“Good heavens, Holmes, did you see that magnificent beast?” I asked, removing my collar.
“What, you mean Inspector Danbury? Should I be jealous?”
“Don’t be puerile, Holmes. I meant the horse, Braintree’s Pride. Nineteen hands of pure muscle!” I let out a low whistle.
“Now I know I should be jealous,” Holmes chuckled, slipping off his waistcoat. “Honestly, Watson, I never knew you went in for bestiality.”
“Holmes, you’re incorrigible,” I frowned, sitting down upon the bed and taking off my shoes and socks.
“I’m not the one lusting after poor dumb beasts,” Holmes teased, laughing as he ducked the sock I threw at him.
“Really, Holmes, does everything have to be about sex for you? I was simply admiring the strength of the animal. Actually,” I continued in a nostalgic tone, “he reminds me of Rex.”
“An old lover of yours?” Holmes had stripped off his shirt and started on his trousers as I pulled on my pyjamas and climbed between the sheets.
“Rex,” said I in my most calm demeanour, “was a horse.”
“So you have a history of this sort of deviance. Interesting.”
“Rex was my father’s horse back in Edinborough,” I frowned.
“And your first love. How sweet,” Holmes snickered, kissing me on the cheek as he slipped into bed, completely naked, as usual.
“Are you going to behave tonight?” I asked evenly, “or am I going to have to take stern measures?”
“Oh, but I do so love to make you squirm,” he said impishly. “And you’ve been positively glum all day.”
“But you’ve been a perfect delight to be around,” I growled. My companion’s lecture upon my supposed failure during my recent reconnaissance mission to the stables had soured an already inedible meal at the local inn. “I don’t mind running your errands,” I continued with some asperity, “but you could be a bit more tactful when pointing out my shortcomings.”
Sherlock Holmes took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, John,” he said quietly. “Sometimes I forget my diplomacy.”
I touched his cheek. “And I forget that your work must always come first,” I said solemnly. “You know I don’t resent that it has to be that way. And at least now,” I said, as I plumped my pillow, “you know when you cross the line.”
Holmes leaned back into his own pillows, crossing his arms behind his head. “And you know I was only taking the mickey about Rex. So was he the family pet?”
“He was my father’s carriage-horse, but on Sundays, we would take him to the park and ride him. I haven’t thought about him in years,” I finished, a little sadly.
“He was special to you,” Holmes said quietly.
I nodded, a lump at my throat. “He was good-natured, noble, a gentleman among horses. In fact he was a thoroughbred, a much better class of horse than our family could have afforded. He was a present from a grateful patient.”
“I’m sorry I teased you, John. I never intended to imply that you had actually had a sexual relationship with an animal, let alone a beloved pet. No wonder you were so nettled.”
I blushed heavily as a memory sprang to my mind unbidden. Unfortunately, Holmes noticed the change in my expression immediately.
His eyes widened. “Look, old fellow …” he began. “It’s none of my business …” he trailed of hopelessly.
I took a deep breath. “Holmes, it wasn’t like that.”
“But there was something.”
“Nothing … interactive.”
“Indeed. Perhaps it would help you if I confessed that I’ve always found something … fascinating about horses myself.”
I smiled with relief. “They’re beautiful animals. I would never, ever, even think of actually doing … well …” I rolled over and burrowed my face in Holmes’ chest.
He curled a long, sinewy arm around my shoulders and kissed my forehead. “Why don’t you tell me about it, John?”
“You promise you won’t …”
“My darling,” he said softly. “You know I shall never judge you.”
The pure novelty of Sherlock Holmes using such an endearment was enough to quell my insecurities. I took a deep breath. “Well, the first thing you must know is that I was fourteen.”
“That almost explains the whole thing. I remember what I was like at fourteen.”
“You?” I laughed.
“Well, I didn’t do anything. But I did read quite a few books.”
“Holding them with one hand, no doubt.”
Holmes’ eyes twinkled. “No doubt. So tell me about Rex.”
“He was a beautiful stallion. Like Braintree’s Pride, he was snow white, nineteen hands high, all grace and power. And,” I said, blushing slightly, “he was a particularly … gifted individual, even for a horse. And it was my job to clean the stables.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Stallions are just like men. They can and do become sexually aroused, sometimes at the most inopportune times.”
Holmes’ grin widened. “You were a frequent witness to this equine arousal, then.”
I nodded. “It … intrigued me. Whenever Rex became aroused, I would ….” My face burned scarlet with the shame.
Holmes laid a hand on my shoulder. “Steady on, old boy.”
I closed my eyes. “I would … pleasure myself, while looking at …” I buried my face in the hollow of Holmes’ neck. “I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”
“So you took matters to hand while viewing some particularly inspiring equipment,” he chuckled, ruffling my hair. “I think I should have done the same thing. In fact,” he continued, kissing my neck, “just the thought of it is doing something to me right now.” He took my hand and brought it under the sheets to his groin.
I stroked his hardness, feeling my own member stir in sympathy. “You are my stallion,” I joked, biting his neck.
“Mmmm. Does that mean you’ll ride me?” His hands began to stray to the string on my pyjama bottoms, but I pushed them away playfully.
“Aren’t you on a case?”
“What the hell does that mean?” he growled.
“That’s the excuse you used last night.”
“John, for the love of God –” he broke off with a strangled gasp as I suddenly rose up and straddled him, still holding firmly on to his pulsing rod.
He arched his back as I pulled his prick with firm strokes, groaning slightly as I tickled his balls lightly with my free hand. This time when he reached for the string at my waist, I did not stop him, and soon his long fingers closed around my cock, caressing in time to my strokes.
“Come up here,” he panted. “I want to suck you.”
I pulled off my pyjama bottoms and straddled my lover’s chest, leaning against the headboard as he sucked my rampant manhood into his hot mouth. I caressed his soft, coal-black hair as he licked my length, gazing fondly up into my eyes with wanton joy, his lips stretched tight around my straining member. He reached a hand around my bottom and started fingering my hole teasingly, and I had to control myself to keep from spending in his mouth too soon when he pushed his digit deep into me.
“I want you inside me,” I said, puffing slightly.
Holmes kissed the tip of my cock. “I am inside you,” he said coyly, as his finger slid deeper inside my hole.
“You know what I mean,” I growled.
“I want to hear you say it,” he told me, as his tongue came out for another teasing stroke of my prick. He frigged me slowly with his finger. “You know I love it when you use filthy language. Talk like that smutty magazine I found under your mattress.”
I blushed furiously. Our sex life had gotten more interesting since he’d found my copy of the Pearl. “I want to feel your cock inside my hole,” I said, my voice a bare whisper.
“Not good enough,” he replied, with another kiss to the tip of my prick.
“Say it, John.”
“I want you to fuck me,” I said quietly.
“Fuck me,” I groaned, as his finger slid from me. “Please.”
“‘Please?’” he chuckled coquettishly, licking my glans with the lightest flicker of his tongue. “None of your lusty harlots in the Pearl ever said ‘please.’”
I pushed my cock up against his lips, but he pulled away, and began frigging me faster, adding another finger as he smiled up at me angelically. “Now what was it you needed?”
“I need you to fuck me now,” I growled.
“Then you’d better get us ready,” he grinned.
I reached over to the bedside drawer and pulled out a small tin. I coated his prick liberally with the lubricant, before putting a large dollop on my lover’s hand. I leaned forward and kissed him, groaning into his mouth as he caressed my small opening with his forefinger, then I lowered myself onto him, impaling myself slowly all the way to the hilt, then raising myself up almost to his tip, then back down again. He let me find the rhythm, his long white fingers massaging my member in time with my exertions. We rocked together for a while in growing ecstasy, our bodies joined in perfect unison. Soon I could contain myself no longer, and I spilled my seed out into my lover’s hand and onto his belly, the contractions of my inner muscles bringing him swiftly to his own climax. We lay there together for a long time before rising to cleanse ourselves.
“I never do get your depths, Watson,” he yawned as he pulled the covers over us, kissing my cheek. “And all because that our client’s prize stallion looks just like your father’s horse.”
“Holmes, Braintree’s Pride isn’t a stallion.”
“He isn’t a mare,” Holmes replied, raising an eyebrow, “unless the qualifications have changed somewhat since I studied biology.”
“He’s a gelding, Holmes.”
“But he still has his –”
“They leave that intact. It’s just the testes they remove.”
Holmes winced slightly. “Such charming post-coital conversation. But if Braintree’s Pride is a gelding …” he trailed off, a single finger idly stroking my shoulder. His grey eyes flickered rapidly, his lips moving silently.
Then, in one fluid movement, Sherlock Holmes leapt from the bed. “Come, Watson! We have no time to lose!”
“But what …” I stopped myself, getting wearily to my feet. I knew that tone all too well, as well as I knew the reproachful look he shot me as we hastily pulled on our clothes.
“A man’s life hangs in the balance, Watson! Hurry!” he fairly shouted, as he swept out of the room.
The singular case of Braintree’s Pride, the details of which I may yet make public someday, was followed by a fairly dull but extremely lucrative jewel theft that kept Holmes in Paris for a fortnight, and the next week, I was lecturing on forensic pathology at Edinborough University. By the time I returned to Baker Street, Holmes was away again, this time to Warsaw, where he was of some small service to the royal family of Poland. With one thing and another, it was over seven weeks before we next saw each other. Had I had my way, we should have met somewhere privately before appearing together in public, but a telegram from Scotland Yard had brought me to Charing Cross Station, where Lestrade and I would meet Holmes’ train.
I checked my watch for the fifth time, and received a warning look from Lestrade; the dog-faced constable standing with us on the platform was eyeing me rather strangely. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. Admittedly, I had been fidgeting since we entered the station, and Lestrade’s attempts at cheerful conversation had not been working. I did my best to respond to his chatter about rugby and the weather, but I could not keep my mind on the present, and it was all the fault of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Since we had become lovers, the all-too frequent separations that marked our careers could be painfully frustrating, leading to some particularly heated passions, even from the supposed master of emotionless reasoning. It was times like this, when we were forced to reunite in public, that we were in the most danger of public exposure; even Holmes’ legendary acting skills could be strained with such a long absence, and the matter was not aided by my own well-documented lack of skills at pretence. In addition, Holmes had not played fair this time. During our time apart, I had received no less than twenty-five extremely obscene letters (each typewritten on different machines, of course, and each signed simply: “your stallion”). Every time I thought about the things Holmes had suggested in those letters, I began to blush furiously. And then there was the last letter ….
Sent just this morning after our plans had been changed, this one, handwritten, entirely un-incriminating document consisted of a single cryptic statement and an enclosure. I could only imagine what perverse antics Holmes might have devised for our private reunion. He had been showing increasing creativity lately, and this was the longest time we had been apart since his disappearance at Reichenbach. Needless to say, my heart beat abnormally fast as the 5:14 from Dover pulled into the station.
“Constable Laurie,” Lestrade said casually, “why don’t you see to Mr. Holmes’ baggage?”
“You’re a good friend, Gabriel Lestrade,” I murmured as we watched the constable walk away.
“You would do the same for me,” said the detective. “By the way, Alice wants you two to come to supper Friday next.”
“You may tell her we’re both looking forward to it,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I caught sight of that familiar profile coming towards us. I bit my lip and walked forward to greet him.
“Lestrade! Watson! So good of you both to meet me at the station,” Holmes said cheerfully. Our handshake was the briefest of touches, our eyes barely met. Yet I could feel a palpable heat coming from my lover as he rattled on to Lestrade about the newest advances in continental detection:
“You wouldn’t believe the latest French techniques in fibre identification, Lestrade. I have half a mind to write another monograph …” he paused, shaking his head. “But you wired me about this Cranwell case. It sounds like it has some singular features of interest.”
“Yes, I thought you’d be intrigued,” Lestrade replied, as we swept across the platform to where Constable Laurie had procured Holmes’ luggage. “And no less than the Commissioner himself wants you to look into this one. He’s certainly grateful that you could change your plans.”
“Well, it is deucedly inconvenient, rushing right off to Kent before I even have a chance to unpack my bags,” said Holmes, a little testily, “but then Mycroft sent me his own wire. Apparently I’ve been drafted. This case had better be as interesting as he says.”
“Oh, it’s right up your alley, Holmes, I’ll guarantee you that. We have a hansom outside, waiting to take you to Paddington. From there we’ve got you booked on …”
I sighed and followed along in their wake as the conversation moved from our travel arrangements onto the details of the case. I remained silent as they talked through the journey, my mind drifting back to the dozen or so words of that final note, pondering when I would find out what they meant.
You will receive the time [the note said]. The address is the return. Here is the key.
I had memorized the return address, and placed the enclosed key on my watch-chain to taunt Holmes, but now I realized that this would only make things more difficult for both of us if this case stretched on for very long. I resolved to remove it at the first opportunity, hoping that Holmes hadn’t noticed, but knowing that he had. I leaned back in the seat of the hansom and I wondered ruefully just how long we would have to pretend.
Some three days later, I was in a seedy public house in Kent and furious enough to hang Sherlock Holmes up by his toenails.
“I’m not upset,” I growled, taking the darts from Lestrade’s hand. “I’d just like to know where the hell he is.”
“Look, Watson, he said he’d meet us here. You know how gets when he’s on a case.”
“The case is finished. He said so.”
“Perhaps he’s tying up one of his famous ‘loose ends.’” The detective dropped his voice as he stepped behind me. “Look, old fellow,” he whispered. “Can I be frank with you?”
I threw the darts in swift succession, each one landing in a disastrously low-scoring area of the board. I picked up my ale again and took a long swig. “You know you can say anything,” I replied, a little too heartily.
“He’s been running himself ragged, Watson. He hasn’t touched food or slept in the past forty-eight hours, and that last chase …” Lestrade shook his head. “I think he’s exhausted and he wants to … well, sleep it off before you two meet.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “And would you deny your good lady wife the opportunity to tend to your needs and let you rest in her arms after a long day?”
Lestrade sighed. “You’re right, of course. But Holmes isn’t the rest of us. You know that better than anyone. He just … oh, I don’t know.” He shrugged slightly, throwing his darts with annoying accuracy.
“Nice shot,” I said sarcastically.
“Thank you. Look, Watson, I don’t have to tell you what he’s like. I’m sure he’ll have a good explanation for disappearing like he did.” He fetched the darts and handed them to me.
“He always has a good explanation,” I muttered. This time, one of the darts bounced off the rim of the dartboard.
Lestrade laid a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, old man,” he said sympathetically. I’ll buy you another drink.”
“Thanks, Lestrade. But I think –”
“Telegram! Telegram for Doctor Watson!”
“Here!” I hailed the boy a little more enthusiastically than I ought, drawing some strange looks from the crowd. Unheeding, I tore open the envelope and read the wire, my heart leaping into my throat. Three words only greeted my weary eyes:
It is time.
“Good news?” Lestrade asked in an amused tone.
“I’ll let you know.” I handed my friend the darts, paid my bill, and left.
Five minutes later, I stood outside the door of a small, unassuming suburban villa on modest grounds, with a “For Sale” sign adorning an empty window. My hands trembled as I took the key from my watch-chain (I never had gotten around to removing it) and unlocked the door.
In the entryway, a single chalk arrow pointed beyond the stairs to a closed door. My heart beating faster, I pushed open this door, only to find another chalk arrow leading across this unfurnished room to another closed door. Two more empty rooms led me to a small courtyard, where an arrow led me to a modest side-building, which looked like …
My heart leapt into my throat. It was a stable, made to house a single horse, with an outer area for the tack, and a loose-box, the door to which was clearly marked with an “x” in the same white chalk.
I swallowed hard and pushed this last door open, then froze in shock.
Sherlock Holmes had arranged himself upon his hands and knees, his gleaming, naked buttocks facing me, his legs spread invitingly, a saddle upon his back, a bridle looped over his shoulders. A jar of saddle grease stood open on the side shelf, and a riding crop had been placed invitingly against the wall.
“Sweet Mother of God,” I whispered fervently.
Holmes managed a small whinny, pawing the ground with his hand in perfect imitation of a hoof.
“William Sherlock Holmes,” I muttered, “you are an incurable wanton.”
I received only a flutter of lips in response, a fair imitation of an equine sneeze. Smiling broadly, I picked up the riding crop and swished it experimentally through the air once or twice before striking the wall with a satisfying thwack. Holmes jumped in anticipation, but otherwise kept still. Licking my lips, I touched the tip of the riding crop to the base of his neck.
“Your letters were absolutely evil, you know,” I purred, tracing along Holmes’ back and around the contours of the saddle, then over to the centre of his back once more, trailing down to the very top of his buttocks. He shivered as I paused just at his tailbone, caressing this sensitive area with the soft leather loop of the crop. He moaned slightly and arched his back slightly, and I gave him a sharp smack.
“Stay, horse,” I said sternly. “After all, you must stay perfectly still if I am to mount you. As I was saying,” I continued, unbuttoning my flies with one hand, “your letters were evil. My poor prick is raw for all the pulling you forced me to indulge in, you wicked stallion.” I gave him another flick of the crop for emphasis, then picked up the jar of lubricant. I scooped out a generous portion and smeared it upon his hole, teasing the puckered muscle, but not entering. I took another dollop of the grease and stroked my throbbing rod a while, my other hand teasing my lover’s anus mercilessly with the crop.
“Maybe I won’t enter you at all,” I whispered mischievously. “Maybe I’ll just stroke myself off while I give you –” I poked the tip of the crop into his twitching hole, prompting a groan from my stallion. “Quiet,” I growled, pulling the crop out with a lightning-quick stroke and delivering two rapid smacks to each of his quivering thighs.
“Well, horse,” I continued calmly, “I think you should choose. One stomp for yes, two for no. Do you want me to fuck you with the crop while I keep my prick to myself?”
He pawed at the ground twice.
“So then you want me to bugger you with my cock?”
Only one thump this time. I grinned, and placed the tip of my pego at his entrance. “Let me hear you whinny again,” I whispered fiercely.
He whinnied rather convincingly, but I wasn’t going to give it to him that easily. I thwacked his buttocks with the crop. “Again,” I growled.
Holmes whinnied again, sounding for all the world like Silver Blaze. But still I wanted more. “Again,” I ordered, and this time the crop fairly whistled through the air, striking his gorgeous flesh with a resounding smack that made my cockstand twitch. I plunged my entire length into my love all at once, savouring the groan that escaped his lips. I grabbed the reins and gave them a gentle smack against his shoulder, and our ride began. I pumped him slowly at first, but seven long weeks of abstinence is no inducement to self-control; soon I was groaning in climax, pouring my essence deep inside him, my fingers gripping his taut buttocks so tightly that his skin would bear the marks for a week afterwards. I sank down onto his back, kissing the back of his neck fervently.
“Oh my darling love,” I sighed, nuzzling his cheek, “how I missed you.”
I was answered by an equine sneeze and another paw upon the ground. Grinning seductively, Sherlock Holmes rolled over onto his back, saddle and all, pulling me down on top of him. I could feel his urgent arousal grinding against my recently spent member as his tongue invaded my mouth, and I could tell by the coldness of his lips that he was near his own completion and in desperate need of release.
“I am sorry, my dear fellow,” I chuckled, smiling down at my stallion. “I didn’t mean to neglect you. Now, where were we? I think we can dispense with the whip,” I added, removing my trousers and reaching for the saddle grease once more. “You’ve been an excellent mount, and now we shall ride the other way.” I straddled him, leaning forward to give him a lingering kiss, while I fingered my hole with a greased-up digit. I sat down upon his staff, groaning as he filled me deliciously, his throbbing manhood pulsing deep inside me as he spent himself after only a half-dozen thrusts. We panted in unison, grappling clumsily with each other as we repositioned ourselves to something approaching comfort on the dusty stable floor, removing the saddle from Holmes’ back and nestling into each others’ arms. I held him close, my ear to his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“You know,” Holmes said eventually. “You were pretty evil yourself, old man.”
“Mmmm?” I had almost drifted off, sated in my lover’s arms.
Holmes yawned. “Wearing that key on your watch-chain. That was wicked.”
“And your letters weren’t wicked?” I smiled, caressing his chest. “I didn’t know you knew such filthy language.”
“I wrote those before I knew we would be meeting in public. I thought I would be able to act out my fantasies with you in the privacy of our rooms. But every time I saw that key …”
“I honestly meant to take the key off my watch-chain,” I told him. “But the last couple days were beyond reason.”
“I know, I know,” he sighed, stretching. “We’re getting too old for this, my boy.”
“I’m getting too old to sleep on such a hard floor,” I acknowledged, sighing as I shifted positions slightly.
“There’s a much more comfortable place to sleep in the villa.”
“I thought the place was empty,” I said, grunting slightly as we helped each other to our feet.
“I just had a bed arranged for one room, and a few amenities in the adjoining bath. Hence the circuitous route through the house; I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
“You certainly did surprise me,” I laughed, as we entered the house. “How did you manage this place?”
“It belongs to a friend of Mycroft’s. He offered the use of it to me as an inducement for my help with the Cranwell case. Apparently the request for my services came from high quarters indeed.”
“Holmes, who commissioned this case? It can’t have been –”
He grabbed me by the shoulders and pressed me up against the nearest wall, his tongue penetrating my mouth with delicious force. He pulled away and pressed a finger to my lips. “No, Watson,” he whispered solemnly. “Please don’t ask.”
I gave a resigned sigh. “Very well.” I obediently followed Holmes through a different hallway than the one I had traversed before. Here a large room had been set up with a double bed, a table with two chairs (for breakfast, I assumed), and a settee by the fireplace, which had been laid for a fire but not lit.
“Good heavens, Holmes,” I murmured. “Did Mycroft arrange all this?”
“He does tend to indulge his baby brother,” Holmes chuckled, as he sank down onto the bed. “Breakfast will be delivered at seven-thirty, and that door over there leads to an excellent bath,” he continued, closing his eyes and stifling a yawn. “I’ll just rest a here moment while you undress, and then I’ll join you …” the great detective trailed off into an indistinct mumble.
I swear I did not take longer than two minutes to strip myself naked, but when I turned around, Sherlock Holmes was fast asleep. Shaking my head with amusement, I bent over the bed and kissed his forehead, pushing back a stray lock of coal-black hair.
“Sleep well, my stallion,” I whispered, covering him with the fluffy eiderdown. Smiling to myself, I went off to the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind me.
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