Chapter Text
It's at times like this, Sebastian believes that there surely must be a God. A God of delectable, wriggling, ready-to-fuck packages. Oh. And moaning. Delectable, wriggling, moaning, ready-to-fuck packages.
The package in question is his boss, one James Moriarty, currently stripped totally naked, ball-gagged, shiny black duck tape binding various parts of his anatomy. His ankles, his thighs, his arms (strapped behind him in a black, shiny, arm binding), and his torso (arm binding strapped to it at waist and mid-way up the biceps). Oh, and the plug taped securely into his arsehole.
The vibrating plug. The one that's making the consulting criminal squirm and wriggle and moan, face down on the kingsize bed, desperately trying to fuck the bedcover. Desperately because his cock and balls are locked tightly in a rather ferocious cockstrap and, rut and fuck as vigorously as he can, he won't be able to come until it's released.
Sebastian stands at the foot of the bed, naked, stroking his erection as Jim's arse bobs up and down, quivering as his muscles contract. "Jesus, Boss, you look so fucking lush. All taped up like a wriggly little worm, your arse waving about in the air, just begging to be fucked."
"Mmmph, mmmph, mmmph", is all Seb gets in response. And a ferocious glare. Well, as ferocious a glare as one can give over one's shoulder, when one is bound from tip to toe, the buzzing from one's arse clearly audible over one's moaning.
Seb chuckles. Jim agreed to this, this dirty weekend away. Agreed to stay at the perviest little cottage the Somerset countryside has ever contained. The mellow Bath stone cottage, on the outskirts of the sleepy village, is picturesque olde Englande at its best.