Chapter Text
“Now you’ll have to wait for me.” John fastens the last metal ring of the cock cage around Sherlock's semi-erect shaft and puts the key in his pocket, smiling deviously.
“Well, I don't really have a choice, do I?” Sherlock sighs against John's temple.
“Ah, but you are a very talented lock pick, at least so I’ve been told.” John smiles. “Or do you want me to release you?”
“No.” Sherlock smirks. “Remember, this was my idea. I want to be constantly reminded whom I belong to.” He absent-mindedly touches the lesion at the small of his back and frowns. “It’s only you now.”
“Careful. This will need some time to heal.” John takes Sherlock's hand and presses a kiss to his palm to hide how overwhelmed he is by Sherlock's admission.
“I'll be thinking about you every day. My cock rendered useless, any attempt at release futile. It'll be torture. I can see its appeal. For both of us.” Sherlock mumbles, kissing down John's neck until he pulls away. “We shouldn't contact each other if it's not absolutely necessary. It should look like as if we met by chance.”
He plays with the top button of John's shirt, his long index finger circling the small nub.
“I have to dash, Sherlock, if I want to catch my train.” John smiles ruefully as the naked man in front of him lies back on the bed and stretches out on rumpled sheets. His pale skin is glowing in the gloomy afternoon light, the silver cock cage heavy between his lean thighs, nicely matching the glittering rings piercing his nipples.
“Are you sure you don't want something else?” Sherlock whispers, looking up at John from beneath heavy eyelids while his right hand trails down his chest and comes to rest on his stomach just above his groin. John can feel his cock swelling in his jeans.
“Just let me suck you off one last time... for good.” Sherlock pleads, his fingers dipping even lower.
“You are insatiable, a true cock-slut. You seem to exist on come alone.” But John doesn't sound too put-out as he quickly unbuckles his trousers. His cock is already half-hard just from locking Sherlock in. As he's in a hurry, he just pushes his jeans far enough down to free his erection.
He keeps standing next to the bed as Sherlock slides forward, greedily opening his enticing mouth while lying on his back. His head dangles off the side of the mattress until John grabs a fistful of curls and positions him the way he wants.
Sherlock relaxes his throat and John slides all the way in. He loves everything about John's cock, from its taste to its girth and weight on his tongue, how it stretches his lips and fills his mouth. He could suck him all day.
They should definitely do that when they meet again.
John watches his bulbous cock move beneath the thin sheath of tissue and muscles that forms Sherlock's long, white throat while he fucks that willing mouth. Sherlock makes the most delicious noises, moaning around the hot flesh, the sounds vibrating through the tender nerve endings in John's shaft, going straight to his balls already preparing a huge load of come to flood Sherlock's body with.
By now, Sherlock is drooling heavily, unable to stop it, just the way John likes it. His face will soon be glistening with spit. Sherlock renders control to John, who wonders how far they are both prepared to go.
His balls are pressed against the ridge of Sherlock's nose as he pushes as far into his wet mouth as possible. John doesn't show any consideration as he ruthlessly thrusts in and out, deeper and deeper. But the man beneath him shows no signs of resistance either as he offers his body and its orifices to be used. John watches as a crimson flush creeps down the milky expanse of his lovers chest and is sure that Sherlock loves what they are doing at least as much as he does.
“Play with your nipple rings. Show me how much you want my cock.” John's voice is firm despite his evident arousal. Sherlock's hands fly to his chest as he desperately tries to suck John in even deeper.
John groans as Sherlock's lips close around the root of his cock, his teeth pressed against his pubic bone. His slender fingers are busy plucking his silver nipple rings, toying with them blindly, transforming his usually dusky pink areola into hard dark studs.
“I bet you are dying to come.” John's smile is almost cruel. Sherlock makes a consenting sound around his cock that has John twitch in his mouth. “Well, tough luck, slut. Not for a while, I'm afraid.”
Sherlock grunts again, this time in frustration. Clear precome is leaking from the slit in the metal covering his trapped cock. His testicles look painfully swollen and almost purple but there's no chance for release or for his shaft to escape its confinement. It must be agonising, John thinks, sliding in and out of Sherlock's wet, docile mouth. It feels delicious.
John keeps his rhythm for a while, watching Sherlock splutter and choke, in turns flicking his hard nipples or pulling on the piercings. But it isn't enough, Sherlock's just teasing himself. After a few minutes, John swats his hands away and takes over.
He pulls on each ring simultaneously until Sherlock's nipples are elongated and stretched almost past endurance. In response, Sherlock makes desperate keening noises at the back of his throat, probably begging John to stop, but John doesn't care.
“Shut up and take it.” He hisses, but Sherlock continues to writhe on the bed and whines, his idle hands grabbing the sheets until he can't endure the pain any longer. He cups John's hands in a frantic gesture to make him stop, gagging and coughing so John looses his pace. Bubbles of spit well up in the corners of Sherlock's mouth. John slips free, thick beads of gooey saliva covering his cock and dripping from Sherlock's mouth, smearing the mess all over his face.
That's when John has enough.
“Fuck, Sherlock, do I have to teach you how to suck cock properly?”
“Sorry, John, I'm so sorry...” Sherlock's voice is rough with shame. “I'll be good, please, so good...”
After one last fierce tug that has Sherlock arching off the bed and yelling in pain, John releases his tormented nipples. With a relieved sigh, Sherlock sinks back down onto the mattress and obediently opens his mouth again. His face is covered in a mixture of spit, snot and tears.
John is tempted to leave him like this and think about his shortcomings but then his hard cock jerks and reminds him that he wants to add his come to the sticky wet mess. But he won't go gentle any longer. Sherlock will suffer for his inadequacy.
“I'll treat you like the stupid cunt you are.” John growls as he tears his belt from the loops of his trousers still sitting mid-thigh. He quickly slides the smooth leather around Sherlock's throat and pulls it tight. Sherlock doesn't bat an eyelid, doesn't move or make a sound. His mouth stays open as he stares up at John, surrendering, accepting his punishment.
When John pushes into him again he can actually feel his cock throb inside Sherlock's restricted throat as the man beneath him fights for air. But John doesn't loosen the belt. In fact, he draws it tighter.
“Suck. The harder you suck, the faster I'll come and you'll be allowed to breathe.”
Sherlock instinctively tries to swallow John deeper, but the lack of oxygen combined with his position makes it almost impossible. What John can see of his face first whitens, then darkens, turning a shade of violet that slowly fades to blue. Sherlock's finger start to pluck at the sheets in silent desperation. The muscles in his outstretched legs contract and spasm, making his body twitch and jerk. Yet John doesn't relent.
Accompanied by chocking noises, in vain struggling for oxygen, Sherlock's tongue starts swelling while his throat begins to clench around John's cock. John knows he's about to pass out but he wants to prolong the exquisite experience just a little longer. Only when the helpless sounds Sherlock makes fall silent and his body goes slack does he eventually pull out and comes all over Sherlock's face and chest while the man in front of him coughs and pants, returning from the edge of unconsciousness.
“Thank... thank you.” Sherlock croaks. Tears are running down his temples, leaving salty traces in the slush covering his face, but when he's got his breath back he grins wickedly, licking come from his lips.
Despite still being a little shaky from his orgasm, John takes his phone out with trembling fingers and snaps one last picture of Sherlock, dishevelled, covered in come, slightly off kilter, his hair a mess, his eyes red, still a visible mark on his throat where John had tightened his belt.
Sherlock's longing, come-covered face will serve him as wanking material over the next weeks of separation.
...
John Watson had to vanish for Ormond Sacker to take the stage. Knowing about Sherlock’s brother what he did, it was obvious to John that they would have to be very clever to fool Mycroft. Therefore, he took to his task with seriousness as well as military precision. After leaving Sherlock in Amsterdam, he spent two weeks establishing his new persona, travelling by train and plane to various European cities. In Zurich, he opened a bank account. In Lisbon, he rented a cheap flat near Martim Moniz. In Rome, he bought a smart phone and several SIM cards. In Prague, he acquired a laptop.
Meanwhile, Sherlock made his way by bus to Berlin. He paid cash, and due to the Schengen agreement passport controls between Germany and the Netherlands were non-existent. Sven Sigerson from Norway crossed the border unnoticed.
Upon his arrival in the German capital, Sherlock quickly made friends with a group of three girls he met in a cafe in Prenzlauer Berg. They instantly took to the shy, slightly geeky guy with the funny Norwegian accent who seemed nice, a little naïve – and utterly lost. They were all sharing a large flat in Kreuzberg, and it didn't take Sherlock much persuasion to get himself invited over to their place for as long as it took him to find something permanent. He told them that he had graduated last summer and was now on some sort of gap year, trying to find himself while travelling. They nodded in understanding, listening with serious faces, and agreed that this was a very mindful idea before ordering another round of Chai tea with honey.
Sherlock – or Sven by now – slept on their couch for a few days, during which he established an online history for himself as well as for Ormond Sacker: Facebook, Instagram, Email accounts and so on, using the shared Wi-Fi registered under the name of the main lessee, the father of one of the girls. After three days, it looked convincingly as if Sven Sigerson and Ormond Sacker had existed for as long as their alleged age made it credible.
By the end of the week, a friend of a friend of Alex - one of the girls Sherlock shared with - was looking for someone to rent her apartment while she went away on a student exchange to Singapore for three months. It was quickly agreed that Sven would be the right person. He paid for the duration in advance and, just like that, became the subtenant of a two bedroom flat in Friedrichshain.
Thus established, without leaving any trace of his presence in any official record, Sherlock impatiently waited for his reunion with John. The heavy chastity device between his legs reminded him constantly of what he was missing.
In his desperation, he had tried humping his pillow but - of course - to no avail. He’d just felt chafed afterwards. The only thing that brought him some relieve was milking his balls, which he did by fingering himself until he found the bundle of nerves inside his rectum. As he rubbed his prostate for hours, clear fluid started to leak out of his trapped cock, which he gathered in a jug. Imagining John’s voice in his head ordering him to drink it, he obeyed, slowly slurping up his own thin ejaculate with a straw. He wished John could watch him. But that was impossible right now. All Sherlock was able to do was to film himself on his phone to show John later. He had to admit that he looked deliciously debauched, sipping his own come as if it was some exotic cocktail. Perhaps he should add a cherry...
….......
John arrives in Berlin at the new, slightly futuristic main train station on a Wednesday evening. He only had sporadic contact with Sherlock over the past two weeks, mostly short SMS, send from a burner phone. But a few days back, he had written Sherlock an old-fashioned letter that contained rather specific requests for his preparation. He's curious if Sherlock had been able to meet them.
Their last exchange has provided John with an address of a bar in Mitte. It's a rather posh place – of course, Sherlock picked it – all chrome and glass and polished wood. It's too brightly lit for John's liking but then he doesn't intend to stay long.
Sherlock is sitting at the bar, reading The Guardian, a glass of white wine next to his elbow. Upon setting eyes on him, John feels as if struck by lightning. A sharp bolt of arousal shoots through his body as he takes his lover in: blue jeans, a tight white t-shirt, Converse. His hair is cut very short and dyed blond (John, on the other hand, has grown a reddish beard to match his passport photograph). Sherlock looks so young, just about twenty, willowy thin yet sinewy, the muscles on his lean bare arms clearly showing. When he shifts a little on his high bar stool, John grins.
Sherlock is an accomplished actor. He doesn't give any sign of recognition as John tries to order a glass of Pinot Noir in very poor German, his accent so thick that the bar tender doesn't understand him.
Luckily, there's this guy at the bar, fluent in both English and German, who, after putting his newspaper down, helps John translate his order. They strike up a conversation, Sherlock recommending the Pinot Gris he's drinking. Soon, they are discussing wine before moving on to other topics: the weather, the pound, Brexit...
This is actually fun, a date, something they never had.
When John asks if Sherlock has a girl friend, the answer he gets is “Not really my area” and a very pointed look. John's smile broadens.
Sherlock's eyes are dark and hooded by then, his cheeks flushed. John can see his pulse throbbing in his throat. Enough is enough, he decides after fifteen minutes, and suggests they change location to get a bite to eat. Does Sven have any suggestions...
A totally harmless, unsuspicious meeting – two ex-pats bonding over being strangers in a foreign country. When they leave the bar, no one spares the bearded Englishman and the young blond Norwegian a second thought.
They don't take a cab but catch a train to Friedrichshain. The flat is located near Boxhagener Platz. During their journey, they chat about nothing in particular. Sherlock points out the odd sight but seems to grow more and more restless, fidgeting in his seat. John can't suppress a smirk as Sherlock crosses and uncrosses his legs while a light flush creeps down his throat.
The apartment is on the fourth floor in a 19th century rear-building reached after passing through two courtyards. The floor is made of gleaming wood and the rooms are almost sixteen feet high, with white stucco decorating the ceilings. It's a bit like residing in a small palace. The sparse furniture is made of light wood – beech and pine – giving the flat a cool, Scandinavian touch. How very fitting for a man named Sven Sigerson.
Not that both men have an eye for the interior after they stepped over the threshold and Sherlock closed the door behind them.
John immediately pins him to the hard wood, fiercely, urgent, kissing him viciously. His coarse beard scrapes over Sherlock's delicate face as he opens his mouth even wider to give John access.
“Did you prepare yourself as I told you?” John groans between kisses, holding Sherlock's wrists with his left hand above his head in a death-grip.
“Yes, John.” Sherlock breathes, his head dropping back against the door, going pliant under John's onslaught.
“God, I've missed you.” John squeezes Sherlock's groin through his jeans with his free hand. Discovering that Sherlock isn't wearing any pants, John can feel his semi-erect cock, swollen and hardening despite the chastity device John had put on him two weeks ago back in Amsterdam.
Sherlock hadn't been able to get off for the whole two weeks of their separation. By now, he must be gagging for it.
“Good boy.” John says, releasing his grip to Sherlock's arms.
“Please...” Sherlock gasps, without knowing what exactly he's asking for. It's just... his knees feel like jelly and he has trouble to stay upright without John holding him. He slumps forward, resting his brow on John's shoulder, fumbling to push his jacket down and off.
“Please, John, it's been so long. I've been so good, please...” Sherlock is outright begging, sounding as needy as he feels.
John pulls Sherlock's head up by his short hair. He suddenly misses those lush, mussed curls. “What do you want?” He growls against Sherlock's pink lips, wet and already a little puffed from John's stubble.
“I want you to deal with me as you see fit.” Sherlock whispers, staring directly into John's cobalt blue eyes. “Do anything you want with me.”
John grins wolfishly.
“I want to see how wet you are for me.” John just strokes his fingertips over Sherlock's fly once, twice, up and down, feeling the cool, hard metal beneath the denim.
Sherlock swallows, his eyes fluttering shut at the touch where he needs it. Badly. But it's just a tease, not enough. He forces his eyes open and glances down again, watching John caress him.
As the first spurt of hot piss darkens the light-blue fabric between Sherlock's legs, John lets out a soft moan and cups him harder. Sherlock relaxes a little more, pushes into the touch and lets it flow. He knows what John likes, so he drank three bottles of water over the whole day and numerous mugs of tea, never relieving himself. His bladder is full to bursting and finally letting go feels so good he sighs with pleasure.
His piss soaks his groin, his trousers, runs down his legs and into his shoes, eventually pooling around his feet. John massages him gently, his hand getting drenched as Sherlock empties his bladder, but he doesn't seem to care. Sherlock bites his lip, watching his piss wet John's fingers before dripping down onto the floor between them.
John strokes and squeezes him for some minutes until he's empty. “Finished?” He asks, his voice rough. Sherlock can see how turned on John is by his mishap, how much he likes to see Sherlock like this – humiliated, degraded, filthy, yet horny as hell.
“Yes.” Sherlock says, looking up at John from under his lashes, smiling shyly. “I made quite a mess.”
“You did indeed.” John brushes his wet hand through Sherlock's hair to dry it a little, then offers each finger for Sherlock to suck. Tasting his own salty piss on John's skin makes his heart beat even faster and he moans wantonly. In his need, he even cups his damp groin and palms himself. He knows it's no use but he's desperate for some friction. John let's him, watching him with a mixture of pity and disdain.
“You're filthy.” He says eventually. “Drop your trousers.”
Sherlock quickly undoes his belt and toes his shoes off, setting his stockinged feet into the cooling puddle of piss on the floor. As his jeans slide down they get thoroughly drenched as well. Sherlock steps out of the pile of wet fabric, now just in socks, a tight with t-shirt and the silver cock cage he's been forced to wear for two weeks.
John takes his trapped cock in hand and weighs it. It's heavy, not just because of its metal sheathing. His bollocks are round and full and when John squeezes them a little, Sherlock makes a beautiful needy yet pained sound. He must be aching.
“On your knees.” John orders, and Sherlock sinks gracefully to the floor, grateful for not having to stand on his trembling legs any longer.
“Clean that up.” But when Sherlock balls his jeans into some kind of makeshift floor cloth, John takes a step forward, grinding the heel of his shoe into the delicate bones of the back of Sherlock's left hand. “With your mouth.”
Sherlock groans in pain but pushes the damp jeans aside and sets each of his hand into the yellow puddle for leverage. Then he lowers his face, opens his mouth, and starts to slurp his own urine from the floorboards.
“Just with your mouth. Hands on your back.” John orders.
Sherlock obliges, one side of his face resting in his piss, his fair hair already darkening with dampness. He crosses his hands at the small of his back and John secures them there with his belt.
Sherlock shuffles forward on his knees, his open mouth greedily sweeping the floor, sipping up his piss as best he can, his naked arse in the air. John gets a lovely view of his hole and now his heart starts to beat a little faster as he becomes aware of the rather large black tunnel plug spreading Sherlock open. He got an even bigger one than John had envisaged. His half-hard cock, forced into the stainless steel chastity device, swings between his legs, looking enticing.
“So you found what I wanted you to get. Wow, this looks huge. Must have been fun pushing that up your slutty hole.” John admires Sherlock's dedication. It would have taken him a while to get used to such a massive toy. Sherlock is still tight like the virgin he was until a few months back, and two weeks of forced abstinence surely have done nothing to help prepare his body for such a gigantic intrusion. John simply has to reach out and brush his fingers over the broad rubber rim protruding form Sherlock's arse hole.
The sounds Sherlock makes are outright obscene as he laps and slurps, drinks down and swallows and swallows, grunting, gurgling, until the floor is finally almost dry and clean. His face and hair are wet with piss when he's finished, dripping onto his t-shirt as John pulls him up on his knees by his short blond spikes.
“I missed this.” John tells him. “My beautiful piss slut.”
Sherlock licks his lips and smiles up at him, bathing in John's admiration. It's easy to accept affection like this, on his knees.
“Now, lets play a little with your new toy, shall we?” John stares at Sherlock for a moment before he hurls him onto his feet and drags him towards the living room at the end of the hallway. Sherlock skitters over the polished floor in his piss-soaked socks as he hurries to follow, unable to balance his weight with his arms, utterly helpless and entirely at John's mercy.