Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Please be aware that the following is absolutely filthy, completely, irredeemably raunchy smut so if you don't like that sort of thing you can skip to the next chapter. If you do, on the other hand, like it then enjoy. And as always thanks for their reviews go to Sara Dobie Bauer, likingthistoomuch, shazzykins, Manon de Sercoeur and JamesNorthman96. Enjoy!
~ WHERE LOVE BUILDS HIS MANSION ~
It all starts off so simply, so well, that not even the Great Detective could have imagined how bad things would turn. How much trouble he and Molly would find.
But then, had they known, would they have gone at all?
A week after their conversation Holmes and Hooper arrive in Paris, laden down with both suitcases and cover stories. Their identities have been set up by Mycroft and his people, the local gendarmerie informed-
All they have to do now is put on a convincing show.
Holmes has no doubt that they're capable of it: they are both, after all, highly adept at pretending to be something they're not. Hooper's going by the name of Margaret Ashford, only daughter of a wealthy tinned goods magnate who has just eloped to France with her ne'er-do-well rake of a husband, one Christopher Vernet.
They've apparently scandalised polite London society and now they're out to paint the City of Light red too.
In keeping with the theme of their disguise, both Holmes and Hooper make an absolute spectacle of themselves at every opportunity, kissing and touching and in general behaving like they can't keep their hands off one another. It takes them a monumental thirty minutes to get to their second floor room in the Hotel Meurice on Rue de Rivoli, for example, and by the time they have the entire establishment knows their names. It makes sense, of course, to be obvious since the other three couples whose disappearances Mycroft wants investigated were also notably (and publicly) besotted with one another-
But it's more than that, Holmes knows.
There's more to this than merely being thorough in a cover story.
For, were he and Hooper merely playing a part their charade would end the moment they closed the door to their luxuriously gaudy suite; They would settle down and plot their next move, intent on bringing those who have caused these disappearances to justice.
Instead, Molly proceeds to open her fake trousseau and take out some objects which she assures Sherlock are absolutely necessary for a young lady's honeymoon. They include a paddle. A flail. A length of soft, silken rope and a small jar of oil, rather similar to that which she used the last time she gave him a massage.
Holmes doubts, however, that it's to be used for a massage now.
For nestled in amongst her jewels and clothes, amongst her sheer stockings and silk gloves and modest, virginal night-rails there sits a long, perfectly shaped, perfectly smooth leather-covered model of a phallus. A cock. It has been mounted on a sturdy leather harness, perfect for someone of Hooper's height and slender build to wear.
The sight of it makes Holmes stop. Stare.
He flushes scarlet, bites his lip in anticipation.
His throat goes dry, even as his breathing turns shallow.
For he knows what she intends to do with that; She'd teased him about it (in London), had told him that were he to be her bridegroom then she'd put him on his knees and fuck him from behind like the filthy, gorgeous, perfect little whore that she knows he is. She'd make him mewl and beg and plead for her and when she was done with him he'd be so thoroughly, utterly debauched that he'd kiss her feet- and any other part of her anatomy she directed him to- in gratitude.
At the time Holmes had been excited by the idea but hadn't believed that she was serious.
Now, looking at her stalking towards him as she sheds clothes and inhibitions, watching as she fits the phallus and harness over her knicker-clad, swaying hips and pristine white bridal corset, all he can do is stare. Stare and salivate.
He's not sure he's ever been so aroused before.
"Is the door locked?" he stammers, knowing well what she intends to do to him.
Hooper smiles wickedly, shaking her head.
"Oh no, darling boy," she purrs, sashaying over to him. Her eyes are wicked. "And I'll not lock it tonight, on that you may depend."
She slides one small, gloved hand along his chest and Sherlock gulps, feeling his heart begin to thud, nipples tightening even as his cock strains to hardness at the thought of what he's about to do. At the thought of what he's about to have done to him.
"But what if someone walks in?" he asks. He refuses to think about the tremor in his voice. "What if we make noise and the staff come in, the staff try to check on us..?"
Hooper's laughter is throaty and dark.
"Why then they'll see my bridegroom being fucked by his delicate, ladylike little wife," she says, her hands going to his clothes. Beginning to remove them. Her fingers are always so much more deft with his buttons than his are. They bare his skin with such loving, efficient care. "And then they'll see how much he likes it-"
"They will?" She nods and Holmes can already feel his pulse racing, the arousal of what's about to happen setting his every nerve on edge.
"So I'll have to be quiet?" he ask and again she nods. Kisses him.
She's gotten most of his clothes off by now, has started licking and sucking at his throat. His chest. His earlobes. It feels so good than when she pulls off his final piece of clothing, his smalls, he can't help but give a small, wanton shiver.
"On the bed," she says and he should be embarrassed how eager he is to comply, to do her bidding, but he isn't.
Holmes has long ago given up feeling shame for the delight he takes in what she does to him.
"Spread your knees," she directs as soon as he's in place, stepping to the side and pulling off her gloves. Pouring some of the oil he noted earlier onto her hands with another, more incendiary smile. The smell of it fills the room, olive oil, he thinks, possibly with… peppermint? No, cedar. And something else, something his lust-addled brain is too befuddled to categorise. Something that makes his cock ache and his heart clench, that makes his every muscle shudder with anticipation.
It's the scent of her- of them together, he belatedly realises, and for Holmes at least there's no smell more welcome than that.
So he holds still for her, tries his best to make himself ready. As he watches she slathers the cock in oil, making it glisten. The leather creaks as she moves and despite himself Holmes drops his head. Huffs out a hungry little breath in anticipation even as his own cock begins to ache.
His shoulders slump, eyes fluttering closed, mind already drifting towards that peaceful, blissful place that only she sends him. He's tipped his arse upwards, eager and ready for her, and as he feels her kneel on the bed she sets to stroking her oil-covered hands over his shoulders. His buttocks. His spine.
She saves his cock and bollocks for last, but then she always does.
She whispers, over and over, as she touches him just how good he feels. How good he's being for her.
"Perfect," she murmurs, "you're always so perfect for me…My sweet, perfect, darling, filthy boy…"
And then she leans down and takes his cock in one hand, her other staying at the phallus' harness to hold it steady. Time seems to slow, then to stop; She takes her time, stroking him all over, lathering his skin in the oily concoction. Taking special care to make sure the tight, hungry hole of his anus is wet and ready before she slips her wicked little finger in.
At the sensation of being entered Holmes whines- he always whines when she does this- and he feels her smile against his back. Hears the sweet puff of laughter she gives as she starts working him, first with one finger, then another. She strokes and coaxes that spot he loves so much, that spot that makes him see stars. By the time she's pressing three fingers inside him he's moaning like a thrupenny whore and with a soft query regarding his readiness she moves into place behind him. Takes her phallus in hand.
Holmes shivers as he feels it sliding lewdly against his thighs and arse, her hands gentle and caring as she whispers in his ear that he must tell her if he's ready.
He can't speak- his tongue is thick and heavy, too tied with pleasure for affirmation- but he nods his head. Moans out a single, guttural, "please," even as he feels her press the bulbous head of the cock just breach him. Feels her grunt softly at the new, added pressure even as her right hand return to his prick and balls.
She keeps her hand left against his hip and pushes, holding him steady.
The head of the phallus slips inside him another notch.
He hisses in pleasure and bites his lip, whines softly that he wants more. That he needs it. Deserves it. Will do anything for it.
"Patience," she murmurs, "patience… I don't want to hurt you, darling…"
Nevertheless he feels her push deeper inside him, feels the length of the phallus filling him up. Making him shiver. She thrusts gently and he moans. Presses back against her. It's all he can do to hold still, let her maintain her control of him.
It's all he can do, really, to not yell out at the pleasure she's inflicting on him.
But he trusts her, after all. He's hers. He can wait to see what she's going to do to him. And even if he didn't, this feels too bloody good to want to stop. So he holds himself together, presses his face into his pillow rather than make a noise and bring anyone to disturb them. When the pleasure gets too great he opens his mouth and bites the pillow's cotton, the thought of his screams being audible outside the only thing that can keep him in some measure of control.
But even that proves fleeting. Even that proves tenuous. For with one sure, slick, steady hand she begins pumping his prick even as he feels her push, the phallus moving deeper inside him. She pulls back almost all the way out before pressing in again, her hand moving deliciously against his prick the entire time. She does it once, twice, and he moans. She picks up her speed and he can't help it- He loses control of himself.
His hips begin to pump, hers moving in rapid time with them.
Hers driving him ever closer to his breaking point.
The sound of creaking leather and slapping flesh and sweet, sharp, protecting bedsprings fills the suite until it's louder than a symphony. More melodic than any nocturne.
His body is an instrument and she's playing it as surely as he plays his violin.
For a moment as he thinks that everything hangs in the balance. For a moment as he thinks that he stands on the cusp, waiting, waiting, for the freefall into bliss- into self-loss- to begin. And then there's a hiss of pleasure, a snarl of it. Climax snaps through him, his head thrown back, his body losing any control he might have of it. His voice yelling hoarsely that yes, yes, this is what he wants, this is what he's always wanted- This is what he needs to much-
When he comes back to himself she's stroking his back and shoulders lovingly. Carefully. With swift, deft fingers she removs the phallus from within him.
He turns to her, awash in emotion and pleasure and sheer, blissful, ecstatic gratitude and as he kisses her he murmurs thank you. "Thank you, Molly," he whispers.
It's only later he realises his eyes are wet with something suspiciously like tears as he says this.
Her eyes are suspiciously wet too but she doesn't say anything. Just holds him more closely to her.
What neither of them know is that their tryst was not nearly so private as they might have assumed it was, and that at that very moment word is being sent to someone who can turn their whole lives upside down…
A/N The title of the chapter refers to Yeats' "Crazy Jane and The Bishop." Well, sort of...
