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John shambled downstairs wearing jogging bottoms and a t-shirt, ready for a quiet, relaxing night in. He'd rented some DVD's, and if those turned out to be too exciting for him, he had several hours of quiz shows on DVR to catch up on.
Sherlock stood in the living room, dressed smartly and fixing his hair in the mirror above the mantle. That could only mean one thing.
"Date?" John asked, padding behind him.
"Mm," Sherlock answered, fighting with an errant curl. "Indeed."
John looked him over: bespoke jacket, silk shirt, tweed trousers. "Dinner?"
Sherlock peered closer at his reflection in the mirror. "I was thinking that new French place overlooking the Thames." He curled back his lips and checked his teeth.
"Trying to get laid." John flopped onto the couch.
"Already did. Well, I say did. Oral sex counts."
"Repeat customer?" John arched an eyebrow. "He must be interesting."
Sherlock drew back from the mirror and turned on his heel. He tugged at his jacket and eyed John. "Are you in the mood tonight?"
John considered the question, tongue pushed into his cheek. "Depends," he said.
"On what?"
"On what he's like." John fixed him with a dour look. "That last one, my God Sherlock. It's a good thing you don't require me to put in any sort of performance, because I couldn't have gotten it up if you paid me."
Sherlock tutted. "So superficial, John."
"Sherlock, he was hairy. Not just hairy, he had hair in places I've never seen hair on a human being and I'm a doctor."
Sherlock smirked. "This one is quite different. Do you want to see?"
"You have a picture of him?"
Sherlock walked over to the desk and started rifling through papers. "He's an actor. Works at the National Theatre. He gave me one of his head shots."
"You're working your way up the food chain, aren't you?"
Sherlock found the picture and handed it to John with a flourish. "His name," Sherlock said, "is Benedict Cumberbatch."
"Cumberwhat?" John looked at the picture. "That's his name? It sounds like a disease."
"Does it?"
"Can't come in to work today, I've got the Cumberbatch." John frowned at the picture. "Oh really, Sherlock, you've gone full narcissist, haven't you?"
"What?"
"This man, this--Benedict Whosisbatch. He looks…well he looks a lot like you, actually."
Sherlock screwed up his face. "No he doesn't."
John held the picture out at arm's length. "He does, a bit."
"He looks nothing like me." Sherlock plucked the picture out of his hands. "Anyway, what do you think?"
"Hm." John drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch. After a moment's thought, he smiled. "All right, might be fun."
Sherlock looked pleased. "You are a most superb flat mate, John."
"Do you plan to tell him?"
"I tell all of them."
"And you don't fuck the ones who aren't intrigued by your little fetish. Quite cold of you."
"I fuck them. I just don't fuck them again."
"You said you've already messed around with this guy."
"I had to give him a trial run. You know how actors are. Flaky."
"Yes, terrible trait."
Sherlock swept to the door and grabbed his coat. "I'll bring him home around 12:30. Stay up and say hello. Then pretend to go off to bed."
"We've done this before, Sherlock."
Sherlock smirked. "Do wait up."
***
John finished a movie and half his quiz shows before Sherlock came home. He had a cup of tea and was sat on the couch when the door opened and Sherlock breezed in, affecting a surprised look as if he hadn’t expected John to be exactly where he told him to be.
"Ah, John," Sherlock said. "You're still awake. Good. I'd like you to meet Benedict."
The man who came in behind Sherlock looked a damn sight more attractive than the last thing Sherlock had dragged home. And now John saw him in person, he really didn't look much like Sherlock. He wondered why he'd even seen it.
Benedict was roughly the same height and build as Sherlock, but the similarities ended there. He was a couple years younger and had a more youthful face. He had bright ginger, curly hair and pale green eyes. He also had the skin tone of a living human as opposed to Sherlock's deathly pallor. His lips were a perfect, pale pink cupid's bow and he was dressed, in a word, sumptuously. Beneath a burgundy velvet jacket he wore a pale pink shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal a smooth expanse of chest and lovely long, graceful throat. Even from across the room John could smell him and he smelled expensive.
"Hello," John said, getting to his feet. "I'm Sherlock's flat mate, John Watson."
Benedict shook his hand. "Benedict Cumberbatch," he said, and his voice matched the texture and color of his jacket. "Pleased to meet you. Sherlock tells me you're a doctor."
John glanced at Sherlock, who smiled as he shrugged off his coat. "Yes, retired medical officer. I work in a surgery now. Sherlock says you're an actor."
Benedict chuckled. "Yes. It's a living, I suppose. My agent has been telling me I'm going to be the next big thing for ten years."
"I wasn't expecting you home so early. Sherlock said he was taking you to that new French place by the Thames."
"He did, and it was magnificent."
"That's good to hear," John said. "I suppose as an actor you're used to being wined and dined."
Benedict chuckled again. "Not as much as you'd suppose."
John took a sip of his tea, eyeing him over the rim of his cup. He lowered the cup and licked his lips. "Tea, Benedict?"
"Love some."
John led him to the kitchen. Sherlock stayed in the living room, but John caught his eye on the way.
"How did you and Sherlock meet?" John asked as he got out a cup. The water would still be hot, he'd only made his tea a few minutes before they came in. Perfect timing.
"He came to see one of my plays," Benedict said. "Met him lurking outside the stage door."
"Huh," John said. "Didn't know Sherlock was a patron of the arts."
A soft laugh came from the living room.
"Actually he provided me quite the thorough critique," Benedict said. "Even gave me a few acting tips."
"He would. I hope you ignored everything he said."
Benedict smiled widely. "He's quite convincing. It's hard to ignore him."
"I live with him. You're not telling me anything new." John turned to him with the cup of tea.
"Thank you," Benedict said, taking it.
"Well, it's a pleasure meeting you, Benedict," John said. "I'm afraid I was just about to head off to bed, though. Early morning at the surgery. Sorry I can't talk a bit more."
"Not at all. It was wonderful to meet you as well. Sherlock has told me so much about you."
"Has he?" John walked back into the living room. Sherlock was sat on the couch, his jacket off, arms splayed on the back. "Good night, Sherlock," John said. He looked around at Benedict and winked. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Can you leave us with a list?" Benedict asked, and grinned. He took a sip of his tea. Cheeky.
John headed upstairs.
***
John waited twenty minutes, the usual. He lay in bed, gazing up at the darkened ceiling and straining to hear anything from downstairs. He brushed a hand over his face at one point and smelled Benedict's cologne on his fingers.
Lovely.
At the appropriate time, he got up and left his bedroom and went downstairs, bare feet slapping on the stairs. He made a reasonable amount of noise but not enough to be obvious.
The lights were off in the living room but the TV had been left on, casting a flickering blue glow on the walls, the furniture, and of course, the scene on the couch. John was impressed with Sherlock's ability to get Benedict in motion so fast.
Sherlock was sitting up but slumped, the top few buttons of his shirt undone. He had his head flung back so his dark curls spilled onto the back of the couch, mouth open, eyes closed. Benedict was perched on his knees in front of the couch, head bobbing over Sherlock's groin.
John took a moment to admire the sight, before emitting a forced sound of surprise.
"Oh! Didn't mean to bother you two. Didn't realize you were out here."
Sherlock lifted his head and opened his eyes, his face pale in the phosphorescent glow and his eyes glittering. Benedict quickly shot up from his position. Even in the odd light John could see Benedict's cheeks were flushed. Sherlock had divested him of his jacket, now draped over a nearby chair. With Benedict's head out of the way John got an eyeful of Sherlock's cock, erect and glistening with Benedict's saliva.
"Oops," Sherlock said, without any real surprise.
John chuckled."Just need a glass of water. Pretend I'm not here." He slid off in the direction of the kitchen.
In the kitchen he didn't turn on a light. He went through the motions: got a glass down, filled it from the tap. He walked back to the kitchen doorway in time to hear Benedict whisper, "Wait until he's gone back up."
John had a good view from the kitchen doorway. Benedict had gotten up onto the couch and straddled Sherlock's leg, Sherlock's tweed-encased thigh pressed up into Benedict's crotch. Sherlock had started undoing Benedict's shirt buttons. They both had their shoes off, Sherlock's respectable black loafers haphazard on the floor with Benedict's flashy, gold--dear God, they were sparkly--shoes. Obviously, painfully an actor.
Sherlock looked over Benedict's shoulder at John. "Oh, John doesn't mind. Do you, John?"
Benedict looked around, eyes wide.
"I don't mind," John said. "Quite a sight you two make. Can't imagine why I'd mind it."
John watched as Sherlock stretched up and dipped his tongue into the hollow of the other man's throat. Benedict titled his head back, eyelashes fluttering. He really was a gorgeous specimen.
"Would you mind if John watched us?" Sherlock asked him.
Benedict looked around at John again, caution in his gaze. "What?"
"I told you at dinner, I have a kink." Sherlock's voice sounded like a purr and must have vibrated all the way down Benedict's neck and resonated against his collarbone. "I like being watched. Quite get off on it, really."
Benedict chuckled, a nervous sound. "Yes, you did tell me that."
"And you said it sounded…what was the word? Ah, yes. Stimulating."
"It's your flat mate," Benedict said. "Don't you think it might make things a bit awkward for you?"
John strolled fully into the room. "Oh, I've seen him indecent before," John said. "He's almost always indecent."
Sherlock scoffed. All this time he'd been using his nimble fingers to work open the buttons on Benedict's shirt, and now there were no more to undo.
"You can't say no," Sherlock informed Benedict as he pushed his shirt open. "A man with his shirt open cannot protest."
Benedict laughed. "What logic is that?"
"A man with his shirt open," Sherlock lowered his mouth to his chest, "cannot protest while I'm sucking on his nipples."
Sherlock pressed his face to Benedict's chest, and though John couldn't see exactly what he was doing, he saw Benedict's reaction. He let out a sharp gust of air, parting his lips. John gravitated toward the chair across from them.
Benedict looked back at him, eyes glittering. "Are you really going to watch?"
"Might be good for a lark," John said, and sat down.
Sherlock continued to suck. John settled back and got comfortable.
Benedict either accepted his fate, or else he enjoyed the attention too much to protest further. He wound his fingers into Sherlock's hair and closed his eyes. He rubbed against Sherlock's thigh, undulating his hips slowly, clearly more horny than embarrassed.
Sherlock slipped his hands around onto Benedict's arse and squeezed. John watched the groping and his cock stirred. Sherlock unlatched himself from Benedict's chest and leaned back to look up at him.
"Would you like to come to my bedroom?" Sherlock asked him. He tilted to the side and looked at John. "Would you both like to?"
"Um," Benedict said. "I--yes. I think so."
John nodded. "Hell yes."
***
In Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock told Benedict to stand in the middle of the room. He obeyed, and Sherlock stood nearby, staring at him intently, looking him over from head to toe like a crime scene. Benedict seemed all right with this at first, but he appeared to grow anxious as the observation dragged on.
John was sat in a chair nearby. "Don't worry," he told Benedict. "He's just figuring out what turns you on. He does this."
Benedict narrowed his eyes at John. "You two have done this before, haven't you?"
"John," Sherlock said. "Don't give us away so fast."
"I knew it," Benedict said. "This is some game you two play, isn't it?"
John smirked. "It's mostly his game. I'm just a piece on the board."
"He lies." Sherlock stepped behind Benedict, reached around him, and slid his shirt off his shoulders to reveal a sculpted chest and a flat, narrow stomach "He gets as much from this as I do."
"What exactly--" Benedict dutifully held his arms out so Sherlock could strip his shirt from them, "do you both get from it?"
Sherlock tossed Benedict's shirt away, displaying as much respect as he had for his own expensive clothes. "You're an actor, Benedict," Sherlock said. "You like being watched, having attention on you. So do I. And there are people who like watching. Has to be, doesn't there? Or else we wouldn't have much fun."
Sherlock turned Benedict around to face him. John admired the bare, sinuous line of Benedict's back.
"Are you two a couple?" Benedict asked. Despite his questioning and seeming hesitation, he didn't try to stop Sherlock working his trousers open. "You could have just said you know, or asked."
Sherlock made a derisive sound and pushed Benedict's trousers down to his knees. He wore a pair of snug white boxer-briefs beneath. The curve of his arse was so delectable it made John want to sink his teeth in.
"We're not a traditional couple, no." Sherlock turned Benedict toward John, like some sort of sexy doll he was posing, and John got an eyeful of his front.
"I gathered that," Benedict said. "Completely non-traditional."
"Are you saying no?" Sherlock asked.
"I'm saying you could have asked."
"Good, because if you'd said no I would have called you on it. Mostly because of this." Sherlock settled his hand on the long, thick line of Benedict's cock pushing out the fabric of his underwear.
"That's gorgeous," John said. "How does it feel?"
"Substantial," Sherlock said and squeezed. "Rock hard. And hot."
Benedict made a sound in his throat and his eyelashes fluttered.
John rubbed his fingers against his chin. "I bet he's retracted and leaking, isn't he?"
Sherlock hooked a finger in the elastic band of Benedict's underwear, pulled it forward, and looked in. "Oh, yes. A nice fat head, exposed and glistening."
"You two," Benedict said, and he sounded breathless.
"Let's not get it out and show it off just yet." Sherlock released the elastic. "Get on the bed, Benedict. On your stomach."
Benedict looked between them. A high flush had crept into his cheeks and his eyes sparkled. After a moment of hesitation, he worked his trousers the rest of the way off and crawled onto the bed. Sherlock undid the buttons of and removed his own shirt.
Benedict sprawled out on his stomach, hips slightly raised so his arse--encased so tightly in those underwear--looked like an invitation. He had ridiculously long legs, with thickly muscled calves and thighs like a jockey. Everything about him, from his ginger curls, down his long neck, the curve of his back, the swell of his arse, the length of his legs--was completely, mind-meltingly sensual.
John had already forgiven Sherlock for the last Yeti he brought home.
Sherlock crawled onto the bed with his trousers still on. Benedict looked warily over his shoulder, at Sherlock, then at John. John remained in his chair, which had been positioned perfectly so he could witness every action on the bed. What he couldn't see was reflected in the mirror on the closet door on the other side, but Benedict probably hadn't realized that yet. Sherlock had set up the angle perfectly with his masterfully precise attention to detail.
"I think John likes your arse," Sherlock said, rubbing a hand over it. John imagined how soft the fabric must be and how firm his cheeks must be underneath. "He's been staring."
"I've been told it's lovely," Benedict said, still looking over his shoulder.
"Let's see, shall we?"
John and Sherlock both agreed a good show relied on revealing things slowly and dragging out the anticipation. Being able to absorb every detail, bit by bit, was the key to eroticism; which was why Sherlock tugged Benedict's underwear down over the cheeks of his arse but didn't go any further. His cock and balls were probably magnificent, but John could wait to see them until the suspense peaked. Benedict's arse was smooth and pale, and quite firm. Sherlock looked over at John and John nodded.
Benedict dropped his forehead against his arms, which were folded on the pillows. Sherlock coaxed his hips up a bit more, at the same time making his knees slide further apart.
"Beautiful, John?" Sherlock asked. He tucked a hand beneath Benedict's body, into his underwear, and Benedict gasped.
"Gorgeous." John got to his feet and walked over to the bed. His cock was pushing at his bottoms, but it wasn't time for that yet.
Benedict peeked around at them.
"Don't worry," Sherlock told him. "He won't touch you. He's just looking. I know you didn't agree to a threesome."
John stood at the foot of the bed and admired Benedict's bare, upturned arse.
Benedict put his head back down on his arms. "This is very odd," he said, his voice muffled.
"More odd than parading about on a stage pretending to be someone else?" Sherlock asked. "With hundreds of people watching?"
Benedict just grunted.
Sherlock slid his hand out of Benedict's underwear. He looked up at John and John nodded. Sherlock caressed his thumb up Benedict's perineum, before spreading his cheeks open for John's inspection.
"Oh yes," John murmured, leaning forward. "A nice, tight pink hole."
Benedict gasped and lifted his head. He looked back at them and his face had gone bright red.
"What are you--?"
"Steady," Sherlock said. He put his thumb in his mouth, gave it a suck, and slid it out with a wet pop. He then pressed his thumb into Benedict. John watched him sink in to the second knuckle and a warm shiver went down his spine.
"Oh," Benedict gasped, and dropped his head again. "God."
"Tight?" John asked.
"Exquisitely so," Sherlock said.
He worked his thumb in and out a dozen or so times, then withdrew.
"Should I fetch the lube?" John asked.
"Momentarily."
Sherlock leaned over, shot his tongue out, and dragged it from the base of Benedict's balls up to the crack of his arse and swirled it around his hole.
John saw every reaction in close-up detail--the way the muscles in Benedict's thighs tightened, the way his back dipped in further, the faltering jerk of his hips. Benedict gasped loudly, a sound like surprise. When Sherlock drew back Benedict's hole was glistening, much like his spit had earlier graced Sherlock's cock.
"Gorgeous," John said, a little breathy.
"Delicious," Sherlock said, and licked his lips and sat up.
John fetched the lube for him, and a condom, though he wouldn't need it right away. Sherlock's prey was willing and pliant now and he would play with it for a while. John returned to his chair, sprawled out, and got comfortable. He rubbed himself through his bottoms, but didn't dip inside yet.
Sherlock crawled over Benedict's back and pressed against him, their lovely, long bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. Benedict turned his face and rested his cheek against the bed, his gaze falling on John.
"Would you like to hear what I've figured out about you?" Sherlock asked, and kissed along the sinewy line of Benedict's neck. "Sexually?"
Benedict smiled, lazy and coy. "Yes, detective. Tell me what you've figured out."
"Based on my findings tonight," he nipped Benedict's earlobe, "you're a bottom. Resolutely so. Though you project an aura of superiority in your professional life, you love to be used in bed, to be taken."
Benedict's smile remained. "Go on," he said, and closed his eyes.
"You like having your arse played with. That little experiment proved it, but I had my suspicions earlier. I was rubbing your arse while we were waiting for the cab and you were responding enthusiastically."
Benedict's smile broadened, pushing up his cheek.
"You're a bit submissive. That's why you're letting this happen. That's why you initiated both of our sexual encounters by sucking my cock, submitting yourself to me. It's a fascinating dichotomy of the vibrant and powerful, how they often want to relinquish control in bed." He nuzzled Benedict's ear. "And," he lowered his voice and John strained to hear. "You like come-play."
Benedict opened one eye. "How did you draw that conclusion?"
"Because." Sherlock lifted his mouth from his ear. "Last time you sucked my cock, you enjoyed having me come on your face. You were particularly turned on when I wiped it from your cheek and," he traced a fingertip over Benedict's lips and he parted them with a soft gasp, "painted your mouth with it."
John dug his teeth into his lower lip. He would have given anything to watch that.
Sherlock reared up and then began kissing his way down Benedict's spine. A flush had spread down Benedict's neck and across his shoulders. He breathed hard against the mattress, his hand curled into a tight fist next to his face and clutching the blanket.
Sherlock returned to his arse, left his underwear half-lowered as they were, and applied his tongue again. From John's point of view he could only see Sherlock's face buried in Benedict's arse, an incredibly filthy and brilliant sight. Benedict moaned, the first time he'd done so, and slid a hand underneath his body. He squeezed his cock through his underwear and John did the same, squeezing himself through his bottoms.
Brisk, wet sounds came from where Sherlock worked his tongue. He was quite a vigorous administrator of the art and exceedingly skilled. John had seen him make men come just by fucking them with his tongue. He seemed to enjoy giving as much as they liked getting, or maybe it was a point of ego. Sherlock never did anything without a certain pride involved.
Benedict looked like he might fall victim to the same fate, squirming and gasping, digging his toes into the mattress, working his hips. Sherlock kept a firm grip on him, pointedly in control. When Sherlock finally and suddenly came up for air, Benedict sagged against the mattress with a guttural moan.
"Yes," Sherlock said, triumphant. "It has that effect, doesn't it?"
Sherlock's lips were red and his chin wet. He wiped both with the back of his hand and sat up. Benedict was flushed nearly to his tailbone now, and breathing hard, face pressed against the bed. He still had his hand underneath himself.
"Would you like to see his cock now, John?"
"Yes," John said.
Sherlock told Benedict to roll over. He did. His skin was blotchy and sweaty across his chest and stomach. Sherlock peeled his underwear down over his thighs.
Benedict's cock popped out, gloriously stiff and glistening, and bobbed against the flat expanse of his belly--long and thick, the head plump and in nice proportion to the shaft. His balls were nice and full, covered in a smattering of ginger hair that also ringed the base of his cock.
"Perfect," John said. He tucked his hand inside his bottoms, over his underwear, and rubbed himself. "Are you going to finger him?"
"Is that what you'd like me to do?"
"Yes, please."
Sherlock picked up the lube, urged Benedict onto his side facing John, and settled behind him. The distinction between Sherlock's half-clothed form and Benedict's completely naked one spoke quietly of submission and control. Benedict's underwear were still around his thighs and the whole scene looked somehow dirtier with that detail.
Benedict held John's gaze, but only for a moment. His eyes gleamed in his flushed face. He dropped his head against the bed and half-buried his face against the mattress.
Sherlock coated two fingers with lube, and though John couldn't see everything, he saw Sherlock tuck his hand underneath Benedict and then push up and in. Benedict had his legs spread as far as the underwear would allow, his upper leg thrown back and draped over Sherlock's calves. His cock arched toward his belly and he rested his hand on his stomach, near it but not touching. He gasped against the bed as Sherlock filled him.
"Stroke yourself," Sherlock told him. "I want you to come."
John squeezed himself through his underwear, firm and tight. He pulsed against his palm. He rubbed his thumb over the head and found the cotton wet there. He bit back a moan and focused intently on the bed, his face hot and vision swimming.
Sherlock fingered Benedict hard and deep. The muscles in his upper arm tensed each time he pushed up into him and the bed shuddered with the movements. Wet, sloshing sounds emitted from between Benedict's legs as Sherlock moved his hand faster. Gradually Benedict opened his legs wider, bending his knee, and John could see Sherlock working his hand beneath him, plunging his fingers in and out of him. Benedict had to be gaping and soaked and John wanted very much to see his hole after Sherlock was done with it.
Benedict had his hand around his cock, stroking swiftly. He moaned, sounding broken and desperate. Long as Sherlock's fingers were, he had to be stimulating his prostate to the point of nearly overwhelming him.
Before long, Benedict emitted a choked cry and twisted helplessly against Sherlock's hand. He stroked himself furiously. Sherlock pushed himself up on his other arm and pulled Benedict over so he nearly rolled onto his back but was stopped from going completely over by Sherlock's body.
Sherlock leaned over Benedict's groin as a ribbon of cum shot out of Benedict's cock. Sherlock ceased fingering him. Benedict shuddered and ground out frantic moans between his teeth. He spurted thickly and copiously onto his heaving stomach and clear up to his chest, except for a few shots Sherlock caught on his outstretched tongue.
When Benedict stopped writhing and slumped against the bed, Sherlock lifted his head. A dollop of cum ran down his chin and dripped off. He slipped his fingers out and leaned over Benedict's face. Benedict opened his eyes.
Sherlock kissed him, and Benedict groaned softly. He opened his mouth and Sherlock did the same. Pearly fluid slid from Sherlock's tongue into Benedict's mouth, Sherlock keeping them slightly apart so John could see. They kissed deeply again and when Sherlock drew away both their mouths were obscenely wet. Benedict swallowed, his throat working.
John realized he still had his cock clutched tight in his hand. It twitched and ached and the cotton was soaked now. He wasn't ready to bring himself off yet, though.
"Let me get a look," John said, and pushed himself to his feet. He kept one hand in his bottoms as he walked to the bed.
Sherlock urged Benedict onto his stomach and he flopped over like a rag doll.
"Of course," Sherlock said, sounding proud. "Lift your hips a bit, darling."
Benedict lifted his hips feebly, and though he didn't really need to, Sherlock spread his arse cheeks. He was indeed gaping and generously slick with lube. This time John got the full effect, seeing his balls hanging beneath his stretched-out opening and his wet, flushed cock dangling between his thighs, still half-hard.
"Wonderful," John said, as Sherlock withdrew and began undoing his trousers. "He's ripe to be fucked now."
"Are you Benedict?" Sherlock asked, unzipping. "Ripe to be fucked?"
Benedict turned his head to the side, ginger curls slicked to his cheek, and groaned helplessly.
"Go easy on him," John said. "I think you've nearly depleted him already."
Benedict grunted. "I'll let you know if and when I'm depleted."
Sherlock smiled wryly.
John returned to his chair. He watched in rapt fascination as Sherlock got up from the bed and removed his trousers, then his underwear--black briefs, in contrast to Benedict's tight white boxers. Sherlock had a leaner body than Benedict, his skin paler, limbs more sinewy. Though his legs were sleeker, they were just as impressive as Benedict's and he had a tight, compact little arse. His cock, lovely and erect, was about the same length as Benedict's but not quite as thick, rising from a nest of thick, dark curls.
"Are you quite ready for this?" Sherlock asked Benedict.
Benedict stirred, then rolled over and sat up. He looked at John, then at Sherlock, standing naked at the bottom of the bed.
Sherlock must have read something in Benedict's gaze, because he nodded and beckoned to him with one hand.
John's breath caught as Benedict slid forward, onto his knees and resting on his arms, and plunged his mouth over Sherlock's cock--all in one smooth, swift movement, as deft and fluid as a cat. One moment he sat placid on the bed and the next Sherlock was half down his throat.
Benedict moved his mouth just as smoothly on him, eyes closed, his lips stretched tightly around the shaft while Sherlock held the base for him. Sherlock shuddered faintly, the barest indication of pleasure, his stomach muscles pulling in. With his other hand Sherlock stroked Benedict's damp hair back from his face.
John's toes curled when Benedict's nose met Sherlock's groin and John heard him gag. Benedict didn't stop though, and all but the last inch or two of Sherlock's cock went down his throat. Saliva dripped from his chin into Sherlock's pubic hair, and John thought he had never seen anyone suck a cock with so much enthusiasm--or skill.
Sherlock finally gripped Benedict's chin and urged him back, and Benedict popped off, panting. He rolled his eyes up to look at Sherlock and Sherlock nodded, smiling approvingly, and motioned him back up the bed. Benedict withdrew.
Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed and tore open the condom packet. John watched, still mesmerized, as he rolled the sheath of clear rubber down his wet cock. He looked over at John and smiled knowingly, even warmly. Every graceful movement of his hand was part of the show, fingertips working deftly over the shaft and then on the head, tugging at the little reservoir at the tip.
John was glad to hear Sherlock order Benedict up on his hands and knees. John wanted to see him fuck him from behind.
Sherlock's cock sunk in so easily John groaned, an echo of the groan Benedict let out a split second before. Benedict looked over his shoulder at John, and John smiled at him. He looked back at Sherlock and Sherlock closed his eyes and gripped Benedict's hips.
John finally pushed his bottoms and underwear down and freed his erection. He licked his palm and wrapped his hand around himself.
Sherlock started slowly, pumping into Benedict with careful, measured strokes. Then gradually, he built to a faster rhythm. John matched the pace on his cock. Benedict had become nearly erect again, cock bobbing between his thighs. John could see them both from his side and in the mirror on the other side, Sherlock's slim hips falling flush against Benedict's backside. Delightfully, though he didn't look like he had an inch of fat on him, Benedict's arse jiggled with each thrust.
"Sherlock," John said after a few minutes, and his voice was thick in his throat. "Turn him around now so he's facing me. I want to see from that angle."
Sherlock would obey any requests at this point, knowing all attention was on him. He slid out of Benedict and urged him into the proper position, turned so he faced John.
Benedict seemed bashful and lowered himself onto his elbows and dropped his head between them. Sherlock positioned himself behind and slid back inside, his gaze focused on John.
"Benedict," John said. "Look up at me. You can keep your eyes closed if you want, but I want to see your face."
Benedict lifted his head as Sherlock began to thrust again, harder this time. Benedict's cheeks were crimson, his lips dark. He lowered his lashes, then his eyes drooped shut, but he obeyed and let John watch his face as Sherlock fucked him. An expression of helpless pleasure seemed frozen on it, his mouth dropped open, curls shuddering over his forehead.
In the mirror, John could see Sherlock's arse working as he pumped into him. Sherlock managed to keep his eyes open for the most part, watching John watching them, watching John stroke himself.
Beautiful as they were from that angle, John knew Sherlock's methods and knew he wouldn't finish without changing positions at least once. Finally Sherlock withdrew, and with a swat to Benedict's arse said, "turn over."
Benedict rolled onto his back and Sherlock pushed his legs up, so his knees were nearly to his shoulders. Sherlock bent over him and John had a clear view of him sinking his cock back in. Benedict gripped his own cock and moaned as Sherlock pistoned into him.
John was close to orgasm, but tried to hold off. The sharp sound of flesh against flesh, Benedict's moans, Sherlock's grunts and gasps, and the smell of sex now permeating the air didn't make the task easy. Sherlock worked Benedict toward the edge of the bed until his head was hanging off. After a bit of this, he lowered Benedict's legs, gripped him under the thighs, and dragged him back, jerking him up against his groin.
"You two are beautiful," John said. He dug his fingernails into the arm of the chair, working his other hand fast and hard on his cock. "I want to watch you come while you're buried in his arse, Sherlock."
For the first time he got a real, full-throated moan out of Sherlock; at the same time he closed his eyes and dropped his head back. This was John's favorite part.
"Are you going to come again, Benedict?" John asked. "While he's fucking you nice and deep and hard?"
Benedict nodded, his breath coming in harsh pants.
A moment later Benedict was the first to topple, crying out desperately, almost a sound of pain. He spurted onto his stomach once again, not as generously this time, but still several long, thick spurts. He shuddered and locked his legs around Sherlock's hips.
Sherlock gnashed his teeth, and John imagined how Benedict must be squeezing around him, pulsing with his orgasm. Sherlock's thrusts became erratic and he bent over Benedict, gripping his hips.
"Sherlock," John said.
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him, and their gazes held so tightly it would have been impossible for John to tear his away even if he wanted to. Sherlock's face went slack and his mouth fell open. He looked completely vulnerable, entirely focused on John and John knew he was coming.
A few more strokes and John joined him, coming so hard he felt plastered to the chair by the force of it. He quaked and stiffened and couldn't get a sound out, or even a breath. He held Sherlock's gaze through it all, fixed on his helpless expression and flushed cheeks and shining eyes. He neglected to pull his t-shirt out of the way and the fabric got quickly soaked.
Finally John relaxed, quivering, murmuring, "Sherlock, yes…yeah…"
"Mmm," Sherlock replied.
In the aftermath they were all panting and didn't speak for a moment, or even move. Finally Sherlock withdrew and Benedict lolled on the bed next to him. John swirled his fingers around in the goo on his stomach and enjoyed the delirious, endorphin-washed aftermath.
Benedict broke the respite with a groan and rolled onto his side. "Sweet Jesus, Virgin Mary, and all the blessed saints," he said. "What did I get myself into?"
"I know what I got myself into," Sherlock said, and a snap sounded as he removed the condom. He tossed it carelessly away off the bed. Even after sex he couldn't be tidy.
Benedict lifted his head and looked at John. "Did you enjoy the show?"
"Greatly." John smirked.
Benedict flopped his head down, rested there a minute, then lifted it again. "Would either of you think me terribly rude if I ran off to your loo and cleaned up?"
"Please do," Sherlock said. "You're covered in spunk."
Benedict dragged himself off the bed and stood a moment, staring over at the mirror. He looked around at the two of them. "You're both bloody perverts."
"Thank you," they replied in unison.
He tottered out of the room. John slid into a fully upright position and wiped his stomach with a clean edge of his shirt. He would have to take it off anyway.
Sherlock crawled off the bed and stood, wobbling. He walked over to John.
"You're a lovely, lovely flat mate," he said, bending over John.
John smiled up at him. "I'll continue being lovely, if you keep bringing that one around. Maybe you should invite him for dinner this weekend."
Sherlock leaned over further, and John stretched up. They kissed. John swiped his tongue over Sherlock's lips and tasted the salt of Benedict's cum still lingering on them. They held the kiss for a long, sweet moment, then broke apart and Sherlock whispered, "Anything you want, John. Anything."
Sherlock stood up and John sighed happily, and smiled.
"Let's see if we can convince him to tuck up between us tonight," John said.