A/N" awwww havent had enough Johnlock porn for today? here ya go. a pretty two-shot coming your way. chapter 2 will be finished when i get around to it. this one hit me while i was in the post office today. go figure.
warnings: BDSM hogtying, suspension, toying, beating with cane and riding crop, a-frame, rimming, deep-throating, and finally, the most obvious, m/m sex
Chapter 1:
"Oh, FUCK," Sherlock bellowed, face turning beet red as it hung between his ankles. He was bent double over a padded sawhorse, a rubber plug deep in his arse, with John standing right behind him, his trusty riding crop in hand. The smaller man made no sound, but John could just feel the smile playing on his lips as he raised the crop again, bringing it down possibly even harder on Sherlock's already stinging arse. He shook his head slightly to get the dog tags out of his face. They were his collar of choice; he wore them under everything, close to his skin. It made John hot when he saw them, too.
"Are you ready to apologize, Sherlock?" the doctor asked, walking around to the front of Sherlock and fisting a hand in his curls, yanking his head up so they could see each other. The detective struggled to swallow, his long pale neck strained as it was.
"If I had done something wrong I would, John. Correcting you isn't wrong. You just didn't like it. So, NO," he growled, fisting his hands in their cuffs as he prepared for another blow. It never came. Instead, John grasped the base of the plug and tugged it out in one smooth motion, causing his lover's hole to clench uncomfortably before three fingers wormed their way into the stretched space.
"Gah! Warn a man first," he chided, flexing his overstretched thighs as much as he could. John had him completely sprawled out, as far as he could reach, tip-toe to fingertips brushing the carpet on either side of the wooden frame in the middle of the sitting room. His own erection bobbed in the empty air, devoid of any contact. He silently begged for either some friction, or an ungodly amount of prostate stimulation; he might choke John in his sleep if he didn't get to come after this. He looked down between his feet at John's ankles.
The man was still fully clothed?! He narrowed his eyes, his breath catching in his throat when a soft knock echoed through the room. The doctor pressed the toy back in Sherlock's arse and went to the door to the flat.
"John!" he cried, tugging at the bonds ferociously. He did NOT sign up for getting caught red-assed and naked in the living room! "John don't you dare!" he hissed, still trying to escape.
"Oh, hello, Greg." John opened the door the rest of the way, letting the DI into the room fully. Sherlock stilled. A low whistle permeated the silence, originating from Lestrade. Sherlock let his head hang, watching Lestrade walk deeper into the room, eyes glued to the scene before him. His skin prickled, and not from the beating he'd taken already.
"Pretty sight," he hummed, reaching out and running a gentle hand over the consulting detective's ravaged arse.
"He's been downright mouthy today, Greg. What do you recommend?" Greg tossed his coat over the arm of the sofa, leaning back in a pensive pose.
Sherlock only had to be patient for a moment. "John, I suppose you lot have rope around here? I'd love to hogtie the prat," he suggested. John nodded and retreated into their bedroom. Lestrade picked up the riding crop from the sofa and ran it through his fingers, walking around Sherlock in a slow circle before standing behind him again. Sherlock trembled a bit in his bonds. John had returned form the bedroom and threw down a huge amount of binding rope in the sofa. Greg smirked and raised the crop, bringing it down hard over Sherlock's hip. Fiberglass curved over bony flesh and the detective opened his mouth in a silent scream, a choked sob coming out instead as the retreat of the crop brought the pain in full force and a red welt was instantly raised on his skin. God, it was almost worse than a caning. Almost. Only now his skin screamed for want of bloodletting to reduce the swelling and the crop wasn't hard enough to induce the ripping of skin. Not quite, but Greg had almost achieved that goal. His thigh tremored with the spread of the pain through his nerves. Groby, he almost said it, it was on the tip of his tongue. No, his head demanded. You can do this.
"Jesus," he breathed, his breath catching as his hair was caught and his head yanked back. Greg held him still as John jammed a spider-gag in between his bicuspids and bucked it tight. It left his mouth nice and open for a cock but no coherent speech.
"Can you snap your fingers?" Lestrade asked, waiting for Sherlock to do so.
He didn't, smirking slightly. Well then.
"Oh, Greg I forgot to mention. He's a bit of a pain whore. You practically have to beat responses out of him or else leave him there to rot all hard and wanting until he caves." John was relaxing on the sofa now, next to the pile of ropes and very near Sherlock's head, leg crossed over his knee, brandy glass balanced there. Sherlock groaned, writhing against the sawhorse.
"Hmm." Greg swallowed his brandy, which John had handed him before he sat down, and set the glass on the coffee table on the other side of Sherlock's head. He tracked the movements with those pale eyes, trying to predict what Greg was thinking. The older man stooped and started unbuckling the cuffs, letting them drop from Sherlock's ankles and wrist. He pulled the detective up by his hair into a standing position and then pushed him down onto all fours. "Kneel," he growled. Sherlock knelt, hands splayed over his thighs, eyes on Greg's boots. "I suppose you have a ceiling hook in here somewhere?" the DI asked, sweeping the ceiling for such a device.
"Erm, yeah actually. In the bedroom," John supplied, gathering the rope back up and snapping his fingers at Sherlock. The tallest man followed the doctor on his hand and knees into his old bedroom which was now their bedroom. Greg followed, watching the rubber disc of the arse plug sway back and forth with Sherlock's hips. Next to the bed were affixed three ceiling hooks, in a straight row.
Perfection. Greg smirked.
"Alright then, what are our specific parameters?" he clapped his hands, looking at John. Neither of them had looked at Sherlock once since he stopped his crawling next to the foot of the bed. He pouted as much as he could with the metal gag jamming his teeth open.
"Well, Sherlock doesn't have any lines for us to not cross. He will literally do anything you tell him to, if he's in the right mind to obey, that is. He gets finicky; hard to handle, but the end game is the same. He gets off on attention, pain, and being bound and used, et cetera. Just doesn't do well when you leave him alone in a room all tied up."
Greg nodded thoughtfully. "Watching?" John nodded. He even saw Sherlock nod imperceptibly out of the corner of his eye. "Safeword?" he asked.
"Gladstone," John replied, finally looking back at Sherlock, who nodded once. "The pause word for giving a rest on say, a beating, but not ending the scene, is Groby," he added, shifting the weight in his feet. Greg nodded, reaching past John for a length of rope. Sherlock stirred on the floor, his usually pale eyes tracking every move, devouring it.
"On your back," Greg ordered. "Knees bent, feet flat on the floor. Put your ankles as close to your bum as you can," he watched as Sherlock did as he was told, measuring out the rope in his hands. Then he knelt, wrapping one end of the rope several times around Sherlock's thin ankle, tying it off and looping the rope through the five bands of hemp before moving the rest of the rope to do the same to the man's upper thigh, right where it narrowed back down to meet the hip. Greg dipped his head and licked the wound he'd marked Sherlock's hip bone with very delicately, making the youngest man in the room whimper and jerk a bit on the carpet. Greg smirked and continued to tie Sherlock's ankle to his thigh, rendering him totally unable to stretch his leg back out. He did the same to the other leg.
"Sit up," he ordered, helping the lanky man do so after a bit of difficulty. Greg proceeded to bind his chest and narrow waist in a sort of harness with another length of rope, weaving the lines in between each other, making sure to quadruple the strength under his pectorals and around each shoulder, under the armpit. The lines from his torso were looped through the lines around his upper thighs and were brought back together into a huge knot in the center of his back, a hook affixed to the center of the knot. He stood up. The next bit was going to require some heavy lifting.
John was standing on the bed now, linking a short chain to the center hook. Greg watched him carefully, as did Sherlock. The youngest man had been surprisingly quiet this whole time.
Once John was safely on the ground again, Greg bent and scooped up the lanky detective and deposited him on the bed on his stomach. His heels were resting on his arse now, with his legs bound, opening his tender bits to them helplessly. He writhed a bit, waiting under their combined scrutiny. John locked eyes with Sherlock, silently getting him to lie still as Greg pulled his arms back. Sherlock thought for one wild second that he was going to be bound with his arms back there, when instead he felt the cool metal of Greg's bloody handcuffs clicking over each wrist. God this was so much hotter, he thought, burying his face in the duvet.
But just then, another length of rope fell against his back. What the…? He turned his face to try and look back as Greg picked up his arms and brought the rope under them, wrapping it tightly around his elbows. The bones clinked together, and Sherlock groaned, his member throbbing into the duvet now. He twisted his hips a little, trying to gain purchase with his bound legs for some thrusting.
A hard smack brought his thighs close together with a smack, a shuddering gasp taking the room as his arse cheek burned. Greg was smiling. John had done that! Sherlock lifted his head and snarled at the doctor, earning his a backhand across the cheek. Another moan, this time caught by the mattress as he was scooted across it like a ragdoll. To be truthful, he was about as limp as one now, all tied up and useless. Greg came around the bed to help John get his harness hooked to the chain dangling from the ceiling. Once he was secured, Greg pushed the detective off the bed, his body bracing for impact and eyes flying wide when he actually realized how helpless and stuck he truly was. He kicked his legs a bit, but of course went nowhere. John was smiling at him evilly, that glint he only got when Sherlock was in trouble and he knew he wasn't walking out of this bedroom with a straight gait anytime this week. He whimpered, lowering his head to them both, begging for a bit of mercy.
Nope.
John came forward, placing a cool hand on Sherlock's reddened cheek. The younger man curled into it, almost purring from the gentle touch. Greg sat back and watched, letting the man's true Dom take over for a minute. He was only here to play, after all. And my, what a lovely game this was turning out to be.
He'd known about these two from the get go, unable to resist the way Sherlock looked at John when he was reprimanded, or stood close to him when he was getting a scolding, the averting of his eyes always a clear indicator. But everyone else only saw it as a way that Sherlock ignored John, or put his words off. Greg knew better. Sherlock adored John, the same way that the doctor did the little nutter he was living with. It was a match made in heaven, and they'd invited Greg along for a ride. Of course, Sherlock hadn't known that he was coming today, per se, but he did know that John had asked, and he'd given his consent enthusiastically.
Stepping back, John unbuckled the spider gag, letting the detective work his mouth open and shut for a minute as he tied a strip of black cloth over his eyes, snug so that he couldn't open them under it. Sherlock grimaced but quickly sucked in a breath as John ran a hand down his entire body, playing in the ropes supporting and suspending his lithe body in the center of the room. John settled back behind Sherlock, fingers toying with the plug that was still buried in his arse. There was a switch on it for vibration, and he tripped it, watching as Sherlock's body arced up and then down again in his ropes, a silent gasp taking hold in his chest.
"Well, I didn't know that it vibrated!" fussed Greg, slapping his thigh and scoffing. John smiled, reaching under Sherlock to palm his erection, letting the man feel his own pressed against his thigh, right next to the ropes. Sherlock whined, hands fisting behind his back. Lestrade came over and took the elbows, bringing them up and tying them to the chain as tight as he could, so that the limbs weren't in the way of anything when the actual penetration came into play.
"Gregory," John called his attention. The DI looked up before realizing that John was on his knees half-under Sherlock, toying with his erection. "Take his mouth. He loves to suck cock, don't you Sherlock?" the doctor purred, licking Sherlock's thigh teasingly. It elicited and yelp and a slight jump before he realized that such a move made the plug press against his prostate cruelly. He hummed an affirmative. John slapped his thigh, hard.
"You start using your words, Sherlock or I'll get the cane and beat some into you," he threatened, the army captain coming out in his voice.
"Yes, Captain," Sherlock whispered. "Yes, Detective Lestrade, sir I love to suck cock. May I taste yours? On the back of my throat?" he asked, innocently, licking that astonishing Cupid's bow.
Greg wrapped a hand around his long pale throat, picking the man up for a deep kiss, tongue violating his mouth and beating his own tongue into submission before he simply let him go, arms tightening in their ropes as he fell back into the hold of the harness. A gasp had wracked the room, the terror Sherlock felt as he thought he was going to land on his face, forgetting the ropes surrounding him. He relaxed into them again, feeling the plug being pulled out of his arse by John and gently pressed back in. he could feel short hairs on his thigh and knew that John was trying to distract him.
How do you play to two Doms at once?
"That would be Detective Inspector Lestrade, you needy little slag," he growled, yanking Sherlock's hair hard so that he swayed toward the DI in his bonds. The younger man yelped and struggled a bit, trying to find John again in the interim. The doctor caught his legs as he swayed back, grounding him. The dog tags clinked on his chest as momentum was rebalanced.
"Sorry, sir, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Please use me," he added in a whisper, opening his mouth and waiting. Greg sighed, unbuckling his belt and pushing his trousers down; he'd known he was coming here today and had left out the pants. Just as well anyway, there was no need for them. He looked up at John, asking silent permission from the resident Dom over his slave. John nodded, pulling the arse plug fully out of Sherlock and replacing it with two fingers. The man moaned wantonly, hips shifting up and down slightly in the ropes. Greg lurched forward, pressing the tip of his cock to Sherlock's lips.
Ah, here was the man he found strung out in an alley five years ago, choking on a cock with a baggie of coke in his back pocket. The professional fellator, folks. By Christ he could make a lot of money on the street if he'd had the mind to.
Sherlock nuzzled, lapping at the bead of precome on Greg's head before taking it into his mouth more fully. He worked his way down to the root, swirling his tongue impossibly the whole way down.
"God," he groaned, thrusting a bit into the younger man's mouth. His eyes trailed down the slim spine to where John was working, buried between Sherlock's arse cheeks. "Getting yourself a nice rim job there, are yeh?" he asked, rolling his eyes against the groan from Sherlock and tapping his finger against the younger man's cheek. "Nah-ah," he chided. "No biting or I will go get that cane pole."
Sherlock pressed his teeth in slow and gentle just at the base, teasing. Was Greg just as full of false promises as John was? Really, the doctor never beat him. Not like he wanted him to.
Greg pulled out of Sherlock's throat, leaving his mouth gaping into the open air. He froze, and felt John do the same against his back side. Sherlock writhed, pouting. The Di stalked to the closet, rummaging through the toys for a cane pole. He found one, fairly short and thin. Wispy. Perfect, he thought. He returned to the scene in the bedroom.
John had gone back to his rimming, wrenching a few choked noises out of his young lover in the process. Greg stood for a moment and watched, enraptured by the scene before him versus their role in society and in front of the other yarders. It was remarkable the difference. John was naturally a caretaker; he was a bloody doctor for Christ's sake. But the way he took care of Sherlock was so much more. He loved the wanker, which was evident. But Sherlock's reciprocity was what got him, every time. He was struck to the bone when he saw the detective hand John a cuppa or offered something up, like it was a piece of himself, even when it wasn't. Him being nice was like baring his soul; which is why he rarely did it. Greg walked forward, returning to the scene.
"John, you might want to move your face," Greg declared, whipping the cane through the air a few times to get the feel of it before he placed it still on Sherlock's spine. The man stilled, breathing hard as John stood, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Sherlock's toes curled in the ropes in anticipation.
Greg pressed his groin into Sherlock's face, just enough to where he knew it was there. "Now Sherlock, I'm going to hit you. Hard. But I'll continue to get harder. When you've had enough want you to snap. Understood?" Sherlock nodded, paling visibly. He licked his lips, Greg sticking his thumb in between them before he could clench his jaw. He pried Sherlock's mouth back open and pressed his bollocks to the opening, encouraging Sherlock to suck them into his mouth. He did, body quaking. He moaned a little, mostly out of anticipation. God, he could come from this alone, he thought.
"If you come, you'll be licking it up cold out of the carpet fibers when we're through," John reminded him. That was always his punishment for coming before he was allowed. He nodded once to show that he heard.
"This time, if you bite me, John and I will have a little bit of fun on the bed and leave you here alone for a good hour, understood?" Sherlock nodded, eyes huge. He hated being left alone, especially bound. He rolled Greg's bollock on his tongue playfully.
The cane moved. He tensed for the blow, but Lestrade only tapped it lightly against his skin. It still stung a bit, but not even as bad as the riding crop had. He relaxed a bit. The next few strokes were harder, blazing a fire under his skin where the cane passed. He winced, remembering to keep his mouth relaxed. He rolled the bollocks again, eyes fighting a bit under the blindfold. He could hear John breathing hard next to him, the slide of his rough hand over his cock, and he craved just a glimpse of the man, his love. John must have heard his prayers, he mused. The blindfold was torn off, and he saw John's hand retreating with it in tow as his eyes snapped to the older man. John's eyes were huge with lust, drinking in the information. Every blow that Greg landed made him wince but his cock throbbed with the movement. Sherlock was prepared to take a few more; that last one actually interrupted his thoughts it was so hard.
The next blow fell, followed quickly by another that actually felt like it split his skin open. He grunted, laving his tongue over Greg's bollocks again. Trying to drive him to distraction.
"Sherlock," John said in his warning tone. Both men looked at the doctor. He raised his eyebrows. "Don't go farther than you can, remember last time?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. He waited. One more, he thought in John's general direction. Greg hit him again, hardest of all. Sherlock's back buckled, arced up, his hand snapping his fingers hard several times.
The cane clattered to the floor and his mouth was vacated, only to be replaced by Greg's cock. He was used violently, gagging on the DI's cock as drool ran down his chin and dribbled onto the floor. God he loved it. He opened his eyes and looked at John, seeing the doctor's possessive glint in his eyes. He stood, walking back behind the suspended detective running a flat hand down his flank. Greg pulled out for a second to give Sherlock room to breathe.
"God, yes John please," he begged, writhing in his bonds. John spanked him, hard, right over the worst of the cane lines. He yelped, biting his lower lip.
"Gah, Captain," he breathed, opening his mouth blindly again for the DI. Greg hesitated, waiting for John.
"A-frame?" he prompted. Greg smirked. "We can switch out for the next round, yeah?" John sank into Sherlock to the hilt in one move. He wasn't very long, but think. True to his stature. Greg on the other hand was quite long, like Sherlock. Good for him that the consulting detective had a nice long throat to fuck. Once John was seated and started to move, taking the wince off Sherlock's face, Greg took his mouth again. They used him with wanton abandon, thrusting and taking everything they could from the lucky detective strung up between them. He moaned, groaned, wailed and made every animalistic sound his throat could manage around Greg's cock, feeling the bruises form around John's fingertips in his skin and the prickling of his scalp as Greg tugged on his hair to drive deeper. It only made him want more. He told them as much, thrusting back on John when he could, canting his hips up for deeper penetration, laving his tongue out over Greg's balls when he stayed still in his throat before the draw out. He pulled all the tricks, pushing the both of them harder. The dog tags clinked on his chest and bounced back off Greg's thigh as he was swung back and forth between the two men.
When John wrapped his slicked hand around his cock, it was all over. He was whimpering before the first stroke was finished, begging for permission. Greg came first, spurting hot and thick down Sherlock's throat. He caught it all, swallowing on instinct before he realized that he didn't know if Greg was fully clean of not. He supposed that John would have asked first before he let Greg play with his toy. He was a possessive little doctor. He remained in Sherlock's mouth until he grew soft, at which point John was whispering for Sherlock to let go. Lestrade crawled down under Sherlock's hanging body, taking the younger man in his mouth and sucking back. John continued to work him into Greg's mouth, unrelenting.
"Come on, sweetheart. Come for us," he growled, digging his fingers into the welt from Lestrade's hit form the riding crop. It set Sherlock over the edge, coming hard and shooting his load into Greg's waiting mouth. The DI closed his lips, crawling back up to stand on his knees in front of Sherlock without having swallowed. He pressed his lips to the younger man's making him open them and cum-swapped, relishing in the way the younger man licked his own seed out of the DI's mouth. He moaned at the gesture, making John's breath quicken and stutter behind him. He was getting sore; worn out. John must have sensed it because he paused and came with a shout, gripping Sherlock's abused cheeks in a spreading death grip as he stared at the way his thick cock was engulfed in his partner.
"God, have mercy," he murmured, thrusting gently in and out a few times before withdrawing and walking to collapse on the bed next to where Greg now sat.
"God, we have to do that again sometime," Greg mused. Sherlock coughed quietly from where he still hung, apparently eager to be let down now. Greg stood and untied his elbows from the chain, lifted him up and had John unhook the harness from the end of the chain, setting him back on the bed to be untied. Lestrade started on the wrists when John stilled his hands. Both he and Sherlock looked at him, confused.
"Who said we were done yet? I said round two earlier, remember?" Greg swallowed, looking down at Sherlock. He was slack, head laying on its side on the duvet, eyes barely open, breathing slow and measured. In all, he didn't look like he much cared what they did to him anymore, as long as it got him doted upon.
Sherlock sighed, turning to face the other two men a bit better. He acquiesced in a rumbling baritone, "Let us begin."