He cried out and squirmed and bucked as Sherlock kept rubbing his prostate. Over and over. It felt like he was going to go bad. That he was going to come across the sheets before he even had the man inside him. He clutched at the sheets, trying not to beg.

John gasped when that third finger pushed in. It burned a little, stretched more. But he ached for it. For more of that delicious pleasure/pain.