[Sherlock doesn't last long but that's not surprising given how worked up she's gotten him.]
[Waves and waves of pleasure crash over one another, each enveloping and absorbing the last and he writhes underneath her as they grind against each other, twisting against the restraints, his expression nearly feral, his hands grasping at the empty air as if he can't stand not being able to touch her.]
[He's vocal, very vocal, and is so out of it he doesn't even realize it--or perhaps he just doesn't care. That deep voice of his, that usually is so controlled, so clipped and clinical, sounds quite different when he's moaning in such a strangled way.]
[In the end, it's almost ugly when he finally loses control. That involuntary muscle contraction of the facial muscles is involuntary, after all, even more so when things are particularly intense, for some people. But that's what makes it beautiful, isn't it? That she could twist up those refined features into such an ugly grimace of sexual satisfaction, an expression that's beyond self-consciousness, beyond physical control. It really is a wonder he doesn't start speaking in tongues, because there's a moment during it where he looks like a man in the throes of an ecstatic religious experience. It ends with him letting out one last choked noise instead, like he can't even get enough air to scream properly.]
[In terms of sexual experience, especially since this is the first time he's done anything remotely sexual, she's utterly destroyed him. She's looted, pillaged, razed everything to the ground, and salted the earth. Nothing and no one else will ever be able to compare. She'd already been imprinted into his head just because of who she is, but now if he ever finds himself sexually attracted to anyone else at all, it'll be because of blood-red lipstick and carefully coiffed hair and riding crops and half-open complimentary robes. It will only happen because of reminders.]
[That's what she's done to him. Even if they were to never meet again, from now until he dies, she owns him, body and soul.]
[When it's over, when the last muscle stops spasming, when his vision stops blurring, when his back stops arching, he collapses back to the bed, breathing raggedly, completely soaked in sweat, utterly wrecked. With him strapped down to the bed like that, it's the kind of image that'd be perfect blackmail material in her phone if she was still doing that kind of thing.]
[Of course, if she were to do that to him, if she were to take advantage of his helplessness at this particular moment, it'd destroy him in other ways, in ways that couldn't ever be fixed. That's the hold she has on him now.]
no subject
[Waves and waves of pleasure crash over one another, each enveloping and absorbing the last and he writhes underneath her as they grind against each other, twisting against the restraints, his expression nearly feral, his hands grasping at the empty air as if he can't stand not being able to touch her.]
[He's vocal, very vocal, and is so out of it he doesn't even realize it--or perhaps he just doesn't care. That deep voice of his, that usually is so controlled, so clipped and clinical, sounds quite different when he's moaning in such a strangled way.]
[In the end, it's almost ugly when he finally loses control. That involuntary muscle contraction of the facial muscles is involuntary, after all, even more so when things are particularly intense, for some people. But that's what makes it beautiful, isn't it? That she could twist up those refined features into such an ugly grimace of sexual satisfaction, an expression that's beyond self-consciousness, beyond physical control. It really is a wonder he doesn't start speaking in tongues, because there's a moment during it where he looks like a man in the throes of an ecstatic religious experience. It ends with him letting out one last choked noise instead, like he can't even get enough air to scream properly.]
[In terms of sexual experience, especially since this is the first time he's done anything remotely sexual, she's utterly destroyed him. She's looted, pillaged, razed everything to the ground, and salted the earth. Nothing and no one else will ever be able to compare. She'd already been imprinted into his head just because of who she is, but now if he ever finds himself sexually attracted to anyone else at all, it'll be because of blood-red lipstick and carefully coiffed hair and riding crops and half-open complimentary robes. It will only happen because of reminders.]
[That's what she's done to him. Even if they were to never meet again, from now until he dies, she owns him, body and soul.]
[When it's over, when the last muscle stops spasming, when his vision stops blurring, when his back stops arching, he collapses back to the bed, breathing raggedly, completely soaked in sweat, utterly wrecked. With him strapped down to the bed like that, it's the kind of image that'd be perfect blackmail material in her phone if she was still doing that kind of thing.]
[Of course, if she were to do that to him, if she were to take advantage of his helplessness at this particular moment, it'd destroy him in other ways, in ways that couldn't ever be fixed. That's the hold she has on him now.]