November 15th, 2009

By His Own Hand II

Holmes's left eyebrow twitched ever so slightly.

“You see," I continued, "these hands of yours are so practiced in the art of sensual pleasure, that I cannot help but wonder if other parts of you may be so trained to exact the same reactions. What if, for example, I were to bind your hands with a fine silk scarf and prohibited you from using them in any capacity?”

His lips parted and I heard him inhale.

“If I simply tied your hands behind your back, removed every stitch of my clothing and presented you my full and ready cockstand, what methods might you employ to bring me off as thunderously as in the past?”

A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Would you kneel before me and take me into your mouth?” The blood was starting to pool in my own groin.

“Or would you prefer I tied you to the bed in order to enable you to wrap your legs about my torso and squeeze me between your thighs until you felt the first drops of the tide to come?”

There was no mistaking the growing bulge in his trousers.

“Then, perhaps, you would run your lips along my length, wind your tongue around my crown like you do so well with your fingers, and wet my entire length so that I might,” I reached across to his groin and slowly began to unfasten his trousers, “access other parts of you more easily.”

I dropped my voice to a husky whisper.

“Can you envision me writhing about inside of you, Sherlock? I cannot promise I would be entirely gentle, for without the use of your hands you would be unable to prevent me from taking you with the heated desire that grows more powerful every day.”

I left off with the last button and watched as he quickly pulled himself free.

I looked down at his palm and saw for the first time his long, lavender phallus, engorged with need, protruding from a bed of dark brown hair. It was as breathtaking a sight as any of his extremities, and I had to bite my lip to hold in a gasp.

With his eyes still closed and his brow knit into a look of severe concentration, he licked his hand and then began to slowly massage his cock. It grew more erect as he let his fingers play over it, spreading them wide to cover its surface before wrapping them around it and pulling at the tip. He leaned his head back and relaxed his face, though kept his eyes closed as his expression flowed into various phases of pleasant discovery.

My own cock was throbbing in anticipation, but I did not allow myself to touch it. Not yet.

Holmes squeezed himself and the first drops of his issue sprang forth and fell lazily to the carpet. A small moan escaped his mouth and it was all I could do to prevent myself from seizing it with mine and assisting him in his task.

He was developing a pattern now, first pumping himself vigorously, then pressing his thumb into his crown to squeeze off the drops that were coming more frequently, rolling his wrist in tiny circles to apply pressure underneath. It was like watching a sculptor work his clay. I was completely entranced.

“Good, yes, that’s right,” I whispered, to which he responded by leaning back and undulating his hips.

As he neared his climax, he brought his chin down, opened his mouth and started breathing in gasps. His hand became a blur and his body rocked back and forth in an effort to bring about his release.

“Show me,” I breathed into his ear, “how hard you can come.”

All at once, he threw his head back, groaned towards the heavens and relaxed his posture as thick white semen burst from the tip of his cock. A grand, peaceful smile spread across his face, deep guttural sighs matching the long strokes of his hand while he steadied himself on the desk with the other.

He sighed to his completion and I, barely able to maintain my composure, handed him a handkerchief. With flushed cheeks, he polished his member, wiped his hands and reassembled his clothing. When he finally looked at me, it was with sated relief.

“Now then, Watson,” he said briskly, “what shall we do with you?”