It wasn't hard at all. In fact, it was deliriously easy.
Sherlock slid into the girl, pushing perhaps too fast and too hard - she whimpered loudly, burying her face against his flatmate's neck, and John made shushing noises, his hands rubbing soothing circles on her back - and that was easy, but he had to stop, had to, before he was all the way in because, for the second time that night, things were dangerously bordering on too much.
It was tight, tighter than her cunt (her vagina) had been, and, yes, there was the heat, and John - he had been keeping still, mostly, Sherlock suspected, for his benefit - bucked upward (he didn't mean to, involuntary, couldn't help it, lost control) and he could feel John moving inside her, several layers of skin and muscle away from his own hard cock. He might have groaned, might have tilted his head back while John's name tumbled from his lips. He might have. But what he actually did, what he was sure of, was that he drove the rest of his length into the girl, and that he began, in earnest, to fuck her.
He had no real measure of how long he did it, thrusting in and out of her urgently, mindlessly (yes, mindlessly, that was saying something, wasn't it?), simply riding the sensation. All he knew, while it was happening, was that he needed it, needed more, needed for that hot, wonderful tightness to take him in, all of him, and how John had to keep moving too, beneath him, grinding deep inside her, and how she moved her hips, sliding further onto one cock and then the other with every cant and twist.
Part of him - the part that was still Sherlock Holmes and not a sex-crazed animal with his dick up a woman's arse - wondered, distantly, what it would look like to an outside observer, the three of them, like this.
He must have had a hand on the girl's hip, because John was touching him there, fingers trembling so hard that he needed several tries before he took Sherlock's hand in his, squeezed it so tightly that it hurt, the small bones grinding together in his grip (like their two erections grinding together inside a woman, stop, stop, stop.)
"Sweet Jesus," said John, and his head went back as he made a sound that shot straight to Sherlock's core. "Holy fuck. Christ.Sherlock."
And there, in a stark moment of clarity, Sherlock realized that he would very much like to make John say his name lik/e that again. And that he wanted very much to find out if fucking John, breaching him, filling him up and pounding into him, would do that. And if, in fact, it would feel anything like this.
It was the thought that sent him over the edge, just as John said his name again, shouted it as he came. Sherlock's second orgasm crashed through him with a roar in his eyes and white light in his ears, and a brilliant intensity that almost hurt.
Fill - 11/?
___________
It wasn't hard at all. In fact, it was deliriously easy.
Sherlock slid into the girl, pushing perhaps too fast and too hard - she whimpered loudly, burying her face against his flatmate's neck, and John made shushing noises, his hands rubbing soothing circles on her back - and that was easy, but he had to stop, had to, before he was all the way in because, for the second time that night, things were dangerously bordering on too much.
It was tight, tighter than her cunt (her vagina) had been, and, yes, there was the heat, and John - he had been keeping still, mostly, Sherlock suspected, for his benefit - bucked upward (he didn't mean to, involuntary, couldn't help it, lost control) and he could feel John moving inside her, several layers of skin and muscle away from his own hard cock. He might have groaned, might have tilted his head back while John's name tumbled from his lips. He might have. But what he actually did, what he was sure of, was that he drove the rest of his length into the girl, and that he began, in earnest, to fuck her.
He had no real measure of how long he did it, thrusting in and out of her urgently, mindlessly (yes, mindlessly, that was saying something, wasn't it?), simply riding the sensation. All he knew, while it was happening, was that he needed it, needed more, needed for that hot, wonderful tightness to take him in, all of him, and how John had to keep moving too, beneath him, grinding deep inside her, and how she moved her hips, sliding further onto one cock and then the other with every cant and twist.
Part of him - the part that was still Sherlock Holmes and not a sex-crazed animal with his dick up a woman's arse - wondered, distantly, what it would look like to an outside observer, the three of them, like this.
He must have had a hand on the girl's hip, because John was touching him there, fingers trembling so hard that he needed several tries before he took Sherlock's hand in his, squeezed it so tightly that it hurt, the small bones grinding together in his grip (like their two erections grinding together inside a woman, stop, stop, stop.)
"Sweet Jesus," said John, and his head went back as he made a sound that shot straight to Sherlock's core. "Holy fuck. Christ.Sherlock."
And there, in a stark moment of clarity, Sherlock realized that he would very much like to make John say his name lik/e that again. And that he wanted very much to find out if fucking John, breaching him, filling him up and pounding into him, would do that. And if, in fact, it would feel anything like this.
It was the thought that sent him over the edge, just as John said his name again, shouted it as he came. Sherlock's second orgasm crashed through him with a roar in his eyes and white light in his ears, and a brilliant intensity that almost hurt.