiped himself clean of blood and effluvia with his handkerchief, then tossed it aside. He leaned over the table, bracing one hand against the edge, and pulled the shirt off Shawn's head.

"Have you learned your lesson yet, Spencer?"

Dazed, Shawn didn't respond.

Lassiter grasped a handful of Shawn's hair and gave a sharp yank. "I asked if you've learned your lesson. Or should we continue?"

"No," Shawn uttered.

"No, you haven't learned your lesson?" Lassiter drawled.

"I've learned," he said. "I've learned, yeah…"

"Not 'yeah,'" Lassiter said. "Show an officer of the law some basic respect, why don't you?"

"Yes, sir…"
"There," Lassiter said. "Was that so difficult?" He pressed the palm of his hand against Shawn's sweat-slicked back and used him as leverage to stand, then crossed the few steps to his carefully organized wall of tubs and boxes.
Lassiter pulled the lid off the nearest tub, which was at chest height, and rifled briefly through its contents: a baseball glove, worn and floppy; a ball cap, the bill bent into a V; a vintage tin Crackerjacks box, apparently empty if the soundless shake meant anything; and a pair of cleats, stained with mud.

The rest of the baseball box went ignored as Lassiter suddenly remembered one of the boxes contained something useful. He hefted it aside to get at the tub beneath it. A loud bang and scrape startled Shawn as the tub landed on the floor. He peeled off the lid and rooted around for a moment or two before once more moving on, each box landing with a bang on the floor, or a muffled thump as he stacked them. He moved methodically from top box to bottom box, working his way toward the door. At the last stack, Lassiter peeled the tape off a cardboard box and lifted the flaps. He had found what he sought.

Mini quest accomplished, Lassiter nodded with approval at his own organizational skills and pocketed the large padlock. Then he methodically began to close and stack the boxes and tubs again, placing each precisely in the order they had been in before his search. He occasionally paused to wipe the rivulets of sweat stinging his eyes and scratched cheeks. At last, everything was back in order. All was well.

But his work was not yet finished.

Lassiter rounded the table and knelt near Shawn's feet. He ignored the way the younger man tensed at his movements, the way his socked toes curled as Lassiter grasped his jeans and yanked him off entirely. He gave a cursory pat for hidden pockets—as expected, none existed—and then turned out the objects weighing down the obvious pockets.

Shawn tried to remain calm and quiet despite his churning stomach and pounding pulse, waiting it out (Wait it out, wait it out, wait it out…). Lassiter flipped Shawn's phone in its lime green case to reveal the shattered screen, then tossed it aside. It clattered out of sight, out of mind. He opened Shawn's bulging bifold wallet. He scoffed as he thumbed through its contents—more cash than one would expect of someone as irresponsible and childish as Spencer, but the legion of expired gift cards and old business cards made up the bulk. Spencer's drivers license featured his typical attempt at a sexy smolder. He shook his head and cast the wallet aside as well.

Finally he examined the swiss army knife. It was a bit on the smaller side, unobtrusive, but carried useful tools, and the blades he tested were sharp. Lassiter slipped it into his shirt pocket, then turned to Shawn. From this vantage point, he had a good view of Shawn's bloody and bruised rear, the muscles in his thighs and buttocks quivering as the younger man breathed out.

His cock stirred again, and Lassiter obeyed the urge. Why shouldn't he get off again?

Shawn moaned as Lassiter lined himself up. "Shut up," he snapped, closing his eyes as he twisted the man's shirt in his grip. He tried to conjure up an image of someone sexier, but Spencer ruined the fantasy with another whimper as Lassiter slid in. Anger surged through him. He bent over Shawn and yanked a fistful of sweat-soaked hair, then growled into his ear, "I said, shut the fuck up." Lassiter gave another warning yank before releasing him and returning to his imagined scenario.

He skipped the foreplay and began to thrust, his fingers digging into soft flesh just above the hips of his lover. He pretended the pained sounds at the edges of his hearing were moans and gasps of pleasure, and it drove him faster and deeper. Soon enough his rhythm became erratic, and with a roar and a final snap of his hips, he spilled his seed to mingle in the hot wetness surrounding him.

The waves of pleasure ebbed, and his knees reminded him that he was getting too old for doggy style on hard floors. With a sigh, he slowly pulled out and stood, tucking in without cleaning up. Lassiter hardly spared a glance at Spencer.
He shrugged out of his jacket and harness, piling them on a stack of tubs. The glint of the gun under the harsh fluorescent lights caught his attention. Lassiter unholstered it and gave it an admiring stare. Then he squatted next to Shawn, who was still shaking like the last curling leaf on a branch as the winter winds descended. The detective held the pistol up to his wan, tear-streaked face.

"I've got questions," Lassiter crooned, turning the Glock so the sleek metal caught the light. "You've got answers. You go ahead and think about whether you want to take the easy way and tell the truth, or I can give you more lessons that your old man forgot to impart to you."

"Easy," Shawn croaked, weeping. "Easy…"

"I want to believe you," Lassiter said, pressing the barrel to Shawn's cheek. A tear slipped over the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut. "Did you know you could survive a bullet to the head? I know just the right place. Or do I? Should we test it?" He ground the weapon into the hollow of his cheek, forcing Shawn to jerk his head back with a whimper.

"Please…"

Lassiter shifted the gun to Shawn's back, pressing against a square-shaped bruise over the ribs hard enough to make him squirm. "You can live with one lung."

He dragged the gun down, jabbing into bruises along the way. "You can live without a spleen. And a kidney." Lassiter positioned it on Shawn's lumbar, slowly increasing pressure as he commented, "It'd be a shame if you couldn't just show up to places on your own two legs."

"Please," Shawn cried again. "Please, stop!" He drew in a wet, ragged breath and swallowed a sob. "You're scaring me. You're not yourself right now and I really need—I really need you to be yourself, Lass—Detective Lassiter. You have to stop. Please. You have to let me go or you'll kill me."

Lassiter rolled his eyes and removed the Glock, absently fiddling with the safety switch. "I'm not going to kill you," he drawled. "I still haven't interrogated you."

Shawn sucked in another breath and held it. After a moment he slowly exhaled with a shudder that ran from his bruised shoulders and down through his bare, clammy legs. But he stayed still and silent.

On a whim, Lassiter again pressed the gun to his lumbar spine, smirking at the way Shawn stiffened. He slid it down, over one buttock, scraping a trail down the quivering thigh to the back of the knee, where he paused. Shawn's breathing was erratic, but he didn't protest. Amused, Lassiter dragged the weapon back up, then down again, then shifted to the other leg to do the same. He reached between and wiggled the Glock, and Shawn flinched as the metal knocked against the table under his hips. Slowly, Lassiter pulled back, pistol tilted upward so the sight rail snagged the sensitive skin of his scrotum. Again, no complaint from the bound man.

"Nothing to say for yourself, Spencer?" Lassiter murmured, scratching his chin. "Or are you asleep already?"

As though to test the theory, Lassiter pushed the barrel of the gun between Shawn's buttocks. The gasp and flinch, followed by redoubled trembling, made Lassiter chuckle. He poked him again, but without the same reaction. He'd have to up the ante, it seemed.

The detective pressed the heel of his free hand against the flesh of Shawn's glute and spread it, then lined up the Glock with the bloody hole. There was an aborted whine that sounded suspiciously like the beginning of a "no." Lassiter pushed experimentally, then began to twist and thrust.

Shawn's whines became little gasps of pain as the barrel of the 9 mm worked its way into him, rotating, gouging, tearing, burning. Shawn felt faint. He couldn't remember if the safety was on or off, on or off? His heart hammered in his throat, and his tongue was coated in bitter bile. Lassiter pulled back with a twist, and Shawn gasped, then choked on a sob as the detective shoved it deeper inside him. The safety—on or off?!

Sharp pain lanced up his spine as Lassiter jerked it free. Shawn sagged, quaking and weeping silent tears of relief as the detective distastefully examined the gore on his weapon. Instead of holstering it he set atop one of the boxes lining the wall. Then he was once more engrossed in rifling through his things, leaving Shawn alone. A bright orange spool of braided nylon rope struck the floor and rolled out of sight.

Shawn felt cold and weak, his body throbbing with distant pain. He knew he would go into shock if he didn't get it together. To anchor himself, he focused on the pain in his back end—the relentless stinging, the wet hot-cold. And then he abruptly switched his attention to testing out the bonds again.

There was no hope of freeing himself from the cuffs while Lassiter was so close, still rummaging somewhere behind him, but he could maybe loosen the tape, work up a lubricating sweat that could give him a later—or sooner—opportunity to at least make a grab for the gun. (Don't think about the gun, but you might be able to get it, but don't think about it, don't think).

The edges of the table bit mercilessly into his already screaming arms, but at least it distracted from the other pains wracking his body. He breathed shallowly through his mouth in a poor attempt to avoid smelling the now cold and tacky bile smeared across the rough sheet.

At the sound of Lassiter's shoe scuffing the floor as he turned, Shawn went boneless, hoping to avoid attention. His muscles trembled against his will.

Shawn flinched at Lassiter's hand on his neck. He could feel the rough heat of it against the nape of his neck, slick with sweat—his or Lassiter's, he didn't know (probably both). The detective pressed his weight down as he crouched and began fiddling with the tape binding his thighs and wrists to the table leg. They were loosened one by one, the rip and crinkle of sticky plastic music to his ears.

Before Shawn could feel a modicum of physical or emotional relief, Lassiter was standing and hauling him upright by the back of his shirt. Without letting him get his feet under him, Lassiter dragged him to the back of the unit. Shawn's legs bumped and scraped painfully against the rough finish concrete [1, shirt collar burning a searing line across his neck, and still-cuffed hands scrabbling for purchase. He slammed face-first against the ribbed steel of the back wall. Shawn slumped, pressing his hot cheek against the comforting cold.

Then Lassiter nudged his hip with the sharp toe of a dress shoe, giving the shirt another yank. Shawn wriggled around until he was sitting on bare, throbbing buttocks, stinging legs drawn up in an attempt to protect whatever semblance of modesty he could dredge up.

"Hands up," Lassiter grunted.

Shawn hesitated. When the detective made to strike him, he flung his hands up, cringing. Before he could register what was happening, Lassiter had already threaded the shank of a padlock through a large eye hook protruding from the wall, then looped the short chain between the cuffs over the shackle and closed it. It was then that Shawn noticed there were several rows of heavy-duty eye hooks screwed into the wall at intervals, though for what he couldn't surmise. Surely not for what Lassiter used it for now.

In the time Shawn had tried to discreetly test the strength of the hook, Lassiter had already crossed the unit to fetch his Glock and returned, extending his arm and taking aim. Shawn once again found himself paralyzed.

"How did you do it?" Lassiter demanded.

Gooseflesh prickled across Shawn's body. "Do…Do wh—what?"

"I'm sick of your games, Spencer!" Lassiter bit out. "How did you drug me? Was it the water?"

"I didn't…"

"How did you reseal the bottle? Or do you have the manufacturers in on it too?!"

"I didn't…It wasn't me," Shawn gasped out. "I swear, I swear I didn't…I didn't even know…I didn't realize you w—were d—drugged until we were in the c—car…"

Lassiter lashed out with his foot, kicking Shawn in the ribs. Wind knocked out of him, Shawn tried to curl into a ball, retching for air. "I thought you said you wanted to do this the easy way?" the detective sneered. "For every lie you tell—and I can tell when you're lying, Spencer—you'll be punished. So might as well 'fess up! How about we start with an easier question, then? Who gave you the drugs that you administered to me?"

With effort, Shawn clenched the cuff chain and padlock and used them to haul himself back into a semi-upright position. "I…I don't know his name," he said carefully.

In an instant, Lassiter was crouched, and the hunk of metal in his hand connected with Shawn's face. Blinding pain laced through his skull before centralizing at his jaw and going numb. Something hard skittered across the inside of his cheek, and he spat instinctively before probing with his tongue. Another tooth came loose, swimming in the flood of blood, and Shawn spat again, breathing raggedly. A red thread of saliva shined as it stretched from his chin to his heaving belly.

"You're starting to piss me off," Lassiter said calmly, pointing the Glock upwards. Then he flipped on the safety and sat the weapon aside, dropping onto his buttocks. With both hands he reached forward and pried Shawn's legs apart, then scooted closer to prevent Shawn from closing them again. Shawn tried to look anywhere else, but his eyes were continually dragged back to Lassiter's hands.

"I know what the problem is," Lassiter said casually, unbuttoning the cuffs of his once pristine white shirt. "I forgot to make sure you finished, too. How inconsiderate of me."

He rolled up his sleeves slowly, meticulously. Shawn watched with trepidation.

Lassiter swiped a rough palm across Shawn's stubbled chin, picking up blood and saliva. Shawn's knees jerked as the detective reached down and fondled his flaccid penis. "Nuh—" he protested, then bit his lower lip, eyes falling shut.

"See," Lassiter huffed as he began to squeeze with fast, rough strokes. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

Shawn turned away, eyes squeezed shut, body quaking.

After a few minutes, Shawn was still only partially erect, and Lassiter grunted with annoyance as he switched hands and continued pumping. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Are you nervous?"

Shawn gasped, puffy eyes snapping open. He gave Lassiter a stunned look, which sharpened into something akin to scrutiny and recognition. Then it was clouded over with pain and fear when the detective pressed his thumb hard against the glans. Shawn bit off a groan and made a half-aborted motion to pull away, and Lassiter lifted his thumb again with a smirk. But then he continued, hard and fast, chafing.

Sharp, stinging pain lanced through the contracting muscles of Shawn's back, legs, and belly as Lassiter wrenched an orgasm out of him. Ejaculate dribbled over Lassiter's knuckles. He choked and arched as Lassiter squeezed out the last drops. His head fell back in exhaustion. Numbness tingled through his limbs.

"What, that's it?" Lassiter scoffed. "Really? That's probably the only time you've been early in your life."

Shawn gave him a half-lidded miserable look.

"Provocative," Lassiter commented.

He reached down and grasped the younger man's penis once more and resumed stroking. Shawn whined and tried to maneuver a leg between them. "Please," he gasped. "I'm finished! Please, I'm finished!"

Lassiter leaned forward and pressed his forearm against Shawn's throat, jerking him roughly and quickly with the other hand, rubbing and squeezing the sensitive head, swiping his thumb over the slit. Shawn stiffened and shuddered through a second orgasm, choking and gasping. The detective continued his handling as Shawn's struggles redoubled, metal clanking as he writhed.

Eventually the stimulation stopped and Lassiter moved back, wiping his soiled hand on the folds of his sleeve. Shawn melted into a shuddering, twitching heap, held up only by the shackles. He tipped his head back until it pressed against the cold metal ribs of the wall, trying to fill his lungs, and unable to look away from his torturer's roving hands.
"There," Lassiter grunted. "Happy? Are you ready to talk now?" From his shirt pocket he pulled out Shawn's knife and opened the largest blade.

Shawn looked from it to him fearfully, pleadingly, face swollen and bloodied. He flinched back violently, heels slipping on the concrete, as Lassiter reached for him. But he only grasped the fabric of Shawn's shirt and began to cut and tear it away. Shawn let it happen, wincing when the detective carelessly nicked him a few times in the process. Just wait it out, wait it out…

Once Shawn had been fully divested, Lassiter tossed the blood-stained remains of the shirt aside, then ran the pad of his thumb experimentally along the edge of the blade.

"You're not psychic," Lassiter said. "How do you really solve cases?"

Staring at the knife, Shawn worked his mouth soundlessly. Stony-faced, Lassiter swiftly pressed the knife hard into his lower left rib, puncturing skin. Shawn yelped hoarsely and twisted to one side.

"How," Lassiter enunciated, "do you solve cases, Spencer?"

"Trained," Shawn cried. "I—I was trained…My dad, I grew up, learned detect—detective skills…"

"What did I say about lying?" He applied the knife again, this time to the other side.

Shawn shouted and twisted away again, yanking futilely at the cuffs. Then he dissolved into tears. "Please," he whimpered, curling into himself. "Please, please, please…"

Lassiter rolled his bloodshot eyes and dragged the point of the blade across Shawn's shoulder blade.

Arching away with a clank of metal, Shawn gasped. "Contacts! I have contacts…"

"Who?"

"I don't—I don't know anyone's names. They just…I get messages. Anonymous messages."

Lassiter resumed the knife work, carving a new bloody line down his arm. The wound turned jagged as Shawn jerked away with a strangled cry. "Kaitlin Bartlett," he moaned.

The detective reached into his pocket and pulled out his notepad and pen, and wrote it down. The pocketknife was tucked into the ring and pinky fingers of his hand balancing the notepad. "Who else?"

"Jamar Watkins," Shawn whispered. "Adeline Kaufman. Scott Villegas. Gillian McGee…Paola Bryan. Shannon Moore…Marcos Robbins."

Lassiter intently scribbled. "Keep going."

"I…That's all…"

"You expect me to believe that, Spencer?"

"I only know them," Shawn insisted faintly. "There are more, but…but…these are the only ones who contact me. And they get contacted by—by the others. Like a pyramid scheme…"

"Well, if you're psychic," Lassiter drawled, "couldn't you divine the other names?"

Shawn's trembling came back in full force. "I can…try. But only if—" He faltered as Lassiter's frown became more severe, but pressed on—"if you take me to the station…Book me, and I'll talk…I'll talk to Chief Vick."

There was a beat of stillness before Lassiter dug the blade's point, just enough to threaten, into the sensitive flesh of his penis.

"James Alderman!" Shawn yelped. He sagged as Lassiter took away the knife to transcribe the name. "Arturo Avalos," he continued unprompted. "Carson Benedict…Claire Bengry…Dylan Birch…Beau Brichan…Marco Carbajal…Christian Carrillo…Gael Casillas…Bobby…Robert Cobetts…"

"Go on."

Shawn gulped another breath and let it out shakily. "Peter Colter…Alessia Cricket…Nathaniel Crispin…Christian Cruz…Natalia Cru—no, Cuevas…Jacob de la Mora…Diego de la Mora…David Dominguez…Luis Estevez…Jasmine Felix…Eldon Fuentes…Neil Garcia…Julian Geanta…Earl Gladish…David Gomez…David Gonzalez…José Guevara…Burt—um…uh, B–Bernardo…Gutierrez…Yeah, Bernardo Gutierrez…"

A wave of dizziness crashed down on him, and he faltered, panting through chattering teeth. Lassiter rolled his eyes and picked up the knife, pressing the flat of the cold steel blade against Shawn's skin.

With a strangled whimper, Shawn began again. "Jackson Hamilton…Makai Harris…Andrea Hernandez…Vincent Hernandez…Melinda Howland…Aidan Hubbell…Cameron Jonas…Zhen Liu…Lori Lopez…Daniela Lopez…Brenna Low…Abigail Ly…Ly…uh, Lynch…Eileen Mazwell…Nicolas Mc…Nicolas McDonald…Sean Monarrez…Alexander Nava…Nick Oakley…Veronica Ocampo…Brenda Ocampo…Andrea Ojeda…Malta Olhiser…Abel Pelcastre…Siondra Pereyra…Sergio Perez…Jonathan Pirul…Lesley Ramirez Gonzalez…Angela Ramirez…N–Nathan Ramirez…Jack Ransdell…Amairani Rios…James Rodriguez…Jesús Rojas…Melanie Salazar…Adriana Salgado…Alexa Sanch–chez…Lizette Santana…Braydon Saucedo…Alex Serna…Jonathan Serrano…Frank Silva…Ryan Slater…Sugey Soriano…Kahlani Sosa…Shawn Spen—"

He jolted out of the semi-conscious state he had fallen into, swollen eyes blinking rapidly. "Dennis Stehno," he said quickly, "Andrew Sutherland, Dane Tarver, Howard Tolkin…Priscilla Valenzuela…Kris—Kristy Vance…Daniel Vega…Josie Venable…Anthony Ventura…Yael Villagomez…Meadow Walker…William Walter…Aiden Wood…That's…Please, that's all…Please…"

Lassiter looked over the list of names he'd gotten. Satisfied at last, he folded the swiss knife, and stored it with the notepad and pen in his stained shirt pocket.

"I'll make sure you go away for a long time," Lassiter said. "The only sunlight you'll see from now on is in a dusty, fenced-in, concrete courtyard."

"…'Kay…" Shawn wheezed. "I'm…I'm ready…"

Lassiter considered him, then the fact that he was hard again.

Technically, he was off-duty, so why not indulge himself one last time?

"On your knees," he said.

Shawn struggled to maneuver his legs underneath himself, wincing as the handcuffs bit into his wrists. He froze as Lassiter unzipped his slacks once more and stepped forward, his cock leaping to attention.

"I said on your knees," Lassiter snapped.

Shawn moved sluggishly, shaking his head with despair. Lassiter grasped a fistful of his hair and yanked upwards, practically lifting him onto his bruised knees. Shawn squinted up pleadingly.

Lassiter only sneered at him. "Suck it, Spencer."

Shawn cringed back, trembling and gagging slightly as he reluctantly opened his mouth to accommodate the detective's length. He guzzled air, steeling his stomach against the musty aroma and the sensation of solid yet spongy skin sliding over his tongue. As the smooth head pressed against the back of his throat, Shawn gagged and jerked back, but Lassiter pushed forward at the same time. Shawn retched and whipped his face to the side, clenching his jaw.

Lassiter hissed, then drew back a fist and clobbered Shawn in the face. There was a crunch, and blood spouted from both nostrils. Shawn cowered, heaving and trying to cover his head with his arms, and drawing a leg up as a shield. Lassiter stormed away with a furious roar, kicking the chair out of the way. It clattered towards the door, an arm snapping and leaving splinters in its wake. His penis throbbed.

"Last chance, Spencer," he said, voice gravelly. He retrieved his belt and let it unfurl, the metal buckle snapping cleanly against the floor. Shawn twitched at the noise and drew more tightly into himself.

"Up. Now."

"Please," he shuddered, voice pinched. His breaths scraped his raw throat, the taste of blood still dripping from his nose cloying.

Lassiter lunged and dug his fingers into the soft flesh under his jaw. Shawn let out a sob and let himself be hauled up. He didn't resist when Lassiter looped the belt around his neck, then tightened it enough to warn but not strangle.

"Open. Take it."

Shawn obeyed. Each time he gagged or tried to pull away for air, or if the detective felt teeth, Lassiter pulled the belt taut and kept thrusting. Every few minutes he remembered Shawn needed to breathe, pulling out and allowing him to gulp several breaths before he shoved back inside.

As his orgasm built, Lassiter tightened the belt and rutted deep and rough. Lassiter breathed heavily. He firmly cupped the back of Shawn's head to keep him in place and rammed in as deeply as he could, pelvic bone pressing against his lips. His shaft vibrated and tickled as Shawn gurgled airlessly, arms wrenching as he struggled weakly.

Shawn felt him tense up at the instant of climax, but was unprepared for the ejaculate that slid hot down his throat. He tried to swallow but choked instead, tears blinding him. Lassiter still hadn't pulled out, riding his orgasm. At last he released Shawn, who recoiled, hacking and gasping in a state of semi-consciousness.

Lassiter bent to pick up the remnants of Shawn's shirt, wiping himself clean of the bubbled mix of semen, saliva, and blood clinging to the nest of his pubic hair and dripping down his scrotum. He turned at the sound of splashing. Shawn had vomited and lost control of his bladder.

Lassiter stepped back from the growing puddle, disgusted. "Look at you. You're a blight on the SBPD, a stain on our image. Why in god's name did your parents not drown you when they had the chance? Well. At least you didn't eat asparagus."

Shawn didn't hear, slumping into unconsciousness as he was. His arms twisted above him as his head and torso tipped forward. The belt dangled from his neck like a stiff scarf.
Lassiter wiped his soiled hands across the backs of his thighs. He patted his pockets in search of his keys, and failed to find them. Frowning, he turned and spotted them lying near the front of the unit. As he went to get them, he hesitated. The padlock he'd used to secure Spencer to the eye hook, he now remembered, was in storage because he'd lost the key. He would have to release the man's wrists and abandon the handcuffs in order to take him to the station.

It would be better, he decided after a moment, to leave him. He could pick up an extra pair of cuffs at the station and come back, then formally read him his rights.

Plan established, Lassiter bent to retrieve the keys. He flicked off the light to conserve electricity and maneuvered the door open.

He was surprised to see that the sun was already rising. Red-orange light flooded in and painted the blood staining the floor black.

Note:

[1] Most storage units have epoxy flooring (so a smooth finish). But the rough finish concrete was too good to pass up as a whump device. Dunno why I feel like I have to make these disclaimers about artistic license. I just do.