Deflowered-07
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Two days later John stepped inside his study, where Mike already waited for him, going through some letters.
"Meeting already over?" Mike asked.
"As you can see," John answered distraught. He began pacing in front of his desk. "We have to do something about the mayoral election. We need to ensure that our man wins."
"Consider it done," Mike replied without looking up. "I know just the right people. People with large, empty pockets. Are we on a budget?"
John shook his head.
"No. No limits. It's too important for our business."
Mike put a letter back in its envelope.
"Noted. Something else?" he stood up to take a folder out of one of the shelves that framed the walls.
"Bayswater Road," John seethed, and stopped his pacing. "There is trouble ahead. Again!"
"Yeah," Mike said. "Thought so myself. Who should I send to deal with it?"
"The Schultz brothers."
Mike turned around to face John. A pained expression crossed his features.
"Oh, John," he groaned. "Come on. Not the Schultz brothers."
"Why not?" John asked with a dangerous gleam in his eyes.
"Because they're always making such a mess with their knives," Mike explained with a sigh. "Let me arrange something with Luigi and Paul. They're fast, silent, efficient, and they don't leave a mess behind. Really reliable, neat killers."
John put his hands behind his back.
"I want to make a mess!" he shouted. "Let the police and everybody else think they stepped into a slaughterhouse!"
Mike took a deep breath. When John was in a bad mood like this, he had to tread carefully.
"Is this really necessary?" he asked with caution.
"Yes it is!" John hissed. "I have to set an example! Do you want everyone thinking, that I've grown a pussy overnight - so they can fuck with me?! Do you want them to fuck with me, like they would fuck a bitch?!"
"Jesus, Johnny. Calm down," Mike tried to soothe his friend. "Fine, fine. I'm sending the Schultz brothers. You want a slaughterhouse - you'll get a slaughterhouse. But be prepared that DI Dimmock will send us the bill from his dry cleaners."
"I don't care!" John roared. "Buy him a new suit. Buy him new shoes and socks!"
John rubbed one hand over his face. Then he looked at Mike again. The red light in his eyes hadn't really subsided. "By the way… why haven't you told me about those troubles in Bayswater Road?"
"I told you a week ago," Mike answered with a calm and even voice. "You weren't listening, because you were too busy being grumpy and angry with yourself for enjoying the company of this Sherlock guy too much. So if that's… - Good god, John!"
Faster than Mike thought possible, John had drawn his gun and stepped forward, pressing the gun against the underside of Mike's double chin.
"Are you implying that I've neglected my business, because I was pining over a cheap cockslut?" John asked with deadly calm.
"Johnny-boy… please," deliberately, Mike used the old nickname. "Take the gun down. It's me… Mikey. Deep down… you don't want to shoot me, right?"
John didn't seem to hear him.
"I-am-not-in-love-with-a-whore!" he hissed through clenched teeth.
Mike swallowed. He had never been more frightened in his entire life.
"Who said anything about love? Surely not me!"
Suddenly John seemed to come back to his senses. He looked at Mike, then at his gun and dropped his arm.
"Fuck… Mike… I'm," he turned his back on his friend and made a few steps. "Didn't mean to… FUCK!" He shouted with anger and frustration.
Mike dared to breathe again while discreetly wiping the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand.
"You frightened the shit out of me. Never thought you could get that wound up about," he stopped and chose his next words carefully. "About another man. And… by the way… I wouldn't call him cheap. I've seen the copy of the cheque you had paid the Adler woman for his services. Had he at least been worth it? Worth all the fuss?"
John sighed. He turned back to Mike. A wry smile played over his lips.
"He exceeded my expectations. He...," John shook his head. "I can't find the right words to describe him. He's an insufferable git."
"Sounds like you're really smitten with him," Mike said with a small grin.
"Mike! I can't be smitten with…" John sounded exhausted. "He's a whore – for God's sake!"
"Your point being?" Mike asked.
John looked at his friend as if he had lost his mind.
"You can't be serious!"
"Fine, then let me hear your solution to the problem. Are you really planning on never seeing him again? Although he'd improved your mood considerably?" Mike addressed his concerns.
"Never seeing him again would be the right thing to do," John said flatly.
Mike gave a short laughter.
"When had been the last time you wanted to do the right thing?"
"I don't know!" John shouted, exasperated. "But I know that it won't do any good to see him again," he repeated stubbornly.
"Why not?" Mike needled. "Why not visit him regularly? At least he's a professional. You didn't have had too much luck with amateurs lately. Pay him – enjoy him. I won't judge you for it. I have known you long enough. And when it's over – buy him a nice watch and be done with it."
John hesitated.
"So you think… I should…?"
Mike sighed.
"I don't know what you should do. But I have known you long enough to know what you want to do."
John stared into space while the seconds ticked by.
"FUCK!" he finally shouted.
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A week after his talk with Irene, Sherlock had been bored out of his mind, and finally he decided to choose the lesser of two evils. Therefore he had declared himself recovered and had gone back to work.
But he was even more restless, impatient, and fidgety than he had been before.
Yet, none of his encounters with the various customers he was servicing, were as thrilling as John's visits had been. Everything his customers did to him – or with him – seemed dull and boring to Sherlock when compared to John's cruel kindness.
Now he stood in Irene's most beautiful parlour, waiting impatiently for his next customer. There were three parlours in Irene's house – each of them furnished differently – according to the wealth or importance of the current guests. They all had a table, chairs, armchairs, and a sofa – but no bed.
Two hours ago Irene had told him to shower and shave, to dress in a nice suit, and to wait. He had done as he had been told, and now dreaded another boring night, because a booking of one of the parlours usually meant long explanations, tedious role plays (such as patient and doctor, pilot and steward, tycoon and secretary, teacher and pupil), and wee cocks.
Although Irene had been secretive about the identity of his customer, Sherlock guessed it had to be a politician or at least someone famous, but he really didn't care.
Sherlock glanced angry at the clock on the mantelpiece. He had been waiting for more than 20 minutes. Above all, his mysterious customer was not on time.
Finally Sherlock heard the sound of an opening door. Still with his back to the entrance he said in his most haughty tone, "You're late," before he turned around slowly to take a look at this lazy customer, who had him waiting for so long.
When he registered who the person in the expensive suit with the black turtleneck was, he couldn't believe his eyes.
John.
John… with his hands in his pockets and a slightly amused, but hard glare that made Sherlock's heart beat faster.
"You came back," Sherlock uttered the words, before he could think about them, and to his surprise, he found that he didn't regret saying them. "You came back… for me?" he asked full of incredulity and awe – the last two words a mere whisper.
John just stood in the doorframe, sucking on his lower lip.
"Looks like it," he said at last.
Sherlock still couldn't believe it. He had to be sure, that he wasn't imagining things. He had to touch and taste. He stepped up to John, but before he reached him his legs gave out, and he sank to his knees – just in front of John. His arms went around John's hips, while he buried his face in the folds of John's open jacket.
John still didn't touch him.
"Nobody ever came back for me," Sherlock murmured astonished, and a tentative hand reached out to comb through Sherlock's dark curls.
"Well, nice to know that I'm the first one in more than one regard," John's voice sounded hoarse, and Sherlock looked up. When their eyes met, Sherlock shivered in anticipation. He recognized the fire and the hunger in those depthless, blue eyes, but also the special kind of cruelty, he had missed so much.
"I made you wait," John continued softly, still combing his fingers through the unruly hair.
"Yes, you did," Sherlock confirmed, and added dead serious. "You may now apologize."
Something in John's face changed.
"You really missed me," he stated, stroking Sherlock's cheek with the thumb of his left hand. He sounded just a little bit unbelieving.
Still kneeling, Sherlock straightened his body. He began to rub his crotch against John's knees.
"Yes," he breathed into John's trousers and the promising hardness he found there.
"And that's," he pressed his own rapidly swelling manhood against John's legs, "that's not a gun in my pocket. I'm just that happy to see you."
Sherlock heard a light chuckle, before John spoke to him.
"Your pillow talk has improved," John remarked, enjoying the feeling of this talented hot and wet mouth over his cloth-clad erection. "So eager," he purred.
"Shall I milk you dry again to take the edge off?" he continued with a devilish smile.
Sherlock startled, and stopped everything he was doing. Slowly, he looked up to John. Already, his eyes were half-lidded, his full lips red and moist, and utterly inviting.
"If you want to… milk me again," he began with hesitation, "I won't stop you. But…"
He bit his full lower lip, and another rush of blood shot down into John's nether regions. "But this time… I would prefer a proper fucking with a proper orgasm."
Sherlock lifted one of his eyebrows and waited with an expression that seemed to say, ball's in your court.
"Sassy," John scolded and tugged harshly on Sherlock's hair just to hear him moan blissfully, but he didn't sound too angry. "Still getting off on the pain?" he teased.
"With you? Always," the reply came promptly.
John had to calm himself with a deep breath, being compelled to simply fuck the boy right there on the floor.
But that was not what he had planned for this evening. He didn't want a short, hard fuck. He wanted to make the most of it. He wanted to make it last. He wanted to enjoy Sherlock's submission, his dreadful honesty, his sweet moans of surrender, and his biting sarcasm. This boy was such a strange, beautiful creature, and a strangely contradicting mixture. Slutty and demanding; intelligent, yet stupid; submissive, but pushy. A strange mixture, indeed – but a mixture, John found oddly compelling and intriguing.
Tonight, John wanted to learn something new about Sherlock. He wanted to learn how he would react, what he would sound like, when he received more pleasure than his body and brain could process.
John longed to hear Sherlock beg for mercy, and he knew how to achieve his goal.
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To be continued…
I made a thing… a pic-set… I'm sooo embarrassed. *blush*
lorelei - lee . tumblr post / 51825345435 / i - made - a - pic - set - for - chapter - 7 - of - my
