There was something particularly sensual about the warm summer breeze that wafted through the open window and gently rustled the curtains. Perhaps it was the seductive glances Holmes kept casting in my direction that evening, or the fact that he had, for the first time, invited me to one of his small refuges on the other side of the city to assist him in his latest case.
In the tiny, seventh-floor flat he kept near Fleet Street we two were staking out a bank where a local gang was rumoured to be planning a break-in. There was little activity on this hot July night, however, and we were alternating between scanning the street through a pair of binoculars and shedding our clothing to escape the humid air.
It was growing dark, and I made to light the only lamp on the table.
“Leave it, Watson,” Holmes said from the window, his back to me.
“All right,” I complied, shaking the flame from the match. “But why?”
He looked over at me and smiled, that same suggestive look behind his eyes. He lowered his voice before replying, “It would be safer with the lights out.”
I didn’t have to ask what he meant by this. On occasion, Holmes likes to make love near an open window. This is only slightly dangerous, as we make certain to be far enough from it to escape an onlooker’s notice. But allowing the passive intrusion of the city into our lair provides an exciting dynamic to our couplings.
In no time at all, I had my remaining clothes off and I draped myself across the bed and waited for him. When Holmes at last turned from the window and saw me, he grinned, gracefully slipped out of his braces and removed his shirt and trousers. He searched his overnight bag and found the vial of almond oil before joining me on the bed.
Sherlock Holmes approaches lovemaking with the same meticulous care he studies crime. He can spend hours bringing me to arousal, and once he is inside me, he will fully envelop my form, the motion of his limbs fluid but unhurried, writhing and undulating in tandem with me. He likes to watch me melt into his embrace before generating the friction that would have me climax in any number of ways. His techniques always vary, and he never ceases to surprise me with some extra gesture or method to intensify our pleasure.
Tonight, he bade me to stand facing the side of the bed while he spread oil all over my back and shoulders. His questing kisses over my neck brought me to swift arousal, no less than the feeling of his own cockstand nudging the crevice of my backside. When he finally bent me over the bed, I was more than ready for him, and he slid into me with practiced ease. He rolled his hips over my backside slowly and deliberately, pausing now and again to rest his chin on my shoulder. I closed my eyes and let the sensations overcome my whole being.
When I opened my eyes again, I glanced ahead at the open window and realized that a dim light had come on in the flat directly across the alley. There I could see a nude woman lounging on a settee atop a bed of pillows. She was as beautiful as she was voluptuous. Her silvery blond hair cascaded in loose curls around her shoulders, and her full breasts jostled with every movement as her hands roamed restlessly over her porcelain skin.
I felt Holmes’s gaze arrest upon her for a split second when he again brought his cheek to mine.
“Deduce, Watson,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to my temple.
He dragged his chin over the top of my head, and nuzzled the other side of my face with his.
“What?” I had to concentrate on forming the word.
“Who is she?” he purred. “Is she married?” His hot, swollen lips lingered at my perspiring neck where he planted a row of wet kisses just below my hairline. He swung his hips back and then drove forward with greater purpose, hitting his mark so squarely that my eyes rolled back into my head.
“Don’t come yet,” he warned me after I let out a muffled cry.
I watched the woman’s left hand curl around her breast. Her thumb and forefinger closed around her nipple and she squeezed. There was no ring on her finger.
“No…she’s not…married,” I struggled against my crackling nerves.
“Has she any lovers?” Holmes challenged me again. He had returned to a more languid pace to help prevent an early climax.
I peered more closely into the woman’s flat. I looked for items that may have been gifts—the bracelet around her right ankle, the vase of flowers on the bureau behind her.
“Yes,” I answered, and my eyes fell closed again. I don’t often think of the other sex, not since Holmes and I became lovers, and he knows I infinitely prefer him to anyone. But on occasion he urged me to fantasize about women. So long as he was in complete control, he seemed to enjoy dictating arousing feminine images while bringing me to a state of incoherence.
“Men or women?” he pressed, slurping at my right ear.
My head dropped again before I could answer. The little gasp he had emitted from his own pleasure waylaid my response. I took another breath to compose myself and dragged my eyes back to the woman in her flat.
“Surely the flowers are from…a man,” I replied. Holmes reached around my chest and pinched my right nipple as we watched her perform the same act upon herself.
“Excellent,” he breathed, “but it is not a man to whom she pleasures herself.”
His words floated past my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
The woman’s expression was fixed on the side table where a photo of another woman, darker in her beauty, was propped on a pile of books. She alternated between staring amorously at it and closing her eyes as her head lolled back onto the arm of the settee. She opened her legs wider and sank two fingers inside her vagina. I gasped again.
“Mmmmm,” Holmes hummed into my other ear. He snaked his hand underneath us and wrapped his fingers around the base of my cock, simultaneously increasing my arousal and staving off my release.
“And what does she do, Watson?” he questioned me again. His voice had become somewhat strained. He dropped his forehead onto my back and huffed several times in effort to maintain his concentration. I was glad to know that this little game was challenging him, too.
I watched her hand continue to move across her breast, kneading it and pulling at the nipple until it was a red, swollen nub. She pushed a third finger insider her vagina, and used her thumb to tease her clitoris. Her face pinched into a gratified moan.
All I could do was groan in response.
“The wardrobe, Watson,” Holmes chided me. He had momentarily recovered himself, and proceeded to cup my sac and fondle it gently in his hand.
It took all of my strength to ignore the new flush of pleasure that washed over me as I scanned the contents of her open wardrobe. A couple feather boas, a fashionable hat, and an array of colourful, gauzy garments that a woman would only wear on stage.
“Actress,” I managed to say.
“And?” he flicked the tip of his tongue at my earlobe.
This was becoming impossible.
“And…” I started, and we saw her begin to buck her hips as she slid further down the settee. The hand she kept inside herself was moving rapidly up and down, and her pink labia parted in anticipation.
“Artist’s model,” I offered, desperately trying not to explode.
“Are you sure?” Holmes panted. He was thrusting his hips in time with hers, and our flesh slapped together on regular impact.
“Painting on the right wall,” I moaned, gripping the sheets so hard my knuckles turned white.
The woman’s right leg dropped from the settee, and with one foot firmly planted on the floor she pushed her body forward until her hand was buried entirely within her.
“Watch her finish,” Holmes commanded me, his voice breaking with lust. He then propped himself on his arms and started hammering wildly into me.
Her eyes were tightly closed and her countenance became more deeply focused. Her one hand slipped from her breast and pulled at her inner thigh to spread her legs even wider as the hand that rubbed her sex became a frantic blur.
“Touch yourself,” cried Holmes from behind me. “Now.”
I reached between my legs and wrapped my fingers around my throbbing erection. I yanked my cock so hard it hurt, which only hurried me to the finish.
It was a domino effect.
The woman came first. She arched her back as her mouth stretched open in a cry of ecstasy. Her head dropped backwards, her torso jutted out and her whole body became suspended in a series of spasmodic convulsions.
Holmes came next, stifling a cry behind pursed lips before giving way to the string of quivering exhalations that characterizes his orgasms. He was driving into me so hard that I could feel his buttocks shaking from the force.
I followed, and as Holmes’s powerful thrusts forced all the air from my lungs, I let out an uncontrollable wail. Pain and pleasure snergized into a higher peak than I have ever known. I was scarcely aware of his hands climbing my back and his lips on my neck, or of my own hand catching the torrent of semen that poured from my cock. I called out my lover’s name, I pleaded with the gods, and the pleasure kept surging through me. When Holmes finally slid from my body, the waves subsided, allowing my desperate lungs to capture some much needed air. He crashed upon the bed beside me and I rolled to my back, still panting, still moaning, until his strong arms pulled me to him and we dissolved into a mutual sea of satiated bliss.