The Man in the Iron Prick

I'm John Watson, once an Army doctor, now out of the military, I find myself in need of a flat in London, someone to share the rent, and a job. In this way, I can live in the heart of the city I love.

Mike Stamford, an old uni buddy, finds me and manages to get me some work at Barts Hospital. And that's where I'm introduced to Sherlock Holmes.

Tall, skinny, curly hair, magnificent cheekbones, and hazel blue eyes.

I'm considered a pretty decent looking man. If I do say so.

In my late thirties, blonde, blue eyed and a good physique due to army workouts.

He has a flat with two bedrooms in the heart of the city. And also needs someone to share the expenses.

Upon entering the flat, I see chaos. There's books, papers, and chemistry paraphernalia all over the kitchen. "Can I have SOME space, I enquire?" At which point Sherlock makes a show of cleaning up. I laugh inside. As strange as he seems I think we'll do well together. The bedroom upstairs becomes mine, and I even have a cushy easy chair in the sitting room to sit in by the fire.

Sherlock is uncommonly intelligent and very rude. But he fascinates me so much, so I overlook his lack of manners.

We've been living together for six months, and I'm noticing some compelling and strange inclinations. He's a drug user but doesn't overdo. At least not that I notice. Claims to have a mind palace he goes into where he stores information. I must admit he has a wealth of it. It's staggering. And a way of reaching conclusions about people that nobody else would be able to do. Where they work, how many children, etc. It's unnatural, almost otherworldly. Like someone else, I used to know.

Early one Saturday when I'm off work I wake up with my dick hard. And as usual, I lay in the bed and take care of it, trying not to make too many noises.

Once I've showered and dressed in a t-shirt, and worn baggy khaki pants I head to the kitchen for breakfast.

Sherlock is sitting in his cushioned chair in the sitting room. Seeing me, he jumps up.

"John, this is too much. I can't have this!"

"What are you talking about?"

"This sexual thing you do, most mornings and sometimes even in the evening."

"Oh, didn't think it was that bothersome to you. I try to keep quiet about it."

"No, no good."

He steeples his hands, and I feel something very tight around my dick.

"What the fuck?" As I pull the zipper on my pants and see a steel enclosure all around my now limp dick."Huh?"

There's a slight smirk on my flatmate's face.

"SHERLOCK, what is this and how did it get there?" Pointing to the contraption. Why am I asking him this question? But more important, why do I conclude that this is his doing?

"Oh John, I thought you knew. I'm a magician. How do you think I deduce and observe everyone."

Pulling up my trousers and zippering, my breath in deep, shallow gasps.

"I don't care if you're the Queen of England! GET THIS FUCKER OFF ME!"

"I'll make you a deal. As a magician, the pleasures of sex are rare. It's not something we do. Whenever you want, I will motion the iron prick away, and you can take care of your urges. But, one condition. I want to watch you."

"NO, NO, NO. No, you don't."At this point I'm so angry, I reach to him and punch him in the stomach, many times.

And each time my hand goes out I say each word succinctly,"Get, this, mother, fucker, thing, off, me."

He doubles over, holding his stomach, sits on the sofa, his breath heavy.

Then, standing up as if nothing, feeling no pain, he says,"You have only one choice. Let me observe you pulsing, coming."

He leaves to his bedroom.

I stand here, angrier by the moment. I punch the table, the wall, throw books around.

Stopping for breath, I call, "Sherlock, you dick, come in here!

"If I do this what do I get in return? You're a magician. There has to be something more in it for me other than just a quick pull."

"Ah. Knew my John was a smart one. Well, you could have the best orgasms you've ever had because you aren't doing it that often. You could have more of them. What can you think of?"

Standing there, looking at this good-looking man my face lights up with a mental picture of where this can lead. I need more clarification as to rules.

"Can I do it more than once in a day, I mean wank off."

"Yes,"

"Can it include you helping me?"

I see the hesitation.

"John, I cannot have orgasms."

"But can I still include you and have you touch me?"

"Yes."

"Wait, what if I want to wank in my office? Do I have to be within your range?"

"No"

"How do I let you know?"

" It's so easy with today's technology. Just send me a text."

"But that means you won't see it."

He grins slightly. "Today's technology. You use your phone camera."

"What if I want to shag someone, a woman of course."

"That becomes a problem. I don't want to watch you with another person, female or male."

"Why is it so important to watch, if you don't get off on it?"

"It stimulates the amygdala in my brain, and I get a certain amount of pleasure out of that."

"Why can't you have orgasms?"

"It involves the brain center. As magicians, we have more neurons, and that leaves physical intimacy out."

"How do you have children?"

"John, Our testicles are milked when we desire to spawn."

"No, sex huh?"

"Ever been with someone who makes you wish you could fuck off?"

Sherlock slumps into his easy chair."Not up for discussion."

The rest of the day is very tense and awkward. We don't speak of it, but it's on MY mind constantly. Of course, it is, I'm the one feeling the weight of it

There's one item that has me bugged. Why, why did I even think of Sherlock touching my dick? It seemed to erupt from my mouth without my thinking. Oh okay, yeah, I had an experience in the Army with a man.

When surrounded by men, only men, 24/7 in dangerous situations you need a way to relieve the tension.

My sister Harry has had enough in the sex transition business for both of us. It was pure hell when she told my parents she was living and sexual with a woman.

The curled lips, the disdain from friends, I could never go through that!

Every morning I tamp down my desire to wank off my erect morning dick. Showers, John! That's the best.

Even the idea of a quick shag with a woman is not fun now. I can't see me texting Sherlock to let the damn thing off and explain it's not good to watch because I'm with another person. It's embarrassing for me to have him know. Ah yes, he does anyway! Anytime I've had sex and come home he can deduce exactly where and how I shagged.

Magician shit!

One night Greg Lestrade, the DI Inspector and I are out at our usual pub. Drinks are flowing. Not to worry about driving as we have taken cabs to get here.

Greg is upset because his wife, who he divorced three years ago, is giving him heat about support for his kid in college. I'm ticked because I haven't gotten myself off in weeks.

"John, do you ever think about, ah, well, have you ever done it, you know what I mean," his voice slurred.

"Ha, with the magician, you mean?'

"Huh? What the fuck are you saying? Asking if you ever did it with a man, any man?" and he quizzically looks at me.

" Yes, in the Army, a real hunk."

"I also did, John, before marriage. He took my cherry so to speak. I was 18, and he was 31. Loved it. Lasted four years."

The pub is closing, and as we pay the tab, there seems to be an unspoken agreement between us.

Greg's flat is small and neat. There's no hesitation as we enter his bedroom and our clothes begin to fly off.

"OH SHIT!", I loudly exclaim!

Greg looks over at me and sees the iron around my dick.

"A chastity belt? Are you fucking kidding me? He has you in one of those?"

"No, Greg, you don't get it."

Greg falls on the bed in hysterics. "Never thought that you would allow that fucker to do this to you." "GREG, LISTEN to me! Let me explain."

I sit on the bed and relate all that has occurred. He's incredulous, doesn't believe me about him being a magician and mostly over the fact that Sherlock and I have not fucked.

"I don't care what kind of story you make up. This is a joke. John, have an idea. Text him and tell him you're at the clinic and need a wank. I'll watch out of sight. Then, once it's off and you come, we can have a go later on."

I text Sherlock, At my office, drunk, want to get one-off and have you watch

Do you take me for a fool! You're with Greg.

Sherlock, you dick, get this off of me! There are no more pings on my phone.

"John do you want," as Greg's hand moves to my ass thinking about him entering me.

"No, sorry, but this has sobered me up."

"Shit, John. I feel sorry for you. He's got you all screwed up." "Greg, don't do this. Leave me alone. And don't tell anyone about it." He shakes his head, and we both dress and I take a cab home.

Figuring Sherlock would be asleep I'm surprised to see him sitting in his chair, one lamp on, the rest of the light coming from the street.

I freeze, looking at him, trying to ease the drink from my head.

"Sherlock, I can't do this. It's almost daylight, and I need sleep."

"I ask you to let me watch, and you don't. But you can have fucking sessions with someone else? Have to go around screwing Greg, of all people?" His voice is quiet an octave lower than his normal. Sherlock never uses slang unless he's bothered. And he obviously is. "Let's talk tomorrow, I mean later today." I pull myself up the stairs to my bedroom and flop down without undressing.

Morning comes, and I have to work. After a good shower, and time to dress I head down to the kitchen to make my coffee and toast and find Sherlock is not at home.

During lunch I text him.

See you dinner time?

No answer.

The flat is quiet when I arrive, and all I want for dinner is some eggs and toast. Cooking them up quickly and sitting at the kitchen table, after scraping off a small space for my plate I hear Sherlock's footsteps as I'm finishing off the last bite.

"John, can you come in here please?" He's very calm sounding.

Into the sitting room and he's there, sitting in his chair leaning forward.

Before he says anything, I unzip and pull out my dick. "Take this thing off and watch me. Watch me pull my dick and envy me. Sit and deduce what emotions I'm going through that you can't. Too bad you don't have telepathy." My voice is angry, with a touch of disgust as to what I'm doing. What I've said to him.

The iron piece is off, and my hands work swiftly. I don't take my eyes off him.

Leaning back in his chair he's all tensed up. I don't think he liked what I said.

I scooch down in my chair, opening my trousers and tugging them down past my balls I caress the orbs. Never been this exposed before. Never done this in front of someone without a mutual give and take.

My motion becomes quick. I spit on my hands to lubricate and slide them up and down, up and down.

His eyes lock on my dick, mine on his eyes.

When I come, I spurt on my stomach, heaving with the sheer power of it.

Sherlock immediately stands and comes back with a flannel for me to clean up.

I grab the flannel, wipe and throw it in his face.

I hang my head and without another word go into my bedroom.

I treated Sherlock like shit just now. Why Greg and not Sherlock? Why haven't I let Sherlock see me enjoying my sexuality when that's all he can have?

Greg texts later the next day. How are things going

Greg, crap. Don't want to discuss it. And please don't tell anyone about, you know what

Of course not. Sorry, I laughed.

I'm contemplating moving out. This is getting too hard to live with.

Chapter 2: Confessions

I'm so bored right now. There hasn't been a good murder case in weeks, and the burglary cases are small enough I don't even call in John.

Sherlock got a good one for you and John. Sending particulars

Texting John at the clinic as I don my coat and gloves and race for a cab, I'm glad to be out again. The adrenaline rush is great!

John meets me at the scene, and we find Greg. Giving us the details and moving on, John and I observe the dead woman.

Sherlock does not notice me move away from him. I've become so strained, so edgy around him.

Greg is by me without my noticing. "So, still got that damn thing on you?"

I detect a smirk in his words.

"Fuck off, Greg," I state low and with a growl.

"At least I can," and starts to walk away.

"John," his hand touches my arm. "Forgive me that remark. I can't understand why you are still with him. If you need." I don't let him finish but walk off.

Because that's exactly how I am beginning to feel.

John's laptop is open, on the coffee table, and while he's at the clinic, I find it handy to use.

We've solved this murder case, but John is drawing further and further away from me. I can't get him to discuss anything. I'm thinking of asking him to vacate the flat.

As a peruse his folders I again come to the puzzling one. The porn folder.

I've not understood why his porn is mostly men. One folder is specifically army men partially dressed, even nude. He assuredly and vociferously states he's not gay. I notice one separate folder, one I have overlooked, with just a 'J' for a name, shows pictures of the same man. And, then I see it.

A shot of this man and John. It looks like it could be on a calendar. Both men are straddling a motorcycle. John is in front, leaning slightly back into the man. The man is very muscular, much taller than John, dark haired. They are not wearing clothes other than gloves and boots. You can't see anything specific, but the look on their faces suggest a porn scene. It's beautiful!

Who is this man and why hasn't John talked about him? It's apparent that they had a relationship.

That evening I walk into the flat dreading Sherlock being there. I had a bite at the hospital cafeteria and wanted to go into my room and read.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair; eyes turned on me.

I see my laptop open on the table and begin to growl.

My heart stops a bit; my body refuses to move. For there on the laptop, facing me, is THE picture.

Walking to it in three quick steps I attempt to grab the machine, but Sherlock stops my hand.

"You fuck, you damn mother fucker. Why can't you stay out of my business? Damn Sherlock," as my world crashes around me.

I sit heavily on the sofa and turn the laptop towards me. My eyes fill up.

Ever so softly, his voice reaches me, "Who is he, John, tell me all about him."

"I haven't looked at that folder in years." Taking a breath, "Can I get some tea? Give me a moment."

"Yes," it's going to come out in the open. I'm going to talk about it, about him.

I take my chair and pull the laptop onto the small table near my chair, tea in hand. Looking at it with cloudy eyes.

"I met him early on in Afghanistan. He was a major and worked very well with the men. As you can see he was a big strapping man. He worked out regularly. What brought us together was a book. I had been reading The Picture of Dorian Grey. Do you know it, Sherlock?"

"No, I don't."

"Oscar Wilde wrote it. About a man who trades his soul to keep himself young, good-looking forever. He has a painting made of him as a young man, and all his sins are reflected on that portrait and not on him. He's ageless. Wilde was a known homosexual and was sent to jail for gross indecency. He had a love affair with some muckety muck lord."

I let John sit awhile and be still. I knew this was hard for him.

"Oh, Sherlock!" His hands go over his eyes, and finally, he moves them away. Pain showing.

"We began by discussing the book. And one day, while in his tent, he kisses me. Of course, I pull away, stand up ready to leave, when he grabs hold of my arm and gently sits me on his bed next to him. I can remember it like it happened today. He kisses me again. All the floodgates open. Sherlock, I didn't think, didn't care! All I wanted was his beautiful body. And I got it. He was magical. He could see things like you. We met whenever we could. However, we could.

It went on for four months when James told me he had to leave me. He was jeopardizing both our futures. We both cried. I loved him. He transferred, and I never heard from him again." Tears fall steadily from John's eyes.

The silence is potent. You can hear us both breathing.

"How did this picture happen?" I finally ask him.

A smile drifts across John's features.

"A major from another company had a long term relationship with a man. It was a well-kept secret. James found out one day when a letter was given to him intended for Mark. He opened it without looking at the address and saw the love letter. When he handed it to Mark, he revealed our secret.

"The four of us went on leave to a small oasis. And that's where the picture taking happened. I had ones of Mark and Dan but erased those. I couldn't delete James."

"And you are still in love with James?"

"Was, Sherlock. It's just the memory now. I'm over it."

"Why then the thunderous outcries of not gay?"

"Sherlock, I can't go through the secrecy, the disgusted looks, all the things involved with being homosexual. And yes, you can tell me it's legal, it's more open now, but the stigma is still there.

"Sherlock, do you mind if I stop. I'm mentally exhausted."

"Go, John, sleep well. If you need me call."

The next day I have off from work and wake at a leisurely pace. I text Sherlock, "Come watch me."

I could hear him bounding up the stair to my room. I chuckle.

The iron comes off, he takes a seat at the foot of my bed, and as I begin to touch my cock, he leans over, looks me in the eyes, and takes hold of my extended shaft. With a big intake of breath,"Yes, yes oh shit, feel me, rub your hand on me, make me come."

My liquid spills over his hand and my stomach. This time when he brings a flannel over I let him wipe us both.

"Let me shower and dress."

"I'll have the tea and toast on. John."

That was different!

Once we eat our breakfast, Sherlock asks me into the sitting room.

"I find something strange, John; you keep mentioning the word 'magical' about James. Explain?"

"He was able to deduce like you, not as well, but he also had the same aura as you."

I see Sherlock stand and pace the room.

And then it hits me!

"SHERLOCK, he also steepled his hands when thinking, just as you do."

Sherlock stops, turns to look at me and sits cross legged in his chair.

"You say you had sex with him. He couldn't have had an orgasm if he was a magician."

"But he did. I saw him come, and, well, swallowed him a few times."A bit embarrassed by that statement.

We both stay very still. Me thinking of James and of Sherlock.

"John, I have a confession to make. I also was with a man once."

"You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I have a puzzle to solve, John.

In uni. We had classes together, and he was just as brilliant as I. He had a quick sense of humor and a talent for playing with people. And he played me. He seduced me with his knowledge, his smile, his total obsession with knowing what I wanted. And one day it happened. In his dorm, when all the students were in class. After that, we met in sleazy hotels, in closets, where ever. He was cruel. He took what he wanted and how he wanted it. Sometimes beating me.

I couldn't get enough of him. It was a drug; I never could climax. He tried everything including cruelty. Mycroft found out and forced the father into taking him out of the uni and far away. He left the uni and just like your James I never heard from him again."

"John, I've found the answer to my, no, our problem."

I feel the iron prick disappear from my dick.

Pulling his chair up against mine, our legs touching, he takes my hands in his. "John," in the softest, sexiest voice I've heard from Sherlock,"look at me, really, deeply, profoundly, deduce what you see."

His features soften, eyes tear up, face relaxes into pure adoration. For me! And as I catch a glimpse of the immense love I sway, dizziness overtakes me. "You love me, Sherlock. And, oh how good this feels to get it out, I love you too."

"John, it's love. Don't you see? I never loved Jim. It was sex only for him and me. James, a magician, loved you and you reciprocated. "It's love John, the magic potent." Sherlock stands, still holding my hands, pulling me up and I giggle.

I enfold John in my arms, and he giggles again, "Oh Sherlock, let the magic begin."