If I Say No

Part 21

Sherlock's skin was milky white, untouched by even the slightest hint of sun. The hair on his legs was barely noticeable, the feet looking awkwardly large on a man so thin, a man so quiet on his feet, he rivaled a cat. There was a flush on his perfect cheeks, his untamed curls dancing into his eyebrows, the blue eyes transfixed with some desperate, fragile, shy look. His arms lay across his midsection, obscuring what John most wanted to see, his breathing effortless but rapid, pupils widening, slowly obscuring those china blue eyes. He was trembling all over, but whether from cold or nerves John couldn't hope to tell (particularly when he was this aroused). There was a slight rippling of muscles beneath the deceptively thin arms and scrawny legs, and John licked his lips upon seeing the man's all-too-evident hidden strength.

The army doctor inhaled a sharp breath, feeling it paralyze his lungs like the freezing, bitter air of London's damp, arctic winter. He slowly got on the bed, his army tags scraping against each other with a soft, merry sound. "Spread your legs, Sherlock," he put his hands on Sherlock's knees, coaxing them apart when their owner was hesitant to comply, his voice hoarse and deep and husky.

Sherlock blushed even harder until his face was all pink and bothered when he was exposed; cock hard, long arms flailing for a spot, stomach already settling into a slightly concave position. He seemed to be shedding calories like layers, just from being so nervous. John chuckled as Sherlock moaned, already leaking pre-cum. "Don't be so tense, love," John slowly ran a hand from Sherlock's waist to around his jutting hipbones, up his sides to his ribs, which were nicely hidden beneath a thin layer of fat and skin. It wasn't nearly enough, no, but Sherlock was getting there, getting better. If being horribly slow at it. "You're beautiful."

Sherlock's breathing became ragged, innocent, little whimpers escaping him, shivering and tensing as John slowly dragged his fingers back towards his waist, down his thigh. "Now you know—how fat—I am. No need—to eat—any more." Sherlock gave a sharp yip like a pleading dog as John teased his cock with warm, calloused fingers, his neck curving backwards, eyes flowing closed, hands clenching the bedclothes.

John was smiling all the while, marveling at how Sherlock's writhing was making him harder and harder. He was so aroused, he wondered how he was even seeing anymore—his pupils must have been blown so wide that his eyes were black as pitch. Moving with instinct alone, he thrust his cock forward so that it touched Sherlock's. There was a moan from both of them, and a sigh of pleasure from the detective. John crawled up Sherlock's body, now prostrate on the bed, groaning as their cocks touched on his way up. He was now positioned above Sherlock, and with one trembling hand, he cupped behind Sherlock's neck and brought the man up slightly, Sherlock following his pull obediently until the strain of sitting up halfway without proper support made his form tremble. John brushed his lips over Sherlock's forehead, using his nose to peel away errant curls. "You are beautiful," he repeated. "Not fat at all. In fact," and he let Sherlock fall back towards the sheets with a grunt, diving down to follow those perfect, rose-colored lips. The window in Sherlock's room had a perfect view of the setting sun, which, had you been standing at their bedside, backlit the lovers to create a perfect film scene.

John kissed Sherlock, starting tender, but quickly growing insistent, their tongues already tasting each other, wrestling for dominance in the small space between their joined lips. Sherlock was compliant, simply happy to be kissed, his arms wrapped around John's shoulder blades, pulling him closer. But he wanted the carnal passion now, his instinct wild. No wonder he kept it restrained. Before John could pull away from his lips and take control again, Sherlock wrapped his violinist's fingers around John's cock and held gently, but firmly. Sherlock's fingers were like ice and John cried out, pulling away from Sherlock's lips with a displeasing suddenness, before he descended to Sherlock's neck and bit down hard. Sherlock moaned, but held on, tugging John's cock insistently down, closer to his own.

John, bless the man, understood, and let go of his bulldog grip on Sherlock's neck. Once their cocks were close enough, Sherlock pressed them together and began to rub them against each other, the friction between then marvelous. Sherlock groaned and bit his lower lip, neck thrusting back with each rub. John, pulled by Sherlock's hand, rode into his lover, moaning as he grabbed Sherlock's thighs for leverage. More experienced in sex, John began to thrust forward into the other man's cock, making Sherlock cry out in pleasure, his eyes squeezing shut. John had to capture those lips, bite at that neck. There hadn't been nearly enough foreplay for his liking. But Sherlock's cold hands (quickly being warmed by body heat) and the feel of cock against cock—the sort of sex that John's body told him felt right—made him close to a climax.

"Nngh, Sherlock," he groaned, chomping down on his lower lip.

"Mmm?" Sherlock's curls were damp with sweat, and one naughty one was plastered to his forehead, creating a little teasing swirl of black against the marble white. His eyes opened, but were glazed with lust, the pupils dilated so much, they almost obscured the pretty blue.

"I'm—close," John moaned.

Sherlock grunted an assent and thrust up into John's cock as John thrust forward. That made John's load come out in a messy white squirt. Sherlock released their cocks, panting, trying to get his bearings. But he ached to be relieved as well, to be pleasured as well as to give pleasure. John, tired but not exhausted (sex on a full stomach gave him more than enough energy to keep sex going for several hours—though he doubted his partner had as much stamina), crawled up Sherlock's body, his limp cock brushing against Sherlock's, making the detective yip again. John licked his lips.

"What a delicious noise," he purred, sliding down until he was lying almost flat on op of Sherlock, his breath tickling the pale expanse of neck. "You're so beautiful," he mused, finding that his word of the encounter. "Like an angel…so unreal…" The army doctor nibbled teasingly on Sherlock's neck, worrying the Adam's apple. Sherlock swallowed nervously, his breath coming is quicker huffs, as if he's just sprinted ten miles. John bit down on the side of his neck and Sherlock cried out, his voice cracking with pleasure, though afterwards, he managed a disdainful snort.

"Hardly. I'm far from perfect. Far from being enough to please you."

John lifted his head, watching Sherlock, who was slowly losing is arousal, losing pleasure, losing his will to heal, refusing stubbornly the love he was being shown. John felt so sorry for him that he kissed him. And this time, the kiss was sorrowful, tender, gentle. Sherlock took control of it more, but kept it tame. When they pulled apart, John pushed the naughty curl out of the way.

"You are perfect." He affirmed, smiling lazily.

Sherlock looked away, blinking back a tear. "You implied before that I wasn't heavy enough to please you." He looked back. "I never will be." His eyes were so sad that John's heart felt like it'd been torn to bits by a rabid animal or devoured by a hungry fire.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," John purred, taking Sherlock's cock firmly in hand, making his lover gasp. "I meant that you can afford to hide these ridiculous hip bones, and cushion your ribs a bit more." And John proceeded to wank Sherlock. "You are insufferable the way you torture yourself. You don't know you're beautiful. I'll make you see—"

But Sherlock thrust into his hand twice quickly, cutting John off. "No more—of that," Sherlock huffed, and John was glad to see the pupils blown wide again, the face flushed with arousal. "Shut up—and drive," and he thrust into John's palm again and again to, if you'll excuse the pun, drive the point home. John rubbed him a little faster, with Sherlock thrusting in good rhythm, until the detective came in a messy little spurt of white sperm.

John crawled up to rest beside Sherlock, latching onto his lover's energy—or lack thereof, in this case. Sherlock's breathing was heavier than was normal, his chest heaving, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. John tutted, smoothing a hand through the detective's damp hair. "I think I worked you too hard," he mused, examining Sherlock's trembling, weak body. "It was too much for your malnourished body to handle."

"My transport is fine," Sherlock panted, "and I—I am weary with bliss!" As if to prove it, he leaned over and kissed John until he had to pull away to catch his breath. "I've never felt better," he declared brightly, voice low and breathy.

John kissed his shoulder, delighted at the shiver that resulted. "I'm glad." He wriggled until he could get the duvet out from under them and then draped it over their naked bodies. Sherlock drew John close to his chest, letting the army doctor rest his head, the army tags silent and cool between them.

For the first time in his life (outside of his prowess in crime-solving), Sherlock felt appreciated, needed, important. Loved.

And it was not a feeling he was going to forfeit anytime soon.

Yayyy my first porn! I feel like it sort of sucks…sorry!

Unfortunately, I start school very soon, so I suspect my work will be neglected. Boo. But who knows? Maybe I'll get some downtime. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my first porn! More to follow, I'm sure.-SH