Pulse: A Sherlock/John PWP
Title: Pulse: A Sherlock/John PWP
author: ettuinarcadia
word count: 1900
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: very explicit sex, no plot, D/s scenarios.
Summary: . . . .It's the first time he's taken it slowly enough to notice that he can feel Sherlock's heartbeat, right there.
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine; they belong to Gatiss, Moffat, BBC, and ACD possibly, but not me. I just like to play with them.
NOTE: Written for the prompt at the sherlockbbc kink meme, Pt. XX p. 1
It's not the first time John's given Sherlock a prostate massage... but it is the first time he's taken it slowly enough to notice that he can feel Sherlock's heartbeat, right there.
John preferred to do it with Sherlock on his knees, straight up: not hands and knees. So he could pull his head back, whisper in Sherlock's ear, if he wanted to. Sherlock braced himself with his palms flat against the wall.
Right now he wanted to whisper. He wanted to whisper how proud he was of Sherlock, for learning to be better disciplined. For not coming, not even touching himself, for three whole weeks, the longest time yet.
Because John had ordered him not to.
John, however, had daily indulged himself, at least once, usually more than that, in the most luxurious orgasms in Sherlock's mouth, in his ass, gathering a daily increase in the pleasure of it as Sherlock's denial was cruelly lengthened.
* * *
"Do you understand why I’m requiring this of you, Sherlock?" John had asked at the end of that very first week, trying to soothe Sherlock a little as he strained to adjust himself to the extremity of simultaneous denial and stimulation as John leisurely fucked him from behind.
Sherlock shook his head; no, he didn’t understand, but tried to show in his posture that he wanted to understand, was grateful that John was willing to teach him. He hadn’t been given permission to speak.
"The first time I set eyes on you," John said, a little breathless, "You told me the things you knew about me. But I knew something about you, too, that day."
Sherlock could not help moaning, just a little.
"I knew that you had never had a man handle you properly. Like you deserve. Like you need. I’m going to make you to come for me like you’ve never come for anyone before. Because you deserve it, because I want to give it to you. Because I don’t want you to ever think of coming for anyone else, ever again."
John gave him a good, hard stroke at this, as though daring him to disobey, daring him to come. Sherlock’s cock jumped and slammed into full hardness as he sucked in his breath, amazed that John could understand him so well, his deepest needs, needs he hadn’t ever understood at all. Until now.
He tried to ride out the burning heaviness in his balls, swollen with come.
He realized with hopeless desperation that he was about to come harder than he had ever done, he could feel it, built up over this long first week of denial as John had showered his own come into his eager throat, and worse, into his ass while demanding he stay perfectly still, his cock streaming. And then, suddenly, he snapped himself back into discipline, and the crisis passed.
For now.
* * *
John kept him primed at the brink by regular milkings, relieving the swelling and pressure of unspent come by gently, insistently bringing it forth with those expert fingers, clinically denying him any sensation of orgasmic release.
John did this every three days.
He had perfected his technique with his doctor's precision, manipulating the swollen flesh just so, bringing the come out slowly, thickly, his sure fingers delivering not more than the ghost of the beginnings of an orgasm.
After the first week, Sherlock seemed to have settled down into an obedient acceptance, if not welcoming of it. The first few times he had thrashed and struggled so hard, grinding against John’s hand for release. John had been forced to whip Sherlock severely as punishment, then turned him right over and milked him dry anyway.
"This is to show you that your little tricks won't do, Sherlock," John had said almost sternly as the come flowed out slowly, and a few shameful tears, too. "Now you understand, don't you, that there is nothing you can do to make me let you come. You're just so greedy, aren't you," his voice cracking a little with the heat of his own desire, sparked by watching Sherlock’s struggle to submit, to endure. John struggled with his own desire to overindulge Sherlock. "I'd love to see you with my soldiers, in the barracks, I'd show them how much you need it, always so impatient, I'd tie you up and let them each have a go."
Tearful sobs of "Yes, sir, thank you, oh thank you, I'm so sorry. . ."
John stopped him with a yank on his collar.
"I didn't give you leave to speak, Sherlock. Be silent."
* * *
And so Sherlock understood, now, how to take it; that he would have to endure John's hot fingers probing him, stroking him clinically, pushing out the come in a pathetic dribble when he was in an agony from the suppressed contractions of the deep, hard orgasm that was desperately coiled within him, which only John could deliver.
Now, with the gentle but deliberate, almost businesslike strokes kneading his prostate, milking him one more time, Sherlock was getting still harder despite his sincere effort to curb it. He had even begged his master to put him in a chastity device that would curtail his erections; but John refused: "No, Sherlock, I want it to be all you, holding it all in, not some device. I don't want to make this easier for you. For either of us."
John waited patiently for the tumescence pf his swollen cock to subside a bit, and went to work even more slowly.
John began to feel he may have reached Sherlock's limit of endurance. Sherlock’s skin felt feverish. Tiny suppressed moans were issuing from deep down, even after a warning yank on his collar.
And so John just stopped, let his fingers lie there, deep; fingertips just resting on the swollen knot of his prostate.
And there, they both stayed, poised, quiet; the only sound their breathing. Sherlock sensed without words John's desire that he be perfectly still now.
When John felt Sherlock's controlled stillness, he allowed himself to sink his chest down over Sherlock's warm, sweat-slicked back, and he could feel Sherlock's breathing, and the minute shivers he was trying so very hard to hold back.
When John closed his eyes, through his still fingertips, he felt the miracle of the throbbing of Sherlock's heartbeat, deep inside, steady and strong. Pulsing
Overcome, he kissed the back of Sherlock's damp neck. "I can feel your heartbeat," he whispered in the long, heavy silence. "You’re so beautiful like this."
* * *
Sherlock was biting back a sob of gratitude at the loving, soothing feel of John's strong, warm body draped over his after the long weeks of frustration. John petted his hair, whispered soothingly how much he was pleasing him, as he just held him there, so still, pierced by two fingers that didn't stroke or tease but just pressed down to feel his pulse beating there.
And then John could actually feel that heartbeat coming faster, as his touch finally became too thrilling for Sherlock. Without volition, Sherlock tightened, his body needing more sensation, more friction. Instead of the sharp yank on the collar he knew he deserved, Sherlock felt John's fingers hesitate a long moment between withdrawing, or possibly pushing in deeper, and just the thought that John might be willing to give him the gift of satisfaction made him tremble so hard that it did pull John's fingers deeper.
When after an exquisite moment he realized John was permitting him this daring freedom, the hardness of his cock and the urgent weight of his balls doubled, then tripled as John breathed against his ear, "I love you like this, I love you so, but not until I say."
Now John was slowly pulling his fingers out, and Sherlock was proud that he did not gasp or beg as he felt cruel emptiness inside. His impossibly swollen cock snapped upright against his belly. He slowed his ragged breathing and reminded himself that his master knew best what was good and right for him, for his cock. The otherworldly orgasms John could bring him made anything he could do for himself seem almost repulsively inadequate.
And the pleasure of pleasing John was nearly as good as being permitted to come.
Almost.
* * *
"I have thought about what it would be like," John said now, as he started fucking his own fist in the groove of Sherlock's buttocks, teasing Sherlock by letting him feel just the tip at his entrance, no more, "if I never let you."
Sherlock bit back a sob, tried to hold in the pleading of his entire body that wanted to thrust against his master's cock, show him how very good he could be, if only. . .
A ringing slap on his buttocks, just sharp enough to tantalize, and for that more punishing to his agonized cock than a harder blow would have been, pushed his ass away from John's pumping hand.
Now he was no longer being touched anywhere, and all that he was permitted by way of stimulation was the eloquent sound of John's hand working his own cock steadily, swearing a little under his breath.
Sherlock's head drooped as he experienced the humiliation that his master was reduced to satisfying himself, because he wasn't disciplined enough to give him the pleasure he was entitled to take, without shamefully losing control.
He tried to accept that his master was better pleased to see his cock red, swollen, and craving than to permit him to come tonight.
But tonight, nothing helped. He could feel the tightness in his belly start to unclench, beyond any power he had to stop it. If he came now, without a single touch to his burning cock, it would be all over and he would be severely punished. Something in his mind snapped and he heard the gasping cry, "Oh, please," escape from his lips without volition.
Sherlock felt himself immediately pulled back into a strong, hot embrace and his master’s hard cock rammed home, no hesitation, no teasing, John’s hand wrapped tight around his straining prick as John breathed, "Come now, love, come for me," to a tidal wave of ecstasy that paralyzed his mind entirely, filling it with an explosion of colors and stars, engulfing him, tearing the breath from his chest and almost stopping his heart with the sheer force of it, his come shooting straight out against the wall, showering his own face and chest and flowing over into his master’s hand. He might have screamed but everything was very far away as he quaked to his master’s stroke. John kept stroking him harder, urging him on and he came again, longer, with a helpless shudder that stole his last remaining strength and he slumped back into John’s arms as John whispered, "That’s right, that’s so very good," as his own orgasm broke, John slowing now, masterfully drawing it out, making it last.
John pulled him down onto the floor, where they collapsed as John held him and petted him, and he allowed Sherlock to kiss him as much as he wanted, clinging kisses to show how grateful he was for the pleasure his master gifted him with, even as tears of relief at his release tricked from his eyes.
John wiped them patiently away, kissing his wet cheekbones. "You’re all better now, love. You were very, very good."
Sherlock rested his head under John’s chin as the shudders slowly subsided. "It was so very long," he admitted almost shyly. "I did my best."
John stroked his sweat damped hair. "So did I, my love," he whispered. "Go to sleep now."
Sherlock obediently closed his eyes. As he drifted off, he mumbled, "Will you start over again, tomorrow? Please?"
author: ettuinarcadia
word count: 1900
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: very explicit sex, no plot, D/s scenarios.
Summary: . . . .It's the first time he's taken it slowly enough to notice that he can feel Sherlock's heartbeat, right there.
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine; they belong to Gatiss, Moffat, BBC, and ACD possibly, but not me. I just like to play with them.
NOTE: Written for the prompt at the sherlockbbc kink meme, Pt. XX p. 1
It's not the first time John's given Sherlock a prostate massage... but it is the first time he's taken it slowly enough to notice that he can feel Sherlock's heartbeat, right there.
John preferred to do it with Sherlock on his knees, straight up: not hands and knees. So he could pull his head back, whisper in Sherlock's ear, if he wanted to. Sherlock braced himself with his palms flat against the wall.
Right now he wanted to whisper. He wanted to whisper how proud he was of Sherlock, for learning to be better disciplined. For not coming, not even touching himself, for three whole weeks, the longest time yet.
Because John had ordered him not to.
John, however, had daily indulged himself, at least once, usually more than that, in the most luxurious orgasms in Sherlock's mouth, in his ass, gathering a daily increase in the pleasure of it as Sherlock's denial was cruelly lengthened.
* * *
"Do you understand why I’m requiring this of you, Sherlock?" John had asked at the end of that very first week, trying to soothe Sherlock a little as he strained to adjust himself to the extremity of simultaneous denial and stimulation as John leisurely fucked him from behind.
Sherlock shook his head; no, he didn’t understand, but tried to show in his posture that he wanted to understand, was grateful that John was willing to teach him. He hadn’t been given permission to speak.
"The first time I set eyes on you," John said, a little breathless, "You told me the things you knew about me. But I knew something about you, too, that day."
Sherlock could not help moaning, just a little.
"I knew that you had never had a man handle you properly. Like you deserve. Like you need. I’m going to make you to come for me like you’ve never come for anyone before. Because you deserve it, because I want to give it to you. Because I don’t want you to ever think of coming for anyone else, ever again."
John gave him a good, hard stroke at this, as though daring him to disobey, daring him to come. Sherlock’s cock jumped and slammed into full hardness as he sucked in his breath, amazed that John could understand him so well, his deepest needs, needs he hadn’t ever understood at all. Until now.
He tried to ride out the burning heaviness in his balls, swollen with come.
He realized with hopeless desperation that he was about to come harder than he had ever done, he could feel it, built up over this long first week of denial as John had showered his own come into his eager throat, and worse, into his ass while demanding he stay perfectly still, his cock streaming. And then, suddenly, he snapped himself back into discipline, and the crisis passed.
For now.
* * *
John kept him primed at the brink by regular milkings, relieving the swelling and pressure of unspent come by gently, insistently bringing it forth with those expert fingers, clinically denying him any sensation of orgasmic release.
John did this every three days.
He had perfected his technique with his doctor's precision, manipulating the swollen flesh just so, bringing the come out slowly, thickly, his sure fingers delivering not more than the ghost of the beginnings of an orgasm.
After the first week, Sherlock seemed to have settled down into an obedient acceptance, if not welcoming of it. The first few times he had thrashed and struggled so hard, grinding against John’s hand for release. John had been forced to whip Sherlock severely as punishment, then turned him right over and milked him dry anyway.
"This is to show you that your little tricks won't do, Sherlock," John had said almost sternly as the come flowed out slowly, and a few shameful tears, too. "Now you understand, don't you, that there is nothing you can do to make me let you come. You're just so greedy, aren't you," his voice cracking a little with the heat of his own desire, sparked by watching Sherlock’s struggle to submit, to endure. John struggled with his own desire to overindulge Sherlock. "I'd love to see you with my soldiers, in the barracks, I'd show them how much you need it, always so impatient, I'd tie you up and let them each have a go."
Tearful sobs of "Yes, sir, thank you, oh thank you, I'm so sorry. . ."
John stopped him with a yank on his collar.
"I didn't give you leave to speak, Sherlock. Be silent."
* * *
And so Sherlock understood, now, how to take it; that he would have to endure John's hot fingers probing him, stroking him clinically, pushing out the come in a pathetic dribble when he was in an agony from the suppressed contractions of the deep, hard orgasm that was desperately coiled within him, which only John could deliver.
Now, with the gentle but deliberate, almost businesslike strokes kneading his prostate, milking him one more time, Sherlock was getting still harder despite his sincere effort to curb it. He had even begged his master to put him in a chastity device that would curtail his erections; but John refused: "No, Sherlock, I want it to be all you, holding it all in, not some device. I don't want to make this easier for you. For either of us."
John waited patiently for the tumescence pf his swollen cock to subside a bit, and went to work even more slowly.
John began to feel he may have reached Sherlock's limit of endurance. Sherlock’s skin felt feverish. Tiny suppressed moans were issuing from deep down, even after a warning yank on his collar.
And so John just stopped, let his fingers lie there, deep; fingertips just resting on the swollen knot of his prostate.
And there, they both stayed, poised, quiet; the only sound their breathing. Sherlock sensed without words John's desire that he be perfectly still now.
When John felt Sherlock's controlled stillness, he allowed himself to sink his chest down over Sherlock's warm, sweat-slicked back, and he could feel Sherlock's breathing, and the minute shivers he was trying so very hard to hold back.
When John closed his eyes, through his still fingertips, he felt the miracle of the throbbing of Sherlock's heartbeat, deep inside, steady and strong. Pulsing
Overcome, he kissed the back of Sherlock's damp neck. "I can feel your heartbeat," he whispered in the long, heavy silence. "You’re so beautiful like this."
* * *
Sherlock was biting back a sob of gratitude at the loving, soothing feel of John's strong, warm body draped over his after the long weeks of frustration. John petted his hair, whispered soothingly how much he was pleasing him, as he just held him there, so still, pierced by two fingers that didn't stroke or tease but just pressed down to feel his pulse beating there.
And then John could actually feel that heartbeat coming faster, as his touch finally became too thrilling for Sherlock. Without volition, Sherlock tightened, his body needing more sensation, more friction. Instead of the sharp yank on the collar he knew he deserved, Sherlock felt John's fingers hesitate a long moment between withdrawing, or possibly pushing in deeper, and just the thought that John might be willing to give him the gift of satisfaction made him tremble so hard that it did pull John's fingers deeper.
When after an exquisite moment he realized John was permitting him this daring freedom, the hardness of his cock and the urgent weight of his balls doubled, then tripled as John breathed against his ear, "I love you like this, I love you so, but not until I say."
Now John was slowly pulling his fingers out, and Sherlock was proud that he did not gasp or beg as he felt cruel emptiness inside. His impossibly swollen cock snapped upright against his belly. He slowed his ragged breathing and reminded himself that his master knew best what was good and right for him, for his cock. The otherworldly orgasms John could bring him made anything he could do for himself seem almost repulsively inadequate.
And the pleasure of pleasing John was nearly as good as being permitted to come.
Almost.
* * *
"I have thought about what it would be like," John said now, as he started fucking his own fist in the groove of Sherlock's buttocks, teasing Sherlock by letting him feel just the tip at his entrance, no more, "if I never let you."
Sherlock bit back a sob, tried to hold in the pleading of his entire body that wanted to thrust against his master's cock, show him how very good he could be, if only. . .
A ringing slap on his buttocks, just sharp enough to tantalize, and for that more punishing to his agonized cock than a harder blow would have been, pushed his ass away from John's pumping hand.
Now he was no longer being touched anywhere, and all that he was permitted by way of stimulation was the eloquent sound of John's hand working his own cock steadily, swearing a little under his breath.
Sherlock's head drooped as he experienced the humiliation that his master was reduced to satisfying himself, because he wasn't disciplined enough to give him the pleasure he was entitled to take, without shamefully losing control.
He tried to accept that his master was better pleased to see his cock red, swollen, and craving than to permit him to come tonight.
But tonight, nothing helped. He could feel the tightness in his belly start to unclench, beyond any power he had to stop it. If he came now, without a single touch to his burning cock, it would be all over and he would be severely punished. Something in his mind snapped and he heard the gasping cry, "Oh, please," escape from his lips without volition.
Sherlock felt himself immediately pulled back into a strong, hot embrace and his master’s hard cock rammed home, no hesitation, no teasing, John’s hand wrapped tight around his straining prick as John breathed, "Come now, love, come for me," to a tidal wave of ecstasy that paralyzed his mind entirely, filling it with an explosion of colors and stars, engulfing him, tearing the breath from his chest and almost stopping his heart with the sheer force of it, his come shooting straight out against the wall, showering his own face and chest and flowing over into his master’s hand. He might have screamed but everything was very far away as he quaked to his master’s stroke. John kept stroking him harder, urging him on and he came again, longer, with a helpless shudder that stole his last remaining strength and he slumped back into John’s arms as John whispered, "That’s right, that’s so very good," as his own orgasm broke, John slowing now, masterfully drawing it out, making it last.
John pulled him down onto the floor, where they collapsed as John held him and petted him, and he allowed Sherlock to kiss him as much as he wanted, clinging kisses to show how grateful he was for the pleasure his master gifted him with, even as tears of relief at his release tricked from his eyes.
John wiped them patiently away, kissing his wet cheekbones. "You’re all better now, love. You were very, very good."
Sherlock rested his head under John’s chin as the shudders slowly subsided. "It was so very long," he admitted almost shyly. "I did my best."
John stroked his sweat damped hair. "So did I, my love," he whispered. "Go to sleep now."
Sherlock obediently closed his eyes. As he drifted off, he mumbled, "Will you start over again, tomorrow? Please?"