Fic: My Tamed Tiger
Title: My Tamed Tiger
Author: KoreArabin
Relationship/Characters: Colonel Sebastian Moran and Professor James Moriarty
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, bondage, flogging, humiliation, D/s overtones, some explicit language
I tried my best, honestly, but just couldn't restrain myself from Sebastian/James smut.
“How did I get to be here, in this place, with this man?”
It is a question Colonel Sebastian Moran, veteran of the late Anglo-Afghan War, and one of the few officers to have the dubious honour of being both mentioned in despatches and dishonourably discharged, asks himself with surprising regularity.
“Here” being, tonight, kneeling naked before the fire, hands cuffed before him, back straight; even the most dishonourably discharged officers of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces have great difficulty shrugging off their ingrained military bearing. But Army officers are not normally encountered kneeling to attention, secured, by a chain and thick leather collar, to a heavy metal ring set securely into the floor.
-O-
Moran had deduced, as soon as he entered the study earlier that evening, that Moriarty was restless, his senses, so finely honed in the jungles of India and the deserts of Afghanistan, instantly attuned to the Professor’s mood.
“Ah, Colonel. Come here, if you please. Down.”
A simple command, from anyone else something to baulk at immediately, to refuse and resist - with violence if necessary. But when issued so softly, so calmly, by the Professor, one that Moran cannot prevent himself obeying instantly.
He kneels before his Master, head bowed in submission. Moriarty stretches out a hand and ruffles his hair, petting him like a skittish animal. “Good boy. You cannot help yourself, can you, Colonel?”
When Moran remains silent, Moriarty growls, “That was not a rhetorical question.”
“No, Sir, I - I, I can't.”
The Professor’s caresses are less gentle now, his hand twisting in Moran’s hair, pulling his head back and to the side. His eyes lock with those of his chief of staff kneeling before him, blue on blue, Moriarty’s cool, assessing, cruel, Moran’s apprehensive but dark with increasing arousal. He knows this game, well and, God help him, he wants it, he needs what the Professor will give him.
“No, you cannot.” Moriarty muses, “You will suffer any indignity, any amount of pain, any humiliation I choose to inflict upon you, won’t you? And then, when I am quite, quite replete with hurting you, degrading you, when you are beaten, broken and bleeding, you will crawl back to beg at my feet for more, will you not, Sebastian?”
Moran cannot suppress the quiet moan of arousal that the Professor’s words wrest from him, his face turned into the Professor’s hand, his breath hot against his wrist.
“Then, we are well matched, Colonel. It is indeed fortuitous for us each to have encountered another whose appetites compliment our own quite so consummately. Now, I wish you to undress for me.”
Sebastian breathes into the Professor’s wrist again, ghosting his lips over the delicate skin in a series of light kisses. Moriarty leans down as if to kiss him, but instead bites his lower lip, hard, Sebastian grunting in pain and surprise as he tastes his own blood, coppery and dark.
“You do not touch me unless I permit you, Sebastian. You must remember your place. And your place is, now, to be naked. Strip.”
Sebastian disrobes methodically, until he is totally naked, standing unabashed, the evidence of his arousal straining up, engorged and flushed, before him. He grasps his left wrist in his right behind his back, stands straight, and waits.
Moriarty circles him, occasionally running his fingertips lightly over his skin; down the undulation of his spine and over his buttocks, dipping very slightly into the dark crease between them, then around over his hips to his testicles. Moriarty rolls the heavy sac in his fingers, as if assessing its weight, scratching lightly with a fingernail at Sebastian’s perineum, before taking his cock in hand and rubbing the pad of his thumb over the leaking glans. Sebastian flinches slightly at the peculiarly intimate touch, and receives a slap to the face for his reaction.
He remains standing, stock still, as the Professor moves towards the hearth to pull back the thick tiger pelt laid out before it. There, set securely into the old, stout, floorboards is a single heavy metal ring. Moran remembers well when the Professor had it set into the floor, soon after he entered his employ. He recalls too, with a shudder of mingled fear and arousal, how well acquainted he has become with that simple iron circle, its dull shine and unyielding solidity, by being shackled to it on so many occasions.
If the Professor is feeling playful, he may simply cuff Moran’s wrists to the ring; if he is in a darker, more sadistic humour, he has been known to chain his neck to it, forcing him either flat on his belly, or kneeling hunched over with his face pressed to the floor. On one, particularly memorable, occasion, after a savage flogging, he left him beside the embers of a dying fire with his wrists manacled behind his back, a chain wound tightly around his neck and shackled to the ring.
When Moran was eventually freed, several hours later, shivering with pain and cold, he could only slink through to Moriarty’s bedroom, kneeling in silent supplication beside the warm bed until the Professor relented, and allowed him to crawl in beside him and pleasure him with his mouth. Sebastian wondered then at what juncture it was that he simply ceased to feel any shame at his reaction to his Master's handling of him.
“Come here, Sebastian.” The Professor gestures to the metal ring. “Kneel.” He moves away to the locked cabinet beside the chimney breast where he keeps their “toys”; his euphemism for the implements of control and pain he uses on his marksman. Moriarty lets him see the items he’s selecting for tonight’s games: a leather collar - the type of harness one might use on a mastiff; stiff and heavy. A pair of old-fashioned manacles and a small blue glass vial of lubricant. A thick leather tawse. So the Professor’s intending to beat him and fuck him tonight, is he? Sebastian’s cock throbs and another bead of arousal trickles from its tip.
Moriarty stands behind him, and rests his hands lightly on Sebastian’s freckled shoulders. He traces the contours of his neck and throat with the lightest of touches, stroking down to the vivid scar across the marksman’s torso, from his right breast, down across his sternum to his abdomen. One claw mark bisects his right nipple, and Moriarty fingers the twisted tissue, pinching down hard without warning and forcing a gasp of pain from the man kneeling before him. The Professor shifts, bending down over him, and Sebastian feels the soft tickle of his beard at the junction of his neck and shoulder, before Moriarty is kissing his skin and rubbing his face in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, breathing in his scent.
The kissing grows more persistent until Moriarty is biting down hard into the tender flesh of his neck, worrying at it with his teeth and lips, all the while squeezing and twisting his mutilated nipple, Sebastian at last no longer able to remain still, and twisting and whimpering in the Professor’s embrace. His bare buttocks brush against the fly of Moriarty’s fine dress trousers, and he can feel the evidence of the Professor’s arousal, pressing hard and hot at his backside.
“If you cannot be still, Sebastian, I shall have to restrain you.” Moriarty places the heavy leather collar on him then, cinching the buckle closed until it is just on the wrong side of uncomfortable, then steps around better to admire his kneeling sniper, his lean, scarred body gleaming in the flickering light of the fire. “Oh, you are magnificent, Sebastian. My chained killer. My tamed tiger. What mewls and roars I shall wring from that mouth of yours tonight. But first, give me your paws, tiger.”
Moran holds his hands up obediently, and Moriarty locks the manacles into place, using another short length of chain to secure the collar to the manacles, and the manacles to the ring in the floor. “Lean forward. Backside up, if you please. Now, Sebastian, tiger, have you deserved my ministrations tonight, hmmm? Do you merit my exerting myself in turning your arse black and blue? Tell me.”
Sebastian stifles a strangled moan into the manacles. He is aroused beyond belief, chained down with his backside tipped up for punishment, the collar stifling his breath, his swollen manhood stiff against his belly. “Sir, please. Use me, Sir. Beat me, fuck me. Use me as you will. Sir, please.”
He moans in fresh humiliation as he hears Moriarty’s snort of amusement. “And so I shall, my poor desperate tiger. And so I shall.”
Moriarty removes his jacket and waistcoat and carefully rolls up his shirt sleeves. He is not entirely sure how far he wishes to test his sniper tonight, but previous experience suggests that his appetites will lean towards inflicting enough pain to make Sebastian cry out and moan, and he does not wish to besmirch his fine linen with blood splatters. He weighs the tawse carefully in his hands; it is thick, old, leather, the rich patina built up over years of soaking with accumulated sweat and blood. He relishes the sharp crack that rings out, unexpectedly loud in the quiet study, when he swings it with full force against Moran’s backside.
The kneeling man utters a harsh cry of pain, and Moriarty smiles approvingly as a wide red contusion blooms across the pale buttocks, reaching down to caress the mark as it swells and deepens in lividity. He brings the tawse down again, and again, pausing between each lash to allow the Colonel some moment of respite, which in turn increases the pain and intensity of the next blow.
The Professor allows himself twenty lashes, by which time Sebastian is shaking and whimpering into his restraints, his buttocks and upper thighs crisscrossed with welts of varying shades of purple, one or two weeping slightly where the skin has split. Moran will be sleeping on his belly for a good few days, and very unlikely to be sitting down, either. Moriarty allows himself the luxury of a minor diversion into visualising his keeping the marksman naked, and chained on his knees until his backside is healed but, as mouth-wateringly tempting as such a prospect may be, its allure is somewhat eclipsed, in their London townhouse, by its impracticality. Never mind. A game for another day. Moriarty smiles, adjusting himself in his underclothes.
He unstoppers the glass vial, spreading the viscous oil over his hand and, kicking Moran’s knees slightly further apart, settles down behind him, running a fingertip teasingly lightly around his opening. Moran gasps, trying to push back against the maddeningly gentle touch, wanting the Professor to touch him properly, to breach his hole and fill him. He needs to be opened up, stretched out, until it burns, until it hurts, for his Master to spill inside him, fill him with his seed, and leave him sore, swollen and totally used. His Master’s wanton little whore, just a convenient hole to be rutted into, used and filled up.
Sebastian keens in frustration as the torturous teasing continues, and Moriarty allows the very tip of his finger to slip into Moran’s anus, massaging the tight ring of muscle, tormenting him with the promise of being penetrated properly.
“Please, Sir, oh - for the love of God! Please use me. Please fuck me!” He hears, in his agony of frustration, Moriarty unbuttoning his trousers and shrugging them off, then the wet sound of the Professor slicking up his own erect penis. Then there is pressure at his opening, Moriarty’s cockhead forcing him open and sinking into him in one smooth thrust, his length buried to the hilt deep inside him.
The Professor grasps his hips with strong fingers, forcing him up and back, arranging him so that he is impaled squarely on his cock, Sebastian wincing in pain as his welted backside is jolted against his Master’s groin. Moriarty thrusts into him hard, pistoning his hips as he fucks him mercilessly, further subjugating his bound lover, asserting his dominance and ownership with every thrust, with every cry of pain wrung from Sebastian, with every pulse of Sebastian’s straining, weeping manhood.
“Please, oh God, Christ - Sir - please!” Sebastian’s begging is choked off into incoherent moans as Moriarty maintains his continuous assault. Moriarty, sensing his own climax building, reaches around and takes his sniper’s swollen length in hand. Sebastian shouts his name as he orgasms, “James!”, after two quick pumps of the Professor’s hand, rope after hot rope of semen issuing over his stomach, his thighs and the floor.
Moriarty follows immediately afterwards, his manhood pulsing and his seed spilling hot and thick deep inside his lover.
Moriarty manoeuvres Moran on to his side, and lies spooned behind him before the fire, both of them gasping aloud as the final tremors of their violent climaxes shock through them. He reaches around, gently unlocking the collar and manacles from Sebastian, and turning him so that he can claim his mouth in a deep, lingering kiss. Sebastian’s mouth is hot and wet against his, his beard and moustache tickling faintly as they explore each other, the passion of their rutting now spent and their kissing sensual and languorous.
Moriarty looks deeply into the younger man’s eyes, still blown dark with his arousal, stroking the curling, sweat-soaked hair from his temple.
“You know that what I say when we play these games is part of the role I play, don’t you, my love? I want to give you pleasure, as you do to me; you transfix me quite, my magnificent tiger.”
“Yes, Sir. You know how to give me exactly what I need - by Christ, don’t you just!” Sebastian falters, never as adept as ordering his thoughts into words as his brilliant Master. “And I do need it. I dunno why, but I do know that it keeps me still, keeps me focussed, keeps me sort of calm, I s’pose is the way to put it. And I’ve never been able to take it like this from no-one else. Thank you, Sir.”
“Come now, then, my tiger, sleep now. Let me hold you.” Moriarty curls them both into the warm, soft tiger fur, and holds Sebastian close.
“Very good, Sir.” And then, in the quietest of whispers, “I love you, James.”
Author: KoreArabin
Relationship/Characters: Colonel Sebastian Moran and Professor James Moriarty
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, bondage, flogging, humiliation, D/s overtones, some explicit language
I tried my best, honestly, but just couldn't restrain myself from Sebastian/James smut.
“How did I get to be here, in this place, with this man?”
It is a question Colonel Sebastian Moran, veteran of the late Anglo-Afghan War, and one of the few officers to have the dubious honour of being both mentioned in despatches and dishonourably discharged, asks himself with surprising regularity.
“Here” being, tonight, kneeling naked before the fire, hands cuffed before him, back straight; even the most dishonourably discharged officers of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces have great difficulty shrugging off their ingrained military bearing. But Army officers are not normally encountered kneeling to attention, secured, by a chain and thick leather collar, to a heavy metal ring set securely into the floor.
-O-
Moran had deduced, as soon as he entered the study earlier that evening, that Moriarty was restless, his senses, so finely honed in the jungles of India and the deserts of Afghanistan, instantly attuned to the Professor’s mood.
“Ah, Colonel. Come here, if you please. Down.”
A simple command, from anyone else something to baulk at immediately, to refuse and resist - with violence if necessary. But when issued so softly, so calmly, by the Professor, one that Moran cannot prevent himself obeying instantly.
He kneels before his Master, head bowed in submission. Moriarty stretches out a hand and ruffles his hair, petting him like a skittish animal. “Good boy. You cannot help yourself, can you, Colonel?”
When Moran remains silent, Moriarty growls, “That was not a rhetorical question.”
“No, Sir, I - I, I can't.”
The Professor’s caresses are less gentle now, his hand twisting in Moran’s hair, pulling his head back and to the side. His eyes lock with those of his chief of staff kneeling before him, blue on blue, Moriarty’s cool, assessing, cruel, Moran’s apprehensive but dark with increasing arousal. He knows this game, well and, God help him, he wants it, he needs what the Professor will give him.
“No, you cannot.” Moriarty muses, “You will suffer any indignity, any amount of pain, any humiliation I choose to inflict upon you, won’t you? And then, when I am quite, quite replete with hurting you, degrading you, when you are beaten, broken and bleeding, you will crawl back to beg at my feet for more, will you not, Sebastian?”
Moran cannot suppress the quiet moan of arousal that the Professor’s words wrest from him, his face turned into the Professor’s hand, his breath hot against his wrist.
“Then, we are well matched, Colonel. It is indeed fortuitous for us each to have encountered another whose appetites compliment our own quite so consummately. Now, I wish you to undress for me.”
Sebastian breathes into the Professor’s wrist again, ghosting his lips over the delicate skin in a series of light kisses. Moriarty leans down as if to kiss him, but instead bites his lower lip, hard, Sebastian grunting in pain and surprise as he tastes his own blood, coppery and dark.
“You do not touch me unless I permit you, Sebastian. You must remember your place. And your place is, now, to be naked. Strip.”
Sebastian disrobes methodically, until he is totally naked, standing unabashed, the evidence of his arousal straining up, engorged and flushed, before him. He grasps his left wrist in his right behind his back, stands straight, and waits.
Moriarty circles him, occasionally running his fingertips lightly over his skin; down the undulation of his spine and over his buttocks, dipping very slightly into the dark crease between them, then around over his hips to his testicles. Moriarty rolls the heavy sac in his fingers, as if assessing its weight, scratching lightly with a fingernail at Sebastian’s perineum, before taking his cock in hand and rubbing the pad of his thumb over the leaking glans. Sebastian flinches slightly at the peculiarly intimate touch, and receives a slap to the face for his reaction.
He remains standing, stock still, as the Professor moves towards the hearth to pull back the thick tiger pelt laid out before it. There, set securely into the old, stout, floorboards is a single heavy metal ring. Moran remembers well when the Professor had it set into the floor, soon after he entered his employ. He recalls too, with a shudder of mingled fear and arousal, how well acquainted he has become with that simple iron circle, its dull shine and unyielding solidity, by being shackled to it on so many occasions.
If the Professor is feeling playful, he may simply cuff Moran’s wrists to the ring; if he is in a darker, more sadistic humour, he has been known to chain his neck to it, forcing him either flat on his belly, or kneeling hunched over with his face pressed to the floor. On one, particularly memorable, occasion, after a savage flogging, he left him beside the embers of a dying fire with his wrists manacled behind his back, a chain wound tightly around his neck and shackled to the ring.
When Moran was eventually freed, several hours later, shivering with pain and cold, he could only slink through to Moriarty’s bedroom, kneeling in silent supplication beside the warm bed until the Professor relented, and allowed him to crawl in beside him and pleasure him with his mouth. Sebastian wondered then at what juncture it was that he simply ceased to feel any shame at his reaction to his Master's handling of him.
“Come here, Sebastian.” The Professor gestures to the metal ring. “Kneel.” He moves away to the locked cabinet beside the chimney breast where he keeps their “toys”; his euphemism for the implements of control and pain he uses on his marksman. Moriarty lets him see the items he’s selecting for tonight’s games: a leather collar - the type of harness one might use on a mastiff; stiff and heavy. A pair of old-fashioned manacles and a small blue glass vial of lubricant. A thick leather tawse. So the Professor’s intending to beat him and fuck him tonight, is he? Sebastian’s cock throbs and another bead of arousal trickles from its tip.
Moriarty stands behind him, and rests his hands lightly on Sebastian’s freckled shoulders. He traces the contours of his neck and throat with the lightest of touches, stroking down to the vivid scar across the marksman’s torso, from his right breast, down across his sternum to his abdomen. One claw mark bisects his right nipple, and Moriarty fingers the twisted tissue, pinching down hard without warning and forcing a gasp of pain from the man kneeling before him. The Professor shifts, bending down over him, and Sebastian feels the soft tickle of his beard at the junction of his neck and shoulder, before Moriarty is kissing his skin and rubbing his face in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, breathing in his scent.
The kissing grows more persistent until Moriarty is biting down hard into the tender flesh of his neck, worrying at it with his teeth and lips, all the while squeezing and twisting his mutilated nipple, Sebastian at last no longer able to remain still, and twisting and whimpering in the Professor’s embrace. His bare buttocks brush against the fly of Moriarty’s fine dress trousers, and he can feel the evidence of the Professor’s arousal, pressing hard and hot at his backside.
“If you cannot be still, Sebastian, I shall have to restrain you.” Moriarty places the heavy leather collar on him then, cinching the buckle closed until it is just on the wrong side of uncomfortable, then steps around better to admire his kneeling sniper, his lean, scarred body gleaming in the flickering light of the fire. “Oh, you are magnificent, Sebastian. My chained killer. My tamed tiger. What mewls and roars I shall wring from that mouth of yours tonight. But first, give me your paws, tiger.”
Moran holds his hands up obediently, and Moriarty locks the manacles into place, using another short length of chain to secure the collar to the manacles, and the manacles to the ring in the floor. “Lean forward. Backside up, if you please. Now, Sebastian, tiger, have you deserved my ministrations tonight, hmmm? Do you merit my exerting myself in turning your arse black and blue? Tell me.”
Sebastian stifles a strangled moan into the manacles. He is aroused beyond belief, chained down with his backside tipped up for punishment, the collar stifling his breath, his swollen manhood stiff against his belly. “Sir, please. Use me, Sir. Beat me, fuck me. Use me as you will. Sir, please.”
He moans in fresh humiliation as he hears Moriarty’s snort of amusement. “And so I shall, my poor desperate tiger. And so I shall.”
Moriarty removes his jacket and waistcoat and carefully rolls up his shirt sleeves. He is not entirely sure how far he wishes to test his sniper tonight, but previous experience suggests that his appetites will lean towards inflicting enough pain to make Sebastian cry out and moan, and he does not wish to besmirch his fine linen with blood splatters. He weighs the tawse carefully in his hands; it is thick, old, leather, the rich patina built up over years of soaking with accumulated sweat and blood. He relishes the sharp crack that rings out, unexpectedly loud in the quiet study, when he swings it with full force against Moran’s backside.
The kneeling man utters a harsh cry of pain, and Moriarty smiles approvingly as a wide red contusion blooms across the pale buttocks, reaching down to caress the mark as it swells and deepens in lividity. He brings the tawse down again, and again, pausing between each lash to allow the Colonel some moment of respite, which in turn increases the pain and intensity of the next blow.
The Professor allows himself twenty lashes, by which time Sebastian is shaking and whimpering into his restraints, his buttocks and upper thighs crisscrossed with welts of varying shades of purple, one or two weeping slightly where the skin has split. Moran will be sleeping on his belly for a good few days, and very unlikely to be sitting down, either. Moriarty allows himself the luxury of a minor diversion into visualising his keeping the marksman naked, and chained on his knees until his backside is healed but, as mouth-wateringly tempting as such a prospect may be, its allure is somewhat eclipsed, in their London townhouse, by its impracticality. Never mind. A game for another day. Moriarty smiles, adjusting himself in his underclothes.
He unstoppers the glass vial, spreading the viscous oil over his hand and, kicking Moran’s knees slightly further apart, settles down behind him, running a fingertip teasingly lightly around his opening. Moran gasps, trying to push back against the maddeningly gentle touch, wanting the Professor to touch him properly, to breach his hole and fill him. He needs to be opened up, stretched out, until it burns, until it hurts, for his Master to spill inside him, fill him with his seed, and leave him sore, swollen and totally used. His Master’s wanton little whore, just a convenient hole to be rutted into, used and filled up.
Sebastian keens in frustration as the torturous teasing continues, and Moriarty allows the very tip of his finger to slip into Moran’s anus, massaging the tight ring of muscle, tormenting him with the promise of being penetrated properly.
“Please, Sir, oh - for the love of God! Please use me. Please fuck me!” He hears, in his agony of frustration, Moriarty unbuttoning his trousers and shrugging them off, then the wet sound of the Professor slicking up his own erect penis. Then there is pressure at his opening, Moriarty’s cockhead forcing him open and sinking into him in one smooth thrust, his length buried to the hilt deep inside him.
The Professor grasps his hips with strong fingers, forcing him up and back, arranging him so that he is impaled squarely on his cock, Sebastian wincing in pain as his welted backside is jolted against his Master’s groin. Moriarty thrusts into him hard, pistoning his hips as he fucks him mercilessly, further subjugating his bound lover, asserting his dominance and ownership with every thrust, with every cry of pain wrung from Sebastian, with every pulse of Sebastian’s straining, weeping manhood.
“Please, oh God, Christ - Sir - please!” Sebastian’s begging is choked off into incoherent moans as Moriarty maintains his continuous assault. Moriarty, sensing his own climax building, reaches around and takes his sniper’s swollen length in hand. Sebastian shouts his name as he orgasms, “James!”, after two quick pumps of the Professor’s hand, rope after hot rope of semen issuing over his stomach, his thighs and the floor.
Moriarty follows immediately afterwards, his manhood pulsing and his seed spilling hot and thick deep inside his lover.
Moriarty manoeuvres Moran on to his side, and lies spooned behind him before the fire, both of them gasping aloud as the final tremors of their violent climaxes shock through them. He reaches around, gently unlocking the collar and manacles from Sebastian, and turning him so that he can claim his mouth in a deep, lingering kiss. Sebastian’s mouth is hot and wet against his, his beard and moustache tickling faintly as they explore each other, the passion of their rutting now spent and their kissing sensual and languorous.
Moriarty looks deeply into the younger man’s eyes, still blown dark with his arousal, stroking the curling, sweat-soaked hair from his temple.
“You know that what I say when we play these games is part of the role I play, don’t you, my love? I want to give you pleasure, as you do to me; you transfix me quite, my magnificent tiger.”
“Yes, Sir. You know how to give me exactly what I need - by Christ, don’t you just!” Sebastian falters, never as adept as ordering his thoughts into words as his brilliant Master. “And I do need it. I dunno why, but I do know that it keeps me still, keeps me focussed, keeps me sort of calm, I s’pose is the way to put it. And I’ve never been able to take it like this from no-one else. Thank you, Sir.”
“Come now, then, my tiger, sleep now. Let me hold you.” Moriarty curls them both into the warm, soft tiger fur, and holds Sebastian close.
“Very good, Sir.” And then, in the quietest of whispers, “I love you, James.”