My name is Sherlock Holmes.
No one in the world can outwit me.
No one in the world can tell me I'm wrong.
No one in the world can make me feel weak.
Though I do not let it show, this position of strength, of indomitability, is sometimes the loneliest place in which to live.
I did not realize how pained and unsatisfied I was until I met someone who taught me what it feels like to be vulnerable.
No one in the world could tame me, could humiliate me, could give me something I could not give myself.
Until I met him.
"Strip."
John does not wait for me to get far beyond the threshold of 221B before he starts commanding me. His hands are behind his back. A shudder of apprehension runs through me. That means that he's holding something, a new toy with which to play with me.
"Strip," he says, firmer this time.
"I've been bad, then?" I reply, pointedly stalling. I like making him annoyed at me. I like giving him reasons to punish me.
No one else can.
His right hand shoots out from behind his back and the riding crop smacks the armchair sharply. He lets the sound reverberate in the air, a promise of things to come.
"In the bedroom, then?"
"Right here." The crop gestures to the living room floor, by the coffee table. I note that the curtains are purposely left open, so that anyone who chooses to look up from the street will be able to see me. "Now, Sherlock."
He says my name the way no one else does, without that tinge of awe and fear I'm used to. He is not asking, when he says my name, ever. He is demanding my focus. There is no option for refusal.
I drop my coat onto the floor and unbutton my shirt. I look down to unbutton my trousers – mistake.
The crop catches the chair inches away from my arm.
"Look at me," he says quietly, dangerously. "Do not look away."
I hold his gaze as I drop my trousers to the floor. His eyes are so penetrating, so stern, that though I've been undressed in front of him so many times before, I can feel myself flushing faintly red as I remove my pants, exposing my already desperate erection for him.
He smiles, a small, half-smile, at the sight of my need.
"Already, Sherlock?" He takes three steps towards me and traces down my body with the crop. I close my eyes and he lets me now, now that I'm entirely exposed for him, while he's fully clothed yet. I feel my manhood stiffening even harder as the crop makes its way down, so very gently, along my jawline, my throat, my chest. As it traces over my erect nipples my cock gives a painful throb. Down my stomach, my hips, and then he lets it just barely caress my groin, letting the tension in his arm alert me to the fact that at any moment, he can bring it down on me, branding my flesh. "We've only just started."
I hear his footsteps and the air whistling, and my eyes burst open an instant before the crop cracks down on my ass, just in time to see the satisfaction on his face. The pain jolts through me like fire, painting my pale skin red, quickening my breath. My hands instinctively go to the damaged flesh, but he's too quick, he strikes me again, very nearly on the same spot. I grit my teeth and drop my hands to my sides, readying myself, but the third hit sends me to my knees anyway, which of course was his plan all along.
I am awakened; I am present; I am alive.
"On all fours."
I hesitate just a moment before assuming the humiliating position, long enough for him to brandish the crop at me. He smiles as I flinch.
I press my hands and knees into the carpet in the middle of the living room, completely naked, the cheeks of my ass still burning with pain. My erection has swollen even further, and has begun to leak drops of precum onto the rug. I file a mental note to have it cleaned before Mrs. Hudson asks questions.
John stands behind me as I wait for the next instructions, for his next torment. He holds out long enough to make me frustrated, and I know he is teaching me patience.
Just as it becomes unbearable, I feel a sensation trace down my spine. It is not the crop anymore – by the smooth ribbed feel of it, it's –
"My violin bow, John?"
At this insubordinate question the crop hits me again, and the searing pain on my already damaged skin sends hot tears to the corner of my eyes. There was less force behind the swing this time – must've been his left hand, the bow in his right – but it does its job nonetheless.
"Yes." The bow's cool threads move over my shoulders, down my back, along my throbbing ass, soothing the skin only slightly. "Do you have a problem with that?"
It's my bow for heaven's sake, no one is allowed to touch it, much less use it for these purposes!
"No," I say respectfully, biting my furious tongue. "No, of course not."
"Good."
The bow slides between my legs. It slides between the cheeks of my ass, nudging against my entrance, sending a chill of anticipation through me. It moves further, sliding over my balls and my erection, making me buck my hips forward with need before I could catch myself. I flinch, waiting for the torment of the crop again, but John only laughs, warningly.
"On your back, now."
I hesitate without meaning to – the mere thought of putting pressure on the beaten cheeks of my ass, especially on the rough carpet, is enough to make me want to stand up, forget all this nonsense, and force John to have his way with me.
The crop catches me lightly, stingingly, across the cheek and turns my face to look into his eyes. He kneels, almost eye-level with me, but not quite. His face is stern, commanding. He knows exactly what he is doing. He knows exactly what I need to have done to me.
"I said now, Sherlock."
I turn over onto my back.
"Good boy," he says quietly. He is holding something new behind his back, and my cock twitches with nervous apprehension again.
He surveys me, my pale, fully naked body. His eyes examine every inch. I can feel myself blushing, deeper now. I am not ashamed or embarrassed of my body. Yet when this man looks at me, I am suddenly aware of how human I really am, how fragile.
He makes me breakable.
Until I met him, I did not realize that this was very, very important.
His foot nudges my side, the cold leather of his shoe jarring my unclothed skin.
"This way."
I raise my body awkwardly, letting him position me. He moves me to just underneath the coffee table.
His hands flash out from behind his back, and without his face betraying an ounce of emotion, he handcuffs my wrists to the leg of the table.
"I – where did you get those?" Genuine curiosity takes over before I can catch myself, and he nudges my hips painfully into the carpet for it, causing the abrasions on my ass to sting.
"You know where." He's unbuttoning his own trousers, though he leaves his shirt on. Figures, while I'm completely naked. Of course, now that he prompts me to question it, I do.
"You stole Lestrade's cuffs?"
John smirks, dropping his pants to the floor. The sight of his thick cock makes my ass cheeks clench painfully in anticipation – no matter how many times he takes me, he owns me, it feels new every time. I am pleased to see that he is already hard, which means I've been doing well, my naked body is arousing him. I still find it difficult to believe that the sight of my body produces arousal in another person, so I am always grateful, and somewhat proud when I see the effect it has on him.
Of course, it feels like nothing given the effect that simply the thought of him ravaging me has on me.
"Borrowed." He chuckles. "Without asking." He leans forward, so I can feel his warm breath on my cheek, the heat of his mouth causing my own breath to catch, my eyes to flutter shut. I know my body is visibly trembling. My hands strain against the cuffs, aching to touch myself – the coffee table shakes. He laughs softly again. "You can't pull too hard on those, or you'll break the table. You have to control yourself." I shudder at this new torture, perhaps more devious than the rest. I can never control my body as he wracks it with pain, with pleasure; I lose myself in what he's doing to me. This time, he's keeping me even more present, even more focused and aware of the sensations he's inflicting. "And as for the cuffs…obviously I could have gotten them from a shop somewhere," he continues, as he forces my head to the floor and drapes a leg over my chest, "but I much prefer the idea that the instrument of your sweat and your shame will be used repeatedly, that you see it every time we're on case, that you're reminded of exactly what I do to you." He kneels across my chest now, forcing me to lie entirely flat with my hands cuffed above my head. He nudges his cock against my lips. "Now, then. Open up."
I open my mouth obediently, bracing myself. He pauses, just long enough to revel in my complete submission, staring into the pinkness of my throat. I lie there with parted lips, learning patience, waiting to pleasure him, to be used.
He thrusts, suddenly, hands on the coffee table, standing on his knees, forcing his cock as deep into my mouth as possible.
I gag and cough, my knees pulling up to my stomach, my body convulsing slightly as I choke – my head pinned so firmly to the ground, I can't find air.
My arms pull instinctively to push the intrusion away, but the coffee table shakes dangerously and I stop, moaning around his cock, my own erection harder than ever.
He pulls back only slightly, just for a moment, to give me a chance to catch my breath, but then begins thrusting again, deep into my throat.
I feel, rather than see, his head fall back in arousal, in satisfaction, as he rides my mouth. My eyes begin to water as he fucks my mouth faster, barely letting me breathe, his thick cock filling up every inch of my throat.
"Oh God, good boy, Sherlock," he moans. The sound of his voice, my name on his impassioned voice, the knowledge that he's being pleasured from my agony, that his erection is being paid attention to while mine aches neglected, makes me even harder. I squirm under him, moaning around his cock, doing my best to curl my lips under my teeth and open my throat as wide as possible to satisfy him so that he tends to me.
He fucks my mouth harder and harder, each motion wracking my body now, scraping my wounded ass horridly against the carpet. He reaches down with one hand and wipes away the tears, pushes my sweaty hair from my face, but does not stop for what feels like a long while.
The moment he does, the moment he pulls back out of my mouth – though I had been waiting for it, the moment it happens I want him back, I want him filling me again, I want him hurting me again.
He moves back to sit on my thighs, watching me smugly. My hair is completely disheveled, I know, and sticking to my face, wet with tears and spit and precum. My chest heaves as I fight to catch my breath. My cock is almost numb with arousal, so full with cum, begging to be touched.
He moves back further, and gently parts my thighs. My breathing is rough. I can feel my whole body, I am aware of my whole body, my pain, my arousal, my pounding heartbeat. Staring at me, looking directly in my eyes, he positions his wet cock at my entrance. I strain to push against it, to pull him into me, but the cuffs don't permit it.
The entirety of my world slows down and falls quiet. I hear only the harshness of my own breathing, the controlled fervor of his. I feel every inch of my body, aching, burning, all because of him, all needing to be handled, to be taken care of, by him. I see the focus in his eyes, the impassioned tenderness I know is just for me, only me, entirely mine. I see the slight parting of his lips. He bites his lower lip, just for a second, quirking his mouth into a nearly imperceptible – and then thrusts into me.
"Ah!"
My eyes clench shut and I can feel my body relax at the sheer release of finally being filled, then tighten at the invasion. His fingernails dig into my thighs, holding me steady as he fucks me, as he fills me up. Every single thrust wracks my entire body with excruciating pain, with unbelievable pleasure. His thick cock spreads me open for him, forces me open, makes me stretch for him.
I scramble to dig my fingertips into the carpet, to stop it from burning painfully along my back as I get fucked, but it's of no use. John lets me struggle for while, grinning at my helplessness. It turns him on further – I can actually feel him grow harder inside me, grow larger. He fucks me faster, until my skin is on fire from the carpet and it almost outweighs the pain – but the moment before it does, he scoops his cool hands under the raw cheeks of my ass and lifts me up, making me arch my back, lifting all but my head and arms off the carpet.
Even more completely at his mercy now, I manage to gasp a thank you before he clenches at my ass and lifts me just a bit higher, just enough to allow his thrusts to press his cock directly against that spot inside of me, the one he discovered, the one only he can press.
My back arches further. My eyes are clenched tight. Behind my eyelids there is only heat, building, building. He grunts quietly as he has his way with me, and I can hear his breath quickening, his thrusts becoming erratic. Anticipation jolts through me again, this is it, this is when I'll know if he'll let me come today.
"You – want it badly today, don't you, Sherlock?" Even on the edge of release, his voice is low, sultry.
"God, yes."
I can feel tears spring to my damp face again; the need in my own abandoned erection has become close to unbearable.
"What do we say when we want things, Sherlock?"
"I – ah – I – " I can't, I can't, I need him so desperately, I can't, I can barely speak, but more than that, something in me, the cluster of pride caked around my heart, won't let me –
"Fine, then," he says, moaning and thrusting harder, "I'll just finish, shall I?" And he'd do it, too, and leave me untouched, immobile from tormented desire. My pride evaporates, replaced with desperate yearning for him to grant me release.
"Please!" I hardly recognize my own voice, so shaken and hoarse from need. "Please, John, please!"
"Please what?"
"Touch me."
Before the last words finish leaving my cracked lips, he grabs my legs under the knees and pushes them up with one hand, deepening his thrusts and freeing his right hand, which he wraps, at long last, around my cock. His skilled hand holds me just right, squeezing just hard enough. He pumps his arm in time with the motion of his cock, and I am enveloped in the reason, in his delicious fist around my manhood, pleasuring me fully at last; I have earned it, I have worked for it, I have deserved it, and I feel every bit of it, every inch that his cock thrusts into me, every ounce of pressure he pushes against my prostate, every harsh caress of his palm and his fingers, and he speeds up even more, faster and faster in me, around me, all over me, and I am helpless, and I am his, and I am here.
With a reckless final thrust, he speeds up one last time and fills me with his cum, hot and glorious inside me, and he tightens his grip on my cock and grants me release.
My jaw drops open, I am gasping his name. My body writhes beneath him; only his hands steady me, keep me from pulling the table onto myself. I am pushing my body fervently against his cock, bringing him inside of me, until he is a part of me, and everything, everything, is white-hot.
I am nearly delirious, now that it's over.
I vaguely register him slipping out of me, feeling my cheeks flush red again as I know he can see my used pink asshole clenching and dripping his cum. My body is coated in sweat.
I feel his cool hands release me from the cuffs and reach under my abused body. I wrap my arms around him as he carries me to the bathtub, sprays hot water over my skin, cleans me gently, tenderly. He dries me off carefully and scoops me into his arms again, carrying me to the bed.
"How was your day?" he smiles nonchalantly, tucking me in.
"Fantastic," I manage, and for the first time since I've walked in this afternoon, he brushes his lips across my cheeks in a kiss.
My name is Sherlock Holmes.
No one in the world could make me feel vulnerable.
No one in the world could make me feel.
Until I met John.