This Play Between the Sheets
One fine evening – after a marvelous case involving an exhilarating chase through half of London, ending with a takedown of the criminal involving karate Sherlock had learned when he was nine and a well-timed punch from John – Sherlock and John left the Yard giggling like schoolboys. It had started to drizzle as soon as they stepped outside and they both looked up in annoyance and surprise before looking at each other. Sherlock smiled. There were those odd wrinkles around his eyes and his lips did the funny thing they were wont to do and there were glittering raindrops in his hair and he crunched up his nose in such an adorable way- everything was how it was every time between them.
And John thought how gorgeous Sherlock looked and how happy and content he felt in this exact moment and somehow it dawned on him how tired he was of fighting this (not so strange anymore) admiration he felt for his friend. And he thought: “Oh, what the hell!” and grabbed Sherlock by the upturned collar of his coat and kissed him. Sherlock tasted like rain and fire - sneaking those damn cigarettes again, John thought angrily - sugar and spice, anger and fear and he kissed John back without hesitation. Without haste. Slow and sweet and sensual.
“So you finally arrived at the conclusion that my gender doesn't matter?” Sherlock asked huskily, pulling away only slightly, as if worried that if he detached himself from John he would break the spell. “It took you long enough”, he said softly when John nodded, gripping him tighter.
“It's fine. It's all fine.”
“I know it's fine”, Sherlock answered with an amused smile. “But I'm happy that now you know it now, too.”
A blonde eyebrow arched playfully “Only 'happy'?”
“Take me to bed and I'll show you how happy I really am”, Sherlock replied and John was only too happy to oblige him.
Not much changed between the two of them. They still got mad at each other, Sherlock still stocked their fridge with awful things and John still threw out Sherlock’s smellier experiments. They still shouted at each other at the top of their lungs but now... there was always the possibility of make up sex, tantalizing at the end of their arguments.
John was a skilled, generous, and caring lover and while Sherlock wasn’t nearly as experienced as John, what he lacked in skill he more than made up with in dedication and enthusiasm and his endless curiosity. He was beautifully responsive to John's touch and never tired of exploring new ways to make John moan and sigh.
But, as the weeks wore on, there started to be something…wrong. John couldn’t put his finger on it. Couldn’t define exactly what was off, but he knew there was something missing. Not for him, thanks. He was with the man he’d been pining over for months, was having sex on a regular basis, and was arse over tits in love. He was satisfied. More than satisfied.
He wasn’t so sure about Sherlock, though.
Sherlock still reached for him. Seemed to enjoy everything they did together. Except…it seemed like…he didn’t enjoy it as much as John did. He never said anything, never complained or asked for something different. And John was afraid to bring it up in case he was wrong and this was just the way Sherlock was and he made Sherlock feel self-conscious. Or worse: a shrug and an explanation that John was boring and the ending of their relationship.
So John kept his mouth shut, doubled his efforts in bed, and tried to ignore the sometimes lukewarm response in return where once it had been scalding.
But after they’d fucked, when they were settled in each other’s arms, heartbeats slowly returning to normal, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach wouldn’t let John rest.
When Sherlock finally addressed it one morning over breakfast, John was not completely surprised but nevertheless unprepared.
“It’s got nothing to do with you,” Sherlock said, folding the newspaper neatly before laying it on the table and giving John a piercing look over the kippers.
“What’s got nothing to do with me?”
“My decreasing enthusiasm when we have sex.”
That hurt. Not that he hadn’t been expecting it, but hearing it stated so matter-of-factly…it stung.
“Well…that’s…” John didn’t know how to respond. How did one respond when one’s boyfriend decided to break up with them over breakfast because their sex life was shit? “I guess-“
“I saw that you were worrying about it and it’s completely unnecessary.” Sherlock explained. “So I decided to tell you that it’s not your fault. I love you and the sex is nice.”
“Nice?” John asked incredulously. “Jesus Christ! That bad?”
“No, of course not. It’s not bad, John. I thought I just told you exactly that. It’s nice. I enjoy it. We can continue doing it.”
“That’s not exactly a sterling endorsement, Sherlock.” John said sarcastically. “I was only worried you’ll grow bored with me. But now I have to worry about ‘nice’ sex too.”
“What’s wrong with nice?”
“Sherlock… a… a massage is nice. A young girl is nice. A cup of tea can be nice.” John ran his fingers through his hair, tearing at it a bit. “But sex… sex should be… mind blowing! Thrilling! Overwhelming! Not…not nice.”
“I see.” Sherlock clearly didn’t and John watched him fuss with the newspaper, folding it and smoothing out the wrinkles for almost a full minute - until John couldn’t take it anymore.
“Sherlock, this is serious.”
Sherlock sighed softly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter! It matters to me - I want you to be…satisfied.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything”, Sherlock mumbled and continued on fidgeting, but John snatched the paper from his hand.
“It used to be mind blowing,” He insisted, feeling as if he was grasping at straws. He was losing Sherlock and he really didn’t want to. “You know that, too. It was. In the beginning. I want to know what changed. Are you bored of it already? Bored of… me?” He asked haltingly, voicing his greatest fear.
Sherlock blinked. “No. John - that’s…no. Of course I’m not bored of you. Not… exactly. It’s just… that I…I used to fantasize about… some things… before you… before we… you see? When I masturbated… I imagined certain… scenes…” Sherlock bit his lip, hesitating, then looked up again, focusing his eyes on John’s face with steely determination. “I love you, John. I really do. And I thought it was something I wouldn’t need. That the fantasy would be enough. That it wouldn’t be something I needed anymore once I have you. Once you… loved me back. But…” He hesitated again and John leaned forward, not daring to breathe. “But… it looks like…maybe I do need…”
“Tell me,” John begged. “I promise I won’t laugh or… be disgusted. Perhaps it’s something I would enjoy, too? Hmm? You’ll never know. Not unless you tell me.” John meant it. He would be willing to wear fishnets and call Sherlock “daddy” if it meant Sherlock was happy and fulfilled and wanted to be with him.
Sherlock looked at their intertwined fingers and took a deep breath. “First of all, I want you to know that I never experienced it in reality. I only ever fantasized about it.”
“Okay. That’s…fine.” John said, only because it seemed Sherlock was waiting on some sort of reply.
“It’s about… humiliation.” Sherlock’s ears turned an interesting shade of pink and he swallowed nervously. “I want you to…humiliate me. To be precise: I want you to humiliate me verbally because of the size of my penis.”
John didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Bondage, perhaps. Or maybe a good old spanking session. Or women’s underwear. Weird roleplaying involving a visit to the Headmaster’s office as the notorious naught student. He hadn’t anticipated something like this.
And it wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed the size of Sherlock’s penis. Of course he had. Sherlock wasn’t very well-endowed. If John were being completely honest, Sherlock’s penis was small. Not small as in small-small… it was just smaller than the average. Definitely smaller than John’s.
Sherlock wasn’t shy about it, though. The first time he and John had seen each other naked, Sherlock had shed his clothes without hesitation and never once covered his genitals or seemed uncomfortable or embarrassed by their size difference. John had glanced briefly at Sherlock’s small erection, had fallen instantly in love with it, and had grabbed the lanky git to press a bruising kiss on his sinful lips.
What Sherlock was asking him to do…John couldn’t.
“No…Sherlock, I can’t-“
Sherlock’s face fell immediately and John could see his shields slamming into place. “As I said before… it’s not important. Forget about it,” He said in a carefully unaffected manner, but it was obvious he was hurt.
John felt very cold at Sherlock’s carefully unaffected manner because there was no denying: Sherlock was more than a little bit crestfallen although he tried to hide it. John knew him well enough to see through the false bravado. Sherlock had opened up about something deeply personal, placed his trust in John and John had stomped on it. There was no other way to put it. Stomped. Like a stupid, idiotic elephant.
‘Well done, John! Well done!’ John scolded himself internally. He’d fucked this up good and proper. Sherlock would never trust him again.
When Sherlock started to draw his hand back, John panicked.
“No! Not…no… but…,” John rambled, completely at a loss. “I just…I don’t know if I can do that. To you.”
“Well…I mean… you know that… your prick… is not overly… large.”
“It is small. I have a small cock. There is no need to sugarcoat it. So?”
“So?” John echoed disbelievingly. “That’s…” He shook his head. “I’d be pissed if someone made fun of my cock and I can’t… I just can’t… your prick is small. I can’t humiliate you because of it.”
“Because it won’t be play acting! It will be real. It is…”
“But it won’t be real,” Sherlock interrupted. “You don’t think my cock is ugly or disgusting.” He suddenly looked vulnerable. “Do you?”
“Of course not!” John said heatedly.
“Therefore it will still be play acting, as you so eloquently put it.”
“You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me!” Sherlock snarled. “I want you to humiliate me because of the size of my cock. I am asking for it! I’ve explained to you that it’s a kink of mine. What is the problem?”
“I can’t…” John sighed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“And you fear… that it will hurt me… if you… say unpleasant things about the size of my penis?” Sherlock asked and crunched his nose in an adorable way that never failed to put a smile on John’s lips. This time was no exception. “Even if I ask for it?”
“Now you got it,” John confirmed with a nod. “Fantasies are different from reality, sweetheart.” He explained gently, rubbing his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s eyes dropped to watch the movement and his pupils dilated. “Trust me. You’ve never experienced that before but…what you think you may like in your head is sometimes really different when you actually get it. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Hmmm…” Sherlock fell silent and John was relieved to find that he was really thinking about what he’d said and not dismissing it as irrelevant. “Well,” Sherlock continued after a while, “perhaps you’re right. I don’t think that it would hurt me emotionally, because I’m not ashamed of my penis… but I can’t know for sure. You saying those sorts of things to me…it’s like you said. In my head, when I fantasize about it…I enjoy it.” Another deep blush covered his cheek and John restrained the urge to kiss it away. “But actually hearing you say those things…We should at least try it once. Please?”
John could never deny Sherlock anything. He just hoped he didn’t end up with a lapful of crying detective. “Okay,” he agreed. “We’ll try it and see what happens. But if you don’t like it, we’ll stop.”
“Thank you, John,” Sherlock told him solemnly and brushed a kiss on his knuckles.
It was roughly a week later when John and Sherlock were celebrating the solution of a minor case ("It was the gardener! I should have seen this 3 hours ago!") with a nice blowjob in bed. John was lying between Sherlock's legs, licking with a broad tongue over Sherlock’s interested - but so far only half hard - cock... from root to glans and back again. Sherlock was moaning every now and then and without thinking John said: "You like it, when I lick your little prick, don't you?"
Sherlock gasped and within a fraction of a second went from half hard to rock as a diamond in John's hand.
To say that John was stunned would have been the understatement of the week - and that included being surprised by a respected Nobel Prize winner turned gardener turned axe murderer. He replayed what he’d said and -
Oh. 'Little prick' Well... if that was the reaction he got for two little bits degrading words... perhaps it would be worth it to experiment. Test the waters and observe what would happen, as it were.
John licked his lips and realized that Sherlock was watching his every move with wide eyes, practically hanging on his lips as if his life depends on it. It was hot as hell seeing his lover in this state. John gave himself a mental shove and searched his brain for something to say.
"I probably won't need to suck you properly... a few licks with the tip of my tongue will be more than enough for your tiny prick... "
The result was quite satisfying. Sherlock gave a long, throaty moan and let his head fall back on the pillows. His legs spread, inviting.
"Look at you..." John gave Sherlock’s cock the promised lick, kissing it wetly. "Spreading your legs like a wanton slut... like a bitch in heat... with your tiny stiffy on display... why are you showing it off? There's not much to look at. Looks like some stiff nub, not like a proper stiffy. Reminds me more of a swollen clitoris. Is this what you have, hm? An over eager clit? What shall we call it? What shall we call your tiny nub, hm? Man-clit? Clit-cock? Peen-clit? I think we'll stay with man-clit. I like the sound of it. Man-clit...” drawled John.
Internally he cringed a little bit at the filth that came form his mouth almost without thinking, but one look at Sherlock was enough. His pale skin was flushed and his strong fingers were clawing at the bedding, his eyes closed, an expression of pure bliss on his face and his cock - John gave it another teasing lick - was harder than ever.
John caressed it slowly, using only his fingertips. A first drop of precome oozed sluggishly from the tip and John rubbed it over the glans with his thumb. Another moan filled the room and John continued to rub over the little slit with his thumb, spreading the now steady flow of precome on the whole glans. He heard Sherlock's deep moans, felt the soft pulsing of the hot flesh and thought: 'Let's see if I can make him come with just my words.'
“I'm curious, Sherlock... can you even take a proper piss with this thing? Considering the size – or better – the smallness of your... equipment... I guess you need to sit down to have a little wee. Do you sit down to have a wee-wee with your little weenie?”
“Oh, gooood...,” Sherlock groaned, biting his lip, breath coming in short gasps. His hands tugged at the sheets, his cheeks a deep red... to just watching him coming slowly undone was more arousing than anything John had ever experienced in his whole life.
“That's not an answer, Sherlock,” John told him as stern as he was capable of. His former hesitation and concerns were completely gone. There was no doubt – Sherlock was getting off on the dirty talk and the debasing descriptions of his cock. “How do you make wee-wee with your little willy, hm?”
“I... I urinate whi-while st-standing...,” Sherlock stammered. His hips were bucking, but his legs still didn't tremble and shake. 'Time to up the stakes' John thought.
“Oh no, my dear,” he scolded playfully. “No big words for such a tiny, ridiculous appendage. “Say: I make wee-wee with my little weenie...”
For a few frightening moments John thought he went too far, but then Sherlock's legs started to tremble and his cock started to pulse in John's hand.
“None of that, mister!” He grabbed Sherlock's sensitive, drawn up balls and tugged non-too-gently. Sherlock cried out, but his erection stayed hard. “Speak after me: My little willy makes wee-wee.”
Sherlock was in heaven.
There were simply no other words for it. He must have died and gone to heaven. Surely to some kind of sick, twisted heaven, but heaven nevertheless.
John was born for this. He was a natural. He pushed all of Sherlock's buttons without knowing them completely. It was like magic. But John always surprised him and this was no exception. Sherlock should by now have gotten used to it, being surprised by John, but John was a never-ending enigma for him.
That made him for Sherlock invaluable, indispensable and irresistible. John was simply the love of his life.
And now this – a perfect act of the most wonderful humiliation! Arousal cursed thick and heavy through Sherlock’s whole body and he was sure he looked like he felt: a complete and utter mess. But that wasn't important. It was only important to hear more of those degrading, filthy, and absolutely erotic words from John's usually kind lips. The humiliation and the embarrassment were sweeter than Sherlock had ever imagined. Not even his wildest, darkest dreams came close to this. His cheeks were aflame, but so was his cock. He couldn’t remember ever being this hard, this desperate and aroused. Words failed to describe how much he enjoyed this treatment from his lover. He knew how uncomfortable John had been with his suggestion and it was such a gift that John now – after all – overcame his initial discomfort.
Sherlock really was the luckiest man on earth.
John's last words... they had been so unexpected. Sherlock had never thought of it in all his fantasies he had ever created for his masturbatory pleasures. To incorporate him into the scene! To make him part of his own debasing! To make him a tool in his own humiliation! John was a genius!
The words played on endless repeat in Sherlock's head. 'My little willy makes wee-wee...My little willy makes... My little willy...'
It was brilliant.
It was dirty, sick and twisted and so, so wrong and exactly what Sherlock needed.
A wave of dark, disturbing shame rolled through his body, inflaming his senses, ensnaring his mind, paving the way for a impervious cloud of desperate, wanton lust that left him restless and whimpering.
“My... my little... my little willy... makes... it makes... w-wee-wee,” Sherlock stuttered with difficulty, stumbling over the words even while his legs trembling, cock swelling a little bit more. Inexplicably, there were also tears in his eyes which hadn’t gone past John’s notice and he reached for Sherlock, tenderly wiping the moisture away.
“Don't...” Sherlock gasped, voice broken. “Please, don’t stop. It’s…it’s nothing just…please, John. Don’t…stop!”
“You want me to... continue?” John was uneasy. Sherlock was crying. It didn’t matter that his cock was hard, that he was aroused. He was still crying and that…that wasn’t right.
“God, yes!” Sherlock shuddered, sniffling. “It's perfect…I’m just…the emotions…you’re not…you’re not hurting me. I’m fine. There’s just…” He shook his head, the explanation he needed entirely failing to formulate. “It’s…good.”
“You’re sure?” John had to be sure. He didn’t want to do anything to hurt Sherlock. Not ever.
“Right.” John glanced down at Sherlock’s cock which had gone a bit soft during their conversation. “Okay.” He gave Sherlock a toothy grin. “Now... shall I wank your teeny-weeny dick?” He asked with false innocence. Sherlock gasped and bucked his hips in a wordless plea. His cock surged into full hardness again. “Well...” John tilted his head, considering his options. “I don't know...”
John ignored him. “But... when I think about it... one can't wank a tiny willy like yours. Can they? It's only a man-clit after all. And what do you do with a clit? You simply rub it.” John paused. “Shall I do that, Sherlock? Shall I rub your dicklet like I would rub a clit? Shall I rub your man-clit?”
Sherlock whimpered, squirming on the sheets, begging for attention. But John didn’t touch him. He wanted an answer.
“Say it, Sherlock. What do you want me to do?”
“R-rub my... my man... my man-clit, please,” Sherlock mumbled obediently, bucking his hips helplessly. The blush on his pale skin had spread to his chest and his nipples were deliciously small, hard pebbles.
“Good boy.” John reached down and held Sherlock’s throbbing erection loosely between his right middle and index fingers, thumb caressing just beneath the head of Sherlock’s cock. “Your little dicklet is even wet like a real clit.” John teased. His own cock was achingly hard and pulsing in sympathy with every tiny, greedy thrust of Sherlock’s hips as he clearly tried to get more pressure on his glans than the featherlight, nowhere near enough touches John was granting him.
John played with Sherlock like that for what felt like an eternity, whispering the most wonderfully humiliating filth in Sherlock’s ears. Touching and rubbing the sensitive tip of Sherlock’s cock, edging him on and on, never giving him a moment’s rest. And when John thought Sherlock was getting too close, he’d tug at Sherlock’s balls to keep him denied.
It was exquisite.
John’s fingers fully closed around Sherlock’s tiny dicklet - the most stimulation he’d gotten in the last half hour - and Sherlock nearly came – but again – was saved just in time by his clever John, who always guessed correctly when he was about to have the most intense orgasm of his life. Sherlock sobbed, knotting his fingers in the bed sheets, his body beyond his control, burned away by his desperate need. Being denied and denied and denied his pleasure somehow added to his ecstasy and he needed to look into that more closely. Later. Not now. Obviously. Not now, when he was about to come - or cry. Maybe even beg for more of this fantastic torture.
“I really thought rubbing your man-clit would be enough to make you come.” John said, concerned. “Something wrong? Besides that parody of a penis, I mean. Obviously there’s something wrong with that. Are you even capable of ejaculating, Sherlock?”
Sherlock nodded breathlessly, moaning. He could. He could come. If only John would let him. Just let him – please…
“I don’t know.” John let Sherlock’s cock drop from his hand - Sherlock cried out in panic - and looked at it critically. “I don’t think something so small can come. We should just stop now. I don’t want to…”
The rest of the sentence was lost to Sherlock. Every verbal slander... every debasing description... every humiliating insult... every filthy word... only fanned the flames in Sherlock’s cheeks and settled sickly sweet in his chest. They twisted his gut and went straight to his leaking, frantic cock. No. That was wrong. Not cock. Straight into his filthy, disgusting, wanton and incredibly horny... man-clit.
Sherlock started to tremble from his own thoughts and he groaned as another wave of arousal hit him.
John watched Sherlock who seemed lost in his own personal head space. His pupils were dilated, his usually sharp gaze glassy and unfocused. John had never seen Sherlock like this and he intended to see him more often in this state.
It was mind blowing. The fact that he could please Sherlock like this, get him into such a place where he was more concerned with the demands of his body, with getting off, than he was with anything else... John had to tug on his own balls at that thought to keep from losing control of himself and ravishing Sherlock on the spot.
It would be brilliant, sure, and satisfying for them both... but this was not about him... not even about them... this was about Sherlock and giving Sherlock the fantasy he wanted.
And John still wasn't done with him.
When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse with want and he felt nearly as wild as Sherlock. “Well, then... let's wank you a bit more and see if you're really able to orgasm like a man with a real cock.” John circled Sherlock's incredibly swollen cock with his thumb and his forefinger again. “If you can’t, though, we’ll have to stop. I don’t want to be cruel.” John grinned. He started a slow, pumping rhythm, just enough stimulation to make Sherlock desperate, but still not enough to tip him over the edge.
It didn't take long for Sherlock's cries of relief to turn into sobs of frustration and John finally decided that enough was enough.
“Why are you not coming already?” He teased, pumping Sherlock’s cock faster. “I'm wanking your sad excuse for a cock. Stroking it like it was a proper erection instead some slightly swollen nub. Are you able of ejaculating properly at all with this tiny thing between your legs? I bet you can’t. I guess it will be more like squirting. You know… like some women do. Will you squirt for me, Sherlock? With your man-clit? Just a few drops, hm? Can you do that? Come on. I want to see it. I guess it won’t be much more than a few drops… One can’t shoot large ammunition with a small gun like yours.”
A broken sob, a hoarse cry, and Sherlock's whole body shuddered and spasmed. His eyes flared wide and his cock swelled even more - then finally the first milky spurts erupted from the tip, landing high on Sherlock’s collarbone, hitting him across the chest. Sherlock gave an ecstatic cry as another and another spurt fell across his chest, painting his stomach and groin, before the tide ceased and the remaining dribbles ran down his cock and into his pubic hair.
John watched Sherlock shiver himself to stillness in awe and when Sherlock started to relax and melted into the mattress, John couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed his erection and, pumping frantically into his own fist, aimed it at Sherlock's own soft cock and, with a deep groan, came, adding to the mess on his lovers skin.
Afterwards, John licked Sherlock clean, caressing his exhausted partner with kisses and soft touches as he cleaned them both. John opened his arms for Sherlock who immediately cuddled into the offered embrace with a happy sigh.
John smiled, rubbing Sherlock’s back in soothing circles while Sherlock nuzzled his way into John’s neck like a sleepy cat.
“Was that…was that ok?” John asked quietly, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s sweaty curls.
“Mmph.” Was the sleepy reply and John chuckled.
"I love your cock, you know. It’s…it’s perfect. And...I love you, too. You’re perfect too. I just…hope you know that.”
"Don't be ridiculous, John.” Sherlock mumbled, close to sleep. “Of course I know that. But... Thank you. For clarifying. And thank you for... this. For... indulging me."
"Anytime,” John replied at once with a fond smile. He really meant it too. “Anytime.”
Aaaand... another cover (made by me)