Sherlock locks the collar around John’s neck, and the ‘snick’ of the little padlock thunders through John’s body.
Once he’s in it, he feels like a different person. In the collar, his skin fits him. As Sherlock instructs him to undress, one item at a time, John obeys willingly, reveling in the cool exposure of his skin. His body feels made all of slinky curves. He wants to swing his hips, arch his back. His lips part and his eyelids grow heavy and he feels succulently vulnerable to Sherlock’s greedy touch. His skin is greedy, aching to be touched. When Sherlock does, strokes one long hand down John’s chest and abs to the curls between his legs, John breathes out everything beyond the walls of this room in a luxuriant sigh.
Sherlock hums. His full lips curve into a smile as his fingers explore between John’s legs. He gives only passing, teasing attention to John’s cock, touching him everywhere else, everyway else. John watches him through his lashes. His teeth feel edged. He feels hungry, like the sort of patient predator that lures its prey to it. Waiting tautly for Sherlock to take away more of his control, leave him more naked than he is already.
He loves being in Sherlock’s power. It’s such an unwise place to be, but he’s always lived to be reckless.
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