It’s only logical that John would snap at Mycroft.
“He doesn’t like you,” Sherlock says tetchily, tugging at John’s leash to keep him in place, and adds, unable to refrain from a jab, “which is hardly surprising.”
Mycroft gives him a glare. “You should muzzle him if he’s so poorly socialized that he still bites, or find him a trainer if you can’t spare the time to show your pet,” he almost spits this word with disdain, “the usual dos and don’ts yourself. Make your dog behave, Sherlock. My pets are never that aggressive in public.”
He proudly looks at Anthea, on all fours at his feet, as naked as John, except for a soft leather collar decorated with studs and a silver engraved nameplate.
Sherlock scowls. “Oh for God’s sake, he’s a fight dog! He’s supposed to be like that.”
John growls menacingly, the husky sound vibrating in his throat, and Sherlock tightens the leash to prevent him from assaulting Mycroft’s well-pressed trousers.
“Hush!” he orders and tells Mycroft, “He considers you a threat to his master, that’s all. Perhaps there’s something in your tone. Try to be more friendly, Mycroft, if you want your fingers to stay intact.”
Meanwhile, John turns his attention to Anthea, sniffing the air and tugging at his leash to get closer to her. He wriggles his arse, which is probably meant as wagging his tail. He actually does have a tail, attached to a butt plug, but it’s too short to wag it properly.
“Oh, that’s unbearable.” Mycroft cringes, contemplating John’s attempts at courting his pet. “Stop him. I don’t want your mongrel anywhere near Anthea.”
“This mongrel is clearly going to win the dog fight tonight.”
“Oh really?” Mycroft says without much interest.
“Mmm, why don’t we have a bet?” Sherlock suggests. “If John wins the fight, you’ll breed him with your precious Anthea. I’m sure she’ll enjoy it. John’s quite well endowed.”
“And if he doesn’t—” Mycroft smiles dreamily. It must be a nastily pleasant dream. “I think I’ll enjoy watching your mongrel being bred too. But he’ll be the bitch. As you might know, I’ve got a pack of five hunting dogs. They’re beautiful creatures. Also well-endowed, as you call it. I’m sure they’ll be most excited to pound him under the tail. All of them, in turn.”
John barks at full volume. Sherlock’s hand comes to rest on his nape to stop him from attacking Mycroft again.
“I wonder if he must be strapped down to mate,” Mycroft proceeds nonchalantly, in the same pensive manner, “or will he roll onto his back eagerly? If he resists, there’s a new breeding stand for those dogs that can’t be trusted to stay still. We could try it out. After undergoing such an ordeal, he might be more compliant and agreeable, I’m sure, though I’d suggest strict training anyway. You should make him wear a weighted collar and whip him regularly. Fight dogs don’t appreciate when you’re slack with them.”
With that, he leaves, looking very smug. Anthea obediently crawls by his side, not a step ahead or behind him. She’s well schooled indeed.
John looks at her rear end longingly. He hadn’t been able to sniff her crotch.
“That was surprisingly easy,” Sherlock says, scratching John’s ear, when Mycroft clearly can’t hear him anymore. “Now he’ll be sure that I’m sure about you winning—therefore he’ll place a wager with a bookmaker in accordance with his assumptions, and so will many other guests. But I’ll make a different wager—I’ll bet that you lose. Which you will do. Despite what Mycroft might say, you’re trained quite well, aren’t you?”
He trails a hand lightly along John’s spine, and John gives a quiet woof. Sherlock smiles.
“Oh yes. Good dog. Very loyal. We’re going to win a considerable sum, which is good in itself, but beating Mycroft is even more pleasant. As for the breeding stand…you’re going to enjoy it, though maybe not at first. Just imagine, John—you, a proud fighter, bound and subjected to humiliation, with all the party guests gathered around in a circle, whistling, encouraging Mycroft’s pack. You’ll feel something meaty pressing into your body from behind, right under your tail, deeper and deeper. It’s frightening how wide you’ll be stretched, and it will make you want to struggle again, but there will be no way to escape the bindings. Mycroft’s dogs will have you, no matter how much you thrash about. The only option will be to give in and become their bitch. They’ll take you one after another, brutally, not caring for your pleasure in the least—thick, throbbing cocks inside you, vicious thrusts ramming you forward. And when it gets almost unbearable, almost too much, you’ll come—helpless, violated, shuddering… As I said, John, you’ll enjoy it a lot.”
As if to prove Sherlock’s point, John’s cock is profusely leaking onto the floor. Sherlock nudges John to roll over and gives his belly a playful stroke. “Naughty, naughty.”
John whines and wriggles on his back a little, greedy for more, humiliatingly exposed and not caring about being decent anymore.
“I know you missed the pit,” Sherlock says almost affectionately. “The thrill of the fight, the blood pumping through your veins. But there will be other battles you’re going to win.”
He cups John’s balls and squeezes them proprietarily, and John lets him. John always lets him do whatever he wants. It can make one very, very spoilt.
Sherlock laughs quietly and adds, “Don’t worry about Anthea. We’ll breed you with her next time.”