Later that night, amidst the sweaty, rumpled bedsheets of the cheap motel, Indiana stirred and rose. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and rummaged amongst the clothing that had been so carelessly scattered across the floor during their night of passion.

Poirot sleepily fumbled on the bedside table for his hat and leather gloves. Once thus attired, he blinked, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and tried to focus on the object of his desire.

Indiana, a dim shape silhouetted in the light from the bathroom, stepped closer and with a sigh began to unfurl his whip.
"Darling, you can't be serious", protested the Belgian supersleuth. "my buttocks are still red raw!"
"Deadly serious, sweetcheeks", growled the hunky archeologist, licking his lips and moving closer with a glint in his eye. "This is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you ..."

Then he pulled him on, like a well worn wellington boot?