Footrest
Title: Footrest
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Warnings: D/s, mild humiliation and objectification.
Summary: Sherlock knows what John wants. Written for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=32711767#t32711767
"Get under my desk," said Sherlock, not looking up from his microscope.
"What?" John blinked at the back of his flatmate's head. He had the urge to just do what Sherlock told him, but he resisted. The order made no sense.
"Get under the desk, right now," Sherlock repeated, a hint of urgency in his voice. John actually took a few unthinking steps toward him before halting.
"Are you...trying to get me out of sight for some reason?" John studied Sherlock's impassive profile. "It wouldn't be much of a hiding place. Anybody could see me under there."
"Which ought to enhance the experience for you," Sherlock said dryly, and John's pulse skipped a beat. He couldn't possibly mean what he sounded like he meant. "John. Quit arguing with yourself--it's distracting. Just do as I say."
"Why do you want me to--"
"I don't," said Sherlock. "You do. Now get under the desk, on your knees, facing me."
John stood staring at him. Sherlock gave a minute nudge to the glass slide under the microscope, still peering through the eyepiece, not looking up. His posture in the desk chair was relaxed. The motions of his fingers, adjusting the slide and lens, were calm and fluid. It struck John that if he stayed where he was, Sherlock wouldn't react, wouldn't repeat his order, wouldn't demand anything else of him--it made no difference to Sherlock whether he obeyed or not. He felt as though he were underwater, his legs wobbly, all sounds around him distorted.
He didn't know if it was ten seconds later or ninety when he stepped closer, sank shakily to his knees, and crawled under the desk.
When John had manoeuvred to face Sherlock's parted legs, Sherlock responded, finally. Long, pale hands appeared and undid the fly of Sherlock's trousers briskly, pulling out--oh. John shivered, suddenly aware of his own hardening cock. By contrast, Sherlock's was completely soft. The hand cupping it was efficient but indifferent.
Sherlock's other hand reached under the desk to grasp the back of John's head and guide him firmly but gently towards Sherlock's crotch. Did Sherlock expect him to--? John's mouth bumped against warm flesh. He could smell soap and clean musk, no trace of arousal. He parted his lips tentatively, taking the head in, tasting the skin.
Sherlock seemed to think he could figure the rest out for himself, because he let go of both John's head and his own cock, presumably returning to the microscope. "Put your hands behind your back," Sherlock added, apparently as an afterthought, and John shuddered, sucking the head in deeper. He put his hands behind his back. It was only when he had interlaced his fingers so tightly it hurt that he realised how badly he needed to touch himself.
He kept sucking, drawing Sherlock's cock in as deep as he could. It remained soft. John himself was as hard as a rock, his trousers uncomfortably tight. Was Sherlock unable to get hard, or was it possible he somehow willed himself to remain unaroused? Or could it be he really got no stimulation out of this at all? John's heart raced at the thought that Sherlock was only tolerating this, humouring John's mad desire. He didn't have to lift a finger to use John, to debase him, because John would do it all by himself, and God, he was doing it, wasn't he? Was he mad? Did Sherlock even notice?
Now and then Sherlock's cock did stiffen and swell under his attentions. It never got even halfway erect before it softened again. Occasionally Sherlock sighed faintly or made a neutral h'm sound, shifting fractionally in his seat--possibly in reaction to whatever he was examining on the desk. John heard the clink of another slide going under the microscope. Without even meaning to, he sucked harder, more urgently, wishing he could get all of Sherlock inside him.
"Careful," Sherlock snapped at a particularly hard pull of John's lips, and he forced himself to ease up, suckling more softly, lapping the underside. He licked the edge of the foreskin and the hole at the tip, searching for any flavour besides clean skin, finding none.
His own cock ached for release and he could feel a small damp spot growing in his pants. He shifted, spreading his knees slightly, trying to get comfortable, causing a bit of friction in the front of his trousers. It was nowhere near enough.
Then he felt something soft and heavy come to rest on the top of his thigh. It was Sherlock's foot in a fuzzy sock.
Sherlock was using him as a footrest. As John kept sucking, Sherlock's toes flexed against the top of his trousers, pressing his belly lightly, tickling a bit. Sherlock's other foot moved to prop itself against his inner thigh. John didn't dare move, his breath coming fast and shallow as he lapped Sherlock's cock, waiting to see what Sherlock would do next.
John groaned when he felt it. Sherlock was tapping his foot lightly against John's thigh, as though lost in thought, and almost every time he tapped his toes brushed the bulge at the fly. John's groin flooded with warmth. Then Sherlock stopped tapping. He let his feet rest where they were.
A few minutes later, Sherlock's other foot started kneading lightly, casually at his belly again. It caused just enough friction to be maddening. Then his toes wandered downward and John groaned again, lips still wrapped around cock.
"Sh," said Sherlock absently. John could hear him putting in another slide. John's whole lower body was trembling now with the effort of not thrusting his hips forward. He rested his chin on the chair and panted as quietly as he could with his mouth full. After an agonizing stillness, Sherlock's toes flexed again, prodding carelessly at the tented trouser fabric, nudging John's erection now and then as though by chance. John felt a wave of excruciating pleasure go through him at every touch.
Then Sherlock shifted and stretched slightly, running the arch of his foot all the way down John's inseam, and John made a sound he couldn't hold back. He came just as Sherlock's foot dropped to the floor between John's thighs.
Slowly it came back to John where he was. He was kneeling with his head resting between Sherlock's legs, his mouth fastened on a completely limp cock, his pants sticky. His hands were shaking from being clasped together so tightly. Had he really done this?
Sherlock leaned back in his chair. He reached down to pull his cock out of John's mouth and put it back in his trousers, doing up the fly as efficiently as he had undone it, fingers as calm and fluid as ever. John stared stupidly at the sight for a few seconds before realising they were finished. He nearly fell over trying to crawl out from under the desk. His knees hurt and his thighs were too shaky to support him at first, so he knelt there for a moment, drawing deep breaths, feeling the dampness at his crotch grow cool.
He started when something touched the top of his head--a hand ruffling his short hair and then pulling away. John looked up in surprise. Sherlock was still bent over the microscope, as calm and unmoved as ever, but he turned his head slightly to acknowledge John's presence.
"Good," said Sherlock, and put in another slide.
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Warnings: D/s, mild humiliation and objectification.
Summary: Sherlock knows what John wants. Written for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=32711767#t32711767
"Get under my desk," said Sherlock, not looking up from his microscope.
"What?" John blinked at the back of his flatmate's head. He had the urge to just do what Sherlock told him, but he resisted. The order made no sense.
"Get under the desk, right now," Sherlock repeated, a hint of urgency in his voice. John actually took a few unthinking steps toward him before halting.
"Are you...trying to get me out of sight for some reason?" John studied Sherlock's impassive profile. "It wouldn't be much of a hiding place. Anybody could see me under there."
"Which ought to enhance the experience for you," Sherlock said dryly, and John's pulse skipped a beat. He couldn't possibly mean what he sounded like he meant. "John. Quit arguing with yourself--it's distracting. Just do as I say."
"Why do you want me to--"
"I don't," said Sherlock. "You do. Now get under the desk, on your knees, facing me."
John stood staring at him. Sherlock gave a minute nudge to the glass slide under the microscope, still peering through the eyepiece, not looking up. His posture in the desk chair was relaxed. The motions of his fingers, adjusting the slide and lens, were calm and fluid. It struck John that if he stayed where he was, Sherlock wouldn't react, wouldn't repeat his order, wouldn't demand anything else of him--it made no difference to Sherlock whether he obeyed or not. He felt as though he were underwater, his legs wobbly, all sounds around him distorted.
He didn't know if it was ten seconds later or ninety when he stepped closer, sank shakily to his knees, and crawled under the desk.
When John had manoeuvred to face Sherlock's parted legs, Sherlock responded, finally. Long, pale hands appeared and undid the fly of Sherlock's trousers briskly, pulling out--oh. John shivered, suddenly aware of his own hardening cock. By contrast, Sherlock's was completely soft. The hand cupping it was efficient but indifferent.
Sherlock's other hand reached under the desk to grasp the back of John's head and guide him firmly but gently towards Sherlock's crotch. Did Sherlock expect him to--? John's mouth bumped against warm flesh. He could smell soap and clean musk, no trace of arousal. He parted his lips tentatively, taking the head in, tasting the skin.
Sherlock seemed to think he could figure the rest out for himself, because he let go of both John's head and his own cock, presumably returning to the microscope. "Put your hands behind your back," Sherlock added, apparently as an afterthought, and John shuddered, sucking the head in deeper. He put his hands behind his back. It was only when he had interlaced his fingers so tightly it hurt that he realised how badly he needed to touch himself.
He kept sucking, drawing Sherlock's cock in as deep as he could. It remained soft. John himself was as hard as a rock, his trousers uncomfortably tight. Was Sherlock unable to get hard, or was it possible he somehow willed himself to remain unaroused? Or could it be he really got no stimulation out of this at all? John's heart raced at the thought that Sherlock was only tolerating this, humouring John's mad desire. He didn't have to lift a finger to use John, to debase him, because John would do it all by himself, and God, he was doing it, wasn't he? Was he mad? Did Sherlock even notice?
Now and then Sherlock's cock did stiffen and swell under his attentions. It never got even halfway erect before it softened again. Occasionally Sherlock sighed faintly or made a neutral h'm sound, shifting fractionally in his seat--possibly in reaction to whatever he was examining on the desk. John heard the clink of another slide going under the microscope. Without even meaning to, he sucked harder, more urgently, wishing he could get all of Sherlock inside him.
"Careful," Sherlock snapped at a particularly hard pull of John's lips, and he forced himself to ease up, suckling more softly, lapping the underside. He licked the edge of the foreskin and the hole at the tip, searching for any flavour besides clean skin, finding none.
His own cock ached for release and he could feel a small damp spot growing in his pants. He shifted, spreading his knees slightly, trying to get comfortable, causing a bit of friction in the front of his trousers. It was nowhere near enough.
Then he felt something soft and heavy come to rest on the top of his thigh. It was Sherlock's foot in a fuzzy sock.
Sherlock was using him as a footrest. As John kept sucking, Sherlock's toes flexed against the top of his trousers, pressing his belly lightly, tickling a bit. Sherlock's other foot moved to prop itself against his inner thigh. John didn't dare move, his breath coming fast and shallow as he lapped Sherlock's cock, waiting to see what Sherlock would do next.
John groaned when he felt it. Sherlock was tapping his foot lightly against John's thigh, as though lost in thought, and almost every time he tapped his toes brushed the bulge at the fly. John's groin flooded with warmth. Then Sherlock stopped tapping. He let his feet rest where they were.
A few minutes later, Sherlock's other foot started kneading lightly, casually at his belly again. It caused just enough friction to be maddening. Then his toes wandered downward and John groaned again, lips still wrapped around cock.
"Sh," said Sherlock absently. John could hear him putting in another slide. John's whole lower body was trembling now with the effort of not thrusting his hips forward. He rested his chin on the chair and panted as quietly as he could with his mouth full. After an agonizing stillness, Sherlock's toes flexed again, prodding carelessly at the tented trouser fabric, nudging John's erection now and then as though by chance. John felt a wave of excruciating pleasure go through him at every touch.
Then Sherlock shifted and stretched slightly, running the arch of his foot all the way down John's inseam, and John made a sound he couldn't hold back. He came just as Sherlock's foot dropped to the floor between John's thighs.
Slowly it came back to John where he was. He was kneeling with his head resting between Sherlock's legs, his mouth fastened on a completely limp cock, his pants sticky. His hands were shaking from being clasped together so tightly. Had he really done this?
Sherlock leaned back in his chair. He reached down to pull his cock out of John's mouth and put it back in his trousers, doing up the fly as efficiently as he had undone it, fingers as calm and fluid as ever. John stared stupidly at the sight for a few seconds before realising they were finished. He nearly fell over trying to crawl out from under the desk. His knees hurt and his thighs were too shaky to support him at first, so he knelt there for a moment, drawing deep breaths, feeling the dampness at his crotch grow cool.
He started when something touched the top of his head--a hand ruffling his short hair and then pulling away. John looked up in surprise. Sherlock was still bent over the microscope, as calm and unmoved as ever, but he turned his head slightly to acknowledge John's presence.
"Good," said Sherlock, and put in another slide.