Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: Um… riding crop porn.
Disclaimer: Not mine, although actually in the public domain. No profit is intended.
Summary: Holmes brings his riding crop on a stakeout, leading to some interesting moments for Watson.
Author’s Note: Written in honor of Fawn’s discussion of REDH on the Holmesslash Yahoo Group. Fawn lamented that Holmes’ riding crop really didn’t come up enough in slash. So, instead of going to sleep, I wrote this. *hides*
I cannot believe he brought his riding crop.
We wait, crouched in a darkened room, for our culprit to arrive, our only illumination provided by moonlight streaming through the dirty window. The dust is thick in this abandoned house, but Holmes assures both Lestrade and me that our criminal will be here, tonight, to finalize his dastardly plan.
I know our quarry is dangerous. I know I must be alert. I must pay attention. But damn, how am I to concentrate when Holmes is stroking that infernal crop!
Oh, it seems innocent enough. Surely Lestrade thinks that Holmes’ actions are just a release of nervous energy. Anyone who would see him would surmise as much. But I, who know him so well, know that he is purposefully tormenting me.
His long, sensitive fingers run over the handle length, slowly, teasingly, barely touching the crop, and then moving steadily to gently caress the knob on the end. My body begins to respond.
Holmes doesn’t look at me; he doesn’t look at anything except the riding crop in his hands.
My breath quickens.
“Are you alright, Doctor?” Lestrade questions, looking concerned.
I swallow hard. “Perfectly fine, Inspector,” I answer, giving him a quick, albeit strained, smile. “Just a little tired of the waiting, that’s all,” I explain.
“I understand perfectly,” Lestrade says peevishly. “How much longer do you think we have to be here, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes smiles at me and continues his stroking. His caresses become firmer, longer, sliding down the entire end of the handle. I glare at him.
Holmes never stops his stroking. “I’m certain that the ultimate event will occur soon enough, Lestrade. Have some patience,” he says, forming a tightened grip around the riding crop and leisurely pushing it through his hand.
I cannot help myself; I think back to our prior time together. My God, it was only last night. Holmes used the crop upon me, stinging my buttocks in that delightful manner that always leaves me pleading with him for release. But release was slow in coming. He taunted me, lightly stroking my entrance with that selfsame handle now firmly in his grasp. Then, when I could take no more, he finally, finally pushed the riding crop inside of me.
I grow impossibly hard at the memory.
“Are you quite sure that you’re alright?” Lestrade asks me, interrupting my thoughts.
I glare again at Holmes and try to get my breathing under control. “Quite fine,” I lie to Lestrade. “It’s just the dust in here.”
The Inspector looks from me to Holmes, who affects an air of artful innocence. Lestrade frowns, looking perplexed. “If you’re sure…” he finally says. He doesn’t look convinced.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“When will he come?” Lestrade asks impatiently.
Holmes looks at Lestrade and then at me. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll come very soon,” he says in a steady voice.
My eyes widen. No, surely he couldn’t mean…
Lestrade nods and looks out the window, obviously bored with his surroundings and his companions.
I turn to Holmes, my eyes pleading, begging him not to do what I know he’s about to do. He’s taken the riding crop and placed it near his lips, moving the handle back and forth oh so slowly. His eyes meet mine, and I can see just the tiny bit of his tongue peeking out.
I clench my fists and try to control my breathing.
Holmes glances at Lestrade to confirm that he’s still preoccupied. He then drags the tip of his tongue over the length of the handle until he finally reaches the knob. Looking me directly in the eyes, he places the end of the riding crop in his mouth and sucks, hard.
I find my release.
I must give a strangled moan, for Lestrade is at my side in an instant. “Doctor,” he says insistently, “whatever is wrong?”
But then Holmes is there, gentling me, answering when I cannot. “It looks like the good Watson has developed a cramp,” he says reasonably.
I’m about to agree, but we hear a noise coming from the front door. “He’s here,” Holmes whispers fiercely, brandishing his crop as a weapon and springing into the next room. Lestrade quickly runs after him.
I gather myself for a moment and then grab my revolver, wondering how I’m ever going to make it through this night. Then I follow Holmes, as I always do.