
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/321636.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson, Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson/Molly_Hooper,
      John_Watson/Molly_Hooper
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Molly_Hooper
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Slavery, Slavery, Master/Slave, Underage_Sex, Dom/
      sub, Objectification, Humiliation, Dubious_Consent, Non-Canonical_Age
      Difference, Orgasm_Delay/Denial, Orgasm_Control, Voyeurism,
      Dehumanization, Dark, Evil_Sherlock, Morality?_What_Morality?, Porn,
      Ficlet, POV_First_Person, Preferential_Treatment, Only_Bad_Masters_Play
      Favorites, Sensuality, Complete_and_Utter_Depravity, Neglect, Threesome_-
      F/M/M
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-01-16 Words: 887
****** A Voice, A Subtle Thunder ******
by Saucery
Summary
     Sherlock is, perhaps, a cruel master. But one can hardly ask his
     pets.
Notes
     Written for Tahariel, who requested Sherlock/John/Molly, with
     Sherlock as the Dom and the other two as his subs. She asked for (and
     I quote): "He tells them what to do to each other while he watches."
     She didn't ask for the age difference, though; that particular
     depravity is all mine.
See the end of the work for more notes
 
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They're lovely pets, of course, if undisciplined and rather lacking in - shall
we say - the finer points of etiquette. But they play so well with each other.
And they are, after all, so transparent. So damningly - beautifully -
transparent.
It might be a matter of age, as they're both young enough to be driven almost
entirely by base passions - or it might be a matter of predilection, as they're
both bred from the pens, from the very best stock. Certainly, they're both
wonderfully giving, once taken beyond those silly notions of wrong and right,
of pain and pleasure. Mycroft really does know how to pick them. I'd resented
his interference in the affairs of my house, when he'd first gifted them to me,
but I can't fault his taste.
Or mine.
"Now, now, John. We can't have that. Molly's enjoying herself a little too
much."
The boy pauses - pulls back - and pants, helplessly, his hands clenching and
unclenching on Molly's waist. He wants to mate, like the little dog he is, to
mount and fuck, and Molly isn't doing much better. She's on all fours,
obscenely wet between her thighs, mewling into the rug. Her collar gleams
blackly in the firelight.
"Slowly, now," I say, and settle back against the settee, wine in hand. "Match
the clock. Not a jot faster."
And he's in her, again. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. It's agonizing, for the both of
them, to be so held back, to be so curbed from indulging in their basic
natures. Such pretty things. They glisten, slick with young sweat, two gilded
serpents twined and arching, John's face pressed to her nape, his hips moving
in slow, careful circles, utterly at odds with the desperation writ large in
his body, in the knotted muscles of his back, the line of his jaw. He's only
sixteen. He very likely thinks that this will kill him.
As for Molly - well, Molly's quiet, as I've taught her to be, as she knows she
has to be. I prefer her silence. But her limbs speak, in their trembling, and
her breath speaks, in the way it falls out of her at every thrust, shakes out
of her, as though John is murdering her, in exquisitely slow increments, and
the agony is more than she can take. There are tears at the corners of her
eyes. Her fists are wound tight in the rug, pulling at it, wreaking sweet havoc
on it in a manner that will surely have Mrs. Hudson complaining, tomorrow.
But John is being patient. So patient.
"Good boy," I murmur, and he gasps - forgets himself for a moment and thrusts
hard - and Molly cries out, whimpering, far louder than she ought to be.
Well. That won't do.
"Down," I say, and John groans, staring at me in desperation, such terrible
desperation. I pat my lap. "Here."
He looks starved - hurt - and, yes, perhaps a little angry with me. The anger
suits him; it always does. Perhaps, when he finds out, he'll be artful enough
to hide it from me - to make it a little more difficult for me to torment him,
to make him flush and thirst like this.
But for now, he's young, and in pain, and needs his master.
"Here, John," I repeat, gently, and he crawls onto my lap and quivers,
shuddering all over when I touch him, when I curl my hand around him and stroke
him, when I whisper in his ear and bite his - uncollared - throat.
John is my favorite. There's no hiding that. And when he comes, clawing my
shoulders and sobbing, I hush him, caress him, praise him and soothe him - all
the while watching Molly, abandoned on the rug, watching us.
She hates this. Loves it. Loves me, because I'm cruel to her, and John, because
he's kind.
Perhaps I'll tell her, one day, that the one I am cruelest to is myself - for
only now do I satisfy my own hunger, urging John to his knees before me, and
taking his wonderful, wonderful mouth.
"You may touch yourself, child," I permit her, instead, and she closes her eyes
and does so - taking her pleasure from herself, as she is forbidden to do with
John. Or, for that matter, with myself. The sounds her body makes are slick,
glossy, sharp. "Can you hear her, John? How wet she is? How wet you made her?"
John looks up at me and nods - reverent, uncomplaining, no longer angry now
that he's come. Such a simple boy. So - ah - uncomplicated.
I smile at him, and then at Molly, who's sunk her fingers into herself, and is
fucking herself as hard as John hadn't, as hard as he never will.
"Now," I say, and she comes, silently - oh, precious girl, obedient girl -
while I ejaculate into John's throat, his beautiful throat, and reach down to
cup his face.
He's glowing. Complete. Filled with his master's pleasure, replete with it.
Mine. Utterly mine.
"John." My voice is rough, when I say his name, and he shivers - his eyes
dipping closed as I lean down to kiss him, to taste myself on his bruised,
swollen lips.
Molly watches it all - still on all fours, still unmoving. Her shoulders are
pale, striped from this morning's punishment, and her hair falls to hide them.
 
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                                     fin.
                                Please review!
End Notes
     Oh, Molly. I'm sorry, bb. You'll find happiness somehow. Somewhere.
     Just not here.
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