John stood, undecided on the pavement outside his clinic, frowning as he tried to make up his mind.
Of all days, they had to cancel today…..
It was barely 3 pm, three of his patients had cancelled. He'd spent time checking his pathology, getting up to date with his correspondence file and then….nothing. There was nothing else to do except leave. And he felt strangely reluctant to go to 221B yet.
Sherlock won't come until 9 at night…that leaves six hours to fill in….I'll go mental if I just wait there….
He signalled at a passing cab. He gave the address of the Diogenes Club.
The hallowed halls of the Diogenes Club were quiet as always. John waited for Mycroft in a rather large, mausoleum style room that was reserved for visitors meeting with club members and who actually insisted on talking.
He stood up as Mycroft Holmes walked in, bravely facing that dissecting top-to-toe Holmesian eye-scan.
Mycroft's lips flickered into a smile before he stepped towards the large desk. He perched himself at the edge, folding his hands across his chest and greeted John cordially.
"Ah, Dr Watson! So pleased to see you. What can I do for you today?"
Thank the Good Lord! He looks so much better…happy, peaceful….clothes washed and ironed…..has filled out nicely, eating again….things are back to normal with Sherlock…..maybe even better than they had been….what does he want?
John smiled, genuine warmth in his eyes even as he declined the chair that Mycroft waved towards.
"I won't take too much of your time, Mycroft. I …..look, I've come here on an impulse. I….the fact is, that last time we met I wasn't in the right frame of mind…you had said a few things…..Well, like I said, I was not myself. I did not grasp what you were saying at the time….I've only just understood the significance of your words."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He inclined his head gravely.
"You compared me to a beggar who begs from the world, not having realised that the begging bowl in his hand is made of solid gold. I….." John broke off, as he raised his chin, his eyes unwavering. "I wanted to tell you how very right you were. And that I have finally seen that, recognised that. A more appropriate analogy would be impossible to imagine. Your words helped me. Thank you."
A slow smile, a genuine smile started to creep up into that usually bland countenance. Mycroft found himself so taken aback that it was a few seconds before he trusted himself to speak.
His voice had thawed, his smile warm, "I am glad, John."
"Now that I have seen it, I wonder at the fact that I did not see it sooner. And I can't imagine that I will ever forget it." John shook his head.
"No." Mycroft agreed softly. "It is a permanent realization, you cannot 'un-see' it, so to speak."
"Yeah….well, that's all I wanted to say really. And to thank you." John nodded briefly, turning towards the door.
"John…." He turned around at Mycroft's voice.
Mycroft moved forwards, his expression open, "I wonder if you'd consider having tea with me?"
John looked at the unguarded fond look in Mycroft's eyes in wonder. He found himself suddenly pulled towards that enigmatic charm, usually obscured by the trappings of power, a seemingly interfering and overbearing nature. Now bared for a few moments by the slight downing of the shields to allow John a chance to glimpse within.
Fuck…..these Holmes men will be the death of me….
John grinned, "I'd love to."
John stopped short as he walked into the living room.
It appeared that Sherlock had done a bit of rearranging. Both their chairs were pulled back to come more in line with the sofa, the coffee table had been pushed into a corner, creating a large empty space around the fireplace.
A low set rectangular table, just a few inches in height and with a top that had a slip-proof synthetic coating stood next to the fireplace. On it was an opened parcel to which a post-it note was attached.
I will be using this on you. Today and whenever I want to. Get familiar with it- SH
John picked up the parcel and sat down on his chair. He pulled out a flogger, with a chestnut handle and around 20 braided tassels made of the softest leather, with a squishy texture.
He stroked the lengths meditatively, as he imagined them landing on his naked back, his arse. The familiar mix of anticipation, arousal and excitement ran through him. The Submissive state that had been creeping up on him all day, further intensified. For Sherlock….for Sherlock's pleasure….I will submit to every single desire he has…..for him to use….because I am HIS…
He looked at the clock- 7 pm.
He set to work.
First he cleaned the house, putting things away, clearing the sink, wiping down surfaces till everything was just right. He wanted to present a clear canvas for Sherlock to work on tonight.
Next he went for a shower. Cleaned himself thoroughly. He ignored his half-hard cock as he shaved his pubes and made them tidy. Shaved his face. He wanted to look good. Sherlock had said….I want to feast on my Sub tonight….John wanted him to enjoy the feast, to give his best. He pushed his arousal aside as he prepped himself as best he could, used lube liberally to stretch his anal sphincter. Sherlock shouldn't have to waste time on this…..I belong to him….he should be able to push in, take his pleasure whenever he chooses to…
It was 8.45 pm by the time he was done. He sat and waited patiently. When he comes home…..I offer myself, and hope that it meets his approval…..
Sherlock's decisive footsteps thundered up the stairs just shy of 9 pm. He walked into the living room, keen eyes giving the room a once over, noting the flogger sitting prominently on the coffee table by the sofa.
John stood up when he came in and then with his eyes fixed on Sherlock's gaze, he sank to the ground on his knees.
Sherlock's look softened, his eyes held approval. He quietly took off his coat, toed off his shoes and removed his socks. He unfastened his scarf and threw it on the chair. He neared.
John looked up at him as Sherlock came and stood in front of him, his eyes calm, thoughtful. He ran gentle fingers into John's short hair, "I'm going to have a quick shower. Have you had dinner?"
"I ate a sandwich at four. I'm not hungry."
"Good," Sherlock nodded. "Wait."
He turned around and walked to the bathroom.
John sat on the floor and waited.
It was barely minutes later that Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, towelling his hair, wearing his soft cotton pajama bottoms and nothing else.
He flung the towel carelessly on the sofa and sat down, looking at the kneeling figure of his Sub. His hooded eyes were distant, as though lost in some thought process. Finally he spoke.
"John, it has been a long time since you first knelt for me. And in the time that has elapsed, I've tried to indulge into all your fantasies and desires." He cocked his head to one side, his gaze fixed on John for the minutest reaction. "We've been through hell and back as we both found our feet….we've both made mistakes. And learned from them."
John looked up at his Dom. Sherlock sat relaxed on the sofa, one arm flung around the back, the other on his lap. His legs were crossed and his bearing was one of authority, the expression on his face calm, uncompromising.
A heavy silence followed. John looked at him, a mix of confidence and anticipation in his blue eyes as he stared at his Dom. Huge waves of Submission swept over him, carrying him like a surfer, beyond the words, into the intent, the desire in Sherlock's eyes. A part of him marvelled at the little kernel of Submission that had taken root all those weeks ago, at how despite everything it had stubbornly kept growing.
He stayed quiet.
Sherlock uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, his eyes darkening.
"It is time. Time you learned what pleases your Dom. Time that you understand that the pleasure from this, the most pleasurable of activities, does not have to just flow from your body or your mind. It is time to let it flow from your Dom, from the pleasure of your Dom, at his will. To realize how much more potent it is when the source of the pleasure changes."
John bowed his head, his voice soft, "I belong to you, Sherlock. Whatever it is that you desire….take from me. I am yours."
Sherlock leaned back again and crossed his legs. His eyes began to smoulder as they flicked over John. His tongue swept slowly over his lower lip as his gaze fixed on John's face. MINE….. claim….. hurt….. own….
His voice was commanding.
"Very well. Undress. Go and stand facing the fireplace. Stand on that low stool I've placed there. I don't want to have to strain while I fuck you. Stand exactly like you'd stood last time."
John rose and undressed silently, quickly. His cock was granite hard between his legs, the sure knowledge that before the night ended, Sherlock would be inside of him, taking him….but the thought of being hurt, experiencing something so outside of his comfort zone tempered the arousal somewhat.
He pulled the stool to the right position and stood over it. He braced against the fireplace, his head bowed down as he waited.
He remembered the last time he had stood in this position….just as vulnerable to Sherlock's whim. He remembered the fear, the excitement leaking out of his very pores. He remembered the chaotic thoughts that had been pulsing through his mind as he's waited desperately for Sherlock's touch. He remembered the anger in Sherlock's eyes, the thunder in his voice.
And now….he knew with a deep-seated conviction that his Dom was neither angry nor was he going to hurt him. That everything that flowed out of Sherlock would be love, grace, care….no matter what form it took. There was no cacophony of thoughts in his head, save what was to come in the next few moments. I have come a long way, he thought.
Despite this, as he waited in silence, his heart started to race. Unsure what to expect, he stood, his fingers pressed against the mantelpiece, his back tense. So hot….why do I feel so fucking hot? He could feel Sherlock's presence behind him. Waiting. Watchful. Like a laser beam moving across his heated skin.
Sherlock would take his time, that's just what Sherlock did. No desperate lunges, no lust-provoked panting… just a calm, methodical claiming and a graceful acceptance of what his Sub had to offer in return.
A susurrus of clothing broke the pin-drop silence. Sherlock removed his pajama bottoms, his eye fixed on John's back, the arched arse, the mild tremor in the thighs, the fingers gripping the mantelpiece tightly.
One hand holding the flogger lightly, he came and stood behind John again.
"John, look at me," he ordered softly.
John looked up into the mirror to meet Sherlock's gaze. He almost gasped at the hunger in those changeable eyes. Sherlock looked ravenous; pupils fully dilated, his eyes flicking between John's eyes and his lips.
He neared till he stood flush with John's body, cloistering him with his warmth. He pressed his face against John's temple, his voice rumbled into John's ear.
"Don't think of it as pain, John. If you think it is pain that I offer, it will hurt," Sherlock's voice rumbled in his ear. "Think of it as something your Dom is giving you and accept it with grace, on your knees. Then nothing has the power to hurt you. The deeper you submit to it, the more will be the pleasure that will flow out of it."
They stood quietly, breathing in tandem.
John naked, prepped and braced against the fireplace mantelpiece, Sherlock's hands were resting lightly on his hips, his body pressed against John's. He stood leaning in, his nose touching John's cheek. He cupped the opposite side of John's head with his palm and set his teeth to his jugular…..staying that way, motionless…..letting John feel the restraint of it, the certain possession and reassurance he meant to convey in that one gesture alone.
John kept his eyes fixed on the mirror, gasping in awe at the sight of Sherlock's head tilted over his neck, the thick curls brushing over his neck and face.
Part of him felt like he were pinned down like an animal in the wild, the sharp teeth grazing as they gripped the vulnerable major blood vessels. But Sherlock's grip also reminded him incongruously of the way cats held their young in their mouths, safe and secure as they carried them from place to place.
The fear subsided slowly.
He felt the voice of his Dom, the touch of his Dom wash over him, like an ever increasing tide of security, love, ownership. He allowed himself to be swept into that overwhelming tide. Free fall into the safe hands of his Dom….. The flogger in Sherlock's hand trailed over John's thighs as he breathed in, a sensual reminder of what was to come. The thought of being hurt by Sherlock, for Sherlock's pleasure, of being filled by Sherlock as he used his Sub…..Fuck…have I ever experienced anything more erotic than this…
"Please…." John said, knowing he needed to say nothing more.
Sherlock obligingly straightened his neck and leaned over John's shoulder. John turned his head and buried his face in Sherlock's neck gratefully- breathing in, steadying himself, allowing himself to fall deeper.
Soft lips grazed John's temple.
"It is time. Keep your head down. Relax your back, submit to the sensations," Sherlock ordered softly as he moved back. "Your Dom is right here, John. Call out when you feel it gets too intense."
John nodded, confident that Sherlock will know when he needs him, how much he can take. This was Sherlock, for fuck's sake. He knew John better than John did….
He waited.
Sherlock trailed the leather tassels lightly over John's back. To and fro….to and fro….to and fro…..all over his back, his rump, the backs of his thighs….almost like he's scouting the places he's going to hurt me, flog me….Fucking hell….
Sherlock moved further back. John heard a soft whap. Is he testing the tassels against his palm?
"Here it comes, John."
It was the only warning John got before a spray of leather whistled through the air, finding its mark on John's back. John gasped as he arched in surprise. Instinctively he went rigid and clenched his teeth.
"I'll do a few rounds at one time. Breathe, John," Sherlock instructed, his voice husky. The Dom growled with pleasure at the mix of fear and excitement coming out in waves from his Sub.
He started implementing a steady, smooth rhythm. Not too hard, never at the same spot, impossible to predict, as though keeping John guessing. The tassels made a thudding sound every time they made contact with John's upper back, the ends delivering a mild sting.
John exhaled slowly, relieved despite himself. This isn't too bad….I can take this…..
There was absolute silence apart from the whistling of the flogger and the thud as it landed. The blows kept coming.
Again. And again. And again…. And again and again and again…..
Some part of John was aware that these were soft blows, acclimatizing ones, he felt grateful for it….I've read about this…he's letting me get used to this….he'll escalate when he's ready.
It was after a couple of dozen such soft blows that a tiny wisp of fear started to coil inside of John. Because his back had really started to burn now. By the time Sherlock had flogged him another few times, his back was all but screaming. He let out his breath in a shuddering gasp.
"Doing well, John." Sherlock's deep voice suddenly floated in, an anchor point that his Sub latched on to. "Don't think about what I will do, how much it will sting. I want you to be IN the moment only. Be aware of every strike, be aware of your responses. Be aware of your Dom. I want you on your knees inside your head. Let everything else go."
John gripped the mantelpiece hard, trying to let go….submit…..My Dom will look after me…... His back was stinging like a son of a bitch.
"Good. Let's go again."
This time Sherlock started on the backs of his thighs. The flogger landed.
Again. And again. And again….. And again and again and again…..
John's feet were shuffling restlessly, his toes curled up. The skin over his hamstrings had started to feel like it was on glowing coals. He panted through the pain, a light sheen of sweat broke out all over his body.
When Sherlock was done with his thighs, he stepped close to John again. With one hand, he trailed the tassels over John's hard cock, allowing the plaits to fall like a curtain in front of John's crotch, as they teasingly brushed against his aching length. With his other hand, he pried open the cramped fingers of John's right hand. He entwined his fingers with John's. He murmured, his voice a husky reassuring croon, "You're such a good Sub for me…..Taking it so well…." He leaned forwards and let John bury his face in his neck, his voice soothing. "You have no idea how magnificent you look…..you're pleasing me so much."
He let John shudder for a while in his arms.
As he stepped back, his palms ran over John's arse. John waited, his heart working like a jack-hammer, his body trembling with trepidation.
The flogger whistled and landed on John's bottom.
"Sherlock….." John gasped, unprepared. The first few strikes were mild. But after some time his arse too felt like it was on fire. The strikes kept coming. John subconsciously twisted and squirmed, as though trying to get away from his own skin.
By the time Sherlock was done with his arse, he was writhing.
"Well done, John." Sherlock was up close, looking at John in the mirror. "We'll pause for a few moments. And start all over again."
John's eyes widened.
Sherlock's smile was wicked. "Oh yes…this was just the warm up. Now comes the good part."
He stood alongside John, his eyes taking in the erection that had not flagged a bit, bobbing helplessly between John's legs, the wet slit. He fisted his palm around it and gave it a firm squeeze.
"Sherlock…." John's cry was a choked plea. "Fuck…please…." he begged as Sherlock stroked him slowly, watching the cock in his fist, the desperate lunge of John's hips craving the friction. He let go, his other hand moved to John's arse, the tips of his fingers grazing the well-greased arsehole.
Approval flashed in his eyes, "You prepped….well done, John." He pushed his thumb inside the wet passage. John gasped, "Oh fuck….oh shit…." Sherlock watched as he fucked John with his thumb, biting his lower lip. Can't wait to push into you…..going to fuck you for a very long time today…..
He removed his thumb, "Going to start all over, John. It is going to hurt more because of the pause. Try to stay relaxed and take it."
John gripped the mantelpiece again, his back, arse and thighs on fire already. He braced himself.
Crack! The flogger flew and hit his upper back again.
And again. And again. ….. And again and again and again…..
John's nostrils flared, unsure how much more he could take. Fucking hell….how did he stand it with the crop…..I mauled his back, tore into it….and he just stood there and took it… how?... Jesus…. fucking hell…..The burn was starting to spread throughout his body….. How much longer can I take this…..
Hang on a minute…..
John blinked in surprise, then he frowned. The overwhelming sting seemed to be morphing into…..something else, but equally intense…. ….
What the fuck?
Every lash seemed to be bringing with it a tantalizing fire. The strange heat seemed to be coiling and writhing under his skin. An overwhelming feeling of undulating sensation rippling through his skin. A pleasurable sensation….like little shocks and jolts of pleasure erupting just under his skin…..
What the fuck?
The flogger kept whistling through the air, now landing with increasing force. For the first time John heard Sherlock grunt with effort. Before he knew it, Sherlock was done with his back and had stepped closer, his fingertips resting over the crease of John's groin, a devastatingly intimate and proprietary touch.
"Do you see?" Sherlock's baritone was pitched even lower, his gaze intense as he stared at John's face in the mirror. John's eyes were wide with wonder.
What the hell just happened?
Sherlock smirked, "Just so, John."
He stepped back again and began striking John's thighs.
John was starting to moan mindlessly, "Sherlock….Oh God….fuck.…." with each strike he pleaded, not knowing for what. Intoxicating waves of sensation were moving up and down his legs, his arse. He felt lost. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt or imagined. The tassels slapping against his hamstrings might as well have been hot tongues, all of them flicking and licking their way towards his crotch. His cock leaked, his body sang with joy.
His fingers were clenching and releasing with each swing of the flogger, his hips undulating to its rhythm. As though Sherlock was making his body dance to the tune of the flogger, to the tune of his will.
Without breaking rhythm the next blow landed across his arse. He arched forward, his hard dick like a stiff pole sticking up helplessly trying to fuck the air.
"SHERLOCK….." he could not help the loud cry he let out. Every crack of the flogger seemed to be burrowing its way under his skin, headed straight for his cock, as though the nerve endings were mysteriously connected.
Sherlock watched as John's toes curled up, his back rippled, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, the delicate tremors of his body, the rock hard erection that bobbed with each strike, the precum now dripping freely. His eyes were fathomless pools as he brought his hand down again and again…..as he enjoyed the power surging through his arms each time they rose and descended…..as he felt addicted to watching that ripple…..as he tried to control himself. The urge to push John down to the floor and mount him like an animal, fuck him hard-was strong. The Dom was in his element as his arm swung, caught up in his own pleasure.
John felt like those fiery tendrils were now moving beyond his cock, climbing up to tease his abs, his nipples, fuck…every erogenous zone he had on his body. His hips were moving mindlessly, his fingers holding on to the mantelpiece in a white knuckled grip.
Moan after moan of ecstasy escaped his lips. He felt torn. On the one hand, he never wanted this delicious torment to end. On the other hand, his cock was aching so much, he'd give anything to be allowed release.
It was as though all three of them were connected…..Sherlock, the flogger and John….into one entity. As though Sherlock had taken over his body, as though he owned every sensation in John's body….. As though nothing existed except Sherlock and the flogger and John, everything had narrowed down to this.
Sherlock watched his Sub writhe wantonly to his tune, a look of satisfaction and hunger in his eyes. He stepped up to John, his fingers light against John's arse. John gasped at the touch, his skin so sensitive he felt like he could feel every loop and whorl on Sherlock's fingertips, as though each fingertip was sending pulses of weirdly compounded pleasure up and down his cock.
He felt like he was losing his mind as he moaned and rocked his hips, shamelessly begging now, "Please….Sherlock, please….."
Sherlock's lips curved into a smile. He swept back John's sweaty hair gently, "So good, John…..you've been so good for me." John bit back a cry as his cock bobbed at just the sound of Sherlock's voice, as though tied by a thread to the husky intonation, a string he could jerk at any time he wished and John's cock would jerk into attention. He wanted to fall to the ground and beg, every sense enhanced, clamouring for Sherlock.
Sherlock stood behind John, his front wrapped itself around the hyper-sensitive skin on John's back, his arse in one go.
"SHERLOCK…." John screamed, his entire back, arse and thighs suddenly inundated with more sensation than he could ever hope to experience all at once. He panted audibly, crazed beyond his capacity to bear it. Too much….fuck…I think I'll explode…. He felt like all the little blood vessels in the entire expanse of his body had dilated at once, a flush of warmth everywhere. Like he would fall down if it were not for Sherlock propping him up with his body.
Sherlock nuzzled John's neck, "Shhh….I know….I know…."
His hand slid down to hold John's cock in a firm grip. Up and down his tight fist pumped, as his lips nibbled at the sensitive area under John's earlobe. John closed his eyes shut, shudders of pleasure running through him. Sherlock rubbed his thumb against the wet slit, his fingers pressing with a sure caress the sensitive underside. John's balls drew up dangerously close to coming.
"Sherlock…..I….Sherlock, please, I have to come….please," his voice a strangled cry.
Sherlock pinched a welt on his back, hard. His voice was a husky growl, "Not until you have permission. I'm going to fuck you now. Hard and deep…. And you will come only when I allow you to."
"Please….please…." John was almost sobbing with need.
Sherlock stepped back to slick up his own throbbing cock, the movement drawing a hiss of lust. He brought one of the chairs around the living room table closer. He picked up John's left leg and propped it on the chair. He pushed the right leg further away and pulled John back a bit. With a slow steady pressure he pushed John's upper body down.
He stepped back and looked at John, his head tilted as he judged the best angle of fuck, masturbating himself with one hand as he thought.
John's heart was hammering away in his chest as he stayed still in this vulnerable new position. Open and exposed.
Sherlock stepped closer, his hips aligned to John's, his long cock perfectly fit into John's crack. He rubbed and rutted for a while, enjoying the friction.
"Look at me, John."
John raised his head to stare at Sherlock's eyes in the mirror. He almost forgot to breathe. He couldn't remember when he'd seen Sherlock this aroused, his wolf-like alien eyes a crystalline grey, the raw insatiable hunger and lust in them warning of the brutal fuck to come.
The Dom was almost insane with arousal. The Sub stood ready, ready to be used, eager to give pleasure.
Something in that expression pushed John over the edge, as he let go of all of himself and fell…deep into Submission, giving all of himself over to Sherlock, to his Dom…..YOURS, YOURS, YOURS…the only words in his mind as his eyes started to lose their focus, as he began to sink fast into the peace of Submission, of letting go.
Sherlock purred with pleasure, satisfaction.
Soft, parted lips kissed the reddened sensitive skin on John's back, strong hands gripping his sides. The contact was sizzling like an electric shock through John. A strong hand grabbed one arse cheek and squeezed. Sherlock raised his leg to place it parallel to John's on the chair.
"Mine…mine to use," Sherlock purred into John's ears. "My very own fuck toy….aren't you, John?"
Without waiting for John's answer, he parted his cheeks and thrust in with one long stroke.
John arched, "Oh fuck...oh fuck…..Sherlock…." as he felt every inch of that glorious length slide in, claiming, possessive, relentless. Though his arse still burned, raw pleasure was mounting fast.
Sherlock started to move, his hips showing no mercy as he slammed into John, taking…taking….taking…. With each plunge in, John felt as though the pleasure was stroking his very soul, his being so prostrate in Submission that all it recognised was that his Dom was plundering him, taking pleasure from him. And that drove him further and deeper into the Submissive trance he'd fallen into. His moans were incoherent pleas and pants, his body pliable, his sphincter relaxed for Sherlock's pleasure.
Sherlock changed his angle, growling with satisfaction at the friction, the warmth of John's passage, the glazed eyes that looked back at him in the mirror. John felt like tongues of bliss were moving up and down his back passage, his swollen prostate writhing in ecstasy as each plunge hit it with unerring aim. Sherlock seemed impossibly deep today, and John could only hold on and pant.
Sherlock's voice was a husky hiss as he ordered, "Straighten up. Put your hands around my neck and hold on."
The second John was upright, his hands interlaced behind Sherlock's head, his chest arched out, his cock bobbing helplessly in the air, Sherlock's arms came around his chest, strong as steel bands, pulling John closer.
"Hold on tight."
Sherlock's cock delved deeper into John's passage, its angle shifted as with one powerful hand he lifted John's knee from the chair and draped it over his knee. John was suddenly even more exposed, his knee dangling over Sherlock's leg, his chest arched out at, his arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock's neck, his cock jutting up and out of his body. Sherlock just stood there for some time, buried deep inside John, pushing deeper and deeper, the thickest part of the base stretching John to the limits.
Sherlock's right leg was braced powerfully on the ground as it held both their weights, John slumped against him as with a low groan, Sherlock's hips began to move again, his cock spearing John again and again. Slow then fast. Long strokes, then deep rough plunges.
"Hun….Hun….Oh God….oh God…have mercy, Sherlock," John panted. He pressed his face against Sherlock's neck, his naked shoulder as he shook with the plunges, with reaction. His awareness had narrowed down to Sherlock…. Sherlock….Sherlock…. nothing else mattered, nothing else would ever matter…..
"Shhh…." Sherlock shushed him. "Don't disturb me…I'm feasting."
With one hand Sherlock kneaded the vulnerable windpipe, his palm firm, controlling. The other hand drifted down to caress John's abdomen and then down further to cup John's sac, playing with the balls which were pulled up tight.
John was shaking….. with desire, with Submission. Sherlock quite literally had him by the arse, the balls and the throat. He'd never felt so possessed, so taken. As though he were floating in a sea of sensation-not pain or pleasure-just unadulterated amorphous euphoric mind-bending sensation, that was flowing from Sherlock, back to John, back to Sherlock. As though they were one entity, the pleasure flowed flawlessly, like a positive feedback loop that increased in magnitude with each pass…..
From Dom to Sub to Dom to Sub to Dom…
"Fuck….John," Sherlock's voice was a dry rasp, as he let go of John's sac and dug into John's waist, his fingers proprietary as he took. His lips were on John's throat, just beneath his ears, soft pants as he plundered john's arse, enjoying the fit, the trembling body of his Sub.
"So good….your arse….I could have you all night….keep fucking into you….so good…." he moaned.
John was vibrating, floating, completely incoherent. His only focus was giving Sherlock pleasure, squeezing his arse muscles, clenching and unclenching that sphincter as he milked Sherlock. Sherlock cupped his throat and tilted his head back, his mouth moving over John's as he breathed his pants directly into his Sub's mouth as he teetered on the brink.
The slapping of flesh against flesh, their moans and whimpers echoed the room. Both men were sweating freely as they mated. Time seemed to have lost all meaning for John, as Sherlock took his fill. His awareness was narrowed down to the soft gasps and moans of pleasure falling unbidden and unrestrained from Sherlock's mouth, he felt as though all the joy in the world was filling inside of him as Sherlock moved.
It was a long while, before Sherlock's hand drifted down with purpose. Gripping John's cock he pumped his fist in rhythm with his cock. John felt drugged with sensation even as he recognised the urgency of Sherlock's pounding just before release. He was pistoning in and out of John's channel, grunting with every plunge, his hips slapping loudly against John's arse, his hands stroking John desperately.
John felt every muscle in his body contract, held as though in suspended animation, waiting eagerly for Sherlock's command. He felt like he was on a razor's edge, just waiting to fall over.
"Come," Sherlock ordered.
John ERUPTED, his orgasm like a cataclysm that ripped through his body. His balls reared up, his cock exploded and he pulsed, long and hard and endless.
"Yours….yours...yours," he whispered as he came, his face buried into Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock turned his head, his open lips panting loudly as John's orgasm caused his sphincter to spasm around his cock…Holy Fuck…this is SPECTACULAR… He fucked John slowly through it. He brought his come-stained fingers and inserted two into John's mouth.
"Suck," he ordered.
He pushed his leg down firmly, bracing himself further to hold the limp body in his arms as he lunged in and out of the now relaxed passage. His head was thrown back, lost in the sensual pleasure of John's heat and friction.
John sucked on the fingers desperately as Sherlock's fingers fucked his mouth while his cock fucked into his arse.
"Hun….hun…..fuck….yes….Fuck yes….." Sherlock groaned as his hips moved, slapping against John's red arse, his movements now savage as he pounded, the urge to reach completion overtaking all his senses. His cock was like a steel rod as it plunged in with force.
"Oh FUCK …..FUCK …..JOHN ….JOHN….." he threw back his head and roared with triumph, with the euphoria of orgasm as jet after jet of his release emptied inside of his Sub.
John could feel every punch, every kick of that thick cock as it stretched his rim further. He could feel the warm release inside of him and subconsciously clenched his sphincter, suddenly reluctant to lose any of it.
They stood there, panting and gasping, two bodies joined as one, as they came back from the post-coital haze. Sherlock still stood on one leg, holding both their weights, John too far gone to even think about anything.
After a long time, Sherlock withdrew his softening cock out of John and brought his second foot down from the chair. He straightened John slowly and turned him around, his alert eyes scanning. John looked ruined. Hair messed up and plastered with sweat to his head, sweat covering his entire body, eyes dazed and still unfocused. Sherlock kissed his lips gently.
"Hold on to me," he murmured as he swept John up into his arms and carried him to the bedroom. He lay John down on his stomach. He fetched some pain killers and water from the kitchen and helped John take it down. He stood back and looked at John's body. His upper back, his buttocks and his thighs were a light shade of red, few scattered welts, no cuts. Good….won't hurt for more than a day….. He fetched some cream from the bathroom.
Sherlock lay down and kissed each welt, soft lips gently pressing down on John's body before applying cream to each area. He pried open John's arse and looked at it. And growled at the sight. The arsehole was gaping slightly, creamy white semen trickling out. Unable to resist, he swirled a finger lazily into some and pushed it back into the reddened puffy rim. John moaned softly in protest.
"Sorry, John," Sherlock said. John opened his eyes and found Sherlock lying next to him, peering into his eyes. Sherlock chuckled, "I couldn't resist it. You look so debauched, so…..taken."
He lay down and pulled John so that he was lying on his side, half propped over Sherlock. His arms were around John's lower back, where he had not struck him at all. John was still shivering in reaction. Sherlock's fingers gently stroked his hair. His lips kissed John's face, whispering endearments.
"You were so good for me, my love…..you did so well." He pressed soft lips to John's temple, his cheeks.
John snuggled in, his face buried in his favourite place in the world, Sherlock's neck. He felt sated, he felt euphoric, he felt completely utterly drugged. He lay there, never wanting to come out of his zone, enjoying his Dom's approval, his caresses.
Sherlock's words from a lifetime ago when they had sat in the bathtub, floated into his stream of consciousness.
John, it can get devastatingly intense, the release after such a session can be powerful, all-consuming in its potency…..
At its most sublime, when both the Sub and I are in the zone, it's like a primal connection, as though there is only the two of us. The rest of the world ceases to exist. Like tunnel vision with the focus entirely on only the two of us….
He smiled into Sherlock's neck.
"What?" Sherlock asked, his fingers gently running through John's hair.
John shook his head, "Nothing." Fuck even my voice sounds drunk….. "I was just thinking that this really is nothing like vanilla sex…so fucking glad you held out for this…"
"Hmmm…." Sherlock looked down at John's face. His eyes were closed, his arms wrapped around Sherlock. He looked so sated, so tired.
"I've never felt anything like this before. Everything else pales in comparison," John mumbled sleepily.
"I know," Sherlock smiled back.
John took a deep breath and snuggled in some more, wrapping Sherlock's presence around him like a cocoon he never wanted to come out of.
"I love you, Sherlock," John mumbled sleepily.
"I know." Sherlock bent his head to kiss John's temple. "Sleep."
Victor leaned back and slouched on the sofa, his fingers curled lightly around a beer bottle as he looked at the painting in front of him appraisingly.
He had been painting for seven solid hours without a break, all sense of time forgotten as his muse had gripped him relentlessly by the throat, demanding that he do as directed. He had painted like a man possessed by an elemental, overwhelming urge to create, to express. His brush had moved to express the picture in his mind's eye almost autonomously, his soul meanwhile was centred on only one thought.
Sherlock….
When he had come to, as though he were waking up, he realised he was covered with perspiration and paint. He staggered into the kitchen, grabbed a cold brew and came back down to the living room to slump down on the sofa. Slowly his eyes came back into focus, his brain came back online. And now he sat looking at the result of his afternoon's work.
It was incredible….beautiful.
I wish I could show this to Sherlock….I will….won't put it for sale till he sees it….
He took another swig and sat back, satisfied. Tired but happy.
Sherlock would be pleased…
He lost himself in thought again. And smiled.
His mind took him back to the tiny one bedroom apartment he'd shared with Sherlock all those years ago. One small bedroom and a living room that led into a small kitchenette to one side.
Right from the time he'd moved in and despite the small dimensions, Sherlock had somehow cordoned off one section of the living room as Victor's painting area. He'd lined it with a small cabinet and a couple of chairs. His easel stood in a corner. A small desk with built-in drawers held his painting supplies and sketch books. He'd never figured out where Sherlock got the money from or how he knew what Victor needed, but from the start there were always plentiful supplies—the best brushes, canvases, anything he needed just sort of…appeared.
Victor remembered the one occasion, a couple of months before Sherlock accepted him as his Sub.
Victor has lost his muse completely. He was frustrated. He hated college and everything it entailed. Irrelevant endless theoretical material was thrust upon the students for their upcoming exams, he was behind on almost all his assignments. This was not what he'd signed up for. He did not want to learn either the history or the science of painting, he did not want to learn the known master's techniques or the categories of artwork.
All he wanted to do was to paint!
He'd been moping about, listless and dejected, laying on the sofa, for the tenth straight day in a row. Sherlock had come home late that night. He scanned Victor with that piercing X-ray look that he had, the one that most found frightening, but Victor had always found comforting. He hadn't said a word, just went for a shower.
When he came out, still silent, he picked up his violin.
And began to play.
His eyes closed, his violin lovingly tucked under his chin, as his long fingers began to create magic unlike anything Victor had heard before. He started with light happy tunes that then merged seamlessly into pieces that were searing in their sensuality and passion and moved on to numbers so technically difficult that he shook with effort.
Some of the pieces Victor recognised. Most were new to him.
Victor sat stunned for a while, as he stared at the vision with wide eyes. The closed walls and windows of the small apartment seemed to reverberate with Sherlock's music, an unlikely venue for an impromptu performance of the kind Victor was sure barely anyone was graced with. He tried to absorb the sheer beauty, the mastery, the passion. He sat painfully aroused, every fibre in his being yearning to fall at Sherlock's feet.
But Sherlock was lost, had become one with the transcendental music inside of him.
After a while, Victor stood up, shaking with the need to do something. He found himself holding his brush.
He stood in front of his easel, his eyes closed as the music transformed into art in his mind's eye. Balancing himself on the balls of his feet, he surrendered himself to that creative core of him, unsurprised to see it take on Sherlock's form. He allowed that morphosis…..
Who else, but Him….only Him…
He set his brush to the canvas.
And began to paint.
They stood there; one maestro on his musical instrument, the other a fledgling talent expressing himself on his blank canvas. His brush moved to the rhythm of Sherlock's tunes. The faster he played, the faster the brush moved. As the music got introspective, Victor stood back and the brush moved almost meditatively.
It went on for a long time. Different moods, different creations. Both were utterly lost to their own expression of beauty, moving at once towards their core while paradoxically bursting outwards with indescribable joy.
When Sherlock's fingers were too cramped to move any longer and he stood sweating profusely, shivering with the effort, obviously aroused and just emerging from a trance, he had stood there and stared. Stared at Victor's creation.
Victor's eyes were trained on Sherlock, looking desperately for something.
Sherlock had smiled, a radiant spontaneous benediction.
"Well done," he said softly.
And Victor had bowed his head. In gratitude, in subjugation.
Sherlock neared and raised Victor's chin with his fingers, his eyes a crystalline blue, "Do you see? You have it in you."
Victor's eyes were wet, his expression imploring, begging. His legs trembled with the superhuman effort to lock his buckling knees into place, the urge to fall at Sherlock's feet in Submission, the need to prostrate was overpowering. He was held in place by Sherlock's iron unyielding grip on his chin, the only thing keeping him upright.
Sherlock shook his head, "No. Not yet. When I think you're ready. For now, paint."
He bent forward and placed the gentlest of kisses on Victor's temple.
He'd left him standing there, dazed and yearning, walked into the bedroom and closed the door.
With a start, Victor came back to the present.
Oh, Sherlock…I miss you so much…..
He knew that his Dom had not forgotten him. That his Dom believed him to be strong enough to weather this period of silence. Some part of him couldn't stop waiting though, waiting for his Dom to turn his attentions to him once again, grace him with his presence.
He sighed.
It's been so long…..how much longer, Sherlock?