Fair warning: this story has been getting far too schmoopy lately. So, today, we're back to the basics. Some good old-fashioned, ridiculous kink. It's gunplay, friends. Guns being inserted into various orifices for sexual gratification. There's also some hostage play/rape fantasy. As always, if that doesn't sound like your idea of fun, feel free to hit the back button. Enjoy!
"Sherlock! Where did you even get that?" Greg groaned.
Sherlock simply shrugged, toying with the sleek, Browning Hi-Power sitting in his lap. Really, if Greg knew what was good for him, he'd confiscate the damn thing. He might even give Sherlock a write up for possession of an illegal firearm. Wasn't it bad enough that Sherlock still occasionally did coke? Never in front of Greg, but still. How many times had he let Sherlock break the law just because they were fucking? Really, it was immoral. It made Greg a bloody hypocrite, didn't it?
"I filed down the sight," Sherlock offered casually, running his finger along the barrel of the gun. "It's not loaded either."
"Good," Greg sighed, "that's just fantastic. Can you please put that away before I have to take it from you?"
Sherlock caught Greg's eye. They were sitting in Sherlock's dingy little flat, on opposite ends of his couch. Greg had a cold mug of tea in front of him, and had only been half-focusing on Football highlights for the past twenty minutes.
Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock lifted the gun to his mouth, parted his lips, and ran his tongue slowly along the barrel.
Greg's heart did an awkward little jump. That shouldn't be sexy. God damn it.
Sherlock slid the gun slowly into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, licking it sloppily. He started pushing the gun in and out of his perfect mouth in unhurried, languid motions.
"For fuck's sake," Greg grunted, pretending to be annoyed. He should have been annoyed. Perhaps offended. But all he felt was an inappropriate prickle of arousal.
The gun popped out of Sherlock's mouth with a slick sound. The younger man raised his eyebrows. "Do you want to play hostage?" He asked innocently.
"And what exactly does that involve?"
"Anything you'd like. You can blindfold me, and tie me up, and threaten me with the gun… we could pretend it's loaded… I could struggle."
Greg's stomach lurched oddly. How had he gotten to this point in his life? God. These things really shouldn't excite him. But what was the point in even fighting it?
"Got ropes and blindfold around here, do you?" Greg asked casually.
"Inside the box. Left side of the closet," Sherlock smiled coyly.
Greg rolled his eyes. But he stood and walked into Sherlock's bedroom. The small, wooden chest from his last apartment had apparently come along with him. It was basically in the same place. He opened the lid and saw the familiar array of dildos and leather trinkets. He pulled out a strip of dark, black cloth, and a few pieces of rope before returning to the living room.
He approached Sherlock from behind.
"Close your eyes," Greg said softly.
Sherlock obeyed, and the older man tied the black cloth over his eyes. He reached down and plucked the gun out of Sherlock's hands, before pushing him forward slightly. He set the gun aside while he grabbed both of Sherlock's wrists and pulled them behind his back, wrapping the rope around them and tying them securely.
He then pressed the muzzle of the gun against the back of Sherlock's neck.
"I've got you now, you bastard," he said in a low voice, "now tell me what you know."
"Never," Sherlock replied haughtily, "you'll have to kill me."
"Who are you working for?" Greg barked.
Sherlock stayed silent. Greg circled around the couch to stand in front of the younger man. He drew the gun back, and slapped Sherlock across the face. Not hard enough to actually make him bleed, but more than enough to smart.
The younger man gasped. Squirmed on the couch. Greg reached forward and grabbed a fist full of Sherlock's hair, tugging his head back.
Sherlock breathed heavily. Greg shoved the gun against his lips, tracing over them.
"I know you're working for one of the biggest drug dealers in town," Greg said on an impulse, "just give him up. I can make it worth your while. Put you in witness protection. Nobody would ever know."
"Fuck off," Sherlock sneered at him.
"Well, then, I can see we're going to have to do this the hard way," Greg sighed.
He manhandled Sherlock. Grabbed him and flipped him over one of the couch armrests. Stomach down, torso halfway supported, half mid-air. Legs bent slightly, sprawled along the length of the couch. Sherlock mostly complied with the movement, putting up a pretense of a struggle, but helping Greg turn him over.
"What are you going to do to me?" Sherlock asked sourly. "Fuck me into submission? Better men than you have tried."
Greg said nothing. He reached down between the couch cushions—the place the lube was last time he came over. He got lucky. The tube of KY was still there. He set the tube on the coffee table and reached around Sherlock, undoing his belt, and pulling down the zip of his trousers.
He tugged down Sherlock's slacks and his pants in one fluid motion, exposing his arse and upper thighs. Sherlock stayed mostly still. Tense.
"Don't," he breathed.
"You can stop this any time you like. Just tell me where to find your boss."
"I can't. He'll kill me."
"Well then, looks like you're fucked," Greg laughed.
He flicked open the tube of lubricant and squeezed some onto his hand. He trailed a finger between Sherlock's plump arse cheeks before pushing abruptly inside. Sherlock gasped as Greg nudged against his prostate.
"Oh?" Greg smiled. "Do you like that?"
"No."
"You're not a very convincing liar." Greg nudged against the same spot a few more times for emphasis. Sherlock let out a small, choked noise.
"This is unethical," Sherlock spat, "you're a Detective Inspector."
"And you're a filthy criminal. I could kill you and dump your body in a ditch. Nobody would care."
"You'd better," Sherlock said softly. "Because if my boss finds out what you did to me, he'll be coming for you."
"I'm counting on it."
Greg slid another finger inside Sherlock, pressing the gun into his back. He worked Sherlock lose slowly. Taking his time. Savoring every involuntary noise of pleasure that spilled out of the other man's mouth.
"Come now, darling," Greg said softly, "just a few words. That's all you got to say. Just the location of your headquarters. This will all be over. Hell, I might even let you get off."
"I told you to kill me. So stop wasting our time and do it."
Greg shoved a third finger into Sherlock's arse. The younger man groaned.
"Does your boss fuck you?" Greg laughed. "I'll bet he does. Sweet little body like yours… I'll bet you're one of his favorite little bitches."
Sherlock squirmed, but stayed silent.
"I'll bet you're great. It's real tempting to just slide inside you. I'd ruin you."
"Old bastard like you?" Sherlock snorted. "You're more inclined to have a heart attack than make me come."
Greg raised his eyebrows a bit at that. Well, if Sherlock wanted to play dirty, he could do that.
A rare moment of inspiration struck him. He looked at the gun in his hand. Smooth. Polished. After all, the sight was filed down. Nothing to catch flesh and cause an injury. He bit back a laugh and slowly withdrew his fingers.
Sherlock braced himself, obviously getting ready for Greg's cock.
The DI slicked a lot of lube onto the pistol. He pulled Sherlock's thighs apart and kneeled between them, like he was getting ready to sink into him.
When he pressed the cold, metal barrel of the gun against Sherlock's entrance, the younger men went completely still.
"What is that?" He asked, slightly panicked.
"I think you know perfectly well what it is," Greg said in a honeyed, condescending voice.
"That's not—please don't—not the gun—"
"Hush now, pet. Struggling will only make it worse for you."
Greg pushed gently, slowly. It was a bit of a task to get the barrel of the gun in, past the first tight ring of muscle. When it popped inside, Sherlock gasped. Greg couldn't quite tell whether it was a noise of pain or pleasure.
Sherlock had a safeword. If he truly didn't want this, he would have said.
Still, Greg paused a moment, to allow him some time to adjust before pressing forward. He found it oddly mesmerizing—watching the gun slide into Sherlock's body. The cold, dark metal was a sharp contrast to Sherlock's soft skin.
"Oh fuck," Sherlock said in a shaky voice.
His entire body trembled. Greg reached a hand underneath him. Sherlock's cock was rock hard, the tip of it slightly wet. Greg gave him a slow stroke before letting go. He began to fuck Sherlock with the gun. Shallow, steady motions, angling to graze across his prostate.
The scene quickly went to hell. Sherlock moaned and panted. He almost sobbed with every motion.
"Yes, god—I—ugh."
Sherlock pushed back against the gun, swallowing up a bit more of it. Greg's breath caught. He'd never seen something so bizarrely enticing. Sherlock stretched around a firearm… the image carried a heady sort of danger. Greg felt oddly out of control and supremely powerful in the same breath.
It seemed that the feeling was almost too much for Sherlock to handle. He was fairly vocal anyway... but with every slide of the gun, he nearly screamed. Greg almost worried the neighbors might hear and call the police. That would be an awkward explanation.
But of course, he wasn't going to stop.
"Greg," Sherlock gasped, "I don't want to come with it inside me. I'm so close. Fuck me."
"That didn't sound like a polite request," Greg said evenly, keeping up the steady motion of the gun.
"I need your cock, Sir. Please. Please fuck me. I can't stand it."
Greg pulled the gun out slowly before pushing it back in as far as it would go. Sherlock let out a little broken noise. He shuddered. Each breath he took sounded strained.
It was tantalizing to watch. But Greg decided to take pity on the poor boy. He pulled the gun out again and tossed it aside. He lined his cock up and sank into Sherlock, holding himself up so he didn't put too much pressure on Sherlock's arms—which were still tied behind his back.
He established a fast, near punishing rhythm. Really, properly, fucking Sherlock's brains out. The younger man was already so slick and loose. He barely moved. Just stayed limp underneath Greg—making guttural sounds.
"That's right," Greg panted. "You're mine."
"Yours," Sherlock echoed on a long moan.
"You love my cock inside you."
"Yes."
"Are you going to come for me?"
"Oh… I… uuuuh…"
Greg slammed into him. Deep. Brutal. Sherlock gasped. Squirmed. He made a little high-pitched whine. And the he tensed. Jerked. Clenched around Greg's prick. Beautiful, wonderful, rhythmic contractions. Greg continued to hammer into him. Relishing the sloppy heat.
He toppled over the edge before long. Fighting to hold himself upright while he emptied himself into Sherlock's arse.
He pulled out after a few moments, watching his come dribble back out... down Sherlock's cleft.
The DI sat back on his heels and untied the knots around Sherlock's wrists. Then he went for the blindfold before slumping back into a seated position. Sherlock rolled over and slid down the couch until his head was against the armrest and his legs sprawled over the tops of Greg's thighs.
"All right?" Greg asked softly.
"Glorious," Sherlock murmured.
They sat in companionable silence for a long while—the television flickering dully in the background. Greg ran his hand over the skin of Sherlock's thigh. Cheeky bastard hadn't even pulled his trousers back up. Eventually Sherlock reached down and interlaced their fingers.
It wasn't quite domestic bliss. At least, not in any conventional sense. But Greg still felt oddly calm. Sated. Content.
Damn it. It still got all fluffy at the end. I can't help it. These two just... ugh. I want them to be sickeningly happy.
Sorry these postings have been at such odd times. Still trying to get them sorted out.
But we'll shoot for next sunday again!
xoxo