Chapter Text
Sherlock was not enjoying his day. He had been thrown out onto the street by his owner after only two weeks of becoming her slave. Almost a new record.
Being who he was, he had asked exactly why she was throwing him out onto the street like a 'worthless slab of concrete'. Her reply being, 'Shut your trap' and 'You aren't worthy of an owner like me! Maybe you should just stay a homeless whore!' He was going to mention that clearly that language was frowned upon when he used it, so why should she? But the slave-collectors had come for him, injecting him with a suppressant so they wouldn't have to deal with his reaction, knowing his previous history.
Now, here he stood, or rather sat, looking at the apartment of his twenty-fourth owner, nothing special. He sighed. The two bodyguards he had been administered had a specific grudge against him, being he had told both of them off about their wives being lesbians and turning to each other.
He yelped as a sharp pain jolted up his backside as one of the bodyguards zapped him with the metal electrical device, signaling him to move. It hurt more than it should have, being on the highest setting and touching bare skin, since they would not allow him the modesty of clothes. They had forced him into a spreader bar, shoulder-length, and gave him a rather tight humbler, forcing him to stay down.
He scowled at the stairs, 13, that he now that to climb on all fours. It was a slow and painful process, considering the bodyguards notions to speed him up, zapping him numerous times on his already sore, riding crop-whipped backside. He was nearly writhing by the time they reached the top of the flight, the left guard moving to knock at the door.
221B, Baker street. His new home for the good part of a month, when his new owner would surely be too fed up by then to tolerate him any longer. He let a smirk play upon his lips, quickly wiped away by the sharp smack to his cheek. He looked down at the floorboards, hanging his head between his shoulder blades.
He knew perfectly well all the rules of being a slave, some including: Don't look your owner directly in the eye, don't disobey your owner, don't disrespect your owner, the lot. He heard the door open, spotting the hint of suede. Further up was a pair of kakis, over used. Clearly he only wore the shoes for show.
He hadn't had a male owner since his eleventh. The man had beat him senseless, for no particular reason other than 'That's what slaves were made for'.
He heard the man say with a politely annoyed tone, "Oh yes, of course, come in." A sharp slap was delivered to his bottom, signaling him to move. He kept his eyes downcast, knowing better than to look his new owner straight in the eyes, at least the first time they met.
Once the lot had clambered into the sitting room, it was expected of Sherlock to follow and sit by his guardian in common courtesy; Considering he didn't have much choice, the cheap purple and black leather collar and leather leash urging him impatiently. Also, the fact that he had a humbler on meant that he couldn't sit up straight, without immense pressure and or pain on his most sensitive parts. So, he had to kneel, his forehead nearly touching the ground, his back arching almost painfully. He had the chain of the nipple clamps gripped in between his teeth, grinding them angrily. His body hurt like hell, and nobody seemed to care.
"Pleasure to meet you."
"A pleasure to meet you too, Doctor Watson."
A doctor then, eh?
"So, I'm assuming..."
"Yep. Completely healthy, but a bit on the skinny side. He doesn't like to eat. He can be a real bitch, though, so in warning. Also, if you would like to send him back sooner than implicated, we would surely understand."
'Sooner than implicated'. Sherlock scoffed. The implicated time was two years, then the slave owner would get a choice, keep him, free him, or send him back. Sherlock didn't have much time to revel in his thoughts, for a pain-inducing zap came to the small of his back. He made a displeased sound, squirming on his spot.
"But you'll be good, won't you princess?"
Sherlock growled at the nick name, shying away from the touch as the bodyguard tried to curl it into his hair. It was the guard's turn to growl, forcefully grabbing a fistful of Sherlock's curls in his hand and pulling his head back so that he was looking up at the guard, the chain becoming very taught, stinging angrily.
"Wouldn't want us to come back for you again, would you Sherly?"
Sherlock scowled, jerking his head away and yelping as he was pulled back in spot.
"Get off me."
Sherlock hissed through his clenched teeth, his words oozing with spite and hatred.
"Don't. Speak. Unless. Spoken. To."
The guard punctuated with a slap to his backside at almost every syllable. Sherlock cried out, his curls being released. He resumed his contact with the floorboards, glaring holes into them, Rather than at his abuser.
"As you can see, he is quite the handful. I suggest some sort of device to keep him controlled, such as these complimentary toys," He gestured to Sherlock. "Or some of your own. Discipline him well, Doctor Watson."
"Yes, of course. But may I please ask you to kindly treat him somewhat like a human being, not a handful of dirt, Thank you very much."
Sherlock's ears perked at that. Someone had actually stood up for him, the first in thirty two years of his life. He could hear the guard stutter and nod, apologizing very quietly.
"Enjoy him, and call us if you have any problems or qualms about returning."
"Will Do."
His duffel bag, containing all his belongings, landed on the floor with a thump. He heard the guards exit, smiling to himself. He waited for his first command, for the abuse. This man may have stood up for him, but that didn't change his view of all slave owners. He waited for about two minutes before he started fidgeting and squirming in his spot.
"Stop that."
Sherlock growled, ignoring John's command and proceeding his flurry of squirms. He heard John sigh.
"Look; this is going to be a lot worse for you if you don't listen. Now stay still, for me?"
"How could this be any worse than it is?!" Sherlock hissed, the chain falling from his mouth.
He knew he was treading a very thin line, but he didn't care, frankly. John inhaled, standing from his arm chair. Sherlock watched him walk over to the coat rack, curious as to why John hadn't forced the chain back into his mouth, when he saw a hint of the cane slide between John's fingers.
John came back, sitting back down in his arm chair. He gestured Sherlock to come closer with a waggle of his finger. Sherlock growled, obeying very hesitantly. He halted only a few inches from John's shins, kneeling down again. He heard John rise, waiting for the painful flogging to begin. John's footfalls stopped by his backside, but no pain came. Was he numb? No. Surely not. Sherlock squirmed impatiently when no immediate strike came.
"Stop that."
Sherlock hissed at John's words.
"Make me." he growled, his patience wearing very thin. So was John's, he assumed.
He felt the wood meet his nearly purple backside, the welts from previous encounters still standing tall. He whined, rutting away from the cane.
"Sherlock, listen to me. You are going to take these strikes, and you are going to count, thank me, and ask politely another. Address me as 'sir'. Any faults will result in your downfall, we will start over again. You have very bad manners and habits, young man."
Sherlock whined once more.
"Do I make myself clear?"
Sherlock gritted his teeth, letting out a meek, "Yes, sir."
The first strike Came shockingly quick, Sherlock yelped loudly, squirming in his spot. He murmured his required response, praying it would come quickly.
"What was that? Don't test me any longer, Sherlock."
"One, s-sir, thank you-sir. May I-p-please have anoth-another?" Sherlock growled through gritted teeth.
*Whap*
"Ah! T-Two! God!"
"That's not the answer I was expecting."
"Two, sir, t-thank you- sir. May I please have another?"
*Whap*
"Three-*whap*- ah! Four, sir! Thank you sir, mayIpleasehaveanother?" Sherlock rushed out quickly.
His hands clenched as another came down on his sore, stinging bottom. He cried out, shuddering.
"Six, sir. May I -please have a-another?"
"I don't think so."
Sherlock squandered himself about his miscalculation.
"Five! Five, sir!"
"Should we have to start over again? I'd be very disappointed."
Sherlock shook his head frantically.
"No, sir! Please-! I miscalculated!"
"I find that very hard to believe considering your reputation."
Sherlock groaned.
"Please, sir. I won't- I won't Do it ever again, I promise, please please-"
"Should I continue on from here?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Why should I?"
"Because I'll be a good boy, I won't miscalculate ever again, please, sir!"
John seemed to pause before pulling the cane back, landing a hard blow on Sherlock's abused backside. Sherlock cried out, the tears streaming down his cheeks now. To his surprise, John didn't ask for him to count it, instead dropping the cane and kneeling down to Sherlock. Sherlock was nearly convulsing as he shuddered, his body filling with fear at what could come Next.
"Come here, Sherlock." John addressed, sitting Indian-Style on The floor.
The sobs wracked his body as Sherlock crawled over to his new Master, shamelessly dropping into his lap. John shushed him, running a gentle hand through Sherlock's curls soothingly, caressing his back tenderly. He didn't stop until the sobs had retreated from Sherlock's form and he lay there in John's hold.
John gently moved Sherlock over to the arm chair, gesturing him to bend over it. Sherlock scowled again, sniffling but obeyed slowly. Sherlock heard John's footfalls retreat then return, Sitting behind him. Sherlock squirmed, his face flushing an indignant crimson. Not only was it very revealing, but it was also quite embarrassing.
"Stop. Stay still for me, Sherlock."
Sherlock obeyed hesitantly. He felt John's hand on his thigh, palm down, stroking the sensitive flesh. Sherlock wanted to shy away from the touch, but was trapped between the arm chair and his Master. He let a gasp escape his lips, a moan soon following as the pressure from his sensitive scrotum were released. He heard the screwdriver being set on the floor and the humbler set on his duffel bag, along with the zapper. The spreader-bar was also removed, a warm hand massaging at his ankles. Where was this kindness coming from?
He squirmed rather noticeably again, resulting in a sharp slap to his left thigh. Sherlock groaned, trying desperately to kick his assailant away. John sighed.
"Will I have to restrain you again, Sherlock?"
"..."
"Answer me." he punctuated with a slap to Sherlock's right inner thigh. Sherlock moaned, shaking his head vigorously.
"N-No, sir!"
"Why ever not?"
"Because I promise to be a good boy!" Sherlock whimpered shamefully.
"You aren't showing that you are a good boy, maybe I should just leave those nipple clamps on..."
"No, please, sir!" Sherlock cried, whirling around and clutching at John's jumper. He was backhanded, pushed back onto the arm chair. Sherlock whimpered, his wrists in the clutches of John's sturdy grasp.
"You stay like that, Sherlock. Do not move without my permission, understood?"
"Y-Yes, sir." Sherlock said rather weakly, throwing an arm over his eyes.
John tutted, pulling Sherlock's arm away.
"Don't be embarrassed, Sherlock. No need for modesty anymore."
Sherlock growled, closing his eyes.
"Open."
Sherlock opened his eyes, curious as to what John meant by 'open' when he felt the clamp lift off his right nipple, the blood flowing back into it. He gasped. To make matters worse, John latched onto it, licking and nipping until it became pert in his mouth. Sherlock cried out, pushing at John's shoulders. John growled, pushing his hands back onto the armchair, keeping them locked on Sherlock's wrists.
"Do you want me to take the other off and you behave properly, or will I expect to punish you afterwards?"
"I-I'll be good, sir! So good-ah!"
Sherlock gasped when the other pressure lifted from his left, undergoing the same treatment. Sherlock was writhing by then, tears rolling down his face. John threw the clamps onto the duffel bag, holding Sherlock close. Sherlock tried to pull away, sobs wracking his body again. John unhooked the leash, removing the collar like you would a belt.
Sherlock was so worn out from today's events that he didn't exactly care who was comforting him, as long as they were as gentle, as kind as John.