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Always Wrong, Never Wrong

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 "Correct me, Doctor,"
"I will," John's voice, suddenly soft in the quiet room.

"Take your dressing gown off," he said, "and kneel."

Sherlock did not move. John's mouth narrowed. "You asked for correction, Mister Holmes."

He stepped into Sherlock's space, and, swift and sure, gripped Sherlock's forelock.

“Now," he said, "will you kneel?"
John's hand tightened on Sherlock's hair. Sherlock’s whole body tensed.

"You overstep, Sherlock." John tugged once, then twice. Sherlock held himself seated, ramrod-straight and silent, by sheer will.

The third tug jerked Sherlock's head back and drew a long, high moan from his throat. John bent down, and whispered in Sherlock’s ear, his breath hot all along that impossible neck.

“You will do as I say,” he said, “Or I will leave you here in this chair.”

“No.” Sherlock’s voice was barely audible.

John straightened; his hand softened, releasing Sherlock’s hair. He turned away and slowly shed his coat, arranging it carefully on the chesterfield. He ran his hands through his own hair. He straightened his tie.

When he finally returned his attention to Sherlock, Sherlock had not moved, either to sit back in his chair or to kneel on the carpet.  Licking his lips again, John planted his feet and stood in parade rest, too far away to touch, would Sherlock dare, but close enough that his cock, half hard, was clearly outlined even through the thick wool of his trousers.

This standoff lasted some minutes, the quiet of the room punctuated only by Sherlock’s rough breathing as he watched John’s cock grow. John never stopped watching Sherlock’s face, although Sherlock never met his eyes.

Finally, when Sherlock’s muscles were trembling from his uncomfortable position, John relented and fisted his hand through that hair again. Sherlock groaned, long and low, and slid from the chair to the floor, leaving his dressing gown in a puddle on the chair.

“Ready now.” John said. It was not a question. He tugged, hard.

Sherlock’s mouth fell slack.

“I should leave you here, shouldn’t I?”

Sherlock shook his head. John let go of his hair, then stroked his head gently, affectionately.

“You’re very good, Sherlock, when you want to be.” He seized the slick hair at the back of Sherlock’s neck. When his hand was encompassing as much as it could, he pulled, sharply at first, then gently, then sharply again.

“So much easier when you just listen, no?” John said, starting on the left side, working over each inch of Sherlock’s scalp in the same pattern. Sherlock rested his face against John’s thigh, letting the stimulus wash over him, emptying his mind and allowing arousal to ebb up through his body. “And yet you need to push the boundaries. Well, this is what you get.”

John remained nearly motionless, only his left hand flexing and pulling until Sherlock, raised his hand towards John’s cock, which was fully hard, the scent of his excitement almost intolerably tempting.
“Stop,” John growled. Sherlock froze, but did not drop his hand. John yanked the most sensitive hair at Sherlock’s temple, and Sherlock cried out.

“If that’s what you want, you can wait. I’m not through with you.”

“John,” Sherlock breathed.

John let go of his hair and stepped back again. His hand hovered over his flies, then stroked. Sherlock took in every movement, holding himself as still as possible even as John’s fingers lingered on his top button.

The first button revealed nothing; the second only a slim strip of skin. The third, though, made Sherlock’s fingertips tremble; the fabric of John’s drawers stood out from his body, presaging the swell of John’s heavy cock.

John did not undo the fourth button. Instead, he cupped his cock again, holding it with practiced ease for a moment before reaching out to yank Sherlock’s hair, now a riot of untamed curls. Sherlock let himself be jerked forward, angling himself closer, and was almost there when John held him back. Tears came to Sherlock’s eyes at the sharp pull and he felt a rush in his own cock. He sat back, thighs burning and cock trapped.

John undid the fourth button. His trousers slipped a little, and he made no attempt to restrain them--but no attempt to drop them, either.

Then John knelt so they were face-to-face.  He cupped Sherlock’s face gently in both hands, then slid his hands up and took as much of Sherlock’s hair between his fingers as he could. With a sharp tug, he brought their mouths together and sank his teeth into Sherlock’s lower lip. Immobilized, Sherlock could only submit and submit again, his world narrowed to the sharpness of John’s teeth on his flesh and the sting of the pull on his scalp. No millimeter escaped John’s merciless attention, and Sherlock’s lips were swollen before he pulled away and rose.

“Pleathe,” Sherlock gasped, as John freed his cock from his drawers. John’s breath caught at the lisp, and his hands shook, though Sherlock was too far gone to see it.

“Not yet.” John stood close, brushing it back and forth across Sherlock’s tender mouth. Sherlock panted; he could almost taste it.

“Pleath--please,” he said again, carefully. John pulled just one lock of hair behind his ear, hard.

“I want you to, Sherlock, but I need you to say it again.” Yank.


“Again.” Yank.

“Pleathe,” Sherlock nearly sobbed.

“Take it, then,” and John’s cock was in his mouth, thick and full and damp. Sherlock took in as much as he could, impatient, then drew back and began again, with small strokes of his tongue. He covered the head, the shaft, and, by dint of careful manipulation, the ballocks. John let him, quivering under his tongue despite his control.

Sherlock knew that to raise his hands would mean the loss of his prize, and so he held them behind his back, grasping his wrists. John’s mouth twitched, approving.

The rich taste filled Sherlock’s mouth, and the wool trousers scratched his chin. He pressed into both sensations, desperate for contact.

“Not so quickly,” John said, voice low. “Take your time.” Yank.

Sherlock drew a long breath.

“Feel it. Don’t think.” Yank.

Sherlock obeyed, filling his consciousness with the fine-grained flesh sliding across his tongue. In, out, in, out, suck, pause. Yank. Shudder, begin again. The world hung still as they danced; even the street noises faded out.

John did not warn him before spending. Sherlock knew, though; he never mistook that last surge of blood that rendered John’s cock fatter and glossier, or the surge of bitter salt that preceded the rush of hot spunk in his throat. He held on, though his wrists trembled and his back ached.

“Beautiful,” John breathed, as his crisis subsided. He stroked Sherlock’s hair and face, gently; Sherlock stayed still, not leaning into the caress as he might have, and John smiled.

“I see the correction has been effective.”

Sherlock could not respond.

“Don’t you think, Sherlock?” John wiped away a creamy drop from Sherlock’s plush lower lip. “You’re quite obedient, now, aren’t you? You’d do whatever I say. Even come in your trousers, if I tell you.”
John rethreaded his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and pulled again, slowly this time. It seemed to Sherlock that his whole body was alight like an untrimmed lamp. His cock ached against his drawers, fine as they were, and he fought to remain motionless.

“Oh, you can move now, if you like. You can feel it, can’t you?” John’s expression was avid, acquisitive, even. “It’s been days. You’ve been neglecting your transport, and this is where it’s got you. On your knees, at my mercy.” He did not yank; his touch was much gentler, now, but it was enough. On his last pull, Sherlock’s eyes closed and he spent, his whole body racked with pleasure, his mouth open in a silent cry.

John did not let go until the very end, then let Sherlock fall against him. Gently, he divested him of his coat, and, with many kisses, brought him back to himself.

“Ridiculous man,” he said.

“I am.” Sherlock’s voice was soft and hoarse, “But I am your ridiculous man.”

“Indeed,” said John Watson. “I stand corrected.”