Although he couldn't see, Sherlock knew he'd never been in this part of the club before. Mycroft guided him down a flight of stone steps whose chill was barely suppressed by the Persian rug. When the overall cold made him shiver, his brother drew him closer.
Almost there.
Finally they stopped. Sherlock felt his toes sink into coarser fabric. Mycroft unclipped the leash, moved away, and rummaged in a drawer. While he waited, the younger Holmes inhaled deeply through his nose and analyzed the smells: freshly scrubbed stone, hot beeswax (candles) and recently laundered wool. Cumulatively, they suggested that he was in a candlelit basement. Curiousity now afire, he turned his face in the direction his brother had taken, trying to look quizzical through the blindfold.
Always so impatient, Mycroft scolded lightly. Sherlock heard the whump of two soft items colliding (clothes tossed on a bed, from the sound of it) just before his brother's hand gripped the back of his neck and pressed downward. Bend over.
Sherlock obeyed. The plug was taken out, only to be replaced by a lubricated object that felt cold and cylindrical. He massaged it with his inner walls, trying to determine what it was, but Mycroft's voice interrupted the exploration.
Stand up now. I'm going to dress you.
Dress him? Sherlock let out a muffled exclamation. This night was definitely taking turns he could not anticipate. Consternation crept in, but his cock didn't soften a fraction, and he complied when Mycroft guided his feet through a pair of trouser legs. After the one-piece, long-sleeved garment was zipped up, Mycroft guided him backward until something hit the backs of his knees, making him tumble onto its surface. Bedsprings squealed and his palms pressed against a rough blanket.
Stay there. He'll be here soon. And I'll be watching.
Sherlock nodded, biting the rubber gag as pain from Donovan's paddle skills burned in his arse. He listened to Mycroft walk away. Then steel hinges groaned and a heavy door clicked shut.
He ran his fingers over the fabric of the jumpsuit. It was clean but starchy, and the stiff texture rubbed his cock when he shifted. He wasn't physically restrained, so he could touch himself if he dared, but Sherlock now regarded the night as a series of tests and challenges, and yielding to weakness would be akin to admitting defeat.
The sound of two men approaching interrupted his ruminations. He sat up straighter on the cot and listened carefully. One was heavier and had a confident and purposeful stride. The other moved more tentatively.
Sherlock estimated that they were ten feet away when they stopped. Keys jingled and a lock slid open. The door to his room opened.
See, Ian? He's already in custody, waiting to be processed.
Lestrade. But who was Ian?
Christ, Greg, I thought you were having me on.
Dimmock. The more tractable and annoying of the two DIs. Sherlock was surprised that he was here, apparently willing to participate in or at least witness the night's activities. He'd pegged Dimmock as the type whose sexual preference was limited to hand-in-hand walks through the county fair. After Donovan and Anderson, Sherlock's ability to be embarrassed was nonexistent, so he waited to see how things would play out.
Lestrade's fingers pushed through his hair, undoing first the gag and then the blindfold. When both fell away, Sherlock licked his lips and gazed at his surroundings. They were obviously in the club basement, in a section that had been redecorated to resemble a nineteenth century jail cell. The stone walls were clean but rough-looking, with a haphazard plaster job completing the shoddy effect. A threadbare rug covered most of the floor. Looking down, Sherlock saw that he was sitting on a cot with a military-issue blanket and wearing a bright orange jumpsuit that practically screamed "Imported from American facility".
Drink this. Lestrade held out an open bottle of a popular energy beverage. As he sucked back the contents, Sherlock noticed that the other man had removed his black outfit and now wore 'civilian' clothes, although his collar could be detected above the shirt's neckline. Behind him, Dimmock was similarly attired, and staring at Sherlock with mixed shock and fascination.
This was going to be fun.
Lestrade cleared his throat. The ID in your wallet says 'Sherlock Holmes'.
Sherlock couldn't resist. Oh, is there a script? Show me a copy, please, so I can study my lines.
Dimmock's eyes flew to Lestrade, who flushed before seizing the 'prisoner' by the front of his jumpsuit and hauling him upright.
You want to cut to the chase, you little wanker? Fine by me. Strip.
When Sherlock hesitated, Lestrade shook him. Don't act shy. It's obvious that you like this. You're so hard you're about to poke out of that jumpsuit.
He seized the younger man's imprisoned crotch with his other hand and massaged it until a wet patch covered the heavy fabric. Sherlock moaned and his knees trembled.
Having trouble standing up, are you? Fine, you can kneel.
When he was released Sherlock sank to the stone floor, forehead pressed against the DI's growing bulge. The brief respite rekindled his challenging nature, and with it his determination to top from the bottom. Lestrade wasn't a real Dom as far as he was concerned. He was Mycroft's puppet, and Sherlock was determined to undo him, just to prove that he could.
He raised his chin, caught the DI's zip between his teeth, and tugged it slowly downward, until the man's erection brushed against his cheek with only a thin layer of wet fabric to protect it from the detective's attentions. After winking at both policemen and licking his lips, Sherlock ran his tongue along the entire length before teething lightly on the crown.
Lestrade groaned and his hips jerked. Then, suddenly, Sherlock pulled away, winked at him again, and crawled over to Dimmock, who looked like he was about to faint- likely because so much blood had rushed to his cock. Sherlock smiled wickedly before using his hands to extract the man's prick from his trousers. He took the red, sticky head in his mouth and ran his tongue around the crown before letting it slide smoothly down his throat. Dimmock hissed and seized the back of his head, forcing the younger Holmes to take him deeper.
That's it. Suck him good, Lestrade growled, having finally caught his breath. You owe him after being such a cunt to him. And you now owe me for what you just did. He struck Sherlock's arse, jostling the object inside and making him shiver. Guess how I'll be taking payback?
Sherlock focused on his self-assigned task, which was to take Dimmock apart. He swallowed, relishing the way Dimmock shuddered at his tight throat muscles clamping down, and lightly squeezed the man's balls. When he felt them tightening and the grip on his hair turned painful, he increased his rhythm and kept his eyes locked on Dimmock's. This is almost too easy….
His self-congratulatory train of thought was abruptly derailed when Dimmock pulled out quickly and shot a load of thick ejaculate onto his face. Sherlock gasped in surprise, sending a good portion of the release into his gaping mouth. When he coughed, the policeman whispered gleefully, You really are a slut. Greg was right- you're gagging for cock. Thought a visible reminder was in order.
He released Sherlock's hair, letting the detective fall back onto his heels. Their pressure against his sore arse made him wince. Sperm dripped down his cheekbones and chin and off his curls. Fuck, he thought. I literally never saw that coming.
Okay, cock slut, playtime's over. Down to business. A smirking Lestrade gripped the back of his neck and pulled him to his feet. I already told you to strip once. Don't make me ask again.
Sherlock wanted to wipe away the congealing mess on his face, but refused to give them the satisfaction. After shifting his cool, hostile stare from one to the other, he unzipped the orange jumpsuit and let it pool around his ankles. The dusky light from the wall-mounted candles played on his pale skin, giving it a golden hue.
The two men consumed his slender, naked body with their eyes. Lestrade circled him once and administered a hard spank to his sore but still luscious arse. Once again the object inside him jostled, and he whimpered as it nudged his prostate. Dimmock's eyes narrowed.
Look at him squirm, Greg. I reckon he's got something up his arse.
Licking away some semen that had dripped onto his lips, Sherlock said, How come all your deductions aren't that brilliant?
Lestrade grabbed his chin and forced eye contact. I believe that you're forgetting one thing, Sherlock. You're supposed to be apologizing to Detective Inspector Dimmock, not digging yourself deeper into a hole.
Bloody make me sorry then.
So it's like that, eh? Challenge accepted. Ian, search the little bastard.
Right. Dimmock, all traces of his former shyness gone, dug into his coat pocket and produced a penlight. He strode over to Sherlock and ordered, Open your mouth.
Sherlock obeyed, making sure to stick out his tongue first. That earned him another hard smack from Lestrade. He'd recovered from the groping and surprise facial, and happily engaged in a battle of wills with the Yarders. When Mycroft wasn't in the vicinity, he could be what one Dom called "a nightmare sub."
Dimmock glared but said nothing. He clicked the light on and shone it into Sherlock's mouth. Now, tip your head back.
When the detective complied, he trained the light on Sherlock's nostrils. At the same time, Lestrade pressed against Sherlock's back and rubbed his cloth-covered erection, still damp with the younger man's saliva, between his cheeks.
He's so fucking tight, Ian. Wait until you have a go at this arse.
Me first then. Little slag owes me. Dimmock shone the light in both of Sherlock's ears before seizing his jaw. Isn't that right, Sherlock?
Owe you? You appear to be under the impression that you've given me something besides useless investigation tips.
As he spoke, Sherlock was mildly surprised that Lestrade hadn't gagged him again. Leaving his mouth free like that was an invitation to a healthy dose of verbal abuse, Holmes style. Dimmock glared at him again, and Sherlock instantly clued in: the younger DI was not a natural Dom, and being goaded helped him achieve the anger level necessary to be punitive.
This was turning out to be fun indeed.
Dimmock released his jaw and growled, Shut it. Now raise your arms. When Sherlock did, he peered at the light smattering of hair underneath before turning the light off and re-pocketing it. He produced a pair of latex gloves, pulled them on with a deliberately menacing snap, and grabbed Sherlock's penis. Hold still, he ordered before peeling back the foreskin with his right hand. The fingers of his left slid slowly, maddeningly, up and down the shaft. At the same time, Lestrade dipped his tongue into their prisoner's ear and caressed his nipples. Sherlock's knees shook at the all-points stimulation and he bit back a moan.
Find anything, Ian?
Just a lot of moisture, but from natural causes. There's one more place I have to look, though.
Lestrade planted heavy hands on Sherlock's shoulders and spun him around. On the bed, he ordered. Chest down, arse up.
When Sherlock didn't immediately comply, Lestrade shoved him. He sprawled on the rough blanket, cursing when the fabric rubbed harshly against his penis. The springs went haywire when Lestrade forced him into position and held his wrists behind his back for good measure.
I believe this is police brutality, Detective Inspector.
In my dictionary it's called payback. Now shut it.
Sherlock closed his eyes and bit his lip as Dimmock shoved a knee between his thighs to force them further apart. Strong fingers seized his buttocks and parted them roughly.
He's definitely got something in here, Greg. I see a string hanging.
Really? Take it out, then, so we can put something in.
A warm, lubed finger pressed carefully against his opening until the tight muscle yielded and allowed it to enter. Sherlock held completely still, curiousity temporarily overriding arousal. What had Mycroft stuffed inside him? He could feel Dimmock prod it before tugging on the aforementioned string.
There was a muted click, and a nerve-shattering vibration began. A fucking vibrator, Sherlock realized with horror and excitement. Pulling on the string activated the-
The object shuddered and gyrated against his prostate, smashing all coherent thought. He squirmed and started to scream, but Lestrade's broad palm silenced him. Dimmock laughed at his dilemma and made matters worse- or better- by dealing one spank after another to the sensitive area where his upper thighs and buttocks joined. When his arse muscles tightened against the pain, his rectum closed more firmly around the toy, intensifying the pressure on his sweet spot. He begged to be allowed to come, but Lestrade's hand garbled his appeal.
Look at him squirm, Ian. What a slut. Lestrade leaned over until his cheek brushed Sherlock's feverish face. Want to come, bitch?
Sherlock nodded desperately. He had no more fight or arrogance in him. All his consciousness was focused on his aching prick and over-stimulated arse.
Lestrade released his mouth and wrists. Too bad. Us first.
ME first, Dimmock interrupted hoarsely.
When he felt the younger DI tugging on the vibrator's retrieval apparatus, Sherlock grasped fistfuls of his hair and shook his head back and forth in a mindless rhythm. The scalp pain distracted him from the torturous pressure in his cock, which hung heavily between his legs and threatened to break out of the leather ring keeping it in check. As the vibrator started sliding out, he arched his back even further, whimpering as his erect nipples dragged across the coarse blanket. The extra stimulation made his stomach muscles tighten and his twitching hole clamp down around the string.
Let it go, you greedy little bastard. Lestrade spanked him again. You won't be empty for long.
Sherlock tried to relax, but couldn't. Dimmock resorted to sliding two fingers inside his lube-wet hole, scissoring him open wide so that the toy could be removed. As he closed his eyes and trembled in relief, Sherlock heard the man behind him undo his zip and tear something open- a condom packet?
Look at you, Dimmock grunted. So wet and open. I have to fuck you now. Come on, take my cock, you goddamn prat.
He pushed his substantial length into Sherlock, groaning in bliss when he bottomed out. Sherlock rested his forehead against his arm and welcomed this penetration: the smooth glide was sheer heaven compared to the vibrator's torment. His internal walls were still sensitive enough to feel everything more acutely than normal, but at least his body wasn't holding his mind hostage now.
Dimmock indulged in a few slow, full-length strokes- Sherlock imagined him peering down, entranced by the sight of his cock plunging in and out of their prisoner's well-stretched hole. Finally, the view lost its charms- or more likely, his self-restraint crumbled- and Dimmock seized Sherlock's hips.
You wanted to be stuffed full, did you? Here it comes!
Sherlock spread his legs further and tilted his hips to improve the angle. Before he could concentrate on enjoying the fucking, Lestrade shuffled on the mattress until his knees nudged the detective's lowered head.
You owe me a blow job, Sherlock. He grabbed Sherlock under the arms and raised him until he was on his hands and knees. Holding the younger man's head steady with one hand, he lowered the waistband of his ruined underwear and took out his angry, throbbing prick. Open your mouth. You're going to suck me until I can't spray your gut any more.
Sherlock parted his lips and let Lestrade push inside. The DI wasn't long but he was wide, and Sherlock's jaw ached from the pressure of keeping his throat accessible. When Lestrade's pubes surrounded his nose, he felt the grip on his head tighten, holding him in place.
Look at you. Being spit-roasted by two of Scotland Yard's finest.
Sherlock snorted at that. He couldn't help it. Dimmock responded with a particularly aggressive thrust that shoved him forward and made Lestrade's cock go deeper into his throat.
Don't even talk to him any more, Greg. He's here for us tonight: let's just fuck the shit out of him.
So they did. Sherlock braced himself as they used his mouth and arse without reservation, grunting and spraying their sweat onto his naked back. Dimmock held his hips with such force that he could feel bruises beginning to form. Lestrade fucked his throat so hard that Sherlock could only breathe through his nose, and each inhale was accompanied by the thick scent of male musk. Beneath him, the bed rocked noisily, sending his heavy cock swinging and his own pre-ejaculate sprinkling onto his inner thighs.
Oh, God. Lestrade's hips jerked and trembled, and his grip on Sherlock's hair became so tight that the detective's eyes watered. A split second later, Sherlock felt a viscous stream spraying deep into his throat. Behind him, Dimmock cursed under his breath and made one final, punishing thrust before shooting a load that grossly inflated the condom. If his mouth hadn't been engaged, Sherlock would have been tempted to ask him how long it had been since he'd fucked anything besides the cushions in his office.
When Lestrade slipped his softening prick out, rivulets of drool and sperm escaped from Sherlock's mouth. The younger Holmes felt an identical trickle from his aching arse when Dimmock's withdrawal resulted in overspill. The moment they let go of him, he collapsed onto his side, feeling like he'd run a marathon. He knew without looking that he was a mess of sweat and bruises.
It felt fucking fantastic.
Hey. Lestrade shook his shoulder gently, laboured breathing making his voice hoarse. Nice ride, Sherlock. Well done. Well, Ian, you reckon he's made it up to you for being such an arrogant sod so often?
Yeah. After removing the condom and dropping it in a nearby receptacle, Dimmock flopped back on the bed. For now, anyway. Christ, Greg, why didn't you tell me it would be like this?
Mycroft's voice answered. The element of surprise is essential, Detective Inspector. Without time to rehearse, your actions are guaranteed to be both spontaneous and natural.
The elder Holmes stood in the cell's doorway. The grungy surroundings and bedraggled state of the three men staring at him made him appear even more regal and polished than usual. His scarlet tie and white shirt were an obscenely bright contrast to the shadows and stone walls.
Mr. Holmes. Dimmock rose quickly and pulled up his trousers. I don't know if I should thank you or wonder what you've done to me.
Mycroft smiled. You may do both.
Then thank you.
You're welcome. Gregory, please show Mr. Dimmock the way to the showers, and take one yourself. Leave your clothes in the basket by the door. They'll be laundered and returned to you by the end of the evening.
Yes, Sir. Lestrade's gaze turned toward Sherlock, but Mycroft said, I'll see to my brother. Good evening, gentlemen.
Dimmock looked down at the still-panting figure on the bed. You all right, Holmes?
Sherlock gazed at him through half-closed eyes. Of course, he grumbled.
When the two policemen departed, Mycroft approached the bed. I was watching on the CCTV system, little brother. That was very impressive.
Sherlock raised his head. How many more do I have? Atonements?
Two. But for the next hour, you're going to rest and rejuvenate. You've earned it. I'm very proud of you.
As if on cue, two silent, black-garbed Diogenes attendants entered the cell. One carried a bottle of chilled water, and helped Sherlock sit up to drink it. The other placed a pre-warmed blanket over him. The younger Holmes sighed in relief as its gentle heat sank into his sore and tired muscles.
A bath is being drawn for you upstairs. Do you feel like moving yet?
Yes, of course. Sherlock swung his feet to the floor and stood up carefully, clutching the blanket close to his body. I'm not a porcelain doll, Mycroft.
Naturally not. Dolls don't bruise so prettily. Mycroft surveyed the marks that littered his brother's white skin, his gleaming eyes reflecting pride and hunger.
Sherlock shivered. Then the impossible happened: he grew even harder.