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Of all the things John expected when he somehow got himself into a sexual relationship with Sherlock Holmes, the notion Sherlock liked to play kinky sex games was something he never saw coming. He expected clean, efficient, precise sex, and perhaps the odd cuddle here and there to be the height of their romance, and in both these predictions he was right. What he couldn't have imagined even if he tried was that Sherlock had an unholy filthy mouth.
But, being Sherlock, he didn't exercise this so much in the bedroom as he did out. John liked a bit of dirty talk, and he certainly did his fair share during sex, but Sherlock would mostly moan and sigh and utter the occasional 'God' or 'fuck.' Of course, Sherlock found dirty talk in the bedroom too mundane, too predictable. Outside, it was much more exciting and could create all sorts of outcomes to be studied and cataloged.
This was why Sherlock seemed to take great delight in calling John at random times of the day, saying something lascivious into his ear, and then hanging up. At first John was startled, then chagrined, then curious, and finally aroused. He started looking forward to these calls, and of course, they usually resulted in sex when he got home at night.
But they could also create 'situations,' which, John supposed, was what Sherlock hoped for.
John absentmindedly answered his phone while at lunch with Sarah one day. She was on the phone herself, speaking to the surgery receptionist, who had gotten herself into a state over some missing files.
"Hello?" John said.
"John." Sherlock's voice was more like a vibration, shooting right into John's skull and then down to his groin. "When you come home this evening, I want you to put me on my knees and stuff your prick in my mouth. So far down my throat I'm gagging on it. Then I want you to pull out and come all over my face. I want to feel your hot, thick release dripping off my chin, running down my cheeks. I want you to get it in my hair and paint my lips with it."
And Sherlock hung up.
John nearly dropped his phone and knocked his drink over. Sarah looked at him in concern and mouthed 'you all right?'
"Yep," John squeaked out. He crossed his legs under the table.
Sherlock called again just after John got back to work. John ducked into his office.
"Hello?" He cleared his throat, trying to sound normal in case anyone could hear.
"I want to feel your tongue in my arse, John. Fucking me, opening me, making me slick inside. I want you to make me ready with your mouth and then pound me with your cock."
"Do you?" John managed to ask.
"Yes. I want your fingers inside me. Three of them to start with. I might let you put your whole fist up me if you want it."
"Christ," John gasped.
Sherlock hung up.
John thought his head might explode. He went to the loo before resuming his day.
As John was getting ready to leave that afternoon:
"I'm horribly bored. I've just been lying here wanking myself. I've come all over my stomach; it's so very warm and wet. I wish you were here to lick it up."
"How does it taste?" John asked, keeping his voice down.
A wet sucking sound on the other end, followed by a groan of delicious delight. "Exceptional. I wish I could watch you right now, lapping it out of my navel."
Sherlock clicked off.
While John was picking up some things at the grocery:
"I think I'm insatiable. That wank didn't help at all. The moment you come through this door I'm going to get on you and ride you so hard neither of us will be able to walk after. Are you ready for that? Me riding your prick so hard it nearly hurts, slamming it up into me?"
John tried not to groan in the middle of the snack aisle. "Yes, yes I am."
"Don't take long. I need you to fuck me so very badly."
On the bus home:
"I can't wait to have you in my mouth, also. I want you to fuck my face, then rub the head all over my swollen lips, make them all slick and tingling. I know you like that. You've done it before."
"I do like that." John tried not to alarm his seatmate by panting.
"I'll get your prick wet in my mouth so you can stuff it in my arse. Are you nearly home?"
"I'll be there shortly."
Amusingly, Sherlock called him just as he reached their door. John paused and answered, not going in just yet.
"John, I'm very nearly dying here. I've got my fingers pushed up me," he emitted a desperate, breathy grunt, "but it's not enough."
John looked up and down the street. No one was around. He stepped back from the door and lowered his voice, just in case.
"Do you now?" John asked. "You have those lovely nimble, naughty fingers stuffed in you, getting yourself ready for me?"
Soft panting. "Oh yes. I want to be ready and open the moment you come through the door."
"And where will I find you? Sprawled on the couch with your long legs in the air? Arse-up in the armchair? On the floor?"
"Where do you want me? I'll have myself wherever you like."
John checked his surroundings again and adjusted his aching cock in his trousers. "On the floor I think, so you can suck my cock before I put it in you."
"Will you fuck me over the coffee table, John?"
"On it. I'm going to put you on your knees on top and stand and fuck you from behind."
A groan. "I can't wait much longer. I need you. Are you hard?"
"As a rock. I'm glad no one can see how much I'm tenting my trousers right now."
"Where are you?"
John smirked and jingled the keys in his hand. "Closer than you think."
Sherlock gasped. "Oh God. I'm ready." And the line went dead.