A cock can't get hard in seconds. Ask Dr. John Watson, he knows these things.

By the same token, a hard-on can't go soft in the time it takes to say, What? Where?

However, about this John's not prepared to vouch.

"Your face?"

Naked but for trousers held on by the curve of his arse, John looked up at Sherlock. And now, right now? Their heel-enhanced height difference—not quite one foot, maybe closer to a thousand—made a confused army doctor feel stupid and small.

"I can't strike your face, Sherlock. I…I'm sorry, but—"

"Thtop," Sherlock breathed, pressing close with one silver-spiked step.

He could have said more, done more, but Sherlock did neither. Instead he held John's gaze and he waited.

Look at me my love. Deduce me.

Sherlock didn't say it. Sherlock's never said it. Maybe never will. But with bare shoulders pulled back, naked legs spread, and a light-eyed, lingering gaze Sherlock's entire beautiful body begged it.

John's not Sherlock. They're soul mates, yes, of like mind in dozens of things, but he's emphatically not Sherlock. Because most of the time John has to work for this, he's got to dig for his deductions.

Sure, he can read his lover's desire in a stuttered word, ascertain Sherlock's pique with one press of those pretty lips, but with some things, like how Sherlock needs and wants and yearns to be beaten… Well generally speaking John Watson fucking needs speaking.

Tell me.

Looking up at Sherlock—the height difference was slowly working its confusing, sexy magic again—John could have simply said that. He didn't. He wouldn't. Because experiment or not (and John's got no clue if this was still a study in kinks or if it was now something else entirely) sometimes John wants to prove himself to himself.

See what you see, John Watson. Open your eyes and look.

Okay then. John needed something to see. "Get the riding crop."

Sherlock gazed down at John. Then Sherlock did something he's never done before but will do again because John's about to learn he loves it, he damn well adores it.

The tall man wearing the five inch heels—yeah, the pretty black-and-red heels with the silver, gem-eyed snake on them?—he bent at the waist until his pretty arse was sticking out, cocked one knee, and with those big hands clasped behind his back he presented his mouth for a kiss.

And there it is. There it fucking is. Why, maybe, just maybe, the height thing is, well, the height thing.

Here was a big man, a strong man, lowering himself down, making himself small…for his small man.

John literally shook his head to clear it from the primal sounds rattling around in there—guh! hnnng! and things similar—and he took hold of that sharp-featured face with both hands and kissed the waiting mouth carefully.

And then the man whom his sweetheart calls tiny tyrant brushed his lips soft against his lover's and said, "Get. The. Riding. Crop."

With a grin that can only be called saucy, Sherlock stood tall. With a motion that can only be called strutting, he swayed those hips on his way to the wardrobe—wherein hangs the riding crop—and then he did not go to there.

Aware that he'd be followed, knowing he had no intention of being anything short of fucked into the floor very soon, Sherlock turned and headed toward the sitting room.

And he worked it. Oh god how he worked it.

Shoulders back again, head high, the curve in his lower back making his arse stick out so far it constituted a traffic violation, or an object you could see from space, or, or, or…John stopped trying to think of things like this because it was distracting him from this, and this was a stiletto-heeled saunter, a sway of broad hips, legs that really were not that long but which created their own optical illusion and seemed to go on for strong, lightly-muscled miles and though Sherlock was not on hands and knees, and he was not spread-legged and begging, and John's cock was not sliding slow up that sweet, beautiful arse…well John was breathing as if right now they were doing all that and more.

John grunted. Good god, it didn't take much of an experiment to conclude that yes, yes, a thousand times yes, heels plus lisp plus riding crop, all with the bonus of that peacock strut, and yes indeed you can and will half near kill John Watson damn well dead. Easy peasy.

About the time the good doctor was pretty sure he was ready to tackle his one true love to the hardwoods, Sherlock stood in front of the sitting room bookshelf on which sat the telly, dusty, smudged, and dark.

A fleeting grin lit John's face, there and gone. He should have known Sherlock would know. Yet if there was one place in the entire flat John believed Sherlock would take active pride in pretending to ignore, it was anywhere remotely near the television.

Sherlock glanced at his lover—a fine effort, my domineering darling—and extracted from behind that telly a riding crop.

My, my but it was a pretty thing.

"Bespoke," Sherlock softly said.

He looked up at his bare-chested love, half-undone trousers hanging low on his hips. "It's a little shorter than usual, meant no doubt for your smaller stature." He brushed fingertips along the royal-blue body of the crop, gaze sliding slow up to the black sterling silver handle. His mouth quirked up. "Black. And blue."

John hummed. "What else?"

Sherlock fingered the handle of the crop then the tongue, but his answer wasn't in words. Instead he handed the whip to John and began to sink to his knees.

"No."

Sherlock instantly stopped moving. Then he frowned, always a touch irked when his body bypassed his brain and instinctually obeyed John's commands. He waited.

John gestured toward the kitchen with his chin. "Chair."

Sherlock lofted a brow. Then he smiled, always more than a touched pleased when John insisted on surprising him. He waited.

"Now."

Sherlock grunted, a low sound, dark as shadow. I let you do this to me, that hungry sound said. I'll always let you. Then the tall man stepped around the small one, and there it was again: The exceedingly insolent, wholly riveting, completely cock-hardening cat walk.

That saucy stride went on for a hundred years, or a dozen feet, whichever's longer and leads to more doctorly tooth-clenching and pre-come.

Once in the kitchen Sherlock tugged a chair close with the toe of his stiletto and slowly sat facing John.

The good doctor took a step, one single god damned step, and about then Sherlock planted one silver-heeled foot in front of the left chair leg, and the other in front of the right chair leg…his own spread wide.

Look, John's just going to blame his buckling knee on the psychosomatic limp, okay? The one in the other leg.

But Sherlock wasn't done laying the army doctor low. Lifting his chin, he reached behind him and wrapped long fingers around the cool metal of the chair back. Legs, ankles, arms—Sherlock had now tied himself to that chair with…nothing.

Maybe it was a grunt, maybe a groan, whatever it was, the sound suddenly coming from the good doctor was one of admiration, frustration, and most certainly desire. Closing the distance between them—stride quite sturdy this time—he roughly lifted Sherlock's chin, kissed his lover's open mouth.

"Tell me," he growled, teeth biting soft at lips and pale cheeks.

The pulse in Sherlock's neck fluttered fast, he leaned into his lover. "Mmmmmake me," he moaned.

And there it was again, tables turned in an instant, because these two know no other way.

John laughed low, continued nipping at the sweet-salty skin of the one damn kink he knew he really had, all six bare feet of it. "This time…" he breathed, "…this time I'm going to make you watch."

Sherlock's head tipped back, eyes half closed. "Yethh," he slurred, suddenly something very like drunk. He tried to say it again but John had already stepped away, just a foot or two, but more than enough so that Sherlock could clearly see each motion, while his lover beat him.

Hand loosening on black silver…fingers going slack then firm…tongue sliding over lips…chest filling with a deep breath…a dark blue gaze searching, waiting, until one of rare grey met his, and with a grunt John swung.

And in that flickering instant between not knowing and knowing where the crop would strike, Sherlock closed his eyes.

And oh how the pain sang.

The sweet agony centered at that delicate flesh where the waist dips just before curving into hip, its voice sharp and high where the crop's tongue snapped against skin, deep and low where muscle already pooled blood in preparation to bruise.

Like Sherlock, John doesn't get off on the pain; like his lover he's learned to love what comes after. And for John it was the sound of a bright spiked heel stuttering against a metal chair leg as Sherlock struggled to keep himself bound, it was the high keening that was half begging, half relief, one hundred percent demand for—

"More."

John watched the pulse in his sweetheart's neck flutter fast, listened to him moan his need. And switching the crop from one hand to the other…he made his lover wait. Because he knew Sherlock needed that most of all.

When John heard again the tiny click of a metal heel against chair leg he struck again.

Centered now in the muscled swell of Sherlock's shoulder, the pain's voice was duller, the anatomy here less refined. But oh how the one stinging note lingered, going deep into bone and tendon, making him shake.

Sherlock was breathless and already begging again, just a wordless noise, his body rocking forward—but only as far as his 'bonds' would let him—then the third strike came.

Turning away instinctually, eyes clamped closed, it took Sherlock's brain three long seconds to realize the crop's momentum had halted and its tongue merely rested against his cheek.

"Oh. Oh. Oh."

God how had he not known that just the expectation of pain would set nerve endings on fire?

"More," said John Watson, stroking Sherlock's cheek and neck with the tongue of the crop, then swiping it softly across full lips.

"Pleath…" Sherlock said, sighed, and it was as much a command as any order Captain John Watson had ever given.

Then Sherlock opened his mouth.

Because another way this crop differed from others was at the business end. The tongue was no longer than usual, but it was noticeably broader, precisely as wide, it turns out, as a man's mouth.

This man's mouth.

Pleased, of course he was pleased Sherlock saw, Sherlock knew. He showed his satisfaction with another swipe across his sweetheart's mouth, laughed when his lover hissed as the crop remained in motion, dancing, brushing, sweeping across chin, neck, bruised shoulder—the sound from Sherlock as John lightly pressed? As sweet as the mew of a kitten—nipples, belly, and then there, right there, at the dripping slit of Sherlock's cock.

Spellbound and silent, they both watched John drag the tongue of the riding crop through the pre-come glistening a pretty trail down Sherlock's cock, then each flinched when, with a lazy flick of the wrist, the good doctor brought the crop up and quite tenderly pushed the wet tongue of it into Sherlock's waiting mouth.

You'd be hard pressed to say whose moan was more lavish, but it was quite clear who was more oral. Sherlock sucked, Sherlock lapped, Sherlock bit down hard and shook his head and in that chair to which he was and was not bound Sherlock started pumping his hips, and is it pre-come if there's so much of it it might as well be come?

Well that can be a discussion for another time. Right now John was busy tugging lube out a back pocket, pushing low-slung trousers down, pants too, and stepping free of both, while stepping close to his oh-so-ready love.

Speaking of which…

"I love you," John breathed, tugging the riding crop from Sherlock's greedy mouth, then waiting a deliciously weak-kneed moment before pushing the dark metal handle between his lover's lips.

Sherlock leaned forward with a groan, taking in every inch.

Because the final difference between this crop and any other? Its black sterling silver handle—now as hot as skin and pressed right up against the back of Sherlock's throat—was exactly as long as a certain ex-army doctor was now.

Though that was soon to change.

While his avid lover fellated that pretty crop, John sloppily slicked up their cocks—again, it'd be difficult to tell whose moan was more grand—and then the good doctor climbed on and after a few heart-pounding fumbles helped Sherlock sink in deep.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Yes, yes, yes.

Two brains, one desperate, profane litany.

At first John did what Sherlock so often does—almost nothing. He barely moved, rocking so slowly that each man was sure he could hear the rush of blood in the other's ears.

He would have gone on this way awhile—that plush mouth sucking on the crop bordered on the god damned hypnotic—but to everyone's surprise, Sherlock could. not. stand. it. anymore.

Tossing his head, he pulled his mouth free. "Touch me," he commanded, "now," he begged, and to which request John responded Sherlock didn't know, but that pretty crop slid to the floor, John wrapped his arms around his lover's neck, leaned back, and whispered, "Hold tight."

And finally the man who was never fettered freed himself, gripped his lover's waist, and together they began to move.

A cock in the arse is many things: Fan-fucking-tastic, for both cock and arse. It's also a divine way to chase down an orgasm if yours is the cock, and a rather marvelous way to torture yourself half-to-death if yours is the arse. It is also, if you're John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, a pretty stellar way to get really loud.

It wasn't just the yelling, though there was plenty of that. Sherlock, head tilted back, opened his mouth and just let loose lyrical waves of noise, first nonsensical sounds high and breathy and desperate, then purrs and growls all low…and still desperate. But John, who's usually nowhere near as vocal as his lover, hell in a handbasket he was candid—"Oh god, fucking god, dear god"—zealous—"Yes, yes, yes"—and emphatic—"harder, Sherlock, please."

So yes, there was lots of yelling, but there was also the small delicious matter of the chair back banging against the table as the boys banged each other. While the sound did exactly nothing for Sherlock, to John every sweet slam of chair against wood was like some sort of aural exclamation, perfectly punctuating every one of Sherlock's thrusts and moans.

By the time his lover bellowed something in either French or Pig Latin, arms shaking as the orgasm blazed through, John was so caught up in the damned symphony of sound he was possibly hallucinatory, drunk, or three seconds from coming, too.

The veracity of this supposition was proven almost true when Sherlock dropped a hand between John's legs, took hold of his lover's cock and, while he continued to thrust and moan and ride that orgasm into the ground, started jerking John off.

It wasn't until Sherlock shifted, planting each stiletto-clad foot more firmly, heels clicking against hardwoods, that John howled, coming all over Sherlock's hand, his belly, and, somehow, they learned later, both of Sherlock's shoes.

And that? That is how you take out one John H. Watson. Easy fucking peasy.

Did you need a reminder about the, the, the, glorious shooooes? Well go to my Tumblr or Google, and either place search for "Gianmarco Lorenzi Swarovski stilettos red." You are welcome.

MORE! I'm no longer publishing on FFnet as they don't want NC-17 content, so please come to atlinmerrick dot livejournal dot com if you'd like to read more, or Tumblr or Twitter, and eventually everything will be on AO3 eventually. Please follow!