Sherlock couldn’t remember at that exact moment why he was at the street fair. Something to do with a case, surely. But right then, his brain was short circuiting due to the picture in front of him.
A big sign with garish theater lights illuminating a pink, heart shaped sign that bore the phrase “Spanking Booth” glowed happily and enticing customers to step up to its booth. Behind that booth stood two grinning individuals holding paddles and plying people with the promise of a spanking for charity. The woman was aesthetically pleasing, all dark hair and bright red lipstick, but it was the man that had his undivided attention. Greying blond, shining blue eyes, a smile a mile wide, and dressed in army fatigues.
Good god, almighty, Sherlock cursed inwardly, swallowing thickly.
Then the man caught him staring and the phrase “cat that got the cream” came to mind. He called out to Sherlock, “hey there, gorgeous. I can see someone who’s in the charitable mood.” He gestured with his paddle, “come on over.”
“Oh John, careful with that. Poor boy looks like he’s about to swallow his tongue,” the woman said to him, humor evident in her voice.
“Hush, Irene,” the man –John– said.
Bugger the case. There were more pressing matters at hand. Or, rather, in his trousers. As if on autopilot, Sherlock walked over to the booth, eyeing the operations with curiosity and excitement.
“What’s spanking got to do with charity,” he heard himself say harshly.
John shrugged and Irene answered. “It’s a bit more fun, than the “pie in the face” or dunking tank, don’t you think?”
Sherlock asked, “what’s the charity?”
“It’s for veterans returning from war,” John explained. “Give them a little help while they acclimate to civilian life.”
“Like yourself, then,” Sherlock blurted without thinking. John stiffened and Sherlock’s eyes went wide. Buggering shit, Sherlock swore inside his head.
John soon relaxed and asked, “what makes you think I’m still acclimating?”
Sherlock spouted off his deductions, listing the length of his hair, barely visible tan lines, the still ingrained dirt on his standard issue boots, ending with the fact that he was in fatigues and manning a booth for veterans affairs, it wasn’t a large leap to make.
John stared open mouthed at him for about ten seconds before his mouth spread into a grin. “That was extraordinary.”
Sherlock’s brain went offline for a split second. “I’m sorry?”
“Simply extraordinary.”
“You think so?”
John leaned on the booth, holding his paddle in both hands, grinning cheekily. “Now, don’t go fishing. You know that was brilliant. Why? What do people normally say when you do,” he gestured at Sherlock’s person, “that?”
“Piss off.”
They both laughed, only to be interrupted by Irene. “Okay chaps, is someone bending over the table for Queen and Country, or what?”
Sherlock blushed and John ducked his head, hiding his smile. “Who does the…that?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to the paddle.
“Depends on how much you donate, there, big boy,” she told him. “One pound earns one swat. We cap the swats at fifteen, no matter how large the donation. You get the choice of John or myself, and we’ll administer them ourselves. Donate more than fifty and you get to spank one of us,” Irene explained. “Say stop at any time, the spankings stop and your lush behind is saved for another day.”
Sherlock blinked fiercely for a moment at how matter-of-factly she spoke before daring to ask, “has anyone actually donated over fifty quid today?”
Irene’s smile turned predatory. “Why?”
Sherlock’s blush flushed deeper. “N-no reason.”
Irene laughed and went off to entice more customers to the booth. Sherlock slowly met John’s eyes, measuring the man before him. John was undeniably attractive, good humored, and confident. He was a man of action, clearly bored with his newfound civilian life. There was no way he’d have signed up for a spanking booth, otherwise, Sherlock was reasonably sure. Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock slid his hand into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. He pulled out a crisp fifty note and held it out for John to take. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s hand and drew him forward until the front of Sherlock’s body was pressed against the booth.
Then he bent forward and whispered in Sherlock’s ear, “forgive me if I seem too forward, but my shift is over in half an hour. How about we reward your donation somewhere a little more private. Say, your place?”
Sherlock shivered at John’s voice in his ear, his breath against his neck. “Yes,” he huskily answered.
John drew back and deliberately dropped Sherlock’s donation into the large jar on the table, already filled near to bursting. Then he said, “see you in thirty, gorgeous.”
Sherlock nodded, resisting the urge to adjust himself in his trousers and thanking every god listening that his Belstaff was an excellent concealer. “Thirty minutes,” he confirmed with a nod and strode off to find some peace, itching with anticipation.
He never had been very good at waiting. But he was more sure of anything else in his life that John would be worth the wait.
Beltainefaerie's Flights of Fancy 