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I pace around the sitting room, waiting for Holmes to return. He is meeting with
Lestrade to tie up the loose ends from last night’s investigation. But my
thoughts are not with the capture of that criminal; I instead remember Holmes’
use of the riding crop.
My breath quickens at the recollection and I
start to pace furiously, trying to keep my body under control. This is
unacceptable. I must reprimand Holmes when he arrives home. His actions were
foolish, reckless, dangerous even, especially in front of a Scotland Yard
inspector, no matter how oblivious Holmes thinks Lestrade is. I don’t relish the
idea of spending two years breaking rocks. Holmes’ behavior was irresponsible.
It was imprudent. It was ill considered.
It was incredibly
arousing.
I groan to myself as my traitorous body
betrays me yet again. I stop pacing and my eyes alight upon the riding crop in
question, propped against the wall beside the door to Holmes’ bedroom. Like a
fly to honey I am drawn to it, crossing the room without thought to stand before
it.
I pick the crop up; the smooth, black leather feels cool within my
hands. I grip it tightly, allowing my memories to overtake me momentarily.
Holmes plays me like he does his Stradivarius, the crop as his bow and, although
my sounds will never equal the grand music he creates, Holmes insists that he is
making me sing and the symphony is our lovemaking. I smile fondly, for it is an
incredibly romantic thought. Holmes would be mortified to learn that I think so,
although I suspect that he already knows.
Romanticism aside, he still
must be reprimanded for his rash actions last night. My eyes fall again onto the
riding crop in my grip. I smile slightly as an idea begins to take
form.
I hear the opening of our front door and the unmistakable sounds of
Holmes entering the building. I hear his excited footfalls on those seventeen
stairs, and he bounds into our sitting room, vibrant and full of energy. I
resist the urge to leap across the room and kiss him soundly; instead I tap the
riding crop against my hand.
“Watson,” he cries, bustling about the room
and pouring himself a drink, “the case is all settled and it really is airtight.
Another dangerous criminal off the street, I dare say, even trusting Lestrade to
make the case against him.” He takes a quick sip and then smiles at me
mischievously. “By the way,” he continues, and I could hear the humor lacing his
every word, “the good Inspector sends his regards. He was quite concerned about
you and wants me to make sure that you are feeling better.”
Holmes smiles
broadly, obviously quite pleased with his schemes, ranging from the criminal
capture to my embarrassed pleasure. I don’t respond, but stand there, continuing
to tap the crop against my hand.
His smile falters. “Watson?” he says
with trepidation.
“You’ve been very wicked, Sherlock,” I say in my
sternest voice.
He blinks in surprise as I rarely use his Christian name,
and then he gives me a wry, amused look. “Whatever do you mean?” he
asks.
I walk across the room toward him, purposefully, steadily, until
only about two feet separate us. I reach out the riding crop and gently stroke
his cheek. His eyes widen in surprise.
“You were very wicked last night,”
I say, keep my voice stern, and still stroking his cheek. “You must be taught a
lesson.”
He gives a half smile. “What sort of lesson?” he asks.
I
take the riding crop and trace it down the entire length of his torso, finally
stopping at the edge of his trousers. I look him directly in the eyes. “You must
be punished, Sherlock,” I say firmly.
He looks at me in surprise, his
face a study in conflict, and I realize that this is the moment of truth, so to
speak. He will make a decision whether to submit to me, which I have never
before suggested, at least not in this manner. I do know that if he laughs, or
mocks me, I shall be mortified and embarrassed, and I shall possibly have to
flee. I wait his response in a state of excited dread.
Finally,
finally he drops his eyes and looks at where the riding crop touches his
body. His cheeks are stained a delightful red. “Yes,” he whispers, “I must be
punished.” His eyes flick up at me briefly, and are then cast downward once
again. “What are you going to do?”
Holmes’ submission is astonishingly
arousing, and I take a deep breath to calm myself. I step closer and place the
riding crop flush against his chest. He looks up at me with both surprise and a
little fear evident in his stormy grey eyes. The surprise I don’t mind; the fear
will not do. I reach out with my hand and gently stroke his cheek. He shudders
and I can feel him relax under my care.
Finally I smile and withdraw my
hand. “Go into your room,” I say, and firmly press the crop against
him.
He nods, turns around, and walks steadily to his room. I watch him
as he enters it, take one more deep breath, and then follow him.
I find
him standing before the bed, eyes looking downward. I close the door and lock
it. I move about the room, lowering the lamplight until there is a warm,
intimate glow. I come and stand behind him, and then gently turn him toward me.
“Get undressed,” I tell him.
He looks at me coyly. “And will you
do the same?” he asks.
I realize that he is testing me and I smile to
myself, knowing that he expects me to falter. But I will not give into him so
easily.
“No,” I say very firmly, “I will not. Now get undressed,
Sherlock. Your punishment still awaits, and I can assure you that it will get
worse the longer it is delayed.”
He swallows hard and I can see he was
not expecting that reply. Nonetheless, he is doing what I have told him to,
taking off his jacket, waistcoat, shoes, and trousers. He stands before me in
his shirt and underwear.
I use the crop to trace the line of buttons on
his shirt, and then the growing bulge in his undergarments. My eyes follow the
black leather. I then look up into his eyes, and press the crop firmly against
his flies. He gives a surprised hiss.
“All your clothes,” I
demand.
With trembling fingers he unbuttons his collar and cuffs, slowing
removing them. The shirt buttons slowly follow, and then he finally takes the
shirt off. I make no effort to hide my appreciation of his naked chest, licking
my lips slightly as I contemplate tasting him. But that is an action for later.
Now I use the crop to stroke his bulging undergarments again, my intent
clear.
Holmes slowly unbuttons his flies, and that last bit of clothing
begins to move downward as if by its own will. I encourage that movement with
the crop, pushing his underwear down to the floor.
This time it is Holmes
who is having trouble breathing, his heavy breath coming in gasps as we both
take in the disparity of me standing fully clothed before his delectably naked
form.
“What now, Watson?” he asks, his voice shaky and barely above a
whisper.
“Now, Sherlock, you will receive your punishment as I see
fit.”
His breathing becomes even faster. His manhood juts proudly from
him, and it is all I can do to resist kneeling down and tasting him. Instead, I
begin to stroke his body with the riding crop, starting with his face and
traveling downward, downward, gently touching each nipple. Holmes casts his eyes
to the floor and he trembles, but it is obvious that it is due to intense
excitement.
I step behind him and press myself to him, so that he can
feel my fully clothed body against his nakedness. I am certain that he can feel
my hardness pressing into him from behind. My arm reaches around as I trace the
concave of his abdomen with the riding crop, focusing on the hollow of his
navel. Further down I travel, but I take care to avoid his swollen firmness.
Instead I gently caress his inner thighs and move to his sac. Just as he begins
to seek the contact of the crop, I pull it away; he gives a soft
whimper.
I take a step back and then start stroking him again, this time
on the back, lightly touching the short hairs on his neck before moving over his
strong shoulder blades. I run the crop down his spine, stopping just at the
small of his back. Unconsciously, I’m certain, he moves his buttocks toward me
slightly, seeking my touch.
I take the riding crop and slap him, just
once, on his rear. My actions made the most satisfying sound and leave an even
more satisfying red mark. Holmes jerks his head up in shock, and draws in his
breath with a resounding hiss.
I gently trace the area with the crop, and
then kiss the back of his neck, my jacket rubbing against his skin. I then step
back, removing all contact. He gasps.
“Get on the bed, Sherlock,” I say.
“Face down.”
He tenses for a moment, and then nods his head before
complying with my demand. I suck in my breath at the sight before me.
I
slowly remove my jacket and waistcoat, as well as my collar and cuffs. Holmes’
head faces me, his grey eyes intent on my every action. I leave my shirt and
trousers on, at least for the moment, their confinement a tormenting pleasure. I
take the riding crop and again caress Holmes’ body, his back, his arms, his
buttocks, his legs. I then kneel on the bed beside him, taking a moment to
listen to his shallow breathing and little whimpers.
I then slap him
again, right at the top of his thigh. He cries out and thrusts into the bed.
I am careful as I slap him again. There is a delicate balance between
pleasure and pain, as I have learned from Holmes when he handles me in a similar
manner. I know to keep my strokes firm and steady, not too hard but forceful and
even. I reach between his legs and underneath him, grasping his swollen
firmness. He gasps and thrusts into my grip. I can tell by the pulsing in his
manhood that Holmes is enjoying my ministrations.
But this is about
punishment, so to speak, and Holmes must know why he now finds himself in such a
situation. “Sherlock,” I tell him, removing my hand from his member and slapping
him once more. “You must use caution. I have no desire to find myself in gaol.”
I slap him again, and he moans in pleasurable anguish. “And I especially
do not want any harm to come to you or your reputation,” I tell him, slapping
him once more.
I take a moment to watch the reddening of his cheeks, and
I stroke them lightly with the crop, enjoying the view of the black leather over
the scarlet, sensitive skin. Then I give another slap; he gives another cry.
I stroke him again. “You know that Lestrade is not as unobservant as you
claim,” I tell him. Another slap, a whimper in response. “I want you to imagine
how I would feel if my lack of control was to be your ruin,” I say. My voice
breaks at the thought. “I couldn’t stand knowing that I had caused that.” I slap
him again, this time harder than any of the previous times.
Holmes let
out a sob. “I’m sorry, John,” he whispers.
I am shocked to see tears
streaming down his cheek. My God, what had I done? But somehow, instinctively, I
knew that I couldn’t collapse and give up control. Holmes had trusted me to get
him into this situation, and he lay there trusting me to get him out of
it.
“Hush Sherlock” I say soothingly. I place the crop on the bed beside
me, and gently rub at his backside. “Hush,” I say again, and lean over and kiss
each red buttock. “I don’t want you to be sorry,” I say to him in a low, calm
voice. “I just want you to be cautious.”
He nods slightly, and begins to
relax under my care as I continue to caress him. I move one of my hands to his
sac, gently rubbing him there. I then reach underneath him and stroke the
waiting hardness. I feel my own firmness pulsing in my trousers.
I
release him and then firmly stroke his back. “Roll over,” I say, “and let me see
your beautiful body.”
He tenses unexpectedly underneath me, and there is
a moment of stiff silence. “Watson,” he says in a hard voice, “I have already
given you myself. There is no reason for you to say such preposterous
lies.”
I am taken aback, both shocked by his coldness and confused by his
intention. Everything stills for a moment, the only sound his heavy breathing.
My mind races furiously as I struggle to discern his meaning. Understanding
suddenly crystallizes and I realize that Holmes is harboring a serious
misperception about his own charm and, it seems by extension, his sense of
worth. I cannot allow such a false view to stand. I reclaim the crop, an idea
quickly coming to mind.
“Roll over,” I tell him in a firm
voice.
“Watson…” he says with a tone of exasperation.
“Roll. Over.
Sherlock,” I demand.
He blinks in surprise and then, once again,
complies with my request.
I take the crop, slowly tracing his chest once
more. “You are beautiful, Sherlock,” I say in a low voice.
He rolls his
eyes. “Watson…” he begins in an argumentative tone.
I quickly slap his
left nipple with the end of the crop. He gasps and his eyes widen in surprise.
“No, Sherlock,” I say, now lightly stroking both nipples with the crop, “I will
not listen to your arguments. You are beautiful.”
He reaches out his hand
and tentatively grabs my wrist. “I know that I am not,” he says in a shaky
voice.
I take both his hands and pull them above his head, bringing them
to the headboard. “Hold onto this,” I tell him. “And don’t let go.”
He
grabs the headboard and looks at me, his eyes almost pleading. “Watson…” he
begins again.
“Hush,” I say, putting the tip of the crop to his lips and
then bending down to kiss him gently. When I pull away, I look him directly in
the eyes. “No more words, Sherlock,” I say, taking the crop lengthwise and
placing it in his mouth. He clenches the headboard more tightly, and bites down
on the black leather, looking at me with wide eyes.
“You are beautiful,”
I say again. “While I must admit that it is your brilliance that makes you
irresistible,” and here I lean over and gently kiss his forehead, “I find your
body to be incredibly desirable.”
His eyes are filled with
doubt.
I smile down at him. “From your long, sensitive fingers now firmly
gripping the bed,” I gently stroke his arms, reaching up to his fingers and
giving them a quick squeeze. “You know exactly how to touch me,” I say, “and to
make me cry out in longing for you.” I caress his hands; he holds onto the bed
even tighter.
“And your eyes, bright and stormy, reflecting your every
mood and brilliant mind.” I kiss each eyelid, still damp from his previous
tears, and can feel them flutter beneath my lips. “A single glance from you can
make me desperate and hard.” I rub my trouser covered firmness against him, and
he whimpers slightly.
“Your face is handsome and strong,” I say, gently
kissing his forehead again. I run my fingers through his hair, and then gently
kiss the tip of his nose. I smile down at him. “There are times I feel that I am
melting with desire from just a raise of your eyebrow.”
I trace his lips
with my fingers as he continues to bite down on the crop in his mouth. His
breath is shaky, but he is still awash with desire; I can feel his manhood
trapped between us, hard and needy. He looks at me with a wide, vulnerable
expression that I have never seen from him before. I gently kiss his lower lip
before moving down.
“Then there’s your neck,” I whisper, “pale and
beautiful and so sensitive.” I kiss his neck and trace his pulse point with my
tongue. He moans quietly around the crop in his mouth and begins to writhe
slightly underneath me.
I concentrate on his neck for a while, knowing
how much he enjoys it, and then I begin to make my way downward. “Your chest,” I
say, taking my hands and rubbing him firmly, “is lean and hard and strong and
handsome.” I continue to rub my hands over his body. “While I would prefer that
you eat a bit more,” here I trace his ribs with my fingers, “you are beautiful.
I cannot resist tasting you.” I bend down and suck a nipple greedily into my
mouth, my hand finding its twin and squeezing firmly. He arches slightly off the
bed, and I quickly gaze up to see him gripping the headboard tightly as he
groans loudly around the crop.
I continue to move downward, licking and
suckling, kissing and caressing, murmuring compliments all the while. I kiss his
abdomen and drive my tongue into his navel. He cries out, and I then begin to
suck on his wiry hair, following its path downward, downward to my ultimate
goal.
I hover above his manhood, sensing its pulsing even though my mouth
is not yet touching him. Holmes’ breath has become, if possible, even more
ragged, and he arches and writhes, his eyes closed, his body seeking my contact.
I wait.
He finally opens his eyes and looks down. Our gazes meet. Gone is
his iron-clad control. Instead he looks at me with need and want and longing.
And trust. His eyes expose his vulnerability and show that his trust in me is
absolute. I feel my heart swell.
I continue to hold his gaze.
“Beautiful,” I say quietly, and then slowly suck his hardness into my
mouth.
Holmes cries out and arches upward, his head flinging backward and
his moans muffled by the riding crop. I worship his manhood, suckling and gently
nibbling, until he is quivering with need.
I travel further downward,
lapping at his sac, then his hole. I look up; he is holding onto the headboard,
riding crop in mouth, his pale skin flushed, attempting to impale himself on my
tongue. I then reclaim his shaft with my mouth while pushing my finger inside
his heat. Holmes gives a muffled cry as I find his pleasure gland. He pushes
himself toward me, trying to take me even deeper. Finally my own need is too
great and I pull away.
I hurriedly open my trousers, my desperate
hardness springing free. I quickly grab the waiting Vaseline on the nightstand,
and spread that and my own wetness over myself, being careful not to stroke too
hard since I am so close to the edge. Then I coat my fingers and prepare him,
quickly yet thoroughly, ensuring that my love is ready to receive
me.
Holmes watches me, his beautiful grey eyes intent upon my every move,
and he moans his desire, writhing wildly on my fingers.
“I’m going to
take you now, Sherlock,” I say to him, removing my fingers. His breathing gets
shallower and his eyes close. “Unless you object.”
He shakes his head
slightly, the crop moving side to side. He then tries to move downward,
frantically searching for my waiting hardness.
I hold his hips and ease
myself inside him. He is hot, burning almost, and I press forward, desperate to
feel that most perfect connection. We don’t often make love this way; Holmes is
usually the more dominant. While I find our usual lovemaking to be intensely
satisfying, I am also always amazed at how perfect he feels around my
manhood.
I thrust inside, setting a steady pace, and lean down, sucking
on his neck. His hardness is throbbing between us, and I can feel it through my
shirt, desperate and needy. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper, and he groans,
pushing harder to meet me, welcoming me into his hot body.
I kiss his
neck, and rub his chest, and keep a relentless rhythm. Holmes writhes and
whimpers, arching up on every stroke, taking me deep inside of him.
Finally, I’m close, so close, and I reach between us and grasp his
throbbing shaft, stroking him firmly.
I then go still and hold myself up
so I can see his face. “Whoever told you that you weren’t beautiful, Sherlock,
was lying to you.” He moans at my words, and tries to take me in even
deeper.
I look down at this lovely, wanton creature beneath me. “I love
you, Sherlock Holmes,” I admit, my buried, guarded feelings bursting to the
surface.
I sense his hardness pulsing in my hand, and feel the heavy
streams of his release pouring out of him. I force myself to hold on and watch
him, enjoying the look of pleasure and need as he reaches his
climax.
When he is finished, I thrust hard, two, three, four times, and
find my own release.
For a moment, I lie on top of him, my body swirling
in pleasurable aftershocks as I try to catch my breath. I slowly come back to
myself and see that Holmes is still reeling in pleasure, languid and loose
beneath me.
I remove the crop from his mouth and lay it beside us; he
gives a little whimper. I then reach up and slowly, gently remove his clenched
fingers from the headboard, rubbing them slightly. I kiss his fingertips before
bringing his arms back to his sides.
Although my body protests, I remove
myself from the bed briefly, taking time only to wash Holmes and myself quickly
from the basin in his room. I also give him a glass of water, helping him to
raise his head, and I am relieved when he drinks as I hold the glass for him. He
still has not opened his eyes, but his breathing has evened out. I hurriedly
remove my remaining clothes and get back into the bed, pulling the blanket over
us and drawing him into my arms.
A few quiet moments pass, and then I
feel a gentle kiss to my shoulder. I look down and see that Holmes’ eyes are
open; our gazes meet.
“That was quite… intense,” he says, and even in the
low lamplight I can see a faint blush to his cheeks.
I kiss his forehead.
“Yes,” I agree.
He lays his head back onto my shoulder, pulling me to him
tightly and kissing me again. I continue to hold him in my arms.
“My
parents thought me an ugly child,” he says in a small voice, and I understand
where all his misperceptions and self-doubt stem. Holmes rarely mentions his
parents, but his passing comments have revealed a lonely and lost childhood, one
devoid of affection and love. To think that this remarkable being was so
disregarded always unleashes my anger, but I control it tonight because I do not
wish for Holmes to ever believe that I was angry with him.
“You’re
beautiful,” I tell him forcefully, and lean down to kiss him until he believes
it.
Finally we break apart, and I can see a mischievous glint in his
eyes. “I must say though, Watson,” he states with a smirk, “that your punishment
is a complete failure.”
“And why is that?” I ask
indignantly.
“Because this was hardly a deterrent, was it?” Holmes grins
then, an expression I have rarely seen upon his face. “After all, if this is how
you will react, I shall be reluctant to be circumspect now. In fact, I shall
probably have to go out of my way to provoke you.”
“Holmes…” I say
warningly.
“Don’t worry,” he says, drawing me, if possible, even closer.
“I’ll be careful. You’re right, you know. I have no desire to see the inside of
a gaol, either.” His smile fades slightly, and I gently kiss his
brow.
“But really, Watson, you have ruined my best crop,” he says,
rallying his good humor. He picks up the riding crop and shows me where his
teeth have made a great indentation, “However shall I explain this?” he asks,
his tone slightly peeved.
I kiss him again until both of us are quite
breathless. “My dear Holmes,” I say, taking the crop from him and gently tracing
it down his body until he trembles slightly in pleasure. “You can tell anyone
who asks that I had a patient who needed medical care, and that you generously
sacrificed your crop so that my patient had something to bite down on while I
was tending some terribly hideous wound.” I kiss him again, rubbing his body
with the crop once more and then placing onto the floor.
He snorts but
settles down again, his head on my shoulder.
I draw him closer and kiss
the top of his head. “Besides, Holmes,” I say, my voice beginning to slur with
sleep, “there’s no need to provoke me in the future. Any time you want your arse
cropped, I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”
Holmes gives a sleepy
chuckle, kisses my chest once more, and then we both gently drift off to sleep,
holding each other close.
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