Re: Stolen Moments pt 18/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:42:55 UTC
John stepped forward again and carefully touched his cock, giving it the same treatment he'd given John moments before. It felt unbelievably good. It felt cathartically good. Sherlock took John's cock and, forgetting lube, condoms and tissues, he began to wank the man. John mirrored his movements. And in a way it wasn't dissimilar to masturbation, but in a way it was nothing remotely like it at all.
John, pupils huge, gasped with pleasure and murmured, "Faster. Faster, please. Harder."
Sherlock rubbed faster, held harder, felt the loose skin slip along the rigid meat beneath. John's foreskin slid forward and back and his cock continually leaked slippery clear precum. He was doing much the same. It wasn't all pleasure, there was a roughness to this, but the pleasure far and away overran the pain. Part of Sherlock thought to stop it, to go get the lube, do it properly, but he literally couldn't do it. It was as if all his willpower were tied to the yanking on his cock, and the need for one more pull of that hot, calloused hand was far bigger than any worries his reason had about consequences.
"Going to come," murmured John. "Going to come now."
And he did. Sherlock jumped a bit, startled by the heat and sudden wetness that splashed his hand and belly. John didn't even slow down in jacking Sherlock, even after Sherlock had dropped his cock to stare at his suddenly soiled hand. The surprise of succeeding in a handjob slowed his own orgasm down by a minute, but then he was able to concentrate on John's hand, and swiftly pleasure overrode all his thoughts.
Seconds later he stood breathing hard, John's come dripping slowly through his pubes, his own splashed liberally over John's belly and chest. Feeling despoiled and empty and amazing and grossed out. He had the urge to rub his sticky hand on John's arm and felt mildly disgusted with how quickly the experiment had ended.
He had hardly had a chance to touch John at all. He hadn't licked his chest, or sucked his nipples, the way his fantasies had urged him to. He hadn't even touched John's arse. And yet, now Sherlock felt completely sated for sex, and the idea of licking or molesting him any further seemed more silly than enticing.
If only he'd been able to hold off a bit longer and done all the things he'd longed to. Would this really be enough to fill his curiosity?
Only time would tell. If not, he'd have to repeat this.
That wasn't as awful an idea as Sherlock thought it would be.
Finally noticing the mess John was in, it was obvious he couldn't have the man simply put on his pyjamas and go back to bed. He told John to take a shower instead, while he washed himself as thoroughly as he could in the sink. Sherlock had a moment of fear that the spray of water would wake John from hypnosis, but it didn't. When John emerged, pink skinned from the water, he was just as placid and happy as before.
Sherlock helped John dry himself. Not because he needed to, but because it felt somehow right to do so. "Job well done," he found himself telling him. John's smile grew happier. They kissed again, more chastely this time. And that felt right as well.
From then it was no difficulty getting John back in his clothes and in bed, sending him back to sleep with orders not to wake before eight.
Sherlock himself took considerably longer to get to sleep, but when he did, it was deep, comfortable, and restful. He didn't wake until John was long gone, breakfast dishes drying next to the sink. Just like a typical Tuesday.
John, pupils huge, gasped with pleasure and murmured, "Faster. Faster, please. Harder."
Sherlock rubbed faster, held harder, felt the loose skin slip along the rigid meat beneath. John's foreskin slid forward and back and his cock continually leaked slippery clear precum. He was doing much the same. It wasn't all pleasure, there was a roughness to this, but the pleasure far and away overran the pain. Part of Sherlock thought to stop it, to go get the lube, do it properly, but he literally couldn't do it. It was as if all his willpower were tied to the yanking on his cock, and the need for one more pull of that hot, calloused hand was far bigger than any worries his reason had about consequences.
"Going to come," murmured John. "Going to come now."
And he did. Sherlock jumped a bit, startled by the heat and sudden wetness that splashed his hand and belly. John didn't even slow down in jacking Sherlock, even after Sherlock had dropped his cock to stare at his suddenly soiled hand. The surprise of succeeding in a handjob slowed his own orgasm down by a minute, but then he was able to concentrate on John's hand, and swiftly pleasure overrode all his thoughts.
Seconds later he stood breathing hard, John's come dripping slowly through his pubes, his own splashed liberally over John's belly and chest. Feeling despoiled and empty and amazing and grossed out. He had the urge to rub his sticky hand on John's arm and felt mildly disgusted with how quickly the experiment had ended.
He had hardly had a chance to touch John at all. He hadn't licked his chest, or sucked his nipples, the way his fantasies had urged him to. He hadn't even touched John's arse. And yet, now Sherlock felt completely sated for sex, and the idea of licking or molesting him any further seemed more silly than enticing.
If only he'd been able to hold off a bit longer and done all the things he'd longed to. Would this really be enough to fill his curiosity?
Only time would tell. If not, he'd have to repeat this.
That wasn't as awful an idea as Sherlock thought it would be.
Finally noticing the mess John was in, it was obvious he couldn't have the man simply put on his pyjamas and go back to bed. He told John to take a shower instead, while he washed himself as thoroughly as he could in the sink. Sherlock had a moment of fear that the spray of water would wake John from hypnosis, but it didn't. When John emerged, pink skinned from the water, he was just as placid and happy as before.
Sherlock helped John dry himself. Not because he needed to, but because it felt somehow right to do so. "Job well done," he found himself telling him. John's smile grew happier. They kissed again, more chastely this time. And that felt right as well.
From then it was no difficulty getting John back in his clothes and in bed, sending him back to sleep with orders not to wake before eight.
Sherlock himself took considerably longer to get to sleep, but when he did, it was deep, comfortable, and restful. He didn't wake until John was long gone, breakfast dishes drying next to the sink. Just like a typical Tuesday.
No harm, thought Sherlock. No foul.
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