FILL: Fantastic Tentacles And Where To Find Them (1c/1) - NON-CONs0mmerspr0ssenMarch 19 2011, 20:48:04 UTC
Sherlock didn't know what exactly they were, other than the spawns of the darkest nightmare. Hands, he could deal with, could explain away with a very skinny boyfriend that didn't talk. But the long, thick and strangely smooth tentacles he could not ignore.
As always, they grew right out of the sheets, right out of the mattress underneath, curling around Sherlock's upper arms and wrists like ropes, restraining him. They still gave him enough space to move and the option to struggle, but Sherlock knew how strong they were - way to strong for him to win in a fight against them.
Biting back a frustrated grunt, Sherlock pressed the back of his head into the pillows and tried hard not to notice the pair of hands now getting a good hold of his ankles, tugging and pulling until his legs were spread widely.
Sherlock didn't know why this was about sex. He wasn't sure if he really wanted to find out, either.
He shivered when the tips of two tendrils brushed over the soles of his feet before moving upwards, caressing the inside of his calves, his knees, his thighs.
Until now, Sherlock's body was relatively uninterested in what was going on unless you counted the quickened breathing and fast beating of his heart. As one of the long, thick tendrils that had brushed over his legs curled around the base of his cock, though, Sherlock couldn't help it - he started to get hard.
He had long stopped being disgusted with himself, with his body's reactions. There wasn't anything he could do against it, really. It simply felt too distracting, too good, the way the pressure increased and decreased, the way the smooth surface of the tendril brushed over veins and skin, ever so slightly teasing the head of Sherlock's cock.
An erection was inevitable with this degree of stimulation.
All the while, the hands and restraining tentacles didn't move, simply made sure that Sherlock wasn't going anywhere.
Soon enough, Sherlock felt moisture trickling down the side of his cock. He was fully hard by now, unable to resist the friction the clever tendrils provided. While one of them was still stroking his cock, the other had turned to teasing his balls, tracing them in what one might have described as tenderness.
It never really hurt, not unless Sherlock truly struggled.
His breathing had gone ragged by now and even though it was nearly pitch black in his room, Sherlock's eyes were screwed shut. He flinched when a new pair of hands appeared from nowhere, sharp fingernails scratching over his rips as they curled around Sherlock's chest. Two skinny and way too long fingers found his nipples and started pinching them, rubbing them and it didn't take long until they grew into hard little buds.
A small whimper escaped Sherlock's lips and the restraining tendrils around his arms and wrists squeezed briefly but tightly, a gentle reminder not to do anything stupid.
Still, Sherlock wasn't able to repress the little cry of protest when the tendril around his cock loosened its grip and moved downwards, slipping in between Sherlock's buttocks.
Suddenly, it felt even slicker, almost moist, and Sherlock knew just what was about to happen.
Sherlock had a theory about the wetness, about lubricating secretions. He had once tried to determine just what it was made of, putting a remaining sample under his microscope. His next sleep, to make an understatement, hadn't been enjoyable in the least.
The tendril was now teasing his entrance in small, circular motions and Sherlock moaned quietly as the hands around his ankles tugged some more, further spreading his legs. The other pair that had been curled around his chest ceased teasing his nipples in favour of moving underneath Sherlock's back to support him, pushing his hips upwards to grant the tendril better access to Sherlock's arse.
It always took its time with penetrating, starting with only the very tip, thin and slippery, carefully easing its way inside.
Usually, Sherlock could keep silent, bite his lips and endure the teasing. But for some reason he wasn't able to restrain himself tonight. Another whimper escaped him and his left leg twitched, more in reflex than actual struggling.
As always, they grew right out of the sheets, right out of the mattress underneath, curling around Sherlock's upper arms and wrists like ropes, restraining him. They still gave him enough space to move and the option to struggle, but Sherlock knew how strong they were - way to strong for him to win in a fight against them.
Biting back a frustrated grunt, Sherlock pressed the back of his head into the pillows and tried hard not to notice the pair of hands now getting a good hold of his ankles, tugging and pulling until his legs were spread widely.
Sherlock didn't know why this was about sex. He wasn't sure if he really wanted to find out, either.
He shivered when the tips of two tendrils brushed over the soles of his feet before moving upwards, caressing the inside of his calves, his knees, his thighs.
Until now, Sherlock's body was relatively uninterested in what was going on unless you counted the quickened breathing and fast beating of his heart. As one of the long, thick tendrils that had brushed over his legs curled around the base of his cock, though, Sherlock couldn't help it - he started to get hard.
He had long stopped being disgusted with himself, with his body's reactions. There wasn't anything he could do against it, really. It simply felt too distracting, too good, the way the pressure increased and decreased, the way the smooth surface of the tendril brushed over veins and skin, ever so slightly teasing the head of Sherlock's cock.
An erection was inevitable with this degree of stimulation.
All the while, the hands and restraining tentacles didn't move, simply made sure that Sherlock wasn't going anywhere.
Soon enough, Sherlock felt moisture trickling down the side of his cock. He was fully hard by now, unable to resist the friction the clever tendrils provided. While one of them was still stroking his cock, the other had turned to teasing his balls, tracing them in what one might have described as tenderness.
It never really hurt, not unless Sherlock truly struggled.
His breathing had gone ragged by now and even though it was nearly pitch black in his room, Sherlock's eyes were screwed shut. He flinched when a new pair of hands appeared from nowhere, sharp fingernails scratching over his rips as they curled around Sherlock's chest. Two skinny and way too long fingers found his nipples and started pinching them, rubbing them and it didn't take long until they grew into hard little buds.
A small whimper escaped Sherlock's lips and the restraining tendrils around his arms and wrists squeezed briefly but tightly, a gentle reminder not to do anything stupid.
Still, Sherlock wasn't able to repress the little cry of protest when the tendril around his cock loosened its grip and moved downwards, slipping in between Sherlock's buttocks.
Suddenly, it felt even slicker, almost moist, and Sherlock knew just what was about to happen.
Sherlock had a theory about the wetness, about lubricating secretions. He had once tried to determine just what it was made of, putting a remaining sample under his microscope. His next sleep, to make an understatement, hadn't been enjoyable in the least.
The tendril was now teasing his entrance in small, circular motions and Sherlock moaned quietly as the hands around his ankles tugged some more, further spreading his legs. The other pair that had been curled around his chest ceased teasing his nipples in favour of moving underneath Sherlock's back to support him, pushing his hips upwards to grant the tendril better access to Sherlock's arse.
It always took its time with penetrating, starting with only the very tip, thin and slippery, carefully easing its way inside.
Usually, Sherlock could keep silent, bite his lips and endure the teasing. But for some reason he wasn't able to restrain himself tonight. Another whimper escaped him and his left leg twitched, more in reflex than actual struggling.
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