bakerstreet | The BDSM Meme

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The BDSM Meme

Have you ever had a dream where you were running through a sunflower field with clouds dancing across a crystal blue sky, your lover's running towards you? The wind is whipping through lovely lavish locks...and you embrace for that perfect passionate kiss...WELL. This is not that dream. This is hard, sweaty, angry, crazy, monstrous fucking.
-Brendon Urie

Sometimes, when someone has been very naughty, they just need to be tied up and whipped.

Post a comment with your character, fandom, and preferences in the subject line. Make sure to note if there is anything on the list you're not comfortable with. Use the RNG to get a number between 1 and 16, or just pick one (or several!) and tag around! Feel free to get creative!

1 - Handcuffs. An oldie but a goodie. Are you handcuffed to something or just behind your back?

2 - Full bondage. This can be anything from hands tied to the headboard to the most complex of rope bondage.

3 - Sex swing. Sling 'em up! Also includes harnesses and special furniture.

4 - Tied to the bed. You are not going anywhere -- whether spread-eagle or kneeling at the foot, you are not moving from this bed until your lover says so.

5 - Public scene. Whether a demonstration at a small party or a subtle but definite show of dominance in a restaurant, someone else is watching this show.

6 - Riding crop. Giddyup!

7 - Paddle. Leather, metal, or wood? Either way, someone's been bad.

8 - Cane. Just like in school!

9 - Whip. This isn't for beginners. Avoid the vital organs.

10 - Sensory deprivation. Blindfold, gag, breathplay? The possibilities here are endless.

11 - Spanking. Why use toys when your hand works just as well?

12 - Candle wax. Oh it burns so good.

13 - Blades. Careful where you cut, and make sure you clean up after!

14 - Needleplay. Whether it's permanent or just for play, this is a particularly sharp pain.

15 - Electric stimulation. Do you have an instrument, or are you being reckless with a wallplug?

16 - Wild card. Pick one of these or do your own favorite fantasy!

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[Sherlock takes a few moments to try and master himself, trying to get his breathing under control. Through sheer force of will, he manages to make an admirable effort for someone so far gone, a testament to the tremendous willpower that mind of his possesses. Eventually, he can speak again, though his voice is shaky.]

No.

[No, he doesn't want it to be over quickly. He doesn't want it to be over ever, even though he knows that's impossible, that he can't spend every day of his life tied to a bed as she has her way with him. (She could make him into a pet if she wanted, even though she's right, it would be a waste.)]

More. I want--

[He wants to hurt, he wants to be bent over her knee and punished, he wants her to mark up every inch of his skin because now she owns it and he wants to be marked as hers. That deep need to be possessed, to be owned by her squirms inside him like a living thing, and makes it even harder not to squirm underneath her.]

[The next thing he says is very genteel, very calm, like he's asking her to pass the sugar.]

Please.

[Then he closes his eyes tight and says it again and this time, it's almost a sob; it's wrenched out out him like someone's stuck a hook into his body and ripped it out by force.]

Please.

[Annnd there's the begging, at long last. He can do more of it if she likes. He'll do anything she likes.]

[Twice, even.

It floods her with the satisfaction of a promise fulfilled. This, this is where she wanted to take him.]

Now that's what I like to hear.

[Deciding what to do with him now is almost tricky; there are so many options. Like a dog in Seligman's experiments, she suspects he would remain there even if she released him from his bonds. He has learned to be helpless under her firm hand. She could turn him over and paddle him...

But he looks so very fetching in ropes and the hotel room isn't equipped for any kind of suspension. It was the best she could manage to make do with the bedposts.

While she mulls it over, she decides to coax a little more out of him.]

Once more, with feeling.

Miss Adler, please.

Since you begged so nicely.

[It occurs to her she may not need to untie him or even rearrange him much to administer the spanking. In fact, this will be even better since it will add yet another layer of difficulty to his command to remain still.

Gathering up the flogger and willow wand, she hops off him to stand by the bed once more.]

Legs up.

How--

[He's not sure how exactly she wants him positioned.]

[She packs away the toys in their case and turns back to him.]

Straight up, high as you can get them.

[It takes effort. It's painful because the skin of his chest and abdomen hurts and all the muscles there are sore from tensing up. But he manages to lift his legs up in a 90 degree angle from the bed.]

Lovely. Keep them there.

[It isn't true predicament bondage — if he lowers his legs, there will be no automatic retribution, no cord yanking on tender parts. She could probably rig something up involving nipple clamps if she tried, but really, for someone so new, this is enough.

A quick trip across the room enables her to retrieve a rather wicked looking black paddle with roughly pound-sized holes bored through in an even pattern. She'll deliver a few warm-up smacks with her hand though. It would be more effective bare-bottomed, but leaving his trousers on is yet another denial of freedom. Besides, he's so sensitive, he may need the barrier.

Hand up, ready to strike,]

You're to thank me for each one of these.

[He closes his eyes and nods.]

[There are ten of them with just enough of a pause in between for the appropriate response.

Then she takes up the paddle.]

[He does as he's told, saying thank you over and over, until he's lost track of how many times he's said it.]

[The verbal requirement serves double duty as both a check-in and something she never gets tired of hearing.

The paddle delivers a much sounder smack than her hand, especially with the holes in it to reduce resistance from the air, and she'll keep up with it until he falters in either voice or position — or, failing that, until she feels he's had enough. Whichever comes first.]

[There is a slight grunt with each smack that's equal parts pain and exhilaration, and he thanks her each time after in a quiet voice. He lasts quite a few times before his voice starts to falter and go too quiet, trailing off into whispers. He's hit his limit, but being Sherlock, he doesn't know he's hit his limit, mainly because he doesn't really think he even has limits. Similar instincts to the ones that made him almost take the pill the cabbie gave him are at play here, making him ignore the limitations of his own body.]

[She suspected as much, which is partially why she gave him the command. After the second time he trails off, she ceases work with the paddle and places it on the increasingly-crowded nightstand. While she's at it, she dials the current on the violet wand down to the minimum and then unplugs it. Sherlock's state, as well as her estimation of the time, necessitates that they finish this.]

You did well, dear. That's enough now.

[She runs a soothing hand down the length of his torso, then slides the contact probe out from his waistband and packs it away with the rest.]

[Sherlock's legs fall to the bed like he can't even lift them anymore. Completely soaked in sweat, he twists against the restraints, a futile gesture, now that he's sensed that her instructions no longer apply. He's in deep now, completely lost, disconnected and yet still completely overwhelmed by sensation at the same time. He can hear his own pulse in his ears, a steady thrum.]

Please. Want. I want. Please.

[He's also just slightly incoherent.]

Please.

[Making gentle 'shh'ing noises, she brushes a sweat-damp lock of hair from his face. It's all right, her expression seems to say. She'll take care of him.

In more ways than one. With a quick peck on the cheek that leaves its imprint in lipstick as bright as the marks on his chest, she gets a leg up on the side of the bed and mounts him again because she doesn't intend to release him before, well, releasing him.

She just really wants to ruin those trousers okay.]

[His trousers getting ruined is pretty much an inevitability at this point with her straddling him again. By now, he's pretty much as hard as granite, and before she even starts, he begins to rock his hips, trying to rut against her like an animal in heat.]

Edited 2012-02-26 12:05 (UTC)

[This time she allows it, if only because it will speed things along. She can always find a way to discipline him for it later.

Her breasts are once again visible through the gap in her robe as she leans forward to brace herself against him and grind hard.]

[Sherlock doesn't last long but that's not surprising given how worked up she's gotten him.]

[Waves and waves of pleasure crash over one another, each enveloping and absorbing the last and he writhes underneath her as they grind against each other, twisting against the restraints, his expression nearly feral, his hands grasping at the empty air as if he can't stand not being able to touch her.]

[He's vocal, very vocal, and is so out of it he doesn't even realize it--or perhaps he just doesn't care. That deep voice of his, that usually is so controlled, so clipped and clinical, sounds quite different when he's moaning in such a strangled way.]

[In the end, it's almost ugly when he finally loses control. That involuntary muscle contraction of the facial muscles is involuntary, after all, even more so when things are particularly intense, for some people. But that's what makes it beautiful, isn't it? That she could twist up those refined features into such an ugly grimace of sexual satisfaction, an expression that's beyond self-consciousness, beyond physical control. It really is a wonder he doesn't start speaking in tongues, because there's a moment during it where he looks like a man in the throes of an ecstatic religious experience. It ends with him letting out one last choked noise instead, like he can't even get enough air to scream properly.]

[In terms of sexual experience, especially since this is the first time he's done anything remotely sexual, she's utterly destroyed him. She's looted, pillaged, razed everything to the ground, and salted the earth. Nothing and no one else will ever be able to compare. She'd already been imprinted into his head just because of who she is, but now if he ever finds himself sexually attracted to anyone else at all, it'll be because of blood-red lipstick and carefully coiffed hair and riding crops and half-open complimentary robes. It will only happen because of reminders.]

[That's what she's done to him. Even if they were to never meet again, from now until he dies, she owns him, body and soul.]

[When it's over, when the last muscle stops spasming, when his vision stops blurring, when his back stops arching, he collapses back to the bed, breathing raggedly, completely soaked in sweat, utterly wrecked. With him strapped down to the bed like that, it's the kind of image that'd be perfect blackmail material in her phone if she was still doing that kind of thing.]

[Of course, if she were to do that to him, if she were to take advantage of his helplessness at this particular moment, it'd destroy him in other ways, in ways that couldn't ever be fixed. That's the hold she has on him now.]

[It is a photograph she would like to have, though not for anything so nefarious as blackmail. Which isn't to say she's above it now, generally speaking, but in his case it would be a last resort. Cheap and dirty tricks of that sort aren't good enough for the likes of Sherlock Holmes. Not unless she's desperate, anyway. No, the use she'd put it to is a bit more personal.

Her phone is across the room though, so she'll have to make do later with a mental picture.

For now, looking down at him, she makes a pleased rumble in the back of her throat and leans down to press a kiss against his sweaty brow. Then she rolls off sideways and moves to untie her knots with practiced care.]

[He lays there trembling, eyes closed, hair plastered down to his forehead with sweat, trying to slow his breathing. His wrists are red from pulling against the restraints, but fortunately her experience with this kind of thing means he hasn't been hurt and his circulation hasn't been cut off. Even when his hands are free, he stays completely still for a moment, just breathing.]

[Then Sherlock opens his eyes slowly and reaches down to unzip his trousers. He squirms out of them and his briefs with a complete lack of self-consciousness--what does it matter if she sees him naked now?--cleans himself up a bit with them and then kicks them over the side of the bed.]

[Slowly, gingerly, he rolls over on his side with his back turned to her, drawing his long legs up so he's in a fetal position. His back is still pale and unmarred, in stark contrast with much of the rest of him.]

[He needs time to process.]

Edited 2012-02-28 05:02 (UTC)

[Recognizing that need, she busies herself with a few tasks — first filling a glass with water from the bathroom tap and bringing it over to the nightstand, then cleaning all the implements that touched skin with a pack of disinfectant wipes from her bag and packing them neatly away. When that's done, she does a final sweep of the drawers and the closet and the bathroom to make sure nothing (of hers, at least) has been left.

Only then does she return to the bed and sit at the edge, not speaking or touching him, just letting her weight on the mattress tell him she's there if he needs her.]

[He's raw. Not just his skin. Everything is raw and bleeding, like a scab has been ripped off. The walls are down, and those are typically very carefully-constructed walls that are absolutely necessary for holding back the hordes of emotion. Ah, feelings. The fly in the ointment, the grit on the lens.]

[Irene had called him damaged and delusional when they first met, when talking about how his disguise had been a self-portrait. His brother had called him lonely and naive, and said he was desperate to show off. Those sorts of things rarely even register on his radar when they're usually said, because they conflict with his own image of himself--brilliant, unstoppable, always rational, always in control.]

[The truth is that Sherlock Holmes is a man that is full of so many contradictions that he can't even keep them all straight. He's a man with the mind of a scientist or a philosopher that decided to be a detective--when he could have just as easily been a criminal. He spent his whole life telling himself he needed no one--and still pretends that sometimes--but now he gets annoyed if best friend goes away for a weekend instead of running around the city with him. He labeled himself a sociopath but then tossed a man out the window for hurting his landlady because he cared that much. He hates his brother for spending a childhood trying to mother him because it rang with falseness, because he believes in his heart of hearts that Mycroft never actually cared about his well-being.]

[It took him 35 years to make a single friend and all 35 of those years he'd convinced himself he didn't need or want one. It took him even longer to feel anything even remotely akin to love, and yet longer still to have anything even remotely resembling sex, because he'd convinced himself that both were a waste of time, that they were weaknesses that he was completely above having.]

[Underneath the ice, underneath the carefully constructed facade that he presents to the world--and to himself--there is a young man that was a junkie because he didn't care about himself until a detective convinced him to get clean so he didn't destroy his mind. Underneath that is a younger man who spent his university days compulsively showing off how smart he was, pretending it wasn't because he was trying to impress, and getting called a freak until the word became something he stopped flinching at. Underneath that is a schoolboy who terrified the other students into leaving him alone, who got diagnosed for conduct disorder for setting fires and killing and dissecting animals, his curiosity and rationality (combustion was an interesting process and who cared about cats and frogs when people in other countries ate them?) mistaken for cruelty.]

[And buried at the very center, stuffed deep, deep down where he can't be hurt is a small boy that wanted to grow up to be a pirate.]

[It starts out very quiet. Just huffed breaths and the occasional shake of his shoulders. Then his shoulders shake more and a sob escapes his lips and he bites his hand to hold back the ones that threaten to follow after.]

[It's a catharsis more than anything else. It's shame at wanting and needing and feeling--and it's shame at lying to himself about not needing to want and need and feel. It's years of loneliness draining out of him in a rush and anger at himself for dealing with that loneliness with hostility and callousness so that he kept driving others away.]

[He feels pathetic and ashamed and humble and wanted all at once and he doesn't know what to do with it all, doesn't know how to handle it when he can't just shovel it all under the graveyard in the back of his head where all the things that are too intense for him to cope with rot and waste away to nothing.]

[There is a keening noise he doesn't even know that he was capable of--that he'd hoped he wasn't capable of--that comes from his throat, something mewling and pitiful. It makes the shame worse, but it feels good to feel the shame just because he's feeling something.]

Edited 2012-02-28 06:58 (UTC)

[His sobbing doesn't lessen her opinion of him in the slightest. Many of her clients had cried at one time or another after a session from the physical and emotional exhaustion of it. It was natural, to be expected. And, although it didn't come naturally to her, she had learned how to take on a comforting role and guide them through it with caresses and gentle words. To provide light as well as dark.

But it's more than that. He's seen her cry as well. Once, at the moment when her clever joke—the password she thought he'd never guess because it was something so human, so personal—became her undoing and he tore apart all her careful plans with the press of just four keys. She had cried then, silently, from the sheer horror of it and absolutely despised herself for doing so where he could see. Loathed herself for the way her voice quivered when she called after him. For letting her armor crack. For being weak. For being something other than The Woman at her most professional.

And again, kneeling at what was to be her execution. She had put on a brave front, didn't beg or plead. But it was only an act. In truth, she was terrified, and no amount of biting her inner lip or holding her shoulders taut as she waited for the blade could keep a tear from leaking out and trickling warm through her lashes and down her cheek. She had forgiven herself for that one. Who wouldn't cry at death?

So there's not an ounce of judgment or pity when she reaches out and rubs his back, murmuring nonsense phrases.]

[Sherlock flinches away, at first, like he doesn't want to be touched. The keening noises stop, even though his shoulders are still shaking and his breath is still coming in quiet, little gasps.]

[He wants to be touched and comforted, but doesn't want to want it. He wants to cling to her and shove her away at the same time.]

[Though she can't see it, his face contorts into a grimace as he fights with himself, as there's an absolutely vicious internal struggle. Then one part of him loses and another part wins, and he rolls over, sits up, and leans against her, butting his head into her shoulder. He can't make himself put his arms around her first, but he can force her to make the decision for him.]

The BDSM Meme

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