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Perihelion	By : darkangel1210 Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 13557 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.

Chapter List
- 8
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Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
A/N: Me again! ^^
Thank you all for your patience, you're fabulous!!! *mwah* I hope this part was worth the wait! Let me know what you think, your words are always valued! xxx
Enjoy!
Part Nine
It was purely coincidental that the next day formed a part of John’s pre-booked holiday and, given the way he was feeling that morning, he was labouring under the impression that hindsight was a wonderful thing. He still hadn’t gotten out of bed, the absence of any alarms allowing him to drift to out of sleep in a manner that left him feeling refreshed and delightfully slothful with his arms wrapped around one of Sherlock’s pillows. He yawned upon first awakening, his nostrils filling with the scent of Sherlock; his aftershave, his body wash and of course the aroma of the man himself. All in all it was a location that John was loathe to remove himself from, especially when his morning wood happily announced its arrival by pressing into the mattress in a smooth glide, nerve endings sparking with pleasure but not arousal just yet.
Surprised, John smothered a giggle into his pillow, amazed at his body’s ability to be up for it again so soon because he wasn’t twenty-five anymore but, then again, he couldn’t remember if his sex life had ever been this exciting. After having been denied his orgasm for the majority of yesterday, he had to admit that his climax over the phone had been well worth the wait and he would probably be up for a repeat of the same if it meant he could look forward to a morning of drowsy, endorphin filled bliss (hopefully with an equally warm, snoozing Sherlock to wrap himself around instead of a pillow).
The clock’s digits glowed beside him on the bedside table, confirming his suspicion that it was indeed very late in morning and that it was about time he got up to face the world. He started moving his body slowly, stretching out his limbs, back and torso and establishing that, even with his rather adventurous exploration last night, he hadn’t done himself any damage (there wasn’t a remote chance of it, actually, since he hadn’t been vigorous enough in his thrusting), only the memory of his fingers being inside him giving any indication that it had happened in the first place. Blinking at the light shining behind the curtains of Sherlock’s bedroom, he rolled over onto his back and ran his hands down his body in the same way Sherlock had ordered him to yesterday evening, cataloguing the way he felt to see if there was any lingering sign of Sherlock’s hands on his form and slightly disappointed to find that everywhere on his body was now completely pain free.
There was nothing to suggest that his buttocks had had Sherlock’s handprints on them just days ago. His nipples pebbled with the memory of Sherlock’s nails twisting into them but he no longer experienced discomfort when they brushed against his shirts during the day or his fingers when he showered. That wasn’t to suggest that he no longer became aroused when he thought of what had been done to him though. In fact, he was hoping that his pain-free condition wouldn’t remain for long, his mind held captive by the memory of Sherlock pinning him down in this same bed, grinding their erections together and feeling his own moans spill freely from him with the tightening of Sherlock’s hands around his wrists. Of being smacked over Sherlock’s lap, his buttocks flaring with heat and sensation while the detective came all over his back in a primal display of territorial ownership, just after John had found his release without a single touch to his cock.
The memories were enough to make his groin ache and, considering what Sherlock had ordered him to do last night, it was clear that the other man had an agenda which involved anal penetration (at the very least), but John could only guess at what else Sherlock was planning to do to him. Knowing Sherlock, he probably had a list somewhere with different categories for each activity, perhaps a table on excel where he could measure John’s reactions to certain stimuli. It left him wondering what ones had made it to the list and, more importantly, how exhaustive that list was.
His imagination was only too happy to provide him with some of the images he’d seen on the websites when he’d been doing his research, now remembered in a completely different light with the way his face flushed warm, desire lurking underneath his skin that had yet to surface. He thought about one man who had been tied down on a bed with ropes, his arms and feet above his head so that his body was almost bent in half with his legs spread obscenely. The ropes that were tied around his feet had been looped to the corners of the headboard, leaving his body open and vulnerable to his Dom as the other man dripped hot wax along his thighs and buttocks, the wax being red in colour so it was distinguishable from the man’s pale skin. There had been a link attached to the image which showed it was just a still from a video posted to the Internet, but John hadn’t been of the mind to play it at the time, perhaps because the look of agony on the sub’s face had been enough to put him off. When he thought of it now, he wondered how much of that agony had been begged for before it was inflicted.
Another scene and that time it had been a video that he’d stumbled across before hastily clicking off of it at the culmination of the suffering being endured. It had been of a sub having his skin pinched between wooden clothing pegs, except that a cord had been inserted between his skin and the peg. The look on the sub’s face had been almost ecstatic as the Dom placed them around his chest and nipples, following the line of his body down to the inside of his thighs and the sensitive areas around the groin. Most memorably, the Dom had attached one to the patch of skin near the perineum so when the inevitable happened, the pegs being torn from the sub’s body when the cord was pulled by the Dom, the sub’s screams had been so heartfelt that John had been worried that the sound would echo down to Mrs Hudson in her own flat.
The name of the practise should have given it away, ‘zipping’ apparently, but the shock of it had still made John’s hands tremble when he went to click away from the screen. However, before he’d been able to close the window, he’d seen the Dom wipe the tears away from the sub’s face with his fingers and feed those drops to him, the sub licking his partner’s fingers desperately, almost gratefully, although John hadn’t been sure why considering the extreme amount of pain that had just been caused to his body. Looking back on it now with his own very limited experience of pain-play, the sub’s face had shown nothing less than complete adoration for his Dom and John wondered whether his face had been the same after Sherlock had spanked him, remembering how beautiful Sherlock had looked and just wanting to bask in the high and the man who had created it.
Despite John’s current state, slowly thrusting his hips against the sheets to relieve some of the pressure in his groin, he knew he wasn’t ready for anything like zipping and he had his doubts as to whether he ever would be, but that didn’t stop him imagining how the pegs must’ve felt on the sub’s skin. The sharp pinch of the wood around his nipples and groin must have made his body ache fiercely and when the cord was pulled free, taking the pegs with it…
What would it be like? To allow Sherlock that kind of freedom over his body; to make John scream with the throbbing of it all and still beg for more, beg to be allowed to come? Shutting his eyes, John tried to remember the way Sherlock’s hand had felt on his arse when he was being spanked; from the first initial slap, a tester, proceeding to the fourth, fifth and sixth when the fire was really beginning to spread over his cheeks and down his thighs. He remembered how Sherlock’s hand forced heat and pain into his body, a stinging sensation that increased with each strike until he’d been writhing on Sherlock’s lap, perversely pressing up against Sherlock’s hand when he knew the blow was coming.
Would Sherlock tie him down in much the same manner as the bloke on the bed? Would he be gagged, blindfolded, with the only the sound of Sherlock’s breathing enough to convince him the detective was still in the same room with him? Sensory deprivation in the extreme to ensure that John’s overall experience became focussed on Sherlock and the pain with nothing to distract him.
God, it felt like there was so much to explore now, to discover about himself, and Sherlock wasn’t even there to take advantage of it.
There wasn’t any hope that there would be a repeat of last night though; the trial in Russia was happening today and Sherlock needed to disclose his findings to the jury, so he probably wouldn’t hear from the detective until tonight at the earliest, possibly not even until Friday. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed with the timing of the case Sherlock had been chosen for because, like Sherlock had said, it couldn’t have come at a worst time. John tried to remain positive about it though because it had given them the chance to try something new (the phone sex) and the time spent apart allowed John to sort his head out while he came to grips with what was being expected of him.
The rule of not being allowed to come did put a spanner in the works however, given how often he was used to masturbating when Sherlock wasn’t around to interrupt him, so that precise limitation meant that John would need to amend what would be his normal routine on a day’s holiday. It did leave him at a loss of what to do initially, so he supposed it was fate that the postman brought with him an unexpected letter.
John popped the last bit of toast into his mouth when he heard the drop of the post at the bottom of the stairs, signalling the arrival of more bills that they wouldn’t be able to settle until the end of the month. Sighing, he went down to retrieve it, putting Mrs Hudson’s post underneath her door for when she woke up and idly flicked through the other letters as he made his way back to the flat, pausing at one which was addressed to himself when he didn’t recognise the format. It was an unmarked letter with ‘Private and Confidential’ written at the top, but the typeface didn’t match any of the bills he was accustomed to receiving and he hadn’t signed up for anything that would require post to be sent to his home address. Chucking that particular envelope on the table, he pinned Sherlock’s post on the mantle under the knife before opening his own, eyeing the other letter on the table with interest as he totted up the amount of the bills in his hands.
That done, he went and opened the new letter gingerly, pulling out a single sheet of paper and quickly ascertaining that it was a list of test results for STIs. It was only when he checked the name of the individual concerned, a Mr Sherlock Holmes, that he finally understood the significance of what it was he held in his hands though. Mentally counting back the days, he realised that the tests had been completed the day after Sherlock had taken him to the BDSM club the first time, the day after Sherlock had seen his reaction to Eric’s paddling. So either Sherlock had been terrifically presumptuous or, as John was suspecting to be the case, the detective had taken what was a logical step in his own mind to ensure that he was safe before entering into a sexually active relationship.
Of course John also remembered the time when Greg had tried to force Sherlock’s hand with a fake drugs bust during their first case together. Sherlock had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to shut up in front of the DI, so John knew that Sherlock had had a history with drug abuse although he didn’t know the full extent of it. His flatmate had never bothered to go into the specifics of what drugs he’d been on either but, looking at the results he had now, he knew it had bothered Sherlock enough to make sure he was clean.
And the tests confirmed that Sherlock was clean; there was no doubt about it. No HIV or AIDS, no Chlamydia (that test alone told John that the other man must have had sexual partners in the past otherwise he wouldn’t have been tested for it); in fact, all of the routine tests for STIs came back negative and, if nothing else, the report gave John an idea of what direction Sherlock was planning to go in their relationship without him explicitly having to say so.
Or maybe it would be better if he got Sherlock to clarify what this meant… The detective had a habit of assuming that John would understand everything that was aimed at him but, sometimes more often than not, he still needed Sherlock’s ability to deduce what it was in front of him. Sure, a clean report could mean that the other man wanted them to be exclusive if unprotected sex was involved and also hinted at some of the activities they might get up to in the future, but having Sherlock send him a report and the other man actually say what he meant were two completely different things.
It didn’t mean that John couldn’t think about it while Sherlock was away. A half-smile forming on his lips, he wandered to the kitchen and made himself another strong brew, a quiet chuckle escaping him when he gave his imagination permission to run wild.
oOo
The rest of the week passed in a blur, with Sherlock’s contact being sporadic at best until the detective landed in London on the Saturday almost as planned. His flight had been delayed by more than half a day due to the snow storms in Russia so, by the time the plane landed back in the UK, it had gone half seven in the evening. Not that John was concerned. The detective had been sure to make John aware of what was happening in both Russian and UK airspace so he was well aware of when Sherlock wouldn’t be back, giving him time to make sure he was in the right head-space before his flatmate returned.
The sound of the front door slamming was the only thing that preceded Sherlock’s arrival back into 221B, the steps being taken two at a time until Sherlock came into the living room in a swirl of coat, scarf and the accumulated arrogance of a job well done. The man was practically glowing, his face red from the cold wind with flakes of snow in his hair and his mouth turned up in a smile when he finally looked at John.
John had been quietly making his own appraisal of Sherlock as the other man turned to close the door, feeding off of the energy Sherlock was radiating with an enthusiasm that almost stunned him. The flat had been mess free with Sherlock’s departure, and quiet, but it had also been boring. Positively mind-numbing and his day at the surgery yesterday had been no better; a string of runny noses, three people who were convinced they had swine flu and a toddler who’d gotten into a bottle of Calpol when his parents had their backs turned. Dull, boring, tedious. Accurate descriptors only made all the more sharp when he realised that he’d missed Sherlock; the mess, the noise, the constant demands for time that John couldn’t really give him but did anyway. All of it.
“Miss me?”
The question was directed at John while Sherlock was taking off his coat, slinging it onto the back of the sofa before looking back to where John was seated in his chair. Sherlock already knew the answer of course but John hadn’t been trying to hide anything. There were very few things one could hide from Sherlock, and he was better at it than most because of the almost daily interactions they had anyway, but John didn’t want to hide anything from him. Let Sherlock read him like an open book. That didn’t mean he couldn’t stash things between the pages when Sherlock wasn’t looking.
“John?”
Jolted out of his thoughts, John looked up to see Sherlock holding a hand out to him, beckoning with a slight tilt of his index finger. Grinning, he got up out of his chair and took the proffered hand, the action smooth and without pause until he was pressed against Sherlock’s front with his face buried in the other man’s neck, their arms wrapped securely around each other. “Always,” he murmured into the skin at Sherlock’s throat, sighing when Sherlock turned his head so he had his nose buried in John’s hair at his temple.
He felt Sherlock’s hands rub along his back slowly, idly wandering up to his shoulder blades and back down to the small of his spine, pressing into the muscles there. The detective audibly inhaled and then lowered his mouth to John’s right ear, pressing his lips to the lobe and the skin of his neck behind it. John felt his body freeze when the touch became more intimate; his eyes shooting open against Sherlock’s neck when he felt a tongue slide over that same lobe to draw it between teeth where it was nibbled on fondly. “Do you have…” another lick. “Any idea…” a light suck between pursed lips. “How distracting you’ve been this past week?”
John shuddered against Sherlock with the attention to one of his most sensitive erogenous zones, his breath coming out in drawn out sighs at the tingles spreading through his body. “How have I been, unh God, distracting you? I wasn’t even with you.”
“Precisely,” Sherlock said, drawing back so they could look each other in the eye. “Ever since our little phone call, all I could think about was your pretty fingers buried inside that tight arse of yours and it’s been driving me insane.”
John grinned, his lips forming an ‘O’ when Sherlock took a hold of his hips so he could grind his body against John’s stomach. So he could press his very hard cock against John’s body. “Has that been a bit of a problem?”
“So you finally observe,” Sherlock murmured, a low growl finishing the words when one grind was particularly satisfying.
This was mad. It was insane actually, but John couldn’t stop it from forming inside his head, his eyes fluttering as a thought solidified itself and pounded against the barriers that he hadn’t done a good job of putting up in the first place. Besides, it would feel so good wouldn’t it? Sherlock was hard; hard enough that it was overriding his ‘my body is just transport’ mode, and he’d obviously done such a good job with the case in Moscow that surely he deserved a reward of some sort. And John had been so bloody patient and the evidence of his lover’s desire for him, stiff against his belly, was enough to make him toss all sense of decency out the window because he wanted satisfaction and he wanted it now. Right here, against the door that Mrs Hudson could try to walk through at any moment and he’d run out of fucks to give because it would be perfect and good and Sherlock was home.
He slid his hands from Sherlock’s back, pressing his thumbs into the man’s hip bones to get a good grip on them before insistently pushing back, Sherlock’s mouth turning up in a smirk as he allowed John to press him back against the door. Tilting his head up, John took Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss, a faint brush of lips and then deeper, tracing Sherlock’s bottom lip with his tongue to absorb the plushness of it, seized with a desire to suckle on it until it popped from his mouth with a vibrant red hue. The desire was so strong that he was unable to deny it, eventually reaching a point where he was swapping between the top and bottom lip until both were flushed from his nibbling. Sherlock’s breath was panting over his mouth when John finally slid his tongue inside to meet Sherlock’s, pressing their mouths together to swallow each other’s gasps. After several moments, when John was happy that he’d reacquainted himself with Sherlock’s taste and the sensation of the other man pressed close to him, he decided that it was time to escalate the intensity. Taking his hands from Sherlock’s hips, he slid his hands between their bodies and undid Sherlock’s jacket, tugging at the crisp, white shirt until it pulled free of his dress trousers and letting his hands slide underneath the fabric to stroke across Sherlock’s abdomen.
Sherlock stuttered a breath into John’s mouth, huffing a little when John’s hand inadvertently tickled and gasping when John’s fingers found the clasp to his belt, undoing it swiftly and working on the button at the top. Above the heavy sound of their breathing the noise of the zip being lowered was a loud noise and it spurred Sherlock onto further action. One of his hands slid around John’s neck to deepen the kiss while the other pushed between their bodies and cupped at John’s growing erection softly, palming the length of him from root to tip. John groaned at the feeling of Sherlock’s hand on him, those dexterous fingers mapping the contours of his erection almost perfectly through the fabric of his jeans before sliding lower to tease at his balls. He’d always been a man who enjoyed the occasional grind with a partner with all their clothes on, the intimacy of being touched through fabric somehow making the resulting orgasm more powerful, but his past experiences didn’t hold a torch to what it felt like being touched by Sherlock Holmes. They’d barely been together for a week and already his previous relationships felt like dull embers when compared to the flare that Sherlock set off inside him; the fact that the other man knew him so well just made it all the more exhilarating.
John had barely finished lowering the zip before Sherlock’s hand slid up from his neck into his hair, tightening his fingers in it and pulling John’s head away from his own so they could look at each other. The tension in the room seemed to snap into focus when John made eye contact with Sherlock, his hand freezing before he had a chance to reach inside to feel that impressive erection for the first time. The fingers in his hair clenched briefly, tugging at the strands until John felt his eyes water, and when he opened his eyes again Sherlock’s were gleaming. “Kneel.”
Groaning at Sherlock’s command (and at the resultant lick the detective gave his lips when he made the sound), John kneeled at Sherlock’s feet, gasping when Sherlock stroked across his mouth with his thumb. He eyed the opening of Sherlock’s trousers, watching as the cock inside them twitched and throbbed beneath Sherlock’s silk boxers, and felt an answering pulse in his own trousers. Being as close as he was, it wasn’t long before a different smell reached him, muskier, a dark tang at the back of his throat when he inhaled and he had the sudden desire to keep breathing in until his lungs were at capacity, full of that glorious aroma and unwilling to let it go. He heard Sherlock make a small noise above him, the noise when a particularly satisfying deduction entered his mind, and John looked up as Sherlock’s hands left his head and neck.
The other man’s eyes were half-lidded with desire, no doubt having seen John’s reaction to the smell of Sherlock at his groin and his breathing barely restrained from becoming all-out panting. “Do it.”
Unsure what it was Sherlock wanted, but having a pretty good idea because of the position he was currently in, John hesitated for a brief second before firming his resolve, leaning forward on his knees and pressing his face to the open V in Sherlock’s trousers. And, God, the scent was so much stronger here. He greedily inhaled, intent on fulfilling his earlier desire, and pushed his nose against the zip until it opened more so he could brush his lips against the hardness straining towards him.
Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth as John’s lips came into contact with his erection, his fingers threading through John’s hair in silent encouragement. John couldn’t believe he was actually doing this, couldn’t have foreseen that one day he’d be on his knees for another man having their groin pressed against his face, but he certainly couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be. The very fact that it was Sherlock’s groin was enough to make his whole body shudder with pleasure, the silk caressing his lips and the flesh beneath it as he moved his mouth over the areas that had been uncovered. The teasing strokes must have been driving Sherlock mad given the small noises that were being emitted above his head, and John allowed a small smirk to lift a corner of his mouth before devoting himself to the task at hand. After a few more minutes, and feeling slightly bolder, he opened his mouth and licked at Sherlock’s cock through his boxers, finding the tip and swirling his tongue around it until the fabric was moist with his saliva. Sherlock made a sharp noise above him, ‘sensitive,’ before tugging on John’s head to pull him back from his exploration, hatefully cut short. “Take me out.”
‘God, yes.’ With shaking fingers, John brought his hands up to Sherlock’s trousers, reaching into them to palm Sherlock’s erection. Christ, he could almost feel the weight of it in his hands. He found the opening for Sherlock’s boxers within moments but wasn’t sure if Sherlock wanted him to take him out through that opening or whether Sherlock wanted the front of his boxers pushed down so he could reach his balls as well. It didn’t take John long to decide, opting to pull the boxers down so the elastic cupped underneath Sherlock’s testicles, tugging at the man’s trousers to loosen them around his hips so his underwear wouldn’t be restricting. Sherlock’s cock bobbed in front of his face, pointing at him like a thick, sordid finger with a faint arch near the tip, a delicate curve that became more pronounced when the member twitched.
Sherlock’s hands withdrew from his head, instead reaching for John’s own hands where they were still placed on his hips. “Feel me, John,” he murmured, coaxing John’s hands towards his groin.
John didn’t really need the encouragement but followed Sherlock’s movements, holding his breath when the fingers of his left hand were close enough to feel the heat radiating from Sherlock’s cock, and gasping outright when it twitched and made contact with them. He’d never touched another man here before without latex gloves and the mental barrier that was always there between a patient and their doctor, so to feel it in another form, with that awareness of his own desire and of the person in front of him, was a new experience entirely.
Sherlock didn’t say anything when he tentatively curled that hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock, giving John the opportunity to savour it without his intervention and something which John was grateful for. He wanted to learn Sherlock’s body from scratch with the freedom to make his own conclusions about what Sherlock liked and didn’t like and whether he was doing a good job at it. Unlike medical school (where he’d spent long evenings bent over textbooks the size of his arm), this kind of practice was definitely more appealing.
He decided to start with things he knew he liked having done to his own body, making small changes to account for the size difference between their respective organs, ‘not that big a difference,’ his mind interjected, and slowly taking in how it felt to have Sherlock’s erection in his hands. Sherlock was uncircumcised but his foreskin didn’t droop over the head, just enough there to allow for a smooth glide of skin against skin without being excessive. John started with a gentle stroking motion, starting at the base and moving up to the tip, experimenting with a light twist at the head and inhaling sharply when his fingers came away sticky after the fourth stroke.
Pulling those fingers away, he saw the shine on them and glanced up at Sherlock, seeing the smirk on the other man’s face. “I’ve had a long time to think about you in this position,” Sherlock said, an explanation and a completely unrepentant one at that. Unbidden, Sherlock’s STI results flashed through John’s head and he unconsciously licked his lips, watching as Sherlock’s eyes darkened at the small action. Holding Sherlock’s eyes, John brought his fingers to his mouth, sliding his tongue out to lick at them and unable to stop his eyes from shutting at the first burst of Sherlock’s flavour over his taste-buds. Salty, a briny tang with the distinctive musk of something that was all Sherlock, and completely unlike the taste of a woman. He kept licking at his fingers, cleaning them of Sherlock’s pre-come and chasing the last traces of it until he was sure there wasn’t a morsel left, only glancing up when he heard the bitten-off moan that Sherlock gave above him. “I take it you’ve seen the report.”
Nodding, John lowered his hand, ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ and leant forward again, opening his mouth and swiping his tongue across Sherlock’s slit, an unrestrained whimper in his throat as more of Sherlock’s flavour filled his mouth. Sherlock’s hips thrust forward at the contact, the other man groaning deeply when John circled his tongue around the head, taking in the flavour of Sherlock’s skin and the need he could feel in the tension of Sherlock’s thighs and in the straining of his cock. It was so different, he thought, letting his lips slide over until they met the ridge between the shaft and the tip, sucking gently and stroking with his tongue. Soft in a way, almost unbearably sensitive and Sherlock’s responses were so beautiful, even with someone like him who had no experience whatsoever. With almost every throb of Sherlock’s cock, more pre-come leaked onto his tongue and John squeezed his eyes shut, the better to concentrate on what he was doing to try and make the detective give him more, wondering briefly if he could make Sherlock come this way and whether he would be able to swallow it down because it couldn’t be that different from his own come and he’d had no trouble the last time.
Sherlock’s hands slid into his hair again; more purposeful in their intent and holding his head steady so he could begin to thrust into John’s mouth. Slowly at first, giving John time to adjust to the motion of it, a gradual slide in until the head brushed against his soft palette mouth (but never venturing further back because somehow Sherlock knew that John wasn’t ready for that yet, the sensation of a cock pressing to the back of his throat), and then retreating until just the very tip remained inside. Jesus, had Sherlock been this big when John saw it for the first time?
Between the turmoil of his thoughts, ‘There’s a cock in my mouth, there’s a cock in my mouth, Sherlock is in my mouth,’ and concentrating on trying to keep his mouth and throat relaxed, it was probably a given that John would forget about his own arousal for a time, but eventually the tightening in his trousers was too much to bear and his fingers scrabbled at his jeans, undoing the top button and sliding the zip down to relieve some of the pressure. Almost of their own accord, his boxers were pushed down so his cock sprang free from underneath them, moaning desperately at the first jolt of pleasure when he curled a hand around himself and tugged at his length.
Sherlock noticed what he was doing (how could he not, a man as observant as he was), but John wasn’t prepared for what happened next. The fingers in his hair tightened again, pulling his head back while he was still sucking so his mouth made a popping sound when Sherlock’s cock was removed. “Did I give you permission to touch yourself?”
Gasping, John pulled his hands away from his body, planting them beside his hips and ordering himself not to move despite the intense ache between his thighs. “No, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s right hand came underneath his chin, tilting his head up so John could see his face, relief spreading through him when Sherlock didn’t look angry or disappointed; definitely aroused and maybe a little domineering, but not anything that gave John cause for real concern. “You haven’t come,” Sherlock said after a moment, “but I think a little positive reinforcement is in order. Good submissives wait for their masters to command them; they do not take matters into their own hands.”
“I’m sorry,” John murmured, a flash of shame pooling in his stomach and there was something seriously wrong with him because Sherlock’s words just made him harder, so much that it felt like he was about to burst and surely Sherlock could see that.
The hand left his chin, bringing those fingers up to his mouth where they traced his lips. “Give me your safe words.”
Oh, there was only one reason Sherlock would be asking him for those… “Warten and Arrêter,” John replied after a second, shutting his eyes when Sherlock’s hand left his face and swallowing around the lump in his throat.
“Stand up,” Sherlock said, pulling his own trousers up around his hips and putting his erection away before stepping around John’s kneeling body. John was quick to follow the order, watching Sherlock walk towards the table and move the items off of it, creating a clear surface and then turning back to John. “Come here.”
Given his recent disobedience, John didn’t hesitate, walking over to Sherlock and following his direction when hands pushed him over at the waist until John was bent across the table, his elbows on the edge of it and his hips tilted up in an inviting curve. The vulnerability of his position wasn’t lost on him, especially when Sherlock walked behind him and smoothed his hands along John’s flanks, palming his buttocks and dipping his fingers into the crook of his hip bones. “God, Sherlock,” he whispered, pressing his burning face into his arms as Sherlock’s hands reached around his waist and pulled his jeans and boxers down, baring his arse to the air until they pooled around his feet. But Sherlock didn’t remove his clothes entirely, leaving them tangled around his ankles so he couldn’t spread his legs any wider, the small restraint working wonders on John’s mind. Sherlock wanted him helpless and having his jeans as they were meant he wouldn’t be able to leave in a hurry.
Without any preamble, thumbs dipped into the crease of his arse and pulled at the muscles until his hole was exposed to the detective, Sherlock’s small hum of appreciation filling John’s ears. “You look even better than I imagined,” Sherlock murmured, his thumbs slipping out of the crease and staying on his buttocks, squeezing at them a few times before releasing him entirely. “Are you ready?”
John’s breath escaped him in a rush because fuck yes, God, he’d been ready the instant Sherlock walked through the door, needing the pain that he was sure Sherlock was going to give him now even as his body trembled on the table and his breathing quickened in anticipation. He reached out with his hands so they were spread on the table, trying to give himself an anchor before he gave Sherlock his answer. “I’m ready.”
Smack!
“Unh, God!” Sherlock’s hand slapped onto his right buttock, the pain jolting through him even as he breathed through it, already anticipating the next one, and the next one, and the next...
Smack!
Smack!
Smack!
He couldn’t stop his moaning as the strikes continued, hissing between his teeth when one bit especially hard on an area that was beginning to feel hot and swollen, but he didn’t ask Sherlock to stop even when he realised that Sherlock hadn’t specified how many smacks he would be giving. The animal part of his brain was more than happy with that, willing to bask in the pain/pleasure that Sherlock was giving him and arching his body in a clear signal for Sherlock to continue his discipline. Could it still be called discipline if he was getting off on it? Christ, yes, he was definitely getting off on it, a growl erupting from his throat when Sherlock laid four slaps across the same patch of skin so it flared with bright agony, his eyes rolling back in his head at the sensation.
An eternity later the smacks stopped and John wondered how he’d lasted as long as he had without this. He was soaked through with sweat, his shirt clinging to him beneath his jumper and he just knew his hair had gone a bit spiky on top, the way it always did after a strenuous workout. His buttocks were really smarting, a mass of red, stinging flesh that ached when he tensed the muscles there and he gasped again when Sherlock’s hand, his right, gently cupped his right cheek to feel the heat coming off of his skin. John’s face pressed against the table, his breath misting the wood beneath him as he tried to catch some of it back and sobbing when Sherlock, ‘viciously,’ his mind accused, pinched once at his glutes, sparking the fire anew. “Fucking hell, Sherlock,” he groaned, pressing his forehead into the table when his erection pulsed between his legs at the rough treatment.
“I did say some positive reinforcement was in order,” Sherlock said, his hands circling John’s hips and pulling them back so he could grind his cloth-covered erection against John’s tender skin, the grip tightening when John yelped. “I didn’t say that you would achieve orgasm because of it.” Sherlock’s hands left John’s hips, his entire body in fact, and John kept his face down as he heard Sherlock rummaging around behind him, flinching when he heard a sharp click. “Although when I think about it,” Sherlock drawled, and John’s eyes shot open when a new wetness formed between his buttocks and centred on his hole, “you might not be able to help yourself after this.”
There was a small pause, just enough time for John to realise that it was one of Sherlock’s fingers against his arse, and then it was pushed inside all the way down to Sherlock’s first knuckle, slick with warmed lube that the other man must have had in his Belstaff pocket. “Arrrgh, God!” His body immediately tensed with the intrusion, his hands scrambling uselessly under him as Sherlock began to thrust with that same finger, a gradual withdrawal with a continuous swirl inside him until the rim of his opening was being rubbed with the pad of Sherlock’s finger and then pushing back in. “Fuck! Fuck, Sherlock…”
“You’re so tight,” Sherlock murmured, crooking his finger and stroking up along John’s inner walls until he found the little nodule he’d been looking for, teasing around it but never pressing into it, testing the strength of John’s reaction to the new stimulation of his prostate. “You must have clenched around your fingers beautifully when you had them buried inside you last night,” he said, doing something with his finger that made John moan and thrash beneath him, “wishing all the time that they were mine instead because you wanted to know if you could take it.”
John shut his eyes weakly at Sherlock’s words, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as his body began to urgently thrust back to meet Sherlock’s finger, already longing for the stretch of two because he knew he could handle it and he wanted to learn the shape of Sherlock this way too, see how it was Sherlock would fit inside his body. He felt Sherlock’s finger withdraw and had barely a moment to register it before a second one squirmed its way alongside the first, twisting and pumping into him so he could get used to the burn they created. His own fingers had never felt this good, never felt this right, and Sherlock’s fingers were so long and elegant and turning him inside out so that there was nothing left but the feeling of them inside him.
Smack!
“Oh fu-!” Now that had hurt but it felt so good, his arse clenching with the smack of Sherlock’s left hand while his fingers carried on with their slow thrusting. “God, again,” he gasped, twisting his head around to look at Sherlock over his shoulder. “Do that again,” he pleaded, “oomph,” coming from him when Sherlock forced his head back down to the table with his left hand and growled in his ears.
“Naughty submissives don’t get to order their Doms around, John,” Sherlock said darkly, withdrawing his fingers from John’s arse and moving away from him. When John went to turn around to see where Sherlock was going, Sherlock’s quick, “stay where you are,” stalled all movement and he hurriedly went back to his first position, anxiously waiting to see what Sherlock would do next. “It’s time for me to test your limits,” Sherlock said when he came back, resting one hand on the small of John’s back and stroking in what was meant to be a soothing motion, but John couldn’t think about anything else beyond the test Sherlock was speaking of. “It will take a large degree of trust from you on your part, and you have your safe words if things become too intense for you, but we are doing this my way or not at all. If you don’t feel you’re ready for this, say so now.”
‘Ready for what?’ John thought, panting against the table and trying to get his befuddled mind in some semblance of order. Which was a study in uselessness because all he could think about was Sherlock’s fingers buried inside him just a moment ago, wanting them back inside so he could fuck himself stupid on them and probably have the strongest orgasm ever in the process. But what Sherlock was suggesting… More pain? Domination? God help him, the thoughts were enough to make him tremble, a noise betraying his need filling the room around him and only realising at the last moment that it was him, that he was making that sound. “Yes, Sherlock,” he whispered, clearing his throat and trying again. “Yes, Sherlock, I want this,” which was better, stronger and full of conviction.
“Oh, John,” Sherlock said, right by his ear now, Jeez, when had the other man moved? “That was exactly what I was hoping you’d say,” before a blindfold was tied over his eyes.
To be continued
*snicker*
I'm such a tease....
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Perihelion