Beta: the divine chasingriver

Note: Written for a kinkmeme prompt. This fic is also a birthday gift for a dear friend who requested a Sherlock / genderswapped Irene Adler story. She's a big Tom Hiddleston fan, so he is the model for 'Ian Adler' here.

When Sherlock Holmes comes to see him, Ian Adler listens to what he wants, which is very different from what he actually needs.

They sit in the elegantly furnished front room. Ian calmly sips the tea prepared by his personal slave while Sherlock, who ignores his own cup, arranges the crime scene photographs on the marble-topped coffee table.

The male victim was a bondage enthusiast found strangled in his flat. Sherlock, having heard that Ian can work miracles with ropes and straps, wants an expert opinion.

"Look at those red marks on the ankles and upper thighs." His long white finger stabs at one of the pictures. Ian sees a chemical burn on the knuckle.

Plays with corrosives. Not afraid of danger. Intriguing.

"What about them?"

"I want to know what kind of bondage device was used. I understand that this is your area of expertise."

Sherlock is irritable, but he's also nervous. His light grey eyes keep darting all over the room, taking in the oil paintings, period furniture and occasionally Ian himself.

He's trying to convince himself that he's only here on official business, Ian realizes. A lot of his 'visitors' do that in the beginning.

Business before pleasure.

Examining the gruesome pictures, Ian immediately recognizes what type of restraint was used to keep the victim's legs bent at the knee. He's not surprised that Sherlock wasn't able to do the same: from what he has heard, anything to do with sex leaves the famous detective without a clue.

Sherlock waits impatiently for an answer. Instead of giving it to him, Ian leans back in the leather armchair, crosses his legs, and tries not to smile over the rim of the bone china cup.

"No need to be so smug," the detective snaps. "Just tell me what type of restraint the killer used."

Ian sets the cup down, next to a pile of his brochures. They all depict him looking exactly as he does now: pale and angular and dressed entirely in black leather. "Actually, I believe it will suit your purposes better if I show you."

"Show me?"

"Yes. I understand that you're a hands-on type of person. So am I."

Sherlock's eyes widen. When he doesn't protest or leave at once, Ian does smile. He loves it when he is right about people.

The first thing that the stroppy detective must understand is that in Ian Adler's house, he is not in charge.

First, his clothes are taken from him. While Ian watches, arms crossed, two male assistants remove Sherlock's Belstaff coat and the rest of his apparel piece by piece, taking their time so that his sense of vulnerability heightens. Although he tries not to, the detective trembles like a frightened horse, clearly trying to decide whether to plunge further into the experience or call safeword ("Baker Street") and flee. He also has the beginnings of an erection. Impressed by the perfect size and shape of his penis, Ian shakes his head. What a waste.

When Sherlock is completely naked, Ian gestures for the men to leave and strolls over to his newest challenge.

"Tell me why you're really here, Mr. Holmes."

"You know why." Sherlock swallows and looks down. "I need data for that case."

"And what else?"

"Nothing else."

"Wrong," Ian says as he grasps that finely sculpted jaw. "You also need discipline, although you may not realize it."

Sherlock doesn't pull away or even lift his gaze. He is letting his body say what his lips can't or won't.

"You need distraction too." The professional Dominant ("the Man" to his wealthy clientele) glances at the old needle scars inside Sherlock's left elbow. "Still the addict, aren't you? No, don't answer. You may not be shooting drugs any longer, but you will do practically anything else to avoid being bored."

Sherlock follows orders and doesn't reply. Good.

Ian releases him. "Kneel, please."

He does, a little too eagerly.

"You've needed this for a long time, haven't you?"

"I don't know."

"I'll take that as a yes." Ian's fingers descend from Sherlock's face to one of his dusky nipples, brushing it lightly. The detective's cock hardens even more and a clear drop appears at the tip. Ian bends over, wipes it off with his index finger, and makes Sherlock taste himself.

"You have such potential. Would you like me to show it to you?"

When Sherlock's only reply is a nod, Ian's eyes narrow.

"Answer me."

"Yes, I'd like you to show me my potential."

Ian takes a riding crop from the implement covered wall and runs its polished tip over Sherlock's nipples and cock in a lazy triangular motion.

"You left something out," he says in a soft voice laced with barely-hidden menace. When the detective looks confused, the self-professed 'recreational scolder' sighs. "Whenever you respond to me- which is the only time that you're permitted to speak for the next hour, you will always conclude with 'Sir'. Is that understood?"


Sherlock realizes his mistake a split second before the crop descends sharply onto his left nipple. He squeaks and stammers, "Yes, Sir!"

"That's better." Ian notices with approval that he does not jump up or break position in any way. "Now apologize for forcing me to remind you."

"I'm sorry…Sir."

There's a tiny pause before the honorific: Ian's not sure whether Sherlock is merely unsteady in this new role or being subtly rebellious. Either way, the misstep earns the detective a stinging blow to his other nipple. As he yelps and recoils, his cock prods the air. The crop tip lowers and traces its circumference slowly, spreading thick fluid all the way around the crown.

"This is where I'll hit the next time you hesitate, Mr. Holmes. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good boy." Ian stands up straight and brings the glistening crop to those full lips. "Clean this, please."

Sherlock does. Watching his pink tongue glide over the dark leather, Ian Adler has to remind himself to stay in control. Sherlock Holmes will still be a virgin when he leaves this place, but he definitely won't be innocent any longer.

He takes Sherlock to his bedroom, an honour rarely accorded to a client. But Sherlock isn't really a client. He's a challenge that must be overcome. A puzzle that needs to be taken apart and solved over and over again.

First, Ian wants to give him the 'data' he primarily came for: a demonstration of how the murder victim's legs were secured. After Sherlock lies on his back on the mattress, Ian attaches padded leather cuffs to his wrists and secures them to the eyelets embedded in the mahogany headboard. The detective watches him work, too intrigued to be anxious or embarrassed. But when Ian grabs two sets of leg restraints from the trunk kept under the bed and pushes his thighs apart, Sherlock hesitates.

"Permission to speak, Sir?"

The request and its careful phrasing aren't inspired by a submissive impulse yet, Ian knows. Sherlock has merely grasped the rules of the game.


"My back." The detective looks chagrined. "I strained it three days ago. Stumbled on the steps leading to my flat. My friend, Dr. John Watson, says I must be careful when lying down."

He doesn't add 'Sir', but Ian lets it pass under these circumstances. "Thank you- that's something I need to know. Anything else, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, Sir."

Ian grabs one of the huge pillows and carefully tucks it under Sherlock's lower back, elevating his smooth white arse. The cheeks part slightly as the detective bends his long legs at the knee, revealing the tight, rosy pucker that's never been touched and explored in a non-medical context.

Ian forces himself to look away and concentrate on the task at hand, lest the twitching and swelling in his tight leather trousers get worse. After years of doing this, he's become rather clinical (or maybe cynical was a better word) when confronted with naked beauty, male or female. But Sherlock Holmes is different. The renowned consulting detective is worldly in many ways: he's seen bloody corpses, nearly been killed on a number of occasions, and used to power-shoot cocaine. But at age thirty-four, he's never been fucked. Ian hadn't thought anyone was that innocent any more: discovering otherwise excited the despoiler in him.

If he's not careful, Sherlock might undo him, not the other way around.

He secures two wide belts around Sherlock's thighs, one on each leg just below the hip. Two more cuffs follow, these ones buckled onto the ankles. Each restraint has a steel ring attached: when Ian produces a pair of double-ended clasp hooks, Sherlock's ankles are bound to his thighs.

"There you have it, Mr. Holmes," he declares, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Exactly how James Hathaway was tied when the killer struck."

The detective lifts his head off the pillow and surveys his restrained, naked form curiously. He tests the range of movement in his legs, brain greedily absorbing every physical sensation and visual impression.

"Of course, Mr. Hathaway was additionally compromised by the vibrator," Ian says, keeping his tone casual while eying Sherlock intently. "The prostate stimulation would have affected both his coordination and reaction time."

Sherlock stares at him. "I never told you about that. How did you know?" When he sees Ian pick up the crop, he stutters, "No, wait, I'm sorry, Sir-"

Too late. The tip smacks the side of his penis hard enough to sting without doing damage. He writhes and gasps for air, cuffed hands tightened into white-knuckled fists. His expression is agonised, but there's something in his eyes that resembles euphoria.

Ian waits until he goes still before saying, "How did I learn about the vibrator? I know one of the police investigators in the case. Well, I know what he likes, anyway." He pauses and leans in close. "So, Sherlock, you now have most of the information you came for. But not all of it. My question to you is: how thorough do you wish to be?"

Sherlock wants all the data, apparently.

Ian dons a pair of black nitrile gloves from a boxed supply that the erotica shop orders specifically for him. Behind him, Sherlock is taut with anticipation and even a little fear, judging from the way the detective's teeth worry his bottom lip.

"Close your eyes and spread your legs more," Ian orders. When Sherlock does, the Man slicks his fingers liberally with lube. It takes every ounce of his considerable willpower to stay calm. He is about to penetrate Sherlock Holmes. He'll be using his fingers instead of his cock, but a breach is a breach. It's a victory on his part, a willing surrender on Sherlock's.

If he has his way, Sherlock will be desperate for more. But Ian won't give it to him today.

Tomorrow, perhaps.

The detective catches his breath noisily when the Man's slippery digits stroke that sensitive area behind his balls. "Shhh," Ian whispers as he goes lower and applies gentle pressure to the band of muscle guarding that virgin hole. Under his skilled ministrations, the tight pucker flutters and finally relaxes enough to admit a slick fingertip.

Sherlock gasps and grinds down against the intruder. Ian places one hand on his hip to steady him and presses deeper. He curls his finger and searches for the spot that will drive the other man crazy.

When Ian finds it, Sherlock cries out. His lids flutter, his hips push forward in silent invitation, and his toes curl tightly. "Oh," he moans. "That feels so good. Please, more. Right there. Please, Sir."

Ian draws slow, lazy circles around Sherlock's prostate, enjoying the way the detective whines and tugs fruitlessly against the wrist cuffs. Sherlock is obviously desperate to touch his cock, which lies hard and wet against his flat belly. Ian refuses to help him out or free one wrist so he can do it himself: the intensity and novelty of the prostate massage has him so excited that a single stroke would make him come immediately.

And that wouldn't do at all.

"Please, Sir," the detective chokes, dark curls tangling on the pillow as he throws his head from side to side. "Please, touch me."

Smothering a grin, Ian says briskly, "I am touching you." To prove his point, he drags his fingertip across the sensitive gland. Sherlock's knees fall apart even wider and his struggles accelerate.

"Mmm, oh, God. Please, Sir."

"Please what?" Ian inserts a second finger, carefully stretching the muscle in preparation for something bigger.

"Touch my cock." Sherlock swallows. His balls are tight against the base of his erection. "Please, Sir."

Ian decides to meet the request halfway. Using his other hand, he grasps the base of Sherlock's penis and squeezes just hard enough to stave off the orgasm brewing within. The detective's eyes bulge and his expression is so comically shocked that Ian has a hard time staying in character.

"You asked me to touch your cock, Sherlock. Problem?"

The other man's only response is a frustrated whimper.

"Not what you wanted, I know. But this certainly is."

Ian takes his hands away from Sherlock, picks up the vibrator, and adds an extra coating of lube. Slowly, carefully, he sinks it into Sherlock's body, watching in fascination as the sphincter stretches to accommodate the slippery toy. He's used it on several clients, so he knows exactly when the curved tip will touch the detective's already-agitated prostate.




He presses the button, and the toy begins to buzz and vibrate.

Sherlock twists on the bed and screams. "Oh, oh, God!" For a moment Ian is concerned about his injured back, and considers calling one of his slaves in to physically restrain the young man. But Sherlock soon stops thrashing like a fish on a hook and lies there, trembling wildly. His cock jerks and streams pre-ejaculate all over his stomach, the muscles in his pale thighs tighten and his bent knees quake. He's trying to talk, to beg, but all he can manage are moans and gasps.

Ian could spend hours watching him come undone like this, but that would be as cruel as it was fun. Sherlock Holmes isn't used to this kind of sensory overload, and Ian doesn't want to make him literally insane with pleasure. Some of his fellow Doms might disagree, but Ian Adler really does believe that there is such a thing as too much.

"Would you like to come now?" he croons.

Sherlock nods frantically.

"Say it then."

"Please, Sir, please let me come!"

Ian grips the base of the vibrator and slides it briskly in and out of Sherlock's body in a fucking motion, making sure to rub the buzzing tip against the detective's prostate during each inward plunge. With his other gloved hand he strokes Sherlock's entire length, tightening his grip at the top and sending precome oozing through his fingers.

Sherlock is so close that it doesn't take long. He pulls his knees toward his chest and issues a shuddering wail as he comes everywhere: on the duvet, over Ian's hand, on himself. Ian continues to fuck and stroke him until Sherlock finally slumps on the mattress, sweaty and boneless. Then he releases the other man's softening cock, gently extracts the toy, and puts it in a basket to be cleaned later.

"So now you know why Mr. Hathaway was distracted enough to be an easy kill," he says after Sherlock's breathing returns to normal.

Sherlock's only response is a sated groan. His chest rises and falls slowly and his face has a dazed, sleepy look.

After tossing his ruined gloves into the rubbish bin, Ian rings a bell on the bedside table. A young blonde woman –one of his subs in training- appears in the doorway and takes in the entire scene. She disappears into the bathroom across the hall, comes back with a wet washcloth, and cleans the congealing sperm off Sherlock's face and body while her Master undoes the restraints. When she leaves, Sherlock mumbles, "I had no idea."

"That it would be so intense?"


Ian actually hadn't thought it would be so intense either. His own legs are beginning to feel rubbery, so he sits on the side of the bed. "Would you like some water?"

Sherlock nods. Ian rings the bell a second time, and a different house sub brings a bottle of Perrier. While the drowsy young man drinks it, the Man makes a dignified exit to the bathroom across the hall, where he locks the door, bites his wrist, and has a quick, urgent wank while he stares at himself in the mirror.

Sherlock Holmes is not the only one who's been taken apart this afternoon, it seems.

By the time Sherlock is ready to leave, things appear to be all business between them once again. The detective is granite-faced and cool in the thick Belstaff coat that covers his lithe body like a shield, and Ian has reassumed the lethally charming persona that his clientele finds both titillating and terrifying.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," he says pleasantly as they shake hands at the front door, "I'm pleased to have been of service."

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "Odd choice of words, since everyone who comes here serves you."

"Yes, that's usually the case," Ian chuckles as he scans the detective's face. The afterglow has subsided, but it's still there. "Do come again soon."

Sherlock pauses before making what may be a joke. Or perhaps he's simply being honest.

"After today, I won't have the energy for awhile."

Then he leaves. But the Man knows that he'll likely be back before long.

If he isn't, then Ian just might go looking for him.

And neither of them will regret it.