A Turn of Phrase 8a/8as_i_amDecember 31 2010, 05:58:14 UTC
John finally found relief, pounding hard against his upraised ass, Sherlock's face in the pillow, his moans muffled but positively swelling with delight. The edges of John's vision went black and glittering when he came into the condom, stiffening so hard his muscles burned, and then falling into uncontrollable shudders. Sherlock turned his face to the side and groaned out. "Oh John, push up deeper so I can feel you pulsing."
John pushed up hard inside him, and stayed there for a moment, until his body completely sagged and gave up. He hardly had the presence of mind to grip the base of the condom as he drew out. He fell back on the bed, taking huge, deep breaths, still shaking. Sherlock rolled over and sat up.
"All right, John?"
"Mm hm." He nodded, breathing in deeply through his nose. "Just…give me a moment. Need to recover."
Sherlock took the condom off him while he lay there, and tossed it away. He then returned and smoothed his hand up his half-hard length. John shivered and gripped his wrist. "No," he said softly. "I'm too sensitive right now. Wait a bit."
Sherlock withdrew. After gazing at John for a moment he lay back, and slid a finger up his own hard, curving length. John could see the head glistening in the light from the window. He watched in a post-orgasmic haze as Sherlock gripped himself in his fist and began a slow, steady stroking, working luxuriously up and down the length.
"Give me just another moment and I'll help you out," John said.
"Take your time," Sherlock said lazily. "Enjoy the show until then."
John did enjoy the show, nerves still burning, the hard edge of arousal now softened but still lingering. Sherlock stroked a little faster, slick sounds issuing from between his cock and hand. John had to admit, watching Sherlock Holmes fuck his own fist was indeed a show.
Finally John sat up and groped for the bottle. "Keep at it," he murmured.
He slicked up his trembling fingers again, and Sherlock brought his knees up, feet flat on the bed, and spread his thighs wide. John had no trouble sinking two fingers in right away.
"Oh, I've fucked you properly, haven't I? Look how soft and open you are."
"You have, John. You felt better than I imagined inside me."
"Come on, put your knees back." John gripped his calf and urged his leg up. "Let me see how it was the other morning."
Sherlock drew his knees up, opening himself even further, and John got a third finger in. Sherlock panted beneath him, stroking hard, rubbing the head into his palm on the finish of each up-stroke.
"I'm taking notes," John said. "Is that how you like it? That big cock stroked nice and hard?"
"Yes," Sherlock panted out. Then he yelped as John's fingertips grazed a firm little bump deep inside him.
"Oh, is that the spot?" John cooed at him, delighting in watching him come undone beneath him, squirming, head thrashing on the pillow. "Is that the sweet spot?"
"God yes," he choked out, and pulled in a hard breath. "Oh God, I'm nearly there."
John was almost aroused enough by the sight and by Sherlock's voice to fuck again, already. "Say my name when you come off. I want to hear you say it." He rubbed against the spot again, pressed on it. He dipped his head and licked the sweat trickling down Sherlock's thigh from his knee.
"Almost…almost!" Sherlock stroked faster, hard and furious, the slick wet sounds frantic. John noticed his other hand was scrabbling fruitlessly at the edge of the pillow next to his head and he reached up and clasped it, pinning it down. His fingers tightened around John's hand in an almost painful grip.
"That's it," John urged, feeling him clenching inside around his fingers. "Go on…"
"I'm going to come!" He cried out with sudden, imperative urgency. And then, "John! John!"
He stiffened, head thrown back, hips bucking up. John pressed up against his prostate through the tightening ring of muscle and marveled at how far the first shot went, actually getting on the pillow. The next few made it lesser, but no less impressive distances. Sherlock ground out through clenched teeth, "John, I'm coming," as if this weren't plainly obvious. John almost laughed.
John pushed up hard inside him, and stayed there for a moment, until his body completely sagged and gave up. He hardly had the presence of mind to grip the base of the condom as he drew out. He fell back on the bed, taking huge, deep breaths, still shaking. Sherlock rolled over and sat up.
"All right, John?"
"Mm hm." He nodded, breathing in deeply through his nose. "Just…give me a moment. Need to recover."
Sherlock took the condom off him while he lay there, and tossed it away. He then returned and smoothed his hand up his half-hard length. John shivered and gripped his wrist. "No," he said softly. "I'm too sensitive right now. Wait a bit."
Sherlock withdrew. After gazing at John for a moment he lay back, and slid a finger up his own hard, curving length. John could see the head glistening in the light from the window. He watched in a post-orgasmic haze as Sherlock gripped himself in his fist and began a slow, steady stroking, working luxuriously up and down the length.
"Give me just another moment and I'll help you out," John said.
"Take your time," Sherlock said lazily. "Enjoy the show until then."
John did enjoy the show, nerves still burning, the hard edge of arousal now softened but still lingering. Sherlock stroked a little faster, slick sounds issuing from between his cock and hand. John had to admit, watching Sherlock Holmes fuck his own fist was indeed a show.
Finally John sat up and groped for the bottle. "Keep at it," he murmured.
He slicked up his trembling fingers again, and Sherlock brought his knees up, feet flat on the bed, and spread his thighs wide. John had no trouble sinking two fingers in right away.
"Oh, I've fucked you properly, haven't I? Look how soft and open you are."
"You have, John. You felt better than I imagined inside me."
"Come on, put your knees back." John gripped his calf and urged his leg up. "Let me see how it was the other morning."
Sherlock drew his knees up, opening himself even further, and John got a third finger in. Sherlock panted beneath him, stroking hard, rubbing the head into his palm on the finish of each up-stroke.
"I'm taking notes," John said. "Is that how you like it? That big cock stroked nice and hard?"
"Yes," Sherlock panted out. Then he yelped as John's fingertips grazed a firm little bump deep inside him.
"Oh, is that the spot?" John cooed at him, delighting in watching him come undone beneath him, squirming, head thrashing on the pillow. "Is that the sweet spot?"
"God yes," he choked out, and pulled in a hard breath. "Oh God, I'm nearly there."
John was almost aroused enough by the sight and by Sherlock's voice to fuck again, already. "Say my name when you come off. I want to hear you say it." He rubbed against the spot again, pressed on it. He dipped his head and licked the sweat trickling down Sherlock's thigh from his knee.
"Almost…almost!" Sherlock stroked faster, hard and furious, the slick wet sounds frantic. John noticed his other hand was scrabbling fruitlessly at the edge of the pillow next to his head and he reached up and clasped it, pinning it down. His fingers tightened around John's hand in an almost painful grip.
"That's it," John urged, feeling him clenching inside around his fingers. "Go on…"
"I'm going to come!" He cried out with sudden, imperative urgency. And then, "John! John!"
He stiffened, head thrown back, hips bucking up. John pressed up against his prostate through the tightening ring of muscle and marveled at how far the first shot went, actually getting on the pillow. The next few made it lesser, but no less impressive distances. Sherlock ground out through clenched teeth, "John, I'm coming," as if this weren't plainly obvious. John almost laughed.
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