Kink bingo square
Title: The Whip Hand (on AO3)
Author:
jelazakazone
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairings/characters: Sherlock (mainly), Molly and John mentioned
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: about 530
Warnings: Whips
Summary: Sherlock discovers that whips can be pleasurable
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am not intending to profit from them
Author’s notes: This is my first Sherlock fic. I wrote it for a Kink Bingo square (whipping/flogging). I could not resist Sherlock for this prompt. Thanks to
fleete and lewisian_gneiss for beta help!
Sherlock knows he is being watched, but he does not care. He moves his arm, slowly at first, building up to a rhythm. Focused on the movement, he does not flinch as the whip cracks each time. His face flushes; he can feel his heart thudding in his chest. He strikes again and again.
He has never realized how good it feels to crack a whip. Now, he is glad for the opportunity and wonders vaguely when he will be able to do it again. One could get lost in a pleasure such as this.
Sherlock has to adjust his grip, he realizes, because his palms are sweaty. As he wipes his palm across his thigh, he brushes his cock, which has grown hard from his exertions.
The door opens quietly, but it is like a shot. Disrupted from further whipping, Sherlock startles, feeling naked, as though he’s been caught with his pants down. Flushed, panting, tousled hair soaked with sweat, he knows he is a sight. Although he is surprised at his reaction, he carries on as though nothing unusual has happened, because of course it hasn’t.
“So, bad day was it?” Molly remarks, laughing a bit nervously.
Looking down at his notes, Sherlock says, “I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. The man’s alibi depends on it. Text me.”
“Listen, I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee.”
“Black, two sugars. I’ll be upstairs.”
Sherlock pivots on his heel and walks out.
That evening, alone, Sherlock is reclining on his bed, reading. He is also absentmindedly stroking the whip. Tired, he puts the book aside, but continues rubbing the thick handle. His mind turns back to that morning, to the motion of whip and the tip which will break the sound barrier when flung into action.
His cock tingles, demanding attention, and soon Sherlock is rubbing his shaft with one hand and the whip with the other. He thinks about the latent spiraling power in the whip and wants to harness that power for himself, so he loops the whip around his cock and then around his balls, the furry tip tickling his arse.
As he pulls on himself, he pulls on the cord, tightening the pressure.
It’s a lie, he thinks to himself. He has not harnessed the whip’s power, he’s harnessed himself. He feels his own pressure build, but it will not release -- the whip is holding him firm.
At first, the unfamiliarity of the situation is all the excitement he needs, but he grows weary of it after a few minutes. The pressure, and pleasure, has grown and his need to spill is great, but his focus is off. He can’t come.
Then there is a subtle vibration, but one so familiar to him, he knows instantly what it is. John. John on the stairs.
Fuck.
John cannot find him like this. That is what finally tips him over.
When John barges into his bedroom a minute later, he sees the whip and gives Sherlock a funny look, but carries on as though Sherlock sitting in bed reading with a whip next to him is an everyday occurrence. And maybe it will be now.
This entry was originally posted at http://jelazakazone.dreamwidth.org/593264.html. Feel free to comment here or there.