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I never would have thought I could be like this, Sherlock thinks, fleetingly, and not for the first time. Not in a million years.
Of course, before he ever experienced any of this this firsthand, he knew of it. He was ultimately a student of human behaviour, after all, and in his journeys he had more than once encountered this from the perspective of a cultural outsider, seen it through the eyes of a dispassionate observer, not any kind of participant but instead a detective focused on solving a crime. He had examined the elaborate stylized restraints, rococo fittings of spiderwebbed black leather, buckles and locks of polished steel. He had seen the contrived poses of ritual domination and submission, rendered awkward and ridiculous when removed from their context, their purpose.
Sherlock had never mocked, never belittled. Of course he hadn’t. He is aware that he is himself a odd, difficult, perplexing man, and it would be hypocritical and unseemly for a person like himself to mock the odd or unusual inclinations and behaviours of others. But still, he had found himself confused (and he realises, in the clarity of hindsight, more than a little fascinated) by the kinds of needs, the kinds of urges that would drive people to act out these deliberate, elaborate, ritualized sexual scenes. What would possibly drive a person do such strange and awkward things, in the pursuit of erotic satisfaction?
Now, however.
Now, he knows. Now he understands, clearly, what was so baffling to him, back in a before which he can barely even remember. Now, willingly stripped and bound and pushed to his knees, he is the closest he’s ever been to the absolute and essential essence of who and what he is. Somehow, within the structures and rules of this strange, elaborate sexual game, Sherlock has discovered new and a completely unknown side of himself, here at the juncture where the most base of biological impulses meets a desperate need for intimate emotional connection.
These moments are where the entire bewildering tangle of his damaged and fragile psyche is laid bare, every nerve and fiber twitching, raw and exposed.
It’s terrifying and freeing. It’s the highest he’s ever soared, the closest he’s ever flown to the sun.
These feelings, these powerful and terrifying waves of fear and shame and excitement and dizzying erotic pleasure -- it’s a drug. He sees this. It’s drug that is in some ways very much like the drugs he’s been so drawn to in the past, but also completely different, complex and nuanced and (if he’s being honest) incomparably superior, a cocktail of neurotransmitters and hormones and endorphins that produce a dizzying, soaring high far more compelling and addictive than any opiate could ever hope to be.
It’s a drug that compels him, now, to eagerly sink to his knees and gratefully accept the gift of John’s nimble fingers fastening a thick leather collar around his neck.
...John.
Wonderful, loving, trusting John. He is the critical component, the catalyst, the noble element at the centre of this sexual alchemy, the only person in the universe who could ever possibly be worthy of Sherlock’s absolute trust and total surrender. The only person who could ever make him feel safe and loved enough to give himself over like this, to submit so completely, to expose himself so willingly, body and soul --
“You’re having a really hard time getting out of there,” John murmurs, his voice interrupting the vortex of swirling thoughts as he taps his fingers gently on the side of Sherlock’s skull. He sinks down to his knees on the carpet, bringing himself level to Sherlock, brushing his fringe out of his eyes and kissing his forehead. “Aren’t you?”
Sherlock nods.
“Any particular reason?”
Sherlock shakes his head.
John considers him a moment, sucking his lower lip between his teeth in contemplation.
“The blindfold, I think,” John finally decides aloud, turning away slightly to pick up a folded silk scarf from the bedside table. He drapes it across Sherlock’s eyes, ties it carefully, knotting the fabric in a neat, flat knot at at the back of his head, taking care not to catch or tug at his hair.
“Breathe slow and deep, and focus on your senses,” John tells him. “On your body, instead of your mind.”
Sherlock does as instructed, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, cataloguing the sensory input of his body, from his bare toes on up, through his flexed calves, his knees beginning to ache from kneeling, the thin bedside rug providing little cushioning against the hardwood underneath...
“Tell me,” John says, his voice gone deeper already, more commanding. “Tell me what you feel.”
Sherlock’s not under yet; the endless data streams are still buzzing and circling around in his brain, the chatter insistent, and the distraction of it keeps him from the task at hand, unable to do the one thing required of him when they two of them come together like this -- to obey, without thought or question.
And John...well, he’s unpredictable, deliberately so, keeping Sherlock from being able to foretell his actions and commands. Sometimes he wants Sherlock to be quiet and still, as unresisting and pliant as a doll when John fucks him, punishing him severely for a single twitch or moan. Sometimes, he urges Sherlock to be noisy, to scream and cry out his pain and pleasure. And sometimes, he likes to make Sherlock talk, orders him to describe in filthy detail what he feels, what he wants, what John is doing to him.
Sherlock really doesn’t like the talking. Doing is one thing, but putting it all into words and saying them -- it isn’t logical or rational, but somehow the filthy words makes it all just slightly too real, amplifies all his feelings of vulnerability and shamed powerlessness -- and all of this means, in this confusing and contradictory calculus, that he loves it, he loves and craves these sensations like the drug they are to him, but at the same time he doesn’t like it.
These thoughts pour themselves into the whirlpool of this mind, and before he can catch himself, he shakes his head reflexively. No.
He’s answered instantly by a swift and stinging slap to his right cheekbone; his head snaps hard to the side with the force of impact, making him see stars under the darkness of the blindfold. His head is still ringing from the blow when John grabs his face, hard along his jaw, and kisses him, rough and demanding, tongue pushing insistently into his mouth before he draws back and slaps him again.
The pain blooms bright and sharp and perfect, shocking the endless chattering loops in his brain into stunned silence.
“Tell me,” John repeats, the steel in his voice now undeniable, inescapable.
Freed from the distraction of his own mind, Sherlock is able to start to sink down into that sweeter, easier place, the ritualized restraint and dominance and deliberate violence strangely but profoundly soothing, letting him drift away from the demands of conscious thought.
When he speaks, he can hear the difference in his own voice.
“It’s dark,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “The blindfold. It’s the grey silk scarf you bought at Covent Garden last fall. The silk is raw, the texture is... rough but also soft.”
“Good boy,” John murmurs approvingly, stroking his sore and throbbing cheekbone, fingers circling the shell of his ear, stroking his neck. “Keep going.”
“My collar. It’s snug but not tight. Familiar. Comforting. My wrists are behind my back, restrained by cuffs. The leather is stiffer, and connected to the collar by a short length of heavy chain. We haven’t used these before. My arms are higher, my elbows tighter against my back than I’m used to. It’s not painful. It’s just. different.”
John hums his approval;. His fingertips slide across Sherlock’s collarbone, tracing the dip between his pectorals. “Tell me more.”
“The air is cool against my skin, and my knees ache a little, already. Not in a bad way, just.” Sherlock takes a deep, shaky breath. “It reminds me.”
“Of what?” John asks him, as his thumb finds Sherlock’s nipple, traces a circle around the outside edge of the areolae. The shivers ripple across Sherlock’s skin, the first silver sparks of pleasure beginning to race along his nerves as the riot of chemicals in his bloodstream begin to take over, pushing him further down into that dark, strange, exhiliarating place.
“It reminds me that I’m -- that I’m on my knees.” He takes a breath; saying this part out loud, even after all of this, is the most difficult. “That I’m submitting. To you.”
“How does that make you feel?” John asks, low and serious.
“I feel --” Sherlock breathes out, and lets the last bit of his constructed self crumble, lets his mind slip away completely, and it’s finally peaceful, still and quiet, the thick sweet tide of subspace flowing into him, soothing the sharp and splintered edges inside his mind and soul. “I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Shame, humiliation, producing a strong catecholamine response and amplify -- amplifying arousal. And I -- I like it.”
“You like it?”
“I love it,” Sherlock admits, his voice rough and catching on the words. His cock twitches and swells at the words, straining against the leather of the ring John slipped onto him, snug around his prick and bollocks, and the feel of it -- the physical reminder of John’s control over his body, over his pleasure and his orgasm -- makes him fully hard. The pressure of the cock ring now tight against his erect shaft and his full swollen testicles, and a single low whimper escapes from his throat at the sensation.
John chuckles, low and predatory, and dips his hand between Sherlock’s legs. He strokes his prick to full, aching hardness as he kisses him, more tenderly this time but still demanding, still commanding obedience. His tongue pushes into Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock meets him eagerly, welcoming the incursion, wordlessly offering himself up with the eagerness of his mouth and tongue against John’s.
John pulls back, almost reluctantly, closing his teeth down on Sherlock’s lower lip with just the barest hint of force, tugging gently just once before letting go. He presses kisses to the edge of his jaw, nips at his earlobe with slightly more force, stopping just short of actual pain before letting go.
“Look how hard you are already,” he murmurs against the shell of Sherlock’s ear, still stroking his trapped, throbbing prick. “It turns you on so much, being like this. Naked, restrained, submissive. Ready and eager to be used.” His hot mouth presses another kiss to the juncture of his jaw, warm breath puffing against his neck. He strokes Sherlock’s prick once, twice more before releasing him. Sherlock’s cock twitches upwards as his hips flex involuntarily, helplessly seeking lost contact as John’s fingertips skate up his belly, and back to his right areola. John flicks his thumb against the hardened tip, lightly at first, then presses down, rubbing more roughly.
Deprived of vision, every sensation is seemingly multiplied a hundredfold, the friction against his nipple sending sparks of pleasure through his nerves. Sherlock gasps, his back arching involuntarily, as John rolls his nipple between thumb and forefinger, tugging more roughly at the nub of delicate flesh, making the sensitive nerves spark and sing with pain.
“Tell me more,” John demands,
“It feels like -- electricity.” It’s getting harder to form coherent sentences, but he fumbles to obey, to please John, to give him what he wants. “Sparks and shocks when you touch me. When you -- when you play with me.” Self-awareness fading in the onslaught of pleasure and desire, words are starting to tumble out now, unexamined and unbidden. “I feel hot and cold all over and -- it just feels so good, and I want it, I want, just, I want--”
John stops his mouth with another kiss, then nips at his neck, the juncture of his shoulder as he moves his fingers to the other side of his torso, flicking and rubbing at the pebbled flesh. He’s more aggressive now, just up to the edge of too rough, making Sherlock’s nipple ache and throb as the pain transmutes, sharpening the edge of his pleasure, making him shiver and whimper, low moans trapped in his throat as he finds himself caught between warring impulses, wanting to both pull away and beg for more at the same time.
“God, I love your nipples,” John sigh, his steely voice softened with just a touch tender reverence. “Such small delicate bits of skin, but the way it drives you mad. Jesus. I could watch you like this all day, just teasing and torturing you like this and never even touching your cock. Could you come like this, I wonder? What do you think?”
Sherlock shudders and gasps. “I don’t -- I don’t -- maybe, I don’t --”
“I bet you could if I pierced them,” John muses aloud. “Barbells that rub and catch on your clothes, making them hard all day long, keeping you so turned on all day long that you beg for me to touch, tug and bite and suck on them. I’d never even touch your cock, just play with your tits until you come hard all over yourself like the shameless little slut you are. You would love that, I bet. Wouldn’t you?”
Sherlock gasps raggedly but he doesn’t reply, and John sinks the crescent of his thumbnail hard into the already-puffy, overly sensitized flesh of his nipple The pain is bright and crystalline, and Sherlock cries out in pain and pleasure.
“Answer me,” John growls.
“Yes,” Sherlock gasps. “Yes, I would love it.”
“Why would you love it?” John demands. The pressure increases. The pain is searing, and Sherlock imagines pinpricks of blood, dotting the purpling crescent mark that will remain.
“I love when you hurt me.” The words are tumbling out now, unbidden almost unaware. “Mark me, hurt me, use me, own me. Please. John. Please.”
John chuckles again, but it’s fondness, not derision.
“That’s right.,” he says with approval, releasing his hold on his nipple, rubbing the flesh with gentle fingers to soothe the burn. “Because I own you, you’re mine, and I love the way you look when I hurt you.” He kisses Sherlock’s already-sweaty temple, just above the fabric of the blindfold. “Gorgeous pain slut,” he murmurs, and there’s a soft scrape of fabric against the rug as John turns on his knee, a metallic jingle as he retrieve an item from the night table.
“I’m going to pierce you soon” he says. “But for now, these will have to do.”
Sherlock tenses involuntarily in anticipation of what he knows is coming
The bite of the clover clamp on his left nipple is shockingly sharp, making him gasp a harsh indrawn breath; before he can even cry out, John fastens the other clamp on his right with dextrous fingers. The weight of the chain connecting them settles between his pectorals, the tug on his trapped and tortured nipples an exquisite ache.
Sherlock gives a single, low moan.
“Just gorgeous,” John murmurs with approval. He rises to his feet, weaves his fingers into Sherlock’s messy curls, and pulls his head back to tip his face upwards, not roughly but with unmistakable authority.
“What should I do with you now?” he asks. “Perfect pretty slave, chained and clamped, naked and squirming. How would you like to be used today?”
Despite his occasional and surprising unpredictability as a dom, Sherlock knows this is what fuels John’s lust like nothing else. Making Sherlock ask for his pleasure, making him beg for his own defilement -- it unfailingly drives John mad with desire.
Sherlock is deeply sunk into subspace now, all reluctance and shame burned away, and this awareness of what he’s doing to John makes the shivers of pleasure at his own humiliation all the sweeter.
“I want your cock,” he breathes, his voice unrecognizable to himself, broken and pleading. “Please, John.”
John curls his hand around the back of his head, pulls his face into the crotch of his jeans. Sherlock whimpers, pressing himself against the warm heat, mouthing blindly at bulge of John’s prick, rigid and engorged under the layers of restraining fabric.
“Where do you want it?”
“I want it in my mouth,” he says, the words muffled by the denim of John’s jeans.
“Beg for it,” John demands, and Sherlock obeys, tripping over his words in his eagerness.
“Please, John, please let me have your cock. Fuck my mouth until I can’t breathe, choke me on your cock, please, please --”
John tightens his hold on the hair at the back of his head, pulls him away from his crotch, and Sherlock hears him skillfully unbutton and unzip his jeans with his right hand, shoving them down his hips just enough so he can free himself from layers of heavy fabric. There’s a soft sliding sound as John takes himself in his right hand, then he pulls Sherlock’s head forward and rubs the very head of his cock lewdly against his lips, painting them with warm, slightly thick precome.
“You want me to fuck your face, slut?” he growls. His voice has gone totally different now, and Sherlock can sense the final shift, can feel how John’s whole being has changed. He’s given himself over now, surrendered to his darkest animal impulses to control and dominate and hurt and fuck, and that shift makes Sherlock shiver hot and cold all over with fear and arousal and desire.
“Yes,” he breathes, tasting bitterness the sticky wet precome coating his lips. He dares to blindly dart out his tongue, finding the head of John’s cock and licking at the wet slit, savouring another burst of musky animal flavour.
John reacts with a tiny intake of breath, then both his hands tangle into his hair, pulling him in hard as he sinks himself deep into his mouth, grabbing his head, setting a punishing pace as he thrusts over and over, fucking his face hard and merciless, making Sherlock drool helplessly, gagging when the head of his thick cock hits the back of his throat, barely giving him any chance to breathe.
He had heard the phrase ‘cock worship’ before, in the porn clips and in Grindr profiles he’d look at in secret, but he’d never truly understood the meaning of the words until he’d found himself so tremendously lucky in life to have John Watson’s gorgeous penis available to him. On his knees, now, worships his cock in every possible sense, sucking him with grateful enthusiasm, moaning in ecstasy at the feel of his shaft hot and silky-hard in his mouth, tasting of salt and musk and pure masculine sex. Sherlock finds shockingly intense pleasure in pleasuring John like this; he doesn’t even register the mewling and whimpering sounds he’s making as his mouth slides up and down the thick shaft, tongue expertly licking and massaging at the prominent vein on the underside, even as John’s rough use makes him gag and gasp for air between thrusts.
“Oh my god,” John groans. “Your mouth, your gorgeous slut mouth was made to be fucked hard, wasn’t it. God, fuck, look at you, the way you love this.” He yanks hard at his hair, pulls his head back, slowly, his cock slipping out of his open wet mouth inch by inch. “I could do this to you all day long, watch the way your lips stretch around my prick, the drool dripping off your chin as I fuck your mouth.” He pulls his head back down, shuddering and grunting as he shoves his cock roughly down his throat, making him gag hard, cutting off his airway momentarily as his face and nose are mashed down into the warm, musky curls at the base of his prick, then pulling his back up just to do it again, over and over, until time ceases to matter, until all of Sherlock’s awareness narrows down to the weight and taste of John’s cock in his mouth, the ache in his jaws and the tingling pain in his nipples as the heavy chain connecting them sways with each thrust.
John gives a low, moaning kind of sigh, and pulls Sherlock back, his prick sliding wetly out of his mouth, then takes himself back in hand, pulling his cock up as he tugs Sherlock’s face back into his groin as he spreads his legs wider. Sherlock understands the unspoken command, licking at John’s warm, furred testicles, drawing first one and then the other into his mouth, suckling them as John strokes himself from root to tip, breath coming in harsh ragged gasps.
“I want to come,” he pants. “Oh God, I want to come, I want to blow all over your gorgeous face and lick it back off. Jesus. Fuck.” He gives a single, drawn-out groan, then slows the movement of his hand, then yanks Sherlock away from his task, grasps the base of his own cock and stills, breathing hard through his nose as he staves off his imminent orgasm.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, that was so close.”
As the near moment passes, John’s fingers loosen their tight hold on Sherlock’s hair, massaging and petting at his curls instead of yanking as he gently wipes off Sherlock’s wet chin with other hand.
“But there’s so much more I want to do to you, pet,” he breathes, “So very much more.”
He lets go of Sherlock’s hair; Sherlock feels cold and adrift for a moment without the anchoring contact, but then he hears the sounds of John divesting himself of his clothing and a moment later, he feels fingers slip under his collar and tug, none too gently.
“Up,” John snaps, and Sherlock scrambles to comply, unable to balance himself with his arms restrained behind his back, flailing clumsily in his blindness as John hauls him up over the side of the mattress, pushing him facedown onto the bed. They hadn’t gotten around to making it today, and the smooth cool cotton of the rumpled sheets bunches under his elbows as John manouevers him how he wishes.
He ends up with his knees at the edge of the mattress, spread wide enough that his belly and chest are pressed almost flat into the bed, his tortured nipples flaring up in fresh pain as the movement and friction makes the devilish clover clamps tighten even further.
And then John pauses, takes a step back.
Sherlock waits, his own breathing loud in his ears, knowing that John is looking at him, eyes raking over the vision he presents. He wonders how he looks to John’s eyes, as his dark blue gaze takes in his bare, awkward feet hanging over the edge of the bed; his spread legs, exposed perineum and arsehole completely open to view; the sheen of sweat pooling on the dip in his lower back; his hands, cuffed and helpless behind his back.
His constrained cock pulses, a dribble of precome smearing wet against the sheets as his heart pounds in anticipation of whatever creative torment John wishes to inflict.
What he doesn’t expect is the sound of a cap being unscrewed, and the cool plastic of a water bottle against his lower lip.
“Drink,” John says, tipping the bottle up; Sherlock drinks, awkward and blind without the use of hands or eyes. John takes the bottle away, wipes a drop of water away from Sherlock’s lower lip with his thumb and sets the bottle back down on the side table.
John is quiet for a moment, combing his fingers through Sherlock's tangled hair in a brief moment of shared respite.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Yes," Sherlock answers, roughened voice muffled against the sheets.
“You can, if you want to,” John murmurs. Even through the fog of pleasure and frustrated torment, Sherlock understands the shorthand of the statement, reminding him of his capacity to choose this, reminding him of his safewords.
Sherlock turns his head so he can speak clearly.
“No,” he says, simple and declarative.
“Good,” John murmurs, as his fingers leave Sherlock’s hair, trace across his shoulder, caress his back. He briefly traces the scars that mark him there, then moves down to his flanks, touching and stroking his sweat-sheened skin with both hand, in gesture that can only be described as reverent. “So gorgeous.” He cups Sherlock’s buttocks in his hands, stroking, squeezing, kneading. “Your arse is...God. It’s fucking transcendent. I could spend my life thinking of what I want to do this arse.”
There’s a soft thump as John drops to his knees on the bedside rug. His warm mouth presses into the skin at the back of Sherlock’s thigh, soft, slow kisses as he squeezes and kneads and strokes the rounded curve of his buttocks.
The kisses turn into long, leisurely strokes of his tongue, teasing him mercilessly, drawing ever closer to the cleft of his arse; Sherlock shudders, hips flexing involuntarily into the mattress, the friction against his nipples and the underside of his cock a torturous pleasure as he pushes his arse up in the air, shamelessly begging for that hot, rough tongue to find its way up higher, just a little higher --
John pulls away slightly, gives a dark chuckle, and delivers a swift, open-handed slap against the roundest part of Sherlock’s right arse cheek. The pain is a delicious burning heat, making Sherlock moan and thrust even harder against the mattress.
“Look at you,” John chides him. “Humping the bed like a dirty little slut.” He smacks him again, harder, on the left cheek this time. “But the way it makes your arse jiggle and shake. God.” He delivers another stinging blow. “You’re so fucking hot like this.” He grabs his arse with both hands, spreads him wide open, pushes his face in between his cheeks and licks a broad stripe from the base of his testicles to his tailbone. “So delicious,” he murmurs, his breath hot against Sherlock’s sensitive skin, then flicks his tongue directly against the tight knot of his arsehole. Sherlock gives a ragged, gasping cry of pleasure.
“You like that?” John asks. “When I lick you there?”
“Oh God,” Sherlock moans. “Oh God, yes. Yes.”
John circles his opening again, more pressure this time, the rough softness of his tongue exquisite against the incredibly sensitive skin.
“Ask me for it,” he breathes, voice deep enough to make Sherlock’s skin prickle and shiver.
“I-- I-- just--” Sherlock chokes out.
John pulls back, slaps Sherlock hard on his left arse cheek.
“Good sluts get what they ask for,” he growls. “Are you a good slut?”
“Yes,” he moans, broken and desperate and near tears. “I’ll be good, I’ll be good for you, I promise.”
“Then ask me for what you want.”
“Eat me out,” Sherlock moaned, pushed beyond any semblance of shame or pride. “Eat my arse, fuck me with your tongue, just, Jesus, please, please --”
“Good boy,” John purrs in approval, and bends to his task, holding Sherlock down and spreading him wide open with both hands as he licks and sucks enthusiastically at his arsehole, swirling and flicking, licking him open, pushing into him with a pointed insistent tongue as Sherlock moans and shivers, the pleasure winding up higher, tight and red hot deep in his pelvis.
If it weren’t for the cock ring he would have come untouched long ago, would have shuddered and spent himself against the tangled blue sheets, but the snug leather circles his shaft and bisects his scrotum, holding him snugly, the pressure making him unable to orgasm, keeping him on the agonizing precipice as John tongue fucks him, occasionally pulling back to bite or slap the swell of his arse or massage and stroke his trapped, swollen bollocks. Sherlock whimpers and moans, wantonly thrusting his aching prick against the tangled sheets.
The silk blindfold is damp with frustrated tears by the time john breaks away, wiping his face on the sheets before kissing the curve of Sherlock’s hip. Fingertips brush against his spit-slick arsehole, as John pushes his thumb expertly into his perineum, finding just the right spot to stimulae his prostate externally.
“This is how I like you best,” he murmurs, as his skilled fingers continue to torment Sherlock. “Desperate with need and aching to come. My eager little fucktoy, wanting so badly to be used and abused.”
As he murmurs his filthy endearments, John brings his thumb up, presses into his wet, loosened opening. Sherlock can’t help but moan brokenly and press himself down against the intrusion, shamelessly seeking deeper penetration.
“This is what you want, isn’t it? To be filled up full, stretched out and fucked until your arsehole is stretched open, sore and raw.” Keeping his thumb working inside Sherlock, John bends slightly, rummages briefly for the tube of slick on the night table. His thumb slips out of his opening, Sherlock hears the unmistakable click of the cap, and then the cool squelch of lube as John presses in deeper with two fingers, setting a slow, steady rhythm that makes Sherlock see stars behind the darkness of the blindfold.
The stretch of it, the initial tight burning fullness that never fades no matter how often they do this -- the deep, intimate pain bleeds over into pleasure, lights his entire body on fire, the pulsing, throbbing pleasure expanding into and all-consuming need to be filled, penetrated, held down and fucked beyond thought, beyond will, mounted and fucked into exhaustion like a mindless helpless animal --
“I want you to hear you beg,” John hisses into his ear. “Beg me to fuck you raw.”
“Fuck me,” Sherlock cries out, almost a howl, uncontrollable body shudders racking his body. “I need, please, John, oh my god please just fuck me.”
John slips his fingers out of his entrance, leaving him open and wet with cooling lube; the mattress creaks and dips as he clambers up into bed, briefly arranging himself before pulling Sherlock up to kneeling position by his collar and wrapping a hand around the back of his neck, steadying him.
“Hey,” he says, his voice gentler, sounding a little more like his usual self. “I’m gonna take the blindfold off, okay?”
Sherlock nods, his thighs trembling with the effort of holding himself upright.
John makes quick work of slipping the knotted fabric up and off his head. Sherlock blinks and squints for a moment; the bedroom is only lit by the lamp on the table, but it’s still bright after the prolonged darkness of the blindfold.
“Beautiful boy,” John murmurs, and kisses his cheek with a tenderness that almost brings Sherlock to tears. He arranges the pillows and sits up against the headboard, stiff dusky red cock jutting up proudly from between his legs. “Shift up here a bit, all right? Knee over, just like that, okay.” He carefully guides Sherlock into a straddling position, his knobby knees astride John’s hips. He ends up making sure he doesn’t tip over from lack of balance. Sherlock ooks down at him with wide, worshipful eyes, watching him John closely as he plucks the tube of slick from the rumpled sheets, pops open the cap. He coats his thick, lovely prick with a palmful of lube, stroking himself back to full hardness as his heavy-lidded eyes rake up and down Sherlock’s body, from his trapped swollen nipples and the heavy chain dangling between them down to his engorged cock, shiny and almost purpling from the constraint of the leather ring.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” John murmurs, his voice barely a hoarse whisper. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. My beautiful pet, my beautiful boy.” He nudges Sherlock’s thighs wider with his hands, takes hold of himself, nudges the head of his wet cock into the cleft of his arse. “Are you ready for me?”
“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, almost unable to form words or coherent thoughts, desperate for the feel of John inside him. “John, yes, now.”
John thrusts upward without hesitation, seeking and finding with unerring instinct borne of long intimacy, groaning as his cock breaches Sherlock’s body and sinks home with a single long, slow slide. Sherlock closes his eyes and moans at the feel of it, the marvelous sensation unlike any other, the push and stretch of it, the burning fullness and the bone deep satisfaction of being filled full, being taken over so completely.
“Good?”
John’s hands curls around Sherlock’s sharp hipbones, thumbs digging into the hollows above his pelvis, gripping him hard enough to bruise. He manhandles Sherlock’s body with breathtaking ease, practically lifting him up and pulling him down to meet each thrust as Sherlock rolls his hips and flexes his thighs.
They move together, slowly at first then faster, harder, finding their rhythm as they wring pleasure from each others’ bodies.
“That’s it,” John rasps, low and ragged. “That’s it, that’s perfect, oh Jesus --” He’s babbling, heedless of the words spilling out of his mouth as he loses himself in need and instinct. “Look at you, riding my cock like a perfect whore. You’re so good, you’re so good, so tight and hot and perfect for me.” He brings his hand up to Sherlock’s chest, tugs hard on the chain connecting his nipples; the clamps tighten painfully, biting hard into the bruised and swollen flesh, making Sherlock keen high and sharp at the sharp bite, the sensation something completely beyond pain now, blending seamlessly into incandescent pleasure as he pistons himself up and down, fucking himself steadily on John’s lovely, demanding cock.
John tugs on the chain one last time, then reaches for the left clamp, releasing it and flicking it away without warning; for a long second the pain disappears at the release of pressure, but then the blood and sensation rush back into the tortured nerves in a burst of searing agony that makes Sherlock shake and howl. John steadies him with a hand splayed across his back, dips his head to soothe the burning flesh with gentle swipes of his soft wet tongue, never losing rhythm as he fucks him steadily through the pain.
After a few moments that feels like an eternity, the burning begins to ebb, and Sherlock feels John’s fingers circling his right nipple, reaching for the tightened clamp.
“No,” he pleads, shaking his head "Please, no."
“I have to, you know I have to,” John breathes into his skin as he releases the tiny metal jaws. Sherlock screams.
The pain is phosphorescent, his nipple on fire, and this time he cries for real, tears streaming down his face as John suckles and licks, the cooling saliva quenching the terrible burn. As the pain finally fades, the endorphins kick into high gear, pain and pleasure merging into a whirlpool of quicksilver tension, hot and demanding, filling his groin and belly, a rising tide held back only by the thin strip of black leather wrapped tight around his purpling, swollen cock.
Sherlock has slipped into the deepest subspace now, beyond thought, beyond words; he only gives a low, desperate moan, the noise of a trapped and tormented animal, tortured not just by pain but also pleasure.
“Shh, shh,” John murmurs, finally taking pity on his gasping, writhing desperation. He reaches between Sherlock’s legs, unsnapping the cock ring that’s kept him teetering on the brink and tossing it aside. Sherlock whimpers in gratitude at the tremendous sensation of relief as his freed bollocks draw up tight against his body, his orgasm already approaching fast and hard. John fumbles for the lube, wraps slicked fingers around his cock.
“You’re gonna come so hard, aren’t you?” he rasps, fist pistoning up and down as he jerks hard at Sherlock’s cock. “I love to watch you come, that’s it, pretty pet, come for me, come for me now --”
“Yes,” Sherlock gasps, “Yes, yes, John --”
The tension winds up even higher, up to the breaking point, the pressure almost unbearable, then something in him breaks free, and he feels himself begin to fall over the edge, the involuntary contractions beginning, his abdomen tightening and his cock twitching and beginning to spill before he feels the release. A split second later the orgasm hits him, a wave of incandescent, mind-numbing bodily pleasure that seizes every nerve ending and carries him to a place beyond, a place where nothing matters except the shuddering ripples of bliss that transcend life and death and the boundaries of his physical self.
He shudders and moans, still riding John’s cock as he spurts, warm and wet on John’s hand and his own belly. John gasps and curses and thrusts up into him hard, the stimulation of it tipping him over unexpectedly, into a second, smaller, but more prolonged orgasm.
“God, Jesus, look at you, fuck, fuck,” John pants, nonsensically, as Sherlock shivers and moans, still eagerly riding his cock, his exhausted prick dribbling weakly as he chases the endless rippling aftershocks of pleasure. His second climax is still echoing through his body when John grabs him by the hips, hard, and pistons into him, over and over, his cock feeling even hotter and harder inside Sherlock than it did just a moment ago.
“Gonna come in you,” he growls. “Gonna come in you and fill you up, make it drip down your thighs, God, fuck.” He draws in a sharp intake of breath, pulling Sherlock close, rising up to meet him, burying his face in his neck with a low guttural moan as he as he comes.
Sherlock can feel every shiver coursing under John’s skin, every hot pulsing throb of come as it spills into his body.
“Fuck,” John groans, as his hips push upward one last time and then stills.
The two of them breathe together for a time, both of them gasping for air as if they’d just run a marathon.
Which Sherlock supposes they have, after a fashion.
After a few moments as the endorphins begin to ebb away. Sherlock begins to realise that a great many places on his body hurt. A lot.
John makes a similar discovery; he exhales, a little shakily. “Love,’” he says, sounding a bit strangled, “Um, I can’t -- I need you to --”
John shoves him rather ungenerously with his knee, and Sherlock belatedly discovers he’s resting his full thirteen stone of body weight directly on top of John’s smaller frame.
“Of course,” he says, voice creaky from exertion and recent rough use. He lifts himself up gingerly, the muscles in his thighs clamouring in protest; John’s softening cock sliding out of him with a wet, slippery noise. He tries to swing his knee up and over to clamber off, but his legs are shakier than he thinks, and he ends up collapsing, still half-laying on John.
“Here, wait, let me --” John wriggles out from under Sherlock and carefully yet competently manouevers him onto his right side, quickly unfastening his cuffs from the chain tethers them, then helping him roll onto his back before rubbing feeling back into his hands.
“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and then makes a face at his own awkward and slightly foolish formality, especially after what they’d just done together.
The transition back to normalcy is sometimes a little tricky, after all. Sherlock closes his eyes and wills the awkward, painfully self-aware moment to pass.
“Water?” John asks him.
Sherlock nods, not opening his eyes.
John plucks the water from the table, nudges Sherlock with the bottle. “C’mon, love. Roll onto your side for me?”
Sherlock obeys, raising himself up on one elbow, allowing John to bring the bottle of water to his lips. He drinks and drinks, then takes the bottle from John's hand and drinks some more. He’d had no idea how dehydrated he’d become.
“All right?” John asks.
Sherlock looks up at him, at his beautiful deep blue eyes, concerned and full of love and care. Feeling more himself now, rather like he’s returned to his own skin after an extended holiday, he cocks an eyebrow, gives John a bit of a grin.
“Sadomasochism is thirsty work,” he observes sardonically.
John laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“It certainly is,” he says. “Give me some of that?”
Sherlock hands over the bottle, and John finishes off the rest of the water.
“I’ve got a lemonade here as well,” John says. “I thought you could use the sugar.”
“In a bit,” Sherlock says, and reaches for John’s waist, pulls him closer. John twines his legs around him obligingly, presses a kiss into his tangled and sweaty curls as Sherlock makes himself comfortable, face pressed into the side of John’s equally sweaty flank.
They’ve both become accustomed to sub drop, but today’s isn’t a bad one at all. It’s just a brief dip, a tightening in Sherlock’s throat and a vague emptiness that John soothes with kisses and murmured endearments.
The moment passes, and Sherlock feels languorous, sleepy, pleasantly fuzzed by his exertions.
“You want ice?” John asks. “Your nipples are going be spectacularly bruised. Those new clamps don’t mess around.”
Sherlock waves him off. “S’all right.”
Honestly, he doesn’t mind the marks. Even more honestly, he truly enjoys the marks John leaves on him, the more spectacular the better, and he knows he’ll spend the better part of a week admiring his bruised and sore nipples, even pinching them covertly to make the ache flare up, a visceral reminder of the way the heavy chain bounced against his chest, tightening the clamps every time John thrust up into him. He’ll treasure those marks, and he’ll be begging John to give him new ones well before they even begin to fade.
They’ve barely finished, and Sherlock is already thinking about how soon they can do this again.
He wonders if other people feel the way he does, the way they do, about these sorts of things.
“John.”
“Hm?”
“Did you ever think…” he starts, then trails off, frowning slightly.
John stirs, stretches a bit -- he was about to drop off to sleep, no question -- and rolls onto his side to face Sherlock.
“Did I ever think what?”
“Did you ever think we would be like this?” Sherlock asks, and that’s not quite the question in his mind, but he doesn’t know how to put it any better into words.
John laughs, but it’s not derisive. “No. Not at all. I mean, I thought of lots of things, regarding you and me.” The slightest bit of lewd emphasis on the word leaves no doubt as to the kinds of thoughts he is referencing. “But this? No, not ever.”
“I wonder…” Sherlock says, and pauses, marshalling his thoughts. “Do other people feel like this? Do other people crave this intensity of sensation, all the time? Are we… are we weird, John?”
“Well,” John begins after a moment of thought, “I know enough people are like this that there are a whole lot of websites dedicated to it, not to mention a whole subcategory of porn flicks and at least one truly terrible mainstream movie. Also, you can buy just about any toy or accessories you could possibly imagine, so -- I mean, we’re not fashioning restraints out of bread ties and twine. Which is good, because that sounds pretty uncomfortable, and not in the fun way. So, to sum up, we may be weird, but a lot of other folks are just as strange as us behind closed doors.” He tilts his head, looks quizzically at Sherlock. “Do you care if we’re weird?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock retorts, and if he’s a bit more defensive than is warranted, John is kind enough to let it slide. “I just… I wonder sometimes. If we’re both...” He finds himself stumbling over his words, not entirely certain what it is he’s trying to say.
I wonder if we’re in over our heads.
I wonder why chasing these feelings is something I think about all the time.
I wonder why this feels a lot like addiction.
I wonder how much further I’m going to push, and how far you’ll be willing to let me go.
I wonder how deep this rabbit hole actually goes.
All of this terrifies me, and yet I love that fear as much as the other feelings, and I wonder if that is a much bigger problem than either of us realise.
Unable to put these thoughts into words, Sherlock goes quiet. Something face or his eyes almost gives him away; John gives him a look, eyes narrowed, and holds it for just a beat too long.
“Yeah,” John finally says. “We both are. But as long as we make it work for us, well. Fuck what anyone else thinks, right?”
Sherlock considers this for a long moment, then finally nods.
“Fuck what everyone else thinks,” he echoes in agreement.
John is still looking at him oddly; Sherlock sees the very moment he decides to let it go, not to pursue his vague, instinctive concern, turning away into safer waters.
“Hungry?” he asks, rising from bed and pulling a pair of clean gym shorts from the laundry basket parked on the side chair. “I don’t think we’ve anything in, but maybe takeaway? I could murder a curry right now.”
“Could do,” Sherlock replies.
“What do you want?”
“Order something for me.”
“No way. You never like what I get for you.” John ducks briefly into the kitchen, returns with a paper menu in his hand and tosses it onto Sherlock’s prone form. “We’ll have a bath first, then I’ll call.”
“And then ointment?” Sherlock asks. John rubbing the cool, minty, probably useless ointment into his marks, cooing and fussing over each one -- it’s not the best part of their game, but it’s close, and Sherlock loves it with an odd, passionate intensity.
“There will always be ointment.” John says, bending to kiss his forehead, and Sherlock knows he means it joking but it comes out oddly gentle and tender, a promise of love and caretaking that makes Sherlock’s chest go tight, just for a second.
This isn’t just a game, he thinks, in one of those all-too-rare moments of shocking clarity. This is about so much more than that.
He’s on the brink of saying so when John straightens up and turns away, ducking into the ensuite to start the bath. Sherlock hears him turn on the taps, opening and closing cabinets, locating towels and shampoo.
“Come on, sweetheart,” John calls. “Before the water gets cold.”
Sherlock gives himself a stern mental shake, pushes aside the melodramatic introspection.
There may be (will be) problems down the road, but at this particular moment? The love of his life -- the man who is improbably, miraculously eager to marry him, despite, well, everything that should inform him to the contrary -- is waiting for him in a hot bath, and he may still be terrible with so many social cues but Sherlock has finally learned, somewhere over the past five years, how to occasionally stop himself from ruining a perfect moment.
So he won’t ruin this one.
Tomorrow’s problems will be dealt with tomorrow, he decides as he climbs out of the demolished bedclothes to join John in the steaming tub.