"Oh, God." Sherlock strained against the cord knotted around his wrists. "Please, John, I need..." Desperation surged through his veins like liquid fire, and he pressed his arse back, biting his lower lip to stifle an undignified whine.
"Say it," John commanded in a low tone. "Tell me exactly what you need, Sherlock."
"Your cock," Sherlock answered, voice deep and rough. "I want to be filled so badly. Please, John. Please."
With a throaty growl, John firmed his grip around Sherlock's bony hips, steadying him as he guided the head of his prick between Sherlock's cheeks and teased it over the tiny, twitching pucker of his anus. Then John was pushing, pushing, pushing, and Sherlock felt the sphincter give, felt the broad glans spread him open.
"Jesus, yes, so fucking good," John bit out breathlessly.
Sherlock wasn't given any time to adjust, only the pleasure-pain of John's fingers locking in his curls and the hard, ruthless snap of John's hips plowing inch after glorious inch of cock into his body.
How remiss he'd been in his deductions about John's endowment. Length, he'd correctly estimated from John's habitual gait and the size of the bulge in his jeans, but he hadn't bothered to take girth into consideration. There'd been no way for him to predict the way John's cock swelled in circumference, no way to foresee the sheer, shattering ecstasy of feeling his anus stretched taut around its root.
Of being completely and marvellously filled.
"Oh, God, John," Sherlock breathed, the words ragged and quavering. "Fuck me. Just fuck me."
John withdrew until only the tip was left inside Sherlock, then slammed home again, hissing, "Oh, Jesus Christ, yes." His right hand bit bruises into Sherlock's hip, the left tightening its hold on Sherlock's hair, wrenching his head back.
Sherlock yelped with startled delight as John's teeth sunk into the tender intersection of neck and shoulder.
John drove into Sherlock, fast and brutal and relentless, filling the room with a symphony of obscene noise: the slick squelch of thrusting, the ominous creak of the wooden bedframe, rumbling moans and harsh curses.
It wasn't going to last. Sherlock comprehended this despite the pleasure coiling like a spring low in his belly. Knew that this release, this moment of pure, sublime control, was the one thing he could give John to help resolve the hellish week they'd both suffered.
Sherlock came with a strangled cry. John fucked him through it, plunging into him again and again, until at last he was himself overcome.
For a minute, they remained still, struggling to regain their breath. Then Sherlock felt John's dry lips skim down the side of his neck. Felt blunt fingers fumble to free his hands.
no subject
"Say it," John commanded in a low tone. "Tell me exactly what you need, Sherlock."
"Your cock," Sherlock answered, voice deep and rough. "I want to be filled so badly. Please, John. Please."
With a throaty growl, John firmed his grip around Sherlock's bony hips, steadying him as he guided the head of his prick between Sherlock's cheeks and teased it over the tiny, twitching pucker of his anus. Then John was pushing, pushing, pushing, and Sherlock felt the sphincter give, felt the broad glans spread him open.
"Jesus, yes, so fucking good," John bit out breathlessly.
Sherlock wasn't given any time to adjust, only the pleasure-pain of John's fingers locking in his curls and the hard, ruthless snap of John's hips plowing inch after glorious inch of cock into his body.
How remiss he'd been in his deductions about John's endowment. Length, he'd correctly estimated from John's habitual gait and the size of the bulge in his jeans, but he hadn't bothered to take girth into consideration. There'd been no way for him to predict the way John's cock swelled in circumference, no way to foresee the sheer, shattering ecstasy of feeling his anus stretched taut around its root.
Of being completely and marvellously filled.
"Oh, God, John," Sherlock breathed, the words ragged and quavering. "Fuck me. Just fuck me."
John withdrew until only the tip was left inside Sherlock, then slammed home again, hissing, "Oh, Jesus Christ, yes." His right hand bit bruises into Sherlock's hip, the left tightening its hold on Sherlock's hair, wrenching his head back.
Sherlock yelped with startled delight as John's teeth sunk into the tender intersection of neck and shoulder.
John drove into Sherlock, fast and brutal and relentless, filling the room with a symphony of obscene noise: the slick squelch of thrusting, the ominous creak of the wooden bedframe, rumbling moans and harsh curses.
It wasn't going to last. Sherlock comprehended this despite the pleasure coiling like a spring low in his belly. Knew that this release, this moment of pure, sublime control, was the one thing he could give John to help resolve the hellish week they'd both suffered.
Sherlock came with a strangled cry. John fucked him through it, plunging into him again and again, until at last he was himself overcome.
For a minute, they remained still, struggling to regain their breath. Then Sherlock felt John's dry lips skim down the side of his neck. Felt blunt fingers fumble to free his hands.
"Thank you," John whispered.