Fair warning: yep. it's a Sherlock/Irene/John threesome (with established Johnlock). Bdsm. Whipping. Cross-dressing. Daddy kink. Ageplay. Oral sex. Anal sex. General depravity.
Sherlock took a deep breath, and wrapped his fingers around the bathroom doorknob. The nervous anticipation skittered through him, making his palms sweat. It had taken him almost forty minutes to get ready. This was the big reveal.
Show time.
He pushed the door open and took half a step into the parlor. He grasped the edge of the doorframe for support. He'd walked in heels before, for a case, but it had been a long time and he felt quite wobbly. The rest of the clothes certainly didn't help.
Irene had insisted on buying them, even though Sherlock would have been perfectly capable of getting them himself. As a result everything was far too tight and he looked like a fucking prostitute.
The black stiletto heels were far from the worst part. He had on thigh-high stockings, with a blood red lace trim. A black thong, decorated with the same color lace, and a padded black bra to match. The panties barely fit him flaccid. As his cock started to thicken, from the combination of embarrassment and adrenaline, they would become increasingly uncomfortable. Soon the head of his prick would undoubtedly poke out the top.
To top it all off, he had on a sheer, purple negligee, dark eyeliner, lipstick that coordinated with the other red accents of the outfit, and a bloody dog collar.
He'd shaved everything below the waist—on John's request—so every time he moved the fabric of the stockings dragged strangely across his skin. Not to even mention the silk on his balls.
He felt far more ridiculous than sexy. He probably should have run screaming the first time John had accidently called him baby girl during sex. Frankly, he didn't think it would ever escalate to this level.
But there he was.
Both John and Irene were staring at him quite intently. John's mouth hung half open. Irene smiled like the cat that ate the canary and the cream in one sitting. They'd sprawled on the couch, still dressed, but pressed against each other. John's shirt was halfway unbuttoned. His light blonde hair was mussed.
Sherlock's heart thudded. He felt exposed. He was exposed. The clothes left utterly nothing to the imagination.
Irene had her riding crop out. It sat across her lap innocuously. Sherlock's stomach lurched at the mere memory of it… sailing through the air, striking, then gently caressing his cheek as he slipped into a drug coma…
"John," she drawled lazily, "why don't you tell Sherlock what a pretty little girl she is."
It seemed to take a moment for the doctor to collect himself enough to speak. He licked his lips, and gaped for a few moments longer. "Um… wow… yeah you look… um… good."
"Good? That's really the best you can come with?" Sherlock sneered.
"Now, now, Sherlock, where are your manners? Don't you know what happens to spoiled young ladies that can't remember their place?" Irene slid off the couch. All sinuous, sleek motions. She walked like a predator, hips swinging, heels clicking imposingly across the floor.
Sherlock still towered over her, but her approach made him feel oddly helpless. Like he was about to drown, and he didn't even want to stop it from happening. She paused directly in front of him. Almost close enough to touch. She flicked the riding crop out, catching the hem of Sherlock's negligee and lifting it upward.
"Disrespectful tarts get thrashed within an inch of their lives. John clearly doesn't have the heart to give the beatings you deserve. But I do." The words curled in her mouth pleasantly, but they carried a deadly sort of weight.
She was going to eat him whole. And god help him, he'd enjoy every minute of it.
Because Sherlock loved to be punished. Sometimes, he found a bare arsed spanking more satisfying than actual sex. He wanted to feel filthy, used, and utterly ashamed of himself. So far, they were off to a very good start.
Irene tapped the riding crop against Sherlock's hip. "I think we'll start by having you give John a nice apology."
"I'm sorry for talking back, Sir," Sherlock lowered his eyes demurely.
"Very good. But I think your mouth can go to a lot better use than saying empty words. Be a good little girl, and go give your Daddy a kiss."
The words made Sherlock shiver in spite of himself. It was one thing to indulge in this particular game with John when there was nobody else around. Having an audience made it far more exciting. It kicked things up from a bit weird to utterly depraved.
He took slow steps across the parlor, trying to find his balance. He managed to make it to the couch without falling over. But he doubted he looked even half graceful while doing it.
Sherlock settled down into John's lap, straddling the smaller man's hips. He leaned forward and planted a soft, chaste kiss on John's mouth. John's hands settled on Sherlock's waist. He flicked out his tongue to trace the crease of Sherlock's lips. The younger man opened his mouth, with just a hint of shyness.
Because that was part of the game. Pretending that he didn't know exactly what was going on. Pretending to be surprised and flustered.
Their tongues brushed together, and Sherlock let out a soft little moan. John's grip on him tightened. Then kiss slowly devolved from gentle and hesitant, to deep and wet and filthy. The heat raced just underneath's Sherlock's skin. The urgent excitement twisted through him. His pulse quickened. No matter how many times it happened—kissing John was always interesting. It always made him feel slightly dizzy. Almost drunk. His brain flooded with oxytocin. Warm achy feelings. A desire for closeness.
One of the doctor's hands wandered upwards. He skimmed his fingers underneath the fabric of the negligee, up the bare skin of Sherlock's abdomen. He cupped one side of the padded bra and squeezed.
"What do you think, John? Was that a sincere apology?" Irene purred. Her heels clicked back across the room. Sherlock saw her settle onto the arm of the couch out of the corner of his eye.
John pulled back and grinned. "No. The only thing Sherlock's ever sorry about is getting caught being naughty."
"Perhaps we should whip her, then."
Sherlock's cock twitched. He was more than half hard. The panties could barely contain him.
He sensed the motion more than he saw it. John's hands dropped to the couch, and Irene grabbed Sherlock's hair from behind. She tugged upward sharply.
"On your feet," she barked.
Sherlock stood quickly as he could without overbalancing. John looked up at him with wide, dark eyes. His mouth was smeared with Sherlock's lipstick.
Irene ran the crop up Sherlock's thighs pensively. Then a slow grin spread across her sharp features.
"Now, John… you called me over because your sweet little girl has become horribly sluttish."
"Yes," John nodded. Trying to sound stern, but coming off more amused than anything.
"You told me that she'll bend over and spread her legs for just about anybody, wasn't that right?"
"That's exactly right."
"Well then, I think perhaps we should show her that bending over isn't always so much fun… Sherlock, bend down and grasp your ankles."
Oh god.
Sherlock folded himself downwards, so that his stomach almost touched against his thighs. He wobbled slightly before grabbing onto his ankles. This position stretched the thong even tighter. The head of his cock slipped out the top of it. The negligee did absolutely nothing to cover him. It slid up his back, only kept from falling off of him completely because it got pinned between his chest and knees.
The pause drew out endlessly. Sherlock strained. Listening. Waiting. He didn't get any warning whatsoever before the riding crop cracked against the pale flesh of his arse. He almost overbalanced. The second he managed to regain his equilibrium, the whip came down again—perhaps a centimeter above where it had hit previously. He wobbled.
Sherlock heard John get off the couch. Then the approaching footsteps. The doctor placed a hand on Sherlock's hip to steady him.
Irene struck again. There was no pause this time. Each blow came right after the next, wickedly precise. The points of contact stung—a tingling, exciting pain, which quickly morphed to a more intense throbbing. John kept Sherlock from falling over outright, but the position was still quite difficult to maintain.
The sound of the whip cracking against his flesh echoed through the flat. He couldn't keep from squirming slightly. Even though John squeezed him and said to hold still.
He didn't keep count. He got lost in the sensation. The blood rushed to the surface of his skin. His arse cheeks were uncomfortably warm. Then burning hot. First he just breathed heavily, but before too long he couldn't hold back the little whimpers of pain. His cock throbbed. He'd never been harder. He felt humiliated. Filthy. Glorious.
The assault stopped as suddenly as it had started. He felt one of Irene's cool, small hands skimming over his raw skin. She grabbed a handful of his arse and squeezed, causing a fresh burst of pain.
"Do you know why you're being whipped, Sherlock?" She asked in a honeyed, condescending tone.
"Because I talked back."
"Besides that, darling."
Sherlock took a few shaky breaths. "Because I'm a filthy little slut."
"That's exactly right. Your Daddy's quite angry about it. You see… this lovely arse of yours belongs to him. Your hot little mouth belongs to him. Nobody else is allowed to use you without his permission." Irene gave Sherlock a smack with her open palm. "Would you like to have a go at her with the crop, John?"
John didn't respond verbally. But Sherlock felt them both move. John kept his hand on the younger man's hip, but he shifted. Irene stepped away.
The crop smacked down against Sherlock's arse. The blow didn't have quite as much force behind it as Irene's. But Sherlock was already over sensitive, so it still stung considerably. Two more blows, then the hand on Sherlock's hip snaked downwards. John cupped Sherlock's erection and squeezed.
"What's this, then?" The doctor asked in a gruff voice. "Are you enjoying this, Sherlock? It's not exactly a punishment if you're having fun now, is it?"
"I'm sorry, Sir," Sherlock gasped. "I can't help it."
The crop sailed through the air again. When it struck, Sherlock lurched forward slightly. John stroked Sherlock's cock with unhurried motions.
"What should we do about this, Irene?"
"Hmm… I'm not sure you can stop a pain slut from enjoying a good whipping… perhaps we need to change our tactics… get on your knees, whore."
Sherlock straightened up slowly before sinking down onto his knees. He kept his eyes down. He heard Irene's shoes moving away from them. John reached down and grasped the negligee. Sherlock lifted his arms wordlessly, to let John remove it. Not like the thing was doing him much good anyway.
Irene reappeared after a minute or so, holding a leash. She hooked it to the ring on the front of Sherlock's collar and smiled.
"She does look quite pretty like this, doesn't she?" Irene smiled.
"Yes, she does," John said in a husky voice.
"Would you like to have her first, or do you want to watch for a bit?"
"I'll watch."
Sherlock's stomach lurched with anticipation. He barely got a moment to think before Irene tugged on the leash.
"Come along, whore," she giggled.
She hadn't given him permission to stand, so Sherlock crawled on his hands and knees.
Irene led him towards his own bedroom. Through the door. She stopped, standing right at the edge of the bed.
She slid the looped handle of the leash around her wrist and reached back for the zip of her dress. Sherlock watched with a half open mouth as the white dress slid to the ground. No bra. Irene had on stockings… with suspenders and a garter belt, but no pants. He'd seen her naked before, but not in this context. Her soft curves were perfect as ever. Her unblemished pale flesh was like high art—like a painting.
Irene was shaved smooth except for a cleanly cropped patch of short, dark pubic hair. She was already quite wet. The tops of her thighs were slightly sticky.
She sat back on the edge of the mattress and spread her legs invitingly. Sherlock's breath caught. He turned his head. John stood by the door, leaning against the wall, watching intently.
"May I, Sir?" Sherlock asked quietly.
"Yes. But you'd better make it very good for her."
Sherlock nodded.
He crowded forward between Irene's thighs. She settled a hand on his head. Sherlock leaned forward, flicking his tongue out. He licked softly, running the tip of his tongue between the folds of her pussy, flattening it as he swept upward. Irene let out a quick breath as he brushed against her clit.
He hadn't done this in ages. But he still remembered. He remembered to start with a light, barely there pressure. He teased with gentle lapping motions, until Irene started to squirm. She was impossibly wet. Salty. Musky.
He reached up to cup her breast with is left hand. He squeezed gently, then traced around the nipple with his index finger as the tissue hardened.
Some women don't like to have fingers involved when there's already a tongue. But Sherlock slid his right hand between her legs. Traced across her slick flesh. He slipped the tip of his middle finger inside her.
She bucked her hips. Yes. He slid his finger deeper into the dripping heat. She was so tight. Just for a moment, he let himself fantasize. He thought about spreading her across the bed. He thought about pressing his cock inwards very slowly. He thought about rocking into her—the wonderful drag of pleasure on each unhurried thrust, and the slick velvety warmth of her body. Maybe she'd moan and clutch at him. Maybe she'd roll her hips against him, urging him deeper.
He would kiss her as their skin slid together. He'd keep that same, steady rhythm, even as she started to tense. Even as she cried out and gasped. He'd fuck her through orgasm. Her internal muscles would clench around him deliciously. The fresh wetness of her come would just make each thrust more enticing. Maybe he'd be able to hold out a bit longer until the pleasure overwhelmed him and he had to let go.
Sherlock began to drag his tongue across Irene's clit with a bit more purpose. He fucked her with his finger, slow and deliberate. She didn't moan, exactly. But each breath came shaky and almost feverish.
His face was wet, with his own saliva and with her fluids. It felt wonderfully decadent. Dirty. The head of his cock was slick. He wanted to touch it so badly—but he knew better.
Then… just as he could feel Irene's muscles starting to tense, she pushed him away. He drew back dutifully. Her pale skin had flushed. Her mouth was half open, and her eyes slightly glazed over. She grinned, toed off her heels, and slid back on the mattress.
Sherlock only gaped in confusion for half a second, before he felt John behind him.
"Come on, sweetie," John cooed, "get up on the bed. Daddy wants to join the game."
The younger man shivered. But of course, he did as he was told. His arse still stung considerably, and he was more interested in getting off than getting punished at that particular moment.
He kicked off the heels and clambered up onto the bed. He sat at the edge of the mattress and looked up at John with wide, innocent eyes.
The doctor had taken off his shirt. He wasn't quite as fit as he used to be, but he still did crunches almost every morning. There was still muscle under the little layer of fat across his belly. He still had strong arms. The kind of arms that made you feel exceedingly safe when they wrap around you and hold you close.
John unbuckled his belt. He unbuttoned his jeans and pulled down the zip. Apparently, he hadn't bothered with pants. His jeans fell, leaving him completely naked. He stepped forward so that the tip of his erection was mere centimeters from the younger man's lips. Sherlock glanced over at Irene. She'd sat back against the headboard and was touching herself lazily—circling a finger around her clit and watching with a marked interest.
"Go on, Sherlock," she grinned. "I think your Daddy's feeling neglected. Be a good girl, now. Or we'll have to spank you."
Sherlock opened his mouth and let the head of John's cock slide between his lips. The doctor gasped. Sherlock laved his tongue on the underside of John's prick, paying special attention to the area right under the head. He was never able to get John's cock very far into his mouth. Despite his best efforts, he wasn't very good at suppressing his gag reflex. But he tried to make up for it by enthusiastically worshiping as much of John's cock as hecould handle.
He wrapped a hand around the base of John's prick and began to stroke it slowly as he bobbed his head and swirled his tongue. John let out a small groan.
"Oh yes… you're so pretty like this… you've got such a wonderful little mouth," John murmured. His hips jerked unconsciously, and Sherlock tried not to gag.
The doctor's fingers tangled in Sherlock's hair, tugging slightly. It never failed to make the younger man moan. John probably did it because he liked the vibration.
"God, just look at you. So eager to please… do you want Daddy's cock inside you, princess?" John asked huskily. Sherlock couldn't really respond, or point out the fact that John's cock was already inside him. He knew what John meant. So he just moaned again, and tried to look needy.
John pulled back. He cupped Sherlock's chin and ran his thumb across the younger man's slick lower lip. He bent down and kissed Sherlock on the top of the head.
"Now, then. Get on your hands and knees, love," he said breathlessly.
Sherlock obeyed. Shifting into position. He faced towards Irene, placing his hands a shoulder's width apart, and spreading his legs a bit wider. Irene licked her lips and crawled forward. She kneeled directly in front of Sherlock and pushed down on his head. He resumed is previous activity without argument, gently lapping at her slick, hot skin.
"Oh John," Irene sighed. "Even if your little girl is a dirty whore—she does have a rather fantastic tongue."
"Yes she does," John agreed.
Sherlock heard the drawer on the bedside table roll open and shut. He felt the mattress dip as John settled between his legs. He tried to focus on Irene. He dragged his tongue against her clit and made her breathe faster. But when he heard the snick of a plastic cap opening, he did get a bit distracted.
John didn't take off Sherlock's knickers. No. He simply ran his finger underneath the thong, and pulled the strip of fabric to the side, exposing Sherlock's shaved, pink arsehole. The younger man felt a slick finger, circling and teasing at his entrance. He let out a low, needy sound. Irene dug her fingers into Sherlock's curls, and pushed forward against him greedily.
One of John's thick fingers slid into Sherlock's body. The younger man gasped. One advantage of John being a doctor was that he rarely had problems finding Sherlock's prostate. This time was no exception. He brushed against that little knot of nerve endings relentlessly. Sherlock couldn't help a few little moans. He squirmed, trying to rock back against John's hand. The doctor slipped in another finger before very long.
Irene was absolutely drenched. Up till this point, she'd mostly stayed quiet. But now, she let out the occasional gasp. She kept one hand on Sherlock's head. With the other she squeezed her own breast. Sherlock gazed up at her hungrily. John slipped a third finger inside him. Sherlock whimpered.
"Are you ready, princess?" John asked raggedly. He sounded about as wrecked as Sherlock felt. The younger man didn't even bother to respond. He got the feeling that if he stopped licking Irene right then, she might snap his neck.
John withdrew his fingers, and for a moment Sherlock felt horribly empty. But then, he felt it. The press of John's cock against him. There was a tense moment, where it seemed like far too much. Like he wouldn't be able to take it. But then, of course, the head of John's prick slid inside. Sherlock groaned.
The doctor rocked forward in small increments. At first, every slide felt like an incredible stretch. Not quite painful, but not exactly comfortable. Gradually, John's thrusts smoothed out. Sherlock's muscles began to relax somewhat. And then every drag of John's cock sent a little spark of pleasure ricocheting through Sherlock's body.
"You feel so good," John panted. "You're so tight… oh Jesus…"
He slapped Sherlock's arse. The fresh burst of pain mingled wonderfully with the intense wash of sensations already occurring. Sherlock's heart pounded wildly. He could hardly breathe. John smacked him again and Sherlock shuddered.
He'd been so on edge for so long. His cock was painfully hard. He'd never needed to come so badly. It wouldn't take much.
John started to pick up a bit of speed, angling downwards. Every so often, his cock dragged against Sherlock's sweet spot exactly the right way.
Irene whined unabashedly. She was absolutely dripping. Sherlock flicked his tongue against her with a bit more pressure, occasionally dragging directly across her clit. Her body started to tense. He could almost feel the desperation.
"Oh fuck," she groaned.
Then he felt it, the spasms. She shuddered helplessly, grinding against him for a few more seconds before she fell back. She sprawled across the bed, legs apart, panting.
John had obviously watched the whole thing. He drove into Sherlock with even more vigor.
"Oh please Daddy," Sherlock gasped. "Please let me come. I'm so close. I just need you to touch me."
"Touch you where, darling?" John grunted.
"Touch my cock," Sherlock barely whispered.
Apparently, it was enough. John reached down underneath the younger man and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's prick. Sherlock's balls had fallen out of the panties, as had most of his cock. The fabric was stretched tight over the lower half of his prick.
John began to jerk Sherlock off with sloppy motions. It didn't matter. Any stimulation would have been enough.
The tension built at an alarming rate. He felt it at the base of his spine, at the core of him. The heat burned through him, lighting up every single nerve ending. And for a few terrifying seconds, it was like gravity had lost its grip on him entirely. The world slid sideways. It felt like free fall.
And then the ground came crashing up to meet him.
His muscles clamped down around John's prick. His cock jerked. The pleasure rolled through him with a ridiculous intensity. Up his spine, out to his fingertips and toes. He forgot how to breathe for a few suspended moments.
John groaned behind him. He slammed into Sherlock a few more times before going still. They managed to stay upright for about thirty seconds before they both collapsed.
All three of them lay on the bed, flushed, exhausted and breathing heavily. Everything went quiet. Sherlock did feel a little drowsy. He was just starting to fall asleep when Irene sat up. She got off the bed and walked out of the room. She reappeared, holding a set of padded handcuffs.
Sherlock blinked up at her.
"You didn't think we were done, did you?" She giggled. "That was just to take the edge off so we could really start to teach you a lesson."
Sherlock's cock twitched, despite just having come. He allowed Irene to cuff his wrists together. John sat up. Irene settled next to him.
"What shall we do now?" She asked coyly.
"I dunno."
"Why don't you hold him down while I spank him? Then perhaps after that I can fuck him with my strap-on."
"Sounds good to me."
Sherlock bit his lip as a dull pang of arousal shot through him. He got the feeling that he wasn't going to be able to sit down or walk properly after this was over—for at least a few days.
He also had no doubts that it would be completely worth it.
Written for taikova and katzensprotte's wonderful girly Sherlock/Irene/John art. I have links to it on my tumblr (taylorpotato . tumblr. com). You should also just follow them both if you don't already, because they're amazing.