“John… John, come back.” Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin, holding himself in. He could, if he wanted to, lean forward and wipe the drool from John’s lips. He could brush the hair from John’s brow and tell him how well he is doing.
“John.” He could also reach forward and slap John’s cheek. He could do that, but John surfaces, fingers tightening into fists… the slightest hint of resistance against the shackles at his wrists.
John groans, and Sherlock watches a drop of precome form and fall from John’s cock, catalogues and sorts the sounds: slap of flesh, the distinctive and somewhat unappealing sound of excess lube and, most important, the sounds John lets escape his lips, the ones he isn’t even aware he is making.
John’s eyes clear and he turns his head towards Sherlock. “Please. I need to.”
There’s always something there for Sherlock to see; always a tiny flicker of John’s eyes, a crack in his voice or pattern in the movement of his fingers. John naked, splayed out and chained to a table, nothing hidden and all right there for Sherlock to see. Everyone else in the room is an idiot, they see a sub, maybe, maybe just a thing to be fucked. They have no idea that John is perfectly in control and exactly where he wants to be. They take John’s exposure, his vulnerability, for weakness. Fools, controlled by the illusion of their sexual dominance, that they are using John or here for anything more than John’s pleasure.
Sherlock looks up at the man currently fucking John. He’s straining visibly, he must be enjoying tormenting himself and John. Sherlock raises his eyebrow and looks around the table. “You still have two more after this one.” He licks his lips and resists the urge to ask for a cigarette from one of the men waiting his turn. Sherlock’s hands move closer, it would so easy to reach for John, Sherlock’s control nearly slips; fingers splaying slightly from his contemplative pose. He pulls back, managing to keep his fingers pressed together at the pads, willpower solely in his fingertips. There is nothing to stop Sherlock from touching John, but this isn’t about him. Take his pleasure and have John. He tells himself this is better, this is giving John what he needs, what he wants… and if it leaves Sherlock’s cock unattended and straining in his pants… well, that is something that John can remedy at a later date.
Something breaks in John, the last of John’s restraint cracking and his fingers relax, uncurling from the not-quite-fists. The man, Sherlock hasn’t bothered with their names and feels even less desire to differentiate between them, balls deep in John, groans and shifts his hands on John’s hips. Pulling the slack weight closer to him, the shift pulls John’s arms higher over his head and he moans again. “Please, Sherlock.”
“They are going to fuck you, John. They won’t stop just because you come.” He feels like he should warn John. There are consequences to his actions, to his desires.
John tightens again, pulling himself back together. Slowly, piece by piece. It is, perhaps, the most beautiful Sherlock has ever seen him. “I know. I want it.” His hips move against the grip, rolling close and tight against the cock in his arse.
Sherlock looks up and meets the eyes attached to that cock, nods his head once, barely. The hand that closes over John’s cock is rough, jerks him in time with the thrusts of his hips. Sherlock groans; the sight of John’s come, the sound of John’s orgasm nearly brings Sherlock off in his pants. The last pulses of John’s orgasm fade and the hand returns to his hip, come on the fingers pressing into John’s skin. Several quick snaps of his hips and a deep satisfied groan later and the man… really just a cock, not a partner, lover nor assailant, pulls out. Sherlock averts his eyes, the sight of the filled condom vaguely disquieting. John writhes against the table as the man steps back, stripping off the condom and shaking himself off, the little half jump to adjust his jeans and the sound of his zip being pulled up. The smoker steps forward, rolling a condom down over his already hard cock.
There’s nothing… no warning, no tentative fingers. The smoker lifts John to line up with his cock and presses in, a quick hard thrust that fills John and lifts him from the table.
“Thank you… oh… Thank you Sherlock.”
Sherlock leans back, not far enough to break eye contact with John. “Beautiful. John. So Beautiful.”