The Cost of Teasing Dr. Reid
Pairing: Spence Reid x girlfriend!reader
Description: You spend the entire day teasing Spencer. By the time he gets home, he’s ready to prove exactly why that was a mistake.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, BDSM elements, consensual spanking, blindfolding, power dynamics / dominance, praise & degradation elements, rough PIV, edging, teasing / sexual tension, dominant Spencer Reid, submissive reader, established relationship (MDNI)
A/N: Happy weekend my smut lovers 😘
The morning sun hadn’t even fully breached the horizon when I began my campaign. Spencer was in his usual pre-work ritual: methodically selecting a tie, his brow furrowed in concentration over a subtle pattern difference between two navy blues. I padded into the kitchen behind him, wearing only his oversized, threadbare Caltech sweatshirt - the one he kept for sentimental reasons - and nothing else. The hem hit mid-thigh, but as I stretched to grab the coffee beans from the top shelf, I made sure it rode up, exposing the bare curve of my ass.
I felt his gaze before I heard him. The silence changed, thickened. I turned, holding the bag, and gave him an innocent smile. “Which one are you picking?” I asked, my voice still sleep-soft.
His eyes, a warm hazel usually full of gentle curiosity, darkened. They flickered from my face, down the length of the sweatshirt, to where the fabric barely covered me. “The one with the micro-stripe,” he said, his voice lower than usual. He cleared his throat. “You’re… you’re not wearing anything under that.”
“It’s cozy,” I shrugged, letting the bag drop slightly so the neckline gaped. I saw his knuckles tighten around the tie in his hand. He was a man of immense control, of precise words and measured actions, but I loved finding the raw, human edges of that control. Especially my edges.
He finished his coffee in silence, his eyes catching mine every few seconds, a silent, heated conversation. As he headed for the door, I leaned against the frame. “Have a good day at work, Dr. Reid.” Just before he stepped out, I lifted the sweatshirt hem an inch, a final flash of skin. He paused, his back to me, and I saw his shoulders tense. Then he left without another word. Victory, round one.
The texts started two hours later. He was in a briefing, I knew, but that never stopped him from discreetly checking his phone.
Me (9:47 AM): *Missing your sweatshirt. It’s not as warm without you in it.*
I attached a picture. I was in his bed, the sweatshirt draped over my shoulders but open, the camera angle focused on the bare skin of my stomach and the hint of the lace edge of my panties - the only thing I’d put on since he left.
His reply came ten minutes later.
Spencer (9:57 AM): *That is statistically improbable. The thermal properties of the cotton are unchanged.*
Me (9:58 AM): *Maybe it’s not the sweatshirt I’m missing.*
Another picture. This time, the lace was gone. Just the smooth plane of my thighs, the camera teasingly close.
Spencer (10:15 AM): *The briefing is lengthy.*
I could read the strain in his words.
Me (10:16 AM): *I can make it worse.*
The final picture was pure implication. My hand resting high on my inner thigh, fingers splayed. No explicit detail, just the promise of it.
He didn’t reply again. I grinned, knowing his formidable mind was now split between criminal pathology and the memory of my skin.
When he came home, the game escalated. He walked in, his suit jacket crisp, his briefcase heavy with files. I was on the couch, dressed now, but in a way that was arguably worse. A thin, silk camisole and a pair of his boxer shorts, rolled low on my hips. I was reading one of his journals, legs curled under me.
“Hi,” I said, not looking up.
He stood there, dumping his things by the door. The air in the apartment shifted, charged with the day’s accumulated tension. He walked over, knelt before the couch, and took the journal from my hands. His eyes were not gentle now. They were stormy, intent.
“You,” he stated, his voice a quiet, firm rasp, “have been conducting a sustained psychological operation designed to undermine my executive function since 6:17 this morning.”
I smiled. “Is it working?”
Instead of answering, he leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t his usual sweet, exploring kiss. It was a claim, deep and hungry, his hands gripping my hips through the thin silk. When he pulled back, his breath was uneven. “Up,” he commanded.
He took my hand and led me not to the bedroom, but to the kitchen. He made dinner, a simple pasta, with a focused, silent intensity. I sat at the counter, letting my foot brush against his leg as he cooked. He ignored it, but his jaw was tight. During dinner, I let my camisole strap slip off my shoulder. He watched it fall, his fork hovering mid-air.
Finally, after the plates were cleared, he turned to me. The controlled facade was crumbling. I saw it in the rapid calculation in his eyes, in the way he adjusted his cuffs - a nervous gesture he’d nearly eradicated.
“Go to the bedroom,” he said, his tone leaving no room for play. “Strip. Lay down on the bed. Do not speak.”
I tilted my head, the tease still bubbling in me. “Just like that? No foreplay, Dr. Reid?”
It was the wrong thing to say. In two swift steps, he was on me. His hand didn’t go to my waist or my arm. It went to my neck, his palm pressing against my throat, not to hurt, but to dominate, to still me. He pushed me back against the cool wall of the hallway, his body caging me. He leaned in, his lips a breath away from my ear.
“The foreplay,” he whispered, the words low and devastatingly clear, “was eight text messages, three photographs, and twelve discrete visual provocations spanning ten hours. Now, you will go to the bedroom, you will remove every article of clothing, and you will assume a supine position on the bed. Or I will make you.”
The command, the heat of his hand, the dark promise in his voice - it short-circuited my playful resistance. A shiver, not of fear but of pure, undiluted want, shot through me. I nodded, breathless.
I went. In the dim light of our bedroom, I did as he said. Each piece of clothing felt like a surrender to his will. The silk camisole, his boxers, finally the lace panties I’d put on. I laid back on the cool duvet, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The silence in the apartment was absolute.
Five minutes passed. Each second stretched, filled with the anticipation of his footsteps. Then, they came. Soft, measured. He appeared in the doorway, still fully dressed in his work clothes - the suit, the micro-stripe tie, the polished shoes. He was smirking, a small, triumphant curve of his lips that held all the power he’d reclaimed.
“Good girl,” he said, the phrase so foreign from his usual lexicon that it made me gasp. He strode over, the space around him seeming to shrink. “Sit up.”
I did, moving to the edge of the bed. He stood before me, looking down. Then, with deliberate care, he loosened the tie from his neck. The silk slithered free. He didn’t remove it; he wrapped it around my head, a blindfold, tying it securely at the back. The world vanished into dark, textured silk.
“Lie over my lap,” he said, his voice close now as he sat beside me on the bed.
He guided me, his hands firm, until I was draped across his thighs, my bare stomach against his suit pants, my blindfolded face turned toward the wall, my exposed ass elevated in the air. The position was vulnerable, submissive.
“This,” he stated, his palm resting warm and heavy on my skin, “is a punishment. A corrective action for a day of deliberate operational interference. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whispered into the darkness.
“Why are you receiving it?”
“Because I teased you,” I said. “The whole day.”
“Precisely.” His hand lifted. “For each strike, you will articulate a specific instance of your teasing. Failure to recall will result in repetition. Begin.”
The first spank wasn’t brutal, but it was sharp, a crisp sound that echoed in the quiet room. It stung, a bright heat blooming on my skin.
“What did you do?” he prompted, his voice calm, academic.
“I… I wore your sweatshirt with nothing underneath. I stretched so you could see.”
The second spank landed, a little harder, on the other side.
“The first text,” he said.
“I sent you a picture from your bed. In the sweatshirt, but open.”
The third, fourth, fifth. Each one punctuated my confession. The second picture, without the lace. The third, with my hand on my inner thigh. Letting my strap fall during dinner. Brushing my foot against him. Each spank built the heat, not just on my skin, but deep within me, a pooling, aching need. By the tenth, my voice was shaky, but I remembered every detail, every calculated provocation. My ass was warm, throbbing, a uniform red under his disciplined hand. And I loved it. The surrender, the pain, the utter focus of his attention.
After the fifteenth, he stopped. His hand smoothed over the heated skin, a gentle, assessing stroke. Then, in a sudden motion, he flipped me. I was on my back, still blindfolded, before I could process it. He moved, his weight settling between my legs, his suit-clad body hovering over mine.
He hooked my legs over his shoulders, spreading me open. The air was cool on my wetness, a stark contrast to the heat of my punished skin. I felt his breath first, a deliberate, cold stream blown directly against me. I gasped, my hips arching off the bed.
“Sensitive,” he murmured, a note of discovery in his voice.
Then his touch began. Not his mouth yet, but his fingers. They parted me, exploring with a precision that was utterly erotic. Slow, circling strokes, mapping my reactions. Then his mouth replaced his fingers. He lapped at me, broad, flat strokes that made me moan. He focused on my clit, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, then sucking it gently into his mouth. I was gasping, my hands fisting in the duvet, lost in the dark silk world and the intense sensation.
“You taste like anticipation,” he said, his voice muffled against me, teasing and dirty. “Like eight hours of deferred gratification.”
He continued, his mouth working me relentlessly, while his hand slipped down. Two fingers, slick from my own wetness, pressed inside me. They curled, stroking in tandem with the rhythm of his tongue. The dual sensation was overwhelming. I felt the orgasm building, a tight coil winding at my core, ready to snap.
But right at the edge, as my moans became desperate pleas, he pulled back. All sensation ceased. I felt him shift, and the blindfold meant I could only imagine his smirk.
“Spencer!” I gasped, frustration ripping through the pleasure. “Don’t stop!”
“I didn’t,” he said calmly, his voice above me. “I paused. For evaluation.”
“That’s not fair!” I protested, my back talking returning, a last vestige of my daytime defiance.
It was all he needed. He dove back in, his mouth and fingers returning with the same devastating pattern. He brought me again, meticulously, to that same precipice. My body was trembling, begging for release. And again, just as I was about to fall, he withdrew.
This time, the frustration was agony. Tears of want pricked behind the blindfold. “Please,” I begged, the word torn from me. “Please, Spencer, just fuck me. I need you. Please.”
He was silent for a moment. I heard his breathing, slightly ragged. “After a day of psychological manipulation, you now request capitulation?” he teased, his tone light, but I heard the strain underneath.
I begged more, my words a jumble of pleas. But it wasn’t until I found the right one, the key, that he broke. I sobbed it into the darkness. “I need my genius. I need *you*. Not the tease, just you.”
That was it. The line that made him weak.
There was a rustle of clothing. His weight left the bed briefly. Then he was back, his hands on me, flipping me over. I was on my stomach, my punished ass in the air, my face pressed into the pillow. He was naked now. I felt him, the hard, urgent length of him against my thigh. He was so hard, after all the teasing, after the spanking, after tasting me.
He got between my legs, and on the way, his hand delivered one more sharp, stinging slap to my ass. I moaned, the sound mixed pain and pure want.
Then he sank into me. It was easy, seamless, because I was so wet, so open for him. He filled me completely, a deep, claiming stretch.
He started fucking me, and it was rough from the first stroke. The controlled, meticulous man was gone, replaced by something primal and driven. We both moaned, the sounds raw and unfiltered. The bed rocked with his thrusts.
“Harder,” I begged, my voice muffled by the pillow. “Faster, please!”
He complied instantly, his hips driving into me with a punishing, perfect rhythm. While he did, his hand found my hair, gathering it at the back of my head, holding me. He slapped my ass again, the sting mixing with the deep internal pleasure. He leaned down, his breath hot at my ear, his voice a graveled, intimate whisper.
“You wanted my attention,” he hissed between thrusts. “You have it. Every calculation, every deduction… it’s all here. Every thought is you.”
The words, the possession in them, the relentless pace of his hips - it shattered me. The coil, wound tight by hours of teasing and minutes of exquisite torture, finally snapped. I didn’t just climax; I erupted. A wave of release so intense it broke boundaries, soaking him, the sheets beneath us, with my release. I cried out, a sound of pure, shocked ecstasy.
The sensation of it, the proof of my absolute surrender, triggered his own. With a final, deep drive, he groaned, a low, broken sound against my neck, while he filled me up.
For a moment, there was only breathing, heavy and synced. Then he shifted, still buried inside me, his hand loosening its grip on my hair. He leaned close to my blindfolded ear, his lips brushing the silk.
“That,” he whispered, his voice tender now, spent and satisfied, “is the statistical outcome of a day-long provocation protocol.”
He let go of my hair. The support vanished, and I slumped forward, my smile pressing into the damp pillow beneath me.
