In honor of Valentine's Day: MORE JOHNLOCK SMUT!
THIS STORY CONTAINS DOM!SHERLOCK.
It is part of my Stimulus series again (I guess that little world isn't going away any time soon).
It also works as a standalone, though.
Enjoy! Let me know what you think!
I had just sat down with my tea when my mobile rang. The screen told me it was Sherlock. I answered it, and balanced the thing between my ear and my shoulder as I took the tea to my lips. "What is it?"
"John," came the deep drawl. "The case is solved."
"That's nice," I said vaguely, sipping my tea and stretching out languidly in my armchair. "Where are you now?"
The low voice sighed on the other end of the phone. His breath caused the receiver to crackle a little. I smiled. "I am on a train back into London." When he said it, I realized that must be the steady noise I could hear in the background. "This ride is endless, though, John," he said with a faint whine in his tone. "The first hour, I mulled about the finishing details of the case, phoned the constable in charge, but now all dealings have ended. What is there to do but sit here and be bored?"
I rolled my eyes. "Keep the temper tantrum to a minimum on the train, Sherlock," I warned. "I don't wanna hear that you've... I don't know... tossed over a food cart in a fit of bored rage, alright?"
His rumbling laugh was sweet to my ears. "I would never. You underestimate my self control, John."
That made me laugh. Self control, indeed. "So if you don't need a talk down, why are you calling? Also, why are you not texting me instead? You always text."
"Because I am bored," he said, drawing out the last word. "And I like your voice." A lump stuck in my throat. "Have there been any callers?"
"Well then, if there are still no callers and therefore no case in the next hour, I shall expect you to be naked and waiting for me when I arrive."
A little tea splashed over my hand and nearly burned me. I had to set the cup down. My heart sunk far into my stomach. Something rumbled within me. My loins felt hot. "Er... what?" I was incredulous.
"Oh, please, John." His tone was serious. "I know you heard me, you are just embarrassed. I would like you to wait for me upon your bed, naked, and ready to have me take you completely. Is that understood?"
"Er... yes," I said, choking a little. "Yes, alright." My face felt flushed. My heart rate grew abnormally fast.
"Good," he said. The gruffness of the word sent a shiver down my spine. "Also, doctor," he said firmly, "upon my arrival, you shall defer to all my commands. Is that clear?"
I got hard instantly. "Excuse me?" My insides felt as light as air. What was he insinuating?
I heard Sherlock laugh again. "Oh, John, you are so endearing when embarrassed and feigning ignorance this way. I am telling you that I would like to take you over. I would like you to be mine, John. I would like you to submit to me." I felt my groin pulse angrily.
"Oh god." I swallowed.
"Invoking the deities already?" A funny little grumble come from my friend that I could hear through the receiver. "I was hoping it would take a little longer than that." His tone was playful and devious. I felt all choked up, and didn't know what to say. Sherlock chuckled, "It's alright, no need to respond now," he said. "Just be ready, won't you, John." It was not a question, but a declaration of certainty, and that made me ache with desire. A click on my mobile told me Sherlock had hung up.
I sat stunned for a minute, not knowing what to do with myself. I had forgotten completely about my tea at that point. Sherlock and I had been physical with each other for a long time before he'd died-I mean, that is to say, before he faked his own death and left me to be consumed by my loss. When my beloved consulting detective had returned to me, he had brought me so completely to my knees from the shock that I didn't know if I would ever recover from that. Seven months had passed since then. Together, we took down Sebastian Moran (Moriarty's pet sharp shooter), and moved back into 221b Baker Street together as though nothing had changed. Of course, the gap in our lives hung over us like a dark cloud. I felt its presence all the time; when we were solving a case, when I lay in bed at night, when we were taking breakfast in the mornings. Always, I felt that loss of time loom over my head still. I sighed frequently. I was often sleepless. My limp had left me, but I still dealt with twinges from time to time, usually when Sherlock left the flat without me, or when I awoke abruptly with the heavy feelings that lingered after Mary's death.
After our two years apart, our physical relationship had grown tender for a while. We loved each other greatly, and we both knew it even though it was barely spoken. Sherlock was definitely the love of my life, but Mary's passing still haunted me. She had been a beautiful and most perfect woman. I had loved her, truly. Thoughts of her sometimes caused me to withdraw from Sherlock and sulk miserably in my bedroom without a word to him. He barely seemed to notice when this happened, however.
Now was clearly not one of those times. The darkness was certainly at bay for now. It deeply aroused me to be ordered around by Sherlock like that and he knew it. Before his disappearance, I had dominated him completely. I had controlled and hurt the man while he begged for mercy and called me "Sir," which I loved. Today was quite the turn around, though. That phone call made it clear to me that today I would not own him, but in fact, he would be owning me. I would be helpless in my friend's hands.
Oh, I was seriously turned on. I finished my tea in a hurry, and anxiously paced around the flat for a bit. Time seemed to be moving very slowly. I repeatedly sat and then stood again, before bustling around decided to prepare more tea. I put up a large pot and flipped on the telly. Distracted by the crap program, I forgot about the tea until it had almost completely boiled out. Mumbling to myself frustratedly, I returned to the television in a slump, not really watching. Mostly, my mind was far away, lost in fantasies of Sherlock's naked body on mine. My groin was hard. It hurt under my trousers. I glanced repeatedly at the landline, but no calls came in. The hour was finally up. I checked the clock to be sure. Indeed, it was about 8:30 PM, now. Sherlock should be arriving at any minute.
Sighing, I pushed myself to my feet and retreated to my room, unbuttoning my shirt as I went. I removed the rest of my clothing, and sat at the edge of my bed, just waiting. I was very hard. The cool air of the room felt nice on the heat of my erection. My breathing was heavy. I was going mad from the wait. "Come on, Sherlock," I muttered, leaning back on my hands. The minutes stretched. Finally, I heard the key in the door. A chill went up my spine at the sound of his steps entering the flat. Sherlock's footfalls paused in the sitting room. I imagined him glancing around for me, then smirking upon the discovery that I was not there, knowing exactly where I was, and why: because he'd commanded it. I hoped the thought was pleasing to him.
The clunk of each step came slowly. I imagined him inching his way here, still smirking, eager and excited, teasing me deliberately by taking his time. I throbbed. My skin was tingling all over with anticipation. The door squeaked at least. I watched it, unmoving as it swung very slowly open. I gazed up at the man in the doorway. He was silhouetted by the hall light behind him. He wore a tight-fitted navy suit. The buttons of the suit jacket strained at his waist, showing off his lean body. I salivated as I looked at him, and had to swallow back the funny noise that was building in my throat. He was so sexy, I desired him to ravage me instantly.
"Hello, John." Sherlock's penetrating eyes squinted at me. I felt my chest rise and fall heavily as I waited for him to make some sort of move.
"Sherlock." I nodded in greeting, fully aware of how exposed I was. His intense blue eyes scoured my body hungrily. He leaned casually on the doorframe with his arms crossed as he took in the sight of me. It made my cock twitch furiously. I wanted him so bad, it was actually starting to hurt.
The detective's smile was dangerously sexy. "Oh, John," he said quietly, in his lowest voice. "You are stunning." His eyes were lingering at the apex of my thighs. I saw them sparkle excitedly as he stared. My chest flushed under Sherlock's knowing gaze that made me feel so vulnerable.
I cleared my throat. Sherlock seemed to be taking the longest look he could, as though he was memorizing every inch of my skin with his eyes. And oh, what eyes they were. I shuddered. Ah, how I loved those eyes.
At long last, he sighed and straightened up from his spot on the wall. He approached me slowly until he was standing right above me. His towering frame cast me in shadow. I had my mouth hanging slightly open, lust completely overwhelming my senses. He touched my neck very delicately with the tips of his fingers. I moaned involuntarily and blushed deeply, feeling embarrassed. The enormous bulge in my friend's trousers was at the perfect level to take it into my hands. I wanted to so badly, to please my friend, but instead I waited for his order.
Sherlock chuckled. "John," said he. The word was silky on his lips, low and rumbling. Gorgeous. I shivered. Sherlock gripped my shoulder and pulled me off the bed. He shoved me to a kneeling position at his feet, and the floorboards hurt my knees as I fell. "You are mine tonight," he hissed. "All mine. Every part of you; your mouth, your body, your everything is mine." This was so uncharacteristic of him, this sexual dominance, but I was not going to complain. It got me hot. I felt light-headed with excitement. Sherlock was unzipping his trousers right before my eyes. His legs were so long and elegant, and from this angle (which I had never been at before) he looked particularly domineering, and that turned me on severely. Sherlock took my short military haircut in his wide fist, and held my head steady. The pain at my scalp sent a shock of pleasure through me as I opened wide to accept Sherlock completely. He entered my mouth roughly. The detective moaned deeply as I took him in. "Mine," he said. I looked up at him. He looked lost in his pleasure. His eyes were closed. There was a pink tinge around his pallid cheeks. I could feel his heat rising in my mouth. His enormity filled me. It was incredible, how violently he took my mouth. I moaned passionately around his cock, and that seemed to please Sherlock very much. He tangled his other hand into my hair as well, and with that firm grip, he took my head and used it like a toy. I was sputtering, choking, and struggling to breath; my friend was pumping in me, moaning, and throwing his head back in ecstasy.
My little moans were muffled deliciously by Sherlock's deep thrusting, and that turned him on more. I could tell. His fucking was fast and hard-so fast, in fact, that I could barely move for fear of my teeth hurting him, so all I could do was hold my mouth open as wide as possible as he controlled my head's movements. I didn't mind that powerlessness, actually. I loved it.
He began to convulse within me. He clutched my head tightly to him, and I gagged violently as he stood deep in me for a second. I clutched the fabric of his trousers, bracing myself. Then, with another wild tremor, my lover came to orgasm within me. My eyes welled up through the discomfort of him releasing down my throat, but I loved it. It was all Sherlock, and that made it wonderful. The control he had over me was an enormous turn on. I helped him along with my hands as he seemed to empty his whole self into me. It seemed to go on forever. I wouldn't have minded if it had, anyway.
When it was over, he withdrew, panting. His hands were still on my head. He was shaking. I saw that there was a shining layer of sweat on his concentrated brow. I loved it. "Oh, John," he grunted. "You are perfect. You are mine, aren't you." He knelt to my eye level, and kissed my wet, swollen lips. I realized then that it was the first kiss I'd received of the day. He had simply arrived home and come into my mouth. That thought, for some reason, made me incredibly aroused, right to my very core. I cleared my throat awkwardly after he pulled away from the kiss. "I have not finished with you, pet," he said in a deep growl. My cock pulsed. He noticed, the way he notices everything, and grabbed it. I whimpered. "This," he said dangerously, leaning very close to my ear, "is mine. Do you understand that, darling?" I nodded. "Good." The feeling of his palm wrapped around me made me caused violent shivers to shoot through me. I almost came in his hand, but I resisted. My noisy breath must have been warm on my friend's face, but he did not complain. He grinned at me deviously. "Get on the bed," he demanded suddenly, letting go of my cock so I could move. I followed his command just as he'd told me I must tonight. "Good." His approval sent a wave of ecstatic pleasure to my groin, and I knew he could tell. He smirked madly at me. I smiled back at him, my expression a little shy. "Lie back," was his next order. I obliged. He walked to my closet and I could hear him, from where I lay (perfectly obedient), rummaging through it. He emerged again with the handcuffs he had given me years ago. My heart raced. He approached me and took my wrists in his hands. He clapped one wrist in a cuff, maneuvered the chain link around the headboard, and cuffed my other wrist. I wriggled, but I was trapped there. I could not move my arms. I supposed that was the point. I had never been so vulnerable before-never. But, as life would have it, I turned out to love it.
Sherlock stepped back, staring at me cuffed there for his pleasure. He gazed upon me proudly, as though I were a spectacle for him. "Look at you," he sighed. "That's beautiful. Perfect." I gulped, tasting the remnants of his cock in my mouth. Drinking in the sight of me, my friend began to undress. His trousers went first, so his magnificent cock was free. Then his suit jacket, his shirt, and his underwear. My genius detective crawled onto the bed and sat between my legs, just staring at me ominously.
"What are you doing, Sherlock?" I asked cautiously.
He did not answer, but instead smiled at me desirously. After a few minutes of this silence, my cock pulsing under his gaze, he leaned over my chest, propping himself up. My stiff groin touched his stomach as he bent over me. I moaned. Sherlock pressed his lips to my chest lightly, sending shivers up my spine. He licked the area, as though sanitizing it for a medical procedure. Then his teeth befell me. Then an added pressure. It was the most intense hickey I had ever experienced, and it made me actually cry out in pain. He pulled away panting, looking pleased. He performed the action again and again until I was writhing, and a majority of my chest was black and blue from his angry marks. My flesh was smarting. It was awfully painful, but I clenched my jaw and bared through it for my love. It turned me on to please him by being his play thing like this. I wanted to just let him torture me this way forever.
When he had finished his loving work, he sat back to admire it. "Ah," he said, clapping his hands together as though he'd done something brilliant. "Perfect." He kissed me gently, fumbling with the drawer by the bedside. When he pulled away, I saw he was holding our vaseline. I trembled eagerly at the sight of it. I wanted Sherlock inside of me, shagging my damn brains out. He placed the tub beside me, but continued to kneel between my open legs without making a move. He stared at me. "Who do you belong to, my dear John?" he purred. His voice was husky and gorgeous.
My insides tensed. "You," I said hoarsely. "I am yours."
"That's right," said he. His eyes were very sweet and gentle suddenly. "You are mine. I have branded you." He touched the sprinkle of hickeys he'd given me. "I own your body, now."
I laughed a little. "Not all the time. Most of the time, you're in my place, and I am your master." I glared at him deliberately, a taunting smile on my face.
Sherlock pressed his warm cock against mine. I moaned, and bucked my hips up to him so our groins rubbed on one another. "Yes," he said quietly, "but that is not tonight. Tonight I am your master. Perhaps you should even call me as such, if you are going to be insubordinate and forget that fact."
"I won't forget."
"Good." Without warning, the handsome, lanky man grabbed me by the balls. I winced. Tension ran through my whole body, and he seemed to like that. "You are mine." He took me by the hair with his free hand so he had absolute control over my body's movements. He tilted my head back as far as it would go. It hurt. Sherlock licked my neck like an animal tasting its prey. I shivered, excitement flooding me. He backed up a little, and shifted my legs. I had my calves resting on my friend's shoulders. His cock was almost touching me where I wanted him most, but he was denying me that. My buttocks were raised a little bit from the bed, and he was caressing them carefully, watching me as he did so. My breathing was deep. My gaze never left him.
Then, suddenly, a sting came upon my left cheek. Sherlock spanked me. I had spanked my dear Sherlock many a time, but this was my first time on the receiving end. It was surprising. My little squeal of pain and pleasure made Sherlock's cock twitch. I could feel it on my thigh. His eyes were pressing me for the go-ahead, and I nodded. He swatted me harder this time, and I lurched wildly. If Sherlock had not been bracing himself, he might have fallen over from my jerky movements. He hit me again. Every slap sent a thrill of lust to my aching groin. I loved him, and I loved this. With another loud, echoing slap, I cried out his name. "Sherlock!"
Sherlock's body seemed to become enflamed by it. He was fidgeting now, even as he hit me again. "Oh, please call my name again," he commanded. "Tell me how much you need me."
Another painful whack. "Oh, Sherlock," I grunted. "Please. I need you."
"Tell me you want me, John."
"I want you more than anything, Sherlock."
He took the vaseline from my side, then. I waited as he prepared us for the venture. I shuddered as the tip of him nagged at my entrance. "Tell me that you're mine, John," Sherlock ordered, but I heard a sense of urgency in his voice that was anxious-not sexual or playful, but serious and concerned. This was the part of him that loved me, and it warmed me to see it emerge. This side rarely came out in him, my cold and stoic friend.
"Sherlock," I cooed. "I am completely yours in every way. I will always be yours."
That did it. Sherlock thrust inside me roughly with no hesitation. It hurt. I bit my lip, and tugged on my confines. The metal of the cuffs was sharp on my wrists. It burned, and made me wince. God, it felt good to have him inside me again. My body seemed to hum from the satisfaction of our reunion. He pulled out, then buried himself deep within me again. I was his sheath. He took me over, claiming me, suddenly pumping in and out very, very fast. It was so quick-paced and rough that I thought I might explode from the beautiful friction sending pleasure throughout my gut. I cried out his name over and over again as he fucked me, like a chant in time with my lover's jagged thrusts. His intense expression, with that gorgeously crinkled brow, was fixed totally on me, watching me wriggle under him and struggle against the handcuffs.
He slowed his rapid pace suddenly, and took my cock in his hand. He pumped it slowly, and as he did so, he dipped hard into my body to the rhythm his hand was setting. The double pleasures had me writhing. My wrists were in a lot of pain from the cuffs holding me back. I wouldn't be surprised to find the skin nicked and bleeding. I was throwing my hips at him, offering myself as fully as was possible without my arms to help me. "Oh, god, Sherlock," I cried, and that was when I came. The pressure from all that bliss had become too much, and I fell overboard, sullying my stomach as well as Sherlock's. He did not stop for me. He continued to violate me roughly. Ten more minutes passed in a fast, hard pace, and I came again with a violent shudder. I pulsed wildly around my friend's cock, which sizzled within me. The sensation of it was amazing. His face contorted with the agony of his need for release. "Please," I shouted at him. "Please, Sherlock. Please."
The shout of "John!" which resounded from Sherlock at the force of his orgasm was so great that I felt it vibrate through me. The deep tremors resulting from Sherlock's pleasure found me overcome by his beauty, as I so often was. He collapsed dramatically on top of me. I smiled, and wanted badly to hold him, but I still could not move. Less than thirty seconds passed (during which Sherlock caught his breath) before he rose to his feet again and freed me. His ordinary nature returned to him quickly. I was glad of it.
"How did that make you feel, John?" Sherlock inquired, his face concentrated into a look of scientific curiosity as I rubbed the sore lines that marred my wrists.
"It felt..." I thought for a second. "Wonderfully relaxing."
"Good." Sherlock stood, and began to clean himself up after handing me a box of tissues so I might do the same. "I hoped it would help."
I was perplexed. "What do you mean, Sherlock? Help what?"
He looked at me pointedly as though I was being as stupid as ever. "Once again, John, you fail to observe the way I do. You seem to be under the impression that I have thought you've been coping just fine lately, but I am cleverer than that, my friend." He nodded wisely, his eyes shining a little sadly at me as he pulled on his trousers. "It has been extremely plain to me for a while now that you have been struggling deeply with all the loss you have experienced in your life. Just living is hard for you now. Am I correct?"
I nodded dumbly, feeling shocked and touched by his output.
"Exactly." He sniffed seriously. "Well," said he, "I knew it was so, and I thought that this time it was you who could really do with the distraction. I hoped I could help."
I hugged him. It was clear by his stiffness that he hadn't been expecting that. I pulled away a little awkwardly, but with a deeply appreciative smile on my face. "Thank you, Sherlock," I said warmly. "I don't believe can heal me, really, but you help just by doing the things you do, and by being who you are. You are a wonderfully welcome distraction. Thank you."
We kissed, and the world faded away. His long tongue embraced my own lovingly, and I melted into his arms as he held me. When our lips parted again, I clung onto his torso whether he liked it or not. The famed detective gave a great sigh. I grinned into his bare shoulder, enjoying his smell.
"And how did you enjoy dominating me, Sherlock?"
He laughed. "Oh, it was glorious," he said with a deep growl. "Yet I still think I prefer to be on the receiving end of the experience," he said seriously.
"Is that so?" I said amusedly. "Well, we can certainly make that happen again."
I felt Sherlock's muscles quiver excitedly against my embrace. "Is that so, Sir?" My insides writhed like snakes at the word. "Willing to pull rank on me again, are you?"
"Oh, absolutely. Any time," I said huskily, tilting my head up to kiss him deeply again. That perfect man trembled against me, and my loins stirred again from the feeling of power. It was then that Sherlock's mobile vibrated. We pulled away from each other, clearing our throats awkwardly. All these years, and still no one knew we loved each other (though Mrs. Hudson could not be oblivious to our screams). We kept the relationship quiet, and therefore grew embarrassed whenever something from the outside world came to interrupt us.
I observed my friend's demeanor change completely as he read his text. "A case?" I assumed.
He looked up at me, a fabulous twinkle in his face. Now that expression was one I cherished. "Oh, yes," he said. He was positively beaming. "Quadruple homicide, only five blocks from here. Let's go, John."
"Er, Sherlock?" He turned around, looking bewildered. He had been halfway out the door already before I'd called him back. "You aren't completely dressed. And you smell like sex."
He sniffed himself. "Yes, well..." Sherlock shrugged and took up his shirt from the ground to slip it back on. As he buttoned it up, I gave him an incredulous look. "I'm clean enough," he said defensively. I approached him on shaking legs, still trying to regain my strength after our magnificent shag. I stopped his hands in their motion just before he reached the last two buttons. "What are you doing, John?" He looked and sounded quite annoyed with me. I didn't care. I placed my lips to his neck and sucked deeply, intending to brand him as he'd done to me. Though he did not drop his disposition, I felt him tense under my gruff mouth. I used all the tongue and teeth I could. I wanted him to be black and blue, to draw all the blood to the surface of his porcelain skin. I wanted to repay him for my newly spotted chest, which was aching a little.
"John," he said in a dangerously low purr, "stop that." I held one hand to his throat as I continued to bruise his flesh, and tangled the fingers of my other hand into his hair, tugging roughly on his scalp because I knew how he liked it. He moaned. "John," he sighed. "Case."
"Mmm," I growled against him, barely listening. My body felt on fire again. I held my naked body against that of the elegantly dressed detective. I was rock hard again, and so was he. I felt him twitching against my stomach. It sent chills through me. "You taste so good," I mumbled, and ran my tongue over the dark violet spot I'd caused. "And I don't just mean here. I mean your cock as well." Sherlock sighed audibly into my ear. His heartbeat quickened. "I could just devour you." I nipped at the hickey, and my friend flinched. I bet it hurt. I smiled. "Did you like that?"
"You know I did, John," he said tensely, pulling himself away. Sherlock's face was extraordinarily pink, and his hair was mussed. He was standing awkwardly as his erection nagged at his trousers. The man cleared his throat uncomfortably, and I smiled at his flustered reaction to me. I loved him. "Case, John. Case." He grabbed his suit jacket and hurried from the room looking anxious that I might start seducing him again. I didn't mind. I knew that the next time he was bored, I would get him back. I would make him hurt. I dressed quickly and followed him.
We hurried to the crime scene where Lestrade was waiting. "Took you long enough, Sherlock," he said, looking miffed. "It's a right bloodbath, and you're not five blocks away! What kept you?"
"Nothing," Sherlock said coolly, looking excited by the sight of all the blood. His twinkling eyes reflected how deeply involved he had already become in the scene. His mind was racing almost visibly so.
As he crossed the tape, he caressed his neck absent-mindedly, right where I had marked him up. I smiled as I watched him. Even when his mind was totally occupied, he could still feel me. Having room for me in that genius mind of his, even while on a case: to the great Sherlock Holmes, that was love. And that was why we didn't need to say it. I observed it, and that was good enough.