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Gosling	By : Spike119 Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 4739 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
- 1-Gosling
- 1
Title: Gosling

Rating: Not even enough class to call it NC-17; let’s just call it XXX

Pairing: Hopkins/Lestrade & a few friends

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, although I am beginning to suspect they own me.

Warnings: Pure, unapologetically smut-filled crack-fic with no redeeming social or literary value whatsoever. PWP, BDSM, Oral, Anal, Rimming, Voyeurism, Anonymous Participants, Multiple Participants, Underage Participant, Possibility of Incest, Overtones of Bestiality, Questionable Consent, Dubious Characterizations, Cop-Out Ending, Written By a Yankees Fan Who Lives in New England, and All Sorts of Other Baaaaaaad Things.

Thanks and/or Blame: all the folks at Holmesslash who are more comfortable with the idea of Sherlock Holmes sleeping with half of Scotland Yard than they are with the idea of him wearing a deerstalker in town.

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“So what do we do with Sleeping Beauty?” Bradstreet asked, pointing a finger at the loudly snoring Hopkins.

“I’ll take him home,” Lestrade said. “I owe it to him to make sure he gets to bed safely.”

– So What Does the “G” Stand For, Anyway?
***************************

“Gosling,” Hopkins says, and instantly regrets it; not only does his own voice, louder than the bellow of a steam engine in his ringing ears, shock him into painful awareness, but the very act of speaking makes his fuzz-covered tongue chafe against sawdust-dry lips. He makes his second mistake in shaking his head; this only gives the hedgehogs which seem to have lodged inside his skull a chance to prance about singing mad songs about other hedgehogs. He groans and rubs his head, or, rather attempts to rub his head: he finds his right arm strangely immobilized. A second attempt with his left hand is no more successful, and he realizes that all four of his limbs have been tied securely, leaving him spread-eagled upon what he can only hope is his bed.

It only now occurs to him that he cannot see, and a sudden gust of chill air upon his skin leaves him with the distinct certainty that he is naked as the day he was born.

Inspector Stanley Hopkins is not an unintelligent man; he would not have been made the youngest inspector ever to grace Scotland Yard had he not a decent brain between his ears. Gathering his thoughts, he forces himself to assess the situation calmly and objectively: he is tied to a bed – not his own, he can tell that now – naked and blindfolded. He can tell it is not his bed by the scent; a heady, musky odour tells him that this bed belongs to a man he knows well.

All things considered, he is in deep trouble. Or he is about to have one of his deepest secret fantasies fulfilled. In either case, he trembles with expectation as a shuffle of footsteps at the foot of the bed alerts him to the presence of the man himself. Hopkins raises his head slightly, licking his lips nervously. “Lestrade?”

“Well done, lad. Of course, I helped you out a bit: I dribbled a little of my cologne on the pillow, and I daresay you’ve got some of a more intimate scent wafting from the sheets.”

Hopkins feels the blush spreading across his cheeks as he realizes Lestrade’s meaning; yes, that musky note in his nostrils is semen, combined with perspiration. He feels his cock twitch slightly as he realizes that the sheets are full of the smell of sex. He strains against his bonds to distract himself away from his rising arousal.

“You could have at least cleaned the linens before you tied me here,” he mutters, and jumps as a sharp slap stings his thigh. His manhood begins to swell shamefully.

“Interesting reaction, Inspector.” Lestrade’s voice drips with lust, and Hopkins shivers as he feels a finger tracing along the edge of his other thigh upwards, ghosting away as it approaches his groin. “But I shall have you know,” the older man continues, “that the linens were fresh when I laid you on the bed. However, I found I couldn’t wait for you to wake up to take my pleasure, and so the sheets have gotten a little messy – oh, don’t start like that, I haven’t done anything to you – yet. But once I saw how handsome you looked, trussed up like a rent-boy and sleeping like an angel, I was obliged to take matters into my own hands, so to speak.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Hopkins whispers faintly. He is not able to hide the note of hope in his voice.

His heart begins thrumming against his ribcage as Lestrade lies down beside him, and he moans softly as Lestrade’s hands lay claim to his body, the questing fingers firmly stroking and exploring his thighs, his chest, his arms, finally slipping below him to squeeze his quivering buttocks with such violence that Hopkins gives up all pretence and arches his back, his moans conveying his eagerness to accept any treatment Lestrade is prepared to offer.

The hands withdraw suddenly, and Hopkins gives a disappointed sigh, only to find a single finger pressing against his lips. He instinctively opens his mouth, preparing to suck it in, but Lestrade chuckles and lays the finger over Hopkins’ lips in a gesture of silence.

Hopkins feels the stubble upon Lestrade’s cheek as the older inspector leans in to murmur at his ear. “You are beautiful, my lad. So beautiful –” and here the finger caresses his lips – “that I almost did take you while you slept. But instead I indulged in a spot of Onanism so that, when I do take you, I shall be able to bugger your lovely arse all the longer. For I am going to bugger you, make no mistake.”

The profanity, uttered in such a gravely tone of lust, jars Hopkins back into a sense of propriety; suddenly, he cannot believe what is happening to him. “You’re a police inspector – I’m a police inspector …” the idiocy of his words hit him and he bites on his lips in an agony of uncertainty.

Lestrade seems to sense his unease, and pulls back somewhat. “Or, perhaps you don’t want to play,” he whispers. “Perhaps I should loosen your bonds – just enough so that you could untie yourself after a few minutes’ quick work – and be on my merry way. After all, I am a police inspector, and I’ve got a pile of reports cluttering my desk at the Yard. Maybe I should go immerse myself in paperwork, and by the time I come back –”

“Don’t go.” Hopkins is surprised by his own outburst, and even more dismayed by the plaintive tone. What has he become?

Lestrade chuckles darkly. “So you do want to play, then.” The statement is almost, but not quite, a question.

Hopkins nods faintly.

“Very well then. And I’ll tell you what; I’ll leave you an out, a life-line, if you like. If, at any time, you decide you don’t want to play anymore, say ‘Gosling, let me go,’ and I’ll loosen your bonds and leave, no questions asked.”

“Gosling,” Hopkins echoes. Vague memories swirl around his buzzing skull; something about a drinking game, and Lestrade’s Christian name, or lack therof ….

“Yes, Gosling. The childhood name with which I have been cursed shall be your life-line to safety. Mind you, if you ever – ever – call me that outside of this room, I shall flay you alive and shoot any witnesses. But here, I shall do anything you ask of me using that name. If you want me to kiss you, you’ll say ‘kiss me, Gosling.’ Similarly, if you want me to bugger you harder, say ‘harder, Gosling.’ Understood?”

Hopkins does not answer immediately, and a sharp pinch on his buttocks makes him writhe and buck against his bonds.

“Is that understood?” Lestrade repeats.

“Yes,” he whispers, licking his lips.

The hand slaps him upon the thigh once more. “Yes, what?”

“Yes … Gosling?”

Another slap, this one hard enough to sting. “You don’t use a life-line when you’re not in danger, lad. You’ll call me ‘Gosling’ only when you want something. Otherwise, you’re to call me ‘sir,’ or, better yet, ‘master.’ Understood?”

“Yes … master.” The act of uttering that one word is enough to excite Hopkins beyond reason, and he realizes that his cock is jumping and twitching in response to Lestrade’s voice, like a dog hearkening to its master’s voice.

This time the hand pats his thigh affectionately. “Very good, lad. Now what shall I call you? I can’t imagine that your people call you ‘Stanley.’ You don’t even look like a Stanley.”

“I was named after my –”

This time the blow falls upon his upper arm, a full-handed slap that sends a shock-wave all the way to the base of his ballsac.

“Did I ask you about your family?”

“No, master.”

Lestrade’s weight shifts beside him upon the bed; he senses that the man is now directly above him. He braces himself for the inevitable penetration, and is shocked when instead soft lips caress the spot on his arm still burning from the last slap. He gasps aloud and finds his mouth captured in a violent kiss, dizzying in its intensity.

“So what do your people call you, lad?” Lestrade’s voice startles him back to reality.

“Otter, sir.”

“Otter?”

“Yes, si—master.”

This kiss has none of the violence of the first one, but is still just as dizzying; Lestrade’s lips ply him open in a tender invasion, and Hopkins takes the time to enjoy the inspector’s unique flavour, a mixture of strong oolong tea and clove cigarillos. He moans with unabashed disappointment when Lestrade finally withdraws, leaving him with a lingering after-taste of whiskey and sweet mustard.

“So, then, Otter,” Lestrade whispers, “am I right in thinking that you like a bit of rough handling?”

“Yes, master.”

“And if I untie you to change your position, will you make things difficult for me?”

“No, master.” He feels Lestrade untying his bonds but does not move his arms or legs until directed, and only then to change his position, allowing the older man to manoeuvre him so that he is on his hands and knees, his face pressed down into the pillow and his buttocks pointing upwards, his legs spread so wide that he can feel the cool rush of air at his twitching hole.

“Stay just like that,” Lestrade orders gruffly, with a slap to Hopkins’ behind that makes his rod jump with expectation.

“Yes, master.” Hopkins’ voice is only slightly muffled by the pillow.

“Good lad,” Lestrade purrs, stroking his back. “So, shall I take you right away, or should I give you a few good strokes of the cane first? Of course, I could use my belt instead,” he continues, with another slap to Hopkins’ bottom. “Well, Otter, what’s your pleasure?”

“I want to taste you,” Hopkins blurts out.

Lestrade’s hands pause in his caress. “I’m not sure you’ve earned that privilege yet, Otter,” says he slowly. “And yet …”

Hopkins feels Lestrade move to the head of the bed, and that end sinks slightly as the older detective kneels at the headboard, removing the pillow with a swift whoosh of cloth against Hopkins’ ear.

“Very well,” Lestrade continues, his voice gravely with desire. “Let’s see what you can do for my ballocks, lad; they’ve needed a good tongue-washing for weeks.”

Hopkins bows his head to his work, but a stern hand restrains him, a finger tapping upon his forehead.

“Just the sac, lad,” Lestrade hisses. “Anything higher than the base of my prick is off limits for now. You’ll not let that delicious tongue of yours wander upwards until I order you. Lower, as you like. Understood?”

Hopkins licks his lips. “Yes, master.” As soon as his head is released, he dives into Lestrade’s groin, immediately finding his nether hole and plunging his tongue as deep as he can manage, his chest swelling with pride as he feels Lestrade jump around him.

“Sweet Mother of God,” Lestrade pants, stroking Hopkins’ hair as the young Inspector begins chewing and sucking frantically at the tight ring of muscle. Hopkins eats most enthusiastically of this delicacy before moving upwards, feasting at Lestrade’s ballsac, pulling the hairs between his lips and then drawing each of the delicate orbs within into his mouth, each one in turn. Lestrade’s thighs quiver around Hopkins’ head; the hands upon that head shake madly as Hopkins tenderly nurses at his master’s scrotum, licking every spare inch in leisurely, luxurious strokes of his eager tongue.

Hopkins smiles to himself as he inches up to the base of Lestrade’s now-jumping cock, slowly allowing his tongue to venture up the shaft. His mouth moves higher –

Lestrade pulls away, cuffing Hopkins alongside the head roughly. “Bad Otter,” he snarls. “Do not move. Now, I shall be letting you off lightly, mind, due to your … inspired skill. Nevertheless, I cannot let such a deliberate act of disobedience go unpunished. Ten strokes should do it, I think. Bull-Pup, hand me my riding-crop.”

Hopkins’ mouth drops open, and he hears a soft ripple of chuckling around him, in at least a half-dozen different voices.

“Oh, didn’t you know? And they call you the wunderkind of Scotland Yard? Well, perhaps I’ll ask you to tell me later how many are met here tonight. But just so you know now, although I am your master to-night, my own master – and yours, should he deem you worthy – is watching your every reaction right now, and I hope to show him what a good lad you can be, as he has promised me that for every stroke I give you, he shall give me two later on. Do we understand one another?”

“Yes, master. And I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Very good, Otter. But just to drive the point home, I’m going to add another stroke. Believe me, this will hurt me more than it will hurt you.”

“Add another for that joke,” a deep baritone laughs silkily. It sounds slightly familiar, but Hopkins cannot place the owner of this new voice, although his heart beats all the faster to hear it.

“As you wish, master,” Lestrade says. “So, then, Otter, an even dozen strokes. Count them off for me, lad.”

Hopkins hears the swish of the crop just in time to brace himself for the first stroke, which lands square across his buttocks, the centre of the line landing just at his now-aching hole.

“One,” he gasps. The second stroke hits him just as he finishes counting the first, this one falling slightly lower. “Two.”

The next three strokes come fast upon each other, and Hopkins can barely breathe enough to count them off, but by this time the unseen audience is chanting along with the count:

“Six … seven … eight …”

The ninth and tenth strokes fall so hard that Hopkins can feel his flesh tearing beneath the whip. By the time the twelfth and final stroke hits his skin, he is sure he can feel small rivulets of blood trickling down the back of his thighs, though by the amount of blood now engorging his swollen manhood, he dimly wonders that there is any to spare. Certainly he feels dizzy with arousal as rough hands jerk his head upwards, pushing him to a kneeling position upon the bed.

Lestrade’s tongue invades his mouth furiously, and he gratefully surrenders to the plundering kiss, sighing deeply as Lestrade’s hands attack his chest, pinching and twisting his nipples before squeezing their way down his abdomen, bypassing his straining member and firmly cupping his ballsac. A single finger brushes against his anus and he shudders.

“Are you ready for me, lad?”

“Yes, master,” Hopkins whispers, his mouth suddenly bone-dry.

“Since you’ve trying so hard to please me, I think I shall allow you to choose your position. On your back, eh? And would you like a cock to suck upon while I bugger you?”

“Yes, please, master.” Hopkins settles upon his back and spreads his legs as wide as he can.

“I believe that Gears would be delighted to oblige,” the deeper voice puts in, once again sending a frisson of excitement running through Hopkins.

“Thank you, master,” another voice answers, and if the other voice excited him, then this one drives Hopkins into ecstasy; this voice he recognizes immediately. Although somewhat shocked to hear Sherlock Holmes address another man as “master,” the small part of Hopkins’ brain still functioning on a rational level is mildly amused that the great detective would be called “Gears” in such a circle as this. He has no time to ruminate upon this, however, for in the next moment a long, thin penis is thrust between his lips with no warning, and he barely has time to open his throat to accept it without choking.
Nevertheless, he sucks at his hero’s member as if his very life depends upon it, using the muscles of his throat to squeeze the pulsing flesh.

A hand strokes his cheek. “You were right,” Holmes whispers above him. “He is talented indeed.”

Another set of hands is at his nether entrance, as one finger, then two, slide inside him, stretching him furiously.

“He’s certainly eager at this end,” Lestrade answers. “Eager, willing, and hotter than blazes. Here, Bull-Pup, come feel this heat.”

The fingers withdraw for a moment, only to be replaced with two other fingers, these curving inside him and exploring his bowels with all the gentle insinuation of a medical professional, so that Hopkins is not surprised to hear John Watson’s voice proclaiming that his is the tightest, hottest hole he has felt in a month of Sundays. “That is, besides yours, my dear,” he adds, and Hopkins can sense that the doctor has leaned over him to give Holmes a reassuring kiss.

“And mine is aching all the more for your attentions,” Holmes replies huskily, “due to the attention our young friend is giving my rod.”

“Well, I shall have to remedy that ache, my love. I think Otter is ready for you, Lefty,” Watson adds, and a pair of lips descend to give him a ghosting kiss upon his entrance. Then the doctor is gone and Lestrade’s cock is at his hole.

“Are you ready, lad?” Lestrade asks. Hopkins, not wishing to speak with his mouth full, indicates his willingness by spreading his legs even further.

“I reckon he was born ready,” Holmes chuckles, patting Hopkins upon the head. He re-doubles his efforts upon the cock in his mouth and is rewarded with a throaty groan, but then Lestrade pushes his prick deep inside him and all thought is driven from his brain as the older inspector buggers him mercilessly, falling into a rapid, violent rhythm of rough thrusts and lightning-fast withdrawals.

He is almost over the precipice and gone without a single touch to his straining prick, when the voice of his master’s master interrupts them.

“This is all quite amusing,” says he in a bored voice, “but I cannot help but think that I should like to see this Otter eaten by our Bear. Oh, do not worry, dear Lefty, you shall have plenty of time to bugger your protégé later. But I cannot allow you to finish with him yet. And Gears, I don’t wish you to climax yet, either; come play with Sparrow awhile.”

Hopkins moans as both members withdraw from him, but remains as motionless as if he were still tethered, awaiting his next orders. He hears another man approaching, but feels no touch from him until this Bear is at his hole, eating him just as he had eaten Lestrade earlier. The rough tongue delves deep into his bowels, and a large hand encases his ballsac, squeezing and kneading him until he is writhing and panting uncontrollably.

Just as he is once more upon the verge of climax, the master stops them again. “You wish something, Sparrow?”

“I want to ride him, master.” Hopkins’ eyes fly open underneath his blindfold. Wiggins is not quite eighteen; he cannot imagine that these men would have corrupted the boy. And yet the voice is unmistakeable.

“As you wish, my dear.” And that voice, too, is unmistakeable; of course none other than Mycroft Holmes could be the master of this circle. “Gears, take Sparrow’s place, please,” he continues with a yawn. “Oh, and Bear, why don’t you let Otter return your favour? Bear, Otter, and Sparrow – oh, my; what a charming combination.”

Hopkins gratefully licks at the puckered hole presented him, moaning into it as he feels another set of anal muscles at the tip of his prick. When the ring of tight heat descends upon him, he thrusts his tongue into the entry at his mouth, buggering the man with his tongue as he buggers the boy with his cock. Then hands are at his chest, tweaking his nipples, another pair of hands is squeezing his buttocks, and now there is a tongue at his hole again, and he is exploding –

“Well, good morning, slug-a-bed.”

Stanley Hopkins groans and holds his head.

“Don’t try to sit up yet,” Lestrade says, pressing a mug of something hot and frothy into his hands. “Here, this will take some of the edge off.”

Hopkins sips at the foul brew. “What is it?”

“An old family recipe. How do you feel?”

A jumbled series of images spring to mind. There was the drinking game at the tavern, of course, but –

He sits up and instantly regrets it; not only does a sharp stab of pain rip through his skull, but the resulting flinch makes him spill the drink down his chest.

“Easy, lad, easy,” Lestrade chuckles, handing him a towel. “You just had a wee drop more than was good for you, that’s all.”

Hopkins gapes at the older man. He can see no sign of anything untoward in Lestrade’s expression; only concern and sympathy show upon the inspector’s careworn face.

“Did you … did we …” he fumbles pitifully, unable to form the question burning in his mind.

Lestrade gives Hopkins a look of mild puzzlement. “Are you all right?”

Hopkins settles back onto the pillows. “I just had a bizarre dream,” he mumbles. “Thank you for getting me home safe last night.” The memory is almost faded, and yet he remembers enough to feel a keen pang of disappointment upon finding it had merely been a fantasy.

Lestrade pats his arm kindly. “I’ll let you rest,” says he, and leaves, closing the door behind him.

Mycroft Holmes is in the next room, frowning at a small bookcase. “You know,” he says as Lestrade comes into the room, “for the trouble it would take you to organize your books by subject –”

“I have better things to do than organize my shelves, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade laughs.

“How is the lad?” Mycroft asks, turning from the bookcase.

“As well as can be expected. That cask of wine you sent along was a fine vintage indeed.”

“It is a pity that it made the young inspector so ill.”

“I don’t think it was just your wine, Mr. Holmes; the lad had plenty else to drink, as well.”

“You’ll look after him, of course.”

“Of course. It’s my duty to a brother officer.”

Mycroft Holmes steps closer to the inspector.

“And I shall see you tonight?”

Lestrade bows his head. “Yes, master.”
- 1
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Gosling