After The Fall, Lestrade gets fired/demoted, so he has more free time on his hands and is in need of money.

One of his kinky friends talks him into working as a professional dom.

He's very good at it.

(maybe a five times fic, with male and female clients?)

FILL FOR SHERLOCK KINK MEME :D

Warnings: sex. Slash. More sex.. he's a dominatrix! ^_^ kinky things and s/m (:

Part 1/5: John

When John slips him a note one day down at the Yard, Greg is mildly shocked to discover he's hardly surprised. Not only that word had spread of his new part-time profession (a necessity that came with recent events), Greg unexpectedly discovered that he was somewhat expecting that, should it become known, John would approach him. This job has taught him more than he could have imagined. Yes, it is profitable and yes, he seems to be rather good at it… but perhaps it is the investigator in him that cannot help but try to understand those who do come to receive his services.

John, he understands. John is a military man, accustomed to command and ranking and hierarchy. He is at home amongst leathers and straps, so as Greg ties him down to the specially designed bed, it is unsurprising that John is sedate and willing. And aroused as hell.

But Greg is much more clever than this. He may not be a Holmes brother, but over the years he has learnt a thing or two about reading people. So he knows that teasing John to the point where despite his training and submission, his body rebels against him and lurches against the restraints, this is not enough. It's not what he really needs. John needs authority. He needs limits. But he also needs to be commanded and John yearns to be abused.

It's when he's kneeling on the concrete, knees scraped and bleeding, his mouth being fucked mercilessly by Greg, not given a chance to breath or protest, his hair tugged back by two hands, fingers pulling at his scalp and thrusting him, choking him, his lips burning with the friction- that is when John feels complete.

Part 2/5: Sherlock

He might have known who it was from the beginning of the phone call: an untraceable line, a carefully electronically modified voice, no distinguishing word choice or background noises, there were only a few people, even from those who would be calling this line, who would go to such measures.

He could have guessed who it was from the instructions he received, which came with an intimate knowledge of exactly what equipment and furniture Greg had at his disposal; no lights on, no touching above the shoulders, no talking, the surgical table, metal handcuffs, one woollen jumper- he'll bring his own riding crop.

He should have assumed who it is from the contours of his soft back, fingers digging into the lean, rippling muscles as the stranger's wrists [long, slender, as fair as his could tell without seeing them] strained audibly against the government-issue handcuffs with the intelligence of someone who knew their strength, not enough to do permanent damage, but enough to put on a show of resistance, enough to challenge Greg's control and earn the sensation of stinging nails running, marking, slicing along either side of his spine.

But when, at the height of his climax, the stranger drops his guard for just one moment and, in the humming silence of the pitch black room, exhales softly into the cold air with a name on his lips- 'John...'; Greg knows precisely who it is.

Part 3/5: Anderson

"A dinosaur costume?"

"Yes. Can you do that?"

"But a dinosaur costume!"

"Good god man, you're a dominatrix and paid, its not your pleasure I'm paying $500 for! So?"

"Well I dare say its the most unconventional… I mean, technically, yes.. yes I could, but-"

"How tall are you? I'll bring it myself. Easier that way."

"One meter eighty- hold on. You have more than one size?"

"No questions. Just remember who's paying here…"

"Fine, fine, dinosaur costume it is then!

"And not one word to anyone at the Yard. Not a peep."

"I am a professional Anderson! Now.. any other requests that I should know of?"

"Tell me Lestrade.. have you ever danced to ABBA before?"

Part 4/5: Jim

When he wakes the next morning, Greg knows immediately he was drugged last night. The haze settling over his brain has clouded out everything from when he left his car- but as he lies down swiftly, focusing completely on remembering, he can pull small images from the dark recesses of his mind.

There is firstly the smell. It's something of expensive cologne mixed with the heavy scent of masculinity and power. His room reeks of it, the stench fills every crack and corner. Then he remembers the smell and a pair of lips, pressing down upon his, too hard and too forceful [that should be his job, not the customer], a pair of lips muttering 'Please won't you fix it for me', showing Greg how to by example; laughing madly when there was nothing funny.

He remembers one hand. Surely the other was there, or he would remember it's absence, but as it is, he only remembers the single hand. He remembers it around his neck, as its owner rode above him, meeting every buck and roll of his traitor body, he remembers the hand, too small too fit all the way, clever enough to make him very scared.

There was also a tie. It was hardly used as a tie; it was a lasso, then a whip, then a belt, a gag, wrist-cuffs, ankle-cuffs.. but at the very end, when he tied it around his neck with a knowledge of tie tying that belonged to a much older man [so clearly there were two hands], and strode off, leaving Greg naked, spent and drifting off upon his bed, there was something about that tie, the suit and his intimidatingly coy walk that seemed terrifyingly familiar.

But then his phone buzzes for attention on the table next to him and those last vestiges of memories give in and slip away. And once more, the world forgets.

Part 5/5: Mycroft

It was just a one-off professional business transaction.

Discrete, effective, trusting and settled.

Just because he called again does not make it anything more.

Just because he never stopped calling does not mean it has stopped being professional.

Moving their appointments to his office seemed only logical, considering the extreme work hours and the urgency with which he was required, neither disagreed with this.

Moving their appointments to his house seemed only fair, considering this was the fourth time they'd been interrupted and not noticed for a good minute, neither disagreed with this.

So what if he remembered when it was Greg's birthday? When you know someone long enough, regardless of the connection, it is an event to be celebrated.

So what if he never had time for other customers? He was paid handomsly here, despite the fact he'd long forgotten to check his account, his nights were largely tied up [literally] with work, but he had already forgotten this was his job.

It was just like any other professional business transaction.

Love just made it easier.