Chapter Text
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
Chapter 3
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
John came closer, lightly rubbing the pad of his thumb across Sherlock's plump lower lip. Sherlock hardly dared to breathe at first.
"It's simple, Sherlock... I'm going to sit back in my armchair, relax, and take my time enjoying this cigar right here." He tapped the metal cylinder in his breast pocket. "That's right... I'm going to smoke it." He whispered the last bit in an undertone that was almost affectionate, and Sherlock whimpered involuntarily.
"What about me?" Sherlock dared to ask, his voice cracking.
"You?" John echoed casually, as if he'd forgotten Sherlock was still there... as if he'd forgotten that Sherlock had certain desires... as if Sherlock weren't playing a role. "You're allowed to watch me." The wicked smile again. "I almost think I'll be doing you a favour. You've been passive smoking with more and more enthusiasm recently. Haven't you?"
"Watch?" Sherlock croaked, aghast. "You want me... I'm supposed to..."
"Yes," John confirmed, his voice firm. "Watch. Maybe that will finally cure you. But first... first we need to make sure you stay right where you are and don't do anything stupid." He walked around Sherlock, crouched down behind him and linked together the carabiners on the cuffs around his wrists. Then Sherlock heard John – his cruel, perfect John – doing something with the ropes which lay at the ready. And then all of a sudden John's lips were on his shoulder, soft and warm and moist … on that one particular spot behind his ear... and then very faintly: "Use your safeword, okay? No false pride."
Sherlock nodded.
"Promise," John demanded so incredibly tenderly that Sherlock's throat tightened up a little.
"Promise," he agreed gruffly.
"Good," John said, licked Sherlock's earlobe and attached a loop of rope to the carabiner. He slowly but mercilessly drew the other end of the rope through a hole in the middle of the spreader bar. He didn't stop and secure it with a knot until Sherlock's hands were stretched behind his back far enough that he could almost touch the bar. But only almost... otherwise it would have been a simple matter for him to undo the knot himself and free himself at least partially. And where would the fun be in that? His wonderful John was really thinking of everything today.
Sherlock tested the tension in the ropes with a sense of appreciation, felt the slight stretch in his arms, enjoyed the mild discomfort in his shoulder joints to the fullest. He sighed in satisfaction. Everything was as it should be. The grateful smile he gave John when he was standing in front of Sherlock again set off a glow in his partner's dark blue eyes.
"Well?" John asked when he was done. "Do you already have some idea as to what kind of cigar I have here?"
"Jooooohn," Sherlock moaned in annoyance and rolled his eyes. "You know perfectly well that I don't have x-ray vision, unlike that funny bat man in the films you always watch."
John merely grinned at the outburst and manoeuvred the armchair until it stood almost directly in front of where Sherlock was kneeling.
"That's Superman, not Batman," John corrected him. "But fine. Then I won't keep you on tenterhooks any longer," he said, finally taking the metal cylinder out of his breast pocket, opening the screw-top lid and letting the cigar slide out partway into the palm of his hand.
Sherlock only needed to spare a cursory glance for the two cigar bands and the straight, elegant parejo shape... take note of the light, hazelnut brown coloration of the wrapper leaf, reminiscent of milk chocolate... inhale the the exquisite, aromatic smell of cocoa, cream, vanilla, and a hint of marshmallow with an almost greedy sniff... and a name appeared before his eyes as clearly as if it were engraved in marble:
Montecristo No. 4 Reserva!
"How..." was all Sherlock managed to get past his dry lips, virtually whimpering.
After a salacious glance between Sherlock's legs, John shook his head in mock concern.
"You know, I'm starting to worry about you. I just told you I bought this cigar at Smoke on the Water. But... the way things look... not even your extraordinary brain can work properly without a sufficient supply of blood."
Sherlock blushed. John was right. At least it felt as if all his blood had fled his brain in order to make a new home in his groin. He was even a little ashamed at his lack of control... at the fact that his body caved in so quickly and easily to his animalistic instincts. Over and over again... and that he took such pleasure in giving himself to John like this. How had he managed to live before John? Looking back, it could hardly be called a life... he'd never felt as alive as he did now with John by his side. Sparkling and vibrating with life all the way down to his fingertips, down to his very last cell... all the way down to the furthest corner of his mind palace.
Despite his red cheeks (and other physical hindrances), Sherlock finally scraped together all the dignity he could muster and lectured his obviously clueless John on the treasure he held in held in his hands.
"That Habano cigar, Montecristo brand, produced in the Moreva or petit corona format, was put on the market in 2007 in a limited edition of five thousand boxes of twenty cigars each. The tobacco comes exclusively from the 2002 harvest, and was aged for at least three years." He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again it was much slower and more enunciated. "The Montecristo number four Reserva is almost impossible to get anymore, regardless of price or connections." When he'd finished, Sherlock searched John's face for signs of pride and surprise, just waiting to hear the inevitable 'Brilliant!'
But instead of the hoped-for praise, John merely smiled, shrugged his shoulders impassively and stated, "Then it must be thanks to your hard work that I'll be able to enjoy this rarity."
Sherlock could do nothing but gape at him with his mouth hanging open in the face of such heresy. In the meantime, John removed several tools from his trouser pocket, laid them out on the side table, and took a seat in the armchair he'd set up.
"There were still a couple of these in the black lacquer box," John remarked conversationally, and Sherlock felt his mouth start to water. There were more of the cigars! As soon as he was done here, he would... but John's voice, which had abruptly taken on a quite firm, sharp tone, tore him out of his salacious thoughts. "But when I'm done with you here, hopefully you won't want any more of them."
'As if...' Sherlock thought, sneering to himself, all the while observing with fascination and envy the way John carefully balanced the cigar between thumb and forefinger in his left hand, holding it up to his ear.
"How does it go again?" John asked. "Are you supposed to roll it back and forth to check whether it crackles, to find evidence of whether it was stored improperly and got too dry?"
"NO!" Sherlock cried out in a panic, tearing at his bonds. The pull on his wrists and the renewed realisation of his helplessness made the blood throb in his groin, and he bit down on his lips... torn between lust and horror. "The wrapper ... the wrapper leaf could be damaged if you do that... even if the cigar has been stored perfectly. Light pressure is enough. Don't roll it. Whatever you do, don't roll it!"
John's broad, satisfied grin told him that he, Sherlock Holmes – the greatest detective of all time – had fallen for a cheap trick. John had never meant to maltreat the cigar. He'd just wanted to torture Sherlock. Sherlock's heart rate accelerated at the thought. Was that what John had planned for him? If so, it was extraordinarily cruel, creative, and worthy of veneration.
"It's better to test the cigar's condition by smell anyway. A cigar that's too dry or that's been stored improperly will barely smell of anything," Sherlock babbled almost involuntarily.
"Is that so..." John drawled, then got up from the chair again and leaned down to Sherlock. "As you're the aficionado here... maybe you'd like to check it for me?" he whispered to him.
Before Sherlock could so much as utter a hoarse "Oh God! Yes!", John held the cigar out under Sherlock's nose. The aroma of the wrapper promptly enveloped him, and he could scarcely think of anything else. Cocoa, cream, and vanilla tickled his scent receptors, and a certain sweetness reminiscent of marshmallow made his mouth start to water again.
"You're dribbling," John chided him affectionately.
Sherlock opened his eyes, mildly chastened (when had he closed them?) and licked his lips.
"Not there..." John said, amused, and let his gaze wander lower.
Sherlock's eyes followed his, and blood shot into his face once again at the sight of his own uncontrolled erection.
"Maybe I should put an ashtray under you," John mused out loud, going over to the cabinet where they kept their meagre stores of alcohol. John's momentary absence (and the concomitant absence of the cigar) were a bitter loss for Sherlock, and he felt his body quivering after John like the needle of a compass. He watched as John poured himself a glass of cognac, then returned to him with the glass in his hand. The snifter was then set on the side table. The amber-coloured liquid splashed a little in its receptacle, wetting the glass in a elliptical arc. Then John went into the kitchen, and when he returned he had two ashtrays in his hand. He placed one beside the cognac glass on the side table. The ashtray which Sherlock had 'accidentally' pocketed at Buckingham Palace (for John's benefit) was then laid down between Sherlock's splayed legs.
John didn't make any comment on it, other than giving Sherlock a long, smug look before making himself comfortable in his armchair once more.
"We don't want you soiling Mrs Hudson's carpet," he remarked in his most indulgent Uncle Doc voice, the one that generally drove Sherlock spare, but now... at this moment... Sherlock could think of nothing else but how naughty... how debauched... how incredibly unthinkable it was that his precome should land in the Queen's ashtray. His penis swelled even more, and he whimpered softly.
"Now, now..." John mollified him. "We haven't even started properly yet... How does that go again? Are cigars really rolled between the thighs of beautiful women?"
The mention of women tore Sherlock out of his sinful thoughts of insulting royalty. "Rolling cigars is traditionally a man's job," he corrected John, almost angrily.
"Is that so? So it's good-looking South American men who roll cigars between their thighs? A very... stimulating thought." John leaned forward in his chair and extended the hand holding the cigar toward Sherlock. "I think traditions should be preserved." He cautiously stroked the cigar along the inside of Sherlock's thigh. "Don't you?"
Sherlock pressed his lips together in order to suppress a helpless whine. John stroked the sensitive skin slowly, with a feather-light touch... closer and closer to his body. But naturally, he was denied any contact with that one spot he wished it most urgently. John switched to the other thigh, moving the cigar down toward his knee, still at a tortuously slow pace. Even when he finally stopped the caressing motion, Sherlock still wasn't in any condition to inform John that the only thing women did was remove the central vein of the tobacco leaves, and that although that job actually was done mostly on the lap, the actual rolling of the cigar was a completely separate activity. No, the image which John had conjured up in his mind's eye had sucked him in too completely, and he was too distracted by the sight of his erect cock, at the tip of which the first few drops of his lust gleamed, about to lose the battle against gravity any second and fall into the Queen's ashtray... Sherlock closed his eyes and emitted a lusty moan.
It wasn't until John's breath brushed his cheek that he returned halfway to an awareness of his surroundings.
"As I understand it, you should moisten the head of the cigar just a little bit before you cut it..." John whispered throatily to him. "I think... you're wet enough to manage that..."
Sherlock's breath caught and he flung his eyes wide open again. Was John really going to? No... or... yes? He watched raptly as John's hand moved in between his spread legs... closer and closer to his erection, glistening with precome... and then – a gentle bump, a deft twist, a virtually endless shiver running down Sherlock's back, and the cigar was coated with the proof of Sherlock's arousal.
"It would actually suffice to lick... the head... the head of the cigar... a little," Sherlock whispered hoarsely. "The wrapper could tear when it's cut otherwise..."
"Oh?" John pretended to be astonished. "If I'd known that... but it's not too late."
Was John going to... was he going to lick Sherlock's emission from the cigar? Was he? Another shiver ran down Sherlock's back in joyous anticipation. Or would he end up licking another head altogether?
But once more, John did the unexpected. Rather than going to the trouble himself, he held out the damp end of the cigar to Sherlock.
"Now stick out your tongue like a good boy," he growled in a low voice. "And... lick..."
How did John do it? How did he bring Sherlock to the brink of insane longing with so few words? How?
Without so much as hesitating or even giving it a second thought, Sherlock opened his mouth, readily extended his tongue toward the proffered cigar, and waited. Was John really going to let him taste this delicacy, at least in this manner? Or would he be cruel enough to pull it away at the last second? Before Sherlock could worry too much about the scenario, John touched his tongue with the cigar, and the connection to Sherlock's brain was interrupted for the time being. Sherlock moved his tongue over the cap of the cigar with something bordering on reverence, licked his own, faintly musky precome from the wrapper, carefully moistening it with his own saliva, letting his tongue slide across it until it started to become a loving caress. His eyes closed of their own accord, the taste of tobacco began to blossom on his tongue. A hint of cedar, vanilla, leather, and a certain delectable bitterness...
John's gasp was the only warning Sherlock got... apparently, he hadn't registered John opening his flies, he'd been so busy wetting the cigar, his senses too focused on the activity. But then all of a sudden, the cigar was no longer there; in its place, he felt John's hot, hard erection on his parted lips.
"If you only knew..." John panted softly, and Sherlock tapped his tongue against the tip of John's erection, enjoying every moment. "How incredible you look... your mouth..."
Sherlock smiled. It was wonderful not to be the only one who lost control in the presence of the other. But just as he was about to open his mouth wider to suck on the familiar hardness until John grabbed him by the hair and thrust deep into his throat... just then, John pulled his cock away.
"Do I really need to repeat myself?" John asked, a hint of warning in his tone. "Just lick, I said. Just lick the head very carefully."
Sherlock stared up at John's face in disbelief, then kowtowed with a quiet sigh when he recognised a very familiar adamance despite the heat in the blue eyes. Obediently, he stuck his tongue out again and let it slide over the silky skin. Over and over again, he teased small patches of John's glans with the point of his tongue before circling the entire head once with his tongue in a single, wet motion. Just as Sherlock was about to focus on the tiny opening in order to perhaps get a small appetiser... John withdrew his erection as quickly as he had the cigar a short time ago. Sherlock was left with nothing but the satisfaction of hearing John's heavy breathing, which sounded as if he'd just finished running the London marathon.
"All right," John said, trying to force his hard cock back into his trousers, accompanied by varied facial contortions. "Everything's wet enough now. Next comes the cut, right?"
"Correct," Sherlock confirmed absently. The sight of John's bulging trousers was too distracting.
"So?" John said. "What's your opinion – as the expert here. Punch or straight cut? I could also just put it in my mouth and... bite."
How did John manage to make such utterly trivial words sound so naughty? Sherlock shook his head to dispel the erotic fog somewhat. His John was waiting for an answer.
"Biting is only for barbarians," Sherlock said disparagingly. "Cigar punchers are especially recommended for Havanas with flat ends, a hole three-quarters the diameter of the cigar is optimal. The advantage of this method: the wrapper remains undamaged and no tobacco particles get into your mouth when you take a puff. The disadvantage is that fatty acids and tobacco juice gather quickly in the little opening, which may have a detrimental effect on the taste of the cigar," Sherlock recited his encyclopaedic knowledge in a quick, staccato rhythm. "Even the best guillotine cutters can damage the wrapper leaf – but it improves the cigar's draw. The opening created by the cut should comprise two-thirds of the cigar's diameter. A slightly larger cut makes it easier to draw on, while a smaller one will make it more difficult." Sherlock took a breath to come to his conclusion. "I would recommend a straight cut in this case. As to the cut... it depends on individual preferences – one person may prefer it slightly larger, while the next person may prefer it smaller."
"I know by now that you prefer it big," John remarked, drawing the words out, and Sherlock's cheeks flushed with blood.
"I didn't..."
"… mean it like that," John finished his sentence. "I know," he soothed his lover, who was looking up at him with flaming cheeks. "It was just too good an opportunity to pass up."
Sherlock tipped his nose up with a soft sniff. The move was familiar to John and he knew he was forgiven, even if Sherlock continued to act indifferent for a while.
"So, a straight cut, right?" John returned the conversation to the original topic. Sherlock nodded mutely. "It's a good thing I've brought a cutter along in that case."
John picked up a silver cigar cutter from the side table, where he'd laid it earlier. It looked like a small pair of scissors with a relatively long handle and heavily blunted ends, like a pair of children's scissors. The blades were sharply curved so that a cigar could fit between them easily.
"So you're saying I should cut off the cap... the head..." John crouched down between Sherlock's spread legs. He slowly lowered the hand with which he held the scissors, and Sherlock's breath caught as the open blades – not dissimilar to a pair of tongs – came closer and closer to his upright erection. John ran the open scissors down the length of his erection with a soft, caressing motion. The only sound was Sherlock's rattling, stuttering breath. His eyes were fixed on his own, vulnerable penis, which swelled just a little more despite – or perhaps because of – the danger. It twitched, his slender body shivered and the first few clear drops of his emission now wet the bottom of the ashtray between his thighs.
A throaty noise, half whimper, half moan, escaped from Sherlock's lips.
"If you're very good, you can lick it up later," John explained, satisfied with Sherlock's reaction, and stood up. He lifted the cigar and applied the cutter to it. "Two-thirds..." he repeated softly and carried out the cut with surgical precision. "The wrapper didn't even get a scratch," he said after a brief once-over, holding the cigar under Sherlock's nose for a more thorough inspection.
"Perfect," Sherlock croaked out his opinion. It was little more than a wisp of air. But John heard it loud and clear, only realising a moment later that Sherlock hadn't graced the cigar with so much as a glance, having eyes only for John instead. He sat back down in his chair, a little embarrassed.
It surprised him every time how much reverence Sherlock held for him. It wasn't as if he did anything very special; he wasn't very special at all, and someone like Sherlock could have had their pick of... all of London. The fact that he'd chosen John above all others was a mystery to him, but one that he preferred not to examine or question too closely. At any rate... his plan to cure Sherlock of smoking once and for all seemed to be progressing nicely.
"Churchill was said to have dunked his cigar in whisky," John remarked casually. "What do you think? Good idea or not? Although all I have here is cognac."
Sherlock gaped at him blankly at first, as if John had just said something in a foreign language. But then something jerked into place in him, and his gaze became more lucid and sharp. "Not a good plan," he said in a gruff voice, clearing his throat with an abashed expression that only made him more adorable. "I believe that's just an urban legend anyway. Dunking it would soak the cigar. That would necessarily alter the flavour, which would be a sacrilege with such a rarity. And before you get any ideas of warming the cigar over a flame before lighting it... don't! The wrapper would be damaged, the cigar would dry out and the smoke would be quite hot. You'd do better to toss it in the rubbish before trying a stunt like that."
"Are we a little cranky today?" John asked with a physician's superciliousness. "One might think this wrapper was some kind of Holy Grail." When Sherlock merely gave him an unimpressed, challenging look (quite a feat, given that he was tied up, helpless, naked and erect), John's only recourse was to shake his head a bit, lay the cigar down carefully in the ashtray, and set aside the scissors. Next to the ashtray was a box of matches, which he now picked up. He then took a thin strip of reddish cedar wood out of the container in which he'd transported the cigar, registering Sherlock's satisfied expression with a sidelong glance.
Sherlock relaxed a bit. At least John seemed to know enough not to use a petrol lighter. He followed along raptly as the match flared, as the cedar spill curled and caught fire, as John steadied the cigar between his lips and held the flame of the cedar wood strip to the foot of the cigar.
"Don't hold it directly in the flame," Sherlock said in a low voice, completely entranced by the procedure going on directly in front of his nose. "Turn it slowly over the flame... until a little bit of ash forms... and then... the first puff." His eyes virtually clung to John's lips, and he unconsciously mimicked the sucking motions John made with his mouth.
The gentle puffing on the cigar emphasised John's cheekbones, and all of a sudden Sherlock understood why his licking the cigar cap had aroused John so much that he'd lost control for a moment. Sherlock had never before been so aware of the sensual aspects of smoking as he was right then, with John sucking on an exquisite cigar and apparently enjoying it very much. Sherlock's mouth went dry, and he licked his lips greedily. What he wouldn't give to be in John's place right now...
White smoke rose from the cigar, swirling so thickly it appeared almost creamy, spilling out of John's mouth and floating at a tortuously slow pace toward Sherlock, who flared his nostrils and stretched his head forward to catch the first aromatic whiff as soon as possible. And then it was there. Filling his nose and his lungs with his next breath. The omnipresent cedar... earthy... creamy... a trace of cocoa... a hint of oolong tea... some people took the mellow bitterness for the aroma of coffee. But they were philistines.
Sherlock took a second breath... losing himself in the thick smoke, filling his body and his head with that wonderfully heady scent.
"Oh God, John," he blurted out. "Just one puff! Just one! I'm begging you!" He graced John with his patented 'Pleading No. 3' look (only to be used sparingly as it would otherwise wear out too soon), which had never yet failed to hit the mark and had always gained him everything he'd wanted whenever he'd employed it.
John gave him a long look. "Nice try. But I only fall for your puppy dog eyes when I want to." He sprawled out in his armchair and took another puff. "And I don't want to tonight."
"But Johnnnnn..." Sherlock whinged, tugging at his bonds. Hopeless.
"No," John insisted. "But I'm not completely heartless... you can have a little."
Sherlock's spirits rose instantly. "Really?" he asked eagerly. "What exactly..."
A smile slowly spread across John's face. Then he got up from his chair and crouched down between Sherlock's thighs again.
"This..." he said calmly. He took a long puff from the cigar but didn't release the smoke from his mouth, instead keeping his lips together.
Sherlock was quivering with tension and impatience. But he needed to endure, needed to wait for whatever John was going to do. When John placed his hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck, every fibre in his being yearned for his lover, and he offered his lips for a kiss with a sob of relief.
John's mouth tenderly nestled into Sherlock's... the tip of John's tongue crowded into his mouth... he parted his lips a little more, hungry... and then... John's smoke-saturated breath in his mouth... thick, creamy, spicy... indescribable. Sherlock surged toward his beloved as far as he could... as far as his bonds allowed... pressed his own tongue between John's lips... into his mouth... licking, sucking, inhaling the last bit of tobacco from John's tongue, from his mouth, from his skin. The hand on his neck wandered up into his hair and tugged his head back with a single, quick jerk.
The centre of his craving – John's mouth – was only a few centimetres away, yet it might as well have been on the moon, as John's grip on his hair was unrelenting.
"Again... please..." Sherlock whispered hoarsely.
John shook his head lazily. "No," was all he said. "We both know cigar smoke is more alkaline than from a cigarette. That means the nicotine in the smoke can be absorbed much more easily by the mucous membranes in the mouth. A small dose is more than enough for you."
A pitiful sob was already poised in Sherlock's throat, but then he felt a gentle pressure on his engorged erection, and he gasped for air instead. John loosened his grip on Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock looked down, barely able to believe that John was actually letting him rub his cock on John's thigh.
"Your trousers..." Sherlock whispered haltingly. "They'll get... dirty..." And yet he couldn't help the slight motion of his hips. After what seemed like an eternity of being in a state of arousal without being touched, the sensation was simply too good not to take full advantage of it. He was still just a man, and he was almost at the end of his self-control. Wave after wave of indescribably sweet pleasure flowed through his lower body, making his entire body tremble. His brain could only think of one thing: 'He's letting me... John's letting me...' and a warm, happy feeling spread through his chest. The cigar and his longing for its precious smoke faded into the background.
For a while, he hoped that the minimal stimulation might suffice, as excited and inflamed as his senses were, but it became clear soon enough that it wasn't enough... that he would never be able to achieve the climax he wanted this way. He pressed himself against John's thigh one more time, quivering, then slumped down a little and fell still. The material of the trousers still scratched faintly on his twitching cock. His eyes closed. He concentrated on breathing, tried to calm himself and his senses. He didn't succeed all the way. But then the grip on his hair changed to a tender caress, and he opened his eyes again.
A warm glow appeared on John's face, the one he loved so much. "You've done well. I'm proud of you." A chaste kiss on his cheek that caused more emotional turmoil in him than a hard fuck would, and then John let go, got up, and moved away from him. "You've earned a little reward," John said eventually, puffed on the cigar and blew the smoke languidly into Sherlock's face.
Sherlock greedily inhaled the milky, gently swirling wisps, trying to catch as much as possible and almost losing his balance.
"I must say, this cigar is really worth it," John said as he settled into his armchair again. He took another long draw and let the smoke escape in a slow, controlled stream from between his pursed lips. "It's supposed to take almost an hour to smoke the whole thing."
Sherlock had been concentrating on the cigar haze with rapt attention, roughly calculating the chances of catching a little more of it... but now he stared at his lover with big eyes, a combination of shock and fascination in his expression.
"An hour?" he croaked. "That's torture!"
"And you're a drama queen," John countered, unmoved. "And besides... have you forgot already? This is supposed to be a lesson for you, not a spa holiday."
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
John really did spend the next twenty minutes smoking the cigar, sucking on it, taking a puff, letting the smoke slowly escape from his partially open mouth – sometimes with more artistry, sometimes less – more of a deliberate release than actually exhaling, watching the cylinder of ash slowly accumulating at the foot of the cigar, lost in thought, and taking an occasional sip of his cognac … all as if Sherlock weren't even there.
Sherlock had tried at the beginning to entice some reaction out of John... or at least engage him in conversation... but one strict look from Captain Watson had been enough to make him fall silent. And so he'd been left with no other choice than to catalogue the slowly changing aroma of the billows of smoke (the scents of cedar and oolong tea gradually faded into the background, while cocoa and vanilla became more prominent) that wavered lazily in the air; enjoying the occasional appearance of the tip of John's tongue; admiring the stability of the column of ash that was forming (and which displayed a pale colouring of dirty grey-white), savouring the throbbing in his cock with every puff John took... John's cheeks emphasised by the act of smoking, his pursed lips, the barely perceptible sucking-smacking sound when he drew on the cigar... everything went directly into a special corner of his mind palace labelled 'masturbatory fantasies'. (Which he, admittedly, rarely used. There was simply no need. He had the real thing, the genuine article, in his life.)
Although he had scarcely any direct stimulation throughout this period, the erection between his legs barely weakened at all, thanks to the cock ring. Every sinful thought only caused his body to pump more blood into his groin and swell his cock further... it was virtually impossible for it to deflate completely as the fantastic, accursed metal ring prevented the blood from draining all the way... an orgasm wasn't out of the question despite the hindrance – but it would be difficult. He'd never achieve climax without direct contact... and even then... there was no guarantee of success.
The delicious, excruciating urge to come immediately... the need to come, which had completely dominated him just a short while ago, had ebbed somewhat in the meantime, which was fortunate. But he was still kneeling in front of John... tied up... helpless... ignored... with his thighs willingly spread and his penis obscenely upright.
He had never been happier.
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
When the column of ash had reached an impressive length (Sherlock gauged it at over two inches – a further proof of the high quality of the cigar), John directed his gaze back to Sherlock for the first time in forever (or at least it felt like that to Sherlock).
"I'm going to have to knock the ash off soon. Do you want to... assist me... or should I use the ashtray instead?" John asked, and Sherlock's heart rate surged into a restless gallop.
He knew that John had posed the question so carefully in order to give him an opportunity to use his safeword. He gave it careful consideration before meeting John's eyes and breathing out, "Yes, please."
John's brow creased. "Yes, please … what?" he pressed with a hapless smirk. "I should have put the question differently. So then... ashtray... or you?"
"Me," Sherlock declared firmly. Tobacco ash wasn't poisonous. It just didn't taste very good. But swallowing a little of it wouldn't be dangerous.
John was already holding one hand protectively beneath the cone of ash at the end of his cigar. He ran his tongue across his lips, and Sherlock shivered with pleasure.
"Open wide," John ordered, a little breathless. "Stick your tongue out and leave it out... until I say otherwise. Got it?"
"Yes, John," Sherlock said, and did as he was bid. A gentle touch on the tip of his tongue (John's finger), a barely audible thumping sound as John lightly tapped the cigar against his fingers in order to separate the ash from the remainder of the cigar, and then the feathery contact of the ash on his tongue. Salty, perhaps even a little soapy, spicy. John's heavy breathing. His pupils blown wide. The obvious bulge between his legs. The humiliation.
The unsettling lust it all set loose in him.
"Perfect."
John's praise. John's satisfaction.
Sherlock moaned, his mouth still open.
"All right, that's enough," John decided. "Spit it out into my hand."
Sherlock lowered his head gratefully and let the compacted ash fall into John's open hand. He drew his tongue back in and closed his mouth.
Bitter. Dusty. Melty. Sweet. Sherlock made a face without realising he was doing so.
John chuckled softly. "Here... so you get a different taste in your mouth." He pulled down the zip on his trousers.
Sherlock opened his mouth again, greedy and excited, leaned forward toward the proffered erection, and closed his lips around the slippery tip of John's stiff cock with a blissful sigh.
Bitterness there too. But different. Better. More arousing. A little salty as well. The sweat on John's skin. So much more satisfying! Even more fluid welled up onto his tongue. Slightly fishy. A bit like oysters... so good it could be addictive... John's moan... the involuntary motions of his hips... slight thrusts between Sherlock's lips... more... please... more...
But then all of a sudden there was nothing.
"No..." Sherlock almost begged.
"That's enough," John said firmly, although he didn't even try to force his cock back into his trousers this time, leaving it as it was instead. Sherlock's gaze remained fixed to it, as if hypnotised. "If I let you continue... then it would all be over... and we don't want that."
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
John used Sherlock's mouth and tongue once more in the same manner, rewarding him by shoving his erection between Sherlock's lips and letting him lick and suck on it.
After then he had to remove the two bands from the cigar, as they would otherwise have burnt. By now, the cigar had warmed up enough to melt the glue holding the paper rings to the wrapper. It was a simple matter for John to open and remove both bands: the red-brown-white one with the manufacturer's signet and the silver-black one displaying two intertwined R's, certifying that the cigar was a 'Reserva'. John gazed at the delicate paper rings in his hand for a while, lost in thought, until a diabolical grin stole across his lips.
"You look like a second cock ring couldn't hurt..." John drawled and got up from the armchair.
It was as if Sherlock were surrounded by a thick, sensual fog by this point. The smoke-filled air of the room shimmered around him, filling his nose, his ears, both dampening and sharpening each one of his senses... intoxicating him... arousing him... stimulating him...
Drunk on the tobacco fumes, John, and his own helplessness, Sherlock followed along with wide, pleading eyes as John wrapped the black and silver paper ring around his moist, slippery glans. The gentle touch was enough to make Sherlock start to pant.
"John... please..." he moaned. "Fuck me now." Another viscous drop of clear precome ran down the head of his penis and landed in the smeary ashtray between his legs. He swallowed. "I want to... come... I need to! I need you!" he blurted out wildly. Everything in him was vibrating, his desire was eating him up from the inside, he felt as if he were nothing more than a single erogenous zone.
John looked him over silently, then examined the cigar thoughtfully. There was already another sizeable cylinder of ash on the end.
"The cigar band isn't really enough to contain you, is it?" he finally asked. Sherlock shook his head vehemently. "I don't know..." John mused out loud. "I'm not sure whether you've really learned your lesson... but we'll see." He held the cigar over Sherlock's hard shaft and knocked the ashes off. The cone of ash fell directly onto the hot, taut skin. Sherlock let out an inarticulate sound and his whole body shook. The cylinder of ash still remained intact in one piece, even appearing to stick a little to the sweaty, slick skin before eventually rolling off and falling to the floor.
"Oh God..." Sherlock croaked. His arms cramped up, his hands tore at his bonds until he felt a cool hand on his overheated cheek. John. He calmed down immediately, nestling into the caress.
"Soon," John whispered in his ear. "You've almost made it. I'm so proud of you." The praise penetrated Sherlock's lust-fogged brain, releasing a soft, glowing sense of well-being inside him, one he could easily become addicted to. "Everything still okay?" John urged. "Or..."
"No!" Sherlock cried out immediately. "No... everything's... everything's fine... I... go on. Please!"
"All right," John said and drew deeply on the cigar until the tip glowed bright red and kept glowing even after John had taken the cigar out of his mouth.
He lowered his hand very slowly until he was holding the burning end of the cigar under Sherlock's left nipple. Sherlock bit down on his lips to suppress a whimper as he squinted down at himself. He could feel the warmth emanating from the end of the cigar, saw the red glow, smelled the combination of sweat, tobacco, and smoke. He wasn't afraid John would hurt him... and yet... adrenaline prickled in his veins, making his heart beat faster and spurring his pleasure onward, as if with tiny, sharp needles. He watched as John moved the cigar to his right nipple, exposing it to the heat as well. Sherlock swallowed hard. He suspected what was coming. He lifted his head, sought and found John's eyes, held fast to them and nodded even before he'd read the question on John's face.
"Good boy," John whispered hoarsely and held the cigar over Sherlock's throbbing erection.
Sherlock barely felt the heat of the ember, so hot was the blood pulsing through his unbearably swollen cock. But the sight alone was breathtaking. John sucked on the cigar again, which was down to the last third, and Sherlock knew that his redemption was now truly within reach.
Again, John moved the freshly glowing cigar close in over Sherlock's erection. Sherlock held his breath. He could feel the heat now like a sensual inferno – as if a thousand tiny tongues of fire were licking his cock. The thought alone sent a shiver down his back, which only served to fan the flames of his arousal even further.
"All right, Sherlock," John said and straightened up. "One last question. What do you want now: the cigar or my dick?"
Sherlock looked up, hardly able to tell up from down in his state of unfulfilled desire, understanding only that John held the cigar in one hand and his stiff cock in the other.
"You!" Sherlock replied without hesitation, opening his mouth.
John chuckled softly. "That was the right answer. I'm very proud of you. But close your mouth. You've earned a real reward." With those words, he crouched down behind Sherlock. Sherlock heard a soft noise, then felt two slippery fingers at his hole.
"YES! John... hurry... hurry up... I'm..."
The fingers pressed into him, nimbly seeking that one specific spot deep inside Sherlock.
"Deeper... DEEPER! Yes – right there... right.. there..." Sherlock gasped, stretching his upper body and curling forward a bit to give John more room. John's other hand held him fast by the shoulder. A feeling of safety and security flowed through Sherlock, his mind finally let go, and when John introduced a third finger, lust and ecstasy pulsed sluggishly through his lower body like dark honey, pulling him along, further and further, deeper and deeper, more and more...
"Don't stop... dontstop... pleaseplease... don't... st... Yes. Yes! YES!"
His arousal, held back for so long, exploded in an orgasm that seemed to last forever. Milky semen spurted again and again from his slowly deflating penis. John kept skilfully rubbing his prostate. His entire body trembled with a climax that seemed to go on forever.
John didn't withdraw his fingers until tears of relief, euphoria, and exhaustion ran down Sherlock's cheeks.
He felt vaguely that his bonds were removed. Limp and satiated, he sank down beside John. His pillar of strength. His fortress. His anchor.
"Don't fall asleep, sweetheart," John said in a low voice. "Get up. Round two is going to take place in the bedroom. I promised you my dick – and you're going to get it."
With those words, his exhausted cock twitched with interest, and a happy smile played around Sherlock's mouth.
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
In the middle of the night, Sherlock got up from their bed, where John lay sound asleep, and padded barefoot and naked into the kitchen. He drank a glass of water, scratched his stomach sleepily, and tossed a tired glance into the living room. The leather cuffs, ropes, and spreader bar still lay on the floor. A weak – but no less lust-filled – throbbing surged through Sherlock's body at the sight, and his hand wandered from his stomach to his crotch. He felt his testicles carefully and sighed.
Nothing doing there until tomorrow evening at least. He felt completely empty and dried out. On the one hand, the thought filled him with a deep satisfaction, but at the same time that satisfaction didn't stop him from pouting. At least a little.
He deemed the reaction entirely appropriate. After all, his momentary satiation was stopping him from experiencing another such scorching climax again right away.
John really needn't have been so thorough.
Sherlock stroked his cock experimentally.
Nothing.
He drew his lips down into a grimace of annoyance.
And with that, any nebulous hopes of morning sex were off the table. He'd make John tidy the living room himself in revenge. Served him right.
The scent of tobacco hadn't completely dissipated, and the smell of cold smoke mixed with a hint of leather, soil, and spicy cocoa still hung suspended in the air. Following a spur-of-the-moment impulse, Sherlock went to one of the windows and flung it open wide. The cool, sweet night air gently caressed his bare skin. He stood there in front of the open window, breathing in the pure night air, filling his lungs and enjoying its freshness.
After a while, he stepped back from the window and his eye fell on the leftover cigar stump where it lay extinguished and forgotten in the ashtray. He gave it some consideration.
No – he had no desire for tobacco anymore. Not so much as a single crumb. He lifted his eyebrows, both slightly surprised and grudgingly admiring. Had John's therapy really been successful? Had he really learned his lesson when he'd had to make a choice between John and the cigar while under the influence of a lust-filled haze?
The second, red-brown-white cigar band lay on the side table next to the ashtray. Sherlock went to John's armchair, picked up the colourfully printed paper between his fingertips, and examined it with an absent-minded smile. A thing like that really would do no good as a cock ring... however...
He slipped the cigar band over the ring finger on his left hand.
If Mycroft saw him now... his eyes would probably bug right out of his head!
Sweaty, sticky, thoroughly shagged, the traces of the riding crop still showing on his buttocks, and his head filled with romantic, sentimental, emotional slop.
Sherlock shook his head in disgust.
His mind had turned to Mycroft again...
Maybe that was because of the jeweller's calling card he'd passed on to Sherlock several days ago.
"Theft?" Sherlock had asked, only mildly interested. "Or is there a more interesting mission for me behind all this?"
"No – it's merely a very capable business establishment. Especially in regards to discreet completion of custom-made orders," Mycroft had replied in the pedantic tone of a headmaster. "You may have need of something along those lines in the near future."
"Why should I need a discreet jeweller?"
Mycroft had merely smirked and said, "I can think of four... no, five reasons."
After that, Mycroft had stubbornly cloaked himself in silence and Sherlock had tried to forget the entire incident – with less than stellar success.
Maybe Mycroft wouldn't be so surprised after all if Sherlock put in an order for two engagement rings with this particular jeweller.
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
THE END
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
As you should know of me by now, I did tons of research for this story.
I don't even know what it all was anymore...
But in any case it was about cigars, both in general and the specifics...
Quite a lot of time went into that until I'd decided on a cigar. It shouldn't be something run-of-the-mill, it should be special.
The price of the cigar
The taste of the cigar
How long it takes to smoke the cigar
Then I looked more closely at the producers, production regions, how tobacco is treated and stored, the harvest, cultivation, fermentation... blah blah blah. How cigars are then made...
The precise terminology... the names for the different parts of the cigar.
How to smoke "properly". Inspection, cutting, lighting, smoking, drawing, extinguishing. Whether you leave the cigar bands on or take them off... (it never seemed to end... it's a real science unto itself).
What formats cigars come in, how the wrappers differ, length, size, colour, shape... (no end there either).
By the way, I should probably mention: Smoking is damaging to your health!
(I'm a non-smoker myself...)
Here are some of the links I used in order to be able to portray cigar smoking as a sensual experience. I hope I've succeeded.
Producer: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montecristo_(cigar)
Etiquette (in German): http://www.de.cigarclan.com/articles/2008/1/01/index.shtml
General information in German: https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zigarre
(General information in English: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cigar#Composition)
(Pic set made be me)
