Sherlock!Rentboy (alternative plot) (Part Ten)
Well, this chapter turned out longer than anticipated! Hopefully it's in a good way, though, not a “holy jesus is she ever going to stop raving on?” kind of way! I actually intended to further the plot along a teensy bit more in these two chapters, but it seems that my protagonists can’t keep their hands (and other bits) off each other! *tuts*
Thanks for reading!
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It wasn’t until they were seated actually in the café a couple of blocks away from the apartment that the incongruity of having a breakfast-style meal at this decidedly un-breakfast-like time of day struck Sherlock, and a giggling fit overtook him.
“It’s a world gone topsy-turvy!” he exclaimed gleefully at Tommy’s raised eyebrow, and although Tommy joined in, recognising the hilarity, the waitress was less amused.
She seemed intrigued, however, by their lengthy demands for numerous breakfast items - Sherlock ordered three different plates of eggs - scrambled, fried, and Benedict* - simply because he couldn’t decide which of the first two to settle on, and he’d never tried the third. It took them a few minutes to explain that they wanted two pots of coffee as well as a cup of tea - Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good cup, but Tommy wasn’t a fan, saying that if he wanted a caffeine fix, he wanted to feel it, not have it creep up on him.
While the waitress conveyed their order to the kitchen, Sherlock and Tommy took a brief intermission in the bathroom - Tommy wanted a pick-me-up, and had brought a straw from the container on the café table for this express purpose, and Sherlock didn’t want to be alone in the dining area; it was somewhat terrifying in there without someone looking out for him.
Tommy sniffed a dose this time, using the fake-razorblade necklace that he wore to grind the powder to an even finer texture beforehand, and his eyes watered, but his expression was relieved, satisfied…energetically blissful.
Sherlock watched him intently, trying not to grind his teeth, and blurted out, “What is it like when you do that? Is it good? Is it better? Does it hurt?”
Tommy smiled, partly in gentle amusement at Sherlock’s insane questions, partly because the drug held him in thrall.
“Try it.” he suggested, sliding the packet over. “One nostril. Don’t try and do both at once like a fucking crazy Hoover.” he advised, laughing at his brilliance and the hilarity of the idea.
“Hoove! Hoooove!!” Sherlock exclaimed, imitating the machine’s low hum, and Tommy descended into hysterics, clutching at the sink top, at his sides, at Sherlock, to try and find some stability as he was in grave danger of entirely collapsing.
Sherlock gently batted his hands away, focusing on replicating Tommy’s previous motions, and getting this ‘snorting’ business right.
It was totally worth it.
This was the best thing ever, and he stretched out rapturously as his body thrummed, blood rushing this new dose to every extremity.
Tommy paid no heed to Sherlock’s enjoyment of the chemicals; having gasped his breath back he was now attending to the waist of Sherlock’s trousers; teasing and tickling his fingers at the meeting-point of skin and cloth, but soon wanting much more.
“Come on,” he growled, impatient, and dragged Sherlock into a cubicle.
Apparently he was completely unconcerned about anyone walking in on this, either, as he left the door open, and Sherlock was soon drawn to the total sensation of Tommy’s mouth now at the right level to reach the target area he was previously only able to torment with his hands.
The effects of his mouth were far worse, far better, and Sherlock was grateful he had the closer walls of the cubicle to prop himself up with.
Tommy didn’t waste a lot of time on Sherlock’s hips, sensitive though this skin was, he had another objective in mind, and he unzipped Sherlock’s trousers to reveal it.
Ah. There. One red cock, pre-hardened, hot, and slightly moist. Delicious.
Tommy engulfed it, causing Sherlock to simultaneously buck and stagger.
Blowjobs, giving or receiving, were nothing out of the ordinary for Sherlock, but right now he just feltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfelt…every corner of his being jostled for him to pay them attention.
“We’re sparking!” his synapses shouted, and he wasn’t sure which ones. “We’re contracting!” his muscles declared, “And expanding!” another group chipped in, determined not to miss out. “Over here!” another nerve cluster chorused, and altogether it was a regular cacophony.
Sherlock couldn’t take it.
Hands were on his hips, though, holding firm and steadying him. Release from the prison of overwhelmsion.
Tommy had a deceptively strong grip, and a determined air that echoed in his movements, running his tongue from base to tip, luxuriating in the sensation just as much as Sherlock was, now able to focus on the top of Tommy’s head as he thoroughly explored every feature of Sherlock’s genitalia, building an oral map - he was so devoted to this task, he could probably advise a reconstruction of his bits, based on mouth-memory alone.
He paused, and Sherlock wanted to say, “Don’t stop…Please…” but his voice was faltering and malfunctioning, and so he only whined.
“Good?” Tommy smiled, and Sherlock wanted him to never leave, wanted him to smile like that at him every day.
Tommy stood, gently but firmly pressing Sherlock against the cubicle walls, and Sherlock gulped, wanting and needing Tommy to get back down, to fulfil the promise laid out by his lips and darting, stroking, devilish tongue.
He worked his jaw, trying to get the words to come.
“I said, ‘good?’” Tommy repeated, threateningly, demanding that Sherlock answer, and his hands gripping Sherlock’s biceps weren’t gentle, weren’t caressing, and the bites he inflicted on his neck weren’t playful - these were going to bruise.
“Yes!” Sherlock finally cried out, and a rush of strength came to him. He pushed forwards, thudding Tommy into the opposite wall of the cubicle - apparently, not hard enough to cause pain, but definitely loudly.
“Yes, yes, yes…” Sherlock chanted, grinding his cock against Tommy’s hip.
“Show me.” Tommy commanded in a soft voice, and Sherlock opened his eyes wide.
Of course. Instantly.
He practically tore Tommy’s jeans open, and shoved his hand down. He wanted to please, to do well, to keep Tommy with him, so he concentrated on coordination, on technique, on the creation of pleasure.
Long, dexterous fingers were to his extreme advantage in handjobs, and he was able to amaze clients by stimulating multiple, unexpected parts of their nether regions simultaneously, when most rentboys would need both hands to complete the same task. The sensation, therefore, was unfamiliar, yet still highly satisfying, and it entertained Sherlock no end to see a client’s face express shock and arousal in competition - all because of him.
“Jesus!” Tommy shouted, and it echoed around the bathroom.
“Sherlock.” Sherlock informed him gently, inarguably, and Tommy got the hint straight away.
“Oh fuck, Sherlock fuck fuck fuck Sherlock fuck…” he was still grabbing Sherlock’s biceps in a painful deathgrip, but not in a display of dominance anymore - now it was desperation, and Sherlock didn’t mind that one bit.
There was a second advantage to having long fingers when giving a handjob: the sheer amount of skin-to-skin contact that could be made; Sherlock’s hand could literally envelop Tommy’s cock with ease. Sherlock judged the size of Tommy’s pupils, judged how slack his jaw was, judged the sheen of sweat over his skin, and decided to incorporate this technique now.
Tommy’s posture changed; he straightened up, arched his back, cried out with a delicious “Agh!”
Sherlock knew the pose, knew the excitement that was being caused, knew exactly how he could add to this current scenario.
He stuck two fingers of his free left hand into his mouth, hastily, precautionarily; to cause Tommy pain right now would ruin everything. They were slicked, and he slid them down the back of Tommy’s pants.
He wasn’t surprised that one finger penetrated the other man easily, and two fingers fit also with little difficulty; rather, surprise was elicited in Tommy at the degree of manipulation Sherlock undertook with his left hand - many people were reluctant or frightened to move their fingers around too much.
The entire time, Sherlock applied a regular pressure to Tommy’s perineum with his 3rd and 4th fingers, his 1st and 2nd fingers in perpetual motion inside Tommy’s arse, creating a blinding blaze when contact was made with his prostate, and still, with his right hand, there was relentless pressure on, and firm pulling and encouragement of his cock.
How was anyone meant to keep it together under such a barrage, cocaine or no? Tommy had no chance, couldn’t hold himself back - didn’t, in fact, want to. So he let go, and his heartfelt expression of release was magnified to epic proportions by the acoustics of the bathroom.
When he came back to himself, he was still feeling a thrill at the thought that someone in the cafe might have heard them, and would know the brilliance of what they were up to.
Sherlock’s hands were out of Tommy’s trousers now, one tipping his chin up so he could access his mouth, one cradling the back of his head. He drew away momentarily to grab some air, and Tommy saw how flushed his cheeks were, how dark his eyes, and suddenly realised that he’d left something unfinished. He knelt, and Sherlock leant heavily against the cubicle wall with a quiet little moan of anticipation and relief to be getting some more attention.
Remembering how uncontrollable Sherlock had been earlier, Tommy placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips again, firmly holding him in place as he sucked energetically.
Once before, he’d had his head hit against a wall because the client had been overenthusiastic, and it had turned out badly for all: Tommy particularly, sustaining a sore throat, a lump on the head, and no payment for the job - clients were generally unwilling to part with cash if teeth became too heavily involved in blowjobs - even if it was an involuntary result of being hit on the back of the head.
So, Tommy was now understandably cautious. Not so cautious as to remove from Sherlock’s experience, however. Sherlock came with a groan and a sigh, and Tommy held him steady for the second time that night, pushing Sherlock backwards a little so that he could stand up again.
He tucked himself back into his pants, made some effort to straighten himself up, then assisted Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock opened his eyes at the contact, and smile somewhat bashfully, contentedly.
“Yum.” Tommy stated, just before kissing him soundly, knowing that the taste of Sherlock’s come was still coating the inside of his mouth.
“Delicious, I’d say,” Sherlock agreed happily, and now his grin was cheeky, teasing. “You fucking came on my pants,” he then pointed out moodily, and Tommy glanced down. So he had. And the splash was beginning to harden already - there would be a bit of effort required to wipe that off.
“I’m so sorry,” Tommy said, not at all meaning a word of it, and kissing Sherlock again.
“People will think I’m some kind of whore!” Sherlock pouted, and Tommy laughed. “Don’t worry,” he consoled Sherlock cheerfully, “I’m sure they think that anyway!”
Sherlock smacked his arse playfully, and they finally made their way back into the dining area.
Sherlock almost walked straight out of the cafe, having somewhat forgotten what they had been there for, and Tommy had to guide him back to the table.
“But I’m not hungry,” Sherlock whined, impatient to go outside and do things.
Tommy shook his head affectionately.
“Either. That’s the crack. But they’re gonna make us pay for this food anyway, and if we don’t eat anything, we’ll feel it after,” he pointed out, and Sherlock didn’t want to argue.
Tommy clearly had knowledge about this stuff, while Sherlock only had whatever theory had been covered in pharmacology textbooks - which, while it told him about the repression of hunger, did not tell him much about other consequences that could be further associated with repression of hunger.
He almost regretted ordering so much, but then when he saw the still-warm plates of food laid out on the table, he knew: he was entirely capable of doing this.
The waitress came over with freshly-brewed jugs of coffee and poured them as they sat down.
“The boss bloody hates it when customers do that,” she murmured, tilting her head slightly towards the door from which the duo had just emerged. “He’s such a frigging homophobe.”
Sherlock was nervous, anticipating some sort of wrathful act from the manager, but Tommy responded with smiles and charm. “And what do you think?” he inquired, brashly.
Sherlock didn’t understand the pang that the simple question caused to go through his heart. Surely that look of interest Tommy was giving the waitress was just an act; the same sort of act that was put on for clients.
“To be honest lads,” the waitress replied, depositing an unasked-for copy of the day’s paper on the table, thereby matching their table up with every other one in the cafe, “If that’s what gets your rocks off, why not?”
Tommy laughed aloud at this, and got stuck into his food.
Sherlock however, was distracted by the newspaper; the writing and the pictures seemed to be leaping off the pages at him. He’d always been an avid reader, had drifted away from the pastime of late, but now found himself enraptured by the stories conveyed to him by the paper.
“Sherlock!” Tommy called him back to reality. “Cheers,” he said cheesily, inclining his head and raising his coffee cup. Sherlock smile broadly in return, and focused on emptying the table of food.
* Yeah, I did! Seriously, where is the “off” switch for my fucked-up sense of humour? :p I'm not even sorry, though.
Chapter Eleven
Thanks for reading!
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It wasn’t until they were seated actually in the café a couple of blocks away from the apartment that the incongruity of having a breakfast-style meal at this decidedly un-breakfast-like time of day struck Sherlock, and a giggling fit overtook him.
“It’s a world gone topsy-turvy!” he exclaimed gleefully at Tommy’s raised eyebrow, and although Tommy joined in, recognising the hilarity, the waitress was less amused.
She seemed intrigued, however, by their lengthy demands for numerous breakfast items - Sherlock ordered three different plates of eggs - scrambled, fried, and Benedict* - simply because he couldn’t decide which of the first two to settle on, and he’d never tried the third. It took them a few minutes to explain that they wanted two pots of coffee as well as a cup of tea - Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good cup, but Tommy wasn’t a fan, saying that if he wanted a caffeine fix, he wanted to feel it, not have it creep up on him.
While the waitress conveyed their order to the kitchen, Sherlock and Tommy took a brief intermission in the bathroom - Tommy wanted a pick-me-up, and had brought a straw from the container on the café table for this express purpose, and Sherlock didn’t want to be alone in the dining area; it was somewhat terrifying in there without someone looking out for him.
Tommy sniffed a dose this time, using the fake-razorblade necklace that he wore to grind the powder to an even finer texture beforehand, and his eyes watered, but his expression was relieved, satisfied…energetically blissful.
Sherlock watched him intently, trying not to grind his teeth, and blurted out, “What is it like when you do that? Is it good? Is it better? Does it hurt?”
Tommy smiled, partly in gentle amusement at Sherlock’s insane questions, partly because the drug held him in thrall.
“Try it.” he suggested, sliding the packet over. “One nostril. Don’t try and do both at once like a fucking crazy Hoover.” he advised, laughing at his brilliance and the hilarity of the idea.
“Hoove! Hoooove!!” Sherlock exclaimed, imitating the machine’s low hum, and Tommy descended into hysterics, clutching at the sink top, at his sides, at Sherlock, to try and find some stability as he was in grave danger of entirely collapsing.
Sherlock gently batted his hands away, focusing on replicating Tommy’s previous motions, and getting this ‘snorting’ business right.
It was totally worth it.
This was the best thing ever, and he stretched out rapturously as his body thrummed, blood rushing this new dose to every extremity.
Tommy paid no heed to Sherlock’s enjoyment of the chemicals; having gasped his breath back he was now attending to the waist of Sherlock’s trousers; teasing and tickling his fingers at the meeting-point of skin and cloth, but soon wanting much more.
“Come on,” he growled, impatient, and dragged Sherlock into a cubicle.
Apparently he was completely unconcerned about anyone walking in on this, either, as he left the door open, and Sherlock was soon drawn to the total sensation of Tommy’s mouth now at the right level to reach the target area he was previously only able to torment with his hands.
The effects of his mouth were far worse, far better, and Sherlock was grateful he had the closer walls of the cubicle to prop himself up with.
Tommy didn’t waste a lot of time on Sherlock’s hips, sensitive though this skin was, he had another objective in mind, and he unzipped Sherlock’s trousers to reveal it.
Ah. There. One red cock, pre-hardened, hot, and slightly moist. Delicious.
Tommy engulfed it, causing Sherlock to simultaneously buck and stagger.
Blowjobs, giving or receiving, were nothing out of the ordinary for Sherlock, but right now he just feltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfeltfelt…every corner of his being jostled for him to pay them attention.
“We’re sparking!” his synapses shouted, and he wasn’t sure which ones. “We’re contracting!” his muscles declared, “And expanding!” another group chipped in, determined not to miss out. “Over here!” another nerve cluster chorused, and altogether it was a regular cacophony.
Sherlock couldn’t take it.
Hands were on his hips, though, holding firm and steadying him. Release from the prison of overwhelmsion.
Tommy had a deceptively strong grip, and a determined air that echoed in his movements, running his tongue from base to tip, luxuriating in the sensation just as much as Sherlock was, now able to focus on the top of Tommy’s head as he thoroughly explored every feature of Sherlock’s genitalia, building an oral map - he was so devoted to this task, he could probably advise a reconstruction of his bits, based on mouth-memory alone.
He paused, and Sherlock wanted to say, “Don’t stop…Please…” but his voice was faltering and malfunctioning, and so he only whined.
“Good?” Tommy smiled, and Sherlock wanted him to never leave, wanted him to smile like that at him every day.
Tommy stood, gently but firmly pressing Sherlock against the cubicle walls, and Sherlock gulped, wanting and needing Tommy to get back down, to fulfil the promise laid out by his lips and darting, stroking, devilish tongue.
He worked his jaw, trying to get the words to come.
“I said, ‘good?’” Tommy repeated, threateningly, demanding that Sherlock answer, and his hands gripping Sherlock’s biceps weren’t gentle, weren’t caressing, and the bites he inflicted on his neck weren’t playful - these were going to bruise.
“Yes!” Sherlock finally cried out, and a rush of strength came to him. He pushed forwards, thudding Tommy into the opposite wall of the cubicle - apparently, not hard enough to cause pain, but definitely loudly.
“Yes, yes, yes…” Sherlock chanted, grinding his cock against Tommy’s hip.
“Show me.” Tommy commanded in a soft voice, and Sherlock opened his eyes wide.
Of course. Instantly.
He practically tore Tommy’s jeans open, and shoved his hand down. He wanted to please, to do well, to keep Tommy with him, so he concentrated on coordination, on technique, on the creation of pleasure.
Long, dexterous fingers were to his extreme advantage in handjobs, and he was able to amaze clients by stimulating multiple, unexpected parts of their nether regions simultaneously, when most rentboys would need both hands to complete the same task. The sensation, therefore, was unfamiliar, yet still highly satisfying, and it entertained Sherlock no end to see a client’s face express shock and arousal in competition - all because of him.
“Jesus!” Tommy shouted, and it echoed around the bathroom.
“Sherlock.” Sherlock informed him gently, inarguably, and Tommy got the hint straight away.
“Oh fuck, Sherlock fuck fuck fuck Sherlock fuck…” he was still grabbing Sherlock’s biceps in a painful deathgrip, but not in a display of dominance anymore - now it was desperation, and Sherlock didn’t mind that one bit.
There was a second advantage to having long fingers when giving a handjob: the sheer amount of skin-to-skin contact that could be made; Sherlock’s hand could literally envelop Tommy’s cock with ease. Sherlock judged the size of Tommy’s pupils, judged how slack his jaw was, judged the sheen of sweat over his skin, and decided to incorporate this technique now.
Tommy’s posture changed; he straightened up, arched his back, cried out with a delicious “Agh!”
Sherlock knew the pose, knew the excitement that was being caused, knew exactly how he could add to this current scenario.
He stuck two fingers of his free left hand into his mouth, hastily, precautionarily; to cause Tommy pain right now would ruin everything. They were slicked, and he slid them down the back of Tommy’s pants.
He wasn’t surprised that one finger penetrated the other man easily, and two fingers fit also with little difficulty; rather, surprise was elicited in Tommy at the degree of manipulation Sherlock undertook with his left hand - many people were reluctant or frightened to move their fingers around too much.
The entire time, Sherlock applied a regular pressure to Tommy’s perineum with his 3rd and 4th fingers, his 1st and 2nd fingers in perpetual motion inside Tommy’s arse, creating a blinding blaze when contact was made with his prostate, and still, with his right hand, there was relentless pressure on, and firm pulling and encouragement of his cock.
How was anyone meant to keep it together under such a barrage, cocaine or no? Tommy had no chance, couldn’t hold himself back - didn’t, in fact, want to. So he let go, and his heartfelt expression of release was magnified to epic proportions by the acoustics of the bathroom.
When he came back to himself, he was still feeling a thrill at the thought that someone in the cafe might have heard them, and would know the brilliance of what they were up to.
Sherlock’s hands were out of Tommy’s trousers now, one tipping his chin up so he could access his mouth, one cradling the back of his head. He drew away momentarily to grab some air, and Tommy saw how flushed his cheeks were, how dark his eyes, and suddenly realised that he’d left something unfinished. He knelt, and Sherlock leant heavily against the cubicle wall with a quiet little moan of anticipation and relief to be getting some more attention.
Remembering how uncontrollable Sherlock had been earlier, Tommy placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips again, firmly holding him in place as he sucked energetically.
Once before, he’d had his head hit against a wall because the client had been overenthusiastic, and it had turned out badly for all: Tommy particularly, sustaining a sore throat, a lump on the head, and no payment for the job - clients were generally unwilling to part with cash if teeth became too heavily involved in blowjobs - even if it was an involuntary result of being hit on the back of the head.
So, Tommy was now understandably cautious. Not so cautious as to remove from Sherlock’s experience, however. Sherlock came with a groan and a sigh, and Tommy held him steady for the second time that night, pushing Sherlock backwards a little so that he could stand up again.
He tucked himself back into his pants, made some effort to straighten himself up, then assisted Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock opened his eyes at the contact, and smile somewhat bashfully, contentedly.
“Yum.” Tommy stated, just before kissing him soundly, knowing that the taste of Sherlock’s come was still coating the inside of his mouth.
“Delicious, I’d say,” Sherlock agreed happily, and now his grin was cheeky, teasing. “You fucking came on my pants,” he then pointed out moodily, and Tommy glanced down. So he had. And the splash was beginning to harden already - there would be a bit of effort required to wipe that off.
“I’m so sorry,” Tommy said, not at all meaning a word of it, and kissing Sherlock again.
“People will think I’m some kind of whore!” Sherlock pouted, and Tommy laughed. “Don’t worry,” he consoled Sherlock cheerfully, “I’m sure they think that anyway!”
Sherlock smacked his arse playfully, and they finally made their way back into the dining area.
Sherlock almost walked straight out of the cafe, having somewhat forgotten what they had been there for, and Tommy had to guide him back to the table.
“But I’m not hungry,” Sherlock whined, impatient to go outside and do things.
Tommy shook his head affectionately.
“Either. That’s the crack. But they’re gonna make us pay for this food anyway, and if we don’t eat anything, we’ll feel it after,” he pointed out, and Sherlock didn’t want to argue.
Tommy clearly had knowledge about this stuff, while Sherlock only had whatever theory had been covered in pharmacology textbooks - which, while it told him about the repression of hunger, did not tell him much about other consequences that could be further associated with repression of hunger.
He almost regretted ordering so much, but then when he saw the still-warm plates of food laid out on the table, he knew: he was entirely capable of doing this.
The waitress came over with freshly-brewed jugs of coffee and poured them as they sat down.
“The boss bloody hates it when customers do that,” she murmured, tilting her head slightly towards the door from which the duo had just emerged. “He’s such a frigging homophobe.”
Sherlock was nervous, anticipating some sort of wrathful act from the manager, but Tommy responded with smiles and charm. “And what do you think?” he inquired, brashly.
Sherlock didn’t understand the pang that the simple question caused to go through his heart. Surely that look of interest Tommy was giving the waitress was just an act; the same sort of act that was put on for clients.
“To be honest lads,” the waitress replied, depositing an unasked-for copy of the day’s paper on the table, thereby matching their table up with every other one in the cafe, “If that’s what gets your rocks off, why not?”
Tommy laughed aloud at this, and got stuck into his food.
Sherlock however, was distracted by the newspaper; the writing and the pictures seemed to be leaping off the pages at him. He’d always been an avid reader, had drifted away from the pastime of late, but now found himself enraptured by the stories conveyed to him by the paper.
“Sherlock!” Tommy called him back to reality. “Cheers,” he said cheesily, inclining his head and raising his coffee cup. Sherlock smile broadly in return, and focused on emptying the table of food.
* Yeah, I did! Seriously, where is the “off” switch for my fucked-up sense of humour? :p I'm not even sorry, though.
Chapter Eleven