Mad, Bad and Dangerous, A Frankenstein Tribute. Chapter Two.

[ghislainem70]

Title: Mad, Bad and Dangerous, A Frankenstein Tribute. Chapter Two
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word Count:  1326
Warnings: Explicit Sex, BDSM Scenarios, Graphic Depictions of Violence (entire work)
Summary:  Sherlock and John are invited to participate in the filing of a reality show based upon the "Haunted Summer" in which Mary Shelley penned "Frankenstein."
Disclaimer:  I own nothing.  All honours to Messrs Moffat, Gatiss, BBC et al.  The works of Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mary Shelley, John Polidori, and "Monk" Lewis as may be quoted herein are theirs and not mine.


Sherlock and John arrived at Villa Diodati to find the production well underway, with crew scrambling about like mad. They were very late, the sun was setting. Before they could locate Irene Adler, view the grounds or appreciate the superb prospect of Lake Geneva, harried crew members immediately dragged them off to a smaller villa on the property, where costume, hair and makeup were situated. They were then unceremoniously separated.

The transformation took three hours.

Finally, the newly created peacocks were released to the critical examination of the crew.

Sherlock emerged and a silence fell over the assembly.

Even taller than usual in close-fitting heeled boots of black leather; tight, very tight cream-colored trousers that left nothing whatsoever to the imagination regarding Sherlock's considerable endowments; an embroidered waistcoat, over which a slim cutaway velvet coat, in emerald green. A snowy white linen shirt cascaded ruffles at his throat and wrists.

Sherlock had been provided a longish curling dark wig to emulate Byron's own famous locks, and a black velvet ribbon tied it halfway back. The effect was untamed, as though he had just risen from bed where he had been up to something exceptionally naughty.

His eyes and lips were colored a bit, and powder had been applied to his already pale complexion. Some special drops had been applied that added a strange luster to his eyes. He held a cane that concealed his sword, and experimented with walking about and tapping the ground rhythmically beside him, emulating Byron's limp.

He looked like a rock star.

He looked like a sex god.

The men in the room were all standing at attention, so to speak; the women looked ready to faint away with frustrated passion. It was likely an inspection at that precise moment would not have discovered single dry pair of undergarments in the building.

Sherlock smirked.

And now John emerged.

He had completely refused the wig, in fact had torn it to bits so that no one could ever again attempt such an indignity; they had made do with combing his hair forward a bit, Napoleon-style, and mussing it a little. No makeup except a bit of very subtle emphasis about the eyes and brows (Polidori having been Italian).

He also wore tight fitting boots, no high heel (Polidori was notoriously short); very tight brown trousers revealing that John had nothing whatsoever to be shy about in terms of endowments; no waistcoat, but a ruffled linen shirt left open, exposing a considerable expanse of muscled chest ( pullups and pushups, military-style, in 221c); a tight-fitting brown velvet coat completed the ensemble. He also carried a sheathed sword.

He looked like a debauched rake.

He looked like a man who had had experience of women, and men, extending over many nations and three continents.

It was a testament to John's own powerful -- if possibly less exotic -- magnetism that anyone was able to tear their eyes from the vision that was Byron/Sherlock at all, but they did: in fact, more than a few of them didn't bother to look back at Sherlock after John's commanding entrance.

The assistant director burst in, apoplectic at the delays. Then, seeing the spectacular-looking pair, he applauded:

"Oh, this is much better than I hoped! Well done, everyone, well done indeed! Now, here are your notes, gentlemen. Just be natural. We'll be filming everything all the time, so don't worry about cameras, try to forget they're even there. Go, go, go! We're five hours behind schedule and we've not much light!"

John and Sherlock were thrust into a waiting carriage, a huge equipage bearing enormous letter "B"s painted on the doors. There were four black horses drawing the carriage, really a closed coach. They were shoved inside and the doors closed.

Sherlock drew the curtains across the small windows in the doors of the coach. Inside, the coach was luxuriously furnished with tufted leather couches, bookshelves containing a "traveling library" of antique-looking books appropriate to the time, built into the sides of the carriage. Artificial candelabra cast a mellow light.

There was a crystal decanter containing some brandy, and John poured them each a glass. They stared at each other, fascinated. They looked completely different, but somehow recognizably John and Sherlock. The carriage started moving, rocking in rhythm to the horses' pace.

Before another moment passed, they had fallen into each other's arms, ripping at the confining costumes, devouring each other's mouths, their teeth actually knocking together as the carriage jerked, but they didn't care.

Sherlock was down on his knees, cursing, ripping at the buttons of John's impossibly tight trousers and utterly spoiling his own - but then there was no time for anything save a few delicious strokes of the hand before the horses were stopping, and there were voices getting louder outside the coach door. "God, not yet," they both moaned in unison, panting madly and almost swallowing each other's tongues in their frantic explosion of lust.

Sherlock opened an eye. There was a tiny webcam in the corner behind the candelabra.

He toasted the camera with his brandy, and drained the glass.

Now he fumbled through his notes, still breathless --

"Polidori's diary says, 'Byron emerged from the coach and immediately fell upon the chambermaids like a thunderbolt.' Polidori sounds jealous," Sherlock mocked, louche.

John said carelessly, "Stop it, all right, Sherlock, we're done with all of that. You wanted to do this, go knock yourself out. Seriously, Sherlock, go on, do your worst. I'm expecting your best performance, now." He grinned to show he could handle it. And he fully intended to.

Sherlock grinned back lasciviously.

"It's SHOWTIME!" Byron/Sherlock cried as the coach doors were thrown open, and they were blinded by the lights.

There were two costumed, buxom chambermaids waiting to help the gentlemen at the door of the Villa. They blushed prettily crimson at the sight of Byron/Sherlock descending upon them, eyes gleaming, greedy hands outstretched.

Sherlock grabbed one girl under each lanky arm, somehow managing with a trick of the wrist to expose one of the maid's full breasts, which he twisted wickedly.  Both girls were shrieking a little, protesting, but not struggling nearly hard enough, John thought. He understood completely. Sherlock was nuzzling each bosom in turn.

"Just the thing to restore me after my dreary travels! They surely know how to feed up the maidens in Switzerland, hey, Polidori!" Sherlock shouted bawdily, leaning over to suckle an exposed nipple. He maneuvered both women, now in a state of charming dishabille, into a convenient nearby closet, winking at John over the girls' shoulders.

The door of the closet was slammed shut and immediately there commenced a mighty shaking and rhythmic thumping, and a great deal of feminine squealing and shrieking, rapidly dying down to ecstatic murmurs and stifled cries.

The stunned silence of the film crew was eloquent.

John suppressed his laughter, giggles almost: he could see they were filming reaction shots here. And so he firmly bit his lips and pretended to serenely make entries in Polidori/John's diary/blog.

He found that no words making any sense at all in the English language would assemble themselves. His brain was overtaken with the entrancing vision of Sherlock's magnificent bare ass, trousers rucked down around his knees, pumping into one of the juicy chambermaids. John strategically placed his diary over his parts so that it would not be quite so openly visible that he was stiff as a rod.

If this was what it was going to be like in the first  ten minutes, God help him after a full week of this madness. Better yet, he promised himself firmly, God help Sherlock.

Unbidden --and immediately very, very severely suppressed-- was the single clear thought that floated up through his lust-filled head:

He wondered if it would be entirely too obvious if he were to go back to the coach to fetch the riding crop.

To be continued . .

Go to Chapter Three here:
.