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Over Her Knee

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Greg was so used to obeying her that it didn't occur to him to ask what he'd done wrong until he was positioned over her knee, his arse bared and his hands getting acquainted with the soft, dark fabric of her skirt.

"Mrs. Hudson—" he began, only to be cut off by a sharp smack to his thigh. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Mistress, what is this for?"

"What do you mean, Greg?" she asked, her voice light and kind, her palm gently stroking the curve of his arse.

"I'm being punished, aren't I?" He tried to keep that tone she hated so out of his voice, but he apparently failed, if the next smack, landing where his thigh met his cheek, was any indication.

"Oh, of course not, dear." Again, she stroked his sore backside, just firmly enough to help bring the redness out. "Why? Have you done something you should be punished for?"

"No," he answered quickly, and was rewarded with a proper hit to his arse, then a second one on the other side. "Jesus!"

"I'll ask you not to be so loud in the kitchen, please." And god, they were still there in her kitchen, and her door wasn't even locked; it occurred to Greg that Sherlock and John were probably just upstairs, and if they were sufficiently alarmed, they might come barging in at any moment.

Oh, yes, he would most definitely need to keep quiet. At the next smack, hard enough to jolt him just slightly — she certainly had more strength in her than her appearance and demeanour would suggest — he restrained himself, letting out no more than a whimper.

"Good boy," she praised, running her hand up to the end of his spine, just under his shirt. "This isn't to punish you. I just can't get enough of your pert little bum."

Greg was too busy biting his lip to reply, his eyes screwed shut as he waited for the next impact. She waited until he relaxed, just slightly, before she started up again, not pausing or letting up at all, the slap of her palm against him echoing in her tidy little kitchen.

He wasn't sure she wanted him to count, since it wasn't a punishment, but he did anyway — or tried to. At twenty-six he faltered, realising just then that he was hard and trying to puzzle out just when his spanking had gone from painful and humiliating to the sort of fuzzy pleasure that sent sparks down to his toes.

Mrs. Hudson, for her part, hardly seemed to notice, busy as she was raining down smacks on his tender arse. She continued to pretend not to notice when his hips jerked forward, his erection bumping her thigh, concentrating until she had satisfied her own need to turn his entire backside red and hot.

The last smack, after an admiring pause, was low, her fingers skimming over his heavy testicles. Greg yelped, quickly covering his mouth with one hand, his eyes darting toward the door.

Nobody came rushing through, and he let his hand down just in time to feel a soft, gentle finger at his hole and let a moan out unhindered.

"Do you think olive oil will do?" she asked, and he could already hear her opening a bottle. "I'd get something better, but I'm not sure you're going to be able to stand, and with my hip, well — it's better for both of us if he stay here, isn't it? It's the only thing in reach."

Greg had no arguments, shuddering as an oil-slick finger pressed into him. His cock jerked hard against her thigh, and he knew he was leaving precome on her skirt. He wondered if that would merit a punishment, and how soon he could handle another.

"You're so tight, Greg. I'd have thought a good spanking would loosen you up." She wiggled her finger deeper, pushing in until the backs of her other fingers were pressed up against him, the point where they made contact flaring up with heat and a pain-pleasure mixture again. He could feel her long, thin finger probing around inside him, and braced himself.

Still, he wasn't prepared: he cried out as she found his prostate, stuffing three of his own fingers into his mouth to muffle himself. He didn't look at the door, couldn't keep his eyes open at all, descending into nothing more than the feel of his overly sensitive arse being skillfully manipulated by his mistress.

A second oil-slick finger joined the first, adding a slight fullness to the equation, and he bucked helplessly against her, trying to remain calm and in control, trying to be careful of her hip, but oh, god, it was good. He wanted badly to rut against something, to have her hand on his cock, but all he could do was strain for contact against her clothed leg and push back onto her fingers, his arse clutching at them rhythmically.

He groaned around his fingers, felt saliva dripping out over his lip. He felt so open and exposed, so raw, but he couldn't stop himself from grinding against her hand and leg, and he found that he didn't want to, not in the least.

"Come on, then. Let's hear you." She was gentle, pulling at his wrist, but he did obey her easily, letting her remove his fingers from his mouth.

He sounded impossibly loud to his own ears, the noises coming out of him strangled and cut off ever time she stroked over his prostate again. He couldn't say how loud he really was, if his voice had grown weaker or if he was alarming her tenants, but it didn't matter at all any longer. All that mattered was her, the way only she could give him pleasure, the way his body responded to her like he was made for it.

When he came, streaking her skirt and floor, she did punish him; as soon as he was done licking up his mess, though, she hiked up her skirt and let him lick at her instead, and he didn't regret it at all.