November 22nd, 2009

Midnight Meeting III

“Do you know,” I breathed into his face, “how long these hands have longed to touch your flesh?” I was gratified to hear his breathing had quickened.

“Watson, I have just laid before you what is likely the most important string of facts with which we have ever been concerned, and no more than I could afford a distraction—however satisfying it would be—could you afford to lose your grip on the gravity of the situation.”

His attempts to scold me into submission were failing miserably. His low, husky voice, so unintentionally sensual, the musky and familiar scent of him, the way the soft fabric of his trousers hugged his muscular legs and the clearly aroused state in which he trembled before me would override any attempts at pure reason he tried to enforce.

I gently placed my hands on his hips, and allowed one to casually slip below his waist and unfasten his trousers.

“Charles Augustus Milverton,” I quoted in a hoarse whisper, “king of all blackmailers and the worst man in London.” I neatly inserted my hand between his flies and reached my hand past his stiff and swollen member, cupping his warm sac. He gasped.

I leaned my face closer to his ear as my fingers began to play over this treasure.

“I suppose we may call him a genius in his way,” I continued, spreading his legs and reaching for his perineum. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, gripping my arms more tightly.

“…after the appallingly expert fashion in which he drains his victims dry,” I let my lips come back to his mouth, and lightly brushed across them as I spoke. I opened my hand underneath him so each of my fingers could stroke at his sensitive areas, and he shivered on top of them.

“…with a perpetual smile on his disgusting face,” I pressed into his narrow opening, reveling in the uninhibited groan that escaped him.

“He has built,” I murmured, swiping my tongue across his lower lip, “a fortune in the pursuit of others’ secrets…” I felt the involuntary flex of his adductores squeezing my hand between them.

If there is one thing that arouses Sherlock Holmes in every sense, it is the recitation of facts, and I knew he was already far beyond the possibility of restraint. I repeated verbatim his entire speech on the city’s worst criminal, including the conversation that followed, while I thoroughly handled his flesh. I matched the rhythm of the words to that of my hand, so that when I reached the word “deviants” I pulled my hand over his weeping cock, grasped it firmly and began to pull.

He was coming undone. His head lolled from side to side on the wall behind him, his grip on my arms moved to my hips where he was surely leaving bruises and his ragged and lusty breathing increased as beads of sweat emerged on his brow. When he was fully thrusting into my hand, I sped my rhythm and my speech. He pressed his moist forehead to mine and I readied for his finish.

“There are no steps I am unwilling to take to make sure our new arrangement stays between us,” came my last words in a rush. Holmes squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, threw his head back against the wall and convulsed into the little death. His iron grip never loosened, and the warm fluid that rapidly filled my hand poured out in unending stream. I closed my eyes and momentarily lost myself in the tremulous cry that accompanied his long, uneven exhale, certain that I had never before seen such an erotic and profound physical release.

He leant forward again, resting his head on my shoulder as he continued to pant, the last droplets of his issue seeping over my thumb. “Upon my word, Watson,” he gasped, clutching my lapels, “I have never… I have never…” he trailed off, unable to articulate himself.

Holmes would scoff at my stories from time to time, but I would never hear him disparage the most singular skill I had developed as a writer.

I calmly reached into my breastpocket for a handkerchief, which I applied to cleaning us both, and which he barely noticed. The tremors were only beginning to subside, and I remained steady and strong in my stance as my friend trembled against me in sated shock.

When I folded the cloth and returned it to my pocket, I brought my arms around his form and gently pulled him to me. He raised his face and his hot swollen lips locked onto mine once more. I leaned eagerly into the embrace, pushing him once more to the wall where my forearms fell to either side of him. His languid tongue tasted me at length until, with a final sigh, he pulled away and opened his eyes.

“I don’t know whether to thank or thrash you, my dear fellow,” he said in his quiet, serious tone.

“You are perfectly welcome to do both,” I smiled as I planted a tender kiss on his brow.