The tip of the riding crop slides down Sherlock’s spine. Slowly. Very slowly. John is in no hurry, since he has Sherlock finally restrained, with handcuffs on his wrists, the short chain passing between the slats of the headboard. Sherlock never lets John hold him down without a struggle, but however strong and cunning he may be, that never helps against John’s military training. These wrestling matches always end up in the same way. Sometimes John suspects that Sherlock gives up too easily, to their mutual satisfaction. This time, he’d been fighting in earnest, though. That smart punch in the ribs was rather painful, at least. Well… Sherlock knows he’s gonna pay for it, doesn’t he?
As the little fold of leather at the tip of the riding crop reaches the waistband of Sherlock’s pajama pants, John chides: “Why did you even bother to put them on? Now I’ll have to waste my time getting rid of these clothes…” He pulls the pants down a little bit with his free hand, exposing Sherlock’s oval-shaped, milky white buttocks, but Sherlock doesn’t help him at all, his legs are clenched together firmly, so John has to quicken the process – the riding crop lands across Sherlock’s bare backside. “Move, don’t make me order you!” After that John pulls the pants completely off him, with no further resistance, and takes his time to enjoy the view, circling Sherlock’s buttocks with the riding crop, letting it slide up and down his inner thighs.
Soon Sherlock is writhing impatiently and helplessly against the sheets, getting achingly hard and losing his usual composure. John can’t repress a smirk. “Oh, I know what you want,” he traces the crack of Sherlock’s arse with the leather tongue at the end of the riding crop. “A nice fat cock stretching your anus and a hand bringing you off. How very undignified.”
Sherlock mutters something under his breath. Sounds like a curse.
John almost giggles, “Glad you don’t deny it. That’s obvious, after all. You look so gorgeously obscene now…” He parts Sherlock’s cheeks, still holding the crop, to caress the puckered hole. And then to shove a finger inside, unexpectedly, ruthlessly, making Sherlock buckle with a groan beneath him. “You like it like that, you like it to be intense,” John murmurs, fascinated by the feeling that he has Sherlock completely at his mercy. Another hard push down the unlubricated hole – and another moan through the gritted teeth. “I’m not going to disappoint you,” John assures him tenderly. “Let’s make you extra-sensitive so that you’ll really feel something special while being buggered.”
He withdraws his finger, moves away a bit. Now it’s time to use the riding crop properly. He’s predictably hard too, erection pressing uncomfortably against the cotton of his boxer shorts, but he won’t rush the pleasure. He’s always been very patient.
A controlled flick of the wrist, a rapid blow – the whole length of the crop crosses Sherlock’s backside. John spends a few minutes working on each buttock in turn until the white skin is profusely striped with burning red marks. Then he spreads Sherlock’s legs further apart and pays attention to his inner thighs, so deliciously tender. At first, Sherlock is trying to show he’s tough, bracing himself against the pain. But soon he is hissing into the pillow, jerking after every stroke. It’s just a matter of time to make him respond.
When John starts to assault the inside of Sherlock’s cheeks, he becomes even more vocal, unable to hold back a short cry from time to time when the tip of the riding crop snaps against the stretched flesh around his anus.
John stops only when Sherlock’s stifled whimpers turn into a constant hum. He carefully lays the riding crop aside, reaches for lube and turns Sherlock over. This position is not quite comfortable for his handcuffed wrists and reddened backside, but Sherlock is so slack by now that he doesn’t object, he just breathes unsteadily as John pushes his knees back toward his chest and starts working the lube into his furled hole, too tight to take the considerable girth of John’s cock at once.
John is still fulfilling his promise to make Sherlock extra-sensitive – so he shoves the handle of the riding crop into the slightly loosened orifice before shagging the man properly. Sherlock gasps, surprised. John sticks the handle further, carefully enough not to tear something – but none too gently, and makes a few rough thrusts in and out. “Does it hurt?”
“Ye… ah!” Sherlock exhales, so adorably bewildered.
“But you want more?” And of course he nods, squeezing his eyes shut.
The handle is relatively thin. Now Sherlock’s arse will have to take something more solid. John strips his shorts off, while the riding crop is still stuck inside Sherlock’s hole (John doesn’t mean it to be humiliating, he just likes the sight), then pulls it out. Sherlock shudders, soundlessly.
John starts a long push inside, gripping the feverishly pink flesh of those delicate buttocks, digging his fingers into them and listening to Sherlock’s muttered swears. It’s so good, so good... like that… yeah… Sherlock’s sore backside is rubbing against the sheets with every hard thrust, and John is going to make it last, shoving in savagely.
Despite the pain – or thanks to it – Sherlock is still fully hard, and when John finally feels he can’t hold himself back any longer, he needs only to grip Sherlock’s cock and stroke it roughly a few times to make him come. Then he keeps violating Sherlock’s limp and shivering body until he finds his release too.
Regaining his breath, John smiles affectionately – Sherlock looks so beautifully debauched, with come spread all over his chest. “Oh, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made…” John cleans him with wet tissues, wipes the come leaking from his well-used hole. This area must be really extra-sensitive by now, but Sherlock is too exhausted to protest. He is so thoroughly lubed with ejaculate that John is tempted to shove the riding crop’s handle inside once more – but he’s not a sadist, no.
He unlocks the handcuffs and kisses the friction burns on Sherlock’s wrists. “I very much hope you liked it. Because I did.” He helps Sherlock to turn to his side and, after switching the lights off, settles down behind him, cheek pressed to his shoulder. Sherlock is so lax and cuddly right after sex combined with thrashing – he doesn’t twist out with a disdainful remark, like he would normally do. It’s so nice to lie beside him under the blanket, enjoying their shared warmth.
A smile lingers on John’s lips. He’s looking forward to waking up in the morning with his erection pressed against Sherlock’s raw buttocks. No need to be a great detective to deduce what he’ll do then, while Sherlock is still sleepy. A perfect start for the day.