Submissive
He knew it was her from the moment that he saw her sitting alone, clad in a low cut red dress, with a slit up the side. One long leg crossed over the other revealed matching stilettos; he'd finally agreed to have dinner with her.
Irene Adler was a dominatrix, one of the finest, and she'd nearly outsmarted Sherlock once before. He greeted her with a kiss on her hand and then sat down across from her. She motioned for the waiter, who brought over an expensive bottle of wine. She instructed him to fill their glasses, to come back periodically to make sure they remained that way; Sherlock had once calculated Watson's body weight and alcohol level to insure a drunken stupor, but miscalculated and wound up pissed himself. After his second glass of wine, he kicked himself for not remembering how much drink he could and could not handle.
The meal was unusually quiet, and after a bottle and a half of wine, Irene slipped off her shoe, trailed her foot up Sherlock's leg, rested it between his thighs, causing him to choke on his wine. She smiled seductively, and Sherlock stared at her. He placed his napkin across his crotch, wished she'd stop doing…that…with her toes.
The waiter brought a single dessert, something immensely chocolate, and Irene gave Sherlock a bite. He chewed slowly, letting the sweet concoction melt in his mouth, and he licked his lips as Irene licked the spoon. They finished their wine and Irene put her shoe back on and picked up her purse. She waited for Sherlock to help her into her coat, and then they left the restaurant and hailed a cab.
"My place," she whispered, and Sherlock looked at her. She was truly stunning. As the cab sped off, she let her fingers continue the work that her foot had begun, and Sherlock closed his eyes, leaned back further into the seat. When she slowly unzipped his trousers, his mouth found hers, his fingers entwined into her hair, pulling it free from its tight bun. Her hair spilled down onto her shoulders, and he reveled in its scent, in her scent, in the way she tasted. She slipped a cold hand inside, and right before finding his massive erection, the cab stopped and she smiled.
"Compose yourself, my darling Sherlock. We've arrived."
He cleared his throat and zipped his pants. "Right."
He had trouble walking, but made it inside the flat, found the sofa and sat down. Although the room was spinning, he took yet another glass of wine.
"Be a dear and unzip my dress."
Sherlock sat up and slid the zipper down, watched the dress fall to the floor; her measurements were exactly the same. She left the room and he could hear running water. She'd left the open bottle of wine on the table next to his glass, which he filled again and quickly gulped. He was, without a doubt, drunk, and anticipating Irene's next few moves, he meandered into her bedroom, undressed, and climbed into her bed. Satin sheets, candles already lit, an enticing aroma permeated the room; she knew how to set the mood, and Sherlock could barely contain himself.
She entered the room momentarily, fully nude, and Sherlock was only half surprised when she began to tie him up. After the knots were secure, she picked up a lit candle, straddled him on the bed, and tipped it, letting the hot wax drip onto his chest. He inhaled sharply-it was painful, but highly erotic, and at that moment he wanted nothing more than to be untied, to take her just like this. She was in control, however, and he would have to wait in agony, simply because it pleased her.
He was dizzy, with alcohol, with arousal, and when she pulled the duvet back and lowered herself onto him, his body arched in such a way that it made her body rise. She titled her head back, placed her hands on his chest and moved ever so slowly, tormenting him.
"You must untie me. Now," he pleaded, and Irene moaned. "Ah, but this is exquisite."
"Untie me and I'll show you exquisite."
"Mmm…"
She moved in a circle then and Sherlock cried out, and then she rose off of him and began untying the knots.
"You're a lucky fellow, Sherlock. I don't usually untie my lovers."
Once untied, Sherlock grabbed her, laid her on her back and entered her quickly, causing her to gasp, her nails scratching his back.
"Be submissive for me," he grunted, and Irene's breathing became faster and faster, her hips keeping time with Sherlock's, and within moments they were climaxing together, moans and sighs and shudders, and it was immaculate.
"Sherlock!"
He startled, saw John staring at him.
"The bloody hell? You're frightening the passengers."
Sherlock sat up straight and glanced around the train. Mothers were holding their children's ears; Sherlock had been very verbally dreaming.
And what a dream it had been…