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emmagrant01Title: A Cure for Boredom (2/8, WIP)
Author: Emma Grant
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Sherlock, John/others
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John had fully expected it to get weird, perhaps even weirder than he could imagine. At least for now, he'd made up his mind to enjoy the ride.
Length: 10,000 words (this part)
Contains: [Highlight to view] OMG!het, casual sex, voyeurism, mild D/s, threesome, dirty talk, double penetration -- basically there's a lot of porn in multiple variations
Beta and Britpick:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
freckles42
Spoilers: Set sometime during series 2, pre-Reichenbach. Tiny spoilers for the first two episodes.
Notes: Based on my original outline I thought this fic would have 3 parts, but once I started writing this one I realized fairly quickly I had underestimated. So note that the chapter count has gone up. Also, though I'm intending there to be some redeeming character-driven plot in here somewhere, there's an awful lot of porn. ;-)
Read part 1: On LJ | On AO3 | On my website | On Skyehawke
Alternate link for this part: AO3
*****
"I was 12. Her name was Sonya. She was a year or two older than me. We were at a party at someone's house; I can't remember what the occasion was. I was sitting with some mates, all of us sharing one bottle of beer someone had nicked from their parents' fridge, and she just came right over to me. She told me to come with her and all my mates went oooooh or something, but I had no idea what was going on." John paused to take a swig from the beer bottle in his hand. "She led me to another room and closed the door. It was dark and I could barely see her. She pushed me back against the door -- she was a lot taller than me, but all the girls were at that age -- and she asked me if I'd ever kissed anyone. I don't even know if I managed to answer her; I was so surprised. And then she kissed me." He turned to where Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa. "That's it, really."
"What did you think at the time?"
John shrugged. "I remember being a bit grossed out at first, to be honest. I didn't realize until that moment that people used their tongues when they kissed."
"What did it make you feel?"
"Turned on after I got over the tongue thing. I got hard and I was terrified she would notice, and I kept pulling away from her. I think she thought I didn't like it. Eventually she stopped kissing me and left me there in the dark with a serious hard-on."
"Did you want to have sex with her?"
"Yes. Well, no, not really. I mean, I knew how sex worked -- theoretically, anyway -- but I was terrified of girls. I was perfectly happy to fantasize about them from afar for a while after that." He drained the beer and pushed to his feet, heading to the kitchen for another.
"Why were you afraid of girls?" Sherlock asked, his voice still timbred for someone sitting three feet from him.
John rolled his eyes as he rummaged for another beer in the fridge. Ah, the last bottle; he'd have to go get more. Of course, it was early yet, and as far as he knew, they were going out tonight. Which was why he was already drinking at this hour. He wasn't sure he could take the suspense sober.
He uncapped the bottle and crossed back to the chair, thinking about how to answer that question. "I don't know what I was afraid of. It seems bizarre now."
"It doesn't. Women are frightening enough as adults; as teenagers I imagine they'd be utterly terrifying."
John had no idea if Sherlock was joking or not. "I was 16 before I kissed another girl. It took me four entire years to work up the nerve."
"This is incredibly disappointing, I have to say."
John turned to stare at him. "Disappointing?"
"I'd imagined you had quite a sordid youth. It pains me to know I was so very wrong."
"You imagined I was shagging every girl in school by the age of 15 or something? Definitely not." John paused. "Wait, why would you think that?"
Sherlock didn't respond, instead staring at the ceiling.
"Did you talk to my school friends?"
"No. Should I?"
"They probably wouldn't remember me."
"I find it hard to believe anyone could forget you, John."
"I happen to be extremely forgettable. Just ask my string of ex-girlfriends." John paused to take a drink. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"When was your first kiss?" He let the assuming you've had one remain implied.
"This isn't about me. It's about you."
"I'm not asking to collect data. I'm asking because I'm interested."
"Why are you interested?"
"No idea. In fact, I'm becoming less interested by the second. Never mind." John picked at the label on the beer bottle, peeling the corners back slightly. Silence stretched between them for several minutes, and it was oddly pleasant. As infuriating a roommate as Sherlock could be, it was nice that they could sit in silence like this and just hang out.
Eventually Sherlock sat up and opened his laptop. John finished his beer to the light tapping of keys, trying to resist the urge to ask Sherlock what he was doing. He had a strong suspicion it had something to do with the experiment.
"Want to order take-away?" he asked at last. "I've a craving for Thai."
"Not hungry."
"Of course you aren't. But I'll get that curry you like, just in case you change your mind."
He stood and crossed to the door, plucking his coat from the chair he'd draped it over earlier. He glanced back once, but Sherlock was completely focused on the glow of the screen before him.
*****
"You need to get ready," Sherlock said as he emerged from his bedroom. John looked up from the telly to see him buttoning the cuffs of a dark blue shirt.
The fluttering that had finally eased in John's belly flared up again. "Are we leaving soon?"
"Now, in fact." Sherlock's eyes raked over him. "White shirt, tie, jeans, trainers, and a jacket. Nothing too fancy; casual is fine."
John swallowed. "All right. I'll just… okay." He fumbled for the remote and hit the power button, casting the room into near-darkness. He found his way to the stairs and up, through the door, and dug out clothes he thought would suffice. He changed quickly and finally turned to stare at himself in the mirror on the back of the door.
"What are you so nervous about?" he whispered as he knotted the tie. He was basically guaranteed to get laid, after all. Why be nervous about that?
*****
Neither of them spoke during the excruciatingly long taxi ride. John wasn't sure whether to be relieved or worried. They needed to talk about what was going to happen -- he'd made that much clear last night -- but Sherlock had shown no indication that they would discuss this at all. It wasn't until they were standing before the door of the club that John finally took Sherlock by the arm and pulled him aside.
"We need to talk."
Sherlock looked instantly annoyed. "I thought we discussed this last night."
"Honesty, remember? I need to know what…" John had to force himself to look Sherlock in the eye. "What you expect of me."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I don't understand."
"Right. So." John ran one hand through his hair and took a deep breath before continuing. "This is your experiment, so you're calling the shots. I'm fine with that, but if you have any… rules you want me to follow, now would be a good time to tell me."
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, as if considering, and then nodded. "I'll need you to follow my precise instructions at all times, without question. If you're uncomfortable with what you're being asked to do or with anything that's happening, use the safeword. Otherwise I'll assume you consent. Our cover is that we're a couple; you should behave accordingly, but don't overdo it. You don't get to pick your partners; that's my job. You also don't get to choose what they do to you and when. It's important for the purposes of data collection that you aren't aware what's coming next, so I won't explain anything, even if you ask."
"Okay." John swallowed; that was a bit more than he'd expected, certainly.
"And no touching," Sherlock continued. "They can touch you, but you will not touch them."
"Why not?"
Sherlock didn't answer, though. He opened the door of the club and indicated with a nod of his head for John to walk through it.
"I feel loads better now," John muttered. He forced a tight smile and walked through the door.
They made their way towards the bar again. John ordered a pint and drank a third of it in one go.
"I thought alcohol interfered with consent," Sherlock said softly, his mouth so close to John's right ear that he could feel warm breath against his skin.
"Are you kidding? I need a drink after all of that." He exhaled and scanned the room, though it was essentially pointless. Sherlock may as well have said no looking for all the good it did.
"Finish your drink and head downstairs, room five. I'll meet you there shortly." Sherlock headed out into the crowd, leaving John standing at the bar alone.
He downed his beer and decided to find a toilet on the way. He'd half-expected people to be having sex in the stalls, but all was quiet. He supposed there wasn't much need when there were private rooms for that purpose below.
He lost track of time in room number five. He couldn't get a signal on his phone and there was little else to do but sit and wait. This room was similar to the last one, though slightly smaller. The sofa was smaller and there was a chair by the door, almost as if it had been placed there precisely for someone to watch.
And Sherlock, apparently, liked to watch. That much seemed clear.
The door opened without so much as a knock, startling him to his feet. Sherlock closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, staring at John.
"Well?" John asked after several excruciating seconds of silence.
The corners of Sherlock's lips turned up very slightly, and just at that moment there was a knock on the door. He pushed off it and turned to open it.
The first thought that flashed through John's mind was of that one Britney Spears video he used to guiltily wank to while at university. The woman who now leaned against the door frame seemed to be going for exactly that naughty schoolgirl look, complete with blonde braids, a very short plaid skirt, long white socks up to her knees, and a shirt that was missing far too many buttons to be regulation. She gave him a smoldering look, handed Sherlock her purse -- the resulting expression of annoyance on his face was almost a distraction -- and walked straight across the room to drape her arms around John's shoulders.
Oh my God. This was just. God.
"I was playing Truth or Dare just now, and do you know what your boyfriend dared me to do?"
"Didge ah--" John began and then shook his head to clear it. "Ah, no. No idea."
She grinned and gave him a shove and he landed hard on the sofa. She straddled his knees and climbed into his lap, her short skirt riding up to reveal white cotton knickers underneath. She nestled into his lap, the warmth of her pussy pressing right into his cock, which strained up against several layers of fabric to say hello. She wriggled a bit, earning a whimper from John, and then grasped his tie in one hand and tugged him up towards her.
"He dared me to make you come from kissing alone. Do you think I can do it?"
He wanted to ask, Did he actually say it just like that? Because that was not a combination of words he could imagine coming out of Sherlock's mouth.
What he actually said was, "I think you probably can, yeah." A bit more breathlessly than he'd intended, but what the hell.
She leaned forward and brushed her lips across his, just the slightest touch, then leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "I'll cheat a bit, if it's all right with you." She shifted her hips ever so slightly, grinding against him, and he moaned.
Yes, this was definitely going to work.
Her lips brushed his again, open-mouthed, her breath laced with some sort of strawberry liqueur that made this entire thing seem even more naughty. They remained like that for a surprisingly long time, not really kissing, just breathing into each other while she rocked against him in a way he hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides; it was all he could do not to take control and pull her hard against him. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the sofa cushions, clearing his mind completely. No thinking. Just feeling. Only feeling.
The tip of her tongue brushed against his own and he sighed at that brief contact. Her tongue circled his before disappearing again and she began to kiss his mouth softly, tugging at his lips and running her tongue along the sensitive skin just inside. He tried to deepen the kiss, but she pulled away with a small laugh.
"You don't want it to be over that quickly, do you John?"
"No." It was more a whimper than a word.
After another minute of teasing she finally kissed him properly and his appreciation for her tongue increased ten-fold. He'd kissed girls who seemed more interested in inspecting his tonsils than anything else, but this woman was expertly fucking his mouth with nothing more than her tongue. She was pressing her cunt against his cock in tiny circles now, hitting a rhythm that was clearly more for her than for him. Not that he minded; any kind of friction was going to do the trick at this point.
She captured his tongue between her lips and sucked it lightly while swirling her tongue around the tip, and he moaned. God, what he wouldn't give to have that tongue somewhere else. He managed to catch her tongue then and flicked his own against hers while sucking; she whimpered and ground against him. Her expert kisses turned into open-mouthed groans and he was momentarily stunned by the intensity of it. He was dimly aware that she was coming, but all he could do was hang on for the ride.
Ride, he would later tell Sherlock, was quite the appropriate term.
She stopped moving just as he was on the verge of coming himself and he thrust up against her. She took the hint and started moving again, and pressed her forehead against his whispering encouragement. He didn't need it.
"Oh fuck oh god, that's… right there… fucking hell." Words left him for incoherent moans after that. She was still riding him after he was done, and then she came again -- something he frankly hadn't been sure was physically possible until that moment. She collapsed against him, both of them flushed and John sweating in that damn jacket.
He was fully clothed, for fuck's sake. How did that even happen?
He looked over her shoulder to grin at Sherlock, but instead saw that annoyance was emanating from him in waves that were practically visible to the naked eye. John sighed.
"That wasn't what was supposed to happen," Sherlock spat after their guest had collected her purse and left. He dropped onto the sofa beside John with very nearly a pout on his face. "I told her she could only kiss you. That entire experiment was a waste of time."
John ran a hand over his face. He still felt a bit fuzzy. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."
"Yes, well. You clearly enjoyed it."
"Jesus, Sherlock, I'm not even sure what you wanted to happen is possible, but seriously? I just had an orgasm fully clothed. I'm fairly certain she had two. That's damn amazing and definitely good enough for your spreadsheet."
"That's not the point."
John shook his head. "Of course not. Enlighten me here: what exactly is the point, if not to observe me having sex with various women and analyze… whatever it is you're analyzing?"
"It may just be sex for you, but it's science for me. This kind of data collection requires careful controls or the information is essentially worthless."
John smirked. "Ah, of course. I see the real problem now."
"Then enlighten me, won't you?"
"You can control me, but you can't control anyone else who walks through that door. It's just not possible. So you're going to have to find a way to deal with a certain amount of unpredictability in this experiment. And damn if I'm not going to enjoy watching that."
Sherlock shook his head. "That's completely perverse."
"Pot, kettle." John raised an eyebrow at him and was rewarded with a rude gesture. He laughed.
*****
Sherlock had hailed a cab while John was cleaning himself up in the toilet, and they rode in silence for the first half of the journey to Baker Street.
"Fifteen," Sherlock said at last, nearly startling John out of his own tangled thoughts.
"Sorry?"
"My first kiss."
"Oh." This was an interesting turn of events. "What happened?"
"It was at school. I'm fairly certain she did it on a dare. She never spoke to me again, at any rate."
"That bad at it, were you?" John quipped and immediately regretted it. "I mean, no, I didn't mean--"
"It was completely horrible all around. It put me off the entire idea for years."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
John's eyes narrowed. "But that implies something put you back on, doesn't it?"
Sherlock stared out the window and didn't reply. John watched the rhythmic flash of streetlamps across his face for nearly a minute before getting lost in his own thoughts again.
*****
John spent the afternoon out of the flat, only returning to Baker Street when it was too dark to ignore the fact that the day was over. Sherlock was on the sofa as always, staring at the screen of his laptop in minimal light.
"Are we going out?" John asked as he stripped off his jacket.
"Yes." He didn't look up, not that John expected him to do.
"Should I… I mean, is there anything you want me to… wear or…?" John closed his eyes for a full second. This was still fantastically awkward.
"Whatever you like is fine tonight. You'll be taking it all off as soon as we arrive, so it won't matter."
John gaped at him for a moment, but he still didn't look up. "All right then."
A drink was definitely in order. He rummaged through the small collection of liquor they'd amassed and ended up with something that was half vodka and half citrus soda. It was terrible, though; he gave up halfway through and drank a beer instead.
He watched telly for a couple of hours, losing himself in a Big Brother marathon. Ironic, that: for the first time he felt something like sympathy for the contestants and their predicament. He glanced over at Sherlock occasionally, but the man hadn't moved from the spot. John wondered when he'd eaten last.
He didn't ask when they were leaving -- there was no point. Sherlock would tell him when it was time, and John would blindly follow him into whatever sexual scenario he'd managed to set up. John had no idea how he was doing it, whether he had a plan and arranged everything in advance, or if there was just a loose set of parameters and Sherlock found someone suitable once they arrived. But really, it didn't matter: he trusted Sherlock in this. God help him.
*****
"So this club we've been going to -- it's a private club, isn't it?"
"It is," Sherlock replied, staring out the window of the cab.
"Pricey, I imagine?"
"Absolutely."
John frowned. "You didn't actually buy a membership to this club, did you?"
"Of course not. I borrowed one."
"Who did you--" John began and then grimaced. "Oh, don't tell me."
Sherlock's lips twisted into a smirk. "My brother's interests are rather diverse."
"God, I wish I hadn't asked," John said, turning to look out the window again for a moment. A thought occurred to him and he whipped his head back around. "When you say borrow, you mean you nicked it, right? Just like that all-access pass?"
"No. He hasn't forgiven me for that just yet. This time it was honestly borrowed."
"And you told him… what, exactly?"
Sherlock's phone buzzed and he pulled it from the pocket of his coat to glance at the screen. A smile traced his lips and he tapped out a text before putting the phone away again. "The truth, naturally."
John swallowed. "Which is?"
Sherlock's sigh was long-suffering. "That I am conducting a series of experiments about human sexuality, with your assistance."
John felt the blood drain from his face. "Fantastic."
"I'd expected him to refuse but he seemed rather pleased about it, actually. No idea why."
John only barely resisted the urge to bang his head against the taxi's window. Now Mycroft probably thought he and Sherlock were having kinky group sex, together, in a club Mycroft himself belonged to and -- oh God.
"Do you think he's spying on us?"
"Of course he is," Sherlock replied. He paused and turned to look at John. "Does that bother you?"
John snorted. "Oh no, not a bit. The idea of your brother knowing exactly how much sex I'm having and with whom is a bit of a turn-on, actually. Should we cut out the middle-man and invite him to join us?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but then looked thoughtful, to John's horror. "There is a more public space on a different level of the club. We could--"
"No," John said, a bit more sharply than he'd intended. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and John sighed. So that's where this was going. "Not yet, anyway."
Sherlock's expression smoothed out again and he nodded. For the fortieth time in the last few days, John wondered what the hell he was doing here.
*****
"Room seven," Sherlock said as soon as they entered the club. "Unless you need another drink first?"
"No, I'm good. Room seven."
It wasn't until he was standing inside the room and examining the furnishings -- two chairs facing each other, one armless -- that he realized it hadn't even occurred to him to ask Sherlock what he should expect tonight. Not that Sherlock would have told him, but still John had just blindly obeyed. That ought to worry him, but really, how was it any different than any other part of his life? John took charge when it seemed necessary, but quite a lot of the time he simply did what he was told, even when what he was being told made no sense.
And really, none of this made sense. Assuming things continued tonight as they had done, he would have had more sex in the last two days than he'd had in the last few years, and every bit of it had not only been arranged by Sherlock, but witnessed -- no thoroughly examined -- by him as well. That ought to have put John off, but somehow it didn't. He had fully expected it to get weird, perhaps even weirder than he could imagine, but for now he'd apparently made up his mind to enjoy the ride.
The door opened and a couple entered, laughing with arms twined around each other. It was a moment before John recognized one of them as Sherlock.
"And then he said, 'You want me to put it where?' and I--" The woman who was currently wrapped around Sherlock stopped abruptly and stared at John. "Well, now. Hello." Her eyes blazed.
He'd never before heard hello come out quite so clearly as please fuck me. She untangled herself from Sherlock and crossed to stand in front of John. Her hair was short and dark, her face heart-shaped, and her eyes a startling and unlikely shade of green. Shiny black boots with spiky heels covered her legs up to her thighs. She was dressed, or rather, squeezed into a red latex mini-dress that not only threatened to ride up over her arse but also barely contained her breasts. She was one abrupt move away from a massive wardrobe malfunction, and John was already half-hard.
He glanced at Sherlock, who had already dropped the drunk act and was settling into observation mode now that her attention was no longer focused on him.
She reached out and stroked one finger down John's cheek, then grasped his chin with her hand. "He's explained everything. Too bad about the no touching rule. I'd have loved to know what your tongue can do." She pressed her thumb between his lips and he did his best to show her just what she was missing. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment before opening again, now dark. Her lips were the same shade of red as the dress.
"Let's get started, shall we?" She took a few steps backward and without taking her eyes off John said, "Unzip me, will you, Sherlock?"
Sherlock looked momentarily stunned to John's delight, but then stepped forward and fumbled with a zipper at the nape of her neck. He drew it down slowly; whether this was because it was difficult or to draw out the suspense was unclear. She peeled the latex dress off slowly, revealing skimpy underthings made of red satin and black lace, and made a sound not unlike a purr as she stepped out of the dress. The combination of boots, lace, satin, and pale creamy skin was like something John had previously only paid to see online.
She walked back toward John and pressed one finger against his chest, pushing him backward into one of the chairs. She then sprawled into the other, hooking her knees over the chair's arms and spreading her thighs wide.
"Are you allowed to speak?" she asked, fingers sliding under the satin knickers to touch herself.
John flicked his eyes at Sherlock, who shook his head. John turned back to her and she laughed.
"He keeps a tight leash on you, doesn't he? I can't say I blame him." She sighed and let her eyes fall closed as her fingers circled under the knickers. John squirmed in his seat and clenched his hands into fists. She grinned and opened her eyes, leveling a heated look at him. "You show me yours and I'll show you mine." He frowned, uncertain for a moment, and she licked her lips. "Strip, John. Right now."
He sat up and pulled his jumper over his head, then unbuttoned the shirt underneath. He stood and unfastened his trousers and let them fall, realizing too late he should have toed his shoes off first. An awkward minute later he was standing before her clad in nothing but a pair of tented boxers.
"Those too," she said.
John exhaled shakily. He'd been naked in front of Sherlock before and Sherlock had seen him with an erection, but the number of times he'd stood in front of anyone both naked and aroused was very small. There was something about this moment that felt like crossing yet another line, and John found he couldn't take it lightly.
"From what I can see you've nothing to be embarrassed about," she said with a smile. "I'll even give you a sneak peek, if you like." She pulled the crotch of her knickers aside and pressed two fingers into her vagina, slowly.
John shucked the boxers as if they were on fire.
"Good boy. Sit now. And no touching yourself either."
He settled into the chair again and grasped the sides of the seat, digging his fingers into the worn leather. She slid her knickers down her thighs and let them dangle from one booted foot, then hooked her knees over the arms of the chair once again.
"Oh, if only you were allowed to speak," she said, sliding her fingers between her labia slowly. "You could tell me exactly what you want to see me do."
John shot a pleading glance at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes in response, damn him.
"No matter," she said, circling one fingertip around her clitoris. "I think we'll have fun anyway."
She stood then and crossed to the small table between their chairs. She rummaged inside the drawer for a condom, which she immediately ripped open. She dropped to her knees between John's thighs and reached for his cock. His eyes rolled back in his head when her fingers wrapped around the shaft and gave it a firm stroke. "Mmm, so eager. Is he always this sensitive, Sherlock?" Happily, there was no answer. She rolled the condom onto him and rose to straddle his thighs.
"Have you ever fucked a woman before, John?" He nodded emphatically and she laughed. "Of course. I see. He's gay and you're bi, so he brings you here to let you fuck women, but only the women he chooses for you. And then he dictates exactly what they can do to you, and you're not allowed to touch them back. In that way, it's really like he's the one fucking you, isn't it?"
John swallowed hard. He wanted to look at Sherlock, to see his reaction to that statement, but at that moment she grasped his chin with one hand and shook her head as if to say eyes on me from here on out. Her other hand was between her thighs, doing something he couldn't see, and the occasional brush of her wrist against his cock made him impossibly harder. God, he hoped she was planning to fuck him.
"Do you think I'm wet enough?" She pressed two slick fingers against his lips and he opened his mouth, groaning at the taste of her spreading across his tongue. He nodded, sucking her fingers, and God that was hot.
She shifted her hips forward and grasped the head of his cock and sank onto him, engulfing him in the heat of her body. He gasped and closed his eyes. It really had been a while, Jesus fuck.
She started moving then, angling her hips just so, and his hands went to her hips without thinking.
"John," he heard Sherlock say, and dropped them to his sides again. He gritted his teeth. This was going to be more difficult than he'd thought.
She grinned and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "Oh, you're a good little boy, aren't you? Is he like that at home, always wanting to be in control?"
He risked a glance at Sherlock to see his face was impassive, observing. He hadn't heard. John looked back to her and nodded.
"Do it again," she whispered. "Grab my arse."
He suppressed the urge to laugh: oh, she was a fun one. He grasped her hips again and pulled her down hard onto his prick, and they both gasped.
Once more, with feeling this time: "John." John dropped his hands again, but he was smiling.
"I don't know if he'll be able to resist," she said to Sherlock. "You might have to tie his hands to the chair."
John gasped and she laughed. "Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"
He had to admit the idea didn't sound unappealing.
She kept a smooth rhythm going with her hips and it was a gorgeous slow burn. He could feel her fingers stroking herself while she fucked him and he wished he could do it for her. He wondered what Sherlock would do if he tried it.
"You feel so fucking good," she whispered and he shuddered at the feeling of her lips against his ear. "You don't get to do this much, do you? I'll bet he doesn't even bottom for you. You love the feeling of his cock inside you, so you don't complain because he does this for you, finds you a girl who'll fuck you blind."
John wondered if she was just inferring this or if it was what Sherlock had told her. God, what if he had?
"I'll bet he gives fantastic head, though. He sucks you until you're right on the edge and then he fucks you on the sofa, maybe even the kitchen table. He's good at it, isn't he? He's got a lot of self-control, that one. He can probably fuck you for an hour, until you beg him to let you come."
He was glad he wasn't allowed to speak because he had no idea what he would have said to that. He tried to focus on the delicious things she was doing with internal muscles he hadn't been aware women even had -- he wasn't a gynecologist, after all -- but his mind was beginning to tinker with images of another sort altogether.
"This is getting you off, isn't it? Your cock is buried in me but you're thinking about him, about what it would be like to fuck him like this."
I'm not I'm not I'm not, John thought, but it was like the old saying about not thinking of an elephant: he couldn't not think it now, couldn't not see that image of Sherlock spread out beneath him while John pounded into him.
"He's good with his tongue, I'll bet. Does he lick your arsehole and fuck you with his tongue until you're gagging for it, until you'd do anything for more?"
John was vaguely aware that he was making truly embarrassing noises, but he didn't care. God, what she was doing to him. He'd had no idea words could do that.
"He likes to dominate you, doesn't he?" She punctuated her words with snaps of her hips and it was all threatening to send him over the edge. "Does he tie you up? Does he like to hurt you? Maybe you like to be hurt. Maybe you love feeling the burn the next day, the bruises under your clothes where no one can see."
Oh my God. His eyes flew open. He'd never even considered anything like that, but she made it sound sexy.
"Come on, John, fuck me. Come for me." She threw her head back and grasped the chair over his head with one hand while she rubbed at her clit with the other. She slammed her hips against him over and over and he could feel the moment she started to come, could feel her pulsing all around his cock.
She kept moving through it and her cries were loud enough to bring him back out of his head. He felt his own orgasm building just as she was starting to lose her rhythm and he thrust up into her, grabbing her hips to hold her in place.
"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck," and he was seeing stars behind eyelids squeezed shut. God it felt good to come into another body like this, to feel like he was connected and buried and grounded in another person. She collapsed against him when he stilled, both of them panting.
He felt her plant a gentle kiss on his lips just before she pulled off. He felt dizzy, but managed to open his eyes and grin lazily at her. She winked at him and plucked her knickers from the floor.
"Thanks for the party, boys. It was lovely." She dressed quickly and had Sherlock zip her into the red dress again. He looked a bit perplexed and struggled with the fastenings while she grinned at John and rolled her eyes. She planted a kiss on Sherlock's cheek before leaving and waved once more at John as she closed the door behind her.
John sank even further into the chair, still feeling tingly. "I need a few minutes. God, I can't feel my arms."
"Really?" The look on Sherlock's face was priceless.
John didn't know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him. "Do you have a column on that spreadsheet for dirty talk?"
"No."
"Add one." He closed his eyes. He could sleep right here.
"What did she say?" Sherlock asked after a full minute of silence.
"Ah… well." John bit his lip. He'd walked right into that one. "Just… things."
"What things?"
"Dirty things."
"You'll need to be a bit more specific."
John groaned. "Oh, for fuck's sake, can't something in all of this be private?"
Sherlock made a sound of frustration, but didn't reply. John could hear the pout all the way across the room.
"It was just, you know, fuck me just like that and your cock feels so good. That kind of thing. I barely remember the exact words." He didn't dare look at Sherlock; he always knew immediately when John was lying.
"I'll make a note of it," Sherlock said, though he didn't sound particularly convinced.
"Great. Thanks." He really wished he'd said nothing.
"Are you ready yet?" The tone was bordering on whinging.
John sighed and opened his eyes. He glanced over at Sherlock, who quickly looked away. John flushed: he was stark naked, sprawled in a chair, and still wearing a used condom. If that didn't meet the definition of awkward, he wasn't sure what did.
He dressed quickly and pulled his jacket on, already thinking about making a sandwich when they got home. Sherlock would probably bury himself in analyzing tonight's data and with luck John would be able to put those disturbing images out of his mind. It was harmless fantasy, and honestly, it wasn't as if he'd never thought about it before, back in the early days of their friendship. His mind just worked that way and he'd had to rely on masturbation fantasies for far too long. But the fact that he'd just had his dick in a beautiful woman and had spent a significant amount of of that encounter imaging it was in Sherlock instead -- well, that was not something he wanted to analyze anytime soon.
"Ready," he said, and followed Sherlock through the door.
At the top of the stairs Sherlock turned toward the bar, to John's surprise. He settled against it and spoke with the bartender, who returned a minute later with a pint of beer.
"What's this?" John asked as Sherlock gestured him closer.
Sherlock gave him an odd look. "A pint of Stella. I recall it's one of your favorites." He held out the glass.
"Oh. Thanks." John took the glass; he wasn't about to turn down a free drink. "We do have beer at home, you know."
"We're not going home just yet. Ah, I forgot to ask: would you say your refractory period is about half an hour?"
John nearly choked on the beer. "My what?"
"That's what I've assumed from observation of your masturbation habits, but I thought I should probably ask."
John was still gaping at him; it was another few seconds before he could manage to speak. "We're not done tonight?"
"No. I realized the pace of data collection could be increased significantly and I've made arrangements for another encounter in--" He paused to dig his phone from his trouser pocket. "--twenty-five minutes. Will that be enough time?"
"Oh my God," John replied, leaning back against the bar. He sucked down a fourth of the beer.
"If not, I can ask them to wait a bit. At least, I think I can."
At the moment the idea wasn't terribly appealing, he had to admit. He was satiated, sleepy, hungry, and honestly ready to be horizontal between his own sheets. On the other hand, it wasn't as if he had to do much but lie there while someone else did all the work. And Sherlock had apparently made an arrangement, so. So yeah.
"Okay," he said and raised his glass to his lips.
"Good," Sherlock replied as he slid an arm around John's waist and leaned into him.
Even though it was part of the cover, John couldn't help feeling a bit of alarm at the tingle that ran down his spine at that contact. This experiment was fucking with his sanity in ways he hadn't anticipated.
It was a good thing he could rely on Sherlock to be completely disinterested.
*****
[NOT the end of the chapter yet! → Part 2, continued]
Author: Emma Grant
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Sherlock, John/others
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John had fully expected it to get weird, perhaps even weirder than he could imagine. At least for now, he'd made up his mind to enjoy the ride.
Length: 10,000 words (this part)
Contains: [Highlight to view] OMG!het, casual sex, voyeurism, mild D/s, threesome, dirty talk, double penetration -- basically there's a lot of porn in multiple variations
Beta and Britpick:
freckles42Spoilers: Set sometime during series 2, pre-Reichenbach. Tiny spoilers for the first two episodes.
Notes: Based on my original outline I thought this fic would have 3 parts, but once I started writing this one I realized fairly quickly I had underestimated. So note that the chapter count has gone up. Also, though I'm intending there to be some redeeming character-driven plot in here somewhere, there's an awful lot of porn. ;-)
Read part 1: On LJ | On AO3 | On my website | On Skyehawke
Alternate link for this part: AO3
*****
"I was 12. Her name was Sonya. She was a year or two older than me. We were at a party at someone's house; I can't remember what the occasion was. I was sitting with some mates, all of us sharing one bottle of beer someone had nicked from their parents' fridge, and she just came right over to me. She told me to come with her and all my mates went oooooh or something, but I had no idea what was going on." John paused to take a swig from the beer bottle in his hand. "She led me to another room and closed the door. It was dark and I could barely see her. She pushed me back against the door -- she was a lot taller than me, but all the girls were at that age -- and she asked me if I'd ever kissed anyone. I don't even know if I managed to answer her; I was so surprised. And then she kissed me." He turned to where Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa. "That's it, really."
"What did you think at the time?"
John shrugged. "I remember being a bit grossed out at first, to be honest. I didn't realize until that moment that people used their tongues when they kissed."
"What did it make you feel?"
"Turned on after I got over the tongue thing. I got hard and I was terrified she would notice, and I kept pulling away from her. I think she thought I didn't like it. Eventually she stopped kissing me and left me there in the dark with a serious hard-on."
"Did you want to have sex with her?"
"Yes. Well, no, not really. I mean, I knew how sex worked -- theoretically, anyway -- but I was terrified of girls. I was perfectly happy to fantasize about them from afar for a while after that." He drained the beer and pushed to his feet, heading to the kitchen for another.
"Why were you afraid of girls?" Sherlock asked, his voice still timbred for someone sitting three feet from him.
John rolled his eyes as he rummaged for another beer in the fridge. Ah, the last bottle; he'd have to go get more. Of course, it was early yet, and as far as he knew, they were going out tonight. Which was why he was already drinking at this hour. He wasn't sure he could take the suspense sober.
He uncapped the bottle and crossed back to the chair, thinking about how to answer that question. "I don't know what I was afraid of. It seems bizarre now."
"It doesn't. Women are frightening enough as adults; as teenagers I imagine they'd be utterly terrifying."
John had no idea if Sherlock was joking or not. "I was 16 before I kissed another girl. It took me four entire years to work up the nerve."
"This is incredibly disappointing, I have to say."
John turned to stare at him. "Disappointing?"
"I'd imagined you had quite a sordid youth. It pains me to know I was so very wrong."
"You imagined I was shagging every girl in school by the age of 15 or something? Definitely not." John paused. "Wait, why would you think that?"
Sherlock didn't respond, instead staring at the ceiling.
"Did you talk to my school friends?"
"No. Should I?"
"They probably wouldn't remember me."
"I find it hard to believe anyone could forget you, John."
"I happen to be extremely forgettable. Just ask my string of ex-girlfriends." John paused to take a drink. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"When was your first kiss?" He let the assuming you've had one remain implied.
"This isn't about me. It's about you."
"I'm not asking to collect data. I'm asking because I'm interested."
"Why are you interested?"
"No idea. In fact, I'm becoming less interested by the second. Never mind." John picked at the label on the beer bottle, peeling the corners back slightly. Silence stretched between them for several minutes, and it was oddly pleasant. As infuriating a roommate as Sherlock could be, it was nice that they could sit in silence like this and just hang out.
Eventually Sherlock sat up and opened his laptop. John finished his beer to the light tapping of keys, trying to resist the urge to ask Sherlock what he was doing. He had a strong suspicion it had something to do with the experiment.
"Want to order take-away?" he asked at last. "I've a craving for Thai."
"Not hungry."
"Of course you aren't. But I'll get that curry you like, just in case you change your mind."
He stood and crossed to the door, plucking his coat from the chair he'd draped it over earlier. He glanced back once, but Sherlock was completely focused on the glow of the screen before him.
*****
"You need to get ready," Sherlock said as he emerged from his bedroom. John looked up from the telly to see him buttoning the cuffs of a dark blue shirt.
The fluttering that had finally eased in John's belly flared up again. "Are we leaving soon?"
"Now, in fact." Sherlock's eyes raked over him. "White shirt, tie, jeans, trainers, and a jacket. Nothing too fancy; casual is fine."
John swallowed. "All right. I'll just… okay." He fumbled for the remote and hit the power button, casting the room into near-darkness. He found his way to the stairs and up, through the door, and dug out clothes he thought would suffice. He changed quickly and finally turned to stare at himself in the mirror on the back of the door.
"What are you so nervous about?" he whispered as he knotted the tie. He was basically guaranteed to get laid, after all. Why be nervous about that?
*****
Neither of them spoke during the excruciatingly long taxi ride. John wasn't sure whether to be relieved or worried. They needed to talk about what was going to happen -- he'd made that much clear last night -- but Sherlock had shown no indication that they would discuss this at all. It wasn't until they were standing before the door of the club that John finally took Sherlock by the arm and pulled him aside.
"We need to talk."
Sherlock looked instantly annoyed. "I thought we discussed this last night."
"Honesty, remember? I need to know what…" John had to force himself to look Sherlock in the eye. "What you expect of me."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I don't understand."
"Right. So." John ran one hand through his hair and took a deep breath before continuing. "This is your experiment, so you're calling the shots. I'm fine with that, but if you have any… rules you want me to follow, now would be a good time to tell me."
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, as if considering, and then nodded. "I'll need you to follow my precise instructions at all times, without question. If you're uncomfortable with what you're being asked to do or with anything that's happening, use the safeword. Otherwise I'll assume you consent. Our cover is that we're a couple; you should behave accordingly, but don't overdo it. You don't get to pick your partners; that's my job. You also don't get to choose what they do to you and when. It's important for the purposes of data collection that you aren't aware what's coming next, so I won't explain anything, even if you ask."
"Okay." John swallowed; that was a bit more than he'd expected, certainly.
"And no touching," Sherlock continued. "They can touch you, but you will not touch them."
"Why not?"
Sherlock didn't answer, though. He opened the door of the club and indicated with a nod of his head for John to walk through it.
"I feel loads better now," John muttered. He forced a tight smile and walked through the door.
They made their way towards the bar again. John ordered a pint and drank a third of it in one go.
"I thought alcohol interfered with consent," Sherlock said softly, his mouth so close to John's right ear that he could feel warm breath against his skin.
"Are you kidding? I need a drink after all of that." He exhaled and scanned the room, though it was essentially pointless. Sherlock may as well have said no looking for all the good it did.
"Finish your drink and head downstairs, room five. I'll meet you there shortly." Sherlock headed out into the crowd, leaving John standing at the bar alone.
He downed his beer and decided to find a toilet on the way. He'd half-expected people to be having sex in the stalls, but all was quiet. He supposed there wasn't much need when there were private rooms for that purpose below.
He lost track of time in room number five. He couldn't get a signal on his phone and there was little else to do but sit and wait. This room was similar to the last one, though slightly smaller. The sofa was smaller and there was a chair by the door, almost as if it had been placed there precisely for someone to watch.
And Sherlock, apparently, liked to watch. That much seemed clear.
The door opened without so much as a knock, startling him to his feet. Sherlock closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, staring at John.
"Well?" John asked after several excruciating seconds of silence.
The corners of Sherlock's lips turned up very slightly, and just at that moment there was a knock on the door. He pushed off it and turned to open it.
The first thought that flashed through John's mind was of that one Britney Spears video he used to guiltily wank to while at university. The woman who now leaned against the door frame seemed to be going for exactly that naughty schoolgirl look, complete with blonde braids, a very short plaid skirt, long white socks up to her knees, and a shirt that was missing far too many buttons to be regulation. She gave him a smoldering look, handed Sherlock her purse -- the resulting expression of annoyance on his face was almost a distraction -- and walked straight across the room to drape her arms around John's shoulders.
Oh my God. This was just. God.
"I was playing Truth or Dare just now, and do you know what your boyfriend dared me to do?"
"Didge ah--" John began and then shook his head to clear it. "Ah, no. No idea."
She grinned and gave him a shove and he landed hard on the sofa. She straddled his knees and climbed into his lap, her short skirt riding up to reveal white cotton knickers underneath. She nestled into his lap, the warmth of her pussy pressing right into his cock, which strained up against several layers of fabric to say hello. She wriggled a bit, earning a whimper from John, and then grasped his tie in one hand and tugged him up towards her.
"He dared me to make you come from kissing alone. Do you think I can do it?"
He wanted to ask, Did he actually say it just like that? Because that was not a combination of words he could imagine coming out of Sherlock's mouth.
What he actually said was, "I think you probably can, yeah." A bit more breathlessly than he'd intended, but what the hell.
She leaned forward and brushed her lips across his, just the slightest touch, then leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "I'll cheat a bit, if it's all right with you." She shifted her hips ever so slightly, grinding against him, and he moaned.
Yes, this was definitely going to work.
Her lips brushed his again, open-mouthed, her breath laced with some sort of strawberry liqueur that made this entire thing seem even more naughty. They remained like that for a surprisingly long time, not really kissing, just breathing into each other while she rocked against him in a way he hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides; it was all he could do not to take control and pull her hard against him. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the sofa cushions, clearing his mind completely. No thinking. Just feeling. Only feeling.
The tip of her tongue brushed against his own and he sighed at that brief contact. Her tongue circled his before disappearing again and she began to kiss his mouth softly, tugging at his lips and running her tongue along the sensitive skin just inside. He tried to deepen the kiss, but she pulled away with a small laugh.
"You don't want it to be over that quickly, do you John?"
"No." It was more a whimper than a word.
After another minute of teasing she finally kissed him properly and his appreciation for her tongue increased ten-fold. He'd kissed girls who seemed more interested in inspecting his tonsils than anything else, but this woman was expertly fucking his mouth with nothing more than her tongue. She was pressing her cunt against his cock in tiny circles now, hitting a rhythm that was clearly more for her than for him. Not that he minded; any kind of friction was going to do the trick at this point.
She captured his tongue between her lips and sucked it lightly while swirling her tongue around the tip, and he moaned. God, what he wouldn't give to have that tongue somewhere else. He managed to catch her tongue then and flicked his own against hers while sucking; she whimpered and ground against him. Her expert kisses turned into open-mouthed groans and he was momentarily stunned by the intensity of it. He was dimly aware that she was coming, but all he could do was hang on for the ride.
Ride, he would later tell Sherlock, was quite the appropriate term.
She stopped moving just as he was on the verge of coming himself and he thrust up against her. She took the hint and started moving again, and pressed her forehead against his whispering encouragement. He didn't need it.
"Oh fuck oh god, that's… right there… fucking hell." Words left him for incoherent moans after that. She was still riding him after he was done, and then she came again -- something he frankly hadn't been sure was physically possible until that moment. She collapsed against him, both of them flushed and John sweating in that damn jacket.
He was fully clothed, for fuck's sake. How did that even happen?
He looked over her shoulder to grin at Sherlock, but instead saw that annoyance was emanating from him in waves that were practically visible to the naked eye. John sighed.
"That wasn't what was supposed to happen," Sherlock spat after their guest had collected her purse and left. He dropped onto the sofa beside John with very nearly a pout on his face. "I told her she could only kiss you. That entire experiment was a waste of time."
John ran a hand over his face. He still felt a bit fuzzy. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."
"Yes, well. You clearly enjoyed it."
"Jesus, Sherlock, I'm not even sure what you wanted to happen is possible, but seriously? I just had an orgasm fully clothed. I'm fairly certain she had two. That's damn amazing and definitely good enough for your spreadsheet."
"That's not the point."
John shook his head. "Of course not. Enlighten me here: what exactly is the point, if not to observe me having sex with various women and analyze… whatever it is you're analyzing?"
"It may just be sex for you, but it's science for me. This kind of data collection requires careful controls or the information is essentially worthless."
John smirked. "Ah, of course. I see the real problem now."
"Then enlighten me, won't you?"
"You can control me, but you can't control anyone else who walks through that door. It's just not possible. So you're going to have to find a way to deal with a certain amount of unpredictability in this experiment. And damn if I'm not going to enjoy watching that."
Sherlock shook his head. "That's completely perverse."
"Pot, kettle." John raised an eyebrow at him and was rewarded with a rude gesture. He laughed.
*****
Sherlock had hailed a cab while John was cleaning himself up in the toilet, and they rode in silence for the first half of the journey to Baker Street.
"Fifteen," Sherlock said at last, nearly startling John out of his own tangled thoughts.
"Sorry?"
"My first kiss."
"Oh." This was an interesting turn of events. "What happened?"
"It was at school. I'm fairly certain she did it on a dare. She never spoke to me again, at any rate."
"That bad at it, were you?" John quipped and immediately regretted it. "I mean, no, I didn't mean--"
"It was completely horrible all around. It put me off the entire idea for years."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
John's eyes narrowed. "But that implies something put you back on, doesn't it?"
Sherlock stared out the window and didn't reply. John watched the rhythmic flash of streetlamps across his face for nearly a minute before getting lost in his own thoughts again.
*****
John spent the afternoon out of the flat, only returning to Baker Street when it was too dark to ignore the fact that the day was over. Sherlock was on the sofa as always, staring at the screen of his laptop in minimal light.
"Are we going out?" John asked as he stripped off his jacket.
"Yes." He didn't look up, not that John expected him to do.
"Should I… I mean, is there anything you want me to… wear or…?" John closed his eyes for a full second. This was still fantastically awkward.
"Whatever you like is fine tonight. You'll be taking it all off as soon as we arrive, so it won't matter."
John gaped at him for a moment, but he still didn't look up. "All right then."
A drink was definitely in order. He rummaged through the small collection of liquor they'd amassed and ended up with something that was half vodka and half citrus soda. It was terrible, though; he gave up halfway through and drank a beer instead.
He watched telly for a couple of hours, losing himself in a Big Brother marathon. Ironic, that: for the first time he felt something like sympathy for the contestants and their predicament. He glanced over at Sherlock occasionally, but the man hadn't moved from the spot. John wondered when he'd eaten last.
He didn't ask when they were leaving -- there was no point. Sherlock would tell him when it was time, and John would blindly follow him into whatever sexual scenario he'd managed to set up. John had no idea how he was doing it, whether he had a plan and arranged everything in advance, or if there was just a loose set of parameters and Sherlock found someone suitable once they arrived. But really, it didn't matter: he trusted Sherlock in this. God help him.
*****
"So this club we've been going to -- it's a private club, isn't it?"
"It is," Sherlock replied, staring out the window of the cab.
"Pricey, I imagine?"
"Absolutely."
John frowned. "You didn't actually buy a membership to this club, did you?"
"Of course not. I borrowed one."
"Who did you--" John began and then grimaced. "Oh, don't tell me."
Sherlock's lips twisted into a smirk. "My brother's interests are rather diverse."
"God, I wish I hadn't asked," John said, turning to look out the window again for a moment. A thought occurred to him and he whipped his head back around. "When you say borrow, you mean you nicked it, right? Just like that all-access pass?"
"No. He hasn't forgiven me for that just yet. This time it was honestly borrowed."
"And you told him… what, exactly?"
Sherlock's phone buzzed and he pulled it from the pocket of his coat to glance at the screen. A smile traced his lips and he tapped out a text before putting the phone away again. "The truth, naturally."
John swallowed. "Which is?"
Sherlock's sigh was long-suffering. "That I am conducting a series of experiments about human sexuality, with your assistance."
John felt the blood drain from his face. "Fantastic."
"I'd expected him to refuse but he seemed rather pleased about it, actually. No idea why."
John only barely resisted the urge to bang his head against the taxi's window. Now Mycroft probably thought he and Sherlock were having kinky group sex, together, in a club Mycroft himself belonged to and -- oh God.
"Do you think he's spying on us?"
"Of course he is," Sherlock replied. He paused and turned to look at John. "Does that bother you?"
John snorted. "Oh no, not a bit. The idea of your brother knowing exactly how much sex I'm having and with whom is a bit of a turn-on, actually. Should we cut out the middle-man and invite him to join us?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but then looked thoughtful, to John's horror. "There is a more public space on a different level of the club. We could--"
"No," John said, a bit more sharply than he'd intended. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and John sighed. So that's where this was going. "Not yet, anyway."
Sherlock's expression smoothed out again and he nodded. For the fortieth time in the last few days, John wondered what the hell he was doing here.
*****
"Room seven," Sherlock said as soon as they entered the club. "Unless you need another drink first?"
"No, I'm good. Room seven."
It wasn't until he was standing inside the room and examining the furnishings -- two chairs facing each other, one armless -- that he realized it hadn't even occurred to him to ask Sherlock what he should expect tonight. Not that Sherlock would have told him, but still John had just blindly obeyed. That ought to worry him, but really, how was it any different than any other part of his life? John took charge when it seemed necessary, but quite a lot of the time he simply did what he was told, even when what he was being told made no sense.
And really, none of this made sense. Assuming things continued tonight as they had done, he would have had more sex in the last two days than he'd had in the last few years, and every bit of it had not only been arranged by Sherlock, but witnessed -- no thoroughly examined -- by him as well. That ought to have put John off, but somehow it didn't. He had fully expected it to get weird, perhaps even weirder than he could imagine, but for now he'd apparently made up his mind to enjoy the ride.
The door opened and a couple entered, laughing with arms twined around each other. It was a moment before John recognized one of them as Sherlock.
"And then he said, 'You want me to put it where?' and I--" The woman who was currently wrapped around Sherlock stopped abruptly and stared at John. "Well, now. Hello." Her eyes blazed.
He'd never before heard hello come out quite so clearly as please fuck me. She untangled herself from Sherlock and crossed to stand in front of John. Her hair was short and dark, her face heart-shaped, and her eyes a startling and unlikely shade of green. Shiny black boots with spiky heels covered her legs up to her thighs. She was dressed, or rather, squeezed into a red latex mini-dress that not only threatened to ride up over her arse but also barely contained her breasts. She was one abrupt move away from a massive wardrobe malfunction, and John was already half-hard.
He glanced at Sherlock, who had already dropped the drunk act and was settling into observation mode now that her attention was no longer focused on him.
She reached out and stroked one finger down John's cheek, then grasped his chin with her hand. "He's explained everything. Too bad about the no touching rule. I'd have loved to know what your tongue can do." She pressed her thumb between his lips and he did his best to show her just what she was missing. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment before opening again, now dark. Her lips were the same shade of red as the dress.
"Let's get started, shall we?" She took a few steps backward and without taking her eyes off John said, "Unzip me, will you, Sherlock?"
Sherlock looked momentarily stunned to John's delight, but then stepped forward and fumbled with a zipper at the nape of her neck. He drew it down slowly; whether this was because it was difficult or to draw out the suspense was unclear. She peeled the latex dress off slowly, revealing skimpy underthings made of red satin and black lace, and made a sound not unlike a purr as she stepped out of the dress. The combination of boots, lace, satin, and pale creamy skin was like something John had previously only paid to see online.
She walked back toward John and pressed one finger against his chest, pushing him backward into one of the chairs. She then sprawled into the other, hooking her knees over the chair's arms and spreading her thighs wide.
"Are you allowed to speak?" she asked, fingers sliding under the satin knickers to touch herself.
John flicked his eyes at Sherlock, who shook his head. John turned back to her and she laughed.
"He keeps a tight leash on you, doesn't he? I can't say I blame him." She sighed and let her eyes fall closed as her fingers circled under the knickers. John squirmed in his seat and clenched his hands into fists. She grinned and opened her eyes, leveling a heated look at him. "You show me yours and I'll show you mine." He frowned, uncertain for a moment, and she licked her lips. "Strip, John. Right now."
He sat up and pulled his jumper over his head, then unbuttoned the shirt underneath. He stood and unfastened his trousers and let them fall, realizing too late he should have toed his shoes off first. An awkward minute later he was standing before her clad in nothing but a pair of tented boxers.
"Those too," she said.
John exhaled shakily. He'd been naked in front of Sherlock before and Sherlock had seen him with an erection, but the number of times he'd stood in front of anyone both naked and aroused was very small. There was something about this moment that felt like crossing yet another line, and John found he couldn't take it lightly.
"From what I can see you've nothing to be embarrassed about," she said with a smile. "I'll even give you a sneak peek, if you like." She pulled the crotch of her knickers aside and pressed two fingers into her vagina, slowly.
John shucked the boxers as if they were on fire.
"Good boy. Sit now. And no touching yourself either."
He settled into the chair again and grasped the sides of the seat, digging his fingers into the worn leather. She slid her knickers down her thighs and let them dangle from one booted foot, then hooked her knees over the arms of the chair once again.
"Oh, if only you were allowed to speak," she said, sliding her fingers between her labia slowly. "You could tell me exactly what you want to see me do."
John shot a pleading glance at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes in response, damn him.
"No matter," she said, circling one fingertip around her clitoris. "I think we'll have fun anyway."
She stood then and crossed to the small table between their chairs. She rummaged inside the drawer for a condom, which she immediately ripped open. She dropped to her knees between John's thighs and reached for his cock. His eyes rolled back in his head when her fingers wrapped around the shaft and gave it a firm stroke. "Mmm, so eager. Is he always this sensitive, Sherlock?" Happily, there was no answer. She rolled the condom onto him and rose to straddle his thighs.
"Have you ever fucked a woman before, John?" He nodded emphatically and she laughed. "Of course. I see. He's gay and you're bi, so he brings you here to let you fuck women, but only the women he chooses for you. And then he dictates exactly what they can do to you, and you're not allowed to touch them back. In that way, it's really like he's the one fucking you, isn't it?"
John swallowed hard. He wanted to look at Sherlock, to see his reaction to that statement, but at that moment she grasped his chin with one hand and shook her head as if to say eyes on me from here on out. Her other hand was between her thighs, doing something he couldn't see, and the occasional brush of her wrist against his cock made him impossibly harder. God, he hoped she was planning to fuck him.
"Do you think I'm wet enough?" She pressed two slick fingers against his lips and he opened his mouth, groaning at the taste of her spreading across his tongue. He nodded, sucking her fingers, and God that was hot.
She shifted her hips forward and grasped the head of his cock and sank onto him, engulfing him in the heat of her body. He gasped and closed his eyes. It really had been a while, Jesus fuck.
She started moving then, angling her hips just so, and his hands went to her hips without thinking.
"John," he heard Sherlock say, and dropped them to his sides again. He gritted his teeth. This was going to be more difficult than he'd thought.
She grinned and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "Oh, you're a good little boy, aren't you? Is he like that at home, always wanting to be in control?"
He risked a glance at Sherlock to see his face was impassive, observing. He hadn't heard. John looked back to her and nodded.
"Do it again," she whispered. "Grab my arse."
He suppressed the urge to laugh: oh, she was a fun one. He grasped her hips again and pulled her down hard onto his prick, and they both gasped.
Once more, with feeling this time: "John." John dropped his hands again, but he was smiling.
"I don't know if he'll be able to resist," she said to Sherlock. "You might have to tie his hands to the chair."
John gasped and she laughed. "Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"
He had to admit the idea didn't sound unappealing.
She kept a smooth rhythm going with her hips and it was a gorgeous slow burn. He could feel her fingers stroking herself while she fucked him and he wished he could do it for her. He wondered what Sherlock would do if he tried it.
"You feel so fucking good," she whispered and he shuddered at the feeling of her lips against his ear. "You don't get to do this much, do you? I'll bet he doesn't even bottom for you. You love the feeling of his cock inside you, so you don't complain because he does this for you, finds you a girl who'll fuck you blind."
John wondered if she was just inferring this or if it was what Sherlock had told her. God, what if he had?
"I'll bet he gives fantastic head, though. He sucks you until you're right on the edge and then he fucks you on the sofa, maybe even the kitchen table. He's good at it, isn't he? He's got a lot of self-control, that one. He can probably fuck you for an hour, until you beg him to let you come."
He was glad he wasn't allowed to speak because he had no idea what he would have said to that. He tried to focus on the delicious things she was doing with internal muscles he hadn't been aware women even had -- he wasn't a gynecologist, after all -- but his mind was beginning to tinker with images of another sort altogether.
"This is getting you off, isn't it? Your cock is buried in me but you're thinking about him, about what it would be like to fuck him like this."
I'm not I'm not I'm not, John thought, but it was like the old saying about not thinking of an elephant: he couldn't not think it now, couldn't not see that image of Sherlock spread out beneath him while John pounded into him.
"He's good with his tongue, I'll bet. Does he lick your arsehole and fuck you with his tongue until you're gagging for it, until you'd do anything for more?"
John was vaguely aware that he was making truly embarrassing noises, but he didn't care. God, what she was doing to him. He'd had no idea words could do that.
"He likes to dominate you, doesn't he?" She punctuated her words with snaps of her hips and it was all threatening to send him over the edge. "Does he tie you up? Does he like to hurt you? Maybe you like to be hurt. Maybe you love feeling the burn the next day, the bruises under your clothes where no one can see."
Oh my God. His eyes flew open. He'd never even considered anything like that, but she made it sound sexy.
"Come on, John, fuck me. Come for me." She threw her head back and grasped the chair over his head with one hand while she rubbed at her clit with the other. She slammed her hips against him over and over and he could feel the moment she started to come, could feel her pulsing all around his cock.
She kept moving through it and her cries were loud enough to bring him back out of his head. He felt his own orgasm building just as she was starting to lose her rhythm and he thrust up into her, grabbing her hips to hold her in place.
"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck," and he was seeing stars behind eyelids squeezed shut. God it felt good to come into another body like this, to feel like he was connected and buried and grounded in another person. She collapsed against him when he stilled, both of them panting.
He felt her plant a gentle kiss on his lips just before she pulled off. He felt dizzy, but managed to open his eyes and grin lazily at her. She winked at him and plucked her knickers from the floor.
"Thanks for the party, boys. It was lovely." She dressed quickly and had Sherlock zip her into the red dress again. He looked a bit perplexed and struggled with the fastenings while she grinned at John and rolled her eyes. She planted a kiss on Sherlock's cheek before leaving and waved once more at John as she closed the door behind her.
John sank even further into the chair, still feeling tingly. "I need a few minutes. God, I can't feel my arms."
"Really?" The look on Sherlock's face was priceless.
John didn't know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him. "Do you have a column on that spreadsheet for dirty talk?"
"No."
"Add one." He closed his eyes. He could sleep right here.
"What did she say?" Sherlock asked after a full minute of silence.
"Ah… well." John bit his lip. He'd walked right into that one. "Just… things."
"What things?"
"Dirty things."
"You'll need to be a bit more specific."
John groaned. "Oh, for fuck's sake, can't something in all of this be private?"
Sherlock made a sound of frustration, but didn't reply. John could hear the pout all the way across the room.
"It was just, you know, fuck me just like that and your cock feels so good. That kind of thing. I barely remember the exact words." He didn't dare look at Sherlock; he always knew immediately when John was lying.
"I'll make a note of it," Sherlock said, though he didn't sound particularly convinced.
"Great. Thanks." He really wished he'd said nothing.
"Are you ready yet?" The tone was bordering on whinging.
John sighed and opened his eyes. He glanced over at Sherlock, who quickly looked away. John flushed: he was stark naked, sprawled in a chair, and still wearing a used condom. If that didn't meet the definition of awkward, he wasn't sure what did.
He dressed quickly and pulled his jacket on, already thinking about making a sandwich when they got home. Sherlock would probably bury himself in analyzing tonight's data and with luck John would be able to put those disturbing images out of his mind. It was harmless fantasy, and honestly, it wasn't as if he'd never thought about it before, back in the early days of their friendship. His mind just worked that way and he'd had to rely on masturbation fantasies for far too long. But the fact that he'd just had his dick in a beautiful woman and had spent a significant amount of of that encounter imaging it was in Sherlock instead -- well, that was not something he wanted to analyze anytime soon.
"Ready," he said, and followed Sherlock through the door.
At the top of the stairs Sherlock turned toward the bar, to John's surprise. He settled against it and spoke with the bartender, who returned a minute later with a pint of beer.
"What's this?" John asked as Sherlock gestured him closer.
Sherlock gave him an odd look. "A pint of Stella. I recall it's one of your favorites." He held out the glass.
"Oh. Thanks." John took the glass; he wasn't about to turn down a free drink. "We do have beer at home, you know."
"We're not going home just yet. Ah, I forgot to ask: would you say your refractory period is about half an hour?"
John nearly choked on the beer. "My what?"
"That's what I've assumed from observation of your masturbation habits, but I thought I should probably ask."
John was still gaping at him; it was another few seconds before he could manage to speak. "We're not done tonight?"
"No. I realized the pace of data collection could be increased significantly and I've made arrangements for another encounter in--" He paused to dig his phone from his trouser pocket. "--twenty-five minutes. Will that be enough time?"
"Oh my God," John replied, leaning back against the bar. He sucked down a fourth of the beer.
"If not, I can ask them to wait a bit. At least, I think I can."
At the moment the idea wasn't terribly appealing, he had to admit. He was satiated, sleepy, hungry, and honestly ready to be horizontal between his own sheets. On the other hand, it wasn't as if he had to do much but lie there while someone else did all the work. And Sherlock had apparently made an arrangement, so. So yeah.
"Okay," he said and raised his glass to his lips.
"Good," Sherlock replied as he slid an arm around John's waist and leaned into him.
Even though it was part of the cover, John couldn't help feeling a bit of alarm at the tingle that ran down his spine at that contact. This experiment was fucking with his sanity in ways he hadn't anticipated.
It was a good thing he could rely on Sherlock to be completely disinterested.
*****
[NOT the end of the chapter yet! → Part 2, continued]
