“I’ll be back for you in mid-September, as I said, Sherlock. Surely you aren’t worried about being on your own? I’d thought more of you, I really had.”
Sherlock’s back straightened even more, and he glared at his older brother, hackles lifted at the condescension in his voice. “Of course not,” he replied disdainfully, voice a rich rumble. When his voice had finally changed, quite late and after an eternity of embarrassing squeaks and cracks, it had turned out to be much deeper than Mycroft’s, a fact that Sherlock wielded clumsily, like a blunt weapon, desperate to showcase any point of potential superiority. Mycroft, who still had a few centimeters of height on his little brother, and seven years that Sherlock could never surpass, simply raised an eyebrow and scooped his umbrella from the corner of the settee.
“Leave a message with the concierge if you should need me, Brother. He’ll know how to reach me if he must.”
Sherlock acknowledged that with the merest wince, and then swung around, wanting to be the first to leave the room. To prove his independence. “I’ll no doubt be around in September,” he tossed back, and then left. He thought he heard a long-suffering sigh behind him, and definitely heard, “Take care, Little Brother,” but he did not turn back around.
He sloped away to the Kasbah District as soon as he could, perching a white straw hat atop his black curls and further unbuttoning his shirt… a fully indecent 3 buttons agape now. He was quite, quite scandalous. His loose linen blazer he left open, and his slim-cut trousers were tucked into tall leather boots (which Mycroft called pretentious and immature: Sherlock ignored that input with his carefully developed selective hearing.) He eschewed the umbrella and walking stick that most of the Englishmen around him flaunted. Both for their impracticality and because he wanted to be as little like Mycroft as was possible.
He’d been here for a week with Mycroft, and had already learned the streets and markets near their hotel, had learned to identify his location by the unique prayer calls of the of the muezzin in the different mosque minarets around the city, sung five times each day. They were calling now, the eerie and beautiful tune warbling up and down minor keys, voices meeting and blending over squalid streets and broad, landscaped boulevards both. Sherlock didn’t have to be fluent to be able to translate,
Allah is Most Great,
Allah is Most Great,
I bear witness that there is none
worthy of being worshiped
except Allah, *,
Sherlock loved it. Marrakech in 1910 was filled with life, with colors, with exoticism. It made him feel daring and he expanded to fill the space that was everywhere here. He had finished Cambridge quite young, he had only just turned 18, and Mycroft had brought him here while he took care of government business all around North Africa.
Sherlock was to stay in Marrakech and broaden his horizons before returning to England to find a career compatible with his noble heritage and his study in the sciences and mathematics.
Boys usually did such tours in a gaggle, egging one another along to slink into whorehouses across Europe and the Middle East, staggering from beer gardens to formal dances. But Sherlock was supremely uninterested in joining such a crew. Even if he had been invited. Which he had not. That did not hurt him at all, of course. The boys (all older than he by several years) at Cambridge had made his life rather miserable when they had deigned to speak with him at all. Sherlock was happy to be alone.
He poked through the stalls in the market, letting the sounds and smells and sights, the energy, the ceaseless bustle around him fill his senses. His eyes darted from one person to the next, analyzing their behaviors, noting their purchases and deducing why they would need such items. There was a woman who was laden with incense and oils, with kohl and ochre, who clearly was a higher servant in a brothel catering to the British expats littering the city. There was an elderly gentleman, with three generations of offspring supporting him, smiling and happy to be out, black eyes bright under his turban. There were two giggling young women with a maid, white and obtrusive, picking through cheap bangles.
Sherlock turned around, surprised to be addressed. A man stood behind him, older than he by fifteen years or more, face gently weathered, open and friendly. He was small, dapper, hair oiled down and waistcoat buttoned smartly up to his neck. His eyes were an amazing, deep cobalt blue, and his bright teeth gleamed in his smile.
“You are addressing me, sir?” Sherlock asked in surprise, forgetting to be haughty.
“So I appear to be, don’t I?” The man smiled again. “I’ve seen you here for days, wandering about. You seem rather at loose ends, and companionless in addition.”
Sherlock frowned a bit. He had not seen this man before. Although... he was quite short, a good 6 inches less than Sherlock’s own height: perhaps he had been hidden in the crowds. In spite of his stature, he had a certain presence, one that Sherlock found himself drawn to. The man continued to smile up at him, calm and confident, hands folded behind his back.
Military, Sherlock deduced from his stature. A captain, at the least. A cane dangled from one hand, and the tip was worn enough for Sherlock to ascertain that it was used for necessity, not the whims of fashion. The man held one shoulder slightly higher than the other, and Sherlock’s eyes darted from his head to his toes. Lamed in battle, he would wager. And invalided because of it. But not willing to leave the life and freedom of Northern Africa for the cold, foggy climes of the homeland.
The man let Sherlock look his fill, serene and smiling all the while. He eventually brought his hands around front, clasping them together over the head of his cane. Sherlock’s eyes picked up the flash of gold, and noticed a wedding band on the man’s left ring finger.
“Finished browsing, yet?” the man asked. “I’ve something to ask of you, if you’ve no other demands on your time.”
Sherlock gave his head a slight shake, he had almost lost himself in observing this small man. “Ah. Er. Yes, sir.” He looked at the stall behind the man. The merchant there watched them curiously, hands balancing two large, decorative clay urns on his table. “I deduce that you wish me to play dray-horse for those urns?”
The man looked pleased, and his smile widened. “You’re quite clever, aren’t you? I thought you must be. I am Dr. John Watson, compatriot, obviously. And you?” He held out his hand, and Sherlock took it in his own, wrapping his pale fingers around tanned skin. Dr. Watson’s grip was firm, and he shook Sherlock’s hand briskly, and continued holding it, bringing the other up to encase it in both his own.
Sherlock stared down at their linked hands, surprised but not objecting. “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”
“You’re rather young to be out on your own, here, Sherlock. Do you have family or friends nearby?”
“No, sir. My brother left this morning on business, he won’t be back for several months.” Sherlock paused briefly. “I’m eighteen, sir. Not so very young.”
“No,” said Dr. Watson, and his voice was considering and intimate. His thumb stroked along the delicate bones in the back of Sherlock’s hand, and a rough callus (from handling a gun, Sherlock’s brain supplied) scratched across smooth skin. “No, indeed. Not too young. Now. If you’ve the time, would you object to being, as you say, dray horse for the afternoon? I’ll happily ply you with luncheon and tea in thanks.”
Sherlock took a deep breath. There was clearly more in the offer than tea. What should he do? He was here to learn the ways of the world, after all, seeking knowledge not taught at Cambridge. “Not at all, sir,” he said.
Dr. Watson directed him to the stall, where Sherlock hoisted one urn over each shoulder. His hat was knocked off, and Dr. Watson smilingly picked it up, tucking it under one elbow. “Follow me, then,” he said. And Sherlock did.
They reached an automobile soon thereafter, parked in the shaded terrace of a nearby hotel. Dr. Watson directed Sherlock to place the urns in the trunk, where he wrapped them carefully up in two blankets as Dr. Watson looked on. Afterward, he was gestured to the passenger seat, while the older man cranked the car until it was running, noisily belching black smoke before settling down into a loud, mechanical purr.
Sherlock held his straw hat on his head as the wind of their passage threatened to blow it off. He was grateful for the windshield, which protected him from some of the dust floating above the road. The fabric roof of the auto, however, was tucked away, and they were exposed to the sun and the heat. Sherlock glanced cross-eyed at his nose: his fair, nearly translucent skin beginning to pinken, even in the reflected light of the sun. A sideways glance showed that Dr. Watson was much less particular about his own complexion. His skin was gold, marking him as a long-term expat, tan and warm and worn... and infinitely fascinating. He reclined in the driver’s seat, one hand casually holding the steering wheel, compensating for the jolts and turns the rutted road imposed on the car. His other arm he stretched out along the seat back, his sleeve brushing against Sherlock’s neck, invasive, feeling as rough as burlap, in spite of the fine linen it actually was.
Another bump, and Dr. Watson’s hand twitched, landing thumb-first in Sherlock’s collar. Sherlock sat very still, clasping his hat to his head, other hand clenched around his own thigh. He focused intently on the sensation of that rough thumb, edging inside his collar, scraping along the tender skin of his long neck. Chills that were at odds with the dry heat of the day roughened his skin, sharpened his sensitivity, spread from Dr. Watson’s invasive digit across his shoulders, across his scalp, across his lean chest, tightening his nipples, tickling the seat of his desire until the blood rushed will-he nil-he into his cock.
Dr. Watson glanced surreptitiously down, and then stared back at the roadway, mouth curved in a good-natured smirk. His wandering thumb slid back upwards, stirring the sweat-dampened hair at Sherlock’s nape, and his fingers came into play as well, curling around the slender circumference of Sherlock’s neck, brushing up under his ear and then wandering down until they found and probed the hollow created by his collarbone and shoulder. Sherlock leaned back a bit, pressing himself into that warm, confident hand, eyes firmly on his lap, desperately trying to quell his semi-turgid state.
But he was 18, and that was rather a lost cause.
Dr. Watson’s hand combed through his hair again, knocking his hat awry, and Sherlock took it off, holding it over his lap to conceal his interest, although he knew that Dr. Watson was fully aware of it. The small hand of the man at the wheel crept around the point of his jaw, tracing the long bone of it until it swooped up to the corner of his mouth on the far side, toying with his lip, tapping at the crease where his mouth hinged until it opened under that insistent tutelage.
Sherlock allowed the dry finger ingress, feeling relaxed and shy and uncertain and excited all at once. He turned his head slightly, gratefully, because it meant he was facing away from Dr. Watson’s knowing eyes. The finger probed his mouth, curving around the stretched skin of his lip to explore the soft tissue of his inner cheek, the hard ridges of his teeth.
Companion fingers wrapped under his jaw, nudging upwards to close his mouth more, and Dr. Watson leaned over a bit to say, “Can you suck, Sherlock?” His tone was nonchalant, his voice a soft, safe tenor, and Sherlock was at a loss to explain his shiver, an animal recognition of being hunted, trapped, a checkmated sensation. He shut his eyes against the wind and slowly applied light suction, touching calloused skin with his tongue, learning the texture and flavor offered there.
Dr. Watson groaned audibly, and Sherlock felt bolstered, He sucked again, hollowing his cheeks around the small digit, and another pushed its way in, to lie alongside the first. He tongued them both, staring through barely opened eyes at the dirt stretching out on the side of the road, flying past.
Dr. Watson drove skillfully past horses, pedestrians, laden market carts and donkeys, the dogs and goats and cats and children which dodged back and forth across the road. Dark, curious eyes traced the passage of the automobile, which were still uncommon in the city, and Sherlock felt titillatingly exposed, with the older man’s fingers in his mouth. But he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, and his penis grew fully hard under the concealment of his hat.
Near the outskirts of the city, close to the Bab Agnaou Gate, Dr. Watson drove into a large courtyard, shaded with palm and date trees. He retrieved his hand, leaving a damp patch at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and turned to smile at him.
“Here we are… Sherlock. My home.” John exited the car, leaning slightly on his cane as he did so. He nodded to the back. “If you’ll grab the urns, I’ll show you inside. My wife and staff are gone, for the nonce, so it’ll just be you and me.”
Sherlock moved as if in a dream, dazed and aroused; simultaneously detached from and utterly drenched in his own body, thrumming with expectation. “Yes, sir,” was all he said, eyes fixed on Dr. Watson’s chin, on the lines of his throat rather than his sharp, knowing eyes. He leaned into the back and pulled both urns out, one on each shoulder as he had before. He stood waiting, but Dr. Watson did not move, merely stood in front of him, staring.
The heat was stifling, even in the shaded courtyard, and Sherlock felt beads of sweat trickle down his chest, his back, dampening his shirt to his shoulderblades, his curls to his forehead. There was a breathless, unoxygenated feel to the air, and Sherlock found he could do nothing more than wait for Dr. Watson’s orders. The older man stepped closer, and put a hand firmly, directly on the center of Sherlock’s chest, positioned between his nipples, bearing down on his sternum.
“You’re rather hot, aren’t you?” he murmured. “Must take care for heat stroke. I can see that you’re not yet acclimated to Morocco.” Blunt fingers slowly opened a button, revealing sparse black hairs matted to skin with a sheen of sweat. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, but said nothing. “As it’s only the two of us here, we needn’t be formal, Sherlock. Not necessary to stand on ceremony.” Dr. Watson sent a smiling look up at him, and busy fingers unbuttoned two more buttons, so that Sherlock’s white shirt was opened to just above his navel. Dr. Watson blew against his skin, and the moving air was a cool relief that caused chill bumps to rise, which Dr. Watson then caressed away with the palms of his hands.
Sherlock stood still, balancing the heavy urns on his shoulders, unable to use his hands or arms, and watched helplessly as Dr. Watson worked his shirt free of his trousers and smoothed it aside with his palms, soft and hot on Sherlock’s skin, moving from his center across his pectorals, rubbing firmly over nipples taut with anticipation. Sherlock couldn’t prevent the hiss of his breath, the shiver of his skin, as the motion sent an echo of sensation down to his cock. His body leaned forward without his volition, crowding into Dr. Watson’s hands.
Dr. Watson smiled again, pleased and satisfied with Sherlock’s reaction. He plucked at Sherlock’s nipples, thumbing them, pushing down in tiny circles. Sherlock’s breath was short, choppy, panting. He clutched at the balanced urns upon his shoulders, penned by duty, when Dr. Watson finally dragged his hands down lean flanks, fingers pressing into Sherlock’s lower back while both thumbs dug into the hollows of his hipbones, having slid behind the belt and fabric of his trousers.
Impishly, Dr. Watson stepped back, grinning and licking his lips. “That’s better, isn’t it? Come with me, and I’ll find a cool drink for you as well.”
Sherlock followed, swimming through the haloed light of the afternoon, eyes so blown with passion and trepidation that it was hard to see. They entered a darkened foyer, which seemed almost pitch black for the few moments it took Sherlock’s eyes to adjust. Dr. Watson took off his own jacket, and unbuttoned and divested himself of his waistcoat as well, sliding off his tie and popping free several buttons of his shirt. He folded the lot neatly on a trunk near the door and then beckoned to Sherlock. “Set those on either side of the stairs, if you don’t mind.”
Sherlock nodded and rolled his shoulders, allowing the urns to slide down into his arms. He set each one next to a rail of the stairs, and felt the doctor’s eyes on his every move as he did so. He’d positioned himself behind Sherlock when he’d straightened up, and small hands were again on his body, shoving his jacket and shirt over his shoulders, slipping them off his arms.
“There,” Dr. Watson said breathlessly, licking his lips again. “Now we’re relaxed.” Dark eyes devoured Sherlock, standing naked from the waist up in an unfamiliar foyer. “You’re a handsome one, aren’t you?” The tongue again, snaking across thin, mobile lips. A hand came to rest on his belly, fingers combing through the dark arrow of hair leading under his trousers. “Are you thirsty? Hungry?”
Sherlock felt hunger and thirst, but he didn’t think it was for comestibles. His lips parted, and felt himself drawn towards the smaller form, curling around the aura of the older man: it was so strong, so assured, so deeply, unabashedly sensual. And, rather… forceful.
“I think you should call me John,” he continued, holding Sherlock's narrow torso firmly between his two hands.
“All right,” Sherlock acquiesced. “John. And, you can call me Sherlock.”
John grinned at him, tolerant, and Sherlock immediately realized what a stupid thing he’d just said. John had been calling him Sherlock since they met in the market. He felt color flooding his face, treacherous fair skin revealing more about his discomfort than he would like. “I will, then, thank you,” John murmured, still smiling.
He pulled Sherlock closer, until they were only inches apart. “You’re rather inexperienced, aren’t you?” He leaned in until his lips were pressed to Sherlock’s damp shoulder. “Have you ever been with a man?”
Sherlock felt hot tongue, sharp teeth against his collarbone, and his knees went weak. He made a small, low sound, and Dr. Watson… John, chuckled warmly against his skin. “Had a woman, then?” Sherlock shook his head, and John made a growling noise, closing his mouth around the ridge of his clavicle and sucking, brief and hard, so that Sherlock shook and thrust his pelvis forward, unexpectedly and without warning.
John grabbed his hips and held them still, barely brushing against John’s abdomen. “Shh,” he said. “There will be time for that later.” He licked up along Sherlock’s neck, leaning forward, supporting his weight on Sherlock’s hips, and nipped at his jaw. “Come with me.”
“Yes, sir,” was all Sherlock felt capable of saying. His whole body was throbbing with each pulse of his heart, and no amount of breathing was getting sufficient air into his lungs. He followed John down a short hall, through another, enclosed courtyard, and then into a small, brightly lit salon. White and blue tiles swirled in fractal-like patterns on the floors and halfway up the stuccoed walls, and two long, wide sofas, practically beds, were situated on either side of a brightly painted coffee table.
John gave Sherlock a little push towards one of the sofas, and he obediently sat, facing out into the courtyard, scooting two of the many pillows to support his back. John smiled down at him, eyes heavy and hot. “I’ll get drinks,” he said quietly. “You may make yourself comfortable. Feel free to bare your feet. If you need the washroom, it’s beyond that yellow door over there.” He nodded to the left, and Sherlock could see a marigold-painted door, covered with wrought iron detail, half hidden behind the spiny leaves of a giant potted palm.
Sherlock did use the facilities, splashing his face, neck and hands with cool water from the sink and patting himself dry with a rough towel on a hook nearby. When he returned to the salon, John was already there, and two lemonades were sweating on the little table. Sherlock swiped at an errant drop of water and moved to sit, changing his trajectory when John indicted a cushion on the floor next to his feet. “Sit here instead,” he said reasonably. “It’s cooler on the floor.”
Sherlock sat at John’s feet, thrumming with anticipation, gracefully disposing himself on the cushion, but edgy with nerves. He reached for the lemonade with a hand that subtly shook, and held it tightly between both his clammy palms. He heard John swallow, above him, behind him, and the other glass passed over his head to click down onto the table. John’s hands, cooler now from the beverage, came to rest on his shoulders. Sherlock sat still, clutching his glass.
“You’re very strong,” John murmured, hands caressing the rounded joints of his shoulders, feeling their way down to explore the delineations of his biceps, the rounded bulge of muscle there. “I’m sorry you didn’t carry those heavy urns like this, shirtless and beautiful, instead of all swaddled in linen as you were. I should like to have seen it.”
Sherlock couldn’t help but flex under those impressed hands, and John hummed thoughtfully behind him. “You like this? Touching?” He smoothed his hands across Sherlock’s chest, cupping leanly cut pectorals, fingers toying with both pink nipples until Sherlock could feel a flush sink from his face through his chest. He bent his head, hoping John wouldn’t notice. No one had touched him like this. Ever. He gave a faint nod.
John leaned forward for another sip, and when he sat back again, he shifted one leg so that it was on Sherlock’s other side, enclosing him between John’s thighs. The hands were back, surgeon's hands, he realized, well-versed in human anatomy. Well versed, evidently, in human pleasure. The prodded and pulled and pressed at his skin and muscles, stroking him into compliancy, until the room was a haze, and his body was warm not with the heat of the late afternoon, but with desire and longing... for something. Something he could only name in an academic sense.
John guided Sherlock’s head back, lax now, until the weight of it was supported on his palm. Sherlock opened dazed eyes and stared into the round, dark eyes above his own. “I’m going to kiss you, now,” John said.
Sherlock licked his lips and nodded. He hadn’t kissed before, either. It was obviously to be a day of firsts, and he thrilled to it. John fell further forward, and hard lips were against his own, mobile, insistent. Fingers probed into the points of his jaw, the hollows of his cheek, and Sherlock followed the silent instruction to yield, to open his lips. John’s tongue was immediately inside, licking into the heat of his own mouth as if the lemonade had not been enough.
John gave a growling sigh and swirled Sherlock’s tongue up with his own, sucking it relentlessly, until Sherlock arched himself backwards, straining up towards John, eyes tightly shut. He was clutching at John’s wrists with kneading fingers, little sounds escaping him: pleasure and need and uncertainty and desperation. He licked back, sloppy and inexperienced and hesitant, but John grunted his approval, bent Sherlock into more of an arc, stretching his spine, one hand closing around the front of his neck in a gesture that was both dominant and faintly terrifying, so close to cutting off Sherlock’s air.
And that made Sherlock whine, pushing himself towards John with his boots slipping on the floor until they crashed up against the leg of the table, and his hips rolled forward seeking contact.
“Turn around.” John’s voice was rough, and when Sherlock opened his eyes, he noted that John’s face was flushed, his mouth shiny and swollen with their kisses, eyes blown black with fervency. Sherlock scrambled to scoop his legs under him, rolling to his knees on the cushion and facing John. Kneeling between spread legs. Oh. God.
John unbuttoned his own shirt, revealing a tanned, well-muscled chest liberally sprinkled with gold and grey hairs. When he shrugged out of it, Sherlock’s eyes immediately fixed on a reddened patch of scar tissue on his left shoulder, still angry and raised. “Frontier skirmish in Egypt,” John said. “Last summer.” He dropped his shirt onto the floor and then moved his hands to his belt, keeping eye contact with Sherlock all the while. “All right?” he asked.
Sherlock would liked to have taken a bit of a break and pursued the story of the gunshot wound, but it seemed this was not the time. The pressure of his cock, trapped against his thigh in his tightly fitted trousers, agreed with the straightforward approach John was taking. He took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m fine, sir,” he asserted, although his voice was not as strong as he would have liked.
John flipped his belt through the metal buckle and unbuttoned his trousers, five buttons in all. Sherlock could see the stretched bulge of his cock, fully hard behind the fabric of his pants. John leaned back, stretching both arms along the pillows piled behind him. “Go on, then,” he challenged. “Take it out. Show me what you can do.”
Sherlock didn’t understand the challenge, as he had never indicated in any way that he had sexual prowess or experience. But if John was not going to let that stop him, then neither was Sherlock. He pretended to be confident, and folded back the flies of John’s trousers, brushing his knuckles along the length of the hidden erection. John hissed, and lifted his eyes to the ceiling, both hands closing into fists in the pillows along the sofa. “Yes.”
Sherlock rubbed again, surprised at how hard John felt under the soft cotton, the satisfying girth, the heave and jump as his penis twitched under his fingers. John’s head dropped back for a moment, and Sherlock took the opportunity to find skin, brushing against the silken head of John’s cock, finger slipping through a hot bead of pre-ejaculate.
John groaned and pushed into Sherlock’s hand. “More. Do it. Use your mouth.”
Sherlock suffered a frisson of excitement and then carefully tugged the pants down, until he could hook them under John’s furred bollocks, lighter and more delicate than his own. The shaft nearly under his nose was deep red, halfway out of the protective collar of silvery foreskin, glistening with fluid on the tip. It lurched toward his mouth when he exhaled, salivated, and John’s hands snapped inwards to grab him. “Do it,” he said again.
Sherlock leaned forward and cautiously licked from the base to the head, a dainty stripe, scarcely wet. He imbibed John’s flavor more from smell than actual taste, on that first go, and John moaned under his mouth, hands propelling his shoulders in until he was close to being mashed into John’s abdomen. “More. Wetter.”
Sherlock kept his eyes open, reading signs from John’s body and his genitals. He licked again, this time closing his lips around the girth of John, dragging heat and saliva along the length of him, curling over the salty flavor at the top and then sliding back down. He wedged one hand between his chest and the edge of the sofa, working it up to John’s bollocks, and then fingered his way around them, stroking and weighing, gently tugging. “Yes!” John hissed, bucking forward. “Suck me hard.”
“Very well, sir,” Sherlock husked, and allowed John’s cock to penetrate his mouth, one hand holding his bollocks, the other pressed against the patch of curls framing John’s sex. His lips were stretched, this was the largest thing he’d ever fit into his mouth, and he could feel the taut skin at the corners pulled too tight. John grabbed Sherlock’s hand from its nest of pubic hair and fitted it around his cock, working his own hand on top of that. He grunted and thrust forward until their combined fists were flush against Sherlock’s lips.
Sherlock kept his eyes on John’s, waiting for cues, and hollowed his cheeks with suction, John moving hot and heavy atop his tongue.
“God, you’re beautiful,” John gasped, face flushed red. He slid his other hand around the back of Sherlock’s head and begin to induce a rhythm on him, thrusting to meet him on every forward motion. “Oh. God. Yeah-”
This went on for some minutes, and Sherlock began to feel quite desperate for some relief of his own. He squirmed, first trying to get some pressure against his groin from his bent legs, and when that didn't work, trying to work his way down enough to rut on the cushion. He could not reach. Little noises of protest began to emerge when he popped off for air, and John gave him an assessing sweep. He quickly rearranged himself, and thrust one of his legs between Sherlock’s. Then, “Don’t stop,” he ordered.
Sherlock sank with relief onto the hard boot nestled against his bollocks. He rolled his hips, seeking pleasure, while trying not to drool over his and John’s fingers, and unwilling to release the two resilient orbs in his other hand. He ground down, little whines filling the room, as he sucked and stroked and tried to swallow. His hair began to matt on his forehead with exertion while John moved him at a rapid pace, down and back, pushing, then pulling on his hair to urge him back up, thrusting to meet him on the downsweep. Sherlock felt fire seeping through his veins, and John’s groans began to escalate.
Before it could go any further, John jerked Sherlock off, using his hair as a handhold. Sherlock stayed still, arched backwards, thighs closed around John’s leg, urgent erection still grinding against John’s tall boot.
“Stop,” John commanded, and Sherlock froze altogether.
John smiled at him again. “Very good. You’re magnificent,” he said reassuringly. “You’re doing so well. Perfectly amazing. I… don’t want it to end yet.”
He stood abruptly, reaching out briefly to catch himself on the wall when one leg buckled a bit. One hand still twined through Sherlock’s hair, holding him still, he shoved his trousers and pants down to his knees with the other. His cock, red and rude and inexplicably enticing, bobbed in front of Sherlock’s face. He planted both feet firmly, and wrapped his free hand around his scrotum, offering it to Sherlock. “Now suck this,” he ordered.
Sherlock leaned forward uncertainly. He hadn’t ever heard of this before, and it didn’t seem as straightforward as sucking on the column of an erect penis. He held it delicately in his long fingers, feeling the fragile skin, wrinkled and soft, protecting the firm ovals inside. He tongued a stripe along it, as he had with the penis, and John’s grunt sounded encouraging, the widening of his stance signaling acceptance.
Sherlock licked again, feeling the texture of loose skin and wiry hairs catch upon his tongue, the smell of John, hot and musky and heavy, filling his nose and lungs until he had a feeling he belonged. No. That he was owned. He pursed his lips and sucked in a mouthful of loose skin, brushing it smooth with the flat of his tongue, probing into the area when John’s bilateral symmetry began. John caught him around the face, hands covering both ears, fingers digging into his scalp, and wrenched him so close in to his body that Sherlock could hardly breathe.
“All of it,” he growled.
So Sherlock opened his mouth wide, used one hand to feed both testicles into his mouth, held them there, warm and vital, closing his lips around everything he could hold, swallowing against excess saliva and a burgeoning thread of shame. But the noises John was making were rewarding, going high and reckless, and his hands scrubbed at Sherlock’s head as he crushed himself into that uptilted face. “Yes, yes,” he was choking.
Sherlock used his tongue, moved his mouth, flexed his cheeks, and could feel the metronomic beating of John’s cock against his forehead. The bollocks in his mouth pulled forward, tightening up, and Sherlock had to struggle to keep them contained.
He clutched John’s thighs when he was shoved back again, and both testes were ripped from his mouth with a smack and a rush of saliva. John looked down, his expression urgent, his cheeks flushed red and his eyes blown into depthless pools. Sweat limned his naked torso, highlighting the ripple of muscle below his ribs, the mound of pectorals, the tiny protrusions of brown nipples, dark and nearly hidden in shining golden hair.
“I’m going to fuck you, now,” he said, seemingly struggling to enunciate. “I’m going to bend you over and fuck you. It’ll feel good. I’ll make it feel good.”
He stooped down and grabbed at Sherlock’s crotch, hand unerringly wrapping around his distended cock, still agonizingly tucked against his leg in the trousers. John tugged until Sherlock rose unsteadily to his feet, following that cruel grip. John massaged his straining erection so hard that Sherlock feared he might finish off right here, before the promised fucking.
Sherlock bent his head, looking down at that face, the older man smiling and ardent, teaching him; experienced and willing and calling him beautiful. These were not experiences he had ever had before. Generally his peers called him a prat, or a freak or simply a bastard. He had avoided them all once he had learned that he would never be accepted.
John mumbled something unintelligible into his mouth, drawing his head down for a kiss with the hand that was not fumbling with Sherlock’s trousers, trying to nudge them down. Sherlock sank into the kiss, feeling the wet slide of his chin on John’s, the cool huff of air on his cheek as John exhaled, the erotic suction on his tongue when John pulled it into his own mouth. He helped John with the buttons of his flies, hands trembling, little mewls spilling out whenever they separated for breath.
And then John had his hands on Sherlock’s flanks, smoothing down taut skin, down his tight lean form, feeling the flex of his muscles as he breathed and moved. Without hesitation, John cupped his buttocks, hands where none had been before, and Sherlock froze in shock. John muttered encouragement against his neck and did not stop, did not slow down, slid assertive hands across the globes of his arse, kneading and squeezing and quite frankly playing with the flesh he found there.
It felt terrifying. It felt exquisite. It felt….. Addictive. Sherlock pushed his freed cock against John’s belly, feeling the returning pressure of John’s own, and dropped his head into the crook of John’s neck, focussed on the hands manipulating his derriere.
“Oh, god, you feel good. Is this good for you, Sherlock? Do you like my hands? Because I have plans for you. Oh, I have plans….” He worked his fingers into the cleft, the meridian of Shrlock’s arse, and rubbed them down, dry and just shy of painful, down until they touched the tightly closed hole there, and Sherlock jumped, frightened and intrigued and bewildered.
John bit his neck.
Hard, relentless, and Sherlock shuddered at the pain, felt the bruise John sucked to the surface of Sherlock’s previously unmarred skin, and then, utterly without warning, there was a surge of fluid jetting from his cock. And Sherlock was choking and garbling out his shock and shame at his unexpected orgasm, thrusting against John’s belly as John toyed with his arsehole, which spasmed around the tip of the finger that he’d slid in.
They stood still for a moment.
Sherlock was afraid to lift his head, sure he'd done something unforgivable, coming before his host and teacher the way he had. John kept his fingertip inside Sherlock, dry and burning, gently pulsing in and out as the post orgasmic shudders slowly shivered to a halt. “I’m sorry, sir,” Sherlock whispered miserably into John’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I-”
John urged Sherlock’s head away so he could see his face and then he smiled. “It’s all right. You’re young enough to go again. But. Next time,” and his voice dropped into a low tone of command, still friendly, but implacable. “Next time, you come when I say you can, understood?”
John nodded, friendly as you like, and then pushed Sherlock back down to his knees and drew a finger through the mess Sherlock had left on his belly. “You might clean this up, though, before we continue.”
Sherlock looked around for a serviette, but John tutted at him. “With your tongue, Sherlock.”
Sherlock swallowed hard as he looked up, and then dropped his eyes to the smears of moisture, the streaks of his own ejaculate, beginning to trail downwards on John’s skin, dancing around and behind his still-erect phallus. This was. Unexpected. John’s hand was on Sherlock’s head again. Guiding with assurance and the clear impression that no denial would be accepted. Sherlock bent his head and used his mouth.
He tasted... elemental. Bitter and salty with an underlying tang that he thought might be John’s skin. He assiduously cleaned up, sucking and licking and swallowing. Then he sat back on his heels, awaiting further instruction.
John’s face broke into a wide smile. “Oh, good, Sherlock. Verygood. You’re a natural. Jesus, how did I get so lucky.” He removed his boots and pulled the remainder of his clothing off, not telling Sherlock to do the same. So Sherlock remained where he was, pants caught at his thighs, tall leather boots ridged and uncomfortable under his bare arse.
John walked over to a side table along the far wall, nestled under an ornate mirror, and slid out a creaky wooden drawer. “Oil,” he explained. “I’ll use it in a minute. But first,” he sauntered back over, limp barely noticeable, and handed one of the glasses of lemonade to Sherlock. “Refreshment?”
The drink was warm, now, but Sherlock drank gratefully, tart lemon and too much sugar slowly washing the taste of himself off his tongue. John drank his own lemonade, eyes watching him unblinking from over the glass.
“Now,” said John, setting down the emptied drink. “Let me tell you how I want you.”
Sherlock nodded, willing and beginning to itch with anticipation once again. His spent cock began to feel heavier, hanging between his trembling thighs.
“Excellent. Stay on your knees, Sherlock, but face the sofa and lay your upper body across it. Hands by your head.” Sherlock silently did as John asked, face burning from the vulnerability of the position. “Very nice,” John drawled. There was a squealing scrape as the low table was heaved to one side, and John grabbed a cushion and dropped to his knees behind Sherlock’s exposed, indeed, highlighted, bare arse. “Look at this.” Warm hands fell onto each buttock, squeezing hard and then scraping red trails down to the crease below, changing angle to draw down his thighs, and on the return path, they coaxed his legs further apart, so that his bollocks swung free.
John’s hands were firm on his inner thighs, riffling the hairs there, pushing him further and further open until he felt strained, and his chest was seated fully on the low sofa. “Good,” John was mumbling, hands frenetic, touching skin, arse, thighs, tantalizing pressure around his bollocks, loose and heavy, tugging his growing tumescence down and backward, so it could be seen from John’s view. Sherlock gasped and stifled a loud groan, his skin shivered like a horse beset by flies. “Sir-” he breathed, strained.
“Shh,” John replied, leaning forward to mouth at the juicy swell of his arse. Hot tongue, sparking teeth, clenching around a gathered bulge of his flesh, so sensitive, and Sherlock’s cock rushed with blood again, filling out even more, still in John’s hand. “Shhhh,” and John moved around Sherlock’s arse, nibbling, biting, leaving bruises and bitemarks, leaving shining trails showing his open-mouthed path, wending his way from one side to the other. He held the jolting boy still under him with one hand on his neck, the other holding his erection painfully pointed downward between his shivering white thighs. It was a beautiful sight.
When John’s tongue delved into the spread-opened crease of his arse, Sherlock shouted into the cushion under his face, and when the hand left the back of his neck to prise his buttocks open further, he moaned his reluctance and mortification into the brightly colored fabric. And when John’s mouth closed around his center, when his tongue probed the furled bud of his anus, Sherlock bucked and tried to claw away from the heat, the wet, the breath fanning between his legs.
John turned his head slightly and bit sharply, taking only a small, painful skein of skin between his teeth. He held it there, hard-bit, until Sherlock stopped moving, panting into the sofa. John relaxed and licked, flat-tongued and gentle, over the spot where he’d just, perhaps, drawn blood.
Sherlock was almost crying into the cushions in shock and arousal and shame.
“Stay still, Sherlock,” John crooned, tongue darting out to lick that forbidden area after each word, hand stroking the length of Sherlock’s hardened cock, pulling it back far enough that it could get a quick swipe of John’s tongue as well. “It’s fine. You’re fine. Aren’t you.”
It didn’t sound like a question, but Sherlock nodded anyway, not trusting his voice, clenching his teeth to prevent them chattering. He could feel John’s smile, the change in the rise of his cheeks, pressed in the crease of Sherlock’s arse, and John resumed his ministrations before Sherlock could speak.
Sucked and licked and probed.
John shook his head back and forth, rapidly, like a terrier with a rat, tongue working at his hole, the motion setting off shocks and reverberations of almost unbearable intensity all over his body. Sherlock nearly screamed into the sofa.
He unconsciously began rocking, not noticing the wetness gathering under his eyes, pushing against the pleasure, the overwhelming sensations, body reacting in frightening and unfamiliar ways as his anus began to relax, and John’s tongue actually penetrated him. Sherlock groaned and cried and tore at the fabric of the sofa, muffling all the noise and emotion in the stuffed cotton of the seat. And all the while John licked, and sucked, and wriggled, and his hand was hot and hard on Sherlock's penis, and Sherlock was ready to fly to pieces.
Then John stopped, holding still, his tongue still buried within Sherlock's body, hand calming now, on his pulsing cock. He released the stressed grip of his fingers on Sherlock’s buttock, allowing some relief to the opening stretch, and slowly slid out. “Fantastic,” he muttered, wiping his face with his arm and twisting to snag the jar of oil off the table.
He kept his hold on Sherlock's erection, as if worried that should he allow it to spring back upright he’d never have been able to pull it back again. Which may have been true. Sherlock had never tried this, he had no data.
John dipped his fingers in the oil, slicked an amount on the cock in his hand, then refreshed his supply and put his fingers where his mouth just was. He lay his weight across Sherlock’s back, as if to keep him from bolting. Although he shouldn’t worry. The rhythm of panting and muffled cries from the young man, the dilation of his anus, the undulation of his body, all screamed of lust and urgency, of the need to seek completion.
Two slick fingers probed without fanfare into the opening of Sherlock’s body, and he jumped again, lifting his face briefly from the cushion to draw in a harsh, deep gasp of air. “John-” his voice was deep and broken and wrecked, and John shuddered to hear it. The circling fingers rubbed hard, catching on the rim, dipping inside, pushing slowly in and then coyly drawing back out. Sherlock’s choppy breathing filled the room. He’d turned his head to access air, and his face was red, wet with sweat and perhaps tears, curls in damp tendrils along his cheek and nape. “John-” he begged again.
“Do you like it?”
Sherlock squirmed. “Yes. God, yes. I just-”
John didn’t wait, but slipped a third finger into the mix, pressing all three home, plunging in and out of Sherlock’s body at an almost brutal pace, and Sherlock whined and squirmed under his chest, against his thighs, his sleek phallus throbbing in John’s hand.
John turned his fingers downwards, searched, rubbed and stroked, found the smooth nodule of Sherlock's pleasure, and worked it ruthlessly. Sherlock whimpered and panted and jerked so hard that John had to stop what he was doing and grab onto Sherlock’s arms, twisting them into the small of his back and holding them there, grasping hard around his wrists, bearing down with his chest.
Sherlock was so hot he thought his skin might split, lubricated with sweat and oil and the enticing smell of the man along his back, heady and intoxicating. His hands were firmly pinned against his back, he could hardly move, much less struggle, and John was doing something, something inside him, that had sparks lighting up behind his eyes, had his cock jumping and leaking, had his stomach roiling with butterflies and the sweat on his body turn cold and prickling.
John’s fingers slid out, and Sherlock heard the jar of oil again, the rude squelching as it was slicked onto a body part that did not belong to him. “Now, sweet virgin,” John panted against his back, not tall enough to reach his ear at that angle. John’s knees nudged his own wider still, lowering his rear to the height that John required for the act. “Now I will fuck you.”
Sherlock felt the blunt head of John’s cock poke at his entrance, slick up and down teasingly, spreading oil and precome, and he keened, shaking.
“Any objections?” John panted, the tip of his cock pushing against the ring of muscle he’d so assiduously and devastatingly loosened in the previous 15 minutes.
Sherlock just gasped and lifted his arse and choked out “Go, go, go, dammit,” which made John huff a laugh and lay a kiss on the mole at the edge of one shoulderblade. He bumped forward, flared corona snapping past the resistance of Sherlock’s sphincter, and Sherlock cried out, shivering, fingers twitching against John’s ribs, scrabbling as if seeking a hold.
Teasing, John pulled back out, and then popped in again. And again, until Sherlock’s rim was reddened and the boy was incoherent with desire.
And then, John couldn’t play games anymore; he entered completely, slow and merciless. Sherlock bucked away and back, torn between the pain and the pleasure. John rotated his hips in a luxury of excess, delving into hedonistic passion, dragging out sensation, feeling the joining between them hot and wrenching and uncomfortable and blissful all at once.
Sherlock buried his face into the sofa again, vocalizing his gasps until he sounded like he was sobbing like a child, but John could read his body, could feel how overwhelmed he was, how desperate, how curious and needy and willing. “John, John, John, oh, sir oh sir, please…”
And John slammed forward, sliding his cock through the tight grip of Sherlock’s arse, enhancing the drag on each ridge and vein, feeling the soft pulse of Sherlock’s insides, yielding before him, and he drove himself home until he was balancing on the precarious edge….
And reached around, grasping Sherlock’s erection at the root, tugging in an effort to bring the boy along with him…. "Now, Sherlock," he ground through stiff lips. "Now. Come. I want you to come."
And Sherlock went rigid, scream muffled, spine arched, legs shaking uncontrollably; while John hunched over him, thrusting wildly, pulsing his seed inside this beautiful young man, this willing acolyte, filling him up until the liquid dribbled from his well-used hole, trickling in a foamy stream down the seam of his body, slid to the creases of his thighs, and John plugged him up again, gently sliding back and forth, slowing them both down from their desperate high, each diminishing stroke calming, a reminder that there was someone there to catch them, that the fall would be gentle, painless, easy.
Sherlock remained still, until at last John drew out, softened and smaller, and sat back on shaking legs, staring at the alabaster skin before him, reddened with his marks, the bountiful curve of arse, the lean lines of his back, the sweat-soaked head of black curls. Those staggeringly gorgeous, unusual eyes were closed, and Sherlock’s breaths were lengthening, becoming more regular.
John stumbled to the washroom to get a damp cloth, and returned to brush it over Sherlock’s back, turning his head, heavy on a limp neck, to wipe at the sweat and tears there. He continued to wash, slow and reverent, eventually reaching that spot between his legs that spilled over with semen and oil, still twitching in reflexive eroticism.
“Sherlock,” he said at last, gently. “Budge up on the sofa, there, will you? You can’t be comfortable.”
Sherlock simply looked at him with dazed eyes, blank and sated, and John grinned. “Legs up,” he said, and Sherlock responded to the command in his tone, dragging himself up on the wide sofa with a sigh.
John cleaned himself off as well, swiping the cool cloth across his chest, face and spent cock. God, if felt good. He dropped the used fabric on the floor and followed Sherlock to the sofa, lying down beside him, slipping an arm under narrow shoulders and rolling the malleable mass of young man into his side. He wove his fingers through curly hair and smiled at the ceiling. “I’ve got the house to myself for the summer,” he said in a normal voice. “I’d love for you to stay.”
Sherlock flashed those amazing, light ocean-colored eyes at him and his trembling mouth formed the beginnings of a returning smile. “I’d- I’d like-” he croaked, and stopped to clear his throat. “I’d like that.”
John pushed Sherlock’s head back down, holding it against the swell of his chest, against the blazing scar that he thought had spelled his end, and smiled as he felt Sherlock’s body fall into the utter laxity of sleep.