And this is how you remind me of what I really am…
Snap. The riding crop whistles through the air, striking skin with a snap that elicits a breath-taking moan. Snap. Another strike; another high-pitched noise that is a mix of pain and pleasure. Angry red lines form as quickly as the leather strikes.
"I thought I told you to count," comes the dangerously low whisper in his ear, like silk. The leather loop is brushed tenderly across the irritated skin of his bum. "What number are we on, dear?"
"F-four."
"Good. Then we'll add four extra."
"Yes, sir."
Snap. It starts again. Another moan.
"Five," comes the breathless response.
It's not like you didn't know that; I said I love you, and I swear I still do. And it must have been so bad; cause living with me must have damn near killed you…
It seems a little sick, but Sherlock longs for the moments when John Watson consumes him. Spends his days waiting for the nights. Yearns, a fierce hunger in his heart, for the breathtaking power that John holds over him to be exercised.
It started when he came home. When John punched him in the face and screamed that he loved him how dare he how could he did he know what he'd done? He was so tragically, completely, immeasurably, beautifully angry, and if that wasn't an indicator that something strange had stirred within John then Sherlock was blind as a bat.
Because after he punched Sherlock, John kissed him. He kissed him, hard and deep and fierce, and it was all eagerness and teeth and tongue and Sherlock's lips were incredibly swollen, but God was it worth it. It was worth what followed.
The bite marks all over his neck, the dark markings proof that John Watson hated Sherlock Holmes just as much as he loved him; that Sherlock belonged to him, God dammit, and that was the most beautiful thing he could ever think of. The bruises on his hipbones. The red marks on his wrist from John's steel-tight grip on them as he held Sherlock's hands above his head, pinned against the wall, while he ravaged his mouth.
And now look at him.
Punished for his sins by the only one he holds high enough to do it. On his knees, trembling, waiting with eager anticipation and a burning desire for whatever is about to follow in these next few moments.
Or hours. Or even days. He could do this forever.
"Look at you," John says in his safest voice as he circles Sherlock, who is kneeling on the floor by his bed, hands tied behind his back. "Look at you down there, waiting for me. Waiting for me to punish you."
He stops directly in front of him, and leans down. He grabs Sherlock's chin and tilts his head so their eyes meet. He has a beautifully merciless smile on his face.
"Because you need punishing, don't you?"
"Yes, sir," he says softly, his voice firm. He learned to control the trembling long ago.
"Do you know why you need punishing, Sherlock?" He pauses for a moment and leans in close. "Because you left me," he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of Sherlock's ear. "You left me, like a naughty boy. That made me very angry, Sherlock."
He swallows, the anticipation filling him to the brim.
"But I have just the solution. Because you're here now, so you can make me happy. Do you like making me happy?"
"Yes, sir." He's never meant it more.
"Good."
John stands up then, swiftly. Sherlock's eyes watch him as he straightens himself out, a small smile on his face. He reaches forward and gently touches Sherlock's face before undoing his trousers.
And there it is. He already has an erection, and as he takes it in hand and releases it from the trappings of his clothing, Sherlock's mouth fills with saliva. His own erection, which was already thriving before, is now straining forward as if desperate. John gives a small, clipped laugh at the sight of Sherlock's discomfort.
"Look at you. Hungry for my cock, are you?"
"Y-yes, sir." There's no stopping the needy tremble in his voice.
John grins, slowly stroking himself.
"Beg for it. Make me want to give it to you. Beg for it like a whore."
"Please, sir," Sherlock says, his heart racing and his cock throbbing. "Please, sir, I want your cock. I need it. I'll do anything you ask, sir, please. I'll be so good for you."
He raises an eyebrow. "Anything?"
"Anything, sir."
He swipes a finger across the gently leaking head of his erection and steps forward, softly touching his glistening finger to Sherlock's parted lips. He swipes the finger down.
"Lick."
Sherlock obeys immediately, his mouth opening and his tongue darting out two glide across John's finger. He licks at it like it's an ice lolly in danger of melting.
"Such a little slut. Look at how eager you are for me."
John steps back and walks over to the dresser, where the riding crop rests across its top. He smiles as he walks back over, holding it with authority in his hands. He walks and then stops right in front of Sherlock once again. Sherlock looks up, waiting. John lightly drags the leather tip across Sherlock's bare skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake.
And then… snap. Sherlock gasps as the crop strikes him across his chest. The sting is sudden and sharp and breathtaking.
"One."
"What a good boy you are- counting without being asked," John says lightly. "How sweet of you to save me the trouble." He gives a small smile and places the tip of the crop under Sherlock's chin. "Now get up."
He stands immediately, the sting on his chest fading. John looks over him once. He shivers under that look. That look says everything.
Suddenly, John's at his ear again. One hand runs the crop down his back, making him shiver- and the other cups his chin from behind.
"Bend over the bed, darling."
He simply stands there for a moment, trying to collect himself. But he stands still a moment too long- the next thing he knows, John is forcefully shoving him forward. He falls forward and adjusts his head to breathe, just as he feels a burst of pain across his arse. The crop comes down hard, and he lets out a startled cry.
"T-two!" He says in a shaky voice, remembering to count.
"Quick learner, you are," John says from behind him.
Another hit; the sting is a tad sharper, but at least expected. Sherlock gasps.
"Three."
By the fifth one, he's moaning, and the hits are harder. His arse is burning, but the pleasure is mixing with the pain and the lines are starting to blur.
"Ten," he moans out as the strike hits him.
"Do you like it when I hit you, whore? Hmm?" John growls.
"Yes, sir. I like it, sir."
Suddenly, John's hands are on him; one on his stomach and one forcefully gripping his chin. He meets John's eyes as best as he can from this angle, and sees that beautiful anger and possession. It lights him up; all Sherlock wants- no, needs- in this moment is to be taken by him. Something. Anything. He's desperate.
"P-please, sir…" He chokes out.
John raises an eyebrow.
"Please what?"
"Please… please take me, sir."
He laughs. It's a low, throaty chuckle, and it sounds like sex and danger and beautiful things that make Sherlock's cock throb and his heart race.
"Well… Good boys do get rewards."
Hope seizes him, and he's on the edge of releasing a sigh of relief… until John speaks again.
"But you're not a very good boy. You're being nice and polite, but we both know how bad you are, Sherlock." He gives him a hard look. "But, since you are following the rules, perhaps I do have something for you."
He releases Sherlock and backs away, before he starts stripping himself. Sherlock watches as John removes his clothing, taking his time with it. He's being teasing and he knows it, and from the smile on his face, he's enjoying it, as well. It takes an obscene amount of time for him to fully undress, and Sherlock can hardly stand the tension.
"On the bed. Now."
Sherlock complies without hesitation, getting on the bed, which is no easy task, considering his hands are still restrained behind his back. But he tries to be as graceful as possible, and manages well enough. He waits, as patiently as he can, while John finally removes the rest of his clothing.
He walks over and settles on the bed, resting on the pillows. He spreads his legs and stretches out, and in that moment he is like a feast laid out before a starving man for the desperation Sherlock feels clawing at his insides.
"Come here, whore."
Sherlock scoots closer shuffling on his knees until he's between John's legs. John gives a small smile before cupping his chin.
There is no warning before his head is shoved down, John's cock in his face. But despite his overwhelming urge to immediately bring it to his mouth, he waits. Apparently, however, he shouldn't have; the crop comes down across back and his hair is harshly yanked, jerking his head up.
"Is there a problem?" John growls.
"No, sir."
"Then suck, you ungrateful slut."
His head is shoved back down, and Sherlock immediately obeys, taking the head of John's cock into his mouth. He lets out a soft moan as he does so, and promptly feels John's hand tighten in his hair. He runs his tongue across the edge of it, slowly, teasingly, hoping to make John feel a fraction of the desperation that he does.
Sherlock traces the tip of his tongue along the edge of the head before licking the already leaking slit. John moans above him, and he smiles as he slowly starts taking him further into his mouth. He runs his tongue along the length of the shaft, taking his time before giving a hard suck. There's a strangled moan from John, and suddenly he's pushing his cock in deeper, until Sherlock's mouth is full.
He swallows around it, and John yanks his hair, both of them moaning in unison. He takes as much as he can, trying his damndest not to gag. That could end badly, and even so, Sherlock is enjoying himself too much to want to quit. And from the sounds John is making, there's no room for disappointment.
After a few hard sucks, John groans loudly, pulling Sherlock's hair hard enough to yank a few strands out. Sherlock gasps, and John comes down his throat, all hot and salty and thrusts into Sherlock's mouth as he comes, gagging him, but doesn't stop until he's done. He finally slows down and slowly pulls out.
Sherlock looks down and takes deep, ragged breaths, his face flushed and his cock so hard it aches. He hears and feels John shifting, but doesn't look up. After a moment, however, he feels a hand in his hair, yanking his head up.
A hard kiss is pressed to Sherlock's mouth, demanding and bordering on violent. He responds to it instantly, not fighting too hard, but not being entirely complacent, either. John notices this and yanks his head back again, his eyes dark. Sherlock's cock throbs and his breathing stutters for a moment. John breaks the kiss, and he's just as breathless as Sherlock. He is the perfect vision of sex- his hair is mussed, his pupils blown wide, lips swollen and parted around ragged breaths. It's beautiful.
"Please, sir," Sherlock whispers in a hoarse voice.
John simply raises an eyebrow. "Please, what?"
"Please let me come, sir."
John places a hand on Sherlock's face, the gentlest thing he's done so far. But that look has most certainly not left his eyes. There's more. The anticipation makes Sherlock tremble.
"Of course, pet," he says softly. "You've been such a good boy, after all…"
Sherlock strains forward, the desperation clawing at him. John pushes him back down, and gives him a stern look. He immediately goes still.
"I've got something for you," John says with a grin. "Arse up, slut. You want to come? We'll do it my way."
"Yes, sir." He's breathless and so aroused, and he lays forward, his hands still behind his back and his arse in the air.
"Oh, would you look at that." John's whisper is reverent. "Look at my pretty little slut, putting his arse out for me. Begging me to fuck him."
There is a pointed silence, and Sherlock takes the hint, because he can't take the strain anymore.
"Please, sir. I want you to fuck me, please. I want to come so badly, sir, I need to come. Would you make me come, sir? Please, sir, oh please." He practically sobs with want.
"That's better."
There's shuffling. Sherlock closes his eyes and waits, breathing. He feels so exposed, his legs spread and his arse out, his hands tied together behind his back. His heart thrums at a violent pace in his chest. It's beautiful.
He feels the bed shift again as John joins him once more. He feels more adjusting, and suddenly, his hair is being yanked again.
"You'd better get this nice and wet, because this'll be all you're getting," John says.
Before Sherlock has the time to wonder, a vibrator is shoved into his mouth. He nearly chokes from surprise, but manages to compose himself long enough to get to work. He slathers it with his saliva as best as he can (which isn't that hard, really), and waits for John to take it from him.
After a moment, he does just that, pulling the vibrator out of Sherlock's mouth. He goes back to the end of the bed, and Sherlock is breathless with anticipation.
He makes an unholy noise as John's finger pushes into him, causing him to shudder. He uses immense strength to resist pushing back into it, and John takes his time going in, knowing exactly what he's doing. He slowly works Sherlock open, being slow enough to make it teasing, despite the fact that he's actively working a finger inside of him.
Sherlock makes a breathy noise as John applies a second finger and continues his work. It's almost too much for him to handle, but he manages to keep silent and mostly still. He knows if he makes a wrong move he gets nothing. So he waits.
When he's sufficiently stretched and gagging for it, John finally relents. Sherlock can't suppress a strangled moan as the vibrator is slid into him. He closes his eyes and whimpers softly as John turns it on. The setting is low, though, and not nearly enough- and suddenly, Sherlock knows exactly what he's going to do. So, he tries to bear the tortuous feeling of the vibrator. It's enough to keep him wanting desperately, but nowhere near enough to sate him. Of course, John is more than aware of this.
Once he gets Sherlock settled, he gets up and leaves the room. Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes, trying not to let the desperation get to him. He hears the vibrator humming, and John running the tap in the bathroom. He breathes. In, out. In, out. There's no such thing as relaxing while he feels as tightly wound as a string on his violin.
John comes back after a moment, his eyes sweeping over Sherlock. A small, satisfied smile sweeps across his mouth, and he approaches the bed and touches a hand to Sherlock, running hsi down his spine.
"What a lovely sight you are," he says in a low voice. "So patient and pretty, waiting for me. What a good, devoted boy you are."
Sherlock preens under the praise, despite the situation he's in. John's compliments are always accepted- especially in these moments.
John goes and slides on his dressing gown, tying it about his waist. He looks at Sherlock.
"I'm going to have some tea and read the paper," he says. "I think I'll have you join me." He quickly unties Sherlock's wrists.
Sherlock stands carefully, the vibrator still humming away inside him, and follows John out of the bedroom and into the sitting room. He waits by John's chair. He watches as John goes about the kitchen, casually making himself some tea while Sherlock stands naked and vibrating just meters away from him. Once his tea is made, he brings his mug and copy of the newspaper, and settles in his chair.
He sets the tea and paper on the table beside him. "Turn around."
Sherlock complies.
"Hands behind your back." Once Sherlock's hands are moved, he ties his wrists again. "On your knees, pet."
Sherlock does as he is told, falling back to his knees in front of John. John gives a small smile, and pets his head. This is the invitation Sherlock is waiting for. He scoots closer and lays his head in John's lap, almost like a dog. John picks up the paper and begins to read, sipping his tea, and occasionally petting Sherlock's curls.
This goes on for an hour. By the time John's mug is drained and he's read all of his favourite sections, Sherlock is trembling. His head is buried in John's lap, and the occasional whimper escapes him, but he is trying very hard to keep composed. John folds the paper and sets it aside.
"Look at me."
Sherlock lifts his head, looking at John's face. It is mostly expressionless, but Sherlock can read him like a book, and he knows that John is just as ready as he is.
He touches a finger to Sherlock's lips, a small smile on his face.
"I think I want to fuck you now," he whispers.
Sherlock is definitely trembling. His cock is positively aching, and he doesn't know how much more he can take before something happens or he loses it.
"Please fuck me, sir," he says. Perhaps it's a risk, speaking out of turn, but John doesn't seem to mind the little deviation.
"Mmm. I think I will, pet," he says softly, a grin spreading across his face. "But not here. Don't want to make a mess on the carpet."
He smirks and pulls Sherlock up before having him walk forward. Every step increases the deep-seated ache within him. They go into the bedroom. John circles him like a shark, eyes dark and face set. Sherlock is relishing every second of this. He can feel the possessiveness coming off of John like a cologne, and it sets a fire within him. The anticipation is driving him wild.
John gives him the smallest of smiles before he stops. He looks at Sherlock, and he knows something is about to happen, though he's unsure what.
"I have something for you," John says in that low voice. "Close your eyes."
He lets his eyes fall closed without hesitation. He hears John walking- he goes towards the dresser. He slides open the third drawer. Moves some clothing out of the way. Whatever it is, it's buried. He was hiding it, then. After some more shuffling, he's in front of Sherlock again, feet planted firmly. His heart drums at a wild pace in his chest.
"Open your eyes." His voice is hushed.
Sherlock opens his eyes slowly, the curiosity eating him alive. But his curiosity is instantly satisfied when he sees what John hold in his hands.
The collar is plain black. It's thick, made of leather, with little detail. Silver thread holds it where the stitches need to be, and a silver loop and buckle dominates the front. It's clean and simple, all the while still managing to make a statement. Because it is very much noticeable. Despite its lack of decoration, there is nothing shy about it. Its meaning is clear. Sherlock shivers at the sight.
"Do you like it, pet?" John asks.
"Yes, sir," Sherlock says.
For some reason, he finds emotion welling up within him. He pushes it away and focuses on something else, like just how much he needs John to fuck him right now. That does the trick.
John steps closer, and wraps the collar around Sherlock's neck before buckling it on. It's tight enough to stay, but not too tight. It sits heavily on his neck, reminding him of why it's there. It's brilliant.
"You look so lovely, pet," John whispers. "Look at you. Now you really look like you're properly mine." He hums in satisfaction as he touches the collar before trailing his fingers down Sherlock's chest. He lingers over his stuttering heartbeat, and smiles. "I got something else, too," he says.
Suddenly, he's clipping a long matching leather leash to the collar, weighing it down. Sherlock is overwhelmed with just how possessive this gesture is. The sparks are flying again, the flames climbing higher. He's never needed John to take him more before.
John leads him by the leash to the bed. The vibrator keeps humming away, and he's so uncomfortable and aching and emotional that it's almost too much.
"On the bed."
Sherlock complies, trying to be as graceful as possible as he climbs onto the bed. He's on his knees, facing the headboard. He watches in rapture as John proceeds to tie the leash to the bed-frame. He's overwhelmed with desire.
"Arse up, slut. Let's see how much your slutty hole is ready for my cock."
Sherlock leans forward, adjusting so the leash and collar don't choke him as he spreads his legs and puts his arse out with a moan. The bed moves as John's weight is added- a glance at the floor confirms that his dressing gown has been shed.
Before his thoughts wander too far off course, the vibrator is removed. He gasps at the rush of air and whines softly at the loss.
"You're gaping," John says. "Look at you. Even your hole is gagging for my cock. My, my. What a slutty little pet I have." He chuckles at the sound of Sherlock's desperation. "Tell you what. I'll end your misery. Would you like daddy to fuck you, pet?"
"Yes," Sherlock gasps. "Please, sir. Please."
"I'll take pity on you today."
There's some noise and adjustments, and Sherlock is so hard and desperate he can hardly breathe. And then… then. Oh. He feels the head of John's cock nudging at his opening. It takes everything within him not to push back onto it.
His patience is rewarded as John finally, finally, finally pushes into him. He can't help himself- he cries out. John chuckles, and suddenly his hands are in Sherlock's hair. He pulls his head up by his curls, and starts thrusting. A truly embarrassing sound escapes Sherlock's mouth, and his eyes close. John starts out slow, trying to find a rhythm, before picking up the pace.
Eventually, he's down to the hilt, and Sherlock is so full. He moans at the sensation- even just the feeling of John inside of him is almost too much. And then he starts really thrusting, snapping his hips forward and driving himself into Sherlock with the force they both crave. Sherlock's eyes are fluttering and his mouth is stuck open in a heart-shaped o, a stream of obscene and almost animal noises escaping from it.
The bed rocks beneath them. The collar tugs on Sherlock's neck, and it's a lovely sensation. John's hips slap against him as he thrusts, his own groans almost drowned out by the noise Sherlock is making.
"Might need a gag for you next time," John grunts as Sherlock keens after a particularly hard thrust. "Don't want to disturb the neighbors."
John's words are hardly heard through the barrage of sensation, though Sherlock somehow manages to focus long enough to catch the implications of a gag. The idea is a good one.
His thoughts don't linger there for long, however. John's thrusts are getting harder, and as he adjusts his angle, he hits Sherlock's prostate in a straight shot. A high-pitched cry escapes him, and a shockwave of pleasure runs through him.
"Oh, God," he chokes out.
"Ooh. Looks like I hit the spot, hm?" John grunts.
He thrusts harder, his aim perfect. He hits it again and again and again- Sherlock is practically sobbing with pleasure, his whole body trembling. He can't stop the noises that manage to escape his mouth. His cock is leaking steadily, and he feels like he's on the edge of a free fall.
"I-" he chokes out, just before his orgasm slams into him with incredible force.
A strangled, high-pitched sound leaves his throat as he comes, covering the bed with his ejaculate as he spurts, shuddering hard. Tears leak from his eyes at the force. His vision goes white for a moment, and he's blinded by the intensity. He cries out as John continues to thrust, moaning. He can tell by the urgency of his thrusts that he's close.
He's right- a few hard thrusts later, and John cries out hoarsely as he reaches his climax. He rides it out, staying inside Sherlock for a moment and filling him before pulling out and letting the rest spray across his lower back. He's panting, and Sherlock can feel him trembling, as well.
Finally, John lets go of Sherlock's hair. His head falls forward, and a deep sigh escapes from between his lips. After a moment, he feels his hands being untied. John then reaches forward and unclips the leash, letting it hang. He brings Sherlock's face up, and starts kissing him deeply.
He gets up, keeping their mouths in contact, sitting up and pulling John close to him. The kiss is gentle, compared to the sex they just finished up- but it is deep and loving. John cradles Sherlock's face in his hands, and kisses his neck. One hand strokes the collar he's still wearing, and he smiles.
"You keep me right, you do," Sherlock says softly.
John smirks, that dangerous glint flashing in his eyes again.
"I know."