Warnings - Rated M, ya'll.
Day 3
I glance at the clock for the seventeenth time in the last 39 minutes. It's 12:05 am. I've been doing this for over two hours with no result. It is not yet alarming, but it is close to being so.
I put some more of the lubricating gel on my fingers and begin to pull on myself again. John and I have had several encounters that have lasted longer than this, but not many. I dance my fingers up the underside but notice no significant change. It has never been difficult before.
I blame John for this. If he had not insisted on that ridiculous encounter this afternoon I would not be lying here at all.
John. I let my thoughts turn to him again. I breathe in the cinnamon scent of the lube - it's my favourite scent on John. I think about him in that far off hotel room and all the glorious noises that he makes. I bring my left hand up and mimic John's usual actions. Instead of pushing my foreskin up and over, I form my fingers into a loose fist. I brush it over myself. I focus on the head, particularly the underside. I feel the familiar pleasantness forming in my stomach, but just as in the previous attempts this evening it plateaus out, leaving me still unsatisfied.
I groan, letting my hand drop away. I lift my head and stare down at the erection. I'd tried to ignore it about an hour ago but it refused to go away. This task is becoming tedious. I don't have this problem when John is here.
I'd researched priapism earlier and discovered that four hours seems to be some kind of marker. I am not there yet, but am becoming concerned that I might be. It would be horrifying if I have to go to the A&E for this.
My phone rings and I glare at it. The light is bright in the fairly dark room but I can still make out John's picture on the screen. My desire to answer to phone during this speaks volumes to just how badly it is going. I sigh and wipe my lubed fingers on the sheet before I reach and grab the phone.
"What?" I say in place of hello. I'm annoyed with my husband at the moment and want him to know it.
"Sherlock?" he asks with the hint of concern in his voice. It makes me feel guilty and that makes me more annoyed.
"Yes," I say. "I'm in the middle of some…" I look back down at my unwavering erection. "Never mind. How are you?"
John's voice is hesitant, he's confused about what is going on. Not surprising - so am I. "Good," he replies. "I, um, well, I um, just wanted to apologise for earlier. I shouldn't have had that much to drink and I certainly shouldn't have called you. I'm sorry if it was embarrassing…"
He's ashamed and it almost makes me smile. I look back at my erection and have the urge to laugh. I suppress it. "It is of no concern. I was in a location where we would not be overheard."
I reach down again placing my hand onto to my pelvis just above my cock. It is a touch John often uses on me and it feels very good. I press down feeling the coarse hairs until I feel the bone. "I would not have allowed you to continue if I was not in a private location." It is true. I wouldn't allow John to embarrass himself, or me, in front of others.
"I figured as much," he says, but he still sounds ashamed. It is somewhat surprising as we have a very active sex life and he has never shown any hesitation before. Granted, over the phone was not an ideal arrangement, but it in retrospect it was not as horrifying as it could have been.
"I have a more pressing issue to discuss with you," I say as I run my fingers up and over my shaft again. It still feels good, but wrong, not like normal. "At what point exactly does the inability to ejaculate become cause for concern?" I ask, tracing my finger around the head. I have released a minute amount during this whole session. Can one become clogged, like a drain?
"What?" John says, not following. Sometimes his inability to keep up is truly alarming. "Do you mean that…"
"I have been attempting to masturbate for approximately two hours and 41 minutes with no success. When I tried to cease the activity, the erection did not subside. Should I call an ambulance or go to the A&E?"
John is quiet for a moment before he lets out a disbelieving chuckle. He's shaking his head and probably wiping his hand across his face. "Does it hurt anywhere? Outside to touch or inside either in you penis or testicles or in your lower abdomen?"
"No," I respond truthfully but I do a quick physical inspection to verify.
"Have you taken any medication today?"
"No." Obviously I would have thought of that.
"How long have you been focused on the fact that it's different or wondered if it is priapism?"
"Certainly that isn't relevant?"
"Of course it is," John says, "You are an incredibly intelligent person, as you so often point out. Your brain is very powerful and quite capable of manipulating that wonderful body of yours. I don't think you need to go to hospital, I think you need to relax."
I groan out in disbelief. I'm unhappy with this answer and the entire situation. "If you hadn't insisted on going to this wedding then you would be here to take care of this and I wouldn't end up at the A&E in the middle of the night where they are going to do unspeakable things to my cock with needles."
"Relax, Sherlock." His voice is commanding, yet calm on the other end of the line. "Are you in bed?"
"Of course I'm in bed, where else would I be?"
"Naturally. Okay, if you're still touching yourself, stop." I pull my hand away and set it on the bed next to me. "Which lube are you using?"
"The cinnamon." That should be obvious. It's my favourite.
"Well that's part of your problem. That's the one that you use on me. This isn't about me, it's about you. Clean yourself up and get one of the other ones. One that I use on you, like the orange."
I snag one of the wipes that we keep on the bedside table for cleanup purposes. I wipe myself off and grab the orange lubricant out of the drawer. I toss the wipe onto the floor; John can clean it up when he gets home.
"I doubt this will make any difference," I say as I open the tube.
"Trust me," he says as the smell of oranges enters my nostrils. I close my eyes and enjoy the aroma. The first time he used the orange one I was tied up. He'd rubbed over my entire body with the gel, massaging all of my muscles and bringing me right to the edge before easing off and starting the whole process again. I'd enjoyed that a great deal.
"Close your eyes and slick yourself up," John says. I obey him; under normal circumstances I make it a point not to let him get his way too often, but I think he might be correct here. I won't vocalise that though. "Do your balls too," he adds. "Then stop and move your hand away.
"Set the lube aside. I want you to keep your eyes closed but move your lubed finger up to your chest. I want you to circle you left nipple, only your left nipple." He picked the left one because my right nipple is more sensitive. Even my touching the left one makes it ache. "Keep circling it until it's hard."
"It's hard," I say, brushing the edges of the nub.
"Good," he says, "Pinch it on the sides. You like it better on the sides." The added pressure shoots through my chest and right to my groin. I grunt, surprising myself. I can feel my cock start to bob, wanting to be touched again.
"Stop now." I do. "Set your hands on your stomach and relax." I barely touch the skin as I settle my hands and I feel goose bumps all over my arms. "I want you to tell me the sexiest thing you've ever seen. Ever."
"Why?" I ask, surprised by the request. Although the answer is easy enough to come up with.
"Trust me," he says. I don't know how not to do that.
"You," I answer. His soft hazel eyes, that light up when he smiles. He has an easy laugh that makes happiness well inside of me. I love John's laugh. I like the sound he makes when he orgasms more, but the laughing is a close second.
John when he orgasms. I can feel the muscles in my ass start to tighten at the image. He makes the most enticing sounds.
"Tell me," John says. "Tell me your favourite."
A flood of images flow through my mind. There are countless images and scenes and they flow by so quickly. I can't focus on one. I can't pick one.
But I can. It's as clear in my mind as anything.
I spent all day at Bart's and got home after John. It was summer and it was hot and I climbed the steps to find John in our bed. The fan was on, cooling the room marginally. He was lying on his stomach, sheet pulled over him. He was propped up on his elbows, reading. I could tell immediately that he was naked under the sheet. He wasn't wearing a shirt and there was a slight sheen of sweet on the muscles of his back. The sheet was sticking to his legs, defining the appealing curves at the back of his knees and the arc of the Achilles tendons as his feet stretch out behind him.
The stirring in my groin started as my eyes focused on his ass. The sheet was sticking to him to there, too. The muscles were clearly defined, the sheet settling in between the cheeks.
That sexy, inviting ass. My mouth had gone dry.
He had done nothing to acknowledge my presence, but in one fluid motion had pushed that wonderful ass into the air and wiggled it at me. I'd practically collapsed onto the bed.
I tell this to John, I tell him all of it. I let out a little moan when I get to the end, remembering it so vividly.
My eyes are still closed but I can feel the hot liquid as it drips out of me landing on my stomach. God I want to touch myself. I reach a hand down, ready.
"Not yet," John says and my fingers tighten in protest. I stop moving though.
"Do you remember the first time we did it in the shower?" I groan, of course I do. My fist starts to open and close. Of course I remember it. It was the afternoon after our first time. We'd spent all night and all day in bed already. The water had been hot, so hot. John likes it so much hotter than I do.
"That's my favourite. You were pressed against the wall and my chest was pressed into your back. Your ass was rubbing up and down against me. God it was excruciating. It wasn't enough to make me come, but it felt so good." I groan again. I remember. I remember his face buried between my shoulder blades. His quiet gasps puffing against my back.
"I reached around you and played with your balls. Do you remember that? I want you to do that now, Sherlock. I want you to touch your balls the way I do. Just your balls. Just the right one."
For the first time I notice the change of timbre in his voice. He's aroused, too. That realisation tightens the muscles around my spine. I arch up involuntarily, before moving my hand down to do as instructed.
"Squeeze it like I do. You know how I do it, don't you?" I nod even though he can't see me. I hold the right sack and rub my thumb down it. It's more pressure than I would normally use on myself, but I am able to match John's touch almost exactly and all the muscles on my lower back constrict.
"Oh God." I hear the words come out of my mouth, surprising me. I shudder, this is just how John does it when he teases me. I bring my thumb up and repeat the stroke again.
"Is it still slick from the lube?" I nod again and move to the left one. It feels good, but not as good. John knew, I shouldn't have questioned him. I grab the right one again and press my thumb down.
Another burst of hot liquid hits my abs and I arch up into the contact.
"I'm going to get myself off now, Sherlock. Is that okay with you? I just pulled my trousers down and I'm lying naked on the bed. I have to be at dinner in about half an hour but I'm going to stay here and get off with you if that's okay. Is it okay?"
"Oh God," I hear myself say again. I brush my thumb against the base of my cock. I can picture John so clearly. He's grazing his fingers up his erection, that beautiful erection - he's waiting for my permission.
"Okay," I manage to get out as I grab myself. I'm slick from the lube and I smell like oranges. It's a sex smell, but a John pleasuring me sex smell. Of course it's the one I should have picked at the beginning. I was an idiot.
I plant my feet on the bed and spread my knees. My hips begin a slow thrusting motion, moving up to meet my hand. I hear a gasp on the other end of the phone, momentarily amazed that I've managed to keep it next to my ear. It's a John sex noise, one of my favourite noises. I groan in response to it. It makes my cock twitch in my fingers.
John's breath quivers. It's a sign that he's become sensitive and he's dragging his thumb over the head. He's close, very close.
I add the twist at the end that is guaranteed to put me over. I'd been completely unaware of this action until I met John. He pointed it out to me and he uses it as an indicator that I'm close. It's a good indicator because I am.
"Ungh," John says. I can see him, just as I saw him when I talk to him earlier. He's pushing the thumb into the base of the head. He's shaking. He's going to come now.
"Oh shit," I say as I realise I'm coming, too. I feel the liquid as it splashes onto my thumb. I pull faster and harder, pressing my head into the pillow and arching off the bed.
"Sherlock, that's it, oh god." In a flash I see John folding in on himself, his face contorted into a mix of pleasure and pain.
I pull one more time and feel the last trailing of the hot liquid. I release myself and collapse back onto the bed. I know John has done the same.
We are quiet for a long time, our breathing returning to normal. I bring my hand up and lick my index finger. I taste like me and orange.
"You're right. I do taste better with the orange."
John groans and then lets out a satiated chuckle. "You don't have to tell me that. I like you best with the passion fruit. God it's amazing. You should save that for me though."
I laugh in response. "Naturally," I say, making a note to taste next time we use that one. I'm curious now.
"I should go," he says and it hurts me. He isn't moving though so I know that he doesn't really want to. He misses me, too.
He sighs and repeats himself. "I need to go."
I grab a wipe and begin cleaning myself up. "How many days left?" I want to know that he's keeping track as well.
He sighs and I know he's thinking, comparing his time to mine. "I have three whole days and the rest of today. But for you," he says, "since it's after midnight there, you can say I'll be home the day after tomorrow."
"The day after tomorrow," I say and it does sound better than three. I sigh. The day after tomorrow.
I toss the second wipe onto the floor.
"I love you," he says and I smile.
"I love you, too," I reply. I roll over, burying my face into his pillow. It smells like him. I miss him.
I open my photo gallery. I pick one of my favourite pictures of John and stare at it. I miss him. I stare at it until I feel my eyes closing.
The day after tomorrow.
2.
I woke up this morning to a cloudy and dark sky. I had the initial feeling of euphoria that sex brings, but it became hollow as soon as I remembered that my husband was so far way.
I didn't bother to dress as I went into the kitchen and now I'm in the process of adding a third container to my bacteria experiment. Although it appears that experiment is not going well. The first two containers have dried out and are crusty. There is not enough moisture for mould or anything else to grow. I sigh, disappointed at my lack of insight on this. I secure the lid back on the third container and set it next to the other two. Perhaps with the lid it will contain the moisture enough to grow something.
I turn the television on and settle on Geordie Shore. John is not here to criticise my choice. He hates this show and claims that it actually kills brain cells. I find it an odd representation of contemporary society. Plus it is so ridiculous that it is humourous.
During one of the commercials - I can't see that Aldi one again or I might be forced to break the telly - I stand and head to the bedroom. I consider the shirt of John's that I've worn for two days, but the scent is unpleasant. I toss it back onto the floor and head to the basket where we keep the dirty clothes. John's clothes are still on top because I have added nothing to the basket. I pull out a pair of pyjama bottoms and put them on. They are one of the pairs that are entirely too long on John so lengthwise they fit me perfectly. However they are slightly uncomfortable in the waist, but I will not be able to sleep in them. I find one of the undershirts that he wore during the week and pull that on as well. I'm surrounded, momentarily, by the scent of John and it's instantly calming.
I miss him. I wonder if it would be easier if I didn't speak to him while he was away, but the idea of that is repulsive. I can't imagine not speaking to him every day; it's horrible enough not seeing him.
I take the blanket off our bed and head back into the living room.
Still on commercial. Annoying.
I settle in John's chair and wrap the blanket around me. I'm not particularly cold, but it smells like John and orange and makes me feel warm inside.
I groan as the Aldi commercial comes back on and direct my attention away from the TV. The room is a mess, I have not bothered to pick anything up since John left. There are random mugs of tea, glasses of water, a tin of the peanuts I ate yesterday a few of which fell to the floor. I frown at them, John would be annoyed if he saw them.
John isn't here.
I turn back to the television and my eyes settle on a picture of us sitting on the mantle. It was taken on my last birthday. Harry took us to dinner and had pulled her camera out to take a picture. I'd been reluctant and in the process of protesting when John wrapped his arm around my shoulder and placed a kiss against my cheek. Harry snapped the picture and printed a copy for me the next day. I've always been surprised by how happy I look in the captured moment. It's rarely a look I see when I examine myself in the mirror. When I'd pointed this out to John he'd laughed at me.
"Funny, I see it all the time." I'd been surprised to see that he was being truthful with me. I get up and grab the picture. I set it up on the table next to me so that it's closer.
I sigh as I curl up again and turn my attention back to the telly.
I'd memorised the itinerary for John's trip before he'd left. There had been no set plans scheduled for the first two days of the trip, but starting today the wedding activities begin. I glance at the clock and realise that it's almost nine am in Las Vegas. John has probably slept late, might even just be getting up. There is a wedding brunch on the agenda and then they are going to the final fittings for the wedding attire.
John went to my tailor to get measured so as long as the suit was made to the specifications it should be perfect. He'd had no details about it though and I am positive that if he wears one of those pale blue things with the fuzzy shirt underneath that he will have to cease being my husband.
Some things are completely intolerable.
I grab the remote and change the channel. Jeremy Kyle is on.
3.
I use John's soaps again in the shower. It makes the whole bathroom smell like him. I breathe in the wonderful aroma and savour the hot water. It's invigorating. The day after tomorrow. He'll be home the day after tomorrow. It seems more hopeful now, closer than it did earlier.
I get out of the shower when the water runs cold. I drop the towel onto the floor in the hallway. I grab a pair of my own pyjamas and pull one of John's shirts out of the drawer. There aren't any others in the basket.
I pick up my phone and see the light flashing letting me know that I have a message. I sit back on the in the chair and pull the blanket around me. I open the text message.
It's a picture message. A picture of my husband. He's holding his left hand up, taking a picture of himself in the mirror. I can see images of the Las Vegas strip behind him. Las Vegas looks odd in the daylight.
He's in his new suit. It's white, which I never would have suggested for him. I generally find the idea of white suits horrifying. However, on John it works. I may be biased in this regard but he does look very attractive. The shirt is navy and, even in the picture, John's hazel eyes shine complimented by the blue. He's got that typical easy smile on his face. It's a fundamental part of John's physical appearance.
The jacket is very fitted and unbuttoned. The first few buttons of the dark shirt are open and I can clearly see the little hollow between John's collar bones and the outline of his Adam's apple. The pants sit low on his hips and the shirt is tucked in, making John look longer, taller. I have no complaints about John's stature. He fits against me perfectly like a puzzle piece. I wouldn't wish him taller, but looking taller is a very appealing. He is already very lean, but this makes him look even leaner.
My mouth is dry and I smack my lips. I can see the rest of the wedding party reflected in the window, none of them are as appealing to look at as John.
"Approve?" asks the message at the bottom of the photo.
I let out a little chuckle, "Of pictures of my husband? Of course. The suit is nice, but naturally I'd prefer you without it. - SH"
I save the photo to my permanent collection and will store it on my laptop later. I'll probably print a physical copy. I'm examining it again when my phone alerts me to his reply.
"Do you think about anything else? I called Lestrade, he's going to bring you some case files. Get dressed. Day after tomorrow. Off to the casino now. I love you."
I read it a few times, running my finger over the screen before I reply. "Not really. All right. No, it's just Lestrade. I'm well aware. Have fun, be safe. I love you, too. – SH"
If Lestrade is coming over I really should put on some trousers at least. Jeans perhaps, John always likes it when I wear jeans. Maybe I'll take a photo of myself in them. That will frustrate him.
I'm walking up the stairs when he sends his final message. "Will do, you too."
I'm climbing up the stairs in our flat, and he's on his way to the casino to lose some of our - well granted it's mostly his - money. I toss my phone on to the bed and push my pyjama bottoms down. I kick them out of the bedroom and into the hall before moving to the closet to grab my jeans.
4.
It's dark when Lestrade rings the bell. I've just made tea and left the milk on the coffee table with the food containers experiment. I'm curious as to how long it will take the milk to spoil.
Lestrade examines the living room as he walks in. He turns his head and glances at the trousers that are draped over the banister. He raises his eyebrow but says nothing.
"I've brought five. I figured that will keep you occupied for 48 hours. It looks like it isn't necessary though. I think it'll take you that long to clean this up."
I look at him, confused. "I don't clean, John does."
He chuckles as I open the first file. It's a 12-year-old unsolved murder. A young man murdered and his wife was the main suspect. She had an air tight alibi though and there was no evidence that she'd hired anyone to do it or that she'd been involved with anyone else at the time. I frown - there isn't much here to go on. That makes it a more exciting if I am successful.
"Sherlock." I look up to meet his eyes. "As a happily married man, trust me when I tell you, do not leave this for John. He won't be pleased."
I frown. "Perhaps, but he is the one who went on a trip. This will show him that I am dissatisfied with his decision."
He stares at me for another moment before nodding his head. "Okay, but don't say that I didn't warn you." He holds up his hands and turns around. "Call me if you figure something out."
"Naturally," I say as he leaves. I sit back on the couch and begin to read.