Title: Devastated
Author: Diandra Hollman
E-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com
Website: http://diandrahollman.neocities.org/
LJ: http://diandrahollman.livejournal.com
Date Finished: 9/16/16
Rating: NC-17 or equivalent.
Keywords: slash, John/Sherlock, bisexual John, demisexual 
   Sherlock, mild military kink
Spoilers: None to speak of
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, 
   Mofftiss and the BBC. This particular plot bunny was 
   planted in my head by this article:  
   http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-
   entertainment/tv/news/benedict-cumberbatch-imagines-
   explosive-sherlock-sex-scene-i-would-be-devastating-
   9828359.html so all credit and/or blame goes to Benedict 
   Cumberbatch. Basically, this whole thing is my way of 
   saying “okay, but...” Although I may have wandered quite 
   a bit from the topic.
Summary: Most people tend to assume my flatmate is rubbish 
   in bed. I am happy to report that they are wrong. 
   However, there is one thing...
Dedication: To my friend, without whose constant prodding 
   and support I may never have finished this story.
Author's Notes: This takes place sometime in the middle of 
   season 2, probably, but as it is essentially plotless 
   there is no specific timeline.

   The vampire reference has nothing to do with Twilight or 
   any other supernatural series. I have similar freckle 
   patterns on my arms and I always jokingly call them my 
   vampire bites.


Devastated
By Diandra Hollman


Most people tended to assume that Sherlock was rubbish in bed. 
The reasons for such assumptions were never entirely clear, but 
I suspected it was a combination of his poor social skills and 
his apparent inability to be affected in any way by sexual 
stimuli. Or emotions. Or anything else that might humanize him 
for that matter. Of course, the only reason I cared about these 
whispered rumors was because they always involved me. Despite 
my repeated statements to the contrary, the same people who 
seemed to have little better to do than spend their free time 
gossiping about Sherlock's sex life were convinced that I was 
on the receiving end of his inept affections. Or at least, it 
*was* the only reason I cared until such time as Sherlock and I 
actually started having sex. 

It had all begun rather suddenly. We had returned to the flat 
after the end of a particularly trying case and Sherlock had 
unceremoniously pinned me to the wall and shoved a hand down my 
pants. I had come embarrassingly fast and only partly because I 
was still riding an adrenaline high from the chase. Sherlock 
was exceptionally good with his hands – his violinist fingers 
clever and impossibly nimble. Thanks to what was, I had no 
doubt, very extensive research; he was almost equally talented 
in the art of oral sex. When I was capable of thinking anything 
at all during our encounters, I delighted in the secret 
knowledge that public perception of Sherlock’s skills in the 
bedroom was absolutely false.

Well, mostly false.

A strangled cry tore itself free of me despite my best efforts 
to hold it in, my mind going utterly, gloriously blank as I 
spent myself in Sherlock’s mouth. I stared at the ceiling as I 
caught my breath, dazed, and carefully unclenched my fingers 
from the sofa cushions, feeling the joints creak and complain 
in protest. I carded trembling fingers through Sherlock’s hair 
as he removed all evidence of my orgasm with efficient swipes 
of his wicked tongue, the light, almost teasing strokes sending 
shivers of pleasure through my sated body. Sherlock hummed 
appreciatively and gave one last, lingering lick across the tip 
of my cock. Then he pushed himself up from the floor, pressed 
an almost chaste kiss to my cheek – just at the corner of my 
lips – and slipped away into the kitchen to check on one of his 
experiments before I could muster the energy to kiss him 
properly.

There was one point on which public perception of Sherlock 
Holmes wasn’t entirely inaccurate. In the three months since 
our – for want of a better word – relationship had begun, he 
had brought me to Earth-shattering orgasm at least three times 
per week, yet I had not once been able to reciprocate. I had 
tried, but each time Sherlock had simply brushed off my 
advances and quickly busied himself with some experiment or 
ongoing case before I could press any further. While he was a 
veritable virtuoso when it came to *giving* pleasure, he seemed 
discouragingly incapable of receiving it. If I didn’t know 
better, I would believe Sherlock was incapable of deriving any 
sort of pleasure from our encounters. He always accepted – and 
often encouraged – non-sexual affections. I had learned just 
how to run my fingers through that curly mass of hair to make 
him sigh and just where to rub on his neck and back to make 
every muscle in his body go loose and relaxed. But it seemed 
any time my hands wandered below the belt, Sherlock would 
either redirect my attention (often by distracting me with blow 
jobs so incredible that I sometimes forgot how to breathe) or 
pull away to tend to some distraction or another and the moment 
would be lost. 

I had spent a good share of time in those three months 
analysing Sherlock’s behavior, trying desperately to come up 
with an explanation. I was reasonably certain that Sherlock 
found me attractive. I couldn’t imagine him being willing to do 
some of the things he did to me otherwise. I saw no indications 
of erectile dysfunction or any other form of impotency – 
Sherlock was visibly capable of arousal, he just was never 
inclined to do anything about it. I didn’t think Sherlock had 
been traumatized by a previous partner in any way as he never 
gave any indication of being distressed by anything we did. I 
knew I could probably ask, but to be honest I was too 
embarrassed and reasonably sure my concerns would be met with 
one of Sherlock’s blank, unblinking stares and a reply that 
would make me feel stupid for even asking. Instead, I had spent 
the past month and a half plotting a way to turn the tables on 
my beautiful, infuriating lover – to make Sherlock finally 
*feel*. And now, I figured as frustration began to creep around 
the edges of my orgasmic lethargy, was as good a time as any.

I crept quietly up the stairs to my bedroom to retrieve the 
supplies I had been gathering, returning within minutes. 

I hesitated in the doorway for a moment upon returning, 
watching Sherlock study the specimen on the microscope’s 
viewing tray. If not for the mussed hair and slightly swollen 
lips, there was nothing that would indicate he had just been 
giving his flat mate an enthusiastic blow job.


I jolted back to the present when he spoke up. "I can *hear* 
you thinking."

There was a slight hoarseness to his voice that sent a shiver 
down my spine. It was primitive, sure, but part of me couldn't 
help but feel a dark sort of satisfaction in knowing exactly 
how I had caused Sherlock to sound like that. That same part of 
me wondered what it would be like to have Sherlock completely 
at my mercy, begging me in that ruined voice to allow him the 
release he so desperately craved. 

Beautiful, I suspected. Like a fallen angel. Utterly debauched.

Sherlock glanced at me as he turned to the open laptop beside 
him; long fingers fluttering over the keyboard, racing to keep 
up with the ever rapid flow of his thoughts. I tried not to 
allow myself to think about what those fingers had been doing a 
mere ten minutes earlier. I crossed the room without conscious 
effort, acting on instinct. I gripped Sherlock's chin firmly in 
my hand, coaxing his head back and kissing him deeply, barely 
suppressing a groan as I realized I could still taste myself on 
his tongue.

I dragged myself away after a bit, sweeping my tongue 
indulgently over Sherlock's full lower lip. "Will this 
experiment of yours require your attention for the next hour?”

Sherlock hummed. "I assume you have alternative plans that 
involve the handcuffs in your pocket."

"How did you..." I snapped my mouth shut, opened it to speak 
again, thought better of it and closed it again. "Of course you 
did," I muttered. "Well then..." I fished the handcuffs from 
the pocket of my trousers and fastened one of the bracelets to 
Sherlock's nearest wrist.

“Oh,” was all Sherlock managed to say, a momentary look of 
surprise flashing across his face, before I pulled both of his 
arms behind his back and secured the other wrist. 

I leaned close so my lips just brushed the delicate shell of 
his ear and murmured “you have a choice. You can go back in 
there, sit in your chair and let me suck you off nice and slow 
or we can go back into the bedroom and I will take my time 
exploring every inch of you. Either way, I *will* make you 
come.” 

I felt a shiver go through his body. “John, I don’t think...”

“I didn’t ask you to *think*, Sherlock.” I tightened my grip on 
his arms, hearing him inhale sharply. “Choose, or I will choose 
for you.”

I could almost feel the rush of thoughts tumbling over each 
other in his head. No doubt he was debating whether he could 
still escape or calculating the best strategy to turn the 
tables on me. “John,” he finally said quietly.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

I could almost hear his heartbeat in the deafening silence of 
the flat. 

“Right.” I tightened my grip on his arms, forcing him up from 
the chair and giving him a push in the direction of his 
bedroom. “Bedroom it is, then.”

He hesitated and my frustration bubbled to the surface again. 
"Now, Sherlock," I snapped.

His eyes darkened for a moment, his face reflecting a confused 
mixture of arousal and apprehension. Then he turned and 
disappeared into his room without another word. 

I took a moment to turn off the light on the microscope and 
take a deep breath. The look on Sherlock's face in that moment 
before he followed my instructions had all but confirmed 
something I had suspected about him ever since I first caught 
his expression when a military man showed deference to my 
superior rank. I wondered if his actions had all been 
deliberately calculated to goad me into taking a firm hand with 
him. I didn't know how far he expected me to take this 
knowledge, much less whether I would be capable of being 
whatever it was he needed. 

He was standing awkwardly beside the bed when I finally worked 
up the courage to follow him. I hesitated for a moment, then 
fished the handcuff key from my pocket, holding it up for him 
to see and deliberately setting it on the bedside table. Then I 
pointed at the bed and ordered him to "sit." unsurprised by the 
speed with which he complied unquestioningly. 

Unquestioning, however, was not the same as silent.

"We should discuss safe words and hard limits," Sherlock said 
in the same blunt, matter of fact way he said anything.

My stomach twisted a bit. Frustrated as I was, I had no desire 
to do anything remotely painful or unpleasant to him. "We won't 
need them."

The look of alarm crossed his face again. "Don't be absurd, 
John. That's hardly safe."

I stepped in front of him and reached to cradle his head 
between my hands, coaxing his head back so I could look him in 
the eye. "Why won't you let me touch you?"

He frowned. "What are you talking about? You touch me all the 
time."

"You know what I mean, Sherlock. You're always eager to get 
your hands and mouth on my cock, but the minute I try to return 
the favor you pop off."

He stared at me blankly. "Did I do wrong?"

My frustration melted off a bit as I realized that he genuinely 
didn't understand why I took issue with our arrangement. 
"Sherlock...love...have you ever had sex before? With anyone 
else?"

"Yes."

"And is this all you think sex is? Getting your partner off and 
then going straight back to your work?"

Sherlock gave me the dreaded blank stare that usually made me 
feel like an idiot. "John, my work is..."

"Important, yes, I know," I interrupted. "You didn't answer my 
question."

"You have needs, John. I understand that. Whether or not I 
ejaculate while fulfilling them should not matter."

Of course he would say that. "Have you had an orgasm before?"

"Yes."

"While you were having sex with someone else?"

He stared at me silently. 

"Okay, so...clearly that's a no. One more question: you seem to 
be under the assumption that I handcuffed you so that I 
could...hurt you. Is that what you want?"

"I do not require it, if that's what you are asking. But if you 
do I would be amenable. My riding crop is in the bottom drawer 
of my desk if you would like to..."

"No," I interrupted more forcefully than I intended. There were 
some things I might have been willing to do, but whipping him 
was not one of them. I ran my thumb over his slightly swollen 
lower lip. "Sherlock...I know you think your body is just 
transport, but you have needs as well, whether you acknowledge 
them or not. And part of being in a relationship is an 
expectation that your partner can help you fulfill those 
needs." I budged closer, encouraging him to spread his legs a 
little wider so I could position myself between them. "I love 
the things you do to me, but when you don't allow me to return 
the favor I feel like I'm not holding up my end. Like you are 
just blowing me out of a sense of obligation and you don't 
actually *want* me to touch you."

He opened his mouth - no doubt to protest such a ridiculous 
conclusion - but I continued before he could speak.

"I know that's not true. I know that's not how you have it 
worked out in that big brain of yours. I know that. But when 
you push me away I can't help but feel like I'm not good enough 
for you. I want to give you the same pleasure you give me. If 
that means I have to restrain you so you won't go running off 
first chance you get, then I'm prepared to do that. But I don't 
want to hurt you." I wanted to take him apart, bit by bit, 
until he was nothing but a quivering pile of desire. I wanted 
to feel him come undone - hear him whimper and beg for more as 
he trembled beneath me. I wanted him mindless with pleasure, 
not pain.

He was silent for a long time. I could feel his steady pulse 
flutter beneath the skin where my palms rested against his 
throat and I found myself unconsciously counting the beats. 
Normal. Calm. Finally, he nodded and tilted his head back so 
slightly I might not have noticed it had I not felt it. I 
recognized the invitation for what it was and once I was able 
to process that this was happening - he was really allowing me 
to do this - I bent and poured all of my gratitude into an 
impassioned kiss. He made a tiny noise almost like a whimper 
and I eased back. Right. His mouth was probably still a bit 
tender. I licked at the swollen bottom lip and turned my focus 
to his neck, kissing a trail down the long column of his 
throat. At the same time, I unbuttoned his shirt and let my 
hands wander. I felt his breath hitch slightly as my fingers 
brushed a spot beneath his arm. Curious, I repeated the gesture 
deliberately and he hissed and instinctively tried to squirm 
away from the contact, making the cuffs rattle softly.

"Sorry," I murmured, resisting the urge to smile. Badly, it 
would seem.

"No, you're not."

No, I actually loved the rare moments when his façade slipped 
and he became human. "No, I'm really not," I agreed and 
deliberately tickled him under both arms.

He let out an undignified squeak, thrashed about a bit and 
glared at me defiantly. "Are you quite finished?"

I laughed and kissed the tip of his nose. "I didn't realize you 
were ticklish. Sorry. I won't do it again." I laid my palms 
flat over the offending spots. "Better?"

He nodded warily.

"Right. Good." I gave a couple firm strokes along his flanks 
experimentally before nudging him back. "Lie down."

It was awkward with his hands bound behind his back, but I 
wasn't about to take the cuffs off and have him try to take 
back control. Once I had him settled comfortably in the center 
of the bed I set about exploring every inch of him, as 
promised, carefully storing each new detail I learned in my own 
mind palace (though Sherlock claimed it was more of a mind 
cottage). His left nipple was more sensitive than his right. 
Even though he had got better about eating since I moved in, 
his ribs were far too visible. Drawing patterns around his 
navel made him hum softly in pleasure, but venturing inside 
made him hiss and squirm as if I had touched a raw nerve. 

I looked up as my lips reached the barrier of his trousers and 
was only somewhat surprised to find that he had closed his 
eyes. “Are you doing all right?”

He hummed.

“Shall I continue?”

“Please.”

He said it mildly – as if he were holding a door open for me to 
enter before him and not granting me permission to touch his 
cock. Clearly I had a ways to go yet if I wanted to see him 
mindless with pleasure.

I removed his shoes, socks and trousers quickly and 
efficiently, tossing them carelessly to the floor. I would have 
sent his shirt after them, but in my eagerness I had not 
thought to remove it before placing the cuffs on him, so I 
would have to content myself with simply pushing it out of the 
way. I decided I quite liked the image anyway. His mostly naked 
body (I wasn’t quite ready to remove his pants yet) framed by 
the dark silk. There was something almost naughty about it.

I reached out and experimentally ran my fingers up the soles of 
his feet. He gave a whole body flinch and I had to pull my 
hands back quickly to avoid accidental damage as he kicked out 
instinctively at the offending stimulus. I felt a measure of 
victory, however, as the move forced him to open his eyes again 
in order to fix me with a glare.

“Obviously another spot. Sorry.” I gripped him tightly about 
the ankles and spread his long legs, bending his knees so his 
feet rested flat on the mattress. I ran my hands along his 
calves, feeling as though I were trying to calm a skittish 
horse. 

I situated myself and set about exploring every inch of the 
tender skin on the insides of his thighs, delighting in all the 
tiny noises he made as he finally began to relax beneath my 
ministrations, particularly the gasps as I let my teeth scrape 
the soft flesh. I traced the line where the smooth skin 
disappeared beneath silken pants with my tongue. I coaxed him 
to open further, gently tilting his pelvis and pressed warm, 
open mouthed and filthy kisses to the bulge hidden beneath that 
thin layer of fabric, feeling it stir. He gave a shudder and 
squirmed, alternately opening himself further to my 
explorations and threatening to wrap his legs around my neck.

“That’s it, love,” I murmured, nuzzling into his warmth, 
mouthing at his bollocks. “Just relax..”

“John,” he groaned softly.

My fingers pushed further back, brushing over his opening 
before spreading him just a little wider and spearing him with 
my tongue. Of course, I didn’t actually get that far what with 
the boxers in the way, but that was rather the point. I teased 
him with shallow thrusts that barely penetrated through the 
cloth barrier, feeling powerful as he gasped my name and the 
muscles in his thighs quivered a bit. I indulged myself a bit 
longer before pulling away, working my way back up to his flat 
abdomen, my lips catching on the waistband of his pants, intent 
on taunting him just a little longer before I removed them.

I never got the chance.

His muscles tensed suddenly and after several alarmingly 
dizzying moments I found myself flat on my back with Sherlock 
astride me.

I stuttered in shock. “How...”

He held up the unfastened handcuffs and a small lock pick for 
me to see before tossing them to the floor. “Honestly, John, 
considering how long you’ve clearly been planning this I would 
have expected you to be a little less careless with the 
details.”

“But where...”

“Bookshelf in the corner.” He settled himself over my hips, 
making me bite back a groan at the deliberate pressure against 
my cock, even if it was through three layers of cloth. “Now...” 
He began unbuttoning my shirt starting from the bottom. “I 
assume you remembered the supplies you would need to engage in 
penetrative sex?”

An embarrassingly startled noise burst from my throat without 
my permission and I coughed in an attempt to cover it. “Yes, 
but...”

“That was the plan, right? Render me helpless and work me over 
until I begged you to fuck me?”

“No.” That I could answer without hesitation. I was prepared 
for any outcome to the encounter (including the possibility 
that *he* might want to fuck *me*), but the goal was to make 
him have the best goddamn orgasm he’d ever had and maybe wipe 
that smug smile from his face. I honestly didn’t care *how* I 
achieved it. 

“Hmm, no. That’s too self-serving for your liking, isn’t it? 
You thought maybe you could tease me into an orgasm without 
even taking your clothes off. Before your own needs consumed 
your attentions again.” He spread my unbuttoned shirt open and 
his fingers danced lightly across the exposed skin, trailing 
down to my trousers and plucking at the buttons before cupping 
my reawakening cock through the material and leaning close so I 
could feel his breath on my ear. “But what if this is what I 
want,” he murmured. “What if I said I *need* you to fuck me? 
Need to feel your big, gorgeous cock inside me?”

I bit back a whimper. The combination of his hand stroking 
lightly through my clothes and that goddamn sexy, velvet-rich 
voice was making all the blood in my body rush toward my cock 
so fast that I was beginning to feel light-headed. “I...you...” 
I cleared my throat and fought to clear the fog in my head a 
bit. “Have you ever done?”

“I’m not a virgin, John.” He unbuttoned my trousers and just 
delved beneath my pants without bothering to remove them.

“No, I know, but...ah...” I groaned as his fingers teased me 
mercilessly, stroking with just the right amount of pressure. 
He muffled any noises I made briefly with a heated kiss. 
“That’s not what,” I gasped into his mouth. “Fuck...what I 
meant...” I grabbed his wrist, wrenching his hand away. “Stop!”

He groaned and writhed a bit so his bum pressed against me. 
“Please, John.”

All my noble intentions practically crumbled to dust at that 
and I marveled at his ability to bend me to his will even in 
this. “Jesus...” I cupped his face between my hands and took 
control of the kiss, pulling him down until I could roll over, 
reversing our positions. There was a bit of fumbling 
awkwardness as he helped me strip down to my pants with little 
ceremony. His own now wrinkled shirt followed. 

I reached for his pants and he tried to roll onto his front 
before I could even get a grip on the elastic. “Hang on,” I 
laughed and pulled them down just enough to free his cock. I 
quieted when I realized it was utterly soft. I felt my own 
renewed ardor cool as I ran the last few minutes back, trying 
to determine how much had been real and how much an act. “So 
what was the plan,” I asked as calmly as I could manage. “Get 
me to shag you and then fake an orgasm and hope I didn’t 
notice?”

He stared at me silently and I could just about see his brain 
churning to come up with another lie.

“Right. Clearly this was a bad idea. Sorry.” I climbed from the 
bed and reached for my clothes, sorting them from the pile on 
the floor. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”

“Wait, John...” Sherlock grabbed my arm, pulling me around to 
face him. I hadn’t even heard him get out of bed. “I didn’t 
want you to be angry with me...”

“I’m not angry with *you*, Sherlock.” I looked at him standing 
before me in his pants and wondered how I had ever thought this 
would work. “Fine. I am a *little* angry with you for that 
performance you just gave, but I’m not *only* angry with you. 
This was a stupid idea.” I pulled my shirt on and shook out my 
trousers.

Sherlock’s hands closed around my wrists, stilling my 
movements. “John...what you said earlier about me feeling 
obligated to have sex with you, about not being good enough for 
me...I don’t want you to think it’s true.”

The look on his face made any anger I may have felt toward 
either of us evaporate. I knew he was a fantastic actor, able 
to turn on tears as easily as turning on a tap, but I could 
tell in that moment he wasn’t acting. He never looked that 
uncertain – willingly or not. Brilliant as he was, there were 
some things he simply didn’t understand on more than a purely 
academic level. He understood love, sex and emotions on a 
biochemical level, but he didn’t experience them the way I did. 
I let my trousers fall back to the floor and reached to cradle 
his face in my palms. “Sweetheart...”

He winced – possibly at the unfamiliar term of endearment – and 
his fingers, which had retained their loose grip on my wrist, 
tensed. “Because the truth is that I am the one who is not good 
enough,” he continued. “I am a terrible lover and I’m not even 
a very good friend.”

“Sherlock...”

“I thought perhaps if I worked at improving my skills as a 
sexual partner you wouldn’t...”

I pressed my lips to his as much for reassurance as to stop the 
flow of words. I didn’t want to hear the rest of that sentence. 
“I’m sorry,” I murmured between kisses. “I’m so sorry.” I 
pulled back and brushed my thumb over his full lower lip. “You 
are most definitely *not* a terrible lover and despite all 
your...less than stellar social skills, you have always been 
and I hope will always be my best friend. You don’t have to 
distract me with amazing sex to make me want to be with you. We 
don’t have to have sex at *all* if it makes you uncomfortable.”

He made an indelicate noise. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. I’m 
the one who initiated our first sexual encounter. I’m not 
‘blowing you’ as you so crudely put it out of obligation. I 
find I quite enjoy it.”

I looked over his face and wished – not for the first time – 
that I had half his talent for reading people. “But you don’t 
enjoy it when I try to return the favor?”

“You already deduced that I’ve never had an orgasm while I was 
having sex with another individual but you believe you could be 
the exception. I thought it kinder to not ruin your fantasy by 
proving you wrong.”

I held back a sigh. “Sit down.”

He frowned. “Why?”

I pointed to the bed and repeated “sit. Down. Now.” I didn’t 
raise my voice, but I had learned long ago that I didn’t need 
to in order to assert authority.

He looked like he was considering arguing with me for a moment 
before deciding it wasn’t worth it. He sat slowly on the edge 
of the bed and looked up at me curiously.

“We seem to have cocked this up. Let’s start over from the 
top.” I let my hands rest lightly on his shoulders. “What can I 
do to make you feel good?”

He rolled his eyes. “You weren’t listening...”

I pressed two fingers to his lips, cutting him off. “I didn’t 
ask how I could blow the top of your head off. I asked how I 
could make you feel good. The two are not mutually exclusive. 
Sometimes the journey is more enjoyable if you’re not worried 
about reaching a destination.”

He frowned. “So you want to continue what you were doing 
before.”

“Well, yes. I was quite enjoying it. Obviously you understand.”

“But your goal then was to make me have an orgasm.”

“Yes.”

“I just told you that’s not likely to happen.”

“I know. More importantly, my goal was to return the favor, as 
it were. I want to learn how I can give you as much pleasure as 
you do me.” He opened his mouth, but as I could see he was 
about to argue, I cut him off. “Look, you liked what I was 
doing before, yeah? How about we take it from there?”

“You want to handcuff me again?”

“Will that help?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s put a pin in that for now then. Lie back.”

I waited for him to situate himself comfortably on the bed, 
using the time to let my shirt rejoin the rest of our collected 
clothing on the floor and – more importantly – attempt to 
mentally prepare myself. Sherlock was capable of arousal. I had 
witnessed as much myself. He was also capable of orgasm, though 
I only had his word on that point. I wasn’t arrogant enough to 
be sure I could be the exception, as he put it, but that left 
me to walk a very fine line between pleasure and frustration. I 
decided in that moment that it was best to avoid pushing too 
hard for that reason. Better to leave him wondering why I had 
insisted on a less than stellar performance than upset because 
I tried to force him past his limits (even if those limits were 
only in his mind).

I laid beside him and drew him toward me until our bodies fit 
comfortably together. Our legs entwined, our arms looped around 
each other in a loose embrace. I nuzzled his ear and kissed 
along the curve of his jaw toward his lips, marking the end of 
my path with an almost chaste kiss. I settled back to look at 
him while my fingers drew mindless patterns on his lower back. 
“I love you,” I whispered because – God help me – I did and in 
that moment I couldn’t help but acknowledge it.

I braced myself, expecting him to chastise me for giving myself 
over to “ridiculous sentiment”. Instead, he simply smirked and 
carefully traced the edges of my scar with one finger.

“I’m sorry I handcuffed you.” It seemed ridiculous now in 
hindsight and, frankly, indicated more insecurity on my part 
than his.

“Don’t be. I quite enjoyed it.”

“You did?”

He huffed. “Obviously. Though you were far too tentative. Next 
time you might try to be a bit more assertive.”

I swallowed a groan and ran my hand down over the swell of his 
buttock. “Next time?”

“Hmm...” he bent to mouth at my scar, not so much kissing as 
feeling the texture of it with his lips. 

“More assertive,” I murmured. I rolled us over suddenly, 
pinning him to the mattress, my hands clamped tightly around 
his wrists at either side of his head. “Like this?”

He made a low noise that could have been a laugh or a purr and 
wrapped his legs around my hips, drawing me closer. I gave in 
to the instinct to thrust and he groaned and arched into me. I 
was still clear headed enough to realize in that moment that he 
wasn’t acting this time. His pupils were dilating, his breaths 
shortening. But just to be sure...

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you,” I growled. “You want me 
to hold you down and shag you until you can’t *think* any more. 
Until you’re begging me to stop because it’s all just too 
much.”

He made a small hiccupping noise and shook his head, his mind 
denying my words even as I felt his body open to me. Even as 
his long legs wrapped around me and drew me into the cradle of 
his hips and I felt the faint stirring of his cock. I had been 
right. Handcuffs or no, he wanted me to take control. And the 
thought of giving up that control both excited and terrified 
him. I realized that maybe I could do this – be what he needed 
me to be – after all.

I let go of one slender wrist so I could pry one of his legs 
loose and loop my arm beneath his knee, pulling up and out. His 
hand flailed for a moment before clutching my shoulder. He let 
out a small cry as the movement opened him further, until the 
only thing preventing me from just sliding into his welcoming 
body was the double barrier of our pants. Well, and a lack of 
proper preparation.

“Is this what you want?”

His head jerked in something that was likely supposed to be a 
nod and the hand clutching my shoulder released and reached for 
my arse. I let go of his leg and grabbed his wrist before he 
could reach his destination, pinning it beside his head again. 

“I need to hear it, Sherlock. Is this...” I punctuated my words 
with a forceful thrust. “What you want?”

“Yes,” he blurted, arching into me and tugging against my grip. 
“Yes, I...yes!”

I lingered a bit longer – both to torment him and to indulge 
myself. Then I wrenched myself away, feeling a surge of victory 
as he belatedly reached for me, a displeased sound caught in 
the back of his throat. “Pants,” I ordered, reaching for my 
trousers to retrieve the supplies I had brought. 

I saw him move suddenly from the corner of my eye and halted my 
search through my pockets in alarm when I realized he wasn’t 
removing his pants but crawling across the bed, seemingly bound 
for the dresser in the corner. 

“What are you doing?”

He hesitated. “I have lubricant...”

“Ah. Well...carry on then.” I had lubricant too, obviously, but 
only a couple sachets. I palmed them and the condoms and 
rounded the bed just as he lifted out a bottle and started to 
close the drawer. I reached for his arm, halting the movement 
as something in the drawer caught my eye. “Hang on now...what’s 
this?”

It seemed he kept more than lubricant in the drawer. A full 
half of the space was taken up with tissues, lotion and an 
impressive variety of toys. I picked up the one that had caught 
my eye – a slim, curved bit of silicone in an alarmingly bright 
shade of purple. I pressed the button on the base of it and it 
began to vibrate.

“Don’t,” Sherlock grumbled, snatching the vibrator from me and 
turning it off. He replaced it and shut the drawer before I 
could protest.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I said with a laugh that 
trailed off as a thought occurred to me. “Wait...we searched 
this room for drugs.”

“No. Mrs. Hudson searched this room.”

“Mrs. Huds...oh, god.” I thought of poor Mrs. Hudson – who took 
issue with orgasmic moans issuing from Sherlock’s mobile – 
stumbling on Sherlock’s collection of sex toys and giggled 
helplessly.

“Yes, that’s why she hasn’t been in my room since. Glad you 
find it so amusing.”

My tittering turned into a full laugh. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If you’re quite finished.”

“Sorry.” I coughed, fighting to reign in my mirth. “I 
just...sorry.” I pointed to the drawer. “Was that a 
fleshlight?” He gave me a withering look. “Okay, sorry. Sorry. 
Come here.” I cradled his face between my palms and coaxed him 
into a kiss, muffling any remaining chuckles against his lips. 

That was when I noticed that I was no longer holding the 
supplies I’d fetched from my trousers.

“Bugger it,” I muttered. “The condoms...” I turned back to fish 
them from the drawer and this time my eye caught something 
familiar I hadn’t noticed before. “Is that...” I plucked the 
box from where it had been tucked in the corner and opened it, 
knowing full well what I would find inside.

How had I failed to notice that he had stolen my military ID 
tags?

Beside me I could feel him start to withdraw, likely 
anticipating my anger. I should have been angry. But as I ran 
my finger over the bumps and ridges of my own name, serial 
number and blood type I found I couldn’t summon even a glimmer 
of annoyance. My mind filled with images of him clutching them 
in one hand while the other manipulated one of those toys 
between his legs. I imagined him choking back noises of 
pleasure so nobody else could hear, writhing and trembling and 
gasping my name as he succumbed to it. The rush of arousal that 
I felt at that moment left me light headed.

“John, I...”

I shoved the condoms and packets of lubricant in his hands. “On 
the bed,” I ordered, my voice startlingly rough in the quiet of 
the bedroom. “Now.”

**************

I always prided myself on being a considerate lover. I had 
never had trouble holding back my own pleasure until my partner 
had found their own. But in this one instance, I found myself 
grateful that I had already had an orgasm before we began 
because it lessened the urgency, allowing me to take my time 
with Sherlock.

Admittedly, I had less experience with male partners than 
female and most were back in uni, but Sherlock was unlike any 
of them. He was far more challenging. I suppose I shouldn’t 
have expected anything less. Luckily, I felt I knew him well 
enough to be able to read him and adjust accordingly.

He sighed as I kissed and licked the soft insides of his thighs 
and rocked into the fingers I had buried inside him. I rotated 
them gently, carefully stretching him open, occasionally 
nudging the tight bundle of nerves that made his cock twitch 
and swell. He grunted as I did it again and ran far too steady 
fingers through my hair as I nipped at the juncture of hip and 
thigh and pressed wet, open-mouth kisses to his abdomen, paying 
special attention to the faint appendix scar. 

“John,” he murmured.

I licked a stripe up the underside of his cock and closed my 
mouth around the tip, suckling gently.

His fingers twitched in my hair and he moaned, rocking ever so 
slightly into my hand. I hummed encouragingly and felt him 
shiver, a tiny burst of salty slick hitting my tongue.

Challenging, yes. But oh, how rewarding. I thought I could 
spend hours like this, tasting and touching, feeling the 
muscles beneath his smooth skin tremble beneath my lips. 
Watching it redden slightly from the stubble emerging on my 
chin. I would take him apart, piece by piece, until he was 
mindless with the pure, helpless want of it.

But that wasn't what he had asked for. Next time, I told 
myself.

I crawled up his long body awkwardly as I refused to remove my 
left hand from its spot between his legs to do so, kissing and 
licking hungrily the whole way. His fingers continued to 
alternately massage my scalp and twist in my hair. I was sure I 
had a frightful case of bed-head. I tugged the more sensitive 
nipple gently with my teeth, feeling his breath catch.

“Sure?” I pressed my revived erection into his hip. 

I felt him nod.

I twisted my fingers, pressing against his prostate until he 
gasped. “Words, love.”

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice tight and breathless.

“Condom.”

He let go of my hair to fumble for the packet from where it had 
nearly wedged beneath a pillow. I distracted myself while he 
tore it open by pressing soft kisses to each of the most 
prominent freckles scattered across his chest and up his neck, 
somehow almost always in groups of two.

Like vampire bites.

The thought rose unbidden into my mind. Absurd, but once it had 
taken root it was unavoidable. I couldn’t resist fitting my 
mouth over the ones that formed the top of a loose “T” along 
the left curve of his throat and letting my teeth sink in.

I was rewarded with a startled cry. He arched up into me, then 
gradually relaxed, making choked little mewling noises as I 
kissed and licked the reddened skin in apology. 

“Condom,” I repeated, continuing to kiss a trail up one side of 
his neck and down the other. I felt his fingers tremble 
slightly as they rolled the rubber on me. 

He made a nearly inaudible sound of protest as I sat back, 
pulling my hand free so I could reach for one of the pillows. 
He understood my intent and helped get it positioned under his 
hips. I sat back for a moment, just taking in the vision of him 
naked and spread out before me, his hips tilted so I could 
watch his stretched opening clench in anticipation. 

I groaned and reached for the bottle of lubricant where it had 
nearly fallen off the bed, slicking myself generously, trying 
to keep my movements slow, calm. “How long...”

“Sebastian,” he answered before I could finish.

“Se...Sebastian Wilkes?” I shook my head. “I knew it. Knew 
there was something going on with you two. What was that? 
Nine...ten years ago?”

“Mmm. And his penis is significantly smaller than yours.”

I laughed. “You don’t need to flatter me, love.”

“I’m not. Most people measure the length of an erect member 
when the more important measurement – at least for the person 
taking that member into their body – is circumference. You may 
be barely average in length, but you make up for it with a 
quite generous girth.”

I stared at him. Dear God, he was serious. I cleared my throat. 
“Right. Well. Shall we?”

“Please.”

I knelt between his thighs and pressed the tip of my cock to 
his lubricated rim. “Stay nice and relaxed,” I murmured. I had 
to bite my tongue as I pushed inside and felt the tight, hot 
squeeze around the head. Christ that was already bloody 
fantastic.

Sherlock gasped quietly, his fingers twisting in the sheets at 
his sides.

I stroked his flanks. “Good. Bear down a bit for me, love?” I 
felt his body give and eased myself inside slowly. “That’s it. 
Stay nice and relaxed. Brilliant.” I forced myself to hold 
still once I had bottomed out, focusing on Sherlock’s face. 
“All right?” I gasped.

His right hand reached for my face, his fingers fluttering over 
my skin as delicately as the wings of a bird. “It...it doesn’t 
hurt.”

I huffed out a surprised laugh. “Good. That’s definitely good.” 
I kissed his fingers and leaned over him, palms braced on the 
mattress beside his head. The haze of arousal lifted a bit and 
my breath caught as the curious look on his face fully 
registered in my lust-addled brain. He was serious. He was 
genuinely surprised to find that this act was not painful.

I ran back over everything he had said about his previous 
experiences in my mind, the pieces falling into place to create 
an awful picture. It would explain why he hadn’t wanted to do 
this before. A brief, cold rage flitted through me as I 
imagined Sebastian – or some other selfish prat – taking his 
own pleasure without the slightest consideration for Sherlock, 
assuring him that it was supposed to hurt when Sherlock 
complained. No wonder he’d never had an orgasm when he was with 
somebody else before. Without any better experiences to compare 
to, he must have believed himself incapable. I wished I had 
punched that cocky bastard in the face when I’d had the 
opportunity.

He groaned, obviously realizing exactly where my thoughts had 
strayed. “Don’t...” He arched his back, trying to impale 
himself further and goad me into movement.

I trapped his hips with my weight, hissing as he responded by 
scratching at my lower back and arse. “No, hold on...stop it!” 
I fumbled for his hands and pinned them beside his head. He 
stilled at that, looking up at me with eyes so dilated that the 
odd mix of colors had nearly given way entirely to black.

Right. I could worry about getting revenge on his inconsiderate 
past lovers later. Now that I knew the problem lay with them 
and not him, I was confident I knew how to fix it.

I smiled down at him. “Yeah. You like that, don’t you?” I 
pulled back ever so slightly, rolling my hips in a gentle 
thrust, a thrill going through me as the movement drew a soft 
whimper. “Is this what you think about when you’re using those 
toys you have stashed away?” I gave him another slow, rolling 
thrust. “Hmm? Is this how you get off?”

His legs tensed around my hips, the muscles around my cock 
alternately gripping tightly and relaxing, growing accustomed 
to the stretch, his body opening to let me deeper. “John,” he 
gasped.

“Mmm...” I kissed and licked his throat again, tracing lines 
between those maddening freckles, blazing a trail up to his 
ear. I was unable to resist tugging the lobe between my teeth a 
little. “Bet you’ve even done it while I was in the flat, 
yeah?”

I felt him nod. Heard the small gasping noises he fought to 
damper. I groaned as the picture I’d envisioned earlier grew 
more detailed. 

“You’re so careful to keep quiet, but I bet you’ve imagined 
what would happen if you cried out...shouted my name...imagined 
me bursting in here and replacing your hands with mine...that 
ridiculous piece of rubber with my cock.” I punctuated my words 
with firm thrusts that made his back arch and his nails dig 
into his palms. “Like this.”

He made a strangled sound between uneven breaths that could 
have been an attempt at my name. 

“Show me,” I whispered, letting go of his right wrist. If he 
had been operating at full mental capacity in that moment, he 
might have noticed that part of the reason I did this – a very 
small but not insignificant part – was because my bad shoulder 
was beginning to ache and I suspected I would not be able to 
maintain my grip on him much longer. But he seemed sufficiently 
distracted by his growing arousal. And anyway, if he did 
notice, he didn't say anything.

I recaptured his lips in a messy, gasping kiss, groaning into 
his mouth as I felt his knuckles brush my abdomen and heard the 
slick sound of his fist sliding over his cock, spreading the 
wetness pooling at the head. He made a desperate, needy sound 
in the back of his throat and arched into me, his legs tensing 
around me, making movement difficult.

God, I hoped he was close because I didn't know how much longer 
I could hold on.

"Yeah. You're so bloody gorgeous," I babbled, panting into his 
ear. "So open for me...letting me inside...feels so 
incredible." I adjusted the angle of my thrusts until he made a 
small noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. "You're 
so close, aren't you? So hard...so wet...I can feel it..."

His hand moved faster and he struggled to say my name between 
hiccupping breaths.

"Come for me, sweetheart. I want to feel it. I want to be 
inside you when..."

He interrupted me with a strangled cry, his body tensing and 
shuddering beneath me, the muscles around my cock gripping 
tight, squeezing.

I shoved myself upright, bracing my good arm beside his head 
and catching his leg with the other as it started to slide. He 
flailed, still riding the wave of his orgasm and not focused 
enough to do anything with his hands beyond twisting his 
fingers in the mussed sheets and holding on while I continued 
to fuck him through it, until I couldn't hold on any longer and 
I came with a shout.

Everything went blurry for a few seconds, but I managed not to 
fall completely on top of him while I was insensible. I pressed 
kisses along his collarbone as I calmed. "That was brilliant," 
I murmured into his skin. "You are brilliant."

He made a vague noise that might have been an agreement. "You 
realize that won't happen every time."

"No, I know." I kissed his lips gently. "Thank you."

"And next time I should be on top as this position obviously 
pains your shoulder."

He had noticed then. Of course he had. But the realization that 
he had withheld that deduction was pushed aside as I focused on 
two words at the beginning of that sentence. "Next time?"

"Next time we engage in penetrative sex, yes. You could still 
be the one doing the penetrating, of course. Unless you would 
prefer to be on the receiving end."

I didn't know what was more surreal: the fact that we were 
having this conversation at all or the fact that we were having 
it while I was still inside him. "Can we maybe finish this 
round before we worry about the next one?"

"Oh...sorry. I thought you were finished."

I groaned. "I am, it's just...we should wash up before this 
gets uncomfortable." I reached to secure the condom while I 
pulled out, mumbling an apology as he hissed in discomfort. 

I rolled onto my back and sighed as my strained muscles relaxed 
into the mattress.

There was a small flurry of movement beside me before he took 
the used condom from my hand, slipping the pillowcase he had 
removed from the pillow under his hips into it instead. "Here. 
This is already soiled."

I couldn't muster the energy to protest. I just watched him 
climb from the bed and disappear naked into the hallway, 
smiling to myself as I noted the slight stagger to his normally 
graceful gait.

I cleaned up the worst of the mess and lay back to rest a bit, 
listening for the sound of running water as he washed himself. 
It seemed to be a long time before he turned on the tap and 
when he finally did it was the one in the kitchen.

"Well, if you're not using it," I muttered to myself as I 
heaved from the bed and retrieved my shirt and pants. 

I located a clean flannel in the lav and washed up a little 
more thoroughly in the sink. I put my clothes back on, but 
didn't bother with the shirt buttons.

I found him back at his lab on the kitchen table, wrapped in 
his dressing gown, typing furiously on the laptop.

"Sherlock..." I delicately picked up the flannel he had 
obviously used and left to sit on the corner of the table 
delicately between two fingers and made sure he caught my 
expression of disgust before carrying it to the lav. Sometimes 
it was a miracle he didn't make himself sick from 
contamination.

When I returned, I set about preparing tea for both of us. 
While I waited for the kettle to boil, I decided to take a peek 
at what he was doing. Usually I didn't understand his 
experiments, but the complicated formulas and cryptic notes 
sometimes offered glimpses into his mind. 

"What are these," I asked, pointing to the prepared slides 
sitting beside the microscope. 

He barely looked up, his typing continuing without pause. 
"Seminal fluid."

I nearly dropped the one I had started to pick up and carefully 
set it back down, touching it as little as possible. I cleared 
my throat. "Ah...er...is it..."

"Yours and mine. Of course, one of yours is contaminated by my 
saliva, but it provides useful data all the same."

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. "Right. And erm...what 
sort of data are you collecting from our semen?"

"Changes in volume and consistency and bitterness depending on 
the stimulus, frequency and dietary variables. And we both have 
a perfectly healthy sperm count in case you were curious."

The tea kettle whistled as I opened my mouth, stopping my 
reply. Which was just as well. Bitterness? He was doing taste 
comparisons?

I gathered my thoughts and considered my response while I 
poured the tea. I set his cup beside his elbow and finally 
settled on "you know there's more to it than that, right? 
Orgasm and semen?"

He stopped typing to reach for the cup. "Of course. That's why 
it's only one of the points of data." He blew delicately across 
the surface of the hot tea before taking a sip. 

"What are the others," I asked, regretting the curious impulse 
immediately. 

He waved at the laptop, which was open on a spreadsheet with 
multiple tabs, all cryptically labeled. "Variations in arousal 
according to different stimuli. Time spent on foreplay. Average 
time needed to achieve orgasm. Recovery time. Effects of 
different stimuli on different areas."

"Mmm. And what are you doing with this data, exactly?"

His expression suggested this should be obvious. "Finding the 
most efficient combination to produce the most positive 
result."

It was like one of those moments during a case where the 
evidence suddenly falls into place and I wonder how I didn't 
realize what was happening before. "How long have you been 
doing this?"

"About three months."

The whole time. Since that first day when he'd wanked me in the 
middle of the sitting room he had been quantifying our sexual 
encounters, treating them as if they were part of an 
experiment.

No, that wasn't quite right. 

'I thought perhaps if I worked at improving my skills as a 
sexual partner...'

Sherlock believed everything could be reduced to a simple 
formula. A logical problem he could analyze and solve. He was 
trying to work out the perfect formula for pleasing John Watson 
the only way he knew how.

'You have needs, John. I understand that. Whether or not I 
ejaculate while fulfilling them should not matter.'

The problem was never that he wasn't enjoying what we did, 
didn't want to have sex with me or was incapable of finding 
pleasure in it somehow. It might not even be that sex with 
previous lovers had been unenjoyable, though I thought that 
might still be somewhat of a contributing factor. He just never 
considered himself a variable in this experiment.

"Not good?"

I realized I had been staring into space for a rather long 
time. I cleared my throat and set my cup on a clear spot of the 
table. An American expression popped into my head as I 
considered how best to deal with this new information. 'If you 
can't beat 'em, join 'em.' 

"How, uh...how many of these variables have you tried on 
yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

I slipped my hand between the folds of his gown and drew small 
circles on the inside of his thigh with my fingertips. "I mean, 
is there anything in particular I can do to help you collect 
data?"

He squirmed as my fingers wandered higher. "I don't understand. 
You're already helping." He hissed as I reached his cock and 
stroked gently along the soft length of it. The touch was meant 
to be more comforting than arousing. I doubted either of us was 
ready for another go so soon.

"With Subject A, yes. But we need to get Subject B caught up so 
the data can be properly compared."

His thighs spread a little, allowing me better access as he 
swallowed noises of pleasure. His fingers turned white from 
gripping his cup too tightly. "You want to test the variables 
on me."

I hummed an agreement and leaned closer until my breath stirred 
the curls behind his ear. "I want to do all the things you've 
done to me these last months and more. There's so many things I 
want to do to you. With you. And you were wrong earlier when 
you said you would have to be on top next time. There's many 
more positions we can try. You inside me...me behind 
you...bending you over a table...standing..."

"Might need a stool for that one."

I stopped petting him and stared at him, reading the 
mischievous twinkle in his eyes and the smile he held back with 
twitching lips. "Rather reckless to mock a man who has you in 
such a vulnerable position, don't you think?" I squeezed gently 
and he squirmed, a noise that was part chuckle, part moan 
spilling from his lips.

"Well...I do tend to live dangerously." He smirked at me and I 
was tempted to bend down and take him in my mouth right then 
and there and see if I could wipe that smile off his face with 
another orgasm.

"Cheeky bastard. Maybe I should get a muzzle for the times your 
mouth isn't otherwise occupied." I stressed that last word 
deliberately to make my meaning absolutely clear.

His cock twitched lazily against my palm and his tea cup 
clattered softly against the table as he set it down on the 
surface. "Would you..." his voice cracked and he coughed to try 
to conceal it. "Would you wear the tags?"

My hand stilled. I had known this would come up the minute I 
had put the box back in his dresser. The momentary flash of 
disappointment in his eyes had been obvious. He wanted to 
explore his newfound military fetish. But while the thought of 
him clutching my ID tags while getting off on the fantasy of 
Captain Watson was enormously tempting, I wasn't sure I could 
put on those tags as part of sexual play. It felt wrong - 
disrespectful - to play soldier when I had actually been one. 
But he wasn't asking me to dress like a drill instructor and 
discipline him. It was just the tags. Surely I could handle 
that? If I desensitized myself to the feel of them around my 
neck again, I would barely even notice them. 

He grabbed my hand and clutched it between his own. "Just the 
tags," he added, obviously understanding my reservations. "I 
don't have to call you Captain or even sir if it makes you 
uncomfortable. In fact, *I* could wear the tags if you'd 
rather."

The thought of him wearing my tags like some sort of collar 
*definitely* held a certain appeal. I pictured him naked, 
covered in my handprints and bitemarks, the metal tags glinting 
on his sweaty chest as he moaned and panted and writhed on my 
cock. A dark thrill of possession slithered down my spine and I 
wondered if I could get him to wear them when we weren't having 
sex. In public. At crime scenes. A secret between the two of us 
hidden beneath his clothes. A symbolic brand marking him as 
*mine*.

I groaned, brought his hand to my lips and brushed a kiss 
against his knuckles. "Tell you what..." I straddled his lap 
and sat gingerly, not quite sure if the chair would hold so 
much weight. He gasped and I noted the way his eyes dilated 
again. I delved beneath his gown with both hands, sliding my 
palms down his flanks. His hands instinctively went to my 
backside, pulling me in tighter and supporting some of my 
weight. "I will...consider it," I murmured between nibbling 
kisses down his neck. "If you...will let me...tie you up..." I 
reached his ear and lowered my voice to a soft rumble. "And use 
every one of those toys in that drawer on you one...by...one 
until you can't even remember your own name."

I felt his fingers tense, digging into my buttocks. I kept one 
hand on his lower back and brought the other around the back of 
his chair, bracing myself. I rolled my hips, pinning him bodily 
to the unyielding wood seat. 

He moaned softly and I felt his body go slack against me. In a 
humbling rush I realized I didn't need any props or special 
skills to bend Sherlock to my will. He trusted me with his life 
and his body implicitly. Even though both of us were worn out 
and sore I felt certain I could do anything I wanted to him 
just then and he would be pliant and agreeable. If I had 
properly prepared I was in the perfect position to ride his 
cock, assuming he could get it up again, until either he came 
or the chair gave out. (I made a mental note to try that some 
other time on one of our more sturdy chairs by the fireplace). 
Assuming that was out of the question for the time being, I 
could still drop to my knees in front of him suck him off. Or I 
could simply slide my hand between our bodies and wrap it 
around his stirring cock. Or...

I thrust against him again. "I bet I could make you come again 
just like this."

He made a tiny helpless noise in the back of his throat. I 
thrust again and he arched into me, his head falling back. 
"John..."

God, I could get used to hearing him say my name like that. 
Part begging (which he would likely never admit to) and part 
taunting challenge. 'Yes, please, make me.' I realized I might 
just get off on his submission just as much as he did on my 
control.

"Maybe next time," I whispered in his ear. I let go of him 
suddenly, reaching back to gently pry his hands from my bum so 
I could stand. 

He whimpered in protest and reached for me. I committed this 
image of him - dazed and half-hard, grasping hands and kiss-
swollen lips imploring me to come back and finish what I had 
started - to memory. The perfect picture of sensual desire. 
Every bit as beautiful as I had imagined.

"I'm going to grab a shower. You can join me if you like when 
you're finished here." 

I kissed him one last time and walked away before I could 
change my mind. I wasn't going to come again anytime soon, but 
if he really wanted it I would gladly help him test his own 
stamina.

I made sure to leave the door open and listen for any movement 
while I showered. I had just finished lathering and concluded 
that he wasn't going to take me up on the offer after all when 
I felt a slight breeze and saw his shadow through the curtain.

"John," he called tentatively, the verbal equivalent of a 
formal surrender.

I smiled. 'You're mine,' I thought. 'And I look forward to 
spending the next several months of your little experiment 
making you scream.'

"Come in, love."



THE END