Fill: A Thorough Examination 5b/?
anonymous
September 27 2010, 01:04:58 UTC
"Treatment?" Sherlock was not used to confusion, and he was now as confused, as uncertain as he had even been in his life. It wasn't that he didn't understand what John meant to do (more or less, probably he lacked some detail, which his imagination was only too happy to supply). It was his own reaction that left him feeling desperately out of his depth.
John sighed, a disappointed sound, and he was certainly standing with his hands on his hips as he had before, a posture and expression to indicate that Sherlock was being unreasonable.
"Sherlock, I need to know. I realize it may be a bit embarrassing, but I am your doctor. You've got to trust me."
He did trust John. Even now. That was the hell of it. He didn't know how not to anymore.
"Correct," he said. It came out less firm than he'd meant it to, a quiet, choked word in a room full of silence.
He heard John's shaky sigh, and then nothing while he counted in his head, trying to keep calm. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three--
"That's good, Sherlock. Thanks." John's voice was perfectly steady again. He sounded quite himself, but for a certain deeper tone that had to do with tension held in the throat, usually caused by strong emotion, often a good indicator of dishonesty but also anger, fear, and arousal--
John's hand rested on Sherlock's lower stomach, an inch from his cock. Sherlock's train of thought derailed, a spectacular crash, broken tracks, fireball, no survivors.
"But you do masturbate?" John said. "No problems with achieving an erection or ejaculation?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"That's encouraging."
Sherlock almost laughed. John even sounded encouraging. He really was good at this. Had he done it before? Clearly he'd never been caught, and no wonder if he was this careful, this precise, this patient. Sherlock sifted through the last five months again. He needed more information.
"Sherlock." Sound of stretched latex snapping back into place; gloves. A tube uncapped. "Don't drift off, please. If this is going to work, I'll need your full attention, and I will have it."
Slick warmth between his spread cheeks, John's finger again, pressing in. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut behind in the blindfold.
"You have questions," John said.
He ought to have answers, but John did have his full attention now, and he couldn't make his brain work properly. One finger was quickly followed by a second, and they twisted together inside, curved up, and made him see stars as he closed his eyes still tighter. His cock was stiffening, and his breath was coming hard and ragged. Still, he needed to know.
"Who else?" he gasped. "Anyone?"
"Not this far. I've pulled the prostate exam bit a few times."
"Easy to--let people's embarrassment--" He was panting now. John's thrusts were much harder than last time, much more precisely judged, hitting home every time. He pulled against the straps at his ankles and shifted restlessly, paper rustling beneath him.
"Yes, quite. No one wants to think about it, let alone talk about it. Half a dozen Army boys with sexual identity crises. That's about the extent of it."
He pulled his fingers out, and Sherlock's body clenched on nothing. Sherlock turned his face toward his shoulder, searching for somewhere to hide.
"It's not the extent of what I've thought about, of course," John said. "I guess I was waiting for the right moment. Or the right person."
"And that person is me?"
"Seems that way, doesn't it? Relax now. Just a bit more lubricant and then we'll get on."
John pushed cool gel into him until Sherlock found himself trying to shift away. It was impossible, of course, and he was stuck with this feeling of being too wet, too slick, too open and exposed.
"Problem?" John said.
Sherlock dug his nails into his palms. "If I asked you to stop," he said, haltingly, forcing every word out. "Would you-- Is there any chance--"
"Sherlock."
He recognized the tone of John's voice. It was similar to the one he used himself when John was being unbearably dim. From John, it was much gentler, and Sherlock found himself indescribably grateful for that.
"No, I suppose not," he said. "Not having come this far."
Fill: A Thorough Examination 6a/?
anonymous
September 27 2010, 20:12:06 UTC
There was ratcheting sound, and the stirrups swung up and back, and Sherlock's legs with them, until his knees were nearly over his hips.
"This may be a bit uncomfortable, but you must tell me if it hurts, you understand? It shouldn't hurt. You do trust me, don't you, Sherlock?"
"Yes, John." He did, but there was a thread of fear winding through his thoughts now, fear that came with the certainty that there was no way out of this, that his updated knowledge of John's thought process and personality was still forming and he couldn't predict how far John would go, that no prediction wouldn't help him in any case.
Something much harder and smoother than John's finger pressed inside him. Thicker, as well, and he gasped.
John's hand was briefly soothing on his thigh, but then his fingers were running greedily around the edge of stretched muscle. The skin was tight and slick and too sensitive, and Sherlock tried to flinch away. He failed.
"Lovely," John murmured, and then his fingers were gone, he was moving, manipulating the thing (speculum? the dimensions seemed to fit the one he'd seen on the tray) inside Sherlock, and yes, that was what it was because it was getting bigger, stretching him wider.
"John."
John paused. "Does it hurt?"
After a long few seconds of adjustment and cooling sweat on his chest, he was forced to admit that it didn't. It was uncomfortable and unyielding, and he felt immensely full, but it didn't actually hurt. He shook his head.
John kept going, spreading him open, pausing every now and then to touch the stretched skin of his hole, to turn the instrument lightly from side to side. It produced a deep, itching almost-pleasure that made Sherlock bite his lip and shove his feet harder against cold metal.
"Hm," John said, when Sherlock all but trembling and sure the thing must be open as far as it could go. "Not as good a view as I'd hoped for. We'll have to go to the next size up, I'm afraid."
Sherlock could barely hear the noise that revelation forced out of him, and he was trembling as John pulled the thing slowly out-- "Can't close it all the way, sorry, tissue can get caught." --and out, and the widest point was at the very end, and he was left feeling empty and trying desperately to close his legs, body momentarily beyond his control.
"I have got a spreader bar I can use for your knees if you make me," John said absently. "So I imagine you'll want to stop that."
Sherlock sucked in a breath, thought hard about the opening notes to Prokofiev's Violin Sonata No. 2 in D major, and did stop it. It was not easy, but the threat of still more restraints was more than sufficient motivation. His heart was a constant percussion in his chest; each beat shook his body.
"Better," John said. "Now let's try this again."
By the time the second, larger instrument was seated and open inside him, there were tears stinging Sherlock's eyes. It was all pressure and slick intrusive movements inside him, sensations that walked some fine edge between too-intense pleasure and violation, and over it all, John's soft voice telling him how well he was doing.
"It's really lovely, how sensitive you are. Just impossible to resist. Let's see how sensitive, shall we?"
John was feeding something into the space left by the speculum, something thin and rigid, the tip of which fitted into place against his prostate. John gave it a few nudges, and then there was a click, and the thing started to vibrate.
Sherlock's back arched, and he panted, shifted his hips madly from side to side, but John must have fixed it in place somehow, because nothing he did got him the slightest relief.
"John-- John!"
John laughed. "Hush. I know that doesn't hurt."
"I can't, I can't--"
John moved, and there was a rough hand over Sherlock's mouth. "Not so loud, please." The hand was replaced by another length of gauze that John wrapped around the back of Sherlock's head and fitted between his lips. It pulled at the corners of his mouth and muffled and distorted his words. He was almost grateful for that last: seconds more of this and he'd be begging.
Fill: A Thorough Examination 6b/?
anonymous
September 27 2010, 20:13:42 UTC
"You can," John said. "We're nowhere what you can handle yet. Most people mean pain when they talk about the body's limits, but pleasure can be just as intense. Am I right?"
Sherlock couldn't answer, couldn't even really form words inside his own head. His cock was hard and pulsing pre-come that leaked down the shaft and stuck to his stomach. He was so close, muscles shaking with it, cock hot and aching. If he could just touch, it would be over in seconds.
"Of course, pain has its place, too. In controlled situations. Like this one."
A trail of sharp pricks ran up the inside of Sherlock's right thigh. It was distracting more than painful, but the higher up they went, the more sensitive his skin became. When it rolled over his balls he sucked in breath and went very still.
"Wartenburg pinwheel. Designed to test nerve response. They make disposable models now, but I like the steel myself. What do you think?"
It ran up the underside of Sherlock's cock, sharp, so sharp against skin stretched tight. Sherlock's chest heaved, and his orgasm retreated. John ran it up over the head, and he clenched his jaw tight. Up his stomach and chest, back down, and his skin seemed to grow new nerve endings in its wake.
Inner thighs again. It was almost ticklish now. John had a light touch. Sherlock shifted, and the points pressed hard into his skin. He let out a shaky breath at the bright spot of feeling that caused. He couldn't even manage to classify it. Pain, or pleasure, or something else entirely; it was beyond him.
"You do seem to be responding nicely," John said. He sounded amused.
There was a click, and the vibration inside Sherlock intensified, at least twice as strong, and his head hit the table, neck bent awkwardly as if some contortion might result in relief. There was no relief. The little spikes started up his thighs again, over his balls, down to the soft, vulnerable skin stretched around the speculum.
John stayed there, going in little circles, bright specks of almost-pain followed by the press of his finger. His fingertip, slicked again, pushed and wiggled between the edge of skin and the edge of the instrument and the edge of Sherlock's resolve. A choked whimper forced its way from behind the gag, and Sherlock bit at the inside of his cheek.
"Beautiful," John said, softly.
Then it was the pinwheel again, crawling up to his stomach, tracing around his cock, not quite touching, but a constant threat. The muscles of his stomach twitched, and he was pulling hard at the bindings that held his wrists. The pinwheel left his stomach and came down lightly on his cock.
"This is how you're going to come," John said. "It's a bit of a balancing act, you see? The vibrator and this. Your body can't decide which to respond to, so it draws things out."
It didn't hurt. Sherlock wanted it to hurt. It would be easier if it hurt. He could classify it, file it away in his brain, understand it. Instead he had the constant nag of this maddening, ticklish itch, like something crawling up and down his cock. It fought with the vibrator just as John said, and when it rolled over and around the head it was enough like pain to make Sherlock's breath hitch.
It vanished, and John took his cock in a gloved, slicked hand, and stroked him firmly, only once. It was enough to make him arch off the table as much as he could, enough to make him start begging for just one more touch because he knew that would be enough.
"Please," he said, but it came out mangled by the gag and he didn't even know if John could understand him. The pinwheel was back, light prickling and pulling him back from the edge.
"Sixty seconds," John said. "Count it out in your head if you can manage it."
Sherlock tried, but he must've lost count. He was only on forty-seven when John's hand closed around him again and drew up from root to tip, firm and warm and perfect. Then it was the pinwheel again, and Sherlock's throat and eyes burned hot with frustration.
Fill: A Thorough Examination 6c/?
anonymous
September 27 2010, 20:15:37 UTC
"Sixty seconds," John said again. "I'm trying to help you out here, Sherlock. To do this test properly I shouldn't be touching you at all."
It was seventy-six seconds this time, by Sherlock's count, and the smooth glide of John's hand was the best thing in the world. Either he was miscounting or John was being deliberately imprecise to throw him off. His time sense seemed to be going. How long had John had him like this? Normally, he would know to the minute. Now he could only estimate within a 30 minute margin of error, and that was unaccepta--
"I think you're drifting again, Sherlock." John took him in hand again, gave him three rough strokes, and he was so close he couldn't feel anything else, not the table under him or the bite of leather against his ankles or his own nails in his palms.
"Please, John, please, please don't stop--" He couldn't hear himself at all or guess how he sounded. The words broke into whimpers as John stopped touching him entirely and the vibrator jacked up another notch inside him.
He came in long spurts across his chest and throat. Colors swirled behind his eyes, and every muscle strained. When it was over, he collapsed and lay bonelessly still, mind empty of any thought.
"Good," John said. "Now we can really get started."
Re: Fill: A Thorough Examination 6c/?
anonymous
September 27 2010, 21:37:07 UTC
GUH. You are brilliant. And amazing. And EVIL!!! WHY DID YOU STOP THERE OMG OMG OMG WRITE MORE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT WHERE IS THE SEVENTH PART OMGOMGOMG CONTINUE PLEEEEEEEEEASE!!!
This fic is brilliant and so evil and sexy and hot, and I love you and will worhip at your altar of awesomeness. Wow. Guh. UNF, so so much.
Re: Fill: A Thorough Examination 6c/?
anonymous
September 28 2010, 05:41:44 UTC
Most people mean pain when they talk about the body's limits, but pleasure can be just as intense.
Anon, this is the hottest thing I have ever read in this fandom. And I have read a lot in this fandom. I really hope you continue, but if not, know that you are adored by me for writing this!
(Captcha is counting sinners. I think that applies!)
Re: Fill: A Thorough Examination 6c/?
anonymous
September 28 2010, 14:11:57 UTC
OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.
Never in all my life have I thought I would be pleased to see a speculum.
God, poor Sherlock, this is so evil and non-con and scary and WRONG. I almost feel bad that seeing him in this situation - and so upset by it - is turning me on like a light switch.
Oh, my, his poor ass being SO stretched by the speculum, and then John gets out the LARGER one. DYING. And then the VIBRATOR, FUCK! Pooooooor thing, he must be going crazy. And then the WHEEL, which I happen to know can be remarkably nice. And then John's HAND.
John's remarks about him being so sensitive, mmmmmm. And about "We're nowhere what you can handle yet" because that sounds to me like John is going to see just how far he has to go to get there.
And John's FUCKING WITH HIM ON THE TIME. That is almost even crueler than the rest.
And poooooor Sherlock, he's struggling, he doesn't WANT it to happen like this, but he comes. And then:
"Good," John said. "Now we can really get started."
Dead, only to resurrect for the next part.
(Captcha says some nonsense, and "wrong". Well, yes.
Re: Fill: A Thorough Examination 6c/? kakareenSeptember 28 2010, 20:56:37 UTC
What I'm finding incredibly fascinating, is how very perversely gentle John is being in his sadism, in this assault. Quiet, assured, soothing, and completely uncaring of Sherlock's mental and emotional well-being.
However, it does seem that he has very little desire in truly harming him physically, permanently. Probably because he wants to be able to do this again. And again.
Fill: A Thorough Examination 7a/?
anonymous
September 28 2010, 23:54:03 UTC
thank you for the kind words! It's really encouraging. :D
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Sherlock would've tensed up at that if his body had been capable of it, but in fact nothing happened directly except that John cut his gag loose. Round-tipped scissors, blunt and cool on his hot cheek. Saliva-soaked gauze peeled away. The gloves were gone, and John touched his face gently and rubbed at the sore spots at the hinge of his jaw.
"Blindfold on or off?" John said. "Just for a bit."
Sherlock hesitated. John stroked damp hair back from his forehead and waited. On was better in some ways. It was easier to pretend this wasn't real. A dream or some drug-distorted version of actual events. But Sherlock wasn't one for false comfort, or even much for true comfort if it came to that. And he wanted to see John's face.
"Off," he said. It was a whisper. He couldn't manage anything louder.
The blindfold, too, was cut off. John cupped his hand over Sherlock's eyes to filter the light as the room came back into focus. It was so familiar, this place. He'd been here not just for the check-ups, but to wait for John to finish work so they could go out, to drag him away to some crime scene, to get stitches after a particularly deep cut (not case-related, a bagel cutting accident, John had laughed so hard Sherlock had ended up laughing too), a tetanus shot, relief for his utter, all-encompassing boredom.
The lines of John's face were equally familiar: the set of his eyes, the slant of jaw and cheekbones, the almost unnoticeable pock mark near his right eyebrow from when he'd had chickenpox as a child. Sherlock knew exactly how his mouth and eyes creased when he smiled or laughed, how he held himself when he was uncertain (and he wasn't uncertain now), the tilt of his head that meant he wanted to ask questions but didn't want to interrupt Sherlock's thoughts. He knew John better than he'd ever known anyone, perhaps even Mycroft. With John, he'd paid attention.
This was a huge thing to miss.
John had a warm, damp towel, and he was cleaning Sherlock up; not just the semen, but sweat as well, and drool that had escaped the gag. His hands soothed aching muscles, and he readjusted the bindings on Sherlock's wrists to ease his shoulders.
Perhaps he hadn't missed anything. There was always something about John that made Sherlock keep looking, that kept him from dismissing John as a solved riddle. Most people were so easy to figure out. They had great, huge, obvious buttons and if you poked them, they behaved in expected ways. Sherlock had begun to think John simply didn't have those buttons, but maybe they were only better hidden.
He coughed, and John's eyes were on him immediately. "Water?" Sherlock said.
"Yes, of course."
John held his head up again and helped him drink. Sherlock let himself be supported, and when John took the glass away, he tipped his head to the side and brushed his lips across John's wrist.
John froze. "Don't," he said.
Sherlock pressed a kiss against thin skin. He could feel John's pulse against his lips, and John stayed as still as if he were the one tied up.
"I'm not going to stop," John said. He'd looked away at the first touch, eyes fixed on the far wall. He looked back now and met Sherlock's eyes.
"I don't believe I ever asked you to. Quite."
John laughed, breathy and shaky. "I should've known better than to stop even for a second. Got yourself back together, have you?"
"Somewhat."
"Just means I'll have to take you apart all over again."
"Why are you doing this, John?"
"You're the genius. You tell me."
"As you said, this is not my area. A hint, perhaps?"
John took his hand away and bent down to kiss Sherlock's forehead. "Conservation of energy," he said. "Two birds with one stone. That sort of thing." He reached behind him for the tray. "I think you need a distraction."
He laid two pairs of forceps out on Sherlock's chest. "This will hurt a bit, I'm afraid," he said. "But I suspect you'd prefer that at this point."
John sighed, a disappointed sound, and he was certainly standing with his hands on his hips as he had before, a posture and expression to indicate that Sherlock was being unreasonable.
"Sherlock, I need to know. I realize it may be a bit embarrassing, but I am your doctor. You've got to trust me."
He did trust John. Even now. That was the hell of it. He didn't know how not to anymore.
"Correct," he said. It came out less firm than he'd meant it to, a quiet, choked word in a room full of silence.
He heard John's shaky sigh, and then nothing while he counted in his head, trying to keep calm. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three--
"That's good, Sherlock. Thanks." John's voice was perfectly steady again. He sounded quite himself, but for a certain deeper tone that had to do with tension held in the throat, usually caused by strong emotion, often a good indicator of dishonesty but also anger, fear, and arousal--
John's hand rested on Sherlock's lower stomach, an inch from his cock. Sherlock's train of thought derailed, a spectacular crash, broken tracks, fireball, no survivors.
"But you do masturbate?" John said. "No problems with achieving an erection or ejaculation?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"That's encouraging."
Sherlock almost laughed. John even sounded encouraging. He really was good at this. Had he done it before? Clearly he'd never been caught, and no wonder if he was this careful, this precise, this patient. Sherlock sifted through the last five months again. He needed more information.
"Sherlock." Sound of stretched latex snapping back into place; gloves. A tube uncapped. "Don't drift off, please. If this is going to work, I'll need your full attention, and I will have it."
Slick warmth between his spread cheeks, John's finger again, pressing in. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut behind in the blindfold.
"You have questions," John said.
He ought to have answers, but John did have his full attention now, and he couldn't make his brain work properly. One finger was quickly followed by a second, and they twisted together inside, curved up, and made him see stars as he closed his eyes still tighter. His cock was stiffening, and his breath was coming hard and ragged. Still, he needed to know.
"Who else?" he gasped. "Anyone?"
"Not this far. I've pulled the prostate exam bit a few times."
"Easy to--let people's embarrassment--" He was panting now. John's thrusts were much harder than last time, much more precisely judged, hitting home every time. He pulled against the straps at his ankles and shifted restlessly, paper rustling beneath him.
"Yes, quite. No one wants to think about it, let alone talk about it. Half a dozen Army boys with sexual identity crises. That's about the extent of it."
He pulled his fingers out, and Sherlock's body clenched on nothing. Sherlock turned his face toward his shoulder, searching for somewhere to hide.
"It's not the extent of what I've thought about, of course," John said. "I guess I was waiting for the right moment. Or the right person."
"And that person is me?"
"Seems that way, doesn't it? Relax now. Just a bit more lubricant and then we'll get on."
John pushed cool gel into him until Sherlock found himself trying to shift away. It was impossible, of course, and he was stuck with this feeling of being too wet, too slick, too open and exposed.
"Problem?" John said.
Sherlock dug his nails into his palms. "If I asked you to stop," he said, haltingly, forcing every word out. "Would you-- Is there any chance--"
"Sherlock."
He recognized the tone of John's voice. It was similar to the one he used himself when John was being unbearably dim. From John, it was much gentler, and Sherlock found himself indescribably grateful for that.
"No, I suppose not," he said. "Not having come this far."
"I'm glad you understand," John said.
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Dear God, this is such a guilty pleasure!
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"Not this far. I've pulled the prostate exam bit a few times."
People = gullible.
Wait - John has been working toward this THE WHOLE TIME THEY WERE FLATMATES? That is DIABOLICAL!!!!!!!!!
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*shifty eyes* Author-anon, darling, love, pet? Is it too late to put in a request for some electricity play? *hides in shame*
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"This may be a bit uncomfortable, but you must tell me if it hurts, you understand? It shouldn't hurt. You do trust me, don't you, Sherlock?"
"Yes, John." He did, but there was a thread of fear winding through his thoughts now, fear that came with the certainty that there was no way out of this, that his updated knowledge of John's thought process and personality was still forming and he couldn't predict how far John would go, that no prediction wouldn't help him in any case.
Something much harder and smoother than John's finger pressed inside him. Thicker, as well, and he gasped.
John's hand was briefly soothing on his thigh, but then his fingers were running greedily around the edge of stretched muscle. The skin was tight and slick and too sensitive, and Sherlock tried to flinch away. He failed.
"Lovely," John murmured, and then his fingers were gone, he was moving, manipulating the thing (speculum? the dimensions seemed to fit the one he'd seen on the tray) inside Sherlock, and yes, that was what it was because it was getting bigger, stretching him wider.
"John."
John paused. "Does it hurt?"
After a long few seconds of adjustment and cooling sweat on his chest, he was forced to admit that it didn't. It was uncomfortable and unyielding, and he felt immensely full, but it didn't actually hurt. He shook his head.
John kept going, spreading him open, pausing every now and then to touch the stretched skin of his hole, to turn the instrument lightly from side to side. It produced a deep, itching almost-pleasure that made Sherlock bite his lip and shove his feet harder against cold metal.
"Hm," John said, when Sherlock all but trembling and sure the thing must be open as far as it could go. "Not as good a view as I'd hoped for. We'll have to go to the next size up, I'm afraid."
Sherlock could barely hear the noise that revelation forced out of him, and he was trembling as John pulled the thing slowly out-- "Can't close it all the way, sorry, tissue can get caught." --and out, and the widest point was at the very end, and he was left feeling empty and trying desperately to close his legs, body momentarily beyond his control.
"I have got a spreader bar I can use for your knees if you make me," John said absently. "So I imagine you'll want to stop that."
Sherlock sucked in a breath, thought hard about the opening notes to Prokofiev's Violin Sonata No. 2 in D major, and did stop it. It was not easy, but the threat of still more restraints was more than sufficient motivation. His heart was a constant percussion in his chest; each beat shook his body.
"Better," John said. "Now let's try this again."
By the time the second, larger instrument was seated and open inside him, there were tears stinging Sherlock's eyes. It was all pressure and slick intrusive movements inside him, sensations that walked some fine edge between too-intense pleasure and violation, and over it all, John's soft voice telling him how well he was doing.
"It's really lovely, how sensitive you are. Just impossible to resist. Let's see how sensitive, shall we?"
John was feeding something into the space left by the speculum, something thin and rigid, the tip of which fitted into place against his prostate. John gave it a few nudges, and then there was a click, and the thing started to vibrate.
Sherlock's back arched, and he panted, shifted his hips madly from side to side, but John must have fixed it in place somehow, because nothing he did got him the slightest relief.
"John-- John!"
John laughed. "Hush. I know that doesn't hurt."
"I can't, I can't--"
John moved, and there was a rough hand over Sherlock's mouth. "Not so loud, please." The hand was replaced by another length of gauze that John wrapped around the back of Sherlock's head and fitted between his lips. It pulled at the corners of his mouth and muffled and distorted his words. He was almost grateful for that last: seconds more of this and he'd be begging.
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Sherlock couldn't answer, couldn't even really form words inside his own head. His cock was hard and pulsing pre-come that leaked down the shaft and stuck to his stomach. He was so close, muscles shaking with it, cock hot and aching. If he could just touch, it would be over in seconds.
"Of course, pain has its place, too. In controlled situations. Like this one."
A trail of sharp pricks ran up the inside of Sherlock's right thigh. It was distracting more than painful, but the higher up they went, the more sensitive his skin became. When it rolled over his balls he sucked in breath and went very still.
"Wartenburg pinwheel. Designed to test nerve response. They make disposable models now, but I like the steel myself. What do you think?"
It ran up the underside of Sherlock's cock, sharp, so sharp against skin stretched tight. Sherlock's chest heaved, and his orgasm retreated. John ran it up over the head, and he clenched his jaw tight. Up his stomach and chest, back down, and his skin seemed to grow new nerve endings in its wake.
Inner thighs again. It was almost ticklish now. John had a light touch. Sherlock shifted, and the points pressed hard into his skin. He let out a shaky breath at the bright spot of feeling that caused. He couldn't even manage to classify it. Pain, or pleasure, or something else entirely; it was beyond him.
"You do seem to be responding nicely," John said. He sounded amused.
There was a click, and the vibration inside Sherlock intensified, at least twice as strong, and his head hit the table, neck bent awkwardly as if some contortion might result in relief. There was no relief. The little spikes started up his thighs again, over his balls, down to the soft, vulnerable skin stretched around the speculum.
John stayed there, going in little circles, bright specks of almost-pain followed by the press of his finger. His fingertip, slicked again, pushed and wiggled between the edge of skin and the edge of the instrument and the edge of Sherlock's resolve. A choked whimper forced its way from behind the gag, and Sherlock bit at the inside of his cheek.
"Beautiful," John said, softly.
Then it was the pinwheel again, crawling up to his stomach, tracing around his cock, not quite touching, but a constant threat. The muscles of his stomach twitched, and he was pulling hard at the bindings that held his wrists. The pinwheel left his stomach and came down lightly on his cock.
"This is how you're going to come," John said. "It's a bit of a balancing act, you see? The vibrator and this. Your body can't decide which to respond to, so it draws things out."
It didn't hurt. Sherlock wanted it to hurt. It would be easier if it hurt. He could classify it, file it away in his brain, understand it. Instead he had the constant nag of this maddening, ticklish itch, like something crawling up and down his cock. It fought with the vibrator just as John said, and when it rolled over and around the head it was enough like pain to make Sherlock's breath hitch.
It vanished, and John took his cock in a gloved, slicked hand, and stroked him firmly, only once. It was enough to make him arch off the table as much as he could, enough to make him start begging for just one more touch because he knew that would be enough.
"Please," he said, but it came out mangled by the gag and he didn't even know if John could understand him. The pinwheel was back, light prickling and pulling him back from the edge.
"Sixty seconds," John said. "Count it out in your head if you can manage it."
Sherlock tried, but he must've lost count. He was only on forty-seven when John's hand closed around him again and drew up from root to tip, firm and warm and perfect. Then it was the pinwheel again, and Sherlock's throat and eyes burned hot with frustration.
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It was seventy-six seconds this time, by Sherlock's count, and the smooth glide of John's hand was the best thing in the world. Either he was miscounting or John was being deliberately imprecise to throw him off. His time sense seemed to be going. How long had John had him like this? Normally, he would know to the minute. Now he could only estimate within a 30 minute margin of error, and that was unaccepta--
"I think you're drifting again, Sherlock." John took him in hand again, gave him three rough strokes, and he was so close he couldn't feel anything else, not the table under him or the bite of leather against his ankles or his own nails in his palms.
"Please, John, please, please don't stop--" He couldn't hear himself at all or guess how he sounded. The words broke into whimpers as John stopped touching him entirely and the vibrator jacked up another notch inside him.
He came in long spurts across his chest and throat. Colors swirled behind his eyes, and every muscle strained. When it was over, he collapsed and lay bonelessly still, mind empty of any thought.
"Good," John said. "Now we can really get started."
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This is incredible, Anon. Brava. Brava. @_@
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WHY DID YOU STOP THERE OMG OMG OMG WRITE MORE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT WHERE IS THE SEVENTH PART OMGOMGOMG CONTINUE PLEEEEEEEEEASE!!!
This fic is brilliant and so evil and sexy and hot, and I love you and will worhip at your altar of awesomeness.
Wow. Guh. UNF, so so much.
Seriously.
Moar now plz!
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Anon, this is the hottest thing I have ever read in this fandom. And I have read a lot in this fandom. I really hope you continue, but if not, know that you are adored by me for writing this!
(Captcha is counting sinners. I think that applies!)
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Never in all my life have I thought I would be pleased to see a speculum.
God, poor Sherlock, this is so evil and non-con and scary and WRONG. I almost feel bad that seeing him in this situation - and so upset by it - is turning me on like a light switch.
Oh, my, his poor ass being SO stretched by the speculum, and then John gets out the LARGER one. DYING. And then the VIBRATOR, FUCK! Pooooooor thing, he must be going crazy. And then the WHEEL, which I happen to know can be remarkably nice. And then John's HAND.
John's remarks about him being so sensitive, mmmmmm. And about "We're nowhere what you can handle yet" because that sounds to me like John is going to see just how far he has to go to get there.
And John's FUCKING WITH HIM ON THE TIME. That is almost even crueler than the rest.
And poooooor Sherlock, he's struggling, he doesn't WANT it to happen like this, but he comes. And then:
"Good," John said. "Now we can really get started."
Dead, only to resurrect for the next part.
(Captcha says some nonsense, and "wrong". Well, yes.
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However, it does seem that he has very little desire in truly harming him physically, permanently. Probably because he wants to be able to do this again. And again.
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Sherlock would've tensed up at that if his body had been capable of it, but in fact nothing happened directly except that John cut his gag loose. Round-tipped scissors, blunt and cool on his hot cheek. Saliva-soaked gauze peeled away. The gloves were gone, and John touched his face gently and rubbed at the sore spots at the hinge of his jaw.
"Blindfold on or off?" John said. "Just for a bit."
Sherlock hesitated. John stroked damp hair back from his forehead and waited. On was better in some ways. It was easier to pretend this wasn't real. A dream or some drug-distorted version of actual events. But Sherlock wasn't one for false comfort, or even much for true comfort if it came to that. And he wanted to see John's face.
"Off," he said. It was a whisper. He couldn't manage anything louder.
The blindfold, too, was cut off. John cupped his hand over Sherlock's eyes to filter the light as the room came back into focus. It was so familiar, this place. He'd been here not just for the check-ups, but to wait for John to finish work so they could go out, to drag him away to some crime scene, to get stitches after a particularly deep cut (not case-related, a bagel cutting accident, John had laughed so hard Sherlock had ended up laughing too), a tetanus shot, relief for his utter, all-encompassing boredom.
The lines of John's face were equally familiar: the set of his eyes, the slant of jaw and cheekbones, the almost unnoticeable pock mark near his right eyebrow from when he'd had chickenpox as a child. Sherlock knew exactly how his mouth and eyes creased when he smiled or laughed, how he held himself when he was uncertain (and he wasn't uncertain now), the tilt of his head that meant he wanted to ask questions but didn't want to interrupt Sherlock's thoughts. He knew John better than he'd ever known anyone, perhaps even Mycroft. With John, he'd paid attention.
This was a huge thing to miss.
John had a warm, damp towel, and he was cleaning Sherlock up; not just the semen, but sweat as well, and drool that had escaped the gag. His hands soothed aching muscles, and he readjusted the bindings on Sherlock's wrists to ease his shoulders.
Perhaps he hadn't missed anything. There was always something about John that made Sherlock keep looking, that kept him from dismissing John as a solved riddle. Most people were so easy to figure out. They had great, huge, obvious buttons and if you poked them, they behaved in expected ways. Sherlock had begun to think John simply didn't have those buttons, but maybe they were only better hidden.
He coughed, and John's eyes were on him immediately. "Water?" Sherlock said.
"Yes, of course."
John held his head up again and helped him drink. Sherlock let himself be supported, and when John took the glass away, he tipped his head to the side and brushed his lips across John's wrist.
John froze. "Don't," he said.
Sherlock pressed a kiss against thin skin. He could feel John's pulse against his lips, and John stayed as still as if he were the one tied up.
"I'm not going to stop," John said. He'd looked away at the first touch, eyes fixed on the far wall. He looked back now and met Sherlock's eyes.
"I don't believe I ever asked you to. Quite."
John laughed, breathy and shaky. "I should've known better than to stop even for a second. Got yourself back together, have you?"
"Somewhat."
"Just means I'll have to take you apart all over again."
"Why are you doing this, John?"
"You're the genius. You tell me."
"As you said, this is not my area. A hint, perhaps?"
John took his hand away and bent down to kiss Sherlock's forehead. "Conservation of energy," he said. "Two birds with one stone. That sort of thing." He reached behind him for the tray. "I think you need a distraction."
He laid two pairs of forceps out on Sherlock's chest. "This will hurt a bit, I'm afraid," he said. "But I suspect you'd prefer that at this point."
"Yes."
"Good to know you're predictable occasionally."
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