"Would you do that for me?" asked John, putting his arm around Sherlock's waist, and there was that almost apologetic note in his voice again, and it made the consulting detective exhale, counting to ten as he did, with long, controlled beats between the numbers. He tilted his head forward in the barest gesture of assent, and John kissed his shoulder (thank you). "Condom," he said, nodding at his discarded jeans. "And you'll need lubricant."
As Sherlock stood (gingerly), he could hear John asking the girl if it would be okay, if she was up for it, and the answer to that - he had his back to them as he put the condom on, and, all the gods and saints of everything, it was difficult to concentrate - was the sound of flesh on flesh and the heavy creak of two bodies becoming suddenly horizontal on the bed, which turned into more rhythmic creak-thumps as they began to move. He watched them as he slicked himself with the Vaseline, John on top of the girl and between her legs, the muscles beneath his skin tensing as he pushed his cock into her, and it took all of his self-control to not help himself right then with a good few tugs.
"You coming yet?" said John, impatiently, breathily, between thrusts, and his expressive mouth curved into a small smile as he realized the pun he'd made. He rolled over then, maneuvering so that the girl was on top of him, and he shot Sherlock a look, an invitation, a challenge, a please-will-you that his flatmate acknowledged and accepted, clambering onto the bed, going on his knees behind the girl and over John's legs. She lifted her buttocks up slightly, shifting her weight to her torso pressed against his flatmate's chest, and Sherlock had a full view of her prepared arsehole and John's cock going up into her vagina.
He put his hands on her waist - she was making little noises at the back of her throat as John went on pushing himself deeper inside her - and paused. It was straightforward enough, it should have been, he'd just seen it done, hadn't he, and, heaven help him, he wanted it, or at least thought he wanted it, the chemicals that were playing merry hell with his nerves wanted it, and it was a simple, simple thing, people with less than half a working brain cell managed sex all the time, but nevertheless there was a cold, unfamiliar ball of doubt suddenly sitting in the pit of his stomach right in the midst of all the mindless heat.
"John," he said, and he swallowed. "I don't - I'm not--"
"For God's sake, Sherlock!" shouted John, and it was the first sign of true impatience he'd shown throughout the proceedings (close to orgasm and trying to delay it, that's - possibly - why). "All you have to do is push the head of your dick past her anal sphincter and up her rectum and let it take over from there. That's not so fucking hard, is it?"
Fill - 10/?
As Sherlock stood (gingerly), he could hear John asking the girl if it would be okay, if she was up for it, and the answer to that - he had his back to them as he put the condom on, and, all the gods and saints of everything, it was difficult to concentrate - was the sound of flesh on flesh and the heavy creak of two bodies becoming suddenly horizontal on the bed, which turned into more rhythmic creak-thumps as they began to move. He watched them as he slicked himself with the Vaseline, John on top of the girl and between her legs, the muscles beneath his skin tensing as he pushed
his cock into her, and it took all of his self-control to not help himself right then with a good few tugs.
"You coming yet?" said John, impatiently, breathily, between thrusts, and his expressive mouth curved into a small smile as he realized the pun he'd made. He rolled over then, maneuvering so that the girl was on top of him, and he shot Sherlock a look, an invitation, a challenge, a please-will-you that his flatmate acknowledged and accepted, clambering onto the bed, going on his knees behind the girl and over John's legs. She lifted her buttocks up slightly, shifting her weight to her torso pressed against his flatmate's chest, and Sherlock had a full view of her prepared arsehole and John's cock going up into her vagina.
He put his hands on her waist - she was making little noises at the back of her throat as John went on pushing himself deeper inside her - and paused. It was straightforward enough, it should have been, he'd just seen it done, hadn't he, and, heaven help him, he wanted it, or at least thought he wanted it, the chemicals that were playing merry hell with his nerves wanted it, and it was a simple, simple thing, people with less than half a working brain cell managed sex all the time, but nevertheless there was a cold, unfamiliar ball of doubt suddenly sitting in the pit of his stomach right in the midst of all the mindless heat.
"John," he said, and he swallowed. "I don't - I'm not--"
"For God's sake, Sherlock!" shouted John, and it was the first sign of true impatience he'd shown throughout the proceedings (close to orgasm and trying to delay it, that's - possibly - why). "All you have to do is push the head of your dick past her anal sphincter and up her rectum and let it take over from there. That's not so fucking hard, is it?"