No one enjoys power more than Sherlock Holmes. And what could bring more power than information, information stemming from careful, constant observation and the inevitable deductions obeying a god-like logic.
I have no doubt he had me since our very first encounter: an almost unconscious glimpse at his sleek figure and sultry posture (intentionally so, no doubt to provoke a reaction), a handshake lingering slightly longer than required by the demands of civility, a hardly noticeable blush under his unrelenting regard. Yes, he held me from that moment on and used without failing the knowledge that was his. Pray, do not mistake my meaning: he would never resort to outright blackmail; for his art is such that those sorts of crude measures need not even constitute a last resort.
He used the information by means of sidewise glances, directed at me from under his eyelashes, carefully constructed innuendos and subtle flirting no one could ever have recognized as such had he not surmised my deepest obsessions and known the ends and means of Holmes's cunning and cold nature.
As regards my knowledge of the facts, it took me the longest time to perceive I was being used in the lowest and most demeaning manner – by the man I had come to consider as a friend and partner no less! Since that day my anger knows no limits. I should have opined it all along, and perhaps somewhere in my heart of hearts I did indeed know he was not to be trusted, for each time I looked closely into his eyes – those cold, glimmering quicksilver eyes – I could but tremble transfixed as beast of prey shudder of fright at the mercy of their predator.
Those eyes reveal his true nature: there is no depth in them; they are like a shell covering the emptiness where there should be a living, breathing man with doubts and passions.
He uses me but I am unable to protest neither in words nor in deeds. Only my thoughts sometime betray me – and even those private revolts are impossible to hide from the all-knowing eyes; his mouth distorted to smirk at my impotence exhibiting his knowledge.
My lust for his body is as great as my hate for his abuse of me; at times I feel unable to distinguish between the two as images stem into my mind to shake my very being. Images of him, lying prostrate upon his bed, his pale bottom lifted up with his legs splayed for me and his whole body convulsing – either from desire or from fear, I cannot tell. This beautiful display excites me more than any other fantasy; I long nothing else than to take him and to fill him with me seed until he screams my name.
One night I come home from my rounds to find Holmes splayed upon the settee, his nightgown covering only shirtsleeves, and lost in cocaine stupors as he has for nearly a week's time. It is late at night: the curtains are drawn and Mrs. Hudson and the maid have retired many hours ago.
He looks so enticing and strangely vulnerable lying there with his eyes closed, the translucent skin illuminated by the faint light, the chest rising and falling to his respiration and those long lashes of his shuddering over the sculpted cheeks at some passing dream. What a shame that so sensual a form should be wasted on such a frigid mind! The flicker of lust quivering in my stomach has turned onto a fiercely burning fire, and my prudence is overruled by my desire.
I approach him carefully, almost reverently, intending to steal a furtive touch at his unconscious form, to snake my arms around that narrow waist and to trace the length of his long muscular legs. Alas, he stirs as I approach him, opening one half-lidded eye. "Hullo, Watson, finished playing doctor for tonight, have we?" I can barely make out the words as they are a slur ending in a chuckle as if for some private joke. There is no mistaking the meaning though, for his lack-lustre eyes have a malicious glint in them even as his throat is still curving as in a gesture of submission.
Perhaps it is those dreams that have been plaguing me of late – the dreams of Holmes at my mercy – and the fatigue from the languid scorn of Holmes's that spur the idea into my mind.
His limbs have not the force to move nor his mind the clarity to command them even as he no doubt observes the strange glint in my eye. I capture his wrists in a single swift movement and pull him up only to spin his body round and to pin it underneath me. He feebly tries to protest but I hold my stand; he is stronger than I but at this moment his is at my mercy, for he is much weakened by the effects of the drug and by his self-imposed fast.
He vainly wriggles under my weight and panics in earnest as I push aside his dressing gown and pull down his trousers. His arse is pale, firm and lean as I force his buttocks apart with my thick and engorged member. I take him forcefully, his slick, tight entrance clinging to my prick with such heat and intensity that I almost spend myself at once. Almost but not quite, for I want to hear him scream before the end - as he obligingly does as I commence to pound deeply into his arse. With his sobbing pleas in my ears I finally climax, thrusting to fill him once more in a single great burst of pleasure.
Afterward, I lay sometime over his body, my member still buried within him, trying to catch my breath. Holmes has ceased all struggle and lays as still as if he were dead. The sight of his pale neck stirs something in me; I rip of his collar and sink my teeth to his neck to mark him as mine. This finally elicits a reaction from him: he shudders convulsively and lets out a single harsh sob as I lick the tooth marks. I leave him there on the settee, pausing only to cover his nudity with a plaid and ascent to my room as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, thinking I have finally taken the upper hand.
It is only the next morning after a well-slept night's sleep that I realize what has taken place. I am shaving myself facing the reflection upon the bathroom mirror; suddenly, my stomach takes a sickly turn and I pale nearly dropping the razor. There is only one thought in my mind and an awful recognition dawns on me: he had been slick when I breached him; that bastard has had me once again, he has seen into my mind and manipulated me according to his own schemes. I only apprehend what twisted intent serves this masterful performance…