These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)

Fair warning: ALL the kinks. It would be easier to tell you what is not contained here. I'm just going to leave it at gratuitous BDSM. I'm not warning dub-con this time, as they have an established safeword and it's all consensual, so I don't think it should be majorly triggery for anybody. But if you're squeamish, perhaps this won't be your cup of tea. Otherwise just enjoy the smut, my lovelies.

John should have noticed the hook screwed into the ceiling when he walked in the door, but he didn't look up. To be fair, he was carrying three bags of groceries, and it was quite difficult not to overbalance. He stumbled into the kitchen, setting them down on the table, and took a deep breath.

"Sherlock?" He called to the seemingly empty flat. The detective had been sprawled across the couch when he'd left an hour and a half ago. But it was possible he'd gotten a call from Lestrade and gone down to the yard.

John gave a mental shrug and began to put away the perishables. Fitting the milk and eggs around the more questionable specimens in the refrigerator.

He was on to the dry goods before he heard a small squeak on the wood flooring. He placed the cereal box on the shelf and was in process of turning around, when Sherlock pinned him up against the counter.

"Sherlock, what—"

The doctor shivered as the taller man's teeth sank into the skin on the side of his neck. Sherlock's chest was pressed up against his back fully, fingers wrapped tightly around his hips, keeping him stationary, trapped against the counter. John let his hands drop to the cool granite surface just to stay steady.

"Don't move," Sherlock barely breathed.

It wasn't like John was going to anyway, but he tried to keep still as much as possible. Sherlock was holding something in one of his hands. A long, thick strip of black cloth.

"Close your eyes," Sherlock nipped at John's neck again.

And the doctor's eyelids fluttered shut.

Sherlock was tying the cloth around him, making everything a shade darker. It was snug, but not uncomfortable.

"Lift your arms." Sherlock's voice was still right by his ear.

John complied, and his jumper was promptly tugged up over his head. He felt Sherlock's thin fingers, unbuttoning his shirt, brushing over every bit of newly exposed skin. It gave John the shudders. It was a soft, tickling touch, and yet it was oddly arousing.

Sherlock's weight was no longer fully pressed against him. It seemed as if he'd stepped away. But then in a moment, the wet heat of a tongue was slowly tracing down the top of John's spine. He bit back a moan.

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock rumbled, gripping John by the shoulders and turning him around.

Well that was a loaded fucking question, wasn't it?

"I—I think so."

"Good."

And then John was being pulled into a kiss. Sherlock's lips just touched against his softly at first. Closed, dry, but warm. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, pressing them together. John's erection was rapidly filling out, throbbing against the dull heat of Sherlock's already straining one. He parted his lips, and Sherlock's tongue swirled into his mouth. Claiming him, soothing him, taking complete control of the situation—as if he didn't have it already.

Sherlock stepped back again and grasped John's wrist firmly. He tugged the doctor towards the living room. John was a little uncertain, walking without being able to see. But he felt reasonably confident that Sherlock wouldn't let him run into anything.

He was led to some indecipherable place in the center of the living room and then released.

"Stay." Sherlock's voice was calm, yet commanding.

John ran his tongue along his lower lip reflexively. He felt a bit like he'd been set adrift at sea now that Sherlock was no longer touching him. They were still in the flat, in the parlor, but John didn't know exactly where in the room he was. He didn't know where Sherlock was, nor how long he was expected to just stand there. Perhaps a minute passed, but it felt like a lot longer. John didn't move.

"You're doing very well, John," Sherlock's voice was soft, coming from some distance in front of him. "Just let go. I'll take care of you. Relax."

John let some of the tension go out of his shoulders. He still stood straight, but not quite at attention. He focused on listening. He heard Sherlock's footsteps echo across the room. The clatter of metal—perhaps a chain? Then he felt the other man's presence, his body heat, directly in front of him.

Sherlock grasped John's right arm and lifted it slightly. He felt the soft press of velvet against his skin. Sherlock was fastening him into cuffs—but they weren't metal. They were still quite stiff, most likely some sort of thick leather. Once one of his wrists was secured, the other got the same treatment. John could feel that the cuffs weren't attached to anything yet, but got the distinct idea that they would be very soon.

"I'm going to be restraining you with your arms above your head for a considerable amount of time. If it becomes too uncomfortable, simply say—yellow. I will untie you, but I will take it to mean that you still want me to continue touching you. Do you understand?"

John nodded.

He heard the clink of a metal chain. His hands were pulled upwards and the cuffs were fastened above his head. He tugged, just to feel the restraint. If he stood up very straight, the stretch was not uncomfortable. But if he slouched, it put a strain on his shoulder.

There was a hand tangled in his hair. Wet lips pressed against him. He opened his mouth, searching to deepen the kiss, but Sherlock pulled away. Still stroking his hair.

"Promise me you'll safeword if I becomes too much to handle." Sherlock's voice was odd and quiet. It had a quality John had seldom heard before. Was it concern?

"I promise."

Sherlock stepped back, trailing his fingers across John's skin. This was going to be quite the afternoon.

John looked beautiful like that. Wrists wrapped in thick cuffs, attached to a chain that hung from the hook he'd screwed into the ceiling. Blindfolded. Flushed. Painfully aroused.

His tanned skin was a canvas, and Sherlock was going to make John his masterpiece—a jumble of pain, pleasure, and sheer want.

He quickly loosened the buckle of John's belt and slid it off slowly, before looping it and placing it around John's neck. He didn't pull it tight—just let it sit. Let John feel the leather against his skin and ponder what could be coming.

Next he unbuttoned John's trousers, pulled down the zip, and let them fall to the floor. He ran his fingers under the elastic of John's pants, dipping down, teasing, snapping it playfully against John's skin before pulling them down as well.

"Stand on your right foot."

Sherlock kneeled, and as John complied he carefully unlaced John's left shoe and removed it, pulling his sock off, along with the leg of his trousers.

"Very good, John, now your left."

The other shoe was also removed, with the trousers and pants. Then John was completely naked. Clothes deposited in a pile next to him.

Sherlock planted a small kiss on John's hipbone before standing and walking into the kitchen. He grabbed the ice tray out of the freezer, then strode back with careful, measured steps, until he was standing directly behind John. He could hear the increase in the doctor's breathing. He selected a single cube out of the tray and held it in his fingers.

The detective planted a small kiss on John's shoulder, licking along the wide stretch of skin towards his neck, and at the same time, pressed the ice cube to the small of John's back, right over his spine.

He felt John tense, shiver slightly, let out a gasp. Sherlock paused for a moment, before beginning to draw ornate little patterns with the ice cube. Exploring John's skin. Letting it melt to cold water on the smaller man's body.

Sherlock trailed around the doctor until he was in front of him once again, dragging the ice along the doctor's abdomen. He continued the patterns, before popping another ice cube into his own mouth. It was rather a struggle to hold it there. The cold hurt. He removed it after about thirty seconds, then dropped to his knees and took John's cock between his lips.

"Fuck," John hissed, obviously shocked at the cold wetness.

Sherlock swirled his tongue around the head of John's cock lazily. Letting him feel the cold slowly turn back into the warmth of body heat. He took John deeper into his mouth, to the back of his throat, but didn't let him stay there.

He pulled back, planting a wet kiss on the head of John's cock, but stayed on his knees. Trailing the ice along John's thighs. Across his arse cheeks. The cube was getting smaller—having melted all across John's body. It was roughly the circumference of a finger. He gently brushed it between John's arse cheeks, circling around his hole.

John jerked, and swore.

Sherlock licked the doctor's cock again, as a gentle reminder that everything was ok. Just relax.

He switched out the ice cubes, this time trailing up John's inner thighs, across his lower belly, down the shaft of his cock. Sherlock replaced the cold with the warmth of his tongue, licking along the trails of moisture the ice left on John's skin. Taking him into his mouth again for a few lazy swirls of his tongue around the head of John's cock.

John let out a breathless whine when Sherlock pulled back and stood up. He grabbed the end of the belt and pulled it tighter around John's neck, so it was restricting his airflow, but not cutting it off completely.

"Can you snap your fingers?" He asked in a low voice.

John snapped them, with only the suggestion of a command. The corners of Sherlock's mouth tugged upwards at that.

"Good boy. If you start to feel lightheaded, snap. I don't want you losing consciousness when the fun's barely started."

Then he tightened the belt, so the buckle was pressing into John's throat, leaving a mark. He counted to twenty before releasing. John gasped. Sherlock wrapped his fingers loosely around the doctor's cock and stroked it languidly.

"If you come without permission, you'll be very sorry." He nipped at John's lips. Then he pulled the belt tight again, counting to twenty-five, continuing to stroke John's cock. When he released, he felt John wobble slightly. He let go of the belt and placed a hand on the smaller man's shoulder to steady him.

"You're so pretty like this," he cooed softly in John's ear. "Helpless, vulnerable, and ravaged. You're going to be a mess by the time I'm done with you, Mr. Watson."

The detective drew back and walked over to his box of toys. He selected a small vibrator, plastic, with a bulged tip. He picked up the bottle of lubricant he'd set out next to the box and applied it liberally, squeezing it onto the toy and slicking his fingers.

He circled John, admiring the view before settling into a firm stance behind him. He thrust a finger into John's tight little hole without much preamble and was rewarded with a barely audible whimper.

"I like it when you're vocal," Sherlock growled, pushing further inside John, thrusting another finger into him. "What do you need, John? Tell me."

"You," John moaned.

"Full sentences, slut. We've talked about this."

"I need you inside me, Sher—"

The detective withdrew his fingers and gave John a quick swat on the arse.

"You will refer to me as Sir."

"Please fuck me, Sir," John grated out.

"There's a good boy," Sherlock spread John's thighs a bit further apart by pressing his knee between them. "Don't worry. I'll take such good care of you."

He slowly slid the head of the vibrator between John's arse cheeks. It probably felt like the head of a cock. He pressed it inside at a measured pace and John groaned. He waited until the toy was fully seated inside John's arse before turning it on.

John almost yelped at the sensation and then let out a string of curse words that would have embarrassed a sailor. The vibrator was pressing against his prostate. It felt sickeningly wonderful. Dangerously close to being over-stimulating. He'd never used a sex toy like this before. He was now regretting that life choice. He'd wasted so much time not feeling this way.

He squirmed and panted. Sherlock was holding onto him, keeping him steady, and gently undulating, thrusting the toy in and out ever so slightly.

Sherlock's erection was hot and heavy against John's arse cheek. He could feel it twitch through the fabric of the taller man's trousers. The skin on John's abdomen and thighs was still stiff gooseflesh from the ice. He could feel his blood pulsing, hear his heartbeat in his ears.

Not being able to see just seemed to take everything up another level. He could feel so much. He was drowning, lost in wave after wave of tickling pleasure.

Almost. Not quite. So fucking close to something. Anything. His balls were tight. He felt the heat welling up inside him. He was a burning center of intensity around the buzzing vibrator.

"Close," he choked out.

"Well, then, you'd better start begging," Sherlock's words were calm and steady. Like a life jacket. Keeping him barely afloat.

"Please let me come, Sir," John moaned.

"Certainly you can do better than that."

"I—fuck—I'm almost there, Sir. I've never needed to come so badly. Please, I'll do anything."

"Anything?"

"Yes. Whatever you want. Just—oh god—"

John was right on the verge. Teetering. A sudden gust of wind would put him over the edge. His blood was on fire. Muscles constricting. The world crumbling beneath him.

"I own you, John. Say it."

"You own me, Sir," John barely managed to squeak.

"You're mine. Nobody else's."

"Only yours."

"Come. Now."

Everything seemed to implode. John felt his body clamp down, but the vibrations were still ricocheting through him. It was too much. The pleasure ripped through his body, wrecking him. His cock was jerking, spilling his jizz all over the floor.

The vibrator was still on. Shocking his spent nerve endings. He tried to jerk away from it, but Sherlock followed his motion. The pleasure was quickly turning into oversensitivity. The first hints of pain were biting at the edges of his reality.

"Too much," John panted.

"Is it really? I think I could make you come again like this," Sherlock held him still, so he couldn't move away.

Panic tore through John's brain. He suddenly felt trapped. Afraid. His utter helplessness hadn't struck him until that moment.

"Breathe, John."

Sherlock's voice was the only tangible thing in the world. He latched onto it. John breathed into the sensation. Let himself be overwhelmed by it.

The vibrator ceased motion. John let his muscles go slack. He leaned back into Sherlock slightly. The fear melted away.

He tried to relax as Sherlock withdrew the toy. His muscles clenched at it, trying to keep it inside his body, but eventually it popped out with a small, slick sound.

"My, my, you've made quite a mess of the floor. Perhaps I should make you lick it up." Sherlock's thumb trailed across John's lower lip. He shivered slightly just at the thought of being forced to lick his own come off the wooden floorboards.

But Sherlock made no move to untie him. Instead, his body heat disappeared again. John was floating. A strange calm had come over him. Perhaps it had been the intensity of the orgasm. The dump of reward chemicals into his brain.

Everything felt fuzzy and distant.

That is, until he heard the whistle of the riding crop, and the leather made firm contact with his arse. He jumped, letting out a high-pitched grunt.

"Count aloud, whore. If you mess up, we start again."

"One," John squeaked. Tensing. Bracing himself for another blow. It came with a startling swiftness and accuracy. Seemingly across the exact same place the other had landed.

"Two," his voice was all breathy. Almost a whine. He couldn't help it. Even though he'd just come, his cock was twitching.

He counted to twelve before Sherlock paused to give him a break. Those long, wonderful fingers were gently massaging his arse cheeks. Pressing at the already raw burn.

"Such a lovely little cock slave…" Sherlock pushed a finger back into John's stretched hole. "Still so slick, and sloppy for me. I can hardly decide if I want to fuck your mouth or shove my thick cock in your arse." He dragged against John's prostate and the doctor's body jolted involuntarily.

John bit his lip to keep from saying—why not both, Sir?

That was too cheeky. Sherlock would whip him again. Was that a thing he wanted or didn't want? It was getting more difficult to decide with each passing moment.

Sherlock withdrew his fingers and John heard his footsteps echo dully through the flat. Clattering, rummaging noises. Then he was back. Pressing something wide and blunt into John's arse.

"There we are. That'll keep you nice and stretched out so we have options for later."

John's muscles clenched around the object—some sort of arse plug. Thick, but not very long. He felt full, but not entirely uncomfortable.

Before John had much more time to ponder the situation, Sherlock had grabbed the end of the belt again, and had pulled it tight. John felt the walls closing in. It was an exquisite sort of fear. A particular kind of breathlessness. He hadn't been ready for it. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was holding it for longer, trying to push the limits, or he was just already a bit worn out. He was on the verge of snapping his fingers before Sherlock released him.

John heard the chains clatter above him and suddenly they were slack. Sherlock had a hand on John's shoulder.

"On your knees, slut."

There was a slight pressure to suggest Sherlock would force him downwards if he disobeyed. John kind of wanted that. Was it bad to want that? John kept standing, biting his lip.

"I said down."

Sherlock forced him down onto his knees. His hands jerked against the chains uncomfortably. In his new position, knees slightly bruised on the sticky floor, there was a bit more strain on his shoulder. He had to stretch his torso as long as it would go to keep it from hurting.

But he was kneeling in his own ejaculate, and it was wonderfully, burningly humiliating.

The riding crop crossed John's back three times in rapid succession. John squirmed and grunted.

"I don't hear you counting," Sherlock growled.

"Thirteen… fourteen… fifteen," John gasped.

The floor creaked. Sherlock was moving. His only hint as to what was coming was the clinking of Sherlock's belt buckle and the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Long fingers tangled in John's hair and kept him steady as the slick crown of Sherlock's cock pressed against his lips.

"Open up."

John parted his lips.

Sherlock groaned as he slid his cock into the wet heat of John's mouth. Usually he was gentle about blowjobs, but he got the distinct feeling that this particular time—John didn't want him to be. He thrust, the tip of his cock hitting the back of the doctor's throat. He felt John gag slightly, and pulled back just a little bit.

He tugged at John's hair, causing the smaller man to moan around him. And goddamn that was glorious.

Sherlock tried to set a rather slow pace—fucking John's mouth languidly. Enjoying the slide of his lips, and the intoxicatingly vague roughness of his tongue. But it was getting more difficult to control himself by the minute.

He brought the riding crop down against John's left arse cheek, watching him twitch with pain.

"Just because my cock is in your mouth, it doesn't mean you get to stop counting," Sherlock said harshly.

John mumbled something around his dick. It was entirely unintelligible. Sherlock debated making John start the counting all over again, forcing him up to the same number they'd left off at. But John chose that particular moment to hollow his cheeks and take Sherlock as far as he could and well—it was hard to focus on anything for a few moments.

Should he just give up and come down John's throat? It wouldn't be much longer. He'd been achingly hard for what seemed like a small eternity. And John really was getting better at taking cock. He'd learned a trick or two.

But oh—he'd gone through all that trouble to stretch John's arse out and get him all slick and ready. It'd be a shame to waste it.

Reluctantly he withdrew from John's mouth and began fumbling with the buckles around John's wrists.

"Stay perfectly still," he growled.

Of course, John didn't move a muscle.

He got the cuffs off without much trouble. John's wrists were rubbed a bit red and raw. But there was no blood.

He circled back around behind John. Instead of bothering to give an order, he just pushed John forward onto his hands and knees. Arse in the air. He looked quite nice like that.

Sherlock kneeled behind him and grasped the flared base of the plug. He withdrew it slowly. John made a small noise, but it didn't exactly sound like protest. It's not like there was any mystery as to what was coming.

First Sherlock stuck his finger in. John was still good and slicked up. He put one hand on John's shoulder, and positioned himself with the other. He pushed in against the minimal resistance John's body had to offer at that point of things, and was all the way inside the hot constriction of the smaller man within a few moments.

He slapped John's arse once, and then began to move. There wasn't much need to be particularly slow or gentle. John had come so recently. It was unlikely he'd be able to get hard again. It would still feel good, but the older man was probably spent for another hour at least.

So Sherlock drove into him. The room was filled with the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, and John's fevered grunting.

"Do you like it when I use you like this?" Sherlock smacked John's red arse again.

"Yes. Sir." The doctor panted.

"Such a perfect little tart. Tell me how much you love having my cock inside you."

"It's—fuck—incredible. So big. Jesus."

That wasn't exactly a sentence, but Sherlock wasn't really in the mood to complain just then. He was so keyed up. Wound tight. Ready to explode at any moment.

He moved his hands to John's hips, digging his nails in.

"Shall I fill you up with my come? Tell me you want it."

"I want your come, sir." John's voice was trembling. His entire body was trembling.

God. The words burned through Sherlock's body. His balls were tightening. The pressure was building. It was entirely too much.

He came with a shout.

Pulsing inside John. Flooding him with all his pent up desire. He stayed inside him. For about a minute. Slowly coming down. Rubbing gently circles on his back.

He withdrew and undid the knot of the blindfold. He helped John to a standing position. Wrapped him in a hug. Held him. John's legs were shaky. He was still breathing erratically.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered. Still gently rubbing across the angry red marks on John's back.

John seemed to have gone nonverbal.

It wasn't such an uncommon thing. After a scene ended, the adrenaline stopped. All the pain and previously numbed sensations slowly began to seep back.

He gently led John to the bedroom. Set him on the mattress. Had him lie on his side so he could avoid putting pressure across anywhere that would sting.

Sherlock settled down next to him. Facing him, so he could monitor him for signs of discomfort. John closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. There was a small smile on his lips. Even though Sherlock knew that John probably felt raw, and over stimulated, he couldn't help but touch him. Just an arm draped over him.

You own me, Sir—John's voice echoed through Sherlock's head over and over again.

Perhaps he'd gotten other people to say it before. But they'd said it only so he'd let them come. It had only mattered in the heat of the moment.

But this did matter—because John belonged to him. Completely.

Thanks go to wholockian729 for doing what she does.

Your reviews, follows and favorites give me ALL the warm fuzzies. Have I mentioned that I love you guys? I have. I'll say it again. I LOVE you, and I refuse to be ashamed of it. I will scream about my love from the rooftops, and the neighbors will file a noise complaint, and it will be worth it.

Many of you have recognized my angst-porn-angst-porn pattern. So buckle your safety belts for next Wednesday, because things are about to get quite bumpy.

And finally, here's the shameless self-promotion. Feel free to tune it out.

The Sequel to my other fic, "A Study In Shagging" will be posted on Saturday. It's called "Almost Like a Virgin."

Also, I'm starting a series of Sherstrade vignettes that will be posted every Sunday. It will be called "I'd Arrest You if I Had Handcuffs."