Silent Servant Part Five
Silence in the Diogenes
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Sherlock, Mycroft/Lestrade, Lestrade/Sherlock, Mycroft/John
Warnings: D/s, incest, bondage
Summary: The Diogenes Club isn't just one big anti-social opportunity. For some of its members, it's a live-saver. Series of one-shots that take place in the club.
Stories: Silent Sanctuary Shelter in the Storm Sound of Silence Silent Treatment Slave to the Silence Silent Servant Part One Silent Servant Part Two Silent Servant Part Three Silent Servant Part Four
Sherlock hadn't thought it would be possible to distract him from the aching pressure in his cock and balls. He'd been brought to the brink and denied so many times during the course of the evening that he felt swollen and fragile, like an overripe fruit ready to explode at the lightest touch.
But Mycroft had worked a miracle. The warm bath and strong hands of the Diogenes masseur were so relaxing that the painful urgency abated, and lying on his front was a lazy pleasure instead of an ordeal. The anal plug had been re-inserted to keep him open between sessions, creating a delicious nerve-storm whenever the masseur's fingers worked the muscles in his buttocks and forced it against his prostate.
Sherlock.
He opened one eye in mild surprise. Mycroft had left twenty minutes ago to greet the person or people he had to face next. He hadn't heard the elder Holmes come back in.
Is it time?
Ten more minutes. Mycroft sat in a blood-red armchair near the head of the massage table and surveyed his oiled form. You look delicious, brother dear. Speaking of which, nourishment would be advisable.
He picked up a round piece of chocolate from a chilled silver tray on the table beside his chair and held it out. Sherlock raised his head from his folded arms and let his brother place the sweet on his tongue. When he bit down, he tasted fresh cherry nectar underscored by premium dark chocolate.
More? Mycroft asked after he swallowed the morsel.
Sherlock nodded and opened his mouth again. Mycroft fed him piece after piece of chocolate-covered fruit: sliced banana, mango spears, star fruit wedges. The sugar infused him with energy and reawakened his drowsy muscles.
Mycroft checked his pocket watch. It's time. Kneel at my feet, please.
Sherlock rolled slowly off the table, stepped toward his brother, and assumed the position. Mycroft rumpled his freshly washed curls affectionately before coaxing his jaws apart and re-applying the bit gag. Anthony, the harness, please.
The masseur wiped his slick palms on a bruise-blue towel and handed him a velvet bag. Mycroft set it on the table, extracted the harness, and shook it out like it was a freshly laundered shirt instead of a heavy mass of leather and steel buckles. The metal jangled lightly in the silent air, causing Sherlock's pulse to quicken. He'd worn it a few times before, and arranged himself so that Mycroft could easily drop it over his shoulders and tighten the leather straps around his ribcage, below the nipple line, and around his waist.
Sherlock listened to his brother's unsteady breathing as each buckle was secured, and smiled inwardly. He knew that he looked good in that sleek black device, whose straps Mycroft loved to tug on while Sherlock rode him. When Mycroft caressed his back and flank, he leaned into the touch and closed his eyes in contentment.
The snap of the leash hook onto his collar's D-ring broke the spell. Sherlock suppressed a disappointed noise as his brother tugged gently.
Let's go.
Animated by curiousity, Sherlock followed on all fours as Mycroft walked out of the room, turned left, and went down the hall. The ornate carpet cushioned his palms and knees while Sherlock crawled along and wondered who his next atonement was.
John?
No. Not John. The former army doctor didn't belong in the lovely nightmare that was the Diogenes Club. But then again, Sherlock would have once thought the same of Donovan, Anderson, and Dimmock. Was it possible, then, that his faithful blogger and companion was on the premises right now, sipping refreshments and deciding which implement to mark him with first?
The notion was strangely thrilling. He'd often wondered if John had a dark side like most people seemed to. John was a soldier, a man who'd taken lives to protect his country and occasionally Sherlock, but he wasn't deviant unless you counted running red lights and flipping off fans of "the other team" as sinister behaviour. Besides, John always forgave him after their rows, whether he was contrite or not.
So who then?
Sherlock was still pondering the mystery when Mycroft stopped before a closed door next to the upstairs landing. After glancing down at him and whispering Remember- behave, the elder Holmes turned the gilded knob. It yielded with a gentle click and the door swished open wide enough for both men to pass through.
When Mycroft stopped in the center of the floor, Sherlock sank onto his bruised haunches and gazed about. He'd never been in this chamber before. Its scarlet walls had a mottled black pattern that created a marble-like effect. The soft, deep rug had a similar color scheme. The only items of furniture were a leather-padded chair of the type found in dental offices, a huge cherry wood wardrobe, and black leather sofa.
Two women sat on the latter, wearing evening gowns and clutching flutes of champagne. When Sherlock and Mycroft entered, they stopped whispering, lowered their glasses, and sat up straight. Sherlock felt their eyes shoot daggers at him, and instinctively edged closer to his brother.
Dr. Sarah Sawyer cut a lovely yet formidable figure in a tight, gunmetal gray sheath dress. Her long red hair was done up in an elegant chignon and her silver eye shadow made her stare even colder. Sherlock's gaze was drawn to her sinewy arms, which had once brought a steel pipe crashing onto a Chinese gangster's head. A whip or paddle would be a true instrument of torture in her hands. She and Sherlock had been civil to each other in the past, but when Sherlock forced John to cancel too many dates, she'd severed the relationship and threatened to do the same to Sherlock's penis when they met again.
The younger woman beside her was dark-complexioned and wore a black silk cocktail dress with a tight bodice and full skirt. Sherlock winced as he recognized another of John's past girlfriends. Which one was she? Oh, yes- the boring teacher. She'd broken up with John that tumultuous Christmas Eve, after the doctor cancelled their plans in order to rescue Sherlock from another self-induced disaster. He struggled to remember her name. Was it Jane? Jean? No- Jeanette.
Sherlock remembered a saying about hell having no fury like a woman scorned. Two scorned women meant that he was in serious trouble. He didn't want to use his safety signal before the session even started, but when he felt like a zebra in the sights of two hungry she-lions, the prospect was tempting.
Mycroft laid a calming hand on his head. Dr. Sawyer. Miss Walters. I apologize if we kept you waiting long.
Sarah smiled without warmth. You didn't. But thank you anyway. Unlike your younger brother, you're a gentleman.
Besides, Jeanette added, you're not the one who really should apologize.
So I understand. That's why you were both invited here tonight. Sherlock owes you both a proper apology.
Sarah set her glass on the floor and leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. The hem of her dress rode slightly up, revealing stiletto heels that should have required a weapons permit prior to purchase.
That he does. And we understand the rules, Mr. Holmes.
Of course you do. I know you're no stranger to this sort of interaction, Dr. Sawyer. Your requested implements are in the wardrobe.
Sarah's pink tongue traced her scarlet lips. Good.
Sherlock pricked up his ears. Sarah had D/s experience? He wondered who had helped her acquire it. Probably someone she met after her relationship with John ended.
Jeanette regarded her with open admiration and whispered, You promised to show me. I want to make that wanker sorry without risking jail.
Of course, dear.
Although he refused to show it, Sherlock was nervous. Experience with Irene Adler had taught Sherlock that the female of the species could be just as devious and violent as the male, and anyone who forgot that was setting themselves up for a painful awakening. But at the same time, exhilaration at a prospective challenge took root. He knew that Mycroft would never have invited the two women here if they intended to really hurt him. They just wanted to break him down, and he became just as determined to deny them that satisfaction.
Let the games begin then.
He straightened his back and stared coolly at each woman in turn. Jeanette scowled. Sarah's mouth tightened and she stood. When she held out her hand, Mycroft passed over the leash handle and went to stand next to the door.
All right, Sherlock. I see you're not sorry now, but you will be when this is over. Sarah tugged on the chain, forcing him to crawl after her as she strode over to the ominous-looking chair. He thought she would order him into it, but to his amazement she bent down, grasped him under the arms, and bodily tossed him on the seat. He watched as she tipped the upper section back until he was nearly supine, grasped his legs, and draped them over the chair's armrests.
Jeanette, fix those straps over his wrists while I immobilize his legs.
Jeanette set her glass down, jumped up, and hurried to comply. She was so excited that she fumbled with the buckles a few times. When he rolled his eyes at her efforts she glared at him before staring down at the cock ring digging into his flesh.
That looks sore. And frustrating. Now you know how I felt when you kept calling John away at the worst times.
Oh, I'm sure he knew. He just didn't care. He's a self-centered prat. Sarah opened a steel drawer built into the chair's base, took out two thick straps, and used them to secure Sherlock's thighs to the armrests. The position wasn't painful, but it was humiliating. Aren't you, Sherlock?
He didn't answer immediately. She smacked his right buttock and growled, I asked you a question.
He shrugged, trying not to squirm as the spank caused the toy to rotate inside him. Sarah smirked and slapped the other arse cheek, harder. This time he did yelp as pleasure shot up his spine. She grinned in triumph and faced Jeanette.
See, dear? Even Sherlock Holmes knows the meaning of frustration.
Jeanette crossed her arms. I want to see him get the meaning of pain.
Sherlock glared over at his brother, who was visibly amused. He vowed to get even with Mycroft for subjecting him to the predations of these two-
A dark pressure descended onto his eyes without warning, plunging everything into blackness. Sherlock shook his head angrily but Sarah's deft fingers secured the blindfold.
Pain it is, then. Her long nails tweaked his left nipple. Jeanette, be a dear and bring me something nice and sharp from that tray next to the sofa.
Sharp? Sherlock shifted nervously in his bindings. Where on earth did she intend to touch him with something sharp?
That question was answered by a sudden pain that glided smoothly along the center of his scrotum, freezing the breath in his throat. He thrashed and screamed around the gag, panic setting in as he felt something wet trickle down the wrinkled skin. What was she doing? Oh God, she wasn't…. No, Mycroft would never-
I'm disappointed in you, little brother. You've been shot at, knifed, and strangled, yet you flail about like this when a piece of ice touches you?
Ice. Not cold steel. Sherlock silently blessed Mycroft for the lightly disguised intervention. Then Sarah ran the ice along the underside of his cock, which lay thick and leaking against his belly, and his mind and nerves exploded. It HURT, God damn it, but he couldn't let that red-headed she-devil win.
Despite his best efforts, Sherlock realized that she just might. Sarah knew what she was doing. After making his trapped penis spasm from the cold, he felt her bend over him and send a whoosh of hot breath against the chilled skin. The resulting scorch made his hands clench into sweaty fists and toes curl until pain shot up his legs. She was a doctor, and knew how to play his nerves like he played the violin.
You're so good at that, Jeanette marvelled. You should speak at my women's empowerment class.
Sherlock bristled at the trivial comment and garbled his opinion of her and empowerment groups in general. It came out as rubber-muffled nonsense, but he knew she got the point when manicured fingernails clamped his nipples and twisted, making him loudly catch his breath. As he exhaled, Sarah stabbed his belly and sides repeatedly with the ice. He was unable to inhale without his diaphragm spasming due to the cold and forcing the air out.
Suffocation without even touching his throat or airways. He would have admired the ingenuity if he weren't struggling against its effects.
Interrupted and fragmented breathing left him lightheaded. He was floating now, unable to feel the freezing jabs with the same intensity. Sherlock relaxed against the chair's padded surface as a gentle unconsciousness closed in.
Then it stopped. He sucked in air though his flaring nostrils and started shaking, but not from fear. Giddiness and endorphin overload had left him excited and desperately turned on. Although the cock ring now gripped him more cruelly than ever, he was exhilarated. As Sarah's fingers pressed carefully against his pulse, Sherlock wanted to beg her to do it again.
Was that supposed to punish him? Jeanette asked. I think he liked it.
Mycroft spoke. A little pleasure makes denial even crueller.
Exactly, Sarah said. Just as you and I felt, Jeanette, when this self-absorbed prat kept calling John out of our beds at the worst times. Now watch this.
Sherlock felt her fingers burrow between his spread buttocks, grasping the toy and carefully sliding it out. Pass me some gloves and lube from that drawer.
Sherlock tensed, anticipating and dreading what was coming. He heard the crisp snap of latex and felt a towel being tucked under his hips. Then a slender, lube-slick hand massaged his cock and testicles before moving lower and applying a teasing pressure to his perineum and anus. He undulated on the table and moaned when two fingers slid into his hole and pressed upward.
Ah- here it is.
Sherlock arched his back at the brief burst of pain as the swollen gland was expertly stroked. Then pleasure blossomed, making his stomach muscles go tight and his legs quiver nonstop. Sarah pressed his sweet spot relentlessly, and Sherlock's breathing was interspersed with desperate cries and whimpers. If he didn't come soon, he'd go insane. Mycroft would have to carry him out of the Diogenes in a fucking straitjacket.
Sherlock made a low, keening noise when she used her other hand to massage his perineum. Beside him, Jeanette gasped as desperation and arousal made him contort into incredible positions and robbed him of coherency.
Christ, that's hot. Oh, God.
He heard the rustle of silk as she climbed onto the table and squeezed his head between her knees. The gag was undone by shaky fingers and thrown aside.
I'll forgive you if you make me come, you fucking slut, she choked.
If you make her come, I'll forgive you too, Sarah said. And that means one orgasm for you. Is that fair, Mr. Holmes?
Mycroft didn't answer right away. When he did, his breathing was uneven. Very well. Only one.
Sherlock nodded rapidly. He knew from past experience that one orgasm would not be enough when he was this far gone. But it was something, and he needed it NOW, before those professional fingers broke his mind along with his body.
Jeanette seized Sherlock's hair and lowered herself onto his face. She was soaked- excited, no doubt, by his surrender and the sheer headiness of seeing a human being driven mental by pleasure. He had never done this before, but instinct directed him to extend his tongue and flick it against her clit. She hissed and ground against him, filling his mouth and covering his face with her rich, salty juices.
Sherlock tried a variety of manoeuvres, trying to pinpoint what would get her off fast so that he could get relief of his own. She liked everything, it seemed. She moaned under her breath when he slid his tongue through her wet folds, panted and sobbed when he laved across and around her clit, and wailed so sharply that she had to bite her lip when she felt his teeth.
Oh, fuck, he's good… I'm close…
Her slim legs started to jerk and tremble, and her rocking against his face intensified. Then Jeanette shuddered all over and gasped just before Sherlock's mouth was filled with her sweet, hot release.
When she slumped forward and climbed off the table with a soft groan, Sarah snapped the cock ring off, held his shaft firmly at the base, and stroked more aggressively in his arse. Sherlock's breathing disintegrated into a series of chokes and pleas as he writhed. A fine layer of sweat covered his face and body as Sarah tugged on his cock with clinical (diabolical?) precision and kept up the massage.
Sarah, Jeanette, he whimpered, I'm sorry, so sorry, oh fuck, PLEASE….
Mycroft's lips were suddenly on his, silencing his cries as he came so hard that entire galaxies -never mind stars- exploded against the darkness of the blindfold. Shhh, Mycroft whispered as their tongues slid urgently together.
Sherlock felt hot liquid rain thickly onto his belly and coat his ribcage. He could hear and feel himself screaming but he didn't care. His raw desperation caused Mycroft to make a noise that was midway between a growl and a groan and silence him with a large palm. Sherlock felt his brother's breath blast against his arched throat before teeth came down and closed in a possessive bite that crushed and bruised and reminded Sherlock how much he was loved.
Detecting the beginning contractions of another climax, Sherlock rode Sarah's fingers in a desperate bid to hurry it along before he could be denied, but she was too fast. There was a fierce tug on his balls before the cock ring was re-applied, making him kick out in frustration.
Mycroft's mouth moved from his neck to his nipple, which was teased with a warm tongue before another deliciously painful bite pinched the surrounding tissue.
Greedy, Sherlock, his brother whispered. Forever wanting more. You've always been my greatest weakness and biggest challenge.
When he took his hand away from Sherlock's mouth, the younger Holmes breathed, Thank you. He was still hard and uncomfortable, but absurdly grateful for the limited release he'd been allowed.
Sarah's fingers slid out and his cock was released. Sherlock heard her step away and bin the gloves.
I'm satisfied, she declared. He's got an idea of what it's like to get so close, even attain a partial victory, only to have it all stop suddenly. Forgiveness granted.
Miss Walters? Mycroft queried as he pulled the blindfold off.
Sherlock turned his head toward Jeanette, who stood against the wall, breathing heavily and hands clasped. She was still flushed and too distracted from her orgasm to reclaim her white satin knickers, which lay in a discarded heap on the floor.
Yeah, me too, she answered. But he also humiliated the shit out of me in front of guests at John's Christmas party. I want payback for that, and then I'm completely satisfied.
Which is what we want, young lady. Mycroft undid Sherlock's wrist restraints while Sarah slid the straps off his thighs and wiped him off with the towel. What would you like him to do?
Her dark eyes roamed over his harness. I have an idea.
As he raced along the hallway with Jeanette on his back, Sherlock admitted that Miss Walters was creative when it came to dreaming up punishments. His face was as red as his arse now.
She had a fondness for horses, it turned out, and the Diogenes was well-stocked with pony play accessories. After assisting him out of the chair, Mycroft fetched a kit while Sarah easily held Sherlock in place on the floor. When he returned, the two of them positioned the younger Holmes on all fours and outfitted him with a 'bridle' (a rubber-coated U-shaped bit with straps that went around his head and rings for the reins) and a 'tail' that was basically an extra-large butt plug with three feet of glossy black horsehair attached. There was a saddle too: a satin-covered corset with a padded, oval-shaped leather piece that fit over the laces.
Praying that Lestrade and the other Yarders wouldn't see him, Sherlock crawled out of the room after Jeanette 'mounted' him and jerked sharply on the reins. Mycroft and Sarah lingered in the doorway and he felt, rather than saw, their suppressed mirth. If either of them offered him a bucket of oats afterward, he'd dump it over their heads and gladly take the punishment afterward.
Good horsey, Jeanette cooed sarcastically as they neared the landing. When Sherlock garbled a sarcastic response, she reached back and cropped him sharply on the right arse cheek.
Be good. Or you'll go from stallion to gelding really fast.
In a fit of rebellion, Sherlock decided to transform her from rider to roadkill 'really fast'. He pretended to stumble on a carpet wrinkle and rolled to the side, unseating her in a squealing flurry of silk. As he scrambled back onto his hands and knees, footsteps ascended the stairs and he froze. Behind him, Jeanette hauled her skirt over her thighs and Mycroft hurried toward them, probably intending to apologize to the approaching party for the noise.
Hoping he looked suitably contrite, Sherlock lowered his head and prayed that he wasn't about to be confronted with someone he knew.
Apparently whatever deity he prayed to wasn't listening, for John Watson appeared on the landing a moment later.
Part Six
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Sherlock, Mycroft/Lestrade, Lestrade/Sherlock, Mycroft/John
Warnings: D/s, incest, bondage
Summary: The Diogenes Club isn't just one big anti-social opportunity. For some of its members, it's a live-saver. Series of one-shots that take place in the club.
Stories: Silent Sanctuary Shelter in the Storm Sound of Silence Silent Treatment Slave to the Silence Silent Servant Part One Silent Servant Part Two Silent Servant Part Three Silent Servant Part Four
Sherlock hadn't thought it would be possible to distract him from the aching pressure in his cock and balls. He'd been brought to the brink and denied so many times during the course of the evening that he felt swollen and fragile, like an overripe fruit ready to explode at the lightest touch.
But Mycroft had worked a miracle. The warm bath and strong hands of the Diogenes masseur were so relaxing that the painful urgency abated, and lying on his front was a lazy pleasure instead of an ordeal. The anal plug had been re-inserted to keep him open between sessions, creating a delicious nerve-storm whenever the masseur's fingers worked the muscles in his buttocks and forced it against his prostate.
Sherlock.
He opened one eye in mild surprise. Mycroft had left twenty minutes ago to greet the person or people he had to face next. He hadn't heard the elder Holmes come back in.
Is it time?
Ten more minutes. Mycroft sat in a blood-red armchair near the head of the massage table and surveyed his oiled form. You look delicious, brother dear. Speaking of which, nourishment would be advisable.
He picked up a round piece of chocolate from a chilled silver tray on the table beside his chair and held it out. Sherlock raised his head from his folded arms and let his brother place the sweet on his tongue. When he bit down, he tasted fresh cherry nectar underscored by premium dark chocolate.
More? Mycroft asked after he swallowed the morsel.
Sherlock nodded and opened his mouth again. Mycroft fed him piece after piece of chocolate-covered fruit: sliced banana, mango spears, star fruit wedges. The sugar infused him with energy and reawakened his drowsy muscles.
Mycroft checked his pocket watch. It's time. Kneel at my feet, please.
Sherlock rolled slowly off the table, stepped toward his brother, and assumed the position. Mycroft rumpled his freshly washed curls affectionately before coaxing his jaws apart and re-applying the bit gag. Anthony, the harness, please.
The masseur wiped his slick palms on a bruise-blue towel and handed him a velvet bag. Mycroft set it on the table, extracted the harness, and shook it out like it was a freshly laundered shirt instead of a heavy mass of leather and steel buckles. The metal jangled lightly in the silent air, causing Sherlock's pulse to quicken. He'd worn it a few times before, and arranged himself so that Mycroft could easily drop it over his shoulders and tighten the leather straps around his ribcage, below the nipple line, and around his waist.
Sherlock listened to his brother's unsteady breathing as each buckle was secured, and smiled inwardly. He knew that he looked good in that sleek black device, whose straps Mycroft loved to tug on while Sherlock rode him. When Mycroft caressed his back and flank, he leaned into the touch and closed his eyes in contentment.
The snap of the leash hook onto his collar's D-ring broke the spell. Sherlock suppressed a disappointed noise as his brother tugged gently.
Let's go.
Animated by curiousity, Sherlock followed on all fours as Mycroft walked out of the room, turned left, and went down the hall. The ornate carpet cushioned his palms and knees while Sherlock crawled along and wondered who his next atonement was.
John?
No. Not John. The former army doctor didn't belong in the lovely nightmare that was the Diogenes Club. But then again, Sherlock would have once thought the same of Donovan, Anderson, and Dimmock. Was it possible, then, that his faithful blogger and companion was on the premises right now, sipping refreshments and deciding which implement to mark him with first?
The notion was strangely thrilling. He'd often wondered if John had a dark side like most people seemed to. John was a soldier, a man who'd taken lives to protect his country and occasionally Sherlock, but he wasn't deviant unless you counted running red lights and flipping off fans of "the other team" as sinister behaviour. Besides, John always forgave him after their rows, whether he was contrite or not.
So who then?
Sherlock was still pondering the mystery when Mycroft stopped before a closed door next to the upstairs landing. After glancing down at him and whispering Remember- behave, the elder Holmes turned the gilded knob. It yielded with a gentle click and the door swished open wide enough for both men to pass through.
When Mycroft stopped in the center of the floor, Sherlock sank onto his bruised haunches and gazed about. He'd never been in this chamber before. Its scarlet walls had a mottled black pattern that created a marble-like effect. The soft, deep rug had a similar color scheme. The only items of furniture were a leather-padded chair of the type found in dental offices, a huge cherry wood wardrobe, and black leather sofa.
Two women sat on the latter, wearing evening gowns and clutching flutes of champagne. When Sherlock and Mycroft entered, they stopped whispering, lowered their glasses, and sat up straight. Sherlock felt their eyes shoot daggers at him, and instinctively edged closer to his brother.
Dr. Sarah Sawyer cut a lovely yet formidable figure in a tight, gunmetal gray sheath dress. Her long red hair was done up in an elegant chignon and her silver eye shadow made her stare even colder. Sherlock's gaze was drawn to her sinewy arms, which had once brought a steel pipe crashing onto a Chinese gangster's head. A whip or paddle would be a true instrument of torture in her hands. She and Sherlock had been civil to each other in the past, but when Sherlock forced John to cancel too many dates, she'd severed the relationship and threatened to do the same to Sherlock's penis when they met again.
The younger woman beside her was dark-complexioned and wore a black silk cocktail dress with a tight bodice and full skirt. Sherlock winced as he recognized another of John's past girlfriends. Which one was she? Oh, yes- the boring teacher. She'd broken up with John that tumultuous Christmas Eve, after the doctor cancelled their plans in order to rescue Sherlock from another self-induced disaster. He struggled to remember her name. Was it Jane? Jean? No- Jeanette.
Sherlock remembered a saying about hell having no fury like a woman scorned. Two scorned women meant that he was in serious trouble. He didn't want to use his safety signal before the session even started, but when he felt like a zebra in the sights of two hungry she-lions, the prospect was tempting.
Mycroft laid a calming hand on his head. Dr. Sawyer. Miss Walters. I apologize if we kept you waiting long.
Sarah smiled without warmth. You didn't. But thank you anyway. Unlike your younger brother, you're a gentleman.
Besides, Jeanette added, you're not the one who really should apologize.
So I understand. That's why you were both invited here tonight. Sherlock owes you both a proper apology.
Sarah set her glass on the floor and leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. The hem of her dress rode slightly up, revealing stiletto heels that should have required a weapons permit prior to purchase.
That he does. And we understand the rules, Mr. Holmes.
Of course you do. I know you're no stranger to this sort of interaction, Dr. Sawyer. Your requested implements are in the wardrobe.
Sarah's pink tongue traced her scarlet lips. Good.
Sherlock pricked up his ears. Sarah had D/s experience? He wondered who had helped her acquire it. Probably someone she met after her relationship with John ended.
Jeanette regarded her with open admiration and whispered, You promised to show me. I want to make that wanker sorry without risking jail.
Of course, dear.
Although he refused to show it, Sherlock was nervous. Experience with Irene Adler had taught Sherlock that the female of the species could be just as devious and violent as the male, and anyone who forgot that was setting themselves up for a painful awakening. But at the same time, exhilaration at a prospective challenge took root. He knew that Mycroft would never have invited the two women here if they intended to really hurt him. They just wanted to break him down, and he became just as determined to deny them that satisfaction.
Let the games begin then.
He straightened his back and stared coolly at each woman in turn. Jeanette scowled. Sarah's mouth tightened and she stood. When she held out her hand, Mycroft passed over the leash handle and went to stand next to the door.
All right, Sherlock. I see you're not sorry now, but you will be when this is over. Sarah tugged on the chain, forcing him to crawl after her as she strode over to the ominous-looking chair. He thought she would order him into it, but to his amazement she bent down, grasped him under the arms, and bodily tossed him on the seat. He watched as she tipped the upper section back until he was nearly supine, grasped his legs, and draped them over the chair's armrests.
Jeanette, fix those straps over his wrists while I immobilize his legs.
Jeanette set her glass down, jumped up, and hurried to comply. She was so excited that she fumbled with the buckles a few times. When he rolled his eyes at her efforts she glared at him before staring down at the cock ring digging into his flesh.
That looks sore. And frustrating. Now you know how I felt when you kept calling John away at the worst times.
Oh, I'm sure he knew. He just didn't care. He's a self-centered prat. Sarah opened a steel drawer built into the chair's base, took out two thick straps, and used them to secure Sherlock's thighs to the armrests. The position wasn't painful, but it was humiliating. Aren't you, Sherlock?
He didn't answer immediately. She smacked his right buttock and growled, I asked you a question.
He shrugged, trying not to squirm as the spank caused the toy to rotate inside him. Sarah smirked and slapped the other arse cheek, harder. This time he did yelp as pleasure shot up his spine. She grinned in triumph and faced Jeanette.
See, dear? Even Sherlock Holmes knows the meaning of frustration.
Jeanette crossed her arms. I want to see him get the meaning of pain.
Sherlock glared over at his brother, who was visibly amused. He vowed to get even with Mycroft for subjecting him to the predations of these two-
A dark pressure descended onto his eyes without warning, plunging everything into blackness. Sherlock shook his head angrily but Sarah's deft fingers secured the blindfold.
Pain it is, then. Her long nails tweaked his left nipple. Jeanette, be a dear and bring me something nice and sharp from that tray next to the sofa.
Sharp? Sherlock shifted nervously in his bindings. Where on earth did she intend to touch him with something sharp?
That question was answered by a sudden pain that glided smoothly along the center of his scrotum, freezing the breath in his throat. He thrashed and screamed around the gag, panic setting in as he felt something wet trickle down the wrinkled skin. What was she doing? Oh God, she wasn't…. No, Mycroft would never-
I'm disappointed in you, little brother. You've been shot at, knifed, and strangled, yet you flail about like this when a piece of ice touches you?
Ice. Not cold steel. Sherlock silently blessed Mycroft for the lightly disguised intervention. Then Sarah ran the ice along the underside of his cock, which lay thick and leaking against his belly, and his mind and nerves exploded. It HURT, God damn it, but he couldn't let that red-headed she-devil win.
Despite his best efforts, Sherlock realized that she just might. Sarah knew what she was doing. After making his trapped penis spasm from the cold, he felt her bend over him and send a whoosh of hot breath against the chilled skin. The resulting scorch made his hands clench into sweaty fists and toes curl until pain shot up his legs. She was a doctor, and knew how to play his nerves like he played the violin.
You're so good at that, Jeanette marvelled. You should speak at my women's empowerment class.
Sherlock bristled at the trivial comment and garbled his opinion of her and empowerment groups in general. It came out as rubber-muffled nonsense, but he knew she got the point when manicured fingernails clamped his nipples and twisted, making him loudly catch his breath. As he exhaled, Sarah stabbed his belly and sides repeatedly with the ice. He was unable to inhale without his diaphragm spasming due to the cold and forcing the air out.
Suffocation without even touching his throat or airways. He would have admired the ingenuity if he weren't struggling against its effects.
Interrupted and fragmented breathing left him lightheaded. He was floating now, unable to feel the freezing jabs with the same intensity. Sherlock relaxed against the chair's padded surface as a gentle unconsciousness closed in.
Then it stopped. He sucked in air though his flaring nostrils and started shaking, but not from fear. Giddiness and endorphin overload had left him excited and desperately turned on. Although the cock ring now gripped him more cruelly than ever, he was exhilarated. As Sarah's fingers pressed carefully against his pulse, Sherlock wanted to beg her to do it again.
Was that supposed to punish him? Jeanette asked. I think he liked it.
Mycroft spoke. A little pleasure makes denial even crueller.
Exactly, Sarah said. Just as you and I felt, Jeanette, when this self-absorbed prat kept calling John out of our beds at the worst times. Now watch this.
Sherlock felt her fingers burrow between his spread buttocks, grasping the toy and carefully sliding it out. Pass me some gloves and lube from that drawer.
Sherlock tensed, anticipating and dreading what was coming. He heard the crisp snap of latex and felt a towel being tucked under his hips. Then a slender, lube-slick hand massaged his cock and testicles before moving lower and applying a teasing pressure to his perineum and anus. He undulated on the table and moaned when two fingers slid into his hole and pressed upward.
Ah- here it is.
Sherlock arched his back at the brief burst of pain as the swollen gland was expertly stroked. Then pleasure blossomed, making his stomach muscles go tight and his legs quiver nonstop. Sarah pressed his sweet spot relentlessly, and Sherlock's breathing was interspersed with desperate cries and whimpers. If he didn't come soon, he'd go insane. Mycroft would have to carry him out of the Diogenes in a fucking straitjacket.
Sherlock made a low, keening noise when she used her other hand to massage his perineum. Beside him, Jeanette gasped as desperation and arousal made him contort into incredible positions and robbed him of coherency.
Christ, that's hot. Oh, God.
He heard the rustle of silk as she climbed onto the table and squeezed his head between her knees. The gag was undone by shaky fingers and thrown aside.
I'll forgive you if you make me come, you fucking slut, she choked.
If you make her come, I'll forgive you too, Sarah said. And that means one orgasm for you. Is that fair, Mr. Holmes?
Mycroft didn't answer right away. When he did, his breathing was uneven. Very well. Only one.
Sherlock nodded rapidly. He knew from past experience that one orgasm would not be enough when he was this far gone. But it was something, and he needed it NOW, before those professional fingers broke his mind along with his body.
Jeanette seized Sherlock's hair and lowered herself onto his face. She was soaked- excited, no doubt, by his surrender and the sheer headiness of seeing a human being driven mental by pleasure. He had never done this before, but instinct directed him to extend his tongue and flick it against her clit. She hissed and ground against him, filling his mouth and covering his face with her rich, salty juices.
Sherlock tried a variety of manoeuvres, trying to pinpoint what would get her off fast so that he could get relief of his own. She liked everything, it seemed. She moaned under her breath when he slid his tongue through her wet folds, panted and sobbed when he laved across and around her clit, and wailed so sharply that she had to bite her lip when she felt his teeth.
Oh, fuck, he's good… I'm close…
Her slim legs started to jerk and tremble, and her rocking against his face intensified. Then Jeanette shuddered all over and gasped just before Sherlock's mouth was filled with her sweet, hot release.
When she slumped forward and climbed off the table with a soft groan, Sarah snapped the cock ring off, held his shaft firmly at the base, and stroked more aggressively in his arse. Sherlock's breathing disintegrated into a series of chokes and pleas as he writhed. A fine layer of sweat covered his face and body as Sarah tugged on his cock with clinical (diabolical?) precision and kept up the massage.
Sarah, Jeanette, he whimpered, I'm sorry, so sorry, oh fuck, PLEASE….
Mycroft's lips were suddenly on his, silencing his cries as he came so hard that entire galaxies -never mind stars- exploded against the darkness of the blindfold. Shhh, Mycroft whispered as their tongues slid urgently together.
Sherlock felt hot liquid rain thickly onto his belly and coat his ribcage. He could hear and feel himself screaming but he didn't care. His raw desperation caused Mycroft to make a noise that was midway between a growl and a groan and silence him with a large palm. Sherlock felt his brother's breath blast against his arched throat before teeth came down and closed in a possessive bite that crushed and bruised and reminded Sherlock how much he was loved.
Detecting the beginning contractions of another climax, Sherlock rode Sarah's fingers in a desperate bid to hurry it along before he could be denied, but she was too fast. There was a fierce tug on his balls before the cock ring was re-applied, making him kick out in frustration.
Mycroft's mouth moved from his neck to his nipple, which was teased with a warm tongue before another deliciously painful bite pinched the surrounding tissue.
Greedy, Sherlock, his brother whispered. Forever wanting more. You've always been my greatest weakness and biggest challenge.
When he took his hand away from Sherlock's mouth, the younger Holmes breathed, Thank you. He was still hard and uncomfortable, but absurdly grateful for the limited release he'd been allowed.
Sarah's fingers slid out and his cock was released. Sherlock heard her step away and bin the gloves.
I'm satisfied, she declared. He's got an idea of what it's like to get so close, even attain a partial victory, only to have it all stop suddenly. Forgiveness granted.
Miss Walters? Mycroft queried as he pulled the blindfold off.
Sherlock turned his head toward Jeanette, who stood against the wall, breathing heavily and hands clasped. She was still flushed and too distracted from her orgasm to reclaim her white satin knickers, which lay in a discarded heap on the floor.
Yeah, me too, she answered. But he also humiliated the shit out of me in front of guests at John's Christmas party. I want payback for that, and then I'm completely satisfied.
Which is what we want, young lady. Mycroft undid Sherlock's wrist restraints while Sarah slid the straps off his thighs and wiped him off with the towel. What would you like him to do?
Her dark eyes roamed over his harness. I have an idea.
As he raced along the hallway with Jeanette on his back, Sherlock admitted that Miss Walters was creative when it came to dreaming up punishments. His face was as red as his arse now.
She had a fondness for horses, it turned out, and the Diogenes was well-stocked with pony play accessories. After assisting him out of the chair, Mycroft fetched a kit while Sarah easily held Sherlock in place on the floor. When he returned, the two of them positioned the younger Holmes on all fours and outfitted him with a 'bridle' (a rubber-coated U-shaped bit with straps that went around his head and rings for the reins) and a 'tail' that was basically an extra-large butt plug with three feet of glossy black horsehair attached. There was a saddle too: a satin-covered corset with a padded, oval-shaped leather piece that fit over the laces.
Praying that Lestrade and the other Yarders wouldn't see him, Sherlock crawled out of the room after Jeanette 'mounted' him and jerked sharply on the reins. Mycroft and Sarah lingered in the doorway and he felt, rather than saw, their suppressed mirth. If either of them offered him a bucket of oats afterward, he'd dump it over their heads and gladly take the punishment afterward.
Good horsey, Jeanette cooed sarcastically as they neared the landing. When Sherlock garbled a sarcastic response, she reached back and cropped him sharply on the right arse cheek.
Be good. Or you'll go from stallion to gelding really fast.
In a fit of rebellion, Sherlock decided to transform her from rider to roadkill 'really fast'. He pretended to stumble on a carpet wrinkle and rolled to the side, unseating her in a squealing flurry of silk. As he scrambled back onto his hands and knees, footsteps ascended the stairs and he froze. Behind him, Jeanette hauled her skirt over her thighs and Mycroft hurried toward them, probably intending to apologize to the approaching party for the noise.
Hoping he looked suitably contrite, Sherlock lowered his head and prayed that he wasn't about to be confronted with someone he knew.
Apparently whatever deity he prayed to wasn't listening, for John Watson appeared on the landing a moment later.
Part Six