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Exactly As I Want

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Sometimes Sherlock wanted dearly to film, or at the very least photograph, the moment when John sank onto her cock.

Although John would almost certainly never allow it. The one time when the subject had been broached—specifically, when Sherlock had wanted photographic evidence of John in Sherlock’s unfastened dressing gown with her legs spread, displaying a spattering of hickeys and bite marks on her thick lovely thighs and breasts—John had protested quite adamantly.

“Do you know,” she’d said, “how many people’s phones are hacked and their private pictures plastered all over the internet? Not interested in being an unwitting porn star, thanks.”

Which was rubbish, obviously. The only person capable of hacking Sherlock’s phone was Mycroft, and he was as interested in Sherlock’s naughty photos as he was in the status of Sherlock’s sock index—which was to say, not at all.

But John was stubborn to the point of being bullheaded, so Sherlock had let the subject drop.

Still, she wished she could document the sight of John’s cunt as the strap-on slipped inside: her pubic hair dark and matted with her own wetness, the skin beneath it pink and glistening.

Sherlock had chosen the silver dildo today. It was thinner than the purple one that John favoured, but also longer, stiffer, and with a nice fat head that always passed John’s G-spot entirely, teasing her with the feeling of so close and nearly there until she was reduced to a desperate, shaking mess atop Sherlock’s supine body, squirming to find the angle she craved.

In short, it was perfect.

John was perfect. Sherlock hadn’t understood the depths of human desire until she’d met her.

“Oh,” John said, when her full weight was settled onto Sherlock, her thighs framing Sherlock’s hips and her pussy no doubt leaking onto the leather harness. “Oh fuck.”

There was a hint of discomfort in her expression, a deeper wrinkling of her forehead and a downwards quirk to her lips that wouldn’t be present if she were experiencing only pleasure. Sufficiently wet, thin but long toy, impaled directly onto it—

“Cervix?” Sherlock guessed, and John nodded with a grimace. “Hmm. Sit back.”

Sherlock helped her, grabbing her waist to keep her steady while John leaned back, planting her hands on the sheets behind her on either side of Sherlock’s thighs.

Gradually, the shadow of pain cleared from her face, and she moaned softly, wiggling her hips from side to side and then in wide, slow circles, testing the angle and degree of penetration while Sherlock watched.

“That’s it,” Sherlock told her. “That’s a good girl.”

That’s my good girl, she thought, but didn’t say. John didn’t approve of overt signs of possessiveness, but there was nothing to stop Sherlock from displaying them in the safety of her own mind. Nothing to stop her from watching the silver base of the dildo grow shiny with John’s wetness and thinking, Look how perfectly we fit together, how well I fuck you. You’ll never want anyone else again, John. I’ll make sure of it.

“Does that feel better?” Sherlock asked.

She wanted to take John’s face between her palms, make her look at Sherlock, so Sherlock could see the moment when her eyes went unfocused with pleasure, so John would be staring right at her when she fluttered her pretty eyelashes and licked her lips and nodded in response to Sherlock’s question.

But Sherlock couldn’t, not if she wanted to remain on her back with John in control, so she gripped John’s thighs instead. Felt the muscles tense and shift as John circled her hips again, and again, and again.

“God,” John said. Already she was nearly panting. “Oh, god, that’s good.”

Perhaps the toy’s head wasn’t so far past her G-spot in this new position, Sherlock reflected.

She skimmed her hands up John’s inner thighs until they were close enough that she could spread John’s labia gently with her thumbs. Flushed, damp skin; her cunt opened around Sherlock’s fake cock, drooling wetness down the silver length; her clit swollen, peeking from its hood.

Pretty little thing, it wanted to be touched. Why wasn’t John touching it? That was the whole point of this exercise, wasn’t it? Sherlock would give John a hard cock to sit on while she got herself off.

“Touch yourself,” she told John.

John’s hips didn’t falter for even a second in their circling as she shook her head. Her hair, not quite chin-length, was jostled from where she’d tucked it behind her ears, and she shook her head again to sweep the fringe from her forehead.

“Not yet,” she said. It was more breath than voice, but Sherlock understood her perfectly. “Just this—uh, oh fuck, god… um… just this for a bit longer.”

So Sherlock relented, let John continue to circle her hips and tip the dildo’s fat head again and again into her G-spot. Although she kept John spread with her thumbs, so she could watch the fake cock slide in and out of John’s dripping cunt.

Flowers, she knew, were traditional yonic imagery, and though she typically thought all of that was rubbish, she supposed she could understand it now. Because John’s vulva, flushed and slightly puffy from arousal, did look a bit like a flower in bloom. One that Sherlock would be very keen to bury her face in and smell for hours.

Perhaps afterwards, John could be convinced to sit on her face. John’s legs would be tired then, incapable of holding her, so she’d have no choice but to put all her weight on Sherlock and make a proper mess of her.

“Good. That’s very good,” said Sherlock. Her voice was husky, deep with desire. “Listen to that. Do you hear how wet you are?”

The sound was quiet. Not at all like the conspicuous squelching produced when, for instance, John was on her back and Sherlock atop her, pounding into her so forcefully the entire bed rattled and lurched. But it was still a soft, slick noise that could be mistaken for nothing but the sound of a sweet, tight cunt being filled and satisfied.

And John loved it, being reminded of her own arousal, knowing how obvious it was.

“Fuck,” she moaned, shuddering. With Sherlock’s thumbs keeping her spread, Sherlock could see her clench around the toy, the muscles squeezing and relaxing so quickly it looked like her cunt was throbbing. “Oh Christ.”

Sweat beaded on John’s forehead, dampening the greying hair at her temples, and dripped down her neck to her sternum. Her breasts, heavy and soft, bounced with every movement, and with John leaned backwards as she was, her spine arched, they looked even larger than they were.

Sherlock thought longingly of burying her face between them, licking the sweat away and worshipping every curve with her mouth.

Perhaps, when John had satisfied herself, she’d let Sherlock sit up and have her again like that. Bounce her in Sherlock’s lap while Sherlock mouthed at her smooth, lovely breasts and suckled at her nipples until each one was a hard wet pebble and John’s hands were knotted in Sherlock’s curls, holding on for dear life as Sherlock fucked her through another orgasm or three.

That was one of the many benefits of John’s body, its ability to orgasm multiple times. It was a rarity that Sherlock’s could even manage one, but having John—eating her until Sherlock’s fraenulum linguae felt knotted and sore, fingering her until Sherlock’s wrists were cramped and trembling, giving her a solid surface to rut against until Sherlock’s skin was reddened and burned from the friction—more than made up for it.

She would, in fact, happily never have an orgasm again if it meant she would be allowed to continue sharing John’s.

“God, Sherlock,” John said, and finally, finally, balanced herself on one arm so she could use the other to swat Sherlock’s hands away and reach between her thighs. “The way you look at me.”

A groan rose in Sherlock’s throat, and a sudden, hot shock of arousal coursed through her as John dragged her middle finger through her own wetness, then used it to get her clit nice and slick. Her fingertip made a soft wet noise as it slipped easily across the hard little nub, the perfect complement to the sound of the toy in her pussy.

“Yes. That’s a girl,” Sherlock said. My girl, she thought. “How do I look at you?”

Then John dropped her head back and moaned, high and long, and Sherlock lost the plot entirely because John was gorgeous like that.

Her entire body seemed to surge to life, and she wasn’t just circling her hips any longer, but actually properly fucking herself: thrusting up into her hand and then shoving down onto Sherlock’s fake cock. Her breasts no longer simply bounced, but heaved, and her lips formed a near-perfect O as she lowered her chin again, looking as though her very mind had shattered and left her completely wrecked.

“Like that,” John said, and Sherlock blinked stupidly, struggling to translate the words into meaning. “Fuck. You look at me like, oh, like I’m yours.”

Meaning dawned, and struck Sherlock as hard as a blow to the hypochondrium. Months of John’s ‘Not good, Sherlock’ and ‘If you’re going to be a possessive twat about it, we’re going to have problems’ dissolved in Sherlock’s mind like flesh in acid.

Feeling helpless, desperate, she clamped her hands on John’s hips, fingers digging into the skin—marking her (mine, yes, you perfect creature, mine)and a stream of nonsense spilled from her lips: “My pretty girl, my sweetheart, my John. That’s it, my good girl, make yourself come.”

With a gasp, John closed her eyes and rubbed harder, her middle finger slipping frantically over and over her wet little clit. Lingering just to the side (her right, Sherlock’s left) of it, her sweet spot, where she liked it just a bit better.

Sherlock knew that spot well. The tip of a slender, strong vibrator against it could make John thrash and keen, reaching for any part of Sherlock she could clasp and cling to when she came.

But now, with ecstasy written in the thin line of John’s lips and the wrinkles on her forehead, a simple finger was clearly sufficient. A finger was—

No, Sherlock thought, not good enough.

“Use the vibrator,” she said. And then, because they had amassed a small collection of them, she specified: “The wand. Your favourite.”

The one that John called ‘toe-curling’ and ‘a spectacular bully,’ and although Sherlock didn’t understand the appeal—the vibrations were strong, yes, but she’d held it between her own thighs once for almost twenty minutes and felt only boredom—she nevertheless ensured it was always ready whenever John wanted it.

At the moment, it was atop the bedside table beside a package of antibacterial sex-toy wipes, already plugged in. Sherlock stretched her arm across the bed, but she could only reach as far as the edge of the mattress.

John hissed suddenly, and Sherlock realised she was beginning to twist her body, changing the angle of the strap-on and upsetting John’s balance. Causing her discomfort, perhaps even pain, which was unacceptable. Reprehensible.

Sherlock ceased immediately, but she’d no sooner returned to her supine position than John was lifting off her. The dildo slipped free with a wet plop, although a string of John’s wetness stretched from her cunt to the bulbous tip as John crawled forwards so she could grasp the vibrator’s cord and tug it towards her.

“No, no, come back,” Sherlock whined, reaching for her, but John was already coming back.

Her arms and legs were shaking, weakened by the exertion, and as she swung one leg over Sherlock’s hips, straddling her lap, a fat drop of sweat fell from her forehead to just below Sherlock’s ribcage.

She would be sore tomorrow, exhausted. She would think of Sherlock every time she moved.

Again, possessiveness rose in Sherlock like a great wave, and she was lost to it. Whimpering stupidly and gripping John’s hips greedily as John sank back down onto the strap-on, her eyelashes fluttering as she leaned backwards, finding the right angle more easily this time.

“This vibrator, then?” she said, brandishing the wand with a playful quirk of her lip.

Yes, Sherlock thought feverishly. Please. I want to watch you come until you cry. But the words tangled in her throat, so she nodded instead and watched eagerly as John positioned the vibrator’s head just below her pubic bone and flipped the switch.

The sound of it wasn’t pleasant—loud, it reminded Sherlock of some sort of kitchen appliance, and it always drowned out John’s moans, her gasps and breathy wails.

But John’s expression—oh god, her expression. An utter transformation, from basic pleasure to mindless ecstasy. Her jaw slackening and her eyelids drooping, her gaze fixed on the pillow just above Sherlock’s head in the way that meant she wasn’t really seeing it at all.

John leaned even farther back, arched her spine, moved her hips in little stuttering thrusts, humping up into the vibrator and down onto the cock. She was stunning. Sherlock wanted to photograph her, film her, then fuck her until the mattress was drenched and John’s brain was so flooded with oxytocin and dopamine she wouldn’t protest at all if Sherlock wanted to write her name on every bit of John’s body.

“Good girl,” Sherlock said, stroking John’s outer thighs, her knees, any part she could reach that wouldn’t interfere. “My perfect girl. That’s it. So pretty when you fuck yourself on my cock.”

John came in less than a minute, which Sherlock only knew because she turned off the vibrator abruptly, shoved it aside, and covered her vulva with her palm, then stayed like that for several minutes, rocking slowly and gently into her hand while she panted harshly. Basking in the aftershocks. Relishing the dildo’s firmness as her muscles fluttered around it.

If Sherlock still thought she didn’t have a heart—it seemed absurd now that she’d ever believed such a thing, but she knew that she had—she would need only this moment to prove her wrong. The sight of John Watson on top of her, blissful and unguarded.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock told her. “My beautiful girl. It feels so good, doesn’t it? Do you want another? Of course you do, greedy thing. Whenever you’re ready, John.”

“Just one more,” said John, breathlessly. “Then maybe some water and a rest.” She laughed, a huff of air. “Christ. I’m too old for this.”

She bent forwards this time and switched hands, placing her left one on the bedsheets beside Sherlock’s upper arm while her right held the vibrator. The new position put her face just above Sherlock’s, her breasts swaying enticingly in Sherlock’s view. The head of the vibrator was wedged between the top edge of the leather harness and John’s pubis.

It wasn’t comfortable. The vibrator felt like a fist in Sherlock’s abdomen as John ground against it, and John’s thighs squeezed together, strong enough it seemed as though they were capable of crushing Sherlock’s hip bones between them, but Sherlock hardly cared.

Because John was near enough now that Sherlock could hear her. Her throaty “uh, uh” as she rutted against the vibrator and her breathy “ahh” as she rocked back onto the dildo, and her seemingly startled “oh, oh, oh” when the rumbling vibrations hit her sensitive clit just right.

Sherlock ran her palms up and down John’s lower back, dragging her fingertips through the gathered beads of sweat, and she couldn’t help but arch up slightly, thrust the toy deeper into John’s wet cunt, and fuck her with tiny, gentle motions that made John shudder, hunch her shoulders, and wail softly.

“That’s it,” Sherlock said. If John were closer, she’d have kissed her, sucked her plump pink bottom lip into her mouth. “Such a sweet cunt. You’re mine, aren’t you? My good, needy girl. Come on, John. Give it to me.”

John was practically sobbing, grinding helplessly against the vibrator while Sherlock fucked her. This time, Sherlock knew exactly when her orgasm hit, because her body went rigid, the muscles in her thighs twitching almost violently and her fingers closing around a fistful of sheets so tightly Sherlock could hear the fabric groan as it stretched and nearly ripped.

Sherlock stopped thrusting immediately and murmured, “Pretty girl, my precious girl, mine,” while John switched off the vibrator and rode out the rest of her orgasm against her palm.

Afterwards, John collapsed onto her side, grunting as the toy popped out, and then crawled into Sherlock’s arms, curling up against Sherlock’s chest.

Now that John was no longer using it, the strap-on seemed a strange, awkward, and hateful weight between Sherlock legs, but she ignored it, wound herself around John, and kissed her forehead, her temple, her hair while John nuzzled her breasts with a contented murmur and let Sherlock cling.

John smelled of sweat and sex, silicone, the vaguely sweet scent of cervical mucus, the faintly sour scent of body odour. Sherlock wanted to bottle it, keep it on her person at all times so she was never without it.

“So,” John said. Sleep was heavy in her voice, but she was clearly making a valiant attempt to rouse herself. “Can I do you now, or…?”

Sherlock considered. There was the heavy sensation of arousal in her groin, a distinctly wet feeling between her legs, but did she actually want anything to be done about it?

“No,” she decided. Except… “Just tell me that you’re mine.”

She reasoned that John hadn’t minded her possessiveness earlier, had perhaps even enjoyed it. The neurochemical rush wouldn’t have completely faded yet, so Sherlock still had time to get her fill of it.

And indeed, John’s responding snort was amused, not peevish.

“You possessive twat.”

Her tone was warm, fond. Sherlock could feel John’s grin against her bare breast, and she wanted to crush John to her, make a permanent imprint of the sensation in her skin.

“But yeah,” John said. “I’m yours. Of course I am.”