Chapter Text
The clock of life is wound but once
And no man has the power
To tell just when the clock will stop
At late or early hour.
Anonymous
When the young American, who stammers that his name is Jared, admits that he’s never been with another man before but is “curious”, Ian is instantly hungry. His eyes devour Jared’s lean physique, nicely-shaped cock, and tight little arse.
Without diverting his stare, he says, “How much arse play have you done with him?”
Mira lowers her wine glass. “Four fingers.”
The young man’s cock twitches at the memory.
“Did you enjoy it, slave?” Ian asks him.
“I loved it, Sir.”
Mira rises from her maroon velvet armchair. “Hold your hands out, boy.”
The American trembles as he extends his cuffed wrists. His Mistress uses a double-ended clasp to connect them before positioning him beneath a ceiling hook dangling from a small chain. When she picks up a remote control and presses its single button, the hook lowers. The mechanical noise that accompanies its descent is both harsh and erotic.
“You must tell me who installed that for you,” Ian says. He imagines Sherlock stretched taut by such a device, all pale and naked and shaking. “It would make a marvellous addition to my bedroom.”
The detective has been on Ian’s mind all day. They will be meeting tonight, so that Ian can give him an answer to the life-changing question he posed after their last encounter. The Man could have texted a reply immediately, but this type of discussion warranted a face-to-face encounter.
“Of course.” After snaking the hook through a hole in the clasp that holds Jared’s wrists together, Mira presses the control button again. The hook rises, pulling the young man’s arms over his head. When his body is stretched out tight, she releases the button. “Master Adler is going to inspect you now, boy. You will show him the proper respect.”
Jared sounds breathless. He’s already hardening. “Yes, Madam.”
Ian silently counts to ten before approaching his waiting plaything. As he unbuttons the sleeves of his white silk shirt, rolls them up, and reaches for a box of latex gloves, he comments, “Mira, darling, I must applaud your choice in pets. Young Jared here is exquisite.”
Not as exquisite as Sherlock though.
“Thank you.” She sits back down and prepares to enjoy the show. “I find him rather pleasing too. Not to mention insatiable. The first time I whipped him, he begged me to double the punishment.”
“Ah. A pain slut. You have a prize indeed.” Ian snaps on the gloves, relishing the way the young man shudders at the noise. Placing his palms on the smooth buttocks in front of him, he kneads the tight muscles. “Relax, slave. You won’t survive what we have planned for you if you can’t.”
“Y-yes, Sir.”
Jared takes a deep breath, relaxing fractionally on the exhale.
“Good boy.” Ian concentrates on the task literally at hand. After applying lube, he slides one finger into the youth’s cleft and strokes the clenched opening, smiling when Jared whimpers and thrusts his hips backward.
“You like this, slave, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir. Please… may I have more?”
“More of what?”
“Your finger in my hole, Sir. Please.”
“Since you asked so nicely, how can I refuse?”
Ian works his fingertip inside, finding Jared’s prostate and drawing slow circles around it. Using his other hand, he caresses the young man’s flat stomach before grasping his cock and stroking it. Gasping, Jared tugs on the cuffs and pushes back, trying to fuck himself.
“Patience,” Ian admonishes him, releasing his cock and giving his balls a warning squeeze.
“That is his weak point,” Mira admits. “So young and impetuous.”
“Mmm, I can see that.” Ian slowly pulls his finger out. “Maybe that whip on your desk will humble him a little.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” she smirks.
“Oh, I’ll make sure that it will.” Ian peels off the gloves, tosses them in a bin, and strolls over to the Louis XVI desk, where a black leather dog whip is coiled amidst an assortment of paddles, crops, and dildos. After picking it up and giving it a test flick that cracks the air like a small explosion, he returns to Jared and grasps the other man’s jaw, forcing eye contact.
“I’m going to give you ten strokes from this whip. You will thank me for each one and ask for another. Understood, slave?”
“Yes, Sir.” Jared swallows. Sweat trickles down his pale face, but his erection does not flag. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
Ian pauses. “Did I ask you if you were sorry?”
“N-no, Sir.”
“Fifteen strokes then.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
Ian glories in the young man’s confusion, panic, and arousal. Thrusting his face forward, he applies a bruising kiss to those full lips. With his other hand he reaches around and presses the whip’s sleek handle slowly and teasingly against Jared’s still-slick hole, careful not to breach him. Yet.
“Oh God,” the American moans, rolling his hips. His cock rubs against Ian’s zip, slicking the leather surface with pre-ejaculate. After breaking the kiss, the Man smirks and removes the whip handle, ignoring the quiet whimper of protest.
“If you come before I’m done, slave, I’ll flay the skin off your pretty back. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Very good. Let’s begin then.” He circles behind Jared, snaps the whip once more, and then strikes.
The American screams and jerks in his bindings. A purple star-shaped mark appears on his left buttock. “Thank you, Sir!” he chokes. “Please, oh God, please may I have another?”
“You may,” Ian answers. He draws his arm back and lands another blow, this time on the right buttock. Jared’s knees buckle, causing his body to sway and the overhead chain to rattle noisily.
“Oh fuck….thank you, Sir! Another, please!”
Ian dispenses the rest of the punishment, concentrating on Jared’s arse. The young man screams himself nearly hoarse, but his eyes are glazed with endorphin overload and his cock is leaking freely on Mira’s expensive Moroccan rug. When she presses the button that lowers his hands, he wobbles and collapses into Ian’s arms, chanting, “Thank you, Sir. Thank you, Madam.”
“You’re welcome,” Ian whispers, pressing a sudden kiss into his hair. It’s a rich shade of brown and wavy. Like someone else’s.
******
As Ian reclines against the town car’s soft leather seat, he realises that he hasn’t been so happy in a long time. Sherlock is a handful, to be sure, but the Man has strong hands. They’ll make it work.
When the car turns onto Ian’s street, he peers through the window and sees the same pearl grey BMW parked near the intersection. It’s been there ever since Sebastian Moran became a guest of the British government (and an unhappy one at that, from what Ian has heard). He knows that the men inside don’t work for Mycroft Holmes: Sherlock’s omnipotent older brother has more elaborate methods of surveillance. No, Mycroft’s people wouldn’t sit for hours at a time in the freezing cold, sipping coffee to keep warm and pissing into the cups afterward. Minions only do that when they’re undervalued but too scared to protest.
Moriarty, then.
Ian reaches inside his cashmere blend coat to make sure that the loaded Browning is still in its inside pocket.
When Allen opens the door to him, Ian sees right away that something is wrong. Very wrong, judging from his longtime valet’s worried expression.
“Allen? What is it?”
The older man shakes his head. “Perhaps you’d better come inside, Sir.”
As Ian steps into the vestibule, his apprehension mounting, someone else appears in the entrance hall, looking even worse than Allen. In fact, Ian has only seen such an ashen pallor on a corpse.
Mycroft Holmes.
“Mr. Holmes?” Ian is instantly tense. “What is it?”
The elder Holmes swallows a few times before speaking. When he does, his tones are as controlled as ever, but anguish underscores every word.
“Mr. Adler. It appears that my brother is going to die in seventy-two hours.”