Heat rose off of John’s skin in waves, sultry and languid. He was so hot that the air around him seemed to almost shimmer like a desert mirage. Or, perhaps, and more logically perhaps, it was merely lust that fogged up Sherlock’s vision and cloaked his brain, with John tied up and perfect, splayed over Sherlock’s lap, stuffed full of his cock.
John was panting, the hot gusts of breath stoppered with the black ball gag in his mouth. His body was scorching, the heat of him so intense that it seemed like he should sizzle when Sherlock licked a delicate stripe across his collarbone. Sherlock imagined he could taste desperation in the salt of John's sweat, gently prespired along with the minerals and trace metals. Desperation mixed in with sodium and magnesium and potassium, with zinc and copper and iron. Desperation was obvious, at least, in the tremble of his thighs, the arch of his spine, the tension and quiver of his muscles.
John whimpered, unable to help it. The sounds came out muffled and quick and small.
Sherlock leaned back on the sofa, lush with satisfaction. He was still fully dressed, with only his black trousers pushed down past his hips. John was completely naked, tied up prettily and glorious.
Sherlock watched, rapt, as John tiredly, shakingly, attempted to fuck himself on his cock.
He had had John like this for the better part of the past two hours. He had teased him, first with hands and slick tongue, then with toys that buzzed and wormed inside of him, making John squirm. It was a delight to make John squirm, to see the writhe of his body and the involuntary twitches of his cock. The noises he made were far more intriguing for the fact that they were quieted by the gag in his mouth. Again and again, Sherlock brought John to the very verge of orgasm, and then, just as he could see John tense and strain towards climax, he would take all stimulation away. He would slow the touches down, perhaps, pet him and relax him, touch him everywhere except for his flushed and throbbing cock, rub him inside everywhere except for his swollen prostate. He would tease John until he was a shivering ball of need, but John wasn’t allowed to come.
Now Sherlock had him seated on his cock, taking his time with him. He fucked him slow and easy. Thirteen. Lucky thirteen. A lovely, double-digit number: in the course of two hours, John had almost come thirteen times now, only to be denied when he needed it most. John was trembling and worn out, tired but oh so needy. Sherlock revelled in his desperation.
It would probably take five minutes, at the most, to bring John to the edge again. Maybe not even that. The right thrust at the right angle, an errant touch to his dick, a harsh twist to his nipples, and he’d be right there, keening and anguished for something he knew he couldn’t have.
With his mouth stuffed full John could form no words. He couldn’t even beg. He could only whine out small, animalistic sounds. He could only plead with his eyes, large and dark and glistening wet with frustration.
John was so small like this, bound together, beautifully compact. He was trussed up in black satin rope like a present, like an offering to a sordid god of hedonism and sex. His arms were bound to his sides, his wrists bound to one another, rendering him helpless. The ropes crisscrossed in an X over his chest, rendering him on display. The symmetry of it was elegant. The feel of him was tight, searing with heat, split open on Sherlock's cock. It was almost as if Sherlock could contain John this way, tangle him up in knots and keep him.
Sherlock stopped moving, hips still, letting John writhe upon his dick in an attempt to get more. John looked wrecked already, sweat beading gently upon his skin, cheeks flushed and nipples hard, chest rising up and down with his hot, softly stifled breaths. He was so tired by now, forced flush against Sherlock's lap, completely impaled upon his cock. Sherlock’s hands splayed upon his skin, gripping and squeezing at his hips, at the soft swell of his arse. He held him in place, keeping him from getting the stimulation that he needed. John’s movements were forcefully kept shallow and short, Sherlock’s dick doing little more for him than simply nudging at the bump of his prostate, providing him with teasing, lightning-quick flashes of sensation, not enough, nowhere near enough. He was unable to do little more than rock and squirm.
When Sherlock decided to move again, he fucked him at a leisurely pace, thrusting his cock up into slick, luxurious heat. His thrusts were slow and careful, pulling out barely an inch or two at a time, relishing in the drag of his cock along the tight grip of John’s insides, just barely rubbing against the sensitive bundle of nerves inside of him. John keened and whined, trying to raise himself up so that he could drop himself down hard onto Sherlock’s cock. His insides needed to be filled up so badly. Sherlock squeezed the flesh in his hands and prevented it, holding John tightly still.
Sherlock’s eyes half-lidded with pleasure. “It’s your own fault for being so sensitive,” he said. It was an observation, far from a complaint. One of his hands slid between them and he rubbed his thumb and two fingers over the slippery, flushed head of John’s dick. John shuddered hard, whimpering - he was close again, so quickly and so easily. Sherlock could feel the threat of orgasm in the pressure of John’s knees and thighs squeezing against his hips. He could feel how much he wanted to come in the exquisite way John’s body clenched around him, as if he were trying to hold on to Sherlock’s hard, thick dick inside of him.
He slid his hand down the shaft of John’s prick and squeezed tightly, constricting him the way a cock ring would, preventing him from coming.
“Not yet.” Sherlock’s voice was sharp and authoritative. “If you come, we’ll have to start all over again, from the beginning.”
He tightened his hand when John whined, attempting to thrust up into it. Sherlock’s other hand pushed down on John’s hip, keeping him still.
“If you come now,” he said, “Maybe I’ll have to leave you for a few hours, with the cock ring and one of the big toys inside of you. I did want to head down to the morgue today. Maybe you could learn some endurance while I’m gone.”
John shook his head, body shaking as well - the first move voluntary and the second uncontrollable. His eyes were dark and shining with sheer excitement. Sherlock gave his cock another squeeze, much gentler this time, to feel him twitch and pulse in his hand. John winced as if it hurt; Sherlock knew that it only felt too good, obvious from the precum that trickled down his shaft.
John did not lose control. He trembled, but he didn’t come.
“You’re so good for me,” Sherlock praised him.
He rolled his hips to see John shudder, to feel the tightness of his wet, slick hole fluttering around him.
John was so sensitive. He was wonderfully responsive. He made Sherlock want to lay him down on an examination table and figure him out. Surely he couldn’t have been like this with his girlfriends. But then again he’d never had a girlfriend who wanted to investigate him the way that Sherlock did, to unravel him and explore him and make a discovery of him. He’d never had a girlfriend who had heard him beg, who could make him cry and beg and come all in the span of sixty seconds. He had never had a girlfriend who had owned him.
This was his, John’s pleasure and the adamant denial of it. The shadow of his dark gold lashes against his flushed cheeks, his stoppered breath, the arch of his spine, the twitch of his cock, the hot, sweet clasp of his tight and greedy hole - that all belonged to Sherlock.
He rocked up, fast and sharp, a direct stab into John’s prostate, all swollen and sensitive for him.
John moaned weakly, precum spurting out clear from the head of his dick. The sound of his moan was muffled by the black ball gag stopping up his mouth. It was just big enough to stretch his mouth sweetly open. Sherlock liked the sight of John’s mouth with something in it. He liked to have either of John’s holes plugged, either with his cock or with a toy. If it were up to him, that would always be the case, but as cases went, that would be very impractical.
“Look at you,” Sherlock purred. “Look at how desperate you are, fucking yourself on my cock.”
John was making a valiant effort of it, despite the quiver of his thighs, muscles standing out in relief as he lifted himself up again. They would burn with exhaustion tomorrow, but for now he rocked himself with abandon, moving when Sherlock refused to, letting Sherlock’s cock rub in and out of him. His cheeks were bright but he made no attempt to deny how desperate he was. It would have been fruitless to hide that from Sherlock, anyway. It was fruitless to hide anything of himself from Sherlock, anymore.
“You know,” Sherlock said, “for someone who was so determinedly straight for so long, you certainly love to have my cock inside of you, filling you up.”
He could say anything he wanted to John. John could only shudder and listen. There was no denial there, either, and what a triumph it had been, the first time, to claim John Watson in a way that no one else had ever had him. Now Sherlock triumphed again and again.
John’s chest arched forward, ropes around his pectorals making a pretty presentation of his nipples. They were hard and swollen from Sherlock’s cruel twisting and teasing, turned puffy and pink.
“Not even I could have guessed you would turn out to be such a little cockslut,” Sherlock said. He was wickedly amused and shamelessly aroused. “Imagine what your girlfriends would say if they could see you like this. Letting yourself be used for my pleasure. Your tight little hole hungry for my cock. You’re positively greedy for my cock inside of you, all tied up and gagged and still begging me to fuck you until you come.”
John made a strangled sound in response, deep in his throat. He shook his head; with his mouth plugged up, he couldn’t say a word. With his cheeks flushed deep pink, he couldn’t lie. His dick twitched, drooling a trickle of precum, making it shiny and wet.
“How badly do you want to come, John?” Sherlock asked him, breath hot in his ear. “You feel so good around me. Your insides are so hot, and every time you get close you squeeze so nicely around my cock. I like the way you shiver. Maybe I’ll keep you like this for another hour, hm? How does that sound?”
John shook his head adamantly no, shaking, bouncing on Sherlock’s lap, whining and whimpering through his gag. Sherlock rubbed a thumb over the smooth black surface, pushing it gently against John’s tongue, as if encouraging him to suck.
“No?” Sherlock said. John shook his head again, making small, pleading noises, pitched with desperation. John was feverish with need, sick with it. It made Sherlock feel sick, almost, a swirling feeling in the pit of his stomach and the depths of his chest, with how much he wanted him.
“Ah, well. All right,” Sherlock conceded. “But only because you’re such a good little slut.”
He gripped John by the hips, then, finally began to fuck him in earnest. He thrust up with harsh, quick, jabbing strokes, bouncing John upon his lap. He dug his fingers into the firm flesh of John’s arse, loving how easily he could move and manipulate his smaller body. How he could hold John and shove inside of him, pushing into all that velvety heat.
John, completely bound up, was unable to do anything except take it. He moaned, wet and loud even through the gag, shuddering hard every time the head of Sherlock’s dick pushed against the swollen nub of his prostate.
Sherlock fucked him ruthlessly, voraciously. He wanted to consume him. His thrusts were brutal; as if he could tattoo his ownership onto John with every smack of skin upon skin. John gave himself over so willingly. He allowed himself to be used, an eager little fucktoy, an instrument for pleasure. He let himself be consumed.
Sherlock had claimed him for his. He didn’t need to say it. He didn’t need to tug John close and whisper in his ear who he belonged to, although he did it anyway, to feel the shivers wrack through John’s compact little body. But this John already knew. John was his, every inch of him - his desperation, his need, the bead of sweat slowly trickling down his chest, the swallow of his throat, the frenetic beat of his heart.
John was jostled about so easily. His eyes and lashes glistened with the tears of frustrated desire. His throat and chest shone with sweat in the light, his cock flushed red and leaking drops of precum onto Sherlock’s white shirt. Sherlock loved to fuck him with all the lights on, so that he could drink in the details of him, observe every reaction, catalogue every twitch and shudder. Sherlock grabbed at him with his hands, squeezing, snatching at him possessively. He thrust hard into him with his cock, burying himself into tightness and heat.
John whimpered, looking ruined, almost not daring to hope but his expression desperately hopeful nonetheless. His eyes were nearly black with arousal. He was obviously close again, every inch of him, every muscle and nerve straining for orgasm. He could do nothing but shudder and moan weakly with every thrust to his now-oversensitised prostate. Saliva trickled from the corner of his forced-open pink mouth and his eyes rolled heavenward; he was absolutely and completely overwhelmed.
Sherlock took his pleasure, greedily, easily. The sight of John so lost to sex and sensation made him helplessly aroused, made the dirty lust burn hot inside of his body, his own heart pounding and breath smouldering in his lungs. He rammed himself in deep, and John groaned and pushed back, wanting deeper, needing it, all the while moaning like a whore. John had always been like this, meeting him halfway, two thirds of the way, all the way; he wanted everything Sherlock could give him and then he always begged for more. He had always been miraculous, in his own way.
“Now,” Sherlock commanded, feeling his own orgasm cresting. The sound of his order came out low and breathy, sharp and scorched with need. “Come for me, John, do it, now.”
And then he shoved up hard, both hands holding John down, bodies smacking together, forcing him to sit flush against his hips, completely impaled upon his cock.
John came with a shout, dick twitching, spurting thick drops of semen onto Sherlock’s shirt. He came with shudders and cries, the sounds leaking through the gag, his body jerking, clenching and squeezing around Sherlock’s cock. The pleasure was so intense it was almost excruciating, and Sherlock felt his orgasm milked out of him, John’s muscles fluttering and contracting around his cock. He watched John fall apart as he filled him with his cum, watched John writhe and come completely undone, while his own pleasure unspooled from where it had been wound tight in the core of his body.
John moaned, low and long, a sound of pure sensuality. He gasped and his body shook with uncontrollable tremors, and then, with a deep-bone shudder, he was clenching around Sherlock once more.
Sherlock realised, with a dizzying surge of lust, that John was coming again, a smaller orgasm tripping on the heels of the first, at the sensation of being filled with Sherlock’s cum.
He reached between them and grabbed John’s flushed and twitching cock, stroking him through his second orgasm. His palm was lubricated with John’s precum and the semen that he’d already spent. “You’re such a filthy slut,” Sherlock breathed, ever so fond. ”That’s it, go on and let go for me.”
He stroked John until John was whimpering and trying to wriggle away. John shook his head, eyes wide and pleading; it was far too much. Sherlock held onto him tight, one hand on his hip, his own dick snug still in the warm clasp of John’s body. John’s dick was flushed red and raw-looking, twitching in Sherlock’s hand. It was surely oversensitive. He stroked John until John was actually nearly crying, and then until Sherlock could see tears drip down his cheeks, until John was begging for mercy through his gag, and Sherlock kept touching him, kept stroking until John shuddered again and his dick spurted with one final pathetic dribble that was more precum than anything else.
John collapsed on him afterwards, languid and boneless against Sherlock’s chest. He was warm and panting where he lay, a sweaty, trembling mess. His strength had been entirely sapped and replaced by a gelatinous sort of exhaustion. Sherlock reached behind John’s head and gently undid his gag. It was wet with saliva. John stretched his jaw, flexing the aching muscles, sticking out his pink tongue. With his hands still bound behind him, arms still bound tight to his torso, he raised his head and nuzzled against Sherlock’s throat. He pressed kisses up his jaw, until their mouths finally found one another. They kissed, open-mouthed and sloppy the way that kisses can be when both parties are uncoordinated with weariness and bliss, their tongues and lips gently rubbing and caressing with no particular purpose. Neither of them found it in them to care.
“You,” John said, after a moment, the word pressed against the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, “are fantastic.”
“Mm,” Sherlock hummed with approval. The feeling was mutual. It pleased him when he and John were on the same page.
“We should keep you tied up,” Sherlock suggested, perhaps a bit too brightly. But, surely, it was a bright sort of idea.
“We can’t,” John said, although the hitch in his breath betrayed him. He shook his head as if to clear it. “We’d never get anything done. We would starve to death. Who would make dinner?”
“I could,” Sherlock said, which earned him a look so incredulous and a laugh so loud that John had to be smacked on his arse for impudence. Which, of course, only made him laugh harder.
“Maybe next weekend,” John said, still shaking a bit with laughter. “We’ll order Chinese.”
“Maybe,” Sherlock said, a little annoyed at being laughed at. He bit John’s scar, making John gasp, which, of course, made Sherlock feel a bit better.
Later he would untie John and massage out any ache in his muscles. Later they would have to clean up the mess they made - or rather, they would put it off and put it off, both of them refusing to give in, until John would inevitably cave, mortified at the thought of Mrs. Hudson - or worse, Mycroft - seeing the stains on their sofa. And then after John was done his yelling and complaining, Sherlock would tumble him into bed and they would hold each other, become tangled in one another.
But for now, right now, they touched, and kissed, and laughed, and teased; each one all tied up in the other, neither of them able to think of any place better to be.