Priceless Treasure

From his vantage point at the computer, John saw Corelli enter the room and speak to his intended victim. The ambassador was middle-aged, and a good-looking man with the type of magnetic personality that averted crises and inspired confidence. He had promised John that Sherlock wouldn't be harmed tonight, and the doctor believed him. Someone willing to pay that much for a plaything wouldn't break it easily, would he?

While John watched, Corelli approached until he was standing at the edge of the bed, between Sherlock's dangling thighs. His broad hands rested lightly against the detective's knees. "So beautiful," he crooned in the voice that had seduced scores of men and women in the past. He leaned forward, the expensive fabric of his tailored suit brushing against Sherlock's naked flesh, and claimed his prize's mouth in a deep, lingering kiss.

Sherlock tried to turn his head away and push the unseen assailant off, but all he could manage to do was moan into the other man's mouth. When Corelli broke the kiss, he stroked Sherlock's cheek and said in a voice heavy with arousal, "I can't imagine why you never let anyone make love to this body before. You've been selfish." His other hand caressed Sherlock's throat before trailing down to his nipples and teasing them with gentle pinches until they were fully erect.

"Very nice. So responsive. You were made for this."

So this man knew he was a virgin then. But how? Oh dear God, was that why he'd been picked up tonight? Was he going to be raped? Would they kill him afterward? As long as the blindfold stayed on, probably not, but-

Sherlock's thoughts were derailed when he felt a warm hand close around his cock and begin to stroke it firmly. His stomach tightened and he squirmed against the rich duvet. He'd touched himself in the past, although not lately, and having someone else do it inspired equal levels of arousal and fear.

"No. Please…." he begged weakly. He flushed as the skilful manipulation caused his penis to swell and become hard, and an uncomfortable heat start brewing in his lower belly.

"No, Sherlock. You may not realize it now, but you need this. You wouldn't be able to function much longer without it. Listen to your body, young man. Doesn't this feel good?"

Sherlock felt sick that he could not deny it. He rolled his head from side to side, fighting the dizziness caused by the sedation and arousal combined.

Watching upstairs, John licked his lips at the lazy and seductive hand job and wondered if he could risk touching himself in a building with more cameras than Fashion Week. The pangs of conscience grew weaker by the second. Sherlock so obviously needed this. Badly.

Corelli released his hold, stepped back, and signaled to his silent associates, who dutifully turned Sherlock onto his stomach. Despite the intoxicating softness of the duvet and mattress, Sherlock cringed as he felt hands on him, but when they only caressed his back and shoulders he started to relax in spite of his fear. He heard the click of a plastic cap opening and smelled something spicy–cinnamon? Cloves?

Then liquid was being massaged onto his back and thighs, something that sank warmly into his sore muscles and radiated a comforting heat. A childhood memory sprang up- he had pulled a tendon in his leg after some schoolyard mishap, and after sharply ordering Mycroft to stop smirking, Mummy was rubbing ointment on the injury, her gentle touch making the hurt go away-

He gasped when the hands reached his buttocks and gave them a gentle squeeze before prying them apart.