November 17th, 2009

The Other Letter

That Saturday morning Holmes and I were draped languidly across the settee in our nightshirts and dressing gowns. I was leaning against his frame with my legs stretched out beside me, and he was sitting upright with one arm thrown casually around my torso. Mrs. Hudson’s breakfast tray lay untouched on the table; I was far too excited by our newfound physical closeness to abandon it for such a bland routine as eating, and the butterflies in my stomach that resulted from our position had usurped my appetite anyway. Holmes, of course, had no interest in food and for once I was glad of it. The scents of tobacco and his particular musk that he carried with him were even stronger in the mornings, and I had leaned against him as much to breathe him in as to feel his body pressing into mine.

Our sexual encounters had gotten more exciting of late; after he indulged my fantasy to watch him pleasure himself two days ago, he had asked me how I preferred to experience my own release. I was so thoroughly aroused by the display I had just witnessed that the only words I was capable of uttering were, “Use your mouth.” To my very great delight, he wasted no time in tearing open my trousers, pushing me to the settee and placing his lips around my throbbing arousal.

I regret that I was not able to allow him to hone his oral skills that day, for the moment he gripped my buttocks in order to push me further down his throat I climaxed with unprecedented swiftness. I could not and did not want to let go of the provocative image of his hand wringing himself into a stunning orgasm, nor did I wish to silent the echoes of his resultant groans, and for these things I sacrificed the length of my own pleasure. He did not seem to mind that I nearly choked him when I so suddenly spent myself in his mouth. In fact, he was such a gentleman about it, I could not help but laugh after he licked me clean and said, in all sincerity, “Well, now that is going to require some practice. I must apply myself to the task of learning to gauge your reactions with my lips and tongue, which appear to have an entirely different set of sensory receptors than my hands. How interesting.”

I was just beginning to imagine how our next coupling might begin to take shape when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the sitting room door. I rose and crossed the room to open it.

“Yesterday’s posts, sir,” she said, handing me a tray. “Mr. Holmes neglected to pick them up.”

‘Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said cheerfully and brought the stack of letters with me back to the settee. I handed them to Holmes and settled against him once more. He opened them one by one, reading each with his usual aloof interest.

“Ah, Mrs. Lennox has found her dog,” he said with a chuckle, “and shan’t require our services.”

I laughed in response and my heart made a little leap when he absently planted a kiss on top of my head.

He next opened the envelope that bore the unmistakable scrawl of a woman’s hand, and began to read. Suddenly, his body tensed and he sat up, slowly removing his arm from me and rising from the settee. I regretted the loss exceedingly.

“Holmes, what is it?” I asked him in alarm, but he did not answer me. He paced the room, reading the letter with a deep scowl on his face. When he finished reading, he went into his bedroom and shut the door.