It’s not the first time Sherlock’s been called to the headmaster’s office, but the long velvet curtains, drawn close against the night, and low fire burning in the grate are new. So too is Dr Watson sitting in the headmaster’s chair, waiting for him.
“Naughty boys,” says Dr Watson, “get their bottoms smacked.”
Sherlock gapes. He’s not a boy - he’s in the Upper Sixth - almost a grown man. He tries to protest but the words get stuck in his throat.
“Is that what you want?” Dr Watson continues, implacably.
It isn’t what Sherlock wants. It isn’t what he wants at all, but now he’s standing in the corner with hands on his head and his nose pressed almost to the wall. The room is stifling hot and airless. Sweat slides from his armpits and soaks into the waistband of his trousers. He can smell the cloying, animal reek of it. Spanked like a naughty child, the doctor’s hard hand scalding his rear. The indignity almost chokes him. He can’t think what he’s done to deserve such a punishment. And how will it play out? Will the doctor make him unbutton his trousers? Will he pull Sherlock’s underwear down around his thighs? Will he make Sherlock stand in front of him, and inspect the rosy, revealed flesh before he begins? Hot blood burns his ears. The thought makes him feel dizzy. No one’s looked at him there since he was old enough to wash himself. He barely looks down there himself these days. The thick, curling hair at his crotch, the way his cock has thickened and darkened, the way it twitches and sometimes swells of its own accord - it unnerves him.
Behind his back he hears Dr Watson stand and walk across the room with slow deliberate steps. His school uniform chafes him around the armpits and the collar constricts his neck. He feels hot: congested and realises with a horrified lurch of his stomach that his cock is beginning to stiffen. The skin around his balls has drawn tight, an involuntary, misguided response to the nervous tension churning in his belly. A deep quivering begins in his knees and spreads up his legs to the base of his spine.
“Come here,” says Dr Watson.
Sherlock turns slowly. All his limbs feel heavy. Dr Watson is sitting in the centre of a dark red Chesterfield sofa that Sherlock has never seen before. He knows he should speak, protest his punishment, say something to break the spell that binds him, but his brain - his razor-sharp brain that he's so proud of - isn’t working and his mouth is dry. Dr Watson's words carry such quiet authority that he’s standing in front of the sofa before he knows it.
There seems no choice but to obey. His trousers fall in soft folds to his knees. The rush of cooler air across his exposed thighs does nothing to ease the straining tension running through him. He feels like a wind-up toy with a key at the base of his spine and fine metal wires running beneath his skin. They tug at his nipples and run down his legs, delivering electric shocks to the backs of his thighs, his balls, the head of his cock. Each of the doctor's commands wind him tighter, make the shocks more intense.
He waits for the next instruction, his hands held loosely by his sides, not daring to move. Their respective positions must put his crotch at the level of Dr Watson’s eyes. He doesn’t dare look down to see whether the thin material of his underwear has been stretched tight by the swelling heat in his cock. He thinks it probably must be but Dr Watson’s expression is dispassionate and gives nothing away.
“I’m going to give you a dozen to start off with,” he says. “After that it’s your choice. Three dozen with your underwear on, or two dozen with it off.”
It’s an ingenious twist, to force him to be complicit in his own punishment. He’s not afraid of pain. It’s fear of a different kind of disgrace which makes his palms sweat and his knees shake. Which is it to be? A longer spanking, a more intense chastisement of his quivering flesh, or the added humiliation of nudity - Dr Watson able to see his bare bottom growing ever redder under his punishing hand. The thought sends another shock down his spine. His cock twitches in response and Sherlock knows by Dr Watson's sudden blink that he’s seen it too. The knowledge decides him. He needs to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“Two dozen with them off,” he mumbles.
Dr Watson nods judiciously. He looks unsurprised. “Get over my lap,” he says and sits back onto the sofa, spreading his legs.
This isn’t how it should be done, Sherlock knows. Dr Watson should make him bend over the desk, or kneel on a chair, or stand in the centre of the room and touch his toes. That's how the boys are beaten, not made to sprawl face down across their teachers' laps. The whole situation is wrong, so very wrong so why does he almost stumble in his haste to obey. All his movements are awkward and ungainly. The warmth and solidity of Dr Watson’s body beneath him is the one stable thing in a topsy-turvy world. A firm thigh presses into his lower abdomen. Dr Watson rests his left hand in the base of Sherlock's spine, pinning him in place.
“Arms up,” he says.
Sherlock stretches upwards so his fingers curl around the edge of the sofa cushion. The action lifts his shirt, baring his back. The brush of fabric grazing lightly across his nipples brings them erect, aching for a firmer touch. For a few moments nothing happens. Dr Watson is seemingly content to let Sherlock contemplate the vulnerability of his position. His bottom has been pushed upwards, perfectly positioned for chastisement; his body pivoting upon the doctor’s thigh. The cool leather of the sofa is smooth against his knees and finger tips. The skin on his bottom feels tight and hot, shockingly exposed. He both wants his punishment to be over; and prays it never begins.
“Good,” says Dr Watson and tucks a cushion below his cheek with unexpected solicitude. “Ready, Holmes?”
Adrenaline surges through Sherlock's body. He exhales in a sudden shudder then steadies and gathers himself. He will take his punishment. It’s ridiculous of course, but it’s what he has to do. It will be painful but not incapacitating. He will not disgrace himself. He will not cry or lose control. It’s fine. Absolutely fine. He presses his cheek against the cushion and breathes. It's all, he breathes in, fIne. And out.
“Yes, sir,” he says and feels a flicker of pride at the steadiness of his voice.
“All right,” says Dr Watson and without further ado he begins.
It's easy at first. After the waiting, it's almost a relief. The doctor concentrates his attentions on the fleshiest parts of Sherlock’s buttocks and keeps his strokes slow and deliberate. For the first half-dozen slaps there seems little to complain about. Then gradually, the pain begins to build. There is a progression, Sherlock realises as he kneads the cushions in growing discomfort, a rationale to Dr Watson’s approach. In the first half second after the clap of flesh on flesh there is no pain, only the dull thud of impact shaking his flesh. Then, a bright flash of fire spreads outwards from the connecting hand, fizzing the length of his body. It burns along his nerves increasing in intensity, then, just as it begins to fade, the clap of flesh on flesh comes again. The result is a slow-building wave of pain. No one slap is unbearable but the combined effect has him squirming miserably and trying not to whimper by the time the first dozen have come to an end.
“Right,” says Dr Watson. “That’s the warm up over.” It’s not clear whether this is meant as a reassurance or a threat. Sherlock lies, gaping, his bottom suffused with heat. As the initial hot smarting subsides, a low, persistent throb makes itself felt in his seat and upper thighs, almost pleasant by comparison. Dr Watson gives him a minute to collect himself, then shifts his hand upwards along Sherlock’s back pressing his chest firmly into the sofa, pivoting his hips a little higher.
The removal of his underwear; he'd most forgotten. Sherlock face burns with humiliation but he complies, unwilling to prolong the agony. Dr Watson's movements are careful, lifting the elastic waistband away from Sherlock’s sore skin and working it slowly over his hips and along his thighs. Hidden from view, Sherlock feels his cock pull down, then spring back up, bobbing against his belly, undeniably hard. He grits his teeth. With his underwear around his knees and his trousers around his ankles, he’s both hobbled and ridiculous. The position must display not just his heated bare buttocks but his balls, drawn tight and high to his body, visible to anyone who cares to look. He wonder if Dr Watson cares to look. The thought sends hateful, warm tingles all across his newly exposed skin. His cock, hanging in space, twitches and prods at the empty air.
Not trusting his voice, Sherlock nods. He expects another series of smarting slaps to his bottom, all the sharper for landing on his naked flesh, but Dr Watson has other ideas. This time he aims not at the red, round crown of Sherlock's rump but, with stinging precision, at the junction where buttock meets thigh. The skin there is thinner, sensitive, well supplied with nerve endings. Sherlock yelps and kicks in shock, but Dr Watson has him perfectly positioned and pinioned in place. After a mere half dozen smacks, Sherlock has reached the end of his tether, half mad with a mixture of pain and lust. The pressure of the doctor's hand on his back rubs his nipples deliciously tight against the sofa cushions. Between his thighs his cock juts heavy and aching, so hard that the foreskin has retracted, exposing the swollen sensitive head. Each slap drives him forwards and drags the delicate skin an exquisite fraction of an inch across the worn leather. Pleasure rises in a tidal wave, irresistible counterpoint to the pain flaring across his skin. His balls swell and begin to pulse, sure signal of his impending release. At the last second he averts disaster, digging his toes into the sofa and lifting his hips. The tidal wave recedes, but the action pushes his arse higher in the air. The doctor takes the action for defiance and intensifies his barrage, finishing with a volley of slaps that shake and shudder Sherlock’s flesh and squeezes tears from his eyes.
“All right,” says Dr Watson when the echoes have died away, “almost done. Good boy.”
Then, carefully, clinically even, he spreads the crack of Sherlock’s arse wide open with with forefinger and thumb, stretching out the hidden skin, exposing Sherlock completely to his dispassionate gaze.
It’s obscene, shockingly erotic, lewd far beyond the extent of Sherlock’s limited experience. Disbelief freezes him in place for an instant then, with a muffled cry, he surges out of Dr Watson’s grasp.
The doctor gives an exclamation and catches him around the shoulders before he can escape. “Oi! Where do you think you're going?”
Sherlock struggles and tries to wriggle free but his teenage wiriness is no match for the doctor's solid muscle, built at the bottom of the rugby scrum. They tussle for a moment, then Sherlock is caught and hauled back into place.
“You can't do that!” he protests, but his objections are ignored. The doctor is already holding him open and examining his most intimate flesh.
“I can you know,” he says.
Tears of shame prickle at Sherlock's eyes. “I hate you,” he says, but the words carry no force.
“You wanted my attention, Sherlock,” says Dr Watson and that’s wrong too. He never calls Sherlock by anything other than by his surname. Sometimes he doesn’t even remember that. “Well now you’ve got it.”
This is so true and yet so blatantly unfair that Sherlock cannot speak. In any case, Dr Watson doesn’t seem interested in his reply. He studies Sherlock a while longer, then begins his final sally, holding Sherlock's buttocks spread wide and slapping lightly, not across his rump but along the tender flesh inside the crease of his arse.
The moan that spills from Sherlock's lips is guttural, and entirely involuntary. His nerve endings ignite. The exposed skin is unbearably sensitive. Each slap inflames him further. His cock, slick now with his own juices, slips and slides across the smooth leather of the sofa. Pleasure surges up his thighs. He kicks reflexively but there’s no escaping his orgasm. It pours into his body and when it hits his balls he explodes, his sphincter squeezing and relaxing in rhythmic contractions, the epicentre of his bliss. Knowing Dr Watson must see it too, only intensifies his excitement and his shame and he thrashes and moans in convulsive release…
…to awake in a welter of his sheets, alone in his solitary bedroom, the evidence of his excitement hot and sticky on his skin.
It’s not the first time this has happened, this dream about the doctor. Not the second time either. The school clock strikes two, then three, as he struggles to compose himself.