Fill: A Thorough Examination 8a/?
anonymous
September 30 2010, 00:02:09 UTC
"Are you sure?"
He could hear John swallow.
"Sherlock, stop it. This won't work."
"That assumes you know my goal."
John didn't ask what his goal was, which was just as well. Sherlock would've been hard pressed to come up with something plausible. In truth, he didn't know himself, beyond a desire to finally unravel the last secrets of John's character, to simply make John react.
"Right," John said, after an audible breath. "You're to tell me immediately if it hurts, and I mean actual pain because it will feel a bit odd."
"You're shoving nearly a foot of steel up my prick. It did not occur to me that it would feel in any way normal."
"The gag's only off so you can tell me if you're in pain, not so you can get stroppy with me."
"You like to hear me talk." It was true, though Sherlock had never quite pinpointed the reason. John would let him talk for hours about any subject under the sun and even give a reasonable appearance of attention.
"Yeah, well, right now I'd like to hear you shut up."
Sherlock did, because John had his cock in one hand and was pressing something--plastic, not metal--against the tip. There was pressure, the sensation of something liquid, or nearly so, going in where things were only meant to come out. Sherlock's face twisted up of its own accord, and the only word he could come up with was eurgh, which he wasn't about to say out loud.
"Lube," John said.
"I've seen videos of this online," Sherlock said quickly. It made John pause, which was the point. "No one seems to bother with all this preparation."
"Then they ought to be more careful and they deserve every UTI they get."
Cold, slick steel touched the tip of his cock, and Sherlock became abruptly aware that the lurching sensation in his stomach might in fact be terror.
"One man did it with a pencil."
"If you don't shut it this instant, we can try that instead."
Sherlock didn't believe him, but he shut his mouth anyway. The blunt tip of the thing slid and rocked over and around and then, barely, inside.
"Don't," Sherlock said. He hadn't meant to, but it slipped out, loud and sudden, as if speech were suddenly a non-voluntary bodily function, like the beat of his heart.
"Are you feeling any pain?" John said.
Sherlock shook his head because if he opened his mouth he was going to say, No, but don't, please don't, please stop. He could feel it on his tongue, all lined up. And he wasn't going to say that. Not when it wouldn't do any good.
"Then we'll continue. It'll feel a bit like you need to urinate, a bit like you need to come, but again, there shouldn't be any pain."
It was John's doctor voice, calm and sure, and Sherlock made himself focus on that. The only other thing he had to focus on is the spiraling panic winding up in his chest as John turned and eased the thing further inside his cock. It wasn't painful at all, but it was wrong, so wrong he didn't know how to process it, and it only got more intense the deeper John went.
It made his toes curl, and it made him shift until John told him firmly to keep still. Keeping still was the absolute limit of his ability and nearly beyond it. It burned, but with something that wasn't pain, felt like the far edge of arousal but without even an erection, and finally slid home all the way to touch and rub inside him until keeping his mouth shut and keeping still were mutually exclusive.
"Fuck." It burst out of him, such a relief that he said it again immediately. "Fuck, John, what, don't, I don't, what is this, please--"
John turned it slowly, a quarter turn, perhaps less, and Sherlock threw his head back and panted.
"I think we could go a size up," John said. "Hold on. Out's generally better than in, at least that was my experience."
He could hear John swallow.
"Sherlock, stop it. This won't work."
"That assumes you know my goal."
John didn't ask what his goal was, which was just as well. Sherlock would've been hard pressed to come up with something plausible. In truth, he didn't know himself, beyond a desire to finally unravel the last secrets of John's character, to simply make John react.
"Right," John said, after an audible breath. "You're to tell me immediately if it hurts, and I mean actual pain because it will feel a bit odd."
"You're shoving nearly a foot of steel up my prick. It did not occur to me that it would feel in any way normal."
"The gag's only off so you can tell me if you're in pain, not so you can get stroppy with me."
"You like to hear me talk." It was true, though Sherlock had never quite pinpointed the reason. John would let him talk for hours about any subject under the sun and even give a reasonable appearance of attention.
"Yeah, well, right now I'd like to hear you shut up."
Sherlock did, because John had his cock in one hand and was pressing something--plastic, not metal--against the tip. There was pressure, the sensation of something liquid, or nearly so, going in where things were only meant to come out. Sherlock's face twisted up of its own accord, and the only word he could come up with was eurgh, which he wasn't about to say out loud.
"Lube," John said.
"I've seen videos of this online," Sherlock said quickly. It made John pause, which was the point. "No one seems to bother with all this preparation."
"Then they ought to be more careful and they deserve every UTI they get."
Cold, slick steel touched the tip of his cock, and Sherlock became abruptly aware that the lurching sensation in his stomach might in fact be terror.
"One man did it with a pencil."
"If you don't shut it this instant, we can try that instead."
Sherlock didn't believe him, but he shut his mouth anyway. The blunt tip of the thing slid and rocked over and around and then, barely, inside.
"Don't," Sherlock said. He hadn't meant to, but it slipped out, loud and sudden, as if speech were suddenly a non-voluntary bodily function, like the beat of his heart.
"Are you feeling any pain?" John said.
Sherlock shook his head because if he opened his mouth he was going to say, No, but don't, please don't, please stop. He could feel it on his tongue, all lined up. And he wasn't going to say that. Not when it wouldn't do any good.
"Then we'll continue. It'll feel a bit like you need to urinate, a bit like you need to come, but again, there shouldn't be any pain."
It was John's doctor voice, calm and sure, and Sherlock made himself focus on that. The only other thing he had to focus on is the spiraling panic winding up in his chest as John turned and eased the thing further inside his cock. It wasn't painful at all, but it was wrong, so wrong he didn't know how to process it, and it only got more intense the deeper John went.
It made his toes curl, and it made him shift until John told him firmly to keep still. Keeping still was the absolute limit of his ability and nearly beyond it. It burned, but with something that wasn't pain, felt like the far edge of arousal but without even an erection, and finally slid home all the way to touch and rub inside him until keeping his mouth shut and keeping still were mutually exclusive.
"Fuck." It burst out of him, such a relief that he said it again immediately. "Fuck, John, what, don't, I don't, what is this, please--"
John turned it slowly, a quarter turn, perhaps less, and Sherlock threw his head back and panted.
"I think we could go a size up," John said. "Hold on. Out's generally better than in, at least that was my experience."
Reply
Leave a comment