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Bottled up

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“Come here, my dear.”

By now, Sherlock must know that it doesn’t bode well when Charles calls him “my dear,” or calls him at all, come to think of it. Charles hides a smile, contemplating the tight, apprehensive expression on Sherlock’s face. He’s a clever boy; he understands it instantly when Charles is displeased with him, which makes it more fun to go slowly with chastising.

By the end of the day, Charles likes sipping whiskey in the large lobby of Appledore, enjoying the view of the Cotswold hills—and of Sherlock, kneeling by his side, silent and motionless, his head bowed. The poor thing becomes so wretchedly bored after a while that he seems almost glad when Charles declares that it’s time for bed, though he still doesn’t quite enjoy what follows.

Tonight Charles has something different in mind. He beckons Sherlock and points at his feet, so that Sherlock kneels on the floor by the leather sofa, as always. Routine is good for training. It keeps Sherlock grounded. But sometimes it’s nice to try something new.

“You’ve been a naughty, naughty boy,” Charles croons, fingering the outline of Sherlock’s collar. Sherlock’s slender neck, as it has turned out, is very sensitive. It’s amusing to watch how his body reacts despite his will—the lush lips part, and his breathing becomes a little laboured.

Sherlock is dressed the way Charles likes it. Charles enjoys choosing outfits for his plaything. Tight dark jeans with nothing underneath them and an equally tight aubergene-coloured shirt compliment Sherlock’s pale complexion. He’s always barefoot, except for the times when guests arrive. There’s exquisite cruelty to it that he can see the vast expansion of beautiful green hills and meadows through the glass walls, but never actually goes out.

“Why don’t you ask me how I know that you’ve been naughty?” Charles prompts, experimentally squeezing Sherlock’s nipple that perks through the fine fabric. Sherlock gives a faint gasp. He knows better than to respond to rhetorical questions.

“As you might have noticed, I have an excellent memory,” Charles continues, skimming a hand across Sherlock’s chest. “I distinctly remember the level of whiskey in this decanter—very rare and expensive whiskey, I must remind you. Since recently, every day it’s a little lower than it should be. I’m afraid that you’ve started drinking, in secret, before coming to bed with me. Does it help you relax? Or do you resent our parlour games so much that you prefer to drink yourself numb?”

There’s a hint of annoyance in his voice, and Sherlock hastens to redeem himself by grasping at the offered explanation. “It just helps me relax, yes. You like it when I’m loose.”

He sounds apologetic, almost ingratiating. It’s a wonder what thorough training does to proud young men.

“It’s good that you strive to please me of course,” Charles muses, caressing his cheek. “But—”

A harsh slap catches Sherlock unawares.

“I don’t like when you do something to your body without my permission. I also don’t like when someone steals from me,” Charles explains as Sherlock blinks, unwanted tears in the corner of his eyes. “I hope you’ll never be so indiscreet as to steal my whiskey again. However, today I’ll let you have some of it, just to see how relaxed it gets you. Clothes off.”

Sherlock stares at him, uncomprehending, and Charles deigns to explain: “I didn’t say I’d let you drink it. Let’s administer it in a more pleasing way. What are you waiting for? I said, clothes off.”

Sherlock hastily unbuttons his shirt, gets up to peel his jeans off. Charles leans back and watches him as he folds his clothes neatly; Sherlock knows that Charles prefers things to be kept in order.

“Now, dear, stand behind that armchair and bend over the backrest. Good. Stick your pretty arse out. Yes, like that. Lean a little bit lower and touch the seat with both hands.” Charles leisurely sets his emptied glass onto the narrow table in front of him, watching Sherlock adjusting his position. “Yes, that’s perfect, dear. Time to have some fun.”

The white leather armchair has a curve in its backrest, as if made for supporting Sherlock’s midriff, so that his arse would be on display. Charles pushes Sherlock’s legs wider with his knee and takes two handfuls of deliciously smooth flesh, kneading Sherlock’s buttocks. The puckered hole between them is still appealingly tight, despite frequent use. Charles spits onto it and spreads it with his fingers. Sherlock detests whatever involves bodily fluids, but he’s got used to keeping it to himself. In a way, Charles likes his fastidiousness. At least Sherlock hadn’t had problems with learning how to self-administer cleansing enemas and shave his private parts. He’s squeaky clean and smooth and yummy. A perfect fucktoy.

Another blob of spit—and Charles eases his fingers deeper, opening Sherlock up. Sherlock might not like it, but he’s so sensitive, poor dear, that his body reacts nevertheless.

“Now, let’s get you a little giddy.” Charles leaves Sherlock for a moment and then returns with the half-full decanter of whiskey. When the tip of the bottle neck touches the dilated opening, Sherlock protests, “What are you—” but gets his buttock slapped.

“Don’t forget your place, Sherlock,” Charles scolds him, nudging the decanter against his twitching hole, even less delicately. “You may get as vocal as you like to show me how much you enjoy yourself, but I expect no complains from you. You should be grateful that I’ve prepared you for alcohol consumption.”

Sherlock groans unhappily as Charles slowly works the bottle neck into his anus, but doesn’t resist. Finally, it’s lodged deep, like a glass dildo. “Bottom higher up,” Charles commands, and leans the decanter a little so that its contents start pouring into Sherlock’s insides. The liquid gurgles as Charles slightly, teasingly moves the bottle back and forth, fucking Sherlock with it. Sherlock is shamefully hard by now and makes muffled animalistic sounds at each thrust, distress mixed with arousal.

“You see, my darling,” Charles tells him, “I don’t mind wasting expensive liquor on you, but I’d be glad if next time you asked for it. I’ll be most eager to oblige and provide you with a little treat, just like now. I hope you’re grateful enough to appreciate my kindness. Aren’t you?” He punctuates his question with a harsher push. “Show me how much you enjoy yourself. Move your naughty backside a little, impale yourself on this thing. Deeper. Yes. Now slide back. Good boy. Go on. Don’t be shy.”

The decanter is long emptied, but Charles lets Sherlock fuck himself on it for a while. The rhythm becomes less and less steady, more and more desperate.

“Enough,” Charles decides and pulls the bottle out. “We don’t want you to come too early, do we? We’ve got all evening ahead of us, though I’m afraid I have to check my correspondence before we continue. No-no, don’t stand up, stay like this. We don’t want the precious liquor pouring out of you. I’m afraid it isn’t completely absorbed yet.”

Charles sets the empty decanter onto a glass side table. He’ll definitely need another carafe for his whiskey. Perhaps he’ll keep this one, though, for Sherlock to drink out of it.

Unhurriedly, he checks emails on his laptop, at the same time keeping an eye on Sherlock, naked, mortified, and still aroused. The young Holmes tries not to move a muscle, just like he’s been told to. A good slut, obedient if unwilling. The results of his training are most satisfactory.

Charles’s staff is equally well schooled. When one of his security men comes up from the first floor to ask when Mr. Magnussen needs the helicopter ready tomorrow, he only casts a quick glance at his master’s nude plaything bent over the armchair.

“Mmm. Ah. Let me think.” Charles prolongs Sherlock’s humiliation. “Nine o’clock would be fine.”

The man is dismissed, and Charles closes his laptop to turn his attention back to Sherlock. “I’m sorry you were caught in such an inappropriate position, but it’s your own fault, really. That’s the price of hiding your little secrets from me, whatever they are. You might be a brilliant young man, but you’ll never deceive me. Remember that. How do you feel, by the way?”

“‘m fine,” Sherlock tells him. He sounds a bit slurry. The alcohol must have started working.

Charles lets out a short laugh and shakes his head a little. “Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock. Lying again. You never learn. Get on your hands and knees. Carefully, so that nothing would pour out of you. Keep your bottom high and crawl to me like a good pet you are.”

Sherlock looks utterly debauched like that, with his back arched most gracefully, his genitals exposed and his backside waiting for further attentions.

“Let’s check if you’re relaxed enough to overcome your gag reflex,” Charles suggests and unzips his trousers.

***

The evening had been most entertaining. Sherlock, stumbling on all fours and mewling incoherently around Charles’s private parts, had been an amusing sight. After that, Charles had escorted him to their bedroom and taken time to check how much relaxed Sherlock was by inserting larger and larger toys into his reddened anus. Sherlock had been very vocal and apologized and begged, somewhat incoherently, but Charles hadn’t stopped until he’d managed to fist him. It was a superb sensual pleasure, feeling Sherlock’s warm insides around his hand and listening to him groaning and wailing. That had worked better than Viagra, and Charles had been able to come again, into Sherlock’s brutally violated, distended hole.

Now Sherlock lies silently on the floor at the foot of their bed, still naked and covered in sticky semen. Charles won’t let him into bed like that, and Sherlock is too drunk to get up and take a shower.

Charles nudges Sherlock’s flank with his slipper. “I hope you enjoyed our experiment. I enjoyed it. Would you like it to become our tradition, making you this relaxed by the means of alcohol?”

No matter how giddy Sherlock is, that he understands. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows and shakes his head fervently. No more relaxants, please.

Charles gives a quiet snort. “As you wish, dear.” He gets onto the bed and settles to sleep with a contented sigh.

So it’s over for tonight, then.

Sherlock sinks back onto the floor. Through the alcohol stupor, he can feel how much his rear end hurts. That means that for a few days he’ll have to initiate blowjobs to stop Charles from anal sex, and to be very enthusiastic about it. To lick and suck and swallow. To mouth Charles’s balls. To rim the abominable hairy orifice and stick his tongue into it. Charles will see through his diversion tactics of course, but he loves fucking Sherlock’s mouth, so maybe he’ll let it slip.

Sherlock knows that he has to get out of here. He feels caged. Rotting in this place in the middle of nowhere, hiding the last sparks of rebellion behind a façade of obedience. If only he could persuade Charles to take him to London… Perhaps it’s possible to entice him with the prospect of showing off his trophy in public.

There are a lot of people who hate him, that’s of no doubt. There must be someone among them who could be of help.

Sherlock’s head spins. He has a very vague idea, if any at all, of what he’s about to do, but there must be something. There must be, or he goes mad, trapped inside the body of a well-trained whore.

Congealing semen feels cold on his buttocks. The raw ache between them doesn’t subside—a constant reminder that he’s just a hole for usage, nothing more. Well, two holes. Oh God, he hates blowjobs.