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Dusk clung ever closer to the window panes along Baker street; a timid grey affront like the thick fog which descended from above, casting golden orbs about the freshly flickering gas streetlamps.
People in swiftly moving hansom cabs carried on polite conversations, observing all possible social niceties while women on foot hurried as best they could in long skirts across ground made mucky by the turnover of horses and carriages. Too and fro the daily grind of London was settling down into the nightly gristle as respectable people hurried home to take tea and their evening rest by the fireside. In the rooms of 221b, dusk was being welcomed with a very different scene.
"Put your hands down flat, against the desk... Yes... just like that."
Holmes shifted on his leather bound chair by the fireplace, it's heavy scuffed leather groaning at the movement and breaking the dusty silence of the room. The door was locked, Ms Hudson retired for the evening to her rooms below, the key turned in the lock and her curtains drawn against the depravities of the night time hours.
The only other sounds were those of Watson's shallow breaths, broken by occasional moans as Holmes described in lurid detail just how Watson looked and exactly what Holmes wished to do with him next.
He stood bent at the hips, prone over Holmes's messy desk, just as requested, and was naked but for a crimson corset bound with slim black cords about his waist. As he moved its satin fabric shimmered softly in the low gaslamps of the parlour, shifting colour and sinking to a deeper shade as it slipped into shadow.
Holmes returned his attention to his newspaper, shuffling the pages between his hands in an act of ambivalence designed to torment Watson to distraction. Indeed, it was working.
"Holmes, I swear on the queen herself that if you don't make yourself present over here I will tie you to the bed and leave you there, unsatisfied, for a week." Watson was aching, aroused for longer than he was quite comfortable with. He had embarked upon Holmes' latest game with less than a moment's thought, and given precedent it wasn't a terrible lapse in decision making, but he was once again at the inevitable point of reconsidering his sanity for subjecting himself so willingly.
Only that morning Holmes had suggested a game of subterfuge, holding up the corset for Watson's general inspection with an arched eyebrow and quirk to his mouth. He had proposed that Watson wear it throughout his working day beneath his regular clothing and Watson had accepted the request with outward hesitation and argument, but with an ever so slight thrill. The idea of having a constant reminder of their activities while he undertook his physicians duties proved something of a bizzare excitement to him. And if that wasn't enough, the look of sublime satisfaction and admiration on Holmes face as Watson negotiated the terms and accepted his request had given Watson, in his own way, a sense of satisfaction.
He was still amazed at the ideas Holmes came by to add what he called 'spice' to their regular patterns of domesticity, often they tormented in the best possible ways.
Holmes had proceeded to wrap the seemingly delicate garment about Watson's torso, clasping the gleaming hooks and eyes which ran the length of it's front, and having Watson hold it in position while he laced the construction snug against Watson's skin. What had appeared a delicate garment was in fact a strictly engineered brute with none of the comfort Watson so throughly relished in his own undergarments.
"My dear, I do not think our majesty would be very much grieved by our activities, should she know about them." Watson groaned low and heavy. "Now, spread your legs a little father apart. There you go."
Holmes shifted again in the chair in a vain attempt to alleviate the growing pressure within his trousers, taking a moment to further drink in the sight before him. Setting his paper aside he rose, finally moving toward where Watson was spread out. The shifting air, he deduced, was what provoked gooseflesh to rise on Watson's golden skin as he came close enough to see. He could tease this game out just a little longer but no more, and by the looks of it Watson was reaching his limit already. He'd already broken the first rule of the evenings proceedings: no speaking. His brow was covered with a slight sheen of sweat from the exertion of maintaining his position for such a length, his leg slightly trembling with the effort on it's slightly weakened muscles. His arousal was hard and flushed red, gently leaking precome. He fancied that he might like to try to make Watson come someday using nothing but words, fanciful wordplay and filthy description of acts he wanted to undertake. He filed it away for future reference.
"So are so beautiful." Holmes thought, but felt the words slip between his lips, uttered instead for Watson to hear. He lent over, his hand hovering above Watson's lower back, only an inch or two from where the stiff steel boning liberally applied throughout the corset dipped to shape the curve of a feminine waist. His mouth brushed against the edge of Watson's ear, his flushed cheek, savoring the response he drew there. Watson trembling, eyes tightly closed, fingers pressed white against the mahogany while he concentrated fiercely on not moving, trying to suck air into his lungs and not grasping hold of himself or Holmes.
Holmes moved with aching slowness, breath tickling heavy against the back of Watson's neck, his shoulders, and whispered in Watson's other ear.
"I intend to take you, Watson."
Watson brought his head down upon the smooth wood of the desk. The heavy drag of Holmes' lips on the back of his neck, Holmes' stubble against his sensitised skin and the press of Holmes's weight across his back, caused him to loose most if not all his carefully woven rationality. He pushed up and spun awkwardly to face Holmes, hands making contact desperately against too many layers of clothing and cock brushing against Holmes rough trousers, a sliver of beautiful sensation he pushed toward for more. Holmes hand making contact with his chest however and a mock reproachful look on Holmes face restrained him from further movement.
"Enough--" he uttered throatily, grasping Holmes and kissing him hard "enough--games." he ground into Holmes mouth, awkwardly clashing teeth in his eagerness for more contact. The relief of finally doing so was blissful but the hold the corset, and by extension Holmes, still had on him was still unavoidable. His breathing was reduced to shallow gasps, sucked in between each deep satisfying kiss or whenever Holmes decided to release his lips. They drew apart with a gasp of mutual pleasure, and Holmes pulled away, maintaining nothing but the bare minimum of space necessary between them.
"My dear Watson, far be it for me to deprive you. I think this game is drawing near it's organic conclusion."
Watson repressed a smirk at his partners timely concession.
"Let me undress you first. You're wearing entirely too many clothes." Watson made short work of Holmes jacket and waistcoat, then --his Watson noted -- shirt, lifting it over Holmes shoulders. The corset was making his movements unnecessarily awkward, chafing under his arms and against his hips where it was snug against skin, but he enjoyed straining against it's inexorable silken embrace.
He dispatched of Holmes belt, holding it contemplatively before casting it aside and undoing the buttons beneath. He could feel Holmes, hard beneath the heavy tweed fabric and drew in a sticking breath as Holmes made a delightful sound at the contact. Soon Holmes was down to his Long Johns and boots. It was here Watson paused, suddenly realising that not being able to bend at the waist could prove tricky if he wished to continue fully.
Holmes, on the other hand, had evidently seen the possible conclusion where Watson had not.
"Old chap, found a flaw in your proceedings have you..." Holmes chuckled deep in his chest. "Did you not say you wished to undress me? Do continue." and he gestured with one flamboyant sweep of his hand at his yet dressed lower half. Watson dropped to his knees as softly as he could, but still winced at impact on the thin rug. He slipped Holmes boots off and tugged the final pieces of underwear away leaving Holmes, in all his glory, before him. He was not very long but thick and gorgeous, it was all Watson could do to not take Holmes in his mouth then and there, so he did.
Watson reveled in the incoherent noises he drew from Holmes as he brought more and more of his mouth down on Holmes's cock, moving his tongue slowly back and forth. The sound of Holmes voice brought him back to the moment. A master of control as always, Holmes pulled away once more with a gasp, "Good grief, Watson, not just yet."
He maneuvered himself away and walked quickly to a nearby bureau where he retrieved a small glass bottle and a single glove from a drawer. Watson recognised the glove as one he used for examinations and he shivered involuntarily and felt himself grow achingly harder at the implications of what Holmes might do with it.
"Put your hands out in front of you. Look straight ahead."
Watson dropped his hands, a flush brought to his cheeks at the humiliation of crawling like their dog but moved into position as Holmes gave direction; hands and knees on the hearth place rug, arse in the air, the cords of the corset hanging obscenely between his legs. It was not the most comfortable of positions, and his shoulder and leg ached softly like background noise, for there were far more pressing attentions. He felt Holmes kneeling along side him, snapping the rubber at his wrist. The fireplace was hot and bright on one side of his body, Holmes on the other and in shadow, but providing a heat unlike no other. Holmes's hands finally made contact with the burning skin of Watson's hips, smoothing across the flesh uncovered by fabric and trailing down between his cheeks. He arched as far as he could towards the touch with the corset restraining him. The sensation of rubber against his flesh made Watson burn. Burn somewhat with embarrassment that something so regular could provoke him to such an hysteria.
He hissed as Holmes, without warning, pressed a single digit against his anus but after some gentle ministrations by Holmes's practiced hand, and the use of the contents of the bottle, he was soon pushing past the painful burn and into a more mindless pleasure.
"Did any of your patients remark on it?" Holmes queried with a casual air as he withdrew and readied a second finger. "Or did they just think you blessed with posture more exceptional than usual today." He added, pressing slowly again into Watson past two knuckles, and twisting achingly slowly.
"I don't suppose it would be very visible," He continued, feeling for any resistance but not expecting to find any, "not with your deeply perverse application of starched collars. Most distressing these straightlaced fashions of today, would you not say, Watson." Watson squirmed and moaned in response, pushing mindlessly back against the fingers which were just short of what he needed. What he desperately needed. "People are far to polite to comment upon such matters anyhow..."
"Please." Watson bit out. "God, please just."
"What's that dear fellow? Have you something to say?" Holmes withdrew his fingers, but not before smearing his cock with the contents of the bottle - his own preparation. He paused, waited.
"Please Holmes, bugger me, god... please." Waiting for just those words, Holmes readied himself, grappling with both hands to get purchase on Watson's sweaty hips and once inside pressing forward with enough force to shove Watson forward, momentarily requiring him to regain his balance mouth wide and panting at the sensation.
Watson felt Holmes take hold of the loose cords which hung against his leg, using them as another means to gain purchase as he ploughed deeper. With each thrust Holmes tugged the corset laces, tightening them further. The stays pressed against Watson's ribs and diaphragm. He would have marks for some hours afterwards, ones that Holmes would inspect with curiosity as they lay together in bed.
Watson's arms lost their strength and he pitched forwards, but it was not enough to throw Holmes off balance and be began to thrust into Watson with the regularity of a metronome, steadily increasing pace but altering the depth and angle of each thrust. Watson rocked back in a messy attempt to match, heat growing deep within. He struggled to draw breath against the increased restriction of the corset, absently wondering what the dimensions of his waist might be. The feel of it clinging to his chest, immovable and the air in the room suddenly so thick with heat and sweat and the smell of sex. The dusty carpet and the fireplace, and Holmes, Holmes scent was everywhere, in his mouth, on his hands where his head rested. He couldn't think, could hardly breath, but the pleasure of it, of Holmes finally filling him after hours of teasing, of him finally hitting just the right calculated spot within. It was too much, and all thoughts but one left him as he came hard.
Next time Holmes would wear the corset.