"We'll start with the riding crop."
She flicked the leather down his naked thigh, a smooth and soothing gesture, and exactly the opposite of what he needed.
"Please," he choked out. "Please."
To hear the great Sherlock Holmes beg so shamelessly, it reminded her of Tantalus, the son of Zeus, standing forever in his pool of water, the forbidden fruit eternally out of reach. Tantalizing, isn't it, she wanted to say to him. The pun made her chuckle and she dragged the crop across his naked arse. Slowly. Tantalizingly. Sherlock's subsequent groan of frustration sent lightning bolts of desire through her nervous system, weakening her knees and curling her toes.
Yesterday, she would never have thought that slapping Sherlock straight across his magnificent (and nearly inhuman) cheekbones three times would bring her here. And yet here they were: Sherlock draped across the cold metal laboratory table, naked and trembling, and she, well, she had the riding crop in hand. She could have laughed for the irony of it all except that she had more pressing issues at hand.
"Tell me, Mr. Holmes," she said, trailing the vowels across her tongue as if she were tasting them, "What do you need?"
He groaned, a cacophony of consonants and need and so unlike the consulting detective, and she nearly couldn't resist running her hands over that pale flesh, tracing its curves and dips, and finding every spot that would duplicate such a sound.
She repeated, "Mr. Holmes, what do you need?" The riding crop bit into his left shoulder, and then his right one. Sherlock moaned, and wasn't that something she'd like to hear over and over again? The riding crop bit a little harder now, leaving red marks like lover's kisses on Sherlock's skin. The harder it bit, the louder he moaned.
She stopped when his shoulders had turned crimson and his whole body trembled and quaked. Sweat dripped from his brow, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. He leaned into the touch, like her cat did when he was desperate for her attention. She did laugh then, as she pictured Sherlock with a tail and whiskers, and she teased him. "Do you want me to be nice to you?"
His voice broke a little when he whispered, "No."
This time she let herself touch him. Her hand drifted down his back, tracing the spinal column, scraping the top layers of the epidermis with her nails. Scratch marks looked good on Sherlock Holmes, she decided. She gave him a few more, and with each pass of her nails over his skin, the detective sucked in air like he would never breathe again.
Yes, tantalizing indeed. If he continued to make sounds like that, well, she might just give him what he needed.
When the riding crop finally met the muscular globes of Sherlock's bottom (which, she noted, was quite tense), he lurched forward and pressed himself flat against the table. And if Sherlock cried when he discovered that the smooth table lacked the friction he so desperately craved, well, then maybe the riding crop moved a little faster than before. (And if she licked her lips, well, not even the great Sherlock Holmes would observe it right now.)
The man before her now was not the cool and arrogant drug addicted detective that she had slapped earlier. This detective was wrecked in the most delicious way possible—if the dilated pupils, the flushed cheeks, and the tousled hair were any indication. Oh, and there was the not-so-small erection pressing into her lab table.
She turned him over, and oh, didn't it wet her knickers a little to see that the great Sherlock Holmes was bent over backward for her. She didn't have to tell him not to move. She flicked the riding crop across his inner thigh. Oh. The way Sherlock bit his lip was sinful. "Mr. Holmes," she said again, "Tell me what you need."
He couldn't, or more likely wouldn't, answer her. She snapped the riding crop across his thighs. "Tell me," she said, and, whoa, was her voice really that thick with lust? "Tell me what you need." Snap. "Tell me." Snap. "Tell me." Snap.
He arched up and reached out for her. She stepped back, just of out of reach. She smiled. Tantalus, she thought. "Now, Mr. Holmes," she chided, "I thought you didn't want me to be nice." She pushed him back down on the table. "Do not move."
Slowly, oh so slowly, she traced every muscle on his torso with the riding crop, naming them as she went. "Pectoralis major." She cracked the riding crop against it and was rewarded with a moan. "Serratus anterior." She cracked the crop. Another moan. "External abdominal oblique." Another crack. A louder moan. On she went, naming muscles and cracking the riding crop until Sherlock cried for her to touch him. Imagine that, Sherlock Holmes begging her. Twice.
Tantalus, meet the forbidden fruit.
She ran the riding crop along the (impressive) length of Sherlock's erection. And oh, the sounds he made would make a prostitute blush. "Please," he begged, "Please." At least he said please.
"Mr. Holmes," she said, "Tell. Me. What. You. Need." She punctuated each word with a flick of the riding crop against his inner thigh. Harder and harder the riding crop came down until Sherlock pleaded with her to stop. She did, but only long enough to say once more, "Tell me what you need."
"Molly," he moaned. She didn't know if it was an answer or not. The riding crop resumed biting into his thighs, and he moaned louder than before. He said the most ridiculous things, things Molly didn't need to know about Anderson and Sally Donovan, and goodness, even Detective Inspector Lestrade. She knew he was close, knew that he was trying to enter his mind palace to distract himself, to escape. "No," she said. She put down the riding crop. He pouted at her, his lip a bigger distraction than ever.
"Tell me what you need," she said.
"This," Sherlock said, "I need this."
She gave it to him. When he came his entire body arched for her, a visual orchestration of desire and worship for her, and she had never felt more powerful. The great Sherlock Holmes, stretched out, covered in semen and sweat, and utterly out of breath because of her? She had never felt more desirable. Those impossibly blue (or were they green? or grey?) eyes looked at her, glazed and contented, like a sated wolf.
She said, "I'm keeping the riding crop."