Author's note: This is just a little one-shot piece of fun. Me thinking about how much Sherlock enjoyed the riding crop in ASiB, and what might come of that! Enjoy ;)

WARNINGS: Mentions of sex, reasonably graphic, bad language and the use of a riding crop. NO NON-CON.

The handle was a Stygian black. The darkness faded into a deep crimson as it travelled the braided length of the whip, until finally the eye reached the blood-red suede of the tip. It really was a double edged weapon - there is, after all, such a thing as killing with kindness, and if the sensation of that material caressing your body wasn't kind, then nothing was. But raise it just a few inches, and bring it back down... Well, if it cut through the air with a sound like a throaty scream, you can guess what sounds it could elicit from a human being. And in the end, even geniuses can moan.

Currently, the genius in question was resting on the sheepskin rug. In fact, lying was probably a better word for the way the languid limbs were splayed, fingers twining in the soft wool. His eyes were following a certain young lady around the room, a woman who would have probably accepted the 'young' but would entirely reject the 'lady', despite it being her legal title. And most people found it hard to argue about the rules of etiquette when she was dressed in nothing but extremely high black stilettos, Sherlock Holmes being no exception.
So when he called her over with exaggerated politeness, and she demanded once more that he stick to the nickname 'Anthea' (their little joke - he had always hated Mycroft's secretary, and it made him smile to call out her pathetic pseudonym as he came) or 'Mistress' if he was feeling very polite (he never was), he obeyed without protest. Quite a feat for the detective, if you didn't consider the reward. But when you did examine the 6 feet of woman in front of him, with her dark hair tumbling down her back, her cheeks lightly flushed, her chest heaving slightly exaggeratedly, and her recently discarded red underwear on the floor, you suddenly realised that Sherlock wasn't being good. He was, in fact, being very, very bad.

An hour later they had switched positions. They were a little out of breath, true, but the fact that neither had collapsed from exhaustion was a real testament to their experience and stamina. They had broken the bed in John's room by accident, and his was too small. But he was hard again, so they would have to use the table.
Sherlock examined the raven beauty on the floor and made a split-second decision: It had already been too long, he would have broken any other woman by now. Time, he thought, for the riding crop.
No questions were asked as he left the room, but an shaped eyebrow was raised inquisitively from where it normally rested above an amethyst eye when he returned carrying a box. He set it gently on her flat stomach, and lay beside her, propped up on one elbow as he watched the dexterous fingers untied the ribbon. She made a show of hurting her finger undoing the tight knot, so that she could raise it to her mouth and undo it with her white teeth. Finally, she was able to lift the lid. Some would have gasped at what they found inside, others laughed. She simply smiled wolfishly and picked it up, tossing the box to one side. She dragged it through her teeth until it lay caught between her incisors. Rising a level to all-fours, she angled her head so that she could caress Sherlock's cheekbone with the soft, soft tip. He took it from her mouth, running it down her bottom lip and continuing south, slowly. She sank back down to rest on her stomach and then flipped artfully onto her back. She arched upwards as the whip reached her navel, and still the skilful hand guided it down further and further. She couldn't suppress a soft moan as it came to rest somewhere sensitive in the vicinity of her upper thigh. The second he heard the sound, Sherlock sat back, whip oh-so casually in hand, and asked "What was that?" A shiver ran down Anthea's spine. She knew that tone, knew what game the man wanted to play tonight. She would pretend to lose, and at the last minute lay down her cards... It was more fun that way. Sherlock was always far too conceited, anyway. He thought he had her already, and she was very good at increasing his conviction of that fact. "Nothing" she said quietly. "Please..."
"Please, what?"
"Please, more."
She closed her eyes as the whip came closer again, so that Sherlock wouldn't see them glinting mischievously. It was better like this, not knowing where or when the caresses would come. It was at her throat, then her ankle, then feathery touches covered her wrist and finally the whip came to rest where it had finished last time. She let her mouth open seductively, and counted the seconds until an insistent tongue pushed against hers. The man was so predictable, it was funny. She bit his lip and he drew away. She didn't even need to watch to see what was coming next. She rolled over and heard a whistling crack just before the whip touched her tailbone. It was a touch, not a hit. She hadn't flinched - Royal Flush.

Sherlock was, not to put too fine a point on it, confused. What he really wanted, right now, was for Anthea's knees to be in the same state as Donovan's were yesterday. And for very specific reasons, including his satisfaction and the splintering of the kitchen table. However, the table was disappointingly whole and he was distressingly hard. Again. Because this woman seemed to know exactly what he wanted and what he was going to do, and yet refused to give him what he wanted or let things go according to his plan. Maybe a change of tactics was called for.
So when Anthea turned and snatched the riding crop out of his hand, Sherlock did not, to her surprise, resist. And he did not make a sound, or do anything apart from shudder with pleasure when she straddled his stomach and gyrated slowly. He did, however, let his eyes go wide with surprise when she twirled up, picked his favourite purple shirt off the floor and blindfolded him with it. And he did listen attentively for anything that might tell him what was going on, but the first sound he heard was accompanied by the sensation of a handcuff with his tie wound around it to make it softer clipping round his wrist. He knew that these were his (or rather, Lestrade's) and he therefore knew exactly how to get out of them, but being blindfolded and handcuffed to a table was most emphatically not boring. So he waited. And soon very sharp teeth were nipping all over his neck, and then his lip, and then his wrist, followed by his shoulder. The biting stopped. It was replaced by licking, in an upwards direction somewhere that was definitely not his shoulder. It was what Sherlock had been wanting all evening, and it was all he could do not to growl at the velvety sensation. It continued for an exquisite while, until he had thought the whip forgotten, but soon that lovely mouth disappeared from his cock and the metal end of the whip was on his bottom lip. So, she wanted a show. Fine. He sucked it in, and did everything to it that he wished she would do to him, all the while moaning obscenely. He heard her breathing quicken. The whip was gone. And the wonderful suction was back.

Anthea waited until Sherlock was on the very, very edge before stopping. To give him credit, he only gave a soft sigh - there was no other indication of the fact that he had been ripped from the brink of an orgasm. A voice was at his ear.
"Guess where the whip is now."
He would have said her mouth, but she was talking without impairment. So what was making those small, wet soun... Oh. Oohhh.
"Guess what I'm going to do next."
Leave him where he was? No, she was too close herself. Ah. The question was answered as he felt long, suede swipes over his cock. But for the third time he was prevented from coming, and the crop was held over his chest, right over his nipples. The blindfold was suddenly off, and then he lay perfectly still as Anthea lowered herself onto him. With every thrust, she rasped the whip over his tender flesh, and at long last Sherlock Holmes came. Hard. The floodgates opened and the groans and the half-words and the German, Russian and French swear words tore themselves from his throat and my God it should have sounded like hell but instead it was pure, liquid, silvery sex. It was enough to push the woman over the edge too, and together they almost did break the leg off the kitchen table.

He did get his turn to make her suffer the same way she had him. It involved the shirt again, and of course the riding crop, and in the end the detective had his revenge. There were still twice as many bite marks on Sherlock than on Anthea in the morning, but he was strangely comforted by the knowledge that his shoulders were covered in scratch marks, and the soft skin of his forearms was lightly bruised in strips. He would have to remember to thank Mycroft for his comment about the merits of horse riding, Sherlock thought. And maybe next time, if his brother was being particularly annoying, they could find a use for his desk. What on earth would happen if he shouted the name 'Anthea' extremely loudly and sensually within the government building? They might think it was Mycroft himself, with his very much younger secretary. Ah yes, that was definitely worth looking into.

Hope you liked it! Please review and read my other stories :)