The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 19

Sorry for the late arrival of the Cuddle Train today, I was out having a life. I hope that the content will prove a compensation!

Warning: Men having graphic nookie. Does what it says on the tin. Mention of sexual trauma.

John lay down in the centre of the bed, and Sherlock crawled over him, taking his weight on his elbows and knees.

'Is this okay?' he asked.

'Whatever you want, love,' John whispered. 'However much you can manage. It's all fine.'

'I want to touch you.'

'Yes.'

'Everywhere.'

'Yes.' John closed his eyes when he said the word, a kind of reverent affirmation.

Sherlock let himself down a little to one side of John's torso and stroked his hand over the doctor's chest. The skin was smooth and soft, the hair sparse. He leant in and kissed his way up and down John's neck, licked a little, nibbled at the collar bone. His lover sighed and settled back into the softness of the mattress.

'Nice?'

'Mmmmm.' John nuzzled his face, and Sherlock kissed his nose. And then his lips. Long and deep. So good. John tasted of peppermint gum. Sherlock allowed himself a lazy exploration, sliding his tongue around John's mouth, testing lips and gums and teeth. It felt soothing after the intensity of the shower. Still, there was so much new information to process, so many sensations in his own body. He loved the feeling of John's skin the length of him, the cool smoothness of John's side against his belly. He loved the way he tingled at John's touch. He loved the way that his hands were not the only data-gathering tool available to him in this context – he had never appreciated the sensual importance of the skin as a whole. It really was the body's largest sexual organ.

Finally, he found himself eager to get on and, sated with John's mouth, began to work his way down, over chest and belly, tasting skin, nibbling at nipples, grazing John's pectoral muscles with his front teeth. The doctor let out a soft moan, which encouraged him. He allowed his lips to stray further. John's lower belly and hips, and inner thighs. He kissed his way down, carefully circling round the hot erection, not ready to touch just yet. Besides, skin was good. And he liked the way John was reacting. Quivering. Spreading his legs. Murmuring indecipherable encouragements. He found he liked the flavour of John's hips the best, the silky skin in his groin, the seashell-smelling pubic hair.

Growing in confidence, he gave the base of John's cock an experimental nip. The little man groaned and wiggled his hips with pleasure.

'Good?'

'God, yeah.'

Sherlock stroked a fingertip along the length, studying the member close up. He touched the velvet sheath of skin, the brown mole on the side, the throbbing rope of the dorsal vein. It was soft and sweet and human, and smelt definitely of the seashore. He tried a kiss on the underside. The shaft twitched, the head slapping stickily against John's belly. The reddened tip was leaking glossy, clear fluid. He realised that if he meant to kiss it any more, he would have to hold it still. Gently, he circled its girth at the base with his fingers, and planted another kiss a little above his thumb.

John made a delicious growling noise at the bottom of his throat. Sherlock took that as assent. He began to kiss a little more concertedly, working his way up and down the length. This wasn't too bad, he decided. In fact, he rather liked it. The skin was soft against his lips and the scent was pleasant. He started to lick. Licked John like he was a lollipop. Base to tip. Long, wide-tongued licks, trailing slick ribbons all the way up and then blowing on them to evaporate the moisture.

John moaned. He struggled up onto his elbows to look. One glance told Sherlock he was headed in the right direction. John's pupils were so dilated there was barely a thread of iris discernible around their edges.

He licked harder. He could feel the rod thickening under his fingers. Well, he figured, now was as good a time as any. He took the head in his mouth.

Instantly the hideous memories came.

Sour-smelling, urine-tainted, sweaty cocks of teenagers being forced between his lips, the ammonia assaulting his nostrils; the gagging and the choking; the bleachy mucus of their ejaculations clinging to the back of his throat.

With a supreme force of will he focused on the Now of being with John, just as Hettie had taught him, refusing to dissociate from his body and the sensations of being with the man he loved, refusing to sink into the horrors of the past. It took all his powers of concentration, even as he swirled his tongue around John's cockhead and gently sucked. He realised his mouth was flooding with saliva. He would be sick if he didn't stop now.

He backed off and lay to one side, panting.

John pulled him up and held him. 'It's okay, love, it's okay. You don't have to do anything.'

'But I want to,' Sherlock whimpered.

John kissed him, soft and tender. 'Don't try to run before you can walk.'

They lay for a while, kissing and touching gently, looking into one another's eyes until Sherlock's breathing steadied and the panic subsided.

'I love you,' John whispered.

'I want to make you come,' Sherlock told him, aware that John's erection was softening. 'Your balls will ache if you don't.'

'I can take care of it,' John said.

'No,' his love breathed. 'I still want to touch you. I want to pleasure you. I want to stroke you till you cry out my name.'

'Oh, God,' John said as Sherlock's hand slithered down his body and grasped his cock again. It was amazing, Sherlock thought, how quickly it stiffened at his touch. He began to caress it, but he realised he didn't know what he was doing, and he was afraid of hurting his love. After all, he had never personally been able to masturbate, and right now his explorations into pornography seemed to offer little help. How hard could one move one's hand without eliciting pain? How fast would be pleasurable? Where should one place one's fingers, and where not?

John came to the rescue. He curled his fingers around Sherlock's and began to move their hands together.

'Is it good?' Sherlock gasped, looking into John's eyes.

'You think I haven't imagined you doing this for months?'

'Did you?'

'Every fucking wank, love. Your hand, in my head, I swear it. Now my dream's coming true.'

Now it was Sherlock's turn to moan.

He looked down. The purplish, divided head of John's cock was appearing and disappearing inside the circle of their thumbs as their hands moved backwards and forwards. Fat drops of pre-come beaded its tip. John threw his head back, and moaned, 'oh, yeah, like that!'

Sherlock found his breathing had speeded up. His heart was pounding.

Under his fist, blood was rushing into John's corpora even faster now, and the doctor ground his hips up to meet each down-stroke. He began to strain into the motion, moaning and panting. Perspiration dewed his upper lip. His cheeks and chest began to flush. Their hands were moving quickly, beginning to blur, Sherlock becoming aware of a cramp developing in his bicep from the motion. He didn't care. Watching John like this, writhing in desperate pleasure, was worth any discomfort.

'Oh, yeah,' John growled. 'Fuck me, fuck me harder.'

Sherlock obeyed. He had lost track of himself, aware only of John's approaching ecstasy, the way his lover's lips had parted, his mouth slack and debauched, veins standing out in his throat and temple, pulsing. He felt a sudden rush of fluid under his palm, through the thick flesh, and the first contractions of pleasure, and John cried out, his voice cracking with lust.

'Oh fuck, Sherlock, aaaaaahhhhh!'

A plume of white fluid fountained from the tip of Johns' cock. His back arched, so that only the crown of his head and his heels were in contact with the mattress. He writhed. He thrust up against Sherlock's hand as it milked the pleasure from him. He wailed. And eventually he fell back, spent, into the sheets.

Sherlock continued to caress him, bringing him down, until his hand closed over the detective's wrist and stilled the motion. They lay there, silent but for John's ragged breathing. The semen cooled on Sherlock's thumb. John finally prized his eyes open and looked at his lover, bleary-eyed.

'My God,' he wheezed.

'Nice?'

'Nice is definitely inadequate.'

He reached out and fumbled the box of tissues from the bedside table, pulled one out and scooped the worst of the gloop from his belly into it. Then he tugged another out and tenderly wiped Sherlock's hand. Sherlock watched him dab the end of his cock, squeezing out the last drops of fluid.

'You are a fucking revelation, you know that?' John said.

'And you swear a lot in bed.'

John looked a little panicked. 'Is that a problem? I didn't frighten you, did I?'

'It's fucking wonderful,' Sherlock grinned. 'And fucking sexy.'

Tomorrow, Sherlock makes a breakthrough...