He was, he told himself, still able to take stock of the situation beyond the fact that he had his, yes, let him be technical, blood-engorged penis up a woman's vagina - he wasn't a virgin anymore, was he, or at least he was so close to not being one as made no difference - and he thought he was in control, but that was when she started to move. It was a back-up-forward-down motion of the hips, made mostly by effort of her abdominal muscles, and he gave a bitten-off shout as the whole world as he knew it whited out and suddenly shrunk to the nerve endings firing off in his groin.
"Easy, Sherlock," said John, patting his thigh like he was calming a horse. Sherlock opened his eyes (he wasn't aware that he had closed them), saw John on his knees behind the girl, saw him swallow as he met his flatmate's eyes. "Easy. I could watch you like that all day, you gorgeous thing, but hold it for a bit. Not yet."
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, to protest, to beg, but John had asked the girl to bend over, and she had, and whatever he had meant to say was lost in a moan that started deep in his chest as his flatmate touched, put a warm finger against where he and the girl were connected.
"Fucking beautiful," rumbled John, tracing where Sherlock's cock disappeared between the girl's labia. Sherlock came back to himself enough to notice exactly how the girl was propped over him, face buried against his neck, on her bent elbows for support, leaning heavily against his chest (her nipples were hard, her heart beating out a fast, heavy rhythm against his skin), arse as far up as she could make it go without sliding off of his cock. It couldn't have been very comfortable. John put a hand on her thigh, gave her a little squeeze. "You sure this is all right with you?"
"Yes," she hissed, and Sherlock bucked underneath her at the warm breath rushing against his sensitive skin. "Get the fuck on with it, please."
"All right. Sure." John drew a breath. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm going to use your Vaseline, I'll buy you more when I do the shopping."
And there was the sound of John fumbling with something, a soft squelch, and then John dropping something onto the floor, and then there was the incoherent string of loud sounds the girl was making into Sherlock's neck as John pushed a slicked finger into her ass. He made his own unintelligible noises as he felt the slight increase in pressure on his cock when John moved the finger, stretching her open a little bit more, and John was swearing in broken disjointed syllables himself. The girl bit down on Sherlock's neck, hard, as John pushed a second finger in, and Sherlock bit down on his own lip, fisted a hand in her hair, when John introduced the third.
He gasped John's name like a prayer, like a lifeline, while his hands - clumsily, he knew, and, desperate - clutched at the bedsheets, at the girl, and flexed and fluttered with need and he said John's name again, a plea for help, because everything was just only managing to stay on the right side of too much.
And it was too much when John started to push his cock into the girl and Sherlock could feel him, feel John through several layers of another person's anatomy, and the added pressure and friction, and the girl clenching on his own cock as his flatmate filled her up even more, and oh yes, God, too much, too much, help, John...! were his last thoughts before he crashed, crested, shouted into orgasm.
Fill - 6/?
"Easy, Sherlock," said John, patting his thigh like he was calming a horse. Sherlock opened his eyes (he wasn't aware that he had closed them), saw John on his knees behind the girl, saw him swallow as he met his flatmate's eyes. "Easy. I could watch you like that all day, you gorgeous thing, but hold it for a bit. Not yet."
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, to protest, to beg, but John had asked the girl to bend over, and she had, and whatever he had meant to say was lost in a moan that started deep in his chest as his flatmate touched, put a warm finger against where he and the girl were connected.
"Fucking beautiful," rumbled John, tracing where Sherlock's cock disappeared between the girl's labia. Sherlock came back to himself enough to notice exactly how the girl was propped over him, face buried against his neck, on her bent elbows for support, leaning heavily against his chest (her nipples were hard, her heart beating out a fast, heavy rhythm against his skin), arse as far up as she could make it go without sliding off of his cock. It couldn't have been very comfortable. John put a hand on her thigh, gave her a little squeeze. "You sure this is all right with you?"
"Yes," she hissed, and Sherlock bucked underneath her at the warm breath rushing against his sensitive skin. "Get the fuck on with it, please."
"All right. Sure." John drew a breath. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm going to use your Vaseline, I'll buy you more when I do the shopping."
And there was the sound of John fumbling with something, a soft squelch, and then John dropping something onto the floor, and then there was the incoherent string of loud sounds the girl was making into Sherlock's neck as John pushed a slicked finger into her ass. He made his own unintelligible noises as he felt the slight increase in pressure on his cock when John moved the finger, stretching her open a little bit more, and John was swearing in broken disjointed syllables himself. The girl bit down on Sherlock's neck, hard, as John pushed a second finger in, and Sherlock bit down on his own lip, fisted a hand in her hair, when John introduced the third.
He gasped John's name like a prayer, like a lifeline, while his hands - clumsily, he knew, and, desperate - clutched at the bedsheets, at the girl, and flexed and fluttered with need and he said John's name again, a plea for help, because everything was just only managing to stay on the right side of too much.
And it was too much when John started to push his cock into the girl and Sherlock could feel him, feel John through several layers of another person's anatomy, and the added pressure and friction, and the girl clenching on his own cock as his flatmate filled her up even more, and oh yes, God, too much, too much, help, John...! were his last thoughts before he crashed, crested, shouted into orgasm.