Cuxton Grammar School, Knightsbridge, 1992
"Your verdict?" Julien asked, sliding his hand from Sherlock's jaw to the collar of his shirt.
Sherlock thought about it. "I think further experimentation is required."
Julien smirked and pulled him closer again, their lips meeting with more force this time. Sherlock could feel his cock reacting to each swipe of the French boy's lips, each graze of his fingernails through the fabric of his shirt – the fingernails especially, he wasn't sure why – and when he started lazily rocking his lower half forwards so that their groins brushed together and he could feel that the other boy was having the same reaction, his body flushed almost painfully hot. He'd had erections before, of course; it seemed impossible to pass through the stages of being a teenage boy without them occurring at inappropriate moments. But this was… different. Knowing that it was caused by someone who meant to make him feel like this, and knowing that his efforts on them were also working… it was intoxicating.
"Clothes," he said against the sculpted lips when they next broke apart.
Julien smiled at him again, his fingers slipping from Sherlock's neck along the collar of his shirt. "Impatient, aren't you?" he said, his voice light and slightly breathless with anticipation
Sherlock managed a smirk as he deftly unlooped the other boy's tie. "Always." He'd never seen the point of patience, of waiting for other people to take their sweet time about doing things. Most of the time they were just too stupid to realise he was in a hurry anyway. Mycroft had once suggested he slow down and appreciated some of the finer things in life, and he'd left the remains of a dissected frog in his bed in retaliation.
The other boy's fingers were deft and sure, sliding down to the buttons on his shirt and gently picking them undone. Julien seemed to have picked up on his reaction to the use of fingernails; Sherlock could feel him smirking against his lips every time his fingers slipped and his intricate nails scraped unexpectedly against skin.
While Sherlock was endeavouring to pull off Julien's clothes as fast as possible, his own clothes were being removed tantalisingly slowly, the gentle shift of fabric that meant Julien had undone a further button accompanied by the stroke of long fingers against his gradually exposed chest. He pushed the white dress shirt off his new friend's bony shoulders at the same time Julien flicked the last button on his own shirt open and lifted his fingers to scrape nails gently across his nipples.
Sherlock gasped and broke the kiss. Julien smirked at him. "That… that's…" he became suddenly more aware that his trousers were stretched tight across his throbbing groin; he'd never even considered that other places besides down there could elicit that kind of feeling. Now he wanted to map all of them – were they the same for everybody? Could he lie Julien down on the bed and touch him everywhere until he found each and every place that would make him shift and gasp, and then correspondingly expect to find the same reactions in his own body?
He brought his hands up to run the pads of his fingers across the planes of the French boy's shoulders, to feel the intersection and intertwining of bone and joint and sinew and let his hands follow the slope down his back to where the planes of his shoulder-blades met, down the bottom line of his ribcage and back up until his palms enclosed the twin hillocks of pectoral muscle, the heels of his hands pressing softly against the other boy's nipples. Julien shivered.
He had a sudden image of the time he'd been tracing the arc of Jack the Ripper and he'd settled for a chalk sketch of the outline of a human body on the floor, studying it with eyes and fingers and photographs, only this time it was a real body, Julien's body underneath him, and every time he touched it it would move with him, a tiny involuntary shudder like this – he could touch it with his lips, his tongue, more sensitive than the calloused pads of his fingertips.
His eyes lifted to meet the sparkling green ones opposite him again. Julien was smiling, his hands pressed flat against Sherlock's ribcage, measuring the hammering of his heart.
They could catalogue this together, he thought; how fast their heart would play at different stages, where the pulse was most evident and how long it took for it to slow back to normal again. On a whim, he reached back to Julien's shoulder blades again, supporting his body as he leaned in and pressed his tongue to the pulse-point behind the other boy's ear. Here, it was impossible for the calm and collected façade to hold, when he could feel against the nerve-endings in his tongue the heartbeat that was anything but unflappable, taste the tang of perspiration. He wanted to make him show this everywhere.
Sherlock tried to think like he normally did, but it was difficult. He'd have to re-train himself the longer they did this to keep his normal mental function intact. Was the introduction of his fingernails against my skin an involuntary reaction, or did he do it on purpose because he knew he liked it? To test the theory, Sherlock shifted his tongue further down the other boy's neck, widening his mouth, licking and sucking at the skin before suddenly biting down firmly.
A low, helpless noise bubbled out of Julien's throat and his hands shifted from Sherlock's chest round to his back, clutching him closer. Sherlock felt the thrill of success and sucked harder at the same point, but Julien grabbed his shoulders and pushed him away.
"It will stain the skin," he explained, his own fingers tracing idle circles around Sherlock's almost non-existent pectoral muscles. "People will see."
Sherlock didn't particularly care if people saw; any questions they had about what was happening in his life would quickly be rebutted with answers as to what was going on in theirs. But he understood Julien's trepidation. He was new here, and his father's reputation could likely only protect him so far.
He started when Julien's fingers left his chest and turned to claws; his green eyes were bright with amusement as the French boy scraped red lines into his pale stomach in a 'v' shape down to the button on his school trousers. Sherlock swallowed.
Julien looked up at him, his fingers resting heavily on the belt-line of Sherlock's trousers. "Are you certain?" he asked, a teasing smile playing with the corners of his mouth that would have made Sherlock say 'yes' even if he was not absolutely sure that he would throttle the boy if he stopped now.
"Are you?" he asked, out of common courtesy. Julien just smirked and touched their lips together again, his tongue hot and invading, before he ducked his head to watch as his fingers quickly dismantled the button and zipper on the grey trousers.
Sherlock let out a breath into Julien's dark hair as his cock freed itself from his trousers. He didn't think he'd ever been quite that hard while still fully dressed. The other boy looked up, customary smirk back in place; Sherlock wanted to do something to get rid of it, but just as he was about to move there were fingers on his cock.
Instead, he made an involuntary noise and thrust his hips helplessly into Julien's hand. It was a completely different feeling with only his pants between his skin and the French boy's careful fingers; Julien's hand was colder than his groin, but by this point he was having trouble imagining anything that could be hotter than he felt. He usually liked to keep his room warm and dense because he found it easier to think that way, but now it was almost as if his sweat was boiling on the surface of his skin.
Julien bent his head further to lick at Sherlock's collarbone, then carefully sank to his knees until his face was level with Sherlock's crotch, his cold fingers still dancing over the cotton of his pants. Sherlock tried to slow his breathing down, but gave it up as a bad job when he started to feel lightheaded.
The other boy reached up and gently tugged on the elastic waistband of his pants, sliding them down his thighs and leaving them puddled around his ankles before turning his head back to Sherlock's cock.
Sherlock bit his lip. He wasn't sure if he ought to be self-conscious or not; he wasn't usually, but this was considerably more personal than the things he was usually judged on. He didn't have much to judge against, but he thought he was fairly average-sized, and he'd heard that was a point of pride among men. His hands fluttered uselessly at his side; what was he supposed to do with them?
Julien looked up at him, smug smile back in place. He just blinked back, the corner of his own mouth twitching upwards.
At the first touch of the other boy's tongue to the underside of his shaft his entire body tensed as he tried not to jump and poke Julien in the eye with himself. It didn't feel like anything he could possibly have done to himself, warm and damp and a completely different kind of pressure than his fingers. Sherlock clenched his hands into fists with the effort to keep his hips still as Julien's tongue darted out again, fidgeting helplessly; as sensations started to pulse through his body his knees felt trembly and threatened to give way.
"Wait," he said suddenly. Julien stopped licking up the side of his penis and sat back on his heels. "I can't… I'll fall over."
The other boy smiled, casting a look around the room. "Sit down. Here – on the bed, perhaps."
Julien stood up as Sherlock moved to sit down on the bed, quickly and unceremoniously shucking his trousers before leaning over him in only a neatly-fitting pair of black cotton pants tented around his erection. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath. "Better?" the boy asked, his voice low and silky-smooth against his ear, his fringe tickling Sherlock's shoulder.
"Much."
He grinned as Julien got to his knees again, sitting on his heels and sliding his cool fingers up from Sherlock's knees to his thighs before lowering his head again.
This time he took the head into his mouth, surrounding him in a hot, wet cocoon; Sherlock gasped, his hands shooting behind him to hold his weight as his hips jerked. Julien's hands settled on his hip-bones, pressing gently to hold him back as he slid his mouth further down his cock. Sherlock closed his eyes to focus on the sensation; it was almost comforting, something warm enclosing him and exerting a gentle pressure. He wondered what it felt like on Julien's end, wondered how he could still do that with his tongue when he had so much in his mouth; Sherlock could see the other boy's jaw stretching and wondered if it hurt.
He almost wanted it to be over quickly so that he could push Julien down and try it himself, but at the same time he'd never felt anything quite this good and he didn't want it to end any sooner than it had to. He lifted a hand to push his hair back from where sweat was sticking it to his forehead; he wondered whether he should have opened the window before they started, and resolved to keep the room cooler from now on; a slight breeze would make the warmth of Julien's mouth – and the steady blooming of heat in his stomach and abdomen – more pronounced, more singular. An image of the two of them doing this outdoors popped into his head, so strong he could almost feel the bark of the tree in the grounds outside at his back.
Sherlock shuddered in arousal at the image, a soft moan escaping his lips. Julien's green eyes snapped up to his, and the boy's lips twitched into what might have been a smile had his mouth been empty. He could feel the muscles in his hips twitching with the involuntary thrusts he was trying to hold back as Julien's mouth kept slowly and gently advancing down his length. He bit his lips to stifle another moan as one of the other boy's hands left his hip and travelled down his own torso to disappear under the waistband of his pants.
Suddenly Julien's face contorted into a grimace and Sherlock felt his tongue attempt to lift in protest; the boy gagged slightly and backed off. Sherlock wondered if he should apologise, but Julien didn't show any signs of stopping, sucking harder on the tip and bringing his hand out of his trousers to wrap around the part that his mouth didn't reach. Knowing exactly what that hand had just been touching made the beginnings of orgasm spark in his stomach; he choked back another moan, suddenly mindful of the people in the room beside his, and moved his own hand to the French boy's hair, leaning over him as his muscles tensed and clenched, the pleasure building and quivering with every flutter of Julien's tongue.
He realised he should warn the other boy, give him a chance to back off even though he was sure Julien wouldn't. This was all about the experiment, after all. "I'm… ah! I…" And then he was there, so suddenly it was almost unexpected, over the edge and down, and Julien's hand was stroking up his thigh even as he sucked and licked the way through Sherlock's orgasm.
When he came down, he sat up shakily to see the other boy spitting into his rubbish bin. He'd expected something like that; he couldn't imagine it would taste very nice. Julien looked up at him, but he was smiling. "Unusual," the boy criticised slowly. "Bitter."
Sherlock grinned. "But not nice enough to swallow."
"Perhaps you should try it for yourself," Julien suggested, shrugging. Sherlock's grin intensified.
"Oh, I intend to."
Julien lifted an amused eyebrow; Sherlock quickly knocked the expression off his face by grabbing his arm and yanking him upright before tackling him and pushing him onto the bed.
The French boy giggled, his legs swinging under Sherlock's, hands tightening in his unruly curls as his head hit the pillow. Sherlock kissed him clumsily before he could say anything, moving his legs so he was straddling him and pressing his lips to his Adam's apple and the dip in his collarbone, his tongue and teeth making contact at odd intervals. Julien laughed. "I thought most people were supposed to slow down after orgasm," he commented idly.
He chuckled. "I'm not most people." Sherlock took Julien's left nipple between his lips and sucked. The boy gasped and arched his back, so Sherlock flicked his tongue over the tip and replaced his lips with teeth. Julien yelped.
"Ssh," Sherlock reminded him, lifting a finger to his lips before moving his mouth downward, biting firmly at the lines of muscles across Julien's stomach before hooking his fingers either side of the damp spot on the front of the other boy's black cotton pants. "Lift," he commanded. Obediently, the boy pushed his hips off the bed to allow Sherlock to slide the pants down his thighs and toss them carelessly over his shoulder.
Julien was bigger than he was; longer and ever-so-slightly thicker. Sherlock swallowed, his eyes flickering up to the French boy's face. Julien's eyes were closed, his long eyelashes flickering with every exhale of Sherlock's that flickered hotly over his cock, his head thrown back to expose his long neck. Sherlock smirked at the abandon he was displaying.
He licked his lips obviously when Julien opened his eyes, stilling the resulting shudder with palms pressed into prominent hipbones, and plunged straight in, taking as much of Julien's member into his mouth as he comfortably could in one go and pressing his hand to the other boy's mouth as he let out a too-loud noise of surprised pleasure. Julien chuckled against his hand when he realised what he'd done, his chest heaving with heavy pants as Sherlock slowly attempted to work his way down further. His jaw was stretched almost impossibly tight and he was sure it would hurt in the morning, but it was a pleasant sort of stretch, and the weight of the organ against his tongue was not unpleasant either. Julien's hands inserted themselves in his hair again and he found he didn't mind.
He hit the point where, he suspected, the other boy had gagged and then backed off; his throat muscles contracted in protest, so he inched off enough for them to settle down before taking a deep breath, opening his throat as wide as it would go, and advancing again.
He couldn't breathe, and flinched as the head hit the back of his throat and his gag reflex flared briefly before he managed to control himself; he brought one hand up to the wrinkled, drawn-up skin of Julien's balls, holding his breath as the boy whimpered and trembled underneath him. Saliva pooled uncomfortably in the back of his throat, so he swallowed.
Julien made a choked noise, his mouth opening desperately under Sherlock's warning hand. "I – Sherlock – mon dieu, Sherlock!" He started to move away, but then the French boy's hips were jerking up, forcing his lips down further over Julien's cock, and hot bitter liquid was shooting so far down his throat he had no choice but to swallow it, to keep snatching quick breaths when he could and hold on until it was over.
It felt like forever before Julien's hips stilled and his hands fell away from Sherlock's hair, releasing him. He pulled off and swallowed a few times, grimacing at the burn in his throat. He understood what Julien had meant; it wasn't an unpleasant taste exactly, but he probably wouldn't have swallowed it if he'd been given a choice. He turned to fish in his schoolbag for his waterbottle; it definitely wasn't a taste he wanted in his mouth long-term.
The French boy sat up, still panting as though he'd just sprinted up the six flights of stairs from the dining-hall. "I apologise," he said finally, watching with concerned eyes as Sherlock swilled water around his mouth. "I was not expecting it to be so… overwhelming."
Sherlock shook his head. "It was my fault," he deferred. "I shouldn't have gone so deep without knowing what it would be like." Julien chuckled lightly and accepted the waterbottle when Sherlock held it out to him.
"I think perhaps we simply need practice," he said cheerfully.
