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An Afternoon's Delight

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Sherlock finished fastening the silver buckle of John’s collar and ran a propriety hand down his pet’s bare spine, eyes carefully scanning the pliant body at his feet.

He smiled, pleased.

John’s knees were covered in thick, protective black pads, shielding his sensitive joints from making painful contact with the hard floor and making sure he would be able to kneel for extended periods of time without being in agony. Sherlock had berated himself for not buying knee pads for John earlier after seeing red and purple bruises decorating John’s knees after one of their sessions. He’d pushed John hard that day, kept him a puppy, kneeling and loping around the flat for hours purely for his own enjoyment. John had enjoyed it too, if his erection- which had never flagged- had been anything to go by, and he’d never used his safeword. Not once. He’d later told Sherlock he hadn’t wanted to use his safeword, that it had been needed. Sherlock, though, had still been displeased with the marks on John’s skin and had ordered pads to protect John from future damage that very night.

John’s hands were swathed in brand new leather mitts, his newest present from Sherlock. They rendered John’s hands, usually capable and deft appendages, shapeless black lumps at the end of each arm. Sherlock had loved watching John pad and skid around the flat as he got used to them. Just like a real, clumsy puppy.

Afterward, Sherlock hadn’t been able to resist tugging John’s tail from his arse and fucking him, hard and fast, drinking in John’s whimpered, wordless pleas before finally relenting and pulling John back against him, wrapping a hand around John’s dripping shaft, and wanking him to completion.

Sherlock hummed happily at the memory, idly tugging at John’s collar, listening to his pet’s breathing accelerate eagerly.

“I have a present for you.”

Sherlock smiled at the way John’s entire body snapped to attention, curious as to what the present might be. The last time Sherlock had given John a present, John had received his new mitts. It was understandable John was excited.

Sherlock carded his fingers through John’s short blonde hair, scratching gently at his scalp, and felt the curl of anticipation he always got when they played start to unfurl in his abdomen. “Do you want to see?”


John skidded after the red ball, ungainly and clumsy, his knee pads loudly thumping against the hardwood floor with each movement. He was thankful Mrs. Hudson was away for the day, otherwise she’d be wondering just what in the hell her boys were up to…and would come to investigate.

Even as his teeth closed around the soft rubber of the ball, John felt a thread of embarrassment at the idea of anyone besides Sherlock seeing him like this. Bound. Subservient. Debased.

He didn’t want anyone else knowing. They wouldn’t understand.

John pivoted as well as he was able on his knees and mitts and padded back to Sherlock with a sense of great accomplishment.

Sherlock grinned at him as John placed the ball on his lap and then sat back on his haunches, looking up at Sherlock eagerly, waiting for him to throw it again.

“Good boy, puppy. So very good. You are, aren’t you?”

John wriggled happily, wishing he was able to wag his tail. He’d tried a few times, clenching and unclenching his muscles around the plug in his arse, but all that did was tease him as the plug rubbed unerringly against his prostate.

“Fetch!” Sherlock tossed the ball and John was off, galloping after it, eyes trained on the bouncing rubber toy with single-minded determination.

It bounced into the kitchen, ricocheted off a bottom cabinet, then rolled beneath the table, just out of John’s reach. John drew up short, pads sliding against the kitchen tiles and eyed the situation dubiously, huffing, frustrated.

He couldn’t use his hands to move the chairs from underneath the table and retrieve the ball, as he normally would have done, nor could he fit himself in around them. He whined, circling around the table, eyes on the ball, trying to find a way in. Finally, inspiration struck and John poked his mitt between two chair legs, trying to reach the ball. He stretched…stretched…almost…

John whined in irritation when his bulky mitt only pushed the ball further away instead of rolling it closer, as he’d intended.

He looked to Sherlock who still sat in his armchair in the sitting room, hands clasped beneath his chin, an amused smile on his face. There would be no help from that quarter, John realized, turning once more to the puzzle in front of him. He refused to go back to Sherlock without the ball.

Finally, John was able, after much circling around the table and calculating logistics, to roll the ball away from him (his mitts utterly refused to roll the ball to him) hard enough that it rolled from beneath the table and he was subsequently able, very carefully, to nudge it from under a chair and pick it up in his mouth.

Sherlock chuckled when John presented him the hard-won ball and ruffled John’s hair, scratching behind his ears and showering praises on him, telling John what a good, wonderful, smart pet he was. John was happy to kneel at Sherlock’s feet and soak in the praises, grabbing a much needed rest as his breathing returned to normal. It was hard crawling on one’s hands and knees, chasing after a ball, and John’s skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his muscles shaking and twitching from the unfamiliar exertion.

It was an exquisite ache John didn’t want to end.

The sudden snap of Sherlock’s fingers jerked John out of his reverie and he looked up at Sherlock questioningly.

“Hands and knees.”

The command made John’s breath catch in his throat, even as he hurried to obey, turning away from Sherlock and assuming the correct position.

John listened, breathless, trembling in anticipation, as Sherlock undressed behind him. The rhythmic, muted thump-thump-thump of shirt buttons being undone. The whisper of cotton sliding against skin. The metallic grind of a zip being pulled down. John was able to perfectly visualize just what was taking place behind him, and the idea made his mouth water.

“Down, pet.” Sherlock pressed against John’s shoulders, forcing him down, John’s hands obediently sliding from beneath him until his shoulders were flat with the floor, his cheek resting against the rough fabric of the carpet. The position left John feeling exposed- his plugged arse high in the air, his tail swinging against his vulnerable balls and thighs.

A “breeding position” Sherlock had casually called it the first time he’d maneuvered John into it. John had gasped sharply, hips jerking forward, and if it hadn’t been for the black ring already bound around his cock, he’d have come just from that. Just from the idea.

He had to hand it to Sherlock, the genius knew what he was doing when he had John as a puppy.

“Perfect.” Sherlock rumbled, jerking John back to the present as he pulled at John’s tail, slowly sliding it from his body in creeping increments, letting John feel every inch of the thick plug as it stretched his rim, sliding from his body.

John shivered and moaned at the first gliding stretch as Sherlock penetrated him, warm and alive and so very, very different from the plug. It seemed watching John, kitted out in his puppy attire and bounding after his ball, had worked Sherlock up to a fever pitch. After grunting in dissatisfaction and adding more lube to John’s hole, he set up a punishing pace, burying his cock balls deep into John’s arse over and over, jolting John forward with every snap of his hips.

John’s own hard cock slapped against his belly with each savage thrust from Sherlock, leaving a trail of sticky pre-come behind. He knew he wouldn’t be able to come- even if he’d been given permission to do so, which he hadn’t been- without further stimulation. His hands, covered in their leather mitts, were useless. He knew because Sherlock had made him try and stroke himself off using the mitts, a rare opportunity to touch himself while they were playing. Without the use of his thumbs, held immobile alongside his other fingers, John hadn’t been able to grip his cock, only sandwich his prick between the mitts and try and rub off against them. He’d gotten nowhere- the leather was too rough, chafing, and he’d given up, whining and looking up at Sherlock, begging.

Sherlock, eyes sparkling at John’s helplessness, had in return came hard all over John’s upturned face.

John moaned, thready and desperate, as Sherlock’s thrusts sped up, hoping Sherlock would relent this time and stroke him off…but Sherlock yanked his collar warningly.

“Quiet.” He panted and John shuddered at the command, the tone of voice, and fell silent- as much as he was able. Sherlock’s heavy, panting breathing and the slick, sweaty slap of flesh on flesh were the only sounds in the otherwise quiet flat. Sherlock’s nails raked down John’s back, scoring the skin and leaving behind red marks which stung and smarted.

John arched into the contact, hissing, eyes fluttering closed in pure ecstasy.

He’d missed this.

It’d been weeks since he and Sherlock had been able to play. A spate of interesting cases had taken up their time and even though they’d grabbed a few quick, private moments, stroking and sucking each other off before they were hurtling off on their next lead…the entire time, John had ached with wanting. Wishing that they were doing this instead. Missing the feeling of contentment being like this always gave him.

John had felt selfish, but the whole time they were working, he felt…hollow. Irritable. Unsatisfied. Like something was missing and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

That feeling had evaporated the moment Sherlock appeared in their bedroom door that afternoon, John’s collar in hand, quirking an eyebrow playfully.

Now, rocked back and forth by Sherlock’s increasingly frantic thrusts, John couldn’t imagine being happier.

Sherlock suddenly stilled behind him, cock lodged thickly in John’s arse, and John tensed involuntarily when he felt the first warm spurt of come fill his arse. Sherlock groaned, hips moving in small thrusts, grinding himself into John as he milked his orgasm, fingers digging harshly into John’s hips, holding him in place.

John moaned, his own cock throbbing urgently between his thighs as Sherlock freely emptied himself into John’s body.

John shuddered. Christ, he loved this.

He had a momentary qualm, a flicker of doubt that he shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was. That it was wrong how much he got off from being used by Sherlock and left wanting, denied his orgasm at the end. He hadn’t explicitly told Sherlock how much he loved it, and Sherlock had never said anything, never deduced it. The orgasm denial never bled over into their “regular” sex life and John didn’t know how to bring it up. If he even should bring it up.

Storing the thought away for later, John kept his position as Sherlock withdrew and, after fumbling around for a bit, twirled the plug back into place, smirking as John twitched involuntarily, his body oversensitive. He nestled it between John’s cheeks, trapping his come inside John’s body in a filthy display of ownership.

“Up.” Sherlock directed and John rose, gasping as the plug rubbed wetly over his prostate, his vision whiting out at the edges as the pleasure flashed suddenly through his body.

“You’ve been so good today.” Sherlock murmured, rubbing John’s cheek, his fingers dropping to trace where John’s skin met his collar. John’s eyes slipped closed, turning his face up and into the contact, sighing contentedly. “I think you deserve a reward.”

“Here.” Sherlock sank down in his armchair and motioned for John to kneel in front of him. He then nonchalantly placed his leg between John’s own, pressing his bare calf against John’s cock. “There. You can get off now.”

John frowned, giving Sherlock a questioning look, not understanding- when suddenly what Sherlock was expecting him to do crashed over him in an icy wave.

He flushed.

There was no way.

He couldn’t do that.

He couldn’t.

Sherlock was staring at him, eyes keen and sparkling, gauging his reaction.

John could refuse. He knew he could. Sherlock wouldn’t make him feel badly about it.

He should refuse. Shouldn’t he?

This was…this was degrading.

It was…it was outside the realm of what they usually did.

It was…

John swallowed nervously, face flaming, incapable of looking at Sherlock as he shuffled a bit closer and, unable to believe he was actually doing it, gave a tentative thrust against Sherlock’s leg.

Good pet.” Sherlock murmured, voice low and dark- and just like that, it was suddenly ok.

More than ok.

It was fantastic.

John whimpered, rutting himself against Sherlock’s leg in abandon, just like a horny dog. The idea stuck in his head, playing on a loop, his face flushing hotly at the idea of how he must look. John was more aroused than he’d been in a long time.

After almost ten minutes of ineffectually trying to get off, though, groaning in frustration, John was forced to concede defeat. He simply wouldn’t be able to get relief this way. The angle was wrong. His penis kept sliding off and to the side and with every pump of his hips John needed to readjust his stance and twitch his cock back against Sherlock’s leg.

“Such a horny, slutty puppy.” Sherlock remarked and John’s blush, which had faded in the wake of his burgeoning arousal, flamed into life again…even as his hips circled, rubbing his cock against the side of Sherlock’s leg. He knew he couldn’t come this way but any friction on his aching prick was welcome. He didn’t know if Sherlock would let him come after this and…he needed.

“Come here.” Sherlock finally said, helping John clamber awkwardly onto his lap, legs spread to either side of Sherlock’s, his hands in their mitts resting on Sherlock’s shoulders. John passively let himself be maneuvered, face flushed, unable to look at Sherlock’s, the past few minutes- his humping Sherlock’s leg like a horny dog, smearing pre-come over Sherlock’s skin- playing over and over in his head

“So gorgeous.” Sherlock whispered, bypassing John’s cock and reaching instead to fondle John’s testicles, rolling them in his hand, hefting them to test their weight. He smoothed his hands up along John’s chest, tweaking each nipple between his fingers and smirking as John jumped, his cock twitching obscenely with each twist of his sensitive nipples. “Do you want to come?” Sherlock asked, trailing his fingertips along John’s erection, the barest whisper of touch which made John shudder and thrust forward, wanting more. “I can tell how badly you want to, pet.” Sherlock continued. “To be fair, I did give you the opportunity. It’s your own fault you weren’t able to come when I allowed it.”

John tried begging with his eyes, cock twitching at Sherlock’s words. Why did that turn him on, he wondered vaguely through the arousal clouding his mind. Why?

“You’ve been so very good today, though.” Sherlock’s fingers circled John’s cock teasingly, feather-light, not nearly enough friction, and John whined, jerking forward. “I think you deserve to come, darling pet. You’ll have to still work for it.” Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s cock but didn’t move, didn’t stroke, and John realized what Sherlock meant for him to do.

He wiggled closer and started thrusting into the circle of Sherlock’s fist, bucking himself forward in quick, urgent thrusts. He was aware of Sherlock’s eyes, dark and amused, watching him work to get himself off and the knowledge made him simultaneously want to curl up in embarrassment and fuck himself into Sherlock’s fist harder.

His long-denied orgasm rose up, sharp and fast, coiling at the base of his spine. If he were allowed to speak, John knew he would have been shouting, begging Sherlock not to stop, saying stupid, nonsense things. He wasn’t allowed to talk, though, and so John whined and whimpered and groaned, panting as he worked his cock faster and faster into Sherlock’s fist.

“Come, pet.” Sherlock’s hand tightened around John’s length, his other hand rolling John’s balls. “Come. Now.”

John cried out, shuddering through his orgasm, vision blacking out at the edges, semen spurting between their bodies, pulsing out to land on Sherlock’s bare chest and dripping down onto their legs. He sighed shakily and slumped against Sherlock, drained and contented and Sherlock’s arms immediately wrapped around John’s sweaty, shaking body protectively, letting the semen cool between them, not caring about clean-up at the moment. All that mattered was helping John come down after their scene.

After long moments, during which time John’s heart and breathing returned to normal and he no longer felt as if he were floating six feet off the floor, he felt Sherlock tap his thigh.

“We need to get you sorted.” He said, helping John raise up, smiling at the dazed, sated look on his lover’s face, fingers reaching for the buckle of John’s collar.

John couldn’t mask his disappointment when Sherlock unsnapped the collar and laid it to the side. Already, his neck felt unnaturally bare and cool.

“You wish it wouldn’t end.”

John shrugged, feeling the sudden urge to hide, wishing Sherlock would keep his deductions to himself and not…expose him like that so suddenly. “I don’t know. Sometimes, yeah. I mean. I know it’s not possible. That deep. That much…” He trailed off, shrugging again. “I enjoy it.”

“I enjoy it too.” Sherlock admitted quietly, working off the first mitt and raising it to his lips, kissing the palm sweetly. “It isn’t possible, though. Doing this all the time.”

“I know that.” John said. “And I don’t think I’d really want to do it all the time. I mean…I love…playing…when we’re actually doing it. And I miss it when we don’t. But…I don’t want to give up what we have.” He admitted, frowning as he tried to find the right words to describe how he felt. “I know when we’re doing this…I want it to last forever- that’s the way I feel. But deep down, I don’t. Not really. I love it…but I’d miss what we have when I’m not your pet. When we just watch telly. When we’re just…when it’s just the two of us together. Cooking dinner or…making tea and telling bad jokes and arguing over whose turn it is to do the washing up.”

“I love that too.” Sherlock’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “God knows why since you always make me do the washing up.”

John snorted. “I try and make you do the washing up. You always drift away halfway through and leave the rest for me to do.”

“But you do it so well, John.” Sherlock replied innocently. He sighed, tossing away the second mitt and rubbing John’s hand encouragingly. “But?” He prompted, knowing there was more.

“But…I like you having control of me. I like…I like not having options-“

“You always have options.” Sherlock reminded him. John waved him away.

“I know that. I know I have a safe word and I’d use it if I wanted…but I never want to. I just…I like you having control. I trust you and I know you won’t abuse it or do anything I absolutely, deep-down won’t love. I like…you…owning me. And not in a master/slave type way, “John rushed to add, “because that’s not what I mean.”

“Perhaps more in the way of dominance and submission?”

John wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. He hated the word “submission” and applying it to himself and what he wanted. “I don’t want to give up control of my life to you or…or call you “sir” or “master” or anything like that. You’re already on enough of an ego trip as it is. I don’t want to be treated as less than you or…or unworthy or anything like that. And I know we…we play pet but that’s…different. That’s a scene and there’s parameters. There’s a point where it starts and a point where it ends and submission makes it seem…” John shook his head. “I like our pet play because it makes me feel…wanted. The way you praise me and act around me…it’s one of the best feelings in the world. It makes me feel cherished. Loved. And…yeah, all right, it makes me feel owned. And I like feeling all those things. I don’t think I want to feel any of them without the others. I don’t want you to…to demean me or make me…less than a person. Does that even make sense?”

Sherlock frowned. “I would never do any of that to you.”

“I know that.”

“I think you have the wrong idea of what dominance and submission actually means in a normal relationship, John.” Sherlock said, looking thoughtful. “What it would mean for us.”

“Maybe.” John conceded. It was entirely possible. The only ideas of dominance and submission he had were gleaned from BDSM porn and he knew firsthand that what was portrayed in porn was vastly different from what happened in real life.

“You do like giving control to me,” Sherlock prodded, realizing John was still uncomfortable admitting to his submissive tendencies out loud, “but not all the time. Nothing as deep as we usually do.”

“Right.” John agreed. “I’d miss our regular life if we actually lived that way.”

“You wouldn’t want to wear the collar all the time, either.”

John made a face, silently agreeing with Sherlock. No, he wouldn’t want to. As lovely as it was, all black leather and silvery fastenings, it was ostentatious. It would attract looks. Everyone would know what it meant and what it symbolized and even though John loved what it meant and symbolized (that Sherlcok owned him and had control over him) he preferred to revel in that it in the quiet, private confines of their flat.

He remembered how he’d felt the previous weeks when they’d been too busy to play, when he’d had to do without his collar. He’d feel unmoored. Agitated. Lost.

Maybe he did like being submissive, John wondered. The thought still chafed. It just seemed wrong with how he felt about himself and his sexuality.

Then again, maybe it was just his thinking about what being submissive meant.

Sherlock sighed deeply, his eyes keen and bright as he stared up at John where he still perched above him. “I have an idea.” He began hesitantly, fiddling with the strap of John’s knee pad. “It’s just an idea, though, John, of what he could do. It’s nothing that you should feel pressured in to or-“

“Sherlock.” John stopped him, placing his fingers against his lips. “You’d never force me to do anything against my will. I mean…Christ. You had me fucking hump your leg earlier and I…I loved every second of it. I would've came from it if I could've got the right leverage. I never feel forced with you.”

Sherlock nodded, kissing John’s fingers where they rested against his lips. He hoped John liked his idea.