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319. Sherlock 2 Part 2 Male Reader

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“Oh, come now, Y/N. You’re not going to give in that early are you?” Sherlock admonished.

“No talking. We agreed,” you panted.

“You’re clearly about to lose, it doesn’t matter if I talk.”

“Sherlock, shut up!” You and Sherlock were both currently siting on opposite sides of the living room of 221B, a light hearted tease having gotten wildly out of hand as things often did with Sherlock. You had just finished having sex, during which you had come no less than three times. Thoroughly sated, you had complimented Sherlock on the accomplishment. He had promptly waved away your praise, claiming that your high number of orgasms was simply due to the way your body was built. Despite the studies and facts he rattled off, the whole idea still didn’t sound right to you. Based on the way that your friends talked about each of their lovers, skill seemed to change how much the man orgasmed during sex quite a bit. Sherlock claimed that this was simply an illusion, that increased skill mattered greatly in the areas of foreplay and oral sex, and the increased skills in those areas would blur into the appearance of competency during penetrative sex being the cause of the orgasm. He also noted that this idea of foreplay skill influencing penetrative orgasms was even less applicable to you, as you orgasmed a great deal faster and more frequently than most males. Essentially, the foreplay was so far behind you by your third orgasm, that it was no longer pushing you forwards. You’d never had anyone before Sherlock, so you couldn’t contradict him with your own first hand experience, but you still didn’t agree that your high number of orgasms during sex with him was solely down to your make up. I mean, you knew you had a shorter refractory time than most men, but that couldn’t be the only cause. Could it?

So you hadn’t backed down, and eventually it had devolved into this. You had a prostate vibrator in your ass; Sherlock had pulled up averages for men’s time to completion via this particular model of vibrator on his phone (you did not want to know how he got those facts); and he was sitting across the room from you, fully clothed, and timing you. He had also promised not to try and influence you in anyway. No talking. No touching you. No touching himself. No taking his clothes off. Nothing. The goal was, to hold off your orgasm long enough to make it within one standard deviation of the average time. Which happened to be seven minutes.

If you made it to seven minutes, you were the winner. Your body was average when stimulated with a standardized toy, and Sherlock’s skill was what made the difference.

If you did not make it to seven minutes, Sherlock was the winner. Your body came more quickly and consecutively than other men’s (Sherlock had made you come right before you started the test to factor in refractory time), therefore Sherlock’s skills were not the root cause of your multiple orgasms.

It had been two minutes.

“Why? The game’s already decided,” Sherlock replied haughtily, his eyes scanning your body restlessly. Because of course you were naked. Sherlock had said something about “being able to gauge your body’s reaction,” and preventing a “breach of contract.” Whatever, like you could ever hide an orgasm from him, he just wanted to look at you naked.

“It is not,” you gritted out, trying to shift a little, so maybe the vibrator wasn’t hitting your prostate so spot on. Much to your irritation the damn thing moved with you, staying in exactly the same spot. “Not decided,” you added with determination. You could do this.

Sherlock clearly didn’t believe so. “I know what you look like when you’re getting close, Y/N. Stop being ridiculous, and just come already.”

“You’re breaching the contract, Sherlock.” You hated to admit that you could feel light tremors start to shake through your body. Sherlock was right, that always started to happen just moments before you orgasmed.

“It’s only been two minutes, Y/N. You cannot possibly expect to endure another five.”

“It isn’t over until the fat lady sings,” you said, trying to think of anything but the intensely pleasurable vibrations running straight to your prostate.

Sherlock sat back with a huff, and watched you imperiously for the next thirty seconds. The most difficult thirty seconds of your life. You didn’t even just want to come anymore, you needed to come. It felt like a physical necessity, like water or air. You felt warm all over, and your body felt so good, and you were so fucking hard. The vibrations simply felt amazing, and it was becoming more and more difficult to stop your mind from wandering to Sherlock doing sexy things to you. You couldn’t keep your hips still any more, and when you started letting breathy little sounds out, Sherlock’s look turned smug.

“Oh, fuck you, this is hard,” you replied in answer to his look.

“I know it is,” he said evenly, glancing pointedly at your dick before looking at his phone, “Two minutes and thirty seconds.”

“Left?” No way that had only been thirty seconds.

“That you have completed.”

You groaned in frustration, and let your head fall back against the wall with a thump. He might be right. You still had four and a half minutes to go. That was nine more sets of the thirty seconds you’d just endured. Fuck. You did not want to lose to Sherlock. First of all, the fucker was always so smug when he won (which was more often than you’d like to admit). Second of all, you were fucking right about this, you really believed that skill was important during sex; how could you be losing when you were right? Finally, if you lost, you would have to do the dishes for a month. You hated doing the dishes. Stupid sexy Sherlock, with his stupid accurate sex facts.

Well you know what? If you couldn’t win, you were at least taking Sherlock down with you.

You finally let go of all the things you’d been holding back. You let your hips roll, hitching up in desperation. You let out all the moans and filthy things you’d been keeping inside, so Sherlock could hear them loud and clear. You were careful only to do things that were genuine expressions of your arousal, if Sherlock caught on that this was meant for him, everything would go caput.

“Sherlock,” you groaned needily.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, eyeing you warily.

“I-“ you choked out another moan, “New strategy. You were-mmmm- you were right. I was so close. Wasn’t gonna make it-oh god-holding everything in. I’m trying-what if I-yeah, fuck, fuck, yeah- don’t try and hold my reactions back. Maybe it’ll be like a release valve?”

Sherlock said nothing for a moment, which indicated to you that he thought this strategy might actually help you. Good. “You still won’t make it another four minutes fifteen seconds.”

“Watch me,” you said defiantly. Truly, at this point, you didn’t think you would either. But that wasn’t the point of this strategy.

For the next fifteen seconds you continued to moan Sherlock’s name while you writhed and twisted, trying to keep your orgasm at bay. Sherlock always loved it when you moaned his name, and the next time you looked over at him, you could see beneath his cool mask, he was definitely getting turned on. You decided to amp it up a bit. You let your tightly held legs fall open and arched up a little, so that Sherlock could see the end of the bright purple vibrator poking out of your ass. You heard Sherlock hiss, and saw him looking intently between your legs. He might be excellent at acting like he was made of stone, but he got turned on just like anybody else. He watched your wriggling hips with out moving for the next ten seconds, listened to your moans and curses without saying a word for a full ten seconds, didn’t move an inch, didn’t make a sound. Just when you were starting to think that maybe this wouldn’t work, out of the corner of your eye you saw Sherlock’s hand, almost unconsciously start to move towards his cock. Yes. You waited until he had his hand over his crotch and let him press down once, (he let out an absolutely sinful moan at that) before speaking up.

“Sherlock,” you panted shaking your head. “You can’t-oh fuck- you can’t touch yourself. The rules.”

Sherlock looked up at you like a child denied treats. Not willing to appear weak, he let his hand fall away, and pulled his knees up to his chest sulking. That was fine. He’d made the first move, you were gonna get him.

“You wanna touch me, Sherlock?” you teased. “Getting all- ohgodyeah- hot and bothered over there?”

“I’m not the one seconds away from coming on a piece of plastic,” Sherlock replied coldly.

“You jealous Sherlock? Is that what this is- oh my god! fuck!- all about? You wish it was you- oh-oh-oh-oh!- fucking me?” You just had to hold out a little longer. Just a little longer.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ll get to touch you again any minute now. Once you orgasm, which in the unlikely scenario that you win will take four minutes at the most. I can control myself until then, unlike some people,” Sherlock taunted. Ooh, he was getting snarky, that was a good sign. Snark always meant you were getting too close for Sherlock’s liking.

“But wouldn’t you like to be the one to- mmm, yes- make me come?” He was in deep now, you didn’t have to worry as much about being obvious.

Sherlock raised a sardonic eyebrow, “I believe I have done that a great deal already.”

“But you like it. You -oh shit, right there- you love making me come, it’s why you do it so -ohohoh!- much. I can tell you love - mmmph Sherlock!- love it when I come with your name on my lips.”

“You’re going to do that anyway.”

“But what if I wasn’t?” You stopped talking for a moment to let yourself devolve into a series of increasingly loud moans. You saw Sherlock’s eyes scan your body hungrily. He was getting close, you just had to make it a little further. “What if I- ohgod - was to come with someone else’s name on my lips? We’ve talked before about- yesyesyes! -fantasies being perfectly normal before. What if I- ha-oh-ohmygod - wasn’t thinking about you?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He always denied it, because it was irrational, but he had a strong possessive streak.

“You know I- oooh- used to have the biggest crush on- ohmygod -John Stamos. He’s not as sexy as you, but- ohhell -maybe if I thought about him instead of you- fuck, fuck, right there!- I could last a little longer.” Sherlock was full on glaring at you now, but what you were doing in no way violated the rules, and he clearly didn’t want to let on that he was jealous, so he was forced to stay quiet as you started to cry out, “Oh fuck, John! Please, please, please, John I need it!” You knew exactly what you were doing. It wasn’t nice, but you had to play dirty if you wanted to win against Sherlock. “Need your cock, oh fuck! Fuck, John, fuck me please!” You had half expected Sherlock to simply say, “I know what you’re doing,” and storm off, but clearly his emotions were clouding his judgement, because at your next call of, “John!” Sherlock was across the room and on top of you before you knew it. He pushed you roughly onto your back, and all but ripped open his fly. He tugged the vibrator out of you swiftly and tossed it against opposite the wall with vehemence. Wasting no time, he slicked himself up, aligned himself with your already stretched hole, and thrust in with a fierce growl of, “Mine.”

You yelled and immediately wrapped your legs around Sherlock. Judging by how hard he was, you didn’t think either of you were going to last long at all. “My name,” Sherlock demanded in the same almost feral voice.

“Sherlock!” you cried out obediently.

“Again,” he said, fucking into you roughly.

“Oh god, Sherlock!”

“Yesssss,” he hissed.

“Sherlock! Sherlock! I’m gonna-oh fuck!”

“Come for me,” Sherlock said, biting your neck possessively.

You obeyed immediately. Your whole body arching up into his and shaking. You felt electric shocks buzz through your whole body as you came around Sherlock’s cock. He felt so fucking amazing inside of you. You moaned and moaned, shouting his name over and over at the top of your lungs. Sherlock followed fairly soon after you, snarling, “Mine,” into your neck.

Slowly you both came back to yourselves and Sherlock rolled off you to lie panting on the carpet. “That was cheating.”

“I’m not the one who invalidated the test. I was well within the rules and you know it.”

Sherlock stayed silent, you guessed that he was unhappy with his loss of control. You rolled over and laid your head on his chest. “All right, all right, I goaded you. Let’s just leave it at I come a lot, but you’re also very talented. Events can have more than one cause right?”

“I suppose,” Sherlock said begrudgingly. “You should have to do at least two weeks of dishes though, seeing as I was clearly about to win.”

You rolled your eyes. “How about this, I wash, you dry.” Drying was always the less unpleasant part of dishwashing.

“For a month?”

“Two weeks,” you said firmly.

“Three.”

“Deal,” you agreed. Life with Sherlock was always about compromise, and if you learned to do it right, sometimes it didn’t even feel like a compromise at all.

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