Christmas With Sherlock: Gay Romance: MM Erotica

by Lou Watton

  ‘I’d love to,’ I whispered. He hypnotised me and I wouldn’t rule out that it was a hypnosis indeed that he was practicing on me. I followed him into the room, where I had spent nearly three years of my life. What had happened to the Spartan interior? The white walls turned black and the old metal framed bed was no more. Oriental watercolours hung everywhere, jute rugs covered the floor, and the bed was now a simple flat mattress, akin to a Japanese tatami, more appropriate in a gymnasium. Only a samurai sword was amiss, I joked to myself.

  ‘It’s very beautiful, Peter.’

  ‘I like the geometrical simplicity and clear borders here.’

  ‘I must say I’m surprised, quite a change from your brother’s house. And it doesn’t have a fireplace?’

  I shivered involuntarily and Peter spotted it right away. I felt his eyes fixed on me and as soon as I looked at him, he threw his arms around me. I stood dumbfounded, with my own limbs pressed straight to my sides.

  ‘Better now?’ Peter asked.

  His handsome face was close, and those lips, adorned with beautiful beard and moustache, made me lose my defences and shyness. I drew my face a mere inch closer to his and stopped. Was I jumping the gun?

  The answer was immediate and relentless, as his lips found mine and his limbs engulfed me and drowned me in blissful sensations. If Peter was a boa constrictor — that would have been the sweetest death a man could know. I emitted a weak moan, kissing him back fiercely, not quite believing it was happening to me. Was it a cruel dream? Then I wanted to die in my sleep. No, this time I was holding tight. Not necessarily a sign of strength – I only intended to take what was mine. I wasn’t losing Peter this time.

  I pushed him down on the mattress and pulled off his jumper. His white shirt hugged his brawny body, a nature’s masterpiece that begged to be immortalised by a sculptor. Then our eyes met again, and that look of lust was unparalleled. Only an extremely intelligent, sophisticated man could exude sex and lust the way Peter did. He was Apollo in flesh, and he was mine.

  ‘John, I have to tell you, I haven’t touched a man since I met you.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘That explains it.’ He chuckled, grabbing my crouch, which, as I instantly figured, was wet with anticipation. My prostate gland released a lubricant of passion.

  ‘John, I love the way you blush so randomly.’

  ‘I simply turn shy when a gorgeous fellow lays his hand on my most British parts.’

  ‘Good, that means you aren’t used to this.’

  Peter kissed me briefly, then rolled us to get on top of me and commenced undressing me slowly, kissing each time a newly exposed part of my body. I stared at him while he proceeded with his ceremony, rendered immobile by his beauty. And, I must admit, I had beheld many fine men in the past, soldiers in the hospital, often in their natural suit, often well endowed and hungry for attention of a lonely doctor. I never consummated my urges, because in my mind they were cheap. I knew now that all that time I had been waiting for the real treasure. Peter was worth the wait, and the fate rewarded me for my patience, or maybe it was Peter’s incredible mind.

  My thoughts were interrupted as he crossed his arms and slowly removed his shirt. I could first behold the slight invagination of his stomach, then the arc of his intricately carved ribs, and, finally above it, that prominent chest which slowly expanded and contracted as he breathed.

  Both nude at last, we slipped under the double linen sheet, exploring new areas of our bodies with our lips, me pinching his hardened nipples, him nibbling the skin over my collarbones, then finding my left armpit to powder his nose.

  Our hands often wandered below, where our hardened pestles rubbed against each other. I then sucked his cock watching him squirm and gasp. When I moved up again to kiss him, he said, ‘Thank God I fed you that toast. I was worried my sausage was about to be sliced up.’

  ‘Less teeth. Understood,’ I replied. ‘I just couldn’t contain myself, Peter.’

  ‘I was only worried I wouldn’t last till the main meal arrives.’

  ‘The meals will be coming as long as you want them,’ I said.

  ‘My appetite is huge.’

  ‘Oh yeah? How about that?’

  Our eyes locked as I lay down on my side and directed his cock towards my ‘rosy cheeks’. He groaned when my wet bum hole met his flesh. I pulled his pelvis in my direction and felt his thick cock squeezing in. I was in sudden pain and pleasure at the same time. Peter stopped entering and kissed my neck. I took a deep breath and his cock went deeper. I gasped in pleasure when it hit a soft wall inside me. Peter was so enormous, he could probably massage my diaphragm.

  As if reading my silly thoughts, Peter withdrew, then, while still courting my neck with his lips, began fucking me. Those kisses soon felt like stings of a jellyfish. They were going to show. But I loved that, his ownership marks. I wanted him to inhabit me the way he did his own body. His thrusts increased, each time knocking the air out of my lungs. They were the thrusts of love, fierce and victorious. I was like a ship lost in the hurricane. Yet, at the same time Peter’s hands caressed me, his strong arms protected me from the real storms. I felt safe and loved. When his hand started stroking my cock, I wanted to tell him I was on the verge of the cliff. Yet he already started falling off the same cliff, crying ‘Oh John’ and coming inside me. I erupted the same very moment. Then there was a total stillness. I was afraid to breathe too loud, the moment was so perfect. A touch of kiss on my shoulder made me turn and slip off him. Now, facing each other, I adored once again his handsome features, those penetrating eagle eyes and a tall straight thin nose. His skin and beard were all wet. And that naughty grin was back.

  ‘John, I’m sorry.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I was a little brutal.’

  ‘I loved it.’

  ‘Just tell me at once if I hurt you, ‘coz with you I have no control.’

  ‘Neither do I, Peter. I guess that’s the whole point.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ He caressed my forehead with his fingers. ‘Why are you frowning, John?’

  ‘I’ve made a mess in your bed and now am dreading what Miss Hatsom would say.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s not particularly interested in my dirty laundry.’

  ‘You don’t know her too well then,’ I said. ‘Her gossips spread faster than the news published in The Independent.’

  ‘Is that so? What a resourceful lady. I will have to promote her as my press secretary.’

  What was that logistics company Peter was running? Was it still a thing? Knowing how secretive he was, I started from afar. ‘I thought your line of work was delicate and confidential.’

  ‘It can vary, my dear Mr. Dobson.’

  ‘I love the way use switch so fast between my first and last names. Makes me think it’s two of me.’

  ‘When my heart speaks, I call you John, and when my mind is in charge, you are Mr. Dobson.’

  ‘What happens when both of them are talking at the same time?’

  ‘Insanity.’

  ‘Peter, what is your occupation again?’

  He grinned and gave me a quick peck. ‘Unless you are tired, would you like to come with me on a little adventure?’

  ‘Of course I would.’ Truth be told, I was exhausted after my journey and our passionate reunion, yet I didn’t want to part with Peter now.

  I used the bathroom next to my room to clean up and trim my moustache. Peter’s facial hair was immaculate, and I didn’t want to be seen next to him in public as some kind of beggar. The craziness of the situation didn’t bother me. Some days were uneventful. Often I couldn’t even recall the entire years of my life; so dull they were. And today, on the Christmas Eve, I had met Peter and we’re setting out on a journey. Together. My heart was beating fast, so curious and agitated I was.

  Back in the lounge, Peter gave me a fright emerging from his room without his trendy facial hair. He wrapped himself in a black coat and wore an old-fashioned deerst
alker cap.

  ‘I know, Mr. Dobson,’ he said, patting my shoulder. ‘I forgot to take them off earlier. You didn’t know they weren’t real, did you?’

  I shook my head, still standing there with words stuck on the way out of my mouth. I reacquired my composure when we stepped outside.

  ‘Tube or bus?’ he asked me.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Highgate Cemetery.’

  ‘How romantic,’ I commented.

  ‘You wanted to know what I did for a living. I’m about to show you.’

  ‘A tomb raider?’ I guessed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A cemetery florist?’

  Peter stopped and gave me a weird look. ‘Try harder, John. Has the bullet ricocheted and hit your brain?’

  His words kind of hurt me. I couldn’t quite believe what he’d said. It made me think I didn’t know much about him.

  He suddenly jumped in the road and stopped a cab.

  ‘Peter!’

  ‘Get in, we don’t have much time.’

  I was still sulking because of his mean remark when we arrived at the location, yet my curiosity prevailed. Peter was an enigma. Would he really show me his true self? Or did he simply want to tease me?

  ‘You know about Karl Marx, of course?’

  I nodded. ‘He’s buried here.’

  ‘Great erudition, Dobson. What you probably don’t know is that every Xmas Eve a group of devote communists gather at his grave, and I believe there will be a missing man amongst them today.’

  ‘You’re a bounty hunter?’

  ‘Hotter, Dobson. It’s definitely a part of my portfolio.’

  ‘A sleuth?’

  ‘Bingo. Not so bad, Dobson. I knew you’d make a great assistant.’

  ‘What?’

  Peter covered my mouth with his hand. ‘Be quiet now, we are close.’

  He pointed to the bushes on the left. I could see some shapes, but it was too far.

  Peter produced a small spying tube and passed it to me. Now I could see a little gathering of people dressed in plain grey and black clothes, who were listening to a tall woman shouting and waving her fist in the air.

  ‘Is she citing Capital?’ I asked.

  ‘Plausible, Dobson.’

  Only now I noticed that he typed something on his phone.

  ‘Are those people criminals?’ I asked, unable to contain my excitement.

  ‘Only one of them. It’s a police matter now.’

  ‘Which one is the criminal?’ I asked still observing the gathering.

  ‘That ginger on the left, black leather coat.’

  ‘Oh I see, he does look a little shifty, indeed.’

  ‘I’ve been tracking this guy for the past two weeks. He murdered his comrade’s housemate. The victim’s girlfriend asked me to step in. Apparently, the police had recommended me. I assured her that I didn’t do anything of the kind, partially because I didn’t want the poor girl’s money. Another reason was that it could have turned out to be a boring homicide. I loathe boring cases.’

  ‘So how did you crack it?’

  ‘I found the connection to the British Communist Party intriguing. Searched the social media and found a few pretty violent exchanges between the suspected killer and his political opponents.’

  ‘Nice, you’re very smart, Peter.’

  ‘Not really, at least in this case. I had an obvious hint from the murder weapon. The victim’s throat was cut in an odd way. Actually, with a sickle.’

  ‘Eww. Too much even for me.’

  ‘To wrap up, the suspect didn’t murder anyone.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘His ginger communist friend, who turned up here today, had killed both the suspect and the reported victim. The suspect didn’t disappear by himself, his body was hidden away by the real murderer.’

  ‘Why did he do it?’

  ‘Out of jealousy. The suspect was shagging his wife.’

  ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘From the suspect’s phone calls log.’

  ‘That’s cunning.’

  We left the cemetery, and I didn’t notice how we reached the nearest tube station. I had more questions than ever.

  ‘What happened to the wife?’

  ‘Nothing bad yet, broken furniture and a few bruises, at least, according to their neighbours. When I saw her last time, she was hiding the marks under sunglasses.’

  ‘But you don’t have a proof, do you?’

  ‘A barrel in their garage filled with acid processing the suspect’s remains.’

  ‘Merry Christmas to me,’ I commented. Peter’s face lost the mask of seriousness and lit up with a smile, so warm. He was a completely different man when he smiled, or when he wore facial hair.

  ‘I’m sorry, John. How could I forget?’

  ‘Forget what?’

  ‘Just wait.’

  When we resurfaced at Bank, I found it hard to follow his brisk walk.

  Thankfully, it ended as abruptly as it had started. I saw a tall tower of St Stephen Walbrook. Then a snowflake landed on my nose and vanished in the same unceremonious manner.

  ‘A church, Peter? Didn’t think you were religious.’

  He chuckled.

  We joined a short queue outside and Peter explained to me that on the same day five centuries ago, the world had lost John Dunstable.

  ‘They’ll sing his carols today. I thought I needed to make it up to you for the horrid afternoon.’

  ‘You’re a master of contrast.’ I smiled and took his hand. He didn’t take it away and smiled back. Although I wasn’t a fan of expressing affection in public, somehow this felt right, and besides holding hands was innocent.

  ‘Peter, it’s wonderful,’ I whispered into his ear, as we were ushered inside a dark hall.

  ‘Merry Christmas, John.’ He said it to me so gently, I was prepared to melt akin to that snowflake.

  An altar boy gave me two candles, and I handed one of them to Peter. Now with these wands we could create our own magic.

  The carols took my spirit to the fresh Alpine mountain tops, their pure sound echoed beautifully in the church and resonated within my heart, yet all I could think of wasn’t God, or Christ, or Angels, or Christmas. It was Peter. To me, he was the embodiment of all of that. I was utterly fatigued afterwards. Was it a price of catharsis or was I simply undernourished? Peter told it was the later.

  ‘I’m famished, John. Let’s get back home and order a takeaway.’

  I nodded, and as if by magic, a black chariot carried us back home, soaring over the twilight buzz of London streets. I couldn’t even remember the exotic dishes Peter fed me when we were back. Was it a spicy Korean beef or Nepalese lamb? I only recalled that Miss Hatsom retired early and so we sat alone in the dining room. Peter was extracting recollections of the Kabul life from me. And I was drinking ginseng vodka to my complete and utter peril.

  ***

  ‘Dobson, wake up.’

  I knew I’d hate to go back to the sodding reality, the stench penetrating every piece of matter in the hospital, including my own skin. I voiced a groan of reluctance. The dream I had was too good to abandon. It was astonishingly romantic. I had met a wonderful man who was totally besotted with me. He was intelligent, quirky, virile, naughty, and damn sexy.

  ‘John, open your eyes,’ whispered the familiar voice.

  I rolled away from the noise, on my other side, and concentrated on our walk along the nocturnal serenity of Regent Street… On his hand holding mine. On the snowflakes falling so densely, I couldn’t see what was ahead of us.

  ‘All right, I’ll have to resort to the very last measure,’ the voice threatened with a sadistic chuckle.

  Then a beautiful melody stole my sleep in an instant. No, I was not in Kabul anymore. I sat up straight and saw Peter standing by the window, nude, embracing his violin. He turned to me, and my chest tightened when I saw a tender, affectionate look in his eyes.

  He kept playing and
I recognised Oh holy night.

  He repeated the tune several times, so I could delight myself by beholding his elegant features. What have I done to deserve such a perfect man? Was I still in my dream?

  When the music stopped, I could no longer ask myself questions that couldn’t be answered… For Peter kissed me, gently at first, then with ever growing fervent vigour. His limbs claimed my body and I surrendered with no questions asked. Things he did to me were beyond any description. How could I explain the intensity of my love for this man when love and reason belonged to different realms? All I knew is that my love erased the border between my dreams and the reality I lived in, between the past, the present, and the future. It was a fairytale, a work of fiction, and yet it was the truth more real than anything else. We were together and that was all that mattered.

  I shared my thoughts with Peter, and he told me I was a poet. There could be no end to our bliss until there was one — a knock on the door.

  ‘It’s Miss Hatsom,’ Peter whispered. I hastily drew the sheets over my head. It was a reflex and I felt silly at once.

  The door opened with a creak.

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Sherlock. I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, but you’ve got a client waiting in the vestibule. I did tell them you were available by appointment only, but he said it was a very urgent matter.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Hatsom. Would you notify the guest that I’ll receive them shortly in the dining room?’

  ‘Of course. What would you like for breakfast?’

  ‘A toast and coffee,’ Peter replied.

  ‘And it’s white tea and a spinach omelette for Mr. Dobson, if I remember correctly?’

  I lowered the blanket edge to face the intruder. The funny tingling all over my skin betrayed the worst scenario – I was rapidly becoming as red as a boiled lobster. Truth be told, I was utterly embarrassed, and I was also angry. Peter, on the contrary, looked amused.

  My voice cracked like a dead tree branch. ‘Yes, thank you, Miss Hatsom.’