July 14th, 2009

Sugar and Spice Drabble

Holmes was lounging in bed, propped up against the pillows, one leg stretched out and the other drawn up at the knee. He was completely nude but for the fine white sheets which wrapped around his lower torso. He was gazing out the window and smoking a cigarette. After taking long drags, he rested his smoking hand on his bended knee. His facial expression was one of quiet contemplation, as though he were thinking through some problem that did not vex him, but merely visited his mind from time to time. He looked utterly breathtaking.

For a long time I watched him in this perfect state. I still could not believe that the great Sherlock Holmes would ever accept a lover, let alone myself. I rose from my chair. He calmly looked over at me, and when he saw what must have been a dazed and wanton expression on my face, he shifted his head slightly against the pillow to face me. I walked over to him. He stubbed out his cigarette and slowly rolled to his side as I approached the bed. He looked up at me with a lazy seductive glance and hooked a finger into the waist of my trousers.

“You…are…” I started to say but I couldn’t find the right words. He seemed to know what I was thinking. He reached down to my flies and with a challenging smile, started to unfasten them. I quickly shed my dressing gown as he slid my trousers down my legs. I stepped out of them and he pulled me on top of him. I groaned at the feeling of his hard body underneath mine, his perfect frame enveloping me from below, his manhood springing to action in tandem with my own. I kissed him deeply on the mouth while his hands hovered around my head and shoulders. I slowly and tenderly kissed my way down his neck, his shoulders, his chest and his abdomen while he held my head close to him and breathed and sighed in response. When I reached his groin I did not hesitate; I pulled him into my mouth and proceeded to suck every inch of him into my mouth. He groaned and covered my head with his hand. His hips thrust gently upwards in steady rhythm and he repeated my name in ragged whispers, “Watson…Watson…Watson…” as I worked his flesh.

Suddenly, I stopped what I was doing and looked up at his face. He was dazed with desire and looked startled that my ministrations so halted so abruptly. I pressed my body into his and kissed him deeply. I cradled his face in my hands—oh, how a day’s growth of beard flattered his gorgeously masculine jawline!—and whispered to him.

“Holmes,” I said, surprised at the huskiness of my own voice, “I want…I want to make love to you.”

He raised one eyebrow, “Indeed, Watson,” he mocked. “Why, then, have you ceased in your activity?”

I kissed him again and felt his hands press into my buttocks. I moaned as his arousal pressed into my own.

“No, I….” I struggled to articulate in my heady state, “…I want to be…inside you.”

Holmes’s eyes widened, but he did not look shocked, much to my relief. He touched my face, then glanced quickly over to the bedside table where there was a small jar of lime cream. I knew he had never engaged in this activity before, but he clearly knew the methods to it. I reached over and grabbed it, unscrewed the cap and rubbed it into my fingers. I heard him catch his breath as I lowered back down his torso and gently but firmly inserted a wet finger into his small opening. He let out a long and strangled sigh as he gripped my shoulders. He closed his eyes and arched his neck. I rubbed slowly, in and out, reveling in the tight wet heat of him. As I felt him relax, I added another digit and this time he let out a sharp cry.

“Does that hurt?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he moaned, “please don’t stop.”

Pleased that he was enjoying this as much as I, I continued to pump my fingers in and out of him while he drove his hips towards me until my fingers reached his prostate. I bent forward towards his face so I could watch the pleasure register on his beautiful features. I touched his hair, his cheek and his lips. Eyes tightly closed, his wet lips closed around my index finger for a kiss, then another, then he sucked my whole finger into his mouth. I gasped at the intense eroticism of it—he sucked my finger in and out of his mouth with the same rhythm I was fingering him below. It drove me wild and I could feel my own shaft spring forth tiny droplets.

“Can I…?” I asked between gasps, nearly in agony.

He nodded and turned his head to the side, eyes still tightly shut in pain and ecstasy. With all the self-control I could muster I entered him slowly. He gasped and grabbed my shoulders. I stopped. His eyes flew open and he placed one hand on the back of my neck. We didn’t speak, just stared into each other’s eyes with more intensity than I’ve ever looked at another human being. He lowered his lids and I resumed my forward progress. When I was fully buried within him, he placed his hands on my buttocks once again and slowly began to urge me towards his gland. I pumped in and out as my breathing turned ragged, and my cheeks further flushed.

I’d been with a handful of men before Holmes. While I became well-versed in matters of the physical, I could never have called these acts lovemaking; for I didn’t love my partners, only appreciated them. This was the first time I’d ever experienced the fullness and tenderness that comes with true lovemaking. When I thought of the way my friend ran about our rooms with his signature catlike grace, always in such command of his body, abruptly waving away a compliment or a doubt, tenderly grasping a lady’s delicate hand in sympathy, then dropping it to tend to matters of logic, playing the violin with affection, dashing past the police force to investigate a lifeless body, I could scarcely believe he would ever let me share this, the most intimate act between two people. Yet here I was, pressing into his essence with increasing fervency while he rocked against me, pushed his hips into mine, kissed my lips and softly cried my name. I never knew it could be like this and I never wanted this to end.

But my body had other ideas. He was so beautiful beneath me, his body felt so good and so right inside and out, the urgency of my impending release was becoming unbearable. I wanted us to finish together.

“Holmes,” I moaned, “please…touch yourself…”

“No,” he breathed, “not yet.”

I tried to slow my movements, but I could not. “Please,” I begged him through my panting, “I cannot...hold out...much longer.”

Still, he refused.

“Holmes,” I nearly wailed, “I’m going to…” and my breath hitched. He quickly reached down and grabbed his long shaft. I felt the orgasm start in my belly and spread slowly and deliciously through my frame. I watched him stroke himself once, twice, and then I lost all control. I cried out as I pitched forward and came for all I was worth, filling him with my hot seed while I watched his own climax begin to build. He jerked himself once more, thrust himself upon my cock and his whole body shuddered in an earth-shattering completion. His head thrown back, he pushed his hands onto my torso and lifted himself up towards me.

“Oh God...John...John,” he moaned and cried and writhed beneath me. His semen burst forth in great spurts, spilling between us in a seemingly unending stream. When at last he came to stillness, I slowly slid myself from his tight grip and laid down next to him. He lay there, eyes closed, still panting a little and I took his hand. I stared at it while I slowly entangled our fingers. His other arm pulled me to him and we lay there in a long silence.

I loved him, desperately and completely, and I wasn’t sure what to say. I wanted to tell him, but such a sentiment seemed like something his ears would abhor and the last thing I wanted to do was ruin this moment together. Where was he? Did he feel as complete as I did lying so close after such a powerful experience? Would we ever do this again? I released his hand and slowly traced his chest with my finger, lazily encircling his nipple.

“Ah, Watson…” he whispered, not unlike the way he calls my attention to a hidden clue. “You are a prince among men,” he said quietly.

A compliment to be sure, but not so different from the offhanded ones he frequently tossed at an overeager inspector or doddering client. What more could I do to make him understand how deeply I felt for him?

“Holmes,” I began as I lifted myself onto my elbow and turned towards him. He turned his head slightly and looked at me, his face as expressionless as when he sits in his chair and listens to a string of facts. Or was it amusement behind those green eyes? I picked up his hand and kissed his fingers. He still appeared to be unmoved. Dash it all! I was so overwhelmed with feelings I felt like crying, yet his cold heart must have frozen his tenderness immediately after his climax.

“Yes, my dear?” he asked. Emboldened by the term of endearment, I decided to take the plunge. If he couldn’t bear my thoughts as I lay next to him, naked and spent and smelling of his sex, then there would never be a time when he would.

“Holmes, for many years I’ve been your partner in all matters of crime and detection. And for most of those years I kept my…sexual preferences well-hidden. I never dreamed you would return my affections, let alone allow me to take you as I just have. I want you to know that…I…I think I’m…well, I’m very much in love with you and at the moment, I never want to let you go.” I blushed furiously while he calmly regarded my confession.

“Ah,” he said quietly, then turned and looked at the ceiling again.

I was growing hurt. “It would mean the world to me,” I continued with some consternation creeping into my tone, “to know whether or not you find yourself in the same…ah…position as myself.”

He regarded me again with the same detached amusement, but his expression softened when he saw the confused pain on my face. He reached up and stroked my cheek.

“Oh my dear friend,” he began, “do you honestly believe I could have given myself over to one that I didn’t reserve the deepest regard for?”

I felt somewhat relieved. “It’s just that…you’re so inscrutable sometimes,” I told him.

He chuckled in that soft charming way of his and my heart flamed anew.

“Oh Watson, I know you like to keep emotion on the surface, which most of the time serves to confuse the train of logic that I aim to follow in my investigations, but…” he added quickly as I opened my mouth to protest, “but,” he said more gently while he pressed a finger to my lips, “you may rest assured that when I told you I had never loved I was denying a truth that I didn’t want to face. I can lay bare a set of facts that point to a singular solution, but I struggle to lay bare the sentiment that grows larger in my heart every day. You mean the world to me and to think I might have left this earthly realm with no knowledge of the matters of physical love, well, I have you to thank for bringing me that knowledge as well.”

My eyes rimmed with tears as I listened to him explain to me, for the first time, what he felt inside, what I was to him. I did not wish to prolong this conversation into a barrage of messy sobs or overwrought declarations, so I settled back down against his side and rested my head next to his shoulder. He smelled of sweet tobacco, claret and sweat. I inhaled deeply and let out a sigh. He reached down, lifted my chin and locked his lips onto mine. As our kiss deepened, he ran his fingers through my hair. He was mine. I was his. That’s all there was.