Sherlock!Rentboy (alternative plot) (Part Eleven)
A/N: Unfortunately, this is all I've written so far...thus endeth the posting spam for now. I wasn't even going to have this chapter up before Tuesday, but I woke up at the wee hours this morning with an insane urge to write. Sometimes I hate my brain.
Please let me know how you're enjoying the story so far <3
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Sherlock was buzzing when they reached Russell Square, but he wasn’t skipping along the path - that was just a very noticeable spring in his step. Entirely different.
A shout drew their attention as they were crossing the road to get to the park area, and Sherlock darted his eyes sharply to the source. A slightly portly, middle-aged man was looking distinctly embarrassed at having vocalised his excitement, and Sherlock switched his game face on: a happy smile, not overjoyed, just the right balance of interested and aloof to entice the clients in.
This man, he didn’t need to lure; had already landed, hook, line and sinker. Clyde. He was married, most of them were, and though good at his work, earning a comfortable income, felt like he had missed out on his true calling in life, and turned to rentboys - although nowadays, Sherlock exclusively - to make himself feel alive.
It was a sad story, but not the saddest, and Sherlock somewhat enjoyed him as a client. He was so repressed that even in his rebellion of seeking out Sherlock he was quite predictable: once a week, straight-up sex, always in the back of his car, and he was always, always fascinated by the sharp protrusions of Sherlock’s hipbones. He took 10 minutes from greeting to climax, but liked to cuddle briefly afterwards, before allowing Sherlock to peel away from him, and digging out his wallet.
Just the sort of client Sherlock was happy to deal with right now.
He parted from Tommy’s side with no expression of farewell - to indicate connection to others wasn’t always conducive to feigning interest in clients - they could often tell the difference between the real relationship, and the show that they received. It ruined the fantasy. And a ruined fantasy could mean no payment.
Clyde didn’t seem to notice Tommy, fixated on Sherlock, and a little more exuberant than usual. Sherlock supposed he may have been waiting for him in the park a while.
He embraced Sherlock, and planted a kiss on him, Sherlock snapping his chin upwards to deter Clyde from landing it on his mouth. Clyde didn’t mind at all - he knew the rules, and besides, he was sufficiently distracted by Sherlock’s lanky body pressed against his own.
He turned away, obviously walking to his car, trusting that Sherlock would follow him, because it was what he did. Sherlock constantly altered in his regard for this characteristic of Clyde’s - pity, envy, disgust, frustration, amusement - and perhaps that was part of why he tolerated him as a client; he was entirely predictable, and yet, unfathomable.
The car was parked down an alleyway not far from Russell Square, and Sherlock was about to join Clyde in the backseat when realisation struck him.
“Shit,” he uttered, amazed that he could have done such a stupid thing. “Shit shit shit shit shit.”
Clyde looked at him in concern, belt already unfastened, and beginning to work his trousers down.
“What?” he asked, with a tinge of impatience.
“Condoms.” Sherlock explained with a mixture of apology and frustration in the one word.
“Oh.” replied Clyde. “I don’t have any in the car. You normally have them.” he pointed out.
“I know,” Sherlock answered testily, but he could see a Tesco’s across the way. “I’m sorry, I’ll be back,” he promised, and dashed off.
He heard Clyde call after him, “I’m not paying for this!” and a twist of dread threatened his gut. He was probably going to have to work harder than usual to please Clyde tonight.
Sherlock had no patience for supermarkets, and so, was brisk with grabbing the first packet he saw, and stalking out, not waiting for his change at the register. He tore the packet open and discarded the box, shoving all but one sachet in his back pocket.
He was clambering into Clyde’s car within moments of having departed earlier.
Clyde was obviously pleased to see him return so quickly, but his earlier eagerness had diminished. Sherlock could work on that.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered in a pitiful voice, knowing that Clyde liked him to be a submissive underling, looping his arms under Clyde’s (the posture encouraged Clyde to wrap his own arms around Sherlock, and in turn, created in Clyde a subconscious acceptance of Sherlock and affection towards him - Sherlock was meticulous in his study of implicit psychology), and plastering kisses all over Clyde’s face, avoiding the mouth, but otherwise, a seamless show of lust and desperation. Sherlock was sat astride him, knees on either side of his lap; ensuring their crotches were close together.
“So so so so sorry.” he continued with the inundation of kisses, and gyrated needily against Clyde. He felt, with some satisfaction, that he was already having the desired effect, and Clyde’s breath was already becoming quicker. It was too easy.
“Please fuck me?” he begged softly, directly into Clyde’s ear, and lifted himself up when the man gasped, and tore at his own trousers, finishing the partial-undressing.
Sherlock struggled out of his jeans hastily, not for the first time wishing that Clyde would just get a goddamn credit card under a fake name and book hotel rooms to use, rather than forcing them to twist around in the backseat of his car. It wasn’t like it was that difficult to falsify an identity, after all. But he pushed the thought away, and repositioned himself on Clyde’s lap, as though nothing else preyed on his mind.
“Oh,” he groaned in apparent appreciation of Clyde’s cock, now hard, and Clyde smiled happily, his previous uncharacteristic peevishness vanished.
He placed his soft hands, as ever, on Sherlock’s hipbones and shifted the skin, watching it stretch and move over the sharp points. Sherlock leant back with a satisfied “Mmm,” but then reached down purposefully for Clyde’s cock. The first stroke was a studied tentative motion, the subsequent ones more firm, more confident, and Clyde enjoyed it immensely.
Sherlock sometimes wondered whether his wife ever fucked him, he was so responsive and easy to please in these sessions. That was not typical of a sexually satisfied man.
He tore the sachet in his hand open, and put it on Clyde, repositioned himself, draping his arms around Clyde’s neck, and perched so that Clyde’s cock just nudged at his arse.
He hesitated, which was part of the act, but the nervous tremor that then passed through him was not so put-on. He hadn’t prepped. This might hurt. It might not. Clyde was a bit smaller than most. Was the condom going to be lubed enough to make it okay?
Sherlock hadn’t realised that his face was betraying him, until Clyde broke the silence with a subdued, “Ready?” as though he was the one who was in charge of how this situation was going to progress, and would dictate whether Sherlock lowered himself down in the next couple of seconds.
Placing a smile on his face, Sherlock reminded himself that he needed the money, reminded himself that if it did hurt, there was the cocaine to help. He hadn’t had any for at least an hour now - he just had to find Tommy and get some more.
“Ready,” he whispered back, and lowered himself down.
He hissed, and cried out an “Agh!” and bit his lip, as though trying to contain himself; but the blessed reality was that it didn’t hurt. It was probably partly Clyde’s under-endowment, but probably also Sherlock’s years of being soundly fucked in the arse in his work, not to mention his years before being a rentboy, in his past life with boyfriends and other such “normal” things.
Sometimes, he thought that his near-scripted reaction to Clyde (and other clients, come to that) was too much, but it always turned out that he was convincing enough, they were distracted enough, and they were overall just flattered.
Clyde wasn’t even slightly a challenge, Sherlock considered, keeping the rhythm and throwing in reactionary gasps and whines on occasion - the client was almost finished, already, there was a characteristic tensing in his face, in his shoulders, and he was thrusting into Sherlock faster, faster, faster...there.
Sherlock was able to openly watch Clyde with interest when he came, without being considered rude - the man kept his eyes closed the whole time. Sherlock could also let some of the control over his echopraxia slip, without being noticed, and he would automatically hang his mouth open the same amount that Clyde did, then pull a near-grimace/concerned face as the climax approached, but he couldn’t quite mimic the face that Clyde made when he actually came.
Clyde relaxed, and Sherlock leant forward with an ostensibly happy sigh, snuggling into Clyde’s arms.
It was pleasant, having clients who didn’t expect you to come as well. Less stressful.
Sherlock didn’t even get hard with some clients, Clyde included, and had a well-rehearsed story about having a medical condition that prevented it, trotted out whenever any clients were curious, or offended at his lack of response. It would gain him a pissed-off huff, or an uncomfortable “oh,” but it basically ensured that they dropped the subject. There had been occasions when a determined client had tried to ‘cure’ Sherlock’s ‘condition’...Those hadn’t been the best episodes, but the clients concerned had never attempted it again.
He knew that there were drugs that would just make him hard, regardless of how he actually felt, but was disinclined towards using them for a few reasons: didn’t want to go through the effort of obtaining them, didn’t want to become dependent upon them for performance, didn’t want the hassle of taking one blue pill x amount of time prior to when an erection was desired... If the clients wanted someone who was hard on demand, there were other rentboys out there who could cater to them.
“You’re so good,” Sherlock gasped, panting against the corner of Clyde’s jaw, playing out satisfaction, desire and contentment.
“You’re perfect,” Clyde murmured in reply, one arm looped up around Sherlock’s back, his hand placed on Sherlock’s shoulder, his other hand stroking Sherlock’s upper thigh absently. “I’m...sorry I was so abrupt with you before,” Clyde ventured, and Sherlock hummed, nuzzling against Clyde’s neck.
They were settled there for a moment, when Clyde sat upright with a start, jolting Sherlock. “Oh shit, I’m late!” Clyde exclaimed, “Dinner appointment!” he added in explanation.
Sherlock stopped what he was doing, and raised himself off Clyde’s cock swiftly, ignoring the empty feeling. It was physical, not emotional, and the sensation would soon be replaced. He removed the condom from Clyde, and busied himself with pulling his jeans on. He contorted himself out of the car, Clyde right behind him, patting down his jacket.
Sherlock stared down the alleyway. Something had caught his eye, but he wasn’t certain what.
“Thank you,” Clyde said, voice filled with gratitude, as always, and pressed a couple of notes into his palm. Sherlock was relieved. As minimal effort as Clyde was, serving a non-paying client never quite equalled a paying one.
Sherlock granted him a smile. “Anytime, Clyde,” he said, pocketing the cash and turning on his heel. He lit a cigarette as he departed, eyes scanning for Tommy, for another client, for...what was it that he’d seen?
Part Twelve
Please let me know how you're enjoying the story so far <3
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Sherlock was buzzing when they reached Russell Square, but he wasn’t skipping along the path - that was just a very noticeable spring in his step. Entirely different.
A shout drew their attention as they were crossing the road to get to the park area, and Sherlock darted his eyes sharply to the source. A slightly portly, middle-aged man was looking distinctly embarrassed at having vocalised his excitement, and Sherlock switched his game face on: a happy smile, not overjoyed, just the right balance of interested and aloof to entice the clients in.
This man, he didn’t need to lure; had already landed, hook, line and sinker. Clyde. He was married, most of them were, and though good at his work, earning a comfortable income, felt like he had missed out on his true calling in life, and turned to rentboys - although nowadays, Sherlock exclusively - to make himself feel alive.
It was a sad story, but not the saddest, and Sherlock somewhat enjoyed him as a client. He was so repressed that even in his rebellion of seeking out Sherlock he was quite predictable: once a week, straight-up sex, always in the back of his car, and he was always, always fascinated by the sharp protrusions of Sherlock’s hipbones. He took 10 minutes from greeting to climax, but liked to cuddle briefly afterwards, before allowing Sherlock to peel away from him, and digging out his wallet.
Just the sort of client Sherlock was happy to deal with right now.
He parted from Tommy’s side with no expression of farewell - to indicate connection to others wasn’t always conducive to feigning interest in clients - they could often tell the difference between the real relationship, and the show that they received. It ruined the fantasy. And a ruined fantasy could mean no payment.
Clyde didn’t seem to notice Tommy, fixated on Sherlock, and a little more exuberant than usual. Sherlock supposed he may have been waiting for him in the park a while.
He embraced Sherlock, and planted a kiss on him, Sherlock snapping his chin upwards to deter Clyde from landing it on his mouth. Clyde didn’t mind at all - he knew the rules, and besides, he was sufficiently distracted by Sherlock’s lanky body pressed against his own.
He turned away, obviously walking to his car, trusting that Sherlock would follow him, because it was what he did. Sherlock constantly altered in his regard for this characteristic of Clyde’s - pity, envy, disgust, frustration, amusement - and perhaps that was part of why he tolerated him as a client; he was entirely predictable, and yet, unfathomable.
The car was parked down an alleyway not far from Russell Square, and Sherlock was about to join Clyde in the backseat when realisation struck him.
“Shit,” he uttered, amazed that he could have done such a stupid thing. “Shit shit shit shit shit.”
Clyde looked at him in concern, belt already unfastened, and beginning to work his trousers down.
“What?” he asked, with a tinge of impatience.
“Condoms.” Sherlock explained with a mixture of apology and frustration in the one word.
“Oh.” replied Clyde. “I don’t have any in the car. You normally have them.” he pointed out.
“I know,” Sherlock answered testily, but he could see a Tesco’s across the way. “I’m sorry, I’ll be back,” he promised, and dashed off.
He heard Clyde call after him, “I’m not paying for this!” and a twist of dread threatened his gut. He was probably going to have to work harder than usual to please Clyde tonight.
Sherlock had no patience for supermarkets, and so, was brisk with grabbing the first packet he saw, and stalking out, not waiting for his change at the register. He tore the packet open and discarded the box, shoving all but one sachet in his back pocket.
He was clambering into Clyde’s car within moments of having departed earlier.
Clyde was obviously pleased to see him return so quickly, but his earlier eagerness had diminished. Sherlock could work on that.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered in a pitiful voice, knowing that Clyde liked him to be a submissive underling, looping his arms under Clyde’s (the posture encouraged Clyde to wrap his own arms around Sherlock, and in turn, created in Clyde a subconscious acceptance of Sherlock and affection towards him - Sherlock was meticulous in his study of implicit psychology), and plastering kisses all over Clyde’s face, avoiding the mouth, but otherwise, a seamless show of lust and desperation. Sherlock was sat astride him, knees on either side of his lap; ensuring their crotches were close together.
“So so so so sorry.” he continued with the inundation of kisses, and gyrated needily against Clyde. He felt, with some satisfaction, that he was already having the desired effect, and Clyde’s breath was already becoming quicker. It was too easy.
“Please fuck me?” he begged softly, directly into Clyde’s ear, and lifted himself up when the man gasped, and tore at his own trousers, finishing the partial-undressing.
Sherlock struggled out of his jeans hastily, not for the first time wishing that Clyde would just get a goddamn credit card under a fake name and book hotel rooms to use, rather than forcing them to twist around in the backseat of his car. It wasn’t like it was that difficult to falsify an identity, after all. But he pushed the thought away, and repositioned himself on Clyde’s lap, as though nothing else preyed on his mind.
“Oh,” he groaned in apparent appreciation of Clyde’s cock, now hard, and Clyde smiled happily, his previous uncharacteristic peevishness vanished.
He placed his soft hands, as ever, on Sherlock’s hipbones and shifted the skin, watching it stretch and move over the sharp points. Sherlock leant back with a satisfied “Mmm,” but then reached down purposefully for Clyde’s cock. The first stroke was a studied tentative motion, the subsequent ones more firm, more confident, and Clyde enjoyed it immensely.
Sherlock sometimes wondered whether his wife ever fucked him, he was so responsive and easy to please in these sessions. That was not typical of a sexually satisfied man.
He tore the sachet in his hand open, and put it on Clyde, repositioned himself, draping his arms around Clyde’s neck, and perched so that Clyde’s cock just nudged at his arse.
He hesitated, which was part of the act, but the nervous tremor that then passed through him was not so put-on. He hadn’t prepped. This might hurt. It might not. Clyde was a bit smaller than most. Was the condom going to be lubed enough to make it okay?
Sherlock hadn’t realised that his face was betraying him, until Clyde broke the silence with a subdued, “Ready?” as though he was the one who was in charge of how this situation was going to progress, and would dictate whether Sherlock lowered himself down in the next couple of seconds.
Placing a smile on his face, Sherlock reminded himself that he needed the money, reminded himself that if it did hurt, there was the cocaine to help. He hadn’t had any for at least an hour now - he just had to find Tommy and get some more.
“Ready,” he whispered back, and lowered himself down.
He hissed, and cried out an “Agh!” and bit his lip, as though trying to contain himself; but the blessed reality was that it didn’t hurt. It was probably partly Clyde’s under-endowment, but probably also Sherlock’s years of being soundly fucked in the arse in his work, not to mention his years before being a rentboy, in his past life with boyfriends and other such “normal” things.
Sometimes, he thought that his near-scripted reaction to Clyde (and other clients, come to that) was too much, but it always turned out that he was convincing enough, they were distracted enough, and they were overall just flattered.
Clyde wasn’t even slightly a challenge, Sherlock considered, keeping the rhythm and throwing in reactionary gasps and whines on occasion - the client was almost finished, already, there was a characteristic tensing in his face, in his shoulders, and he was thrusting into Sherlock faster, faster, faster...there.
Sherlock was able to openly watch Clyde with interest when he came, without being considered rude - the man kept his eyes closed the whole time. Sherlock could also let some of the control over his echopraxia slip, without being noticed, and he would automatically hang his mouth open the same amount that Clyde did, then pull a near-grimace/concerned face as the climax approached, but he couldn’t quite mimic the face that Clyde made when he actually came.
Clyde relaxed, and Sherlock leant forward with an ostensibly happy sigh, snuggling into Clyde’s arms.
It was pleasant, having clients who didn’t expect you to come as well. Less stressful.
Sherlock didn’t even get hard with some clients, Clyde included, and had a well-rehearsed story about having a medical condition that prevented it, trotted out whenever any clients were curious, or offended at his lack of response. It would gain him a pissed-off huff, or an uncomfortable “oh,” but it basically ensured that they dropped the subject. There had been occasions when a determined client had tried to ‘cure’ Sherlock’s ‘condition’...Those hadn’t been the best episodes, but the clients concerned had never attempted it again.
He knew that there were drugs that would just make him hard, regardless of how he actually felt, but was disinclined towards using them for a few reasons: didn’t want to go through the effort of obtaining them, didn’t want to become dependent upon them for performance, didn’t want the hassle of taking one blue pill x amount of time prior to when an erection was desired... If the clients wanted someone who was hard on demand, there were other rentboys out there who could cater to them.
“You’re so good,” Sherlock gasped, panting against the corner of Clyde’s jaw, playing out satisfaction, desire and contentment.
“You’re perfect,” Clyde murmured in reply, one arm looped up around Sherlock’s back, his hand placed on Sherlock’s shoulder, his other hand stroking Sherlock’s upper thigh absently. “I’m...sorry I was so abrupt with you before,” Clyde ventured, and Sherlock hummed, nuzzling against Clyde’s neck.
They were settled there for a moment, when Clyde sat upright with a start, jolting Sherlock. “Oh shit, I’m late!” Clyde exclaimed, “Dinner appointment!” he added in explanation.
Sherlock stopped what he was doing, and raised himself off Clyde’s cock swiftly, ignoring the empty feeling. It was physical, not emotional, and the sensation would soon be replaced. He removed the condom from Clyde, and busied himself with pulling his jeans on. He contorted himself out of the car, Clyde right behind him, patting down his jacket.
Sherlock stared down the alleyway. Something had caught his eye, but he wasn’t certain what.
“Thank you,” Clyde said, voice filled with gratitude, as always, and pressed a couple of notes into his palm. Sherlock was relieved. As minimal effort as Clyde was, serving a non-paying client never quite equalled a paying one.
Sherlock granted him a smile. “Anytime, Clyde,” he said, pocketing the cash and turning on his heel. He lit a cigarette as he departed, eyes scanning for Tommy, for another client, for...what was it that he’d seen?
Part Twelve