Under the Downs Chapter 11

A/N: Thank you once again to everyone who reviewed so enthusiastically – I must be getting this right, even if splitting the scene up caused you untold mental anguish! Sorry about that, folks, but you loved it really, didn't you?

Warning: men going at it quite enthusiastically. I suspect this is not one to read at work!

'Oh, Jesus fucking wept!' I cry, almost leaping off the bed, but he hangs onto my hips and rides the shock out, and then starts doing unbelievable things with his epiglottis, and fuck me if Sherlock Holmes isn't actually deep throating me!

This has never happened to me before. Do I need to say that? I mean, who the fuck has it happened to? Apart from in porn movies? He seems to have absolutely no gag reflex at all. It's all I can do not to fuck his face with everything I have. That's what my pelvis is telling me to do. And my cock. My poor cock, which has passed through heaven and reached the upper regions of Nirvana, and to which Sherlock is showing absolutely no mercy whatsoever.

My head is light now, because pretty much all the blood in my body is contained in the few cubic inches of my genitals. I know this can't last. I can feel the tension gathering in the root of my cock, and the pit of my belly. I try to groan, try to warn him, but the words just won't come out. I am tongue-tied by that clever tongue.

When it comes, my climax takes even me by surprise, violently bursting out of me with even less warning than I had expected. I writhe and scream his name, and it feels like my balls are being ripped off with silk. I ejaculate comprehensively down his long, sinuous throat while he clings to my pelvis, fastened on like a limpet and emitting a droning noise that denotes sexual delight. He has to push me down with all his weight to stop me bucking both of us off the bed. He sucks me dry and then slurps off me, smacking his lips, and I lie there, whimpering with shock and pleasure. He slides up the bed and lies at my side, watching my chest heave, watching me suck air in through my gaping mouth like a beached fish, helpless and boneless.

When I have begun to calm, I blink at him, my eyes able to focus once more.

'Fuck, Sherlock, are you trying to kill me?' I croak.

He bobs his eyebrows naughtily. 'I presume that means the experiment provided a successful outcome?'

'Experiment?'

'Was it good?'

'There are no words.'

'Try and find a few.'

'It was absolutely fucking mind-blowingly fantastic.'

He rests his head down on the pillow, looking smug. 'Those will do.'

'I've never come that hard in my entire life,' I pant, finding my language centres again. 'I mean, seriously, Sherlock, fuck! I mean, what was that? It was like fucking honey and silk and velvet and-'

He kisses me, ostensibly for affection, but I think secretly he means to shut me up. In which he succeeds. I taste myself on his tongue, and I am gobsmacked. Briefly. Then I croak a bit.

'I came down your throat,' I manage.

'Yes, you did.'

'I tried to warn you.'

'It was delicious. You are delicious.'

'You didn't mind?'

'Did I look like I minded?'

I stare at him. The question is now dawning on me. I know that Sherlock never does anything unless he will be utterly perfect at it. The thing is, you don't learn to deep throat by reading a book.

'Ah,' he says. 'You believed Mycroft's quips about my being a virgin.'

My cheeks start to burn. 'You said it wasn't your area.'

'I said relationships were not my area. There is a difference.'

'So, I mean, you are – ?'

'I am bisexual. Does that bother you?'

'Hardly – seeing as I just profited by it considerably, while you are as yet uncared-for.' I pull him against me, and kiss him.

'You don't have to,' he breathes.

'Look, this is new to me, but I don't want you going without.' I slide my hand down his body, over his belly, and find him taut and twitching. He sighs.

'Oh, John.'

He closes his eyes.

'Tell me what you like,' I whisper.

'I like you.' He thrusts his hips up against my downward stroke. 'Oh, yes.'

'Good?'

'You have no idea how often I've imagined you doing this to me.'

This seems highly unlikely. 'Really?'

'Yes,' he whimpers. 'Oh yes, do it, do it!'

A hand job doesn't seem much of a return after the expertise he has given me, but its all I can offer right now. I've never touched another man's cock in anything other than a clinical situation, after all. But his is incredible, thrilling and hard and silken-skinned, and I want it more than I have words to explain. I love the weight of it in my palm, and the texture of it. I love the way he writhes against my touch, panting and moaning. I spit on my fingers to add to the lubrication, though he is making plenty of his own – his glans is all but dripping – and work him with both hands, one on the shaft, up and down with a slight twist at the top of the upward stroke, the other on the head, massaging the foreskin over the sensitive crown. I love the way he squirms and begs for it, the desperate pleasure I am giving him. Helpless in the face of his most primal drives, he is now fucking my fists. His balls are packed tightly against the base of his shaft. When he comes, they pump and spasm, and I am entranced at the sight of something I know about, but have never actually seen. His whole body arches up off the bed, only the crown of his head and the backs of his heels still in contact. Long, pearly ribbons of come shoot out of him, splattering his chest and belly, and spilling over my knuckles. He cries out my name. Mine.

After we have lain there a while, my hands riveted to his rapidly softening member, I decide to take action, but when I get up, he moans and grabs at me.

'Don't go?'

'Just getting a cloth to clean you up,' I tell him gently, and though he whimpers, he lets me go. I come back from the bathroom with a warm, wet flannel and tenderly wipe him down, leaving a sheen of water on his pale skin. I drop the used cloth on the floor and bestow a little kiss on the tip of his cock, which twitches in response. Then I climb back into bed with him, and fold him into my arms.

'I love you, John,' he breathes as he drifts into sleep.

And I weep with joy.

Tomorrow, Sherlock and John get back to the case in hand, only with slightly wobbly knees…