Tournament. A Sherlock/John PWP
Title: Tournament.
Author: ghislainem70/ettuinarcadia
Rating: NC-17+
Word count: 4,500
Warnings: Very explicit sex, bdsm scenarios, not much plot.
Summary: John decides Sherlock needs a little challenge. A Sherlock/John pwp.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs. Moffat, Gattiss et al.
After the last time Sherlock ignored his instruction and made John come too soon with a self satisfied smirk, accepting the resulting lashes with undisguised luxuriant pleasure, John decided to appeal to Sherlock's love of games; specifically, of competition.
John was an inventive dom, and Sherlock never tired of his unpredictability.
"We're going to try something new. You have my permission to try and make me come. But I'm going to do the same to you. No holds barred. 10 minute rounds. You can mentally, but not physically, resist. This applies to both; discipline is off during the tournament except as either party chooses to exercise during their round.
"Of course safeword applies. No other rules. Whoever comes first, loses. And there is a penalty for losing."
Sherlock was only slightly concerned by these rules. He had almost limitless self control where his sexual appetites were concerned, although he was otherwise rather impulsive. This game could be won with proper mental discipline, he presumed. John was the only person to even approach challenging his limits, to his endless fascination. John, on the other hand, whose soldier's discipline, honed in war, was formidable, was more inclined to lose himself even though he was Sherlock's dom.
"I suppose I'd better hear the penalty."
"No touch at all -- for a week."
Now this was a challenge. Sherlock prided himself on his self-control, and historically had been perfectly capable of withholding sexual pleasure from himself for months, on occasion more than a year; either because nothing was on offer that he considered worth the effort, or because the enticements of work had been all-absorbing. None of that applied to present circumstances, however; since first being with John he could not actually bear to go long without his touch.
The months between John's first moving into 221b and John's final capitulation had been an agony, hugely surprising and unspeakably difficult. He could not bear to contemplate repeating it. His addictive personality demanded John's hands, his gaze, his mouth, his cock. What he knew John failed to fully appreciate was that Sherlock distinguished very little between them. He needed them all equally.
He had been very careful to never yet permit any domestic disharmony between them to deteriorate to any physical coldness. Again, John probably did not fully appreciate that this was less loving consideration, and more sheer selfish need. All of this was nothing like his prior negligent conduct toward former lovers-- although Sherlock did not raise them in his own mind to that dignity, if he ever thought of them at all. Failed experiments, more like.
Was he up to this new game?
Of course. But. . .
"That sounds like the winner loses too," he said doubtfully.
"No, you don't understand. The loser may be touched by the winner, at the winner’s sole option. But the loser may not give or request any form of touch. For a week."
"Touch. . .direct or indirect?"
"Neither will be permitted."
Sherlock considered. Although he was supremely self-confident, he played back in his mind several scenes in just the past few weeks in which John had reduced his self control to shreds. So he knew that realistically, there was some risk here. But in the end, there was only one thing to do.
"The game, Doctor Watson, is on," he said.
The gauntlet was thrown.
* * *
Round One.
John took a coin from his pocket and flipped it. "Call it."
"Heads." Grinning.
It was tails.
"You lose," John said coolly, taking out his mobile and setting the stopwatch.
He simply paced a bit, circling Sherlock, but not touching him or making any move to remove any of their clothing. He did this for some moments. Sherlock was somewhat surprised at the subtlety of John's opening gambit.
Finally, he took Sherlock's hand and directed him sit in the chair by the fire.
He was behind Sherlock now.
He whispered into his ear. "Undo your trousers, love. Unzip them."
Sherlock, accustomed to obedience, did so. He did not permit himself to dwell on the warmth of John's breath softly disturbing his hair, or the flesh where his neck shivered just a little from the heat of his lips, so close, not touching.
John took Sherlock's hand and sucked his fingers, softly, and licked his palm until it was drenched with saliva. He stroked the fresh scar on his palm over and over with his tongue, causing a fiery tingle there that went straight to his groin. He remembered when they made those scars, pressing bloody palms together, and it made him shiver. He wondered if John would let him cut him now, just a little, and then he knew that John wanted him to think about this from the insinuating pressure of his tongue. Sherlock firmly put the thought from him as it was too exciting.
John leaned over and placed Sherlock's now wet hand under his briefs, straight onto his cock, his own hand guiding Sherlock's. Sherlock could endure this for a long while, and he settled in to enjoy the sensations, knowing he was safe. Then John started whispering wickedly in his ear again.
"I don't want you to come this time, love. No, it won't be for a long, long time. I want you up and ready to fuck me, proper, that's what I'm holding out for. And I can wait for it, never fear. But I need you to be ready for me. Are you? Do you think you are? I think not yet. No, you're not nearly ready yet."
Sherlock was gripping the sides of the chair with his free hand and endeavoring, with fair success, to control his breathing. Breath control was key to endurance. John's steady hand was guiding his own, stroking his slicked cock insistently, suggestively, but that was nothing now to the promise of piercing John with it, impaling him with it. John had rarely allowed him this particular indulgence.
He decided it was time to fight back. His cock was swollen now almost to its maximum fullness, and he freed it from his briefs with his other hand. He could hear John's intake of breath against his ear as he saw it rise up, glistening from the moisture of their palms. He tipped his head back and offered up his mouth to John, who leisurely licked his lips, but did not kiss, teasing.
Sherlock murmured, "I am ready, can't you see it, I'm so ready for you, but when I do I won't be stopping after five minutes, no, because you'll be begging me to never stop. So do your worst, John."
John sighed just a little, aahh, and stroked Sherlock harder for that.
Now, Sherlock was starting to wonder if he was possibly in more trouble than he had supposed, and he had to fight himself just a little not to thrust back against John's hand and crush John's lips with his own.
The alarm went off.
* * *
Round Two.
Sherlock swiftly pushed John off of him and set his own mobile for ten minutes.
He pushed John hard, flinging him back onto the sofa, unhooking his belt, unzipping his trousers. This made him remember all the times in those first months he had yearned to do just this. Then he pushed the thought from his mind because made him think of how unbelievably frustrated he had been, then. That was no good, obviously.
He decided winning this game would be his revenge and his reward for those months of self-denial, of tortured, hopeful waiting.
He knew John had a secret penchant for grinding against him, fully clothed. When he stopped to analyze the reasons why that might be, which his brain would not help doing, he imagined John in his uniform, up against a wall with another desperate soldier, hurried pleasure before they were caught fraternizing.
He wanted to obliterate all such memories so John would never, ever think of anyone but him, ever again.
He dove onto John, pinning his arms and grinding hard against his crotch with his thigh, but trying not to stimulate himself. He kissed John brutally, bruisingly, nothing like John's measured attack. This was an assault.
John tried to withstand it, responding only by small shifts of his hips, but following the rules did not try to close his mouth against the kiss, instead giving as good as he got until they both had to come up for air, panting.
Sherlock loved to kiss John, really loved it, so this was something like torture for him too; it felt something like being part of him, connected; in the strangest way, the closest he could ever be to being actually in John's skull, and he knew John would be amazed if he knew this, but probably would just laugh, and let him do it anyway. It was not unknown for him to keep at it until John had to order him to stop.
He paused from plundering John's mouth only to literally tear John's shirt off, the tearing sound unnaturally loud suddenly, and he used the remains to bind John's hands above his head. He didn't waste time with the binding; if it was too tight John could use his safeword and the rules forbade him from otherwise resisting.
How he loved this, he loved to look at John, hands helplessly bound above his head, eyes hungry and wondering what Sherlock might do to him now. A thousand decadent urges conflicted within him, momentarily paralyzing him with indecision.
He stopped himself. There was a time consideration, after all. If he won the game, well, then there would be time for - but they were a long way from that, yet.
What he settled upon now was truly uninterrupted access to John's chest, muscular from his diligent routine of pullups and pushups in 221c. He pulled up John's undershirt with a smirk. John knew he preferred John to dispense with an undershirt, but he had one on now, obviously having planned for this momentary advantage before the game began.
"Cheater," Sherlock mouthed against his chest as he attacked John's nipples with his mouth. They were unusually sensitive, and Sherlock wished briefly that they were pierced. The thought made his groin feel hot, though, so he bit hard on John's nipple, then licked and sucked with a will, making John cry out loudly and shiver helplessly.
Now he could really feel John's erection straining against his leg, and Sherlock moved his hand down to thumb the sensitive head with steady, insistent circles through the fabric of his trousers.
John was trying to stifle his moans and starting to thrust back reluctantly against Sherlock's hand. He could feel a little damp spot through John's trousers and he started to grin, self- satisfied, knowing he was within easy reach of victory, so easy; and John was gasping louder now ----
The alarm went off.
* * *
Round three.
John easily escaped from his bonds and reset the clock. He tugged sharply on his balls to relieve the luscious congested feeling there.
"Kneel," he ordered.
He pulled Sherlock's trousers and briefs down, exposing his ass. It was amazingly lush for a man so lithe.
It had only the faintest of traces from his last whipping. John didn't hesitate to lay into him with his belt, eight in quick succession to bring up the color now, make him really feel the sting, the burn the way John knew he loved it.
He felt the surge from his arm down to Sherlock's ass and knew Sherlock could feel it, too; that moment when the sharp delicious pain became charged with mixed lightness and power.
When John paused Sherlock groaned, just once, and they both became measurably harder.
John waited a moment until his own erection subsided just a little, then started laying in random smacks across his ass, the backs of his thighs. The heat exploded luxuriously over Sherlock's sensitive skin.
Just as abruptly, John changed to a punishing, measured rhythm that tormented Sherlock, who was swaying, just slightly, against the belt's lash. He refused to cry out, either for mercy or for more.
He was starting to perspire freely and John paused to run his hands over his dampened back, feeling the exquisite tension there. Sherlock’s self-restraint was starting to weaken, possibly. But John didn’t underestimate him a bit.
Now John reached around to stroke his cock with firm deliberate strokes, not too fast. Yet. He brought out the lube and slipped a single slick finger into his ass and started finger-fucking him in earnest, then pushed a second finger in. Sherlock resisted fucking back on his hand; but it was no good as John's hand was pulling faster on his cock now too, faster, so fast.
Sherlock was reduced to visualizing formulae to distract himself.
If only John would let up, just a little, but there was no escape from the sensation of John's strong fingers thrusting into him and stroking his cock so perfectly while his skin was so exquisitely on fire from the strokes of his belt.
"Come, now, love, you want to, I know you need to, now," John ordered. It was brilliant and he felt a trace of precome leaking. This was so good. He could feel Sherlock was right there and in a moment, his come would be drenching his hand.
Sherlock grit his teeth and expelled his breath, hard, to pull back from the dangerous brink. His body wanted to obey, was accustomed to obeying John. He bit his lips to stop them forming the word, please, or maybe it was, yes, it was so perfect.
The bell rang and Sherlock rolled away, gasping, onto the floor.
* * *
Round Four.
After a few moments he was calmer and Sherlock set his clock.
He discarded his trousers and briefs.
"Come with me," he said, dragging John by the hand to the bathroom. "Strip," he ordered, and tore off his shirt while he turned on the hot water.
But that was going to take a while, so he stepped into the cold water and let it bring the heat in his punished ass and cock down. Better. John never knew of the cold showers Sherlock used to take, during those long first months. They had been indispensable. He wasn’t sure he might not have actually attacked John otherwise; he had constantly wanted to, visualized all the ways . . . If John had been more observant, he would had to have noticed that he was able to take a perfectly long, hot shower immediately after Sherlock had used it for more than half an hour. It should have been perfectly obvious that whatever Sherlock was doing in there, he wasn’t using hot water. Yes, it was a fact that John, at first, had not been terribly observant.
But he got there, in the end.
As soon the hot water came, he dragged John into the shower where he knelt and soaped John's entire body, lavishing especial attention to his balls (now noticeably hot and heavy, he noted with satisfaction); and between the cheeks of his ass, just pressing a teasing finger at the tight opening there, working it slowly in before taking his entire cock into his mouth, deep, so deep, not holding back, knowing John could feel it slam the back of his throat.
He sucked with dedication, pressing John hard against the slick tiled wall. John was moaning "God, Sherlock, no, wait, not yet," and twisting his fingers in Sherlock's wet hair to try and control it. But it was useless. There was no teasing here, Sherlock was hitting that perfect pairing of firm suction and rhythm that drove John wild. He's a bloody mind-reader, John thought hopelessly.
His thighs started trembling and the need to come was becoming explosive. His cock was impossibly full and hard. Sherlock's finger was stroking his prostate now, wickedly nudging, urging. Sherlock's mouth was so sensual that he knew he was doomed.
He tipped his head back and closed his eyes because watching Sherlock's lips working his cock was making everything so much tighter, while hot water ran down over their bodies together as he tried to ride it out.
But Sherlock was making obscene little moans in the back of his throat as he sucked harder and faster, letting the tip of his tongue tease open his slit to take the precome flowing there from the relentless massaging of his prostate. John's entire body was shuddering now and he groaned, "Aaahh, God, Sherlock, you bastard -- " and he teetered on the very brink of ruin when the alarm went off and John jerked back just in time.
Sherlock released his cock with a single voluptuous lick of his tongue.
* * *
Round Five.
John pushed Sherlock out of the shower and turned the cold water briefly on himself. This helped shock him back from the brink, and he gratefully felt the danger retreating. He pulled Sherlock upstairs and pushed him facedown onto the bed, and set the clock. Ten minutes.
John was so aroused, the need to come still so urgent, that he was grateful that Sherlock was not looking at him, but had closed his eyes. John found the restraints and focused on tying Sherlock's hands securely to the bedposts to distract him from his own aching cock.
Sherlock's ass was beautifully striped with bright pink marks from the belt, and John licked his own palm and ran it over Sherlock's buttocks, relishing the heat, then administering a few pinches that made Sherlock squirm and gasp. He saw Sherlock trying not to rub against the friction of the sheets and smiled. The contest was not as easy as Sherlock thought. John licked his lips.
How he longed to fuck Sherlock now, he could see he was primed for it; but he knew it would bring about his ruin faster than Sherlock's, in the state he was in. He went to the drawer and withdrew a silicone dildo that had a crook at the tip to stroke the prostate. Sherlock generally far preferred John's cock and fingers, but John was not afraid to supplement with toys when his stamina flagged. Sherlock could be quite a handful.
But first to ready him. He lubed his fingers and set to work stretching him, slowly but determinedly, mindful of time pressure. Well, it would have to do, he thought as he slipped his fingers in and out, Sherlock literally biting the pillow now, and then he slipped the dildo in and started pumping it. It was a little soon and the stretch burned, John knew, but after a moment he could feel it working in more smoothly was Sherlock was making little involuntary motions to try and push back or withdraw, somehow to control it, escape it, but it was impossible. John pressed down against Sherlock's hip with his free hand to force him to lay still and take it.
"Go ahead and take it, take it all in, love," he urged, pressing just a little deeper.
Now he plunged it to its fullest depth and left it there, stretching his ass just a little uncomfortably, while he moved below to swiftly bind Sherlock's ankles, too. There was nothing but the safeword to stop him doing exactly as he pleased to Sherlock now, and suddenly he didn't care any more about the game.
He pulled the dildo out with a small wet sucking sound and let Sherlock just pant there, needy and empty, the few thrusts having just been a tease; but before he could recover himself John was starting to penetrate his ass with his cock. John knew he would probably come, but he didn't care anymore, it was so tempting, hot, good. Divine.
Sherlock was laid out submissively under John's body now and there was a beautiful sensation of melting together as one. John slowly worked his way in and out, the heat and tightness from Sherlock's ass embracing him combined with the radiating heat of the lashed buttocks against his skin to make a double torment. Sherlock wasn’t resisting any more, no; Sherlock was trying to thrust back up to meet him now, struggling against the restriction of his bonds, moaning his name, "John," with each thrust. "Don't ever stop," Sherlock begged and just like that, John made a mighty effort and he did stop, pulling slowly and then fast, all the way out, and flung himself back onto the bed, his purple cock straining in the cool air as they both moaned together in frustration.
The alarm went off.
* * *
Round Six.
John almost was ready ask for amnesty, a cease-fire; he wanted to plunge back in and have his way with Sherlock, so badly. But it was Sherlock’s turn now, and it was John after all who laid down the rules of the game. He had his pride. John bit his tongue.
If Sherlock touched him with his mouth it would all be over immediately.
"Please untie me," Sherlock requested politely. He was after all John’s sub.
John did so, his hands shaking. He could not resist kissing Sherlock fiercely as Sherlock set the clock.
But then Sherlock pulled away and started pushing John down onto the bed, simply stroking him with his clever fingers, pulling steadily but frustratingly slowly, more slowly on the shaft of his cock, slowing everything down just a little.
John was puzzled. Why was Sherlock helping him?
Then the frustration of the slowness set in after the heady stimulation of moments before, the brilliant luxury of being buried up to the hilt in Sherlock’s ass. Now Sherlock was kissing him again, deeply, all tongue and heat and a lustful sort of humming from the back of his throat as he coaxed his cock, ever so slowly.
Somehow the slowness made every thing much, much worse; he had been so close a moment ago, and there was nothing in this slow, maddening pace that would give him satisfaction.
And how badly he wanted to come, finally, now, he was so ready but despite victory clearly being in the literal palm of his hand, Sherlock withheld it, making him strain against him.
"Fuck, Sherlock, damn you, harder, harder, I can’t -" Sherlock was staring at John’s agonized expression with intense fascination. He knew John was desperate to capitulate and suddenly it was far more important to draw this out, to confuse John, to make him suffer, than winning the game. John brought his own hand up to try and force Sherlock to bring him off harder, faster, but Sherlock pushed it away and said sharply,
"No, John, it’s my turn."
He didn’t want to waste any of these precious seconds stopping to tie John up. The frustrated need, the agony on John’s face was sensational, he couldn’t get enough of it. How the tables were turned; Sherlock, as John’s sub, was seldom - if ever - permitted to torment John to this extent. He felt a heady sense of power and realized far too late that his own cock was straining, leaking, and he felt the imminent release just hovering there. It would take the merest touch for his own orgasm to spill over.
So he just stopped everything, panting there, as John writhed. "Oh God, you bastard, Sherlock," and John actually started stroking his own cock, hard and fast, as his other hand reached for Sherlock’s own swollen cock. As Sherlock looked down to see John’s fingertips brush his head he shuddered and gasped loudly.
The alarm went off..
* * *
Round Seven.
With a shout they both fell back on the bed. Neither of them moved a muscle. No coherent thought formed in John’s head, and Sherlock’s mental faculties were seriously impaired.
"I can’t - remember - whose turn it is," John panted.
"Possibly -" Sherlock gasped - "it is a draw?"
John sat up. "Nice try. I remember now. It’s my turn. Lay back against the pillows, love," John said, pushing Sherlock’s chest back. He felt so dizzy he almost fell off the side of the bed reaching for the lube. He slicked himself thoroughly and slicked Sherlock’s cock, too, admiring how engorged it was. Sherlock’s eyes were closed and John could see him deliberately slowing his breathing.
John climbed on top of Sherlock, straddling him, and reached back to pull Sherlock’s knees up. "Don’t move, Sherlock, just - don’t - move," he whispered as he settled the head of Sherlock’s cock against his entrance, his heart pounding. Sherlock’s clever fingers in the shower had opened him a little, but he rarely ever let Sherlock fuck him. John had issues with penetration that Sherlock was well aware of, and although he trusted Sherlock completely, there were so many other ways Sherlock could thrill him without venturing into an area where John had residual boundaries.
Could, should he push through that, for the sake of the game? Was that fair, was it right? All he knew is that he craved it, suddenly, was on fire for it and he hadn’t felt that particular feeling for a very long time.
He saw that Sherlock was shocked into stillness. Obviously, he had taken John’s bravado at the beginning of the game to be just that. He hadn’t expected this. His hands wrapped around John’s hips and he was helping guide John lower, lower. John was taking his time, trying not to think of the clock.
When Sherlock’s head was finally within him, John let out a decadent groan between gritted teeth. He was not yet fully seated on Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock could see between John’s legs, could see his cock penetrating his lover. He couldn’t help putting his finger there, tracing a ring around the rim of John’s arsehole as it stretched to embrace him. He was flooded with a frenzy of lust and had an overpowering urge to thrust up into him, hard, but John put a hand on his chest to stop him, "No, Sherlock, no," as he slowly impaled himself on Sherlock’s cock until at last he was fully seated.
They just looked at each other, on fire, and John leaned down to kiss him tenderly, passionately as he started thrusting up and down. The feeling of Sherlock’s cock filling him was so intoxicating, even without Sherlock thrusting back, he could not believe he had waited so long to taste it again. The heat, the fullness took him over and he felt his release was very near. He would not, could not resist any longer. His cock was so full, so heavy, so hot. He reached down to kiss Sherlock’s neck, and whispered against his ear, "I love you," as the tide took him over completely, weightless, timeless, and his cock showered come over both of them without a single touch. And he felt Sherlock spilling into him as he held John in a crushing embrace, crying, "yes, yes," over and over.
Neither one of them heard the alarm.
The end.
Listen to C'Mon HERE
Author: ghislainem70/ettuinarcadia
Rating: NC-17+
Word count: 4,500
Warnings: Very explicit sex, bdsm scenarios, not much plot.
Summary: John decides Sherlock needs a little challenge. A Sherlock/John pwp.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs. Moffat, Gattiss et al.
After the last time Sherlock ignored his instruction and made John come too soon with a self satisfied smirk, accepting the resulting lashes with undisguised luxuriant pleasure, John decided to appeal to Sherlock's love of games; specifically, of competition.
John was an inventive dom, and Sherlock never tired of his unpredictability.
"We're going to try something new. You have my permission to try and make me come. But I'm going to do the same to you. No holds barred. 10 minute rounds. You can mentally, but not physically, resist. This applies to both; discipline is off during the tournament except as either party chooses to exercise during their round.
"Of course safeword applies. No other rules. Whoever comes first, loses. And there is a penalty for losing."
Sherlock was only slightly concerned by these rules. He had almost limitless self control where his sexual appetites were concerned, although he was otherwise rather impulsive. This game could be won with proper mental discipline, he presumed. John was the only person to even approach challenging his limits, to his endless fascination. John, on the other hand, whose soldier's discipline, honed in war, was formidable, was more inclined to lose himself even though he was Sherlock's dom.
"I suppose I'd better hear the penalty."
"No touch at all -- for a week."
Now this was a challenge. Sherlock prided himself on his self-control, and historically had been perfectly capable of withholding sexual pleasure from himself for months, on occasion more than a year; either because nothing was on offer that he considered worth the effort, or because the enticements of work had been all-absorbing. None of that applied to present circumstances, however; since first being with John he could not actually bear to go long without his touch.
The months between John's first moving into 221b and John's final capitulation had been an agony, hugely surprising and unspeakably difficult. He could not bear to contemplate repeating it. His addictive personality demanded John's hands, his gaze, his mouth, his cock. What he knew John failed to fully appreciate was that Sherlock distinguished very little between them. He needed them all equally.
He had been very careful to never yet permit any domestic disharmony between them to deteriorate to any physical coldness. Again, John probably did not fully appreciate that this was less loving consideration, and more sheer selfish need. All of this was nothing like his prior negligent conduct toward former lovers-- although Sherlock did not raise them in his own mind to that dignity, if he ever thought of them at all. Failed experiments, more like.
Was he up to this new game?
Of course. But. . .
"That sounds like the winner loses too," he said doubtfully.
"No, you don't understand. The loser may be touched by the winner, at the winner’s sole option. But the loser may not give or request any form of touch. For a week."
"Touch. . .direct or indirect?"
"Neither will be permitted."
Sherlock considered. Although he was supremely self-confident, he played back in his mind several scenes in just the past few weeks in which John had reduced his self control to shreds. So he knew that realistically, there was some risk here. But in the end, there was only one thing to do.
"The game, Doctor Watson, is on," he said.
The gauntlet was thrown.
* * *
Round One.
John took a coin from his pocket and flipped it. "Call it."
"Heads." Grinning.
It was tails.
"You lose," John said coolly, taking out his mobile and setting the stopwatch.
He simply paced a bit, circling Sherlock, but not touching him or making any move to remove any of their clothing. He did this for some moments. Sherlock was somewhat surprised at the subtlety of John's opening gambit.
Finally, he took Sherlock's hand and directed him sit in the chair by the fire.
He was behind Sherlock now.
He whispered into his ear. "Undo your trousers, love. Unzip them."
Sherlock, accustomed to obedience, did so. He did not permit himself to dwell on the warmth of John's breath softly disturbing his hair, or the flesh where his neck shivered just a little from the heat of his lips, so close, not touching.
John took Sherlock's hand and sucked his fingers, softly, and licked his palm until it was drenched with saliva. He stroked the fresh scar on his palm over and over with his tongue, causing a fiery tingle there that went straight to his groin. He remembered when they made those scars, pressing bloody palms together, and it made him shiver. He wondered if John would let him cut him now, just a little, and then he knew that John wanted him to think about this from the insinuating pressure of his tongue. Sherlock firmly put the thought from him as it was too exciting.
John leaned over and placed Sherlock's now wet hand under his briefs, straight onto his cock, his own hand guiding Sherlock's. Sherlock could endure this for a long while, and he settled in to enjoy the sensations, knowing he was safe. Then John started whispering wickedly in his ear again.
"I don't want you to come this time, love. No, it won't be for a long, long time. I want you up and ready to fuck me, proper, that's what I'm holding out for. And I can wait for it, never fear. But I need you to be ready for me. Are you? Do you think you are? I think not yet. No, you're not nearly ready yet."
Sherlock was gripping the sides of the chair with his free hand and endeavoring, with fair success, to control his breathing. Breath control was key to endurance. John's steady hand was guiding his own, stroking his slicked cock insistently, suggestively, but that was nothing now to the promise of piercing John with it, impaling him with it. John had rarely allowed him this particular indulgence.
He decided it was time to fight back. His cock was swollen now almost to its maximum fullness, and he freed it from his briefs with his other hand. He could hear John's intake of breath against his ear as he saw it rise up, glistening from the moisture of their palms. He tipped his head back and offered up his mouth to John, who leisurely licked his lips, but did not kiss, teasing.
Sherlock murmured, "I am ready, can't you see it, I'm so ready for you, but when I do I won't be stopping after five minutes, no, because you'll be begging me to never stop. So do your worst, John."
John sighed just a little, aahh, and stroked Sherlock harder for that.
Now, Sherlock was starting to wonder if he was possibly in more trouble than he had supposed, and he had to fight himself just a little not to thrust back against John's hand and crush John's lips with his own.
The alarm went off.
* * *
Round Two.
Sherlock swiftly pushed John off of him and set his own mobile for ten minutes.
He pushed John hard, flinging him back onto the sofa, unhooking his belt, unzipping his trousers. This made him remember all the times in those first months he had yearned to do just this. Then he pushed the thought from his mind because made him think of how unbelievably frustrated he had been, then. That was no good, obviously.
He decided winning this game would be his revenge and his reward for those months of self-denial, of tortured, hopeful waiting.
He knew John had a secret penchant for grinding against him, fully clothed. When he stopped to analyze the reasons why that might be, which his brain would not help doing, he imagined John in his uniform, up against a wall with another desperate soldier, hurried pleasure before they were caught fraternizing.
He wanted to obliterate all such memories so John would never, ever think of anyone but him, ever again.
He dove onto John, pinning his arms and grinding hard against his crotch with his thigh, but trying not to stimulate himself. He kissed John brutally, bruisingly, nothing like John's measured attack. This was an assault.
John tried to withstand it, responding only by small shifts of his hips, but following the rules did not try to close his mouth against the kiss, instead giving as good as he got until they both had to come up for air, panting.
Sherlock loved to kiss John, really loved it, so this was something like torture for him too; it felt something like being part of him, connected; in the strangest way, the closest he could ever be to being actually in John's skull, and he knew John would be amazed if he knew this, but probably would just laugh, and let him do it anyway. It was not unknown for him to keep at it until John had to order him to stop.
He paused from plundering John's mouth only to literally tear John's shirt off, the tearing sound unnaturally loud suddenly, and he used the remains to bind John's hands above his head. He didn't waste time with the binding; if it was too tight John could use his safeword and the rules forbade him from otherwise resisting.
How he loved this, he loved to look at John, hands helplessly bound above his head, eyes hungry and wondering what Sherlock might do to him now. A thousand decadent urges conflicted within him, momentarily paralyzing him with indecision.
He stopped himself. There was a time consideration, after all. If he won the game, well, then there would be time for - but they were a long way from that, yet.
What he settled upon now was truly uninterrupted access to John's chest, muscular from his diligent routine of pullups and pushups in 221c. He pulled up John's undershirt with a smirk. John knew he preferred John to dispense with an undershirt, but he had one on now, obviously having planned for this momentary advantage before the game began.
"Cheater," Sherlock mouthed against his chest as he attacked John's nipples with his mouth. They were unusually sensitive, and Sherlock wished briefly that they were pierced. The thought made his groin feel hot, though, so he bit hard on John's nipple, then licked and sucked with a will, making John cry out loudly and shiver helplessly.
Now he could really feel John's erection straining against his leg, and Sherlock moved his hand down to thumb the sensitive head with steady, insistent circles through the fabric of his trousers.
John was trying to stifle his moans and starting to thrust back reluctantly against Sherlock's hand. He could feel a little damp spot through John's trousers and he started to grin, self- satisfied, knowing he was within easy reach of victory, so easy; and John was gasping louder now ----
The alarm went off.
* * *
Round three.
John easily escaped from his bonds and reset the clock. He tugged sharply on his balls to relieve the luscious congested feeling there.
"Kneel," he ordered.
He pulled Sherlock's trousers and briefs down, exposing his ass. It was amazingly lush for a man so lithe.
It had only the faintest of traces from his last whipping. John didn't hesitate to lay into him with his belt, eight in quick succession to bring up the color now, make him really feel the sting, the burn the way John knew he loved it.
He felt the surge from his arm down to Sherlock's ass and knew Sherlock could feel it, too; that moment when the sharp delicious pain became charged with mixed lightness and power.
When John paused Sherlock groaned, just once, and they both became measurably harder.
John waited a moment until his own erection subsided just a little, then started laying in random smacks across his ass, the backs of his thighs. The heat exploded luxuriously over Sherlock's sensitive skin.
Just as abruptly, John changed to a punishing, measured rhythm that tormented Sherlock, who was swaying, just slightly, against the belt's lash. He refused to cry out, either for mercy or for more.
He was starting to perspire freely and John paused to run his hands over his dampened back, feeling the exquisite tension there. Sherlock’s self-restraint was starting to weaken, possibly. But John didn’t underestimate him a bit.
Now John reached around to stroke his cock with firm deliberate strokes, not too fast. Yet. He brought out the lube and slipped a single slick finger into his ass and started finger-fucking him in earnest, then pushed a second finger in. Sherlock resisted fucking back on his hand; but it was no good as John's hand was pulling faster on his cock now too, faster, so fast.
Sherlock was reduced to visualizing formulae to distract himself.
If only John would let up, just a little, but there was no escape from the sensation of John's strong fingers thrusting into him and stroking his cock so perfectly while his skin was so exquisitely on fire from the strokes of his belt.
"Come, now, love, you want to, I know you need to, now," John ordered. It was brilliant and he felt a trace of precome leaking. This was so good. He could feel Sherlock was right there and in a moment, his come would be drenching his hand.
Sherlock grit his teeth and expelled his breath, hard, to pull back from the dangerous brink. His body wanted to obey, was accustomed to obeying John. He bit his lips to stop them forming the word, please, or maybe it was, yes, it was so perfect.
The bell rang and Sherlock rolled away, gasping, onto the floor.
* * *
Round Four.
After a few moments he was calmer and Sherlock set his clock.
He discarded his trousers and briefs.
"Come with me," he said, dragging John by the hand to the bathroom. "Strip," he ordered, and tore off his shirt while he turned on the hot water.
But that was going to take a while, so he stepped into the cold water and let it bring the heat in his punished ass and cock down. Better. John never knew of the cold showers Sherlock used to take, during those long first months. They had been indispensable. He wasn’t sure he might not have actually attacked John otherwise; he had constantly wanted to, visualized all the ways . . . If John had been more observant, he would had to have noticed that he was able to take a perfectly long, hot shower immediately after Sherlock had used it for more than half an hour. It should have been perfectly obvious that whatever Sherlock was doing in there, he wasn’t using hot water. Yes, it was a fact that John, at first, had not been terribly observant.
But he got there, in the end.
As soon the hot water came, he dragged John into the shower where he knelt and soaped John's entire body, lavishing especial attention to his balls (now noticeably hot and heavy, he noted with satisfaction); and between the cheeks of his ass, just pressing a teasing finger at the tight opening there, working it slowly in before taking his entire cock into his mouth, deep, so deep, not holding back, knowing John could feel it slam the back of his throat.
He sucked with dedication, pressing John hard against the slick tiled wall. John was moaning "God, Sherlock, no, wait, not yet," and twisting his fingers in Sherlock's wet hair to try and control it. But it was useless. There was no teasing here, Sherlock was hitting that perfect pairing of firm suction and rhythm that drove John wild. He's a bloody mind-reader, John thought hopelessly.
His thighs started trembling and the need to come was becoming explosive. His cock was impossibly full and hard. Sherlock's finger was stroking his prostate now, wickedly nudging, urging. Sherlock's mouth was so sensual that he knew he was doomed.
He tipped his head back and closed his eyes because watching Sherlock's lips working his cock was making everything so much tighter, while hot water ran down over their bodies together as he tried to ride it out.
But Sherlock was making obscene little moans in the back of his throat as he sucked harder and faster, letting the tip of his tongue tease open his slit to take the precome flowing there from the relentless massaging of his prostate. John's entire body was shuddering now and he groaned, "Aaahh, God, Sherlock, you bastard -- " and he teetered on the very brink of ruin when the alarm went off and John jerked back just in time.
Sherlock released his cock with a single voluptuous lick of his tongue.
* * *
Round Five.
John pushed Sherlock out of the shower and turned the cold water briefly on himself. This helped shock him back from the brink, and he gratefully felt the danger retreating. He pulled Sherlock upstairs and pushed him facedown onto the bed, and set the clock. Ten minutes.
John was so aroused, the need to come still so urgent, that he was grateful that Sherlock was not looking at him, but had closed his eyes. John found the restraints and focused on tying Sherlock's hands securely to the bedposts to distract him from his own aching cock.
Sherlock's ass was beautifully striped with bright pink marks from the belt, and John licked his own palm and ran it over Sherlock's buttocks, relishing the heat, then administering a few pinches that made Sherlock squirm and gasp. He saw Sherlock trying not to rub against the friction of the sheets and smiled. The contest was not as easy as Sherlock thought. John licked his lips.
How he longed to fuck Sherlock now, he could see he was primed for it; but he knew it would bring about his ruin faster than Sherlock's, in the state he was in. He went to the drawer and withdrew a silicone dildo that had a crook at the tip to stroke the prostate. Sherlock generally far preferred John's cock and fingers, but John was not afraid to supplement with toys when his stamina flagged. Sherlock could be quite a handful.
But first to ready him. He lubed his fingers and set to work stretching him, slowly but determinedly, mindful of time pressure. Well, it would have to do, he thought as he slipped his fingers in and out, Sherlock literally biting the pillow now, and then he slipped the dildo in and started pumping it. It was a little soon and the stretch burned, John knew, but after a moment he could feel it working in more smoothly was Sherlock was making little involuntary motions to try and push back or withdraw, somehow to control it, escape it, but it was impossible. John pressed down against Sherlock's hip with his free hand to force him to lay still and take it.
"Go ahead and take it, take it all in, love," he urged, pressing just a little deeper.
Now he plunged it to its fullest depth and left it there, stretching his ass just a little uncomfortably, while he moved below to swiftly bind Sherlock's ankles, too. There was nothing but the safeword to stop him doing exactly as he pleased to Sherlock now, and suddenly he didn't care any more about the game.
He pulled the dildo out with a small wet sucking sound and let Sherlock just pant there, needy and empty, the few thrusts having just been a tease; but before he could recover himself John was starting to penetrate his ass with his cock. John knew he would probably come, but he didn't care anymore, it was so tempting, hot, good. Divine.
Sherlock was laid out submissively under John's body now and there was a beautiful sensation of melting together as one. John slowly worked his way in and out, the heat and tightness from Sherlock's ass embracing him combined with the radiating heat of the lashed buttocks against his skin to make a double torment. Sherlock wasn’t resisting any more, no; Sherlock was trying to thrust back up to meet him now, struggling against the restriction of his bonds, moaning his name, "John," with each thrust. "Don't ever stop," Sherlock begged and just like that, John made a mighty effort and he did stop, pulling slowly and then fast, all the way out, and flung himself back onto the bed, his purple cock straining in the cool air as they both moaned together in frustration.
The alarm went off.
* * *
Round Six.
John almost was ready ask for amnesty, a cease-fire; he wanted to plunge back in and have his way with Sherlock, so badly. But it was Sherlock’s turn now, and it was John after all who laid down the rules of the game. He had his pride. John bit his tongue.
If Sherlock touched him with his mouth it would all be over immediately.
"Please untie me," Sherlock requested politely. He was after all John’s sub.
John did so, his hands shaking. He could not resist kissing Sherlock fiercely as Sherlock set the clock.
But then Sherlock pulled away and started pushing John down onto the bed, simply stroking him with his clever fingers, pulling steadily but frustratingly slowly, more slowly on the shaft of his cock, slowing everything down just a little.
John was puzzled. Why was Sherlock helping him?
Then the frustration of the slowness set in after the heady stimulation of moments before, the brilliant luxury of being buried up to the hilt in Sherlock’s ass. Now Sherlock was kissing him again, deeply, all tongue and heat and a lustful sort of humming from the back of his throat as he coaxed his cock, ever so slowly.
Somehow the slowness made every thing much, much worse; he had been so close a moment ago, and there was nothing in this slow, maddening pace that would give him satisfaction.
And how badly he wanted to come, finally, now, he was so ready but despite victory clearly being in the literal palm of his hand, Sherlock withheld it, making him strain against him.
"Fuck, Sherlock, damn you, harder, harder, I can’t -" Sherlock was staring at John’s agonized expression with intense fascination. He knew John was desperate to capitulate and suddenly it was far more important to draw this out, to confuse John, to make him suffer, than winning the game. John brought his own hand up to try and force Sherlock to bring him off harder, faster, but Sherlock pushed it away and said sharply,
"No, John, it’s my turn."
He didn’t want to waste any of these precious seconds stopping to tie John up. The frustrated need, the agony on John’s face was sensational, he couldn’t get enough of it. How the tables were turned; Sherlock, as John’s sub, was seldom - if ever - permitted to torment John to this extent. He felt a heady sense of power and realized far too late that his own cock was straining, leaking, and he felt the imminent release just hovering there. It would take the merest touch for his own orgasm to spill over.
So he just stopped everything, panting there, as John writhed. "Oh God, you bastard, Sherlock," and John actually started stroking his own cock, hard and fast, as his other hand reached for Sherlock’s own swollen cock. As Sherlock looked down to see John’s fingertips brush his head he shuddered and gasped loudly.
The alarm went off..
* * *
Round Seven.
With a shout they both fell back on the bed. Neither of them moved a muscle. No coherent thought formed in John’s head, and Sherlock’s mental faculties were seriously impaired.
"I can’t - remember - whose turn it is," John panted.
"Possibly -" Sherlock gasped - "it is a draw?"
John sat up. "Nice try. I remember now. It’s my turn. Lay back against the pillows, love," John said, pushing Sherlock’s chest back. He felt so dizzy he almost fell off the side of the bed reaching for the lube. He slicked himself thoroughly and slicked Sherlock’s cock, too, admiring how engorged it was. Sherlock’s eyes were closed and John could see him deliberately slowing his breathing.
John climbed on top of Sherlock, straddling him, and reached back to pull Sherlock’s knees up. "Don’t move, Sherlock, just - don’t - move," he whispered as he settled the head of Sherlock’s cock against his entrance, his heart pounding. Sherlock’s clever fingers in the shower had opened him a little, but he rarely ever let Sherlock fuck him. John had issues with penetration that Sherlock was well aware of, and although he trusted Sherlock completely, there were so many other ways Sherlock could thrill him without venturing into an area where John had residual boundaries.
Could, should he push through that, for the sake of the game? Was that fair, was it right? All he knew is that he craved it, suddenly, was on fire for it and he hadn’t felt that particular feeling for a very long time.
He saw that Sherlock was shocked into stillness. Obviously, he had taken John’s bravado at the beginning of the game to be just that. He hadn’t expected this. His hands wrapped around John’s hips and he was helping guide John lower, lower. John was taking his time, trying not to think of the clock.
When Sherlock’s head was finally within him, John let out a decadent groan between gritted teeth. He was not yet fully seated on Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock could see between John’s legs, could see his cock penetrating his lover. He couldn’t help putting his finger there, tracing a ring around the rim of John’s arsehole as it stretched to embrace him. He was flooded with a frenzy of lust and had an overpowering urge to thrust up into him, hard, but John put a hand on his chest to stop him, "No, Sherlock, no," as he slowly impaled himself on Sherlock’s cock until at last he was fully seated.
They just looked at each other, on fire, and John leaned down to kiss him tenderly, passionately as he started thrusting up and down. The feeling of Sherlock’s cock filling him was so intoxicating, even without Sherlock thrusting back, he could not believe he had waited so long to taste it again. The heat, the fullness took him over and he felt his release was very near. He would not, could not resist any longer. His cock was so full, so heavy, so hot. He reached down to kiss Sherlock’s neck, and whispered against his ear, "I love you," as the tide took him over completely, weightless, timeless, and his cock showered come over both of them without a single touch. And he felt Sherlock spilling into him as he held John in a crushing embrace, crying, "yes, yes," over and over.
Neither one of them heard the alarm.
The end.
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