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.
"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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