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The floors of the Noahtic were starkly designated by class. One couldn’t simply enter the highest floor without an invitation.
The invitation, Sherlock had. He kept it in his breast pocket in case he were to be accosted by security, but he preferred to sneak past them. The invitation had a room number and a cute message hand written by the maths professor, and although it only said “Meet me,” Sherlock had become possessive of it and would rather not show it to any dumb guard.
Just two words and a number, but the handwriting filled the profile he was developing for the mysterious man even more. Elegant, but in the traditional sense of the word. As clear and precise as it was beautiful. Not like the current age’s lavish designs dripping in gold and glitter. The professor’s elegance was like that of a fencer narrowing in on first blood.
He lifted his hand to knock on the door, but it opened before his knuckles made contact with the wood. Behind it was the handsome gentleman with the wine-colored eyes, still perfectly squeezed into his penguin suit.
“Were you waiting behind the door for me?”
“Not at all. I could hear you coming down the hall like a horse in a gallop.”
Sherlock leaned into the door frame. “Well, you invited me. Gonna let me in?”
He smirked and stepped aside with his hand held out in offering.
Sherlock stepped through the threshold and into a suite big enough for a family of five to live in. He scanned the shelves and cases lining the walls of the main room, and doors that must have led to bedrooms and washrooms. The trinkets that decorated the place were part of the decor, impersonal and of questionable taste at that, affixed to the shelf so as not to shift around. Very nautical. Three couches ringed an entertaining table bigger than Sherlock’s bed the center of the room, and farther into the suite he could see a dining table big enough for twelve, and a balcony.
The only thing to glean from the surroundings was how unlike the professor they were. Boring, banal, overdone. A quirky noble with the means to bend any setting to fit his own taste would have done so, even if only for a short voyage. This one did not. Sherlock wondered why.
“Are you analyzing the room?” He stopped at the shelf to Sherlock’s left and took two crystal glasses and a bottle of scotch. As he lifted his arm to reach them, the tails of his coat parted to reveal just how well-cut his trousers were.
Sherlock liked to think this display of his ass was intentional. “Only because I can’t not. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid you won’t learn much pertaining to me on these walls.”
“The lack of information is in itself, a kind of information.”
“So, you say.” The professor poured two glasses and brought one to Sherlock. “Won’t you sit?”
“Are you gonna tell me your name?”
“Do you need me to?”
Sherlock took the drink and knocked back half of it at once. “No, I don’t.”
The professor smiled at him as he pushed a hand through his symmetrical hair, slicking one stray strand back into place. “It won’t be difficult to learn it once you have access to the proper reference material. There are only so many noble families in England, and only so many colleges.” He smiled. “And of course, there are only so many detectives.”
“So our anonymity lasts only until this boat docks,” Sherlock said, and gave the thought a dark laugh.
“Why not have some fun while it lasts?”
“Yeah, I knew us two were gonna get along.” Sherlock finished the drink and set the empty glass on the nearest shelf. “In that case, I’d rather not sit. Let’s just get to it.”
The professor’s eyes narrowed and the sly smile on his face broadened to show his teeth. With his unusual eye coloring and wide mouth, he looked like some reptilian creature about to swallow him whole. Sherlock liked it.
The unnamed man set his own drink aside and pushed into his personal space. His fingers combed through Sherlock’s bangs, and his eyes focused on him as if looking deep into him. “Fine with me.”
Sherlock felt a shiver down his spine like when he was onto something, like the thrill of unraveling a mystery, but this came from another person’s touch. He’d thought this to have been impossible up until that moment when they locked eyes in front of the spiral staircase. He thought he was immune to this temptation that plagued most men. After all, this wasn’t his first experiment, and it had never gotten that reaction out of him before. Maybe it was different this time, with a man? He wondered.
Further experimentation was in order.
He caught the professor’s wrist in his hand and pulled it up to his mouth. This went unpunished, so he stuck his tongue out and licked up the center, the line of fate.
“Uhg, how crude.” But he didn’t pull his hand away.
Sherlock caught his ring finger between his lips and sucked it clean, tasting a faint remnant of soap. He’d washed himself in preparation, of course he had. “You wanna take me to a bed, or do it right here?”
Finally he did protest, pulling his hand back to his chest. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe his hand. “I assure you, I am a gentleman. I can at least offer you a bed to lie on.”
Then he turned and led the way to one of the connected bedrooms and opened the door. Sherlock followed him, and once inside, the professor locked the door behind them. So there were others he stayed with, and he’d rather they didn’t interrupt. Interesting.
“Well,” Sherlock said, leaning into his personal space. “I’d rather if you did the lying—“
Before he could finish his sentence, he found himself knocked off balance and turned around in the blink of an eye. The professor was quick and much stronger than he’d guessed. He must have studied some sort of fighting, although Sherlock couldn’t put his finger on the style. His reflexes did kick in, but they seemed to agree with his higher mind that it was better to let the cute blond professor throw him up against the locked door.
Those crimson eyes closed in on him and his lips curled into a smile. “That depends on what you’ve got to offer me.”
Although he was looking directly into an unexpected and potentially dangerous situation, all Sherlock could think about was that the professor’s body must be quite toned under that tuxedo to handle his weight like that.
The hand he’d been sucking on only a few seconds ago dug under his pants’ waistband and grabbed hold of his cock with no more fanfare or warning than that. He was half hard already from the tussle, but it came as a shock. He yelped as the professor squeezed him. “H-hey!”
“Oh.”. He hummed with interest as he felt out the length. “You’ll do quite nicely after all, detective.”
“Glad I’m up to such elevated standards.”
When it came to dick size, Sherlock had felt himself somewhat inadequate, having only seen one other man naked and up close and certainly not in a sexual context. But it occurred to him then, from the excitement on his mysterious professor’s face, that like with many things, he was actually well above average and Mycroft was an outlier he’d been unfortunate enough to have as his only metric of comparison for most of his life.
He hated the recall of his brother’s face (and dick) into his mind at a time like this, but the thought was dashed as the professor fell to his knees and began to unbutton his pants.
It only took him a few seconds to pull his pants down, but that was all the time it took for Sherlock’s erection to reach its full arousal at the thought of those lips to soon be around it.
The professor looked at the cock hanging in front of his face as if he were puzzling over a formula. That hit Sherlock in a funny way, like tugging a heart string he didn’t know he had.
Seeming to have decided on his plan of attack, the professor plied his tongue up the shaft with delicate little licks. This was already enough to make Sherlock clench his fists and throw his head back against the door. It hit him with such an intensity, like he could feel every tastebud on his tongue and every microscopic crease on his lips.
Once he’d wet him liberally with saliva, he opened his mouth and enveloped the head. Hot and wet.
Sherlock, who had admittedly few sexual encounters, wondered if he could actually handle this or if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. “Whoa there, darling.” This term of endearment came out without thinking. “Strong out of the gate, aren’t we? If you want me to fuck you any time soon, you’d best—“
The second he pulled his mouth away, Sherlock regretted interrupting him. His cock was left hanging wet in the air, cold. The professor smiled up at him brilliantly. “I want you to last through my round, so consider this a warm up.”
This is this guy’s idea of a warm up, Sherlock thought as the professor went back to his task, mouth gaping to accommodate more of his cock.
It seemed it wouldn’t all fit, but that hardly mattered. He could feel the head of his cock hit the back of this man’s throat and the intensity exponentiated. He could imagine his professor here calculating the rate of his arousal on a chalkboard, how many numbers would pile up. Then his head began to bob on his cock, and for the first time in quite possibly his entire life, he could not think. Every thought in his mind was obliterated by white hot sensation.
His moans sounded distant to his own ears, like he himself was in another room listening in. His hands reached out and his fingers twisted into blond hair. The professor hummed in agreement around his dick, and that was all he could take.
He came, shaking and twitching, in the professor’s mouth.
Sherlock felt like his very life’s essence was draining from his body, but the professor did little more than cough. That handkerchief appeared again to catch the semen that spilled from his mouth before it could stain his very expensive suit.
He looked even more gorgeous with come smeared on his face, Sherlock thought.
The professor got to his feet just as Sherlock was sinking to the floor, turned to jelly. This time when he came at him with that surprising strength of his, Sherlock doubted he’d have been able to stop it if he wanted to kill him, and his last thoughts would have been that he died a happy man. But he was not being murdered by an eccentric noble, at least not tonight. Not yet.
The world was still spinning around him in afterglow, but he was also being spun physically like a dance partner and dropped on his back on the bed. His shoes and pants were removed and tossed away. Then, before he could get a handle on what exactly was happening, the tall blond man straddled his naked hips, still fully clothed in his tuxedo.
Sherlock didn’t fight any of this, and continued to let him have his way as he whipped his jacket up over his head and began to unbutton his shirt from the bottom up, all while grinning as if he were unwrapping a Christmas present.
“Did they really let you into first class dressed like this?” He seemed content to leave his shirt on as long as it was splayed open for him. Those slender fingers scratched down his chest before becoming preoccupied with the fine black hair that grew in a trail from his navel down.
“They’d have probably kicked me out if they saw me.”
“Oh, my. You should have told me all about how you slipped your way in here like a thief in the night.”
“Does that make it more fun?”
His gaze was dangerously attractive as he scanned Sherlock’s body top to bottom from his perch. “A dastardly thief infiltrating the most vaulted chambers of a highborn family’s suite.” He said it like a line of poetry, like something from a play.
“I’m more into catching criminals,” he said, taking the professor’s wrist in hand just as his hand reached to grab at his hair.
When he said that, the look in the professor’s eyes shifted from simple wry amusement to an intense hunger he had not expected. It was a look that said catch me as sure as any. He could not comprehend why such a thing would excite him so, or what crimes this professor might be hiding—but that look got the blood pumping in his veins again as sure as any drug.
“If you ask me, I think you’re overdressed,” Sherlock said.
He sighed and dismounted from his position as easily as he might from a prized horse. “I suppose you’re correct,” he said. “You can watch, but don’t move.”
Sherlock thought it was a little too cheeky of him to call the shots here, but he came to the realization whether he had been expecting it or not, that he rather much liked this bossy tone and being on the receiving end of it. So he propped himself up enough to watch, and enjoyed the show.
The professor began to peel his suit off with painstaking care not to crease it. First the coat and then the vest, each piece hung perfectly in the armoire.
He was muscular, Sherlock saw at once. He had lean muscle like a swimmer or a runner, not one who built muscle for show. It suited him well, the way it filled out his shoulders and left his waist slim. The way it shaped his ass and his thighs.
He turned back to the bed with a coy smile, like he was enjoying the way Sherlock ogled him. On the way back, he pulled a vial of liquid from the side table drawer, the contents of which seemed obvious.
He resumed his position over him, this time on his hands and knees.
By this time, his hair had fallen out of its perfect place and Sherlock made note of how it swooped naturally to one side, how the bangs framed his face. He seemed softer this way, more honest. Although anyone might, he thought, with their clothes off and their hair down.
“Keep watching,” he said, hanging over Sherlock, casting a shadow over him with his body. One arm reached behind himself and he began to prepare.
Sherlock obeyed him and laid there, enjoying the show. Wondering what it felt like to touch him inside. “Wouldn’t it feel better if I did that for you?”
“I want it done right,” he said, interrupting himself with a whimper and biting down on his bottom lip. “You’d be too gentle.”
“How do you know that for sure?”
He laughed softly as he dug deeper into himself with two fingers now, pushing himself with the confidence of someone who has practiced before. “I know.” He smiled again, and Sherlock felt that heart-pulling sensation once more. Something he didn’t know he could feel.
Once he’d slicked himself up to his own approval, the young professor removed his slippery hand and stroked Sherlock’s cock. He was hard again, but it felt different now. His body didn’t flash hot at the touch. He’d last a while this way.
“See? You were worried for nothing.”
Sherlock felt relief at that. “Yeah, you’re right.”
A smile. “I am, often.”
He watched as the professor sat up again with his knees planted on either side of his hips and lined himself up with his cock. At first the contact of skin to skin was not as much as his lips had been, not as perfectly wet. But as he began to guide himself down using his own weight to push Sherlock deeper, everything changed. Sherlock hissed as the tip disappeared inside of him.
“Does it hurt?”
Sherlock took a breath and relaxed. “No, it’s just so…. You’re so tight.” He inhaled a sharp breath again.
“You are marvelously sensitive, I’ve never had so much fun.”
“Glad you’re enjoying it.”
“I am.”
In spite of his domineering nature thus far, as he sank deeper into Sherlock’s cock, his face contorted and he let out a strangled groan.
“Don’t push it, now,” Sherlock said. “We’ve got all night.”
“I—“ he began to sass back, and couldn’t make it through without a hard breath. “I have somewhere to be.”
“Oh, busy man. The life of a noble, huh?” His own voice was ragged. Any preconception that perhaps this wouldn’t be as intense as it had been in his mouth was shattered.
The professor lowered himself half way, took a deep breath, and then somehow, slowly but surely, he took Sherlock’s entire length and seated himself against his hips. His eyes were watering.
“Ah, that’s so much,” he panted. “I’ve never been so full.”
Sherlock felt a strange possessiveness come over him, a kind of jealousy toward this man’s previous lovers. This man, whose name he didn’t even know. He wanted to outdo them, to put them all to shame. Should the two of them never meet again, he wished to be remembered in that brilliant mind for the rest of his life.
But as he tried to move, the professor’s trembling hand pushed down on his chest to hold him in place. “Not yet.”
He lifted himself up and sank down again, slow and sweet, savoring how it stretched and pressed inside him.
Sherlock watched, fascinated. He grasped his hips in both hands and squeezed, feeling those muscles he had admired underneath. That earned him a sweet moan, and he wanted to hear more.
This man whose name he didn’t know was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, mounted on top of him like that with a gas light’s glow to illuminate him. As he worked himself up and down, the motion became more fluid, and soon he was sliding comfortably. His expression melted from twisted up pleasure-pain into pure indulgent gratification. His breaths, strained at first, became soft and steady.
And as it became easier, Sherlock found more pleasure in it, too. The friction subsided, leaving only the wonderful warmth of this man’s insides and the tight pressure they put on his cock. “God damn, that feels too good.”
“Touch me now,” he pleaded, and leaned back at an angle to chase the release he was desperate for.
Sherlock obliged by slicking up one of his hands and closing it around his cock. Not as big as his own, but plenty to handle. Beautiful to look at, all shiny and pink and framed with a just touch of soft peach fuzz.
The professor’s mouth fell open and he began to utter the most beautiful sounds Sherlock had ever heard in his life. His voice was melodic and bounced against the walls as he grew louder, closer to the end. Sherlock was glad for the professor’s “warm up” or he’d surely explode inside him at the sound of it.
And as he grew louder, he began to speed up and bob frantically, screwing his eyes shut and pleading aloud with himself. His thighs went stiff and his body clenched down as he reached the edge.
He came with a choked sob and released a stripe that splattered across Sherlock’s stomach and chest. His hips kept moving, milking every last drop from himself. Sherlock didn’t dare stop until he did.
Finally, he fell. In one heavy motion, he removed himself from Sherlock’s cock and rolled into the bed. He was panting and verbalizing little “oh fuck”s and such.
Sherlock wasn’t sure what came over him, but he lifted himself to cage the professor’s panting, sweaty, body in his arms and began to kiss him all over. He could taste the salt on his shoulder as his lips smacked against it, down his arms and on his chest.
The professor gave him sweet little whimpers in response to this affection. “Do what you will with me,” he said in a lovely sigh. “Whatever you want.”
“Oh, I will, then.” He still wasn’t certain if he could come again, but his cock was throbbing and needed more of something.
He swept his cute maths professor up and turned him over so that he could admire his gorgeous ass. A squeeze of his cheeks confirmed how toned they were, and Sherlock felt quite gratified by the firm but squishy texture under his hands.
“Of course that’s the first thing you do when given a blank check.” The professor sighed as if disappointed, but he seemed quite content. This position let him bury himself in his bed’s big, fluffy pillows. He was relaxed and pliable, legs going wherever Sherlock moved them.
This cute sort of for-show disagreement gave Sherlock more of that heart fluttering feeling he had been worried about. I don’t even know this man’s name. He tried to tell himself he shouldn’t have feelings, but the little anonymoty game was part of why, in and of itself.
Sherlock lined himself up and sank into that perfectly toned body once again. His ass was still stretched and slick. Tight as ever and silky inside.
The professor groaned as he pushed in, muffling his voice in the pillows. Sherlock felt his muscles tighten around his cock and then relax again.
He began to move, seeking that lovely voice, wanting to fuck him so hard he’d never forget it. He clapped his hands onto either hip and began to pull them back as his own hips were pushing, burying himself deep.
“Oh, yes,” came the professor’s voice in a lusty breath. “God, that’s good.”
Hearing that, Sherlock fucked harder. He was certain it must hurt, but maybe his enigmatic partner was into that, because all he did was moan and beg for more.
He was loud. Either confident no one could hear him through the walls, or unconcerned. A bit of a show off, perhaps.
Sherlock loved it. Every sound, every tense of his muscles as he pounded him into the bed. The sobs that came as he hit a particularly good spot. He tried to observe and memorize every detail, just like he did with everything. But this, it was too blissful, too carnal to think through.
“Don’t stop, please,” the man shaking under him said. “I’ll come again, just from that. I’ll come again, so please don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” Sherlock found his own reply to be as breathless and raspy. “I want to feel you come again.”
His hands slid up that slender waist and pulled him back to fuck an even deeper angle. Their rhythm sped up as the professor rocked his hips back to match him, begging for more.
Sherlock gave him more. Finally he could feel his own end mounting, and so threw himself into it. Bucking as wild and fast as he could.
The professor’s shouting devolved from words to wailing cries, completely undone. Sherlock could not see him come, but felt how he tensed with his entire body.
This time, the pressure and heat were too much for him to bear and he came with him, holding him for dear life and rocking until he was spent.
“Oh, don’t stop, don’t stop…” The professor was limp and boneless, muttering this in a daze.
“Ha… you’ve already come, you loon.”
“But it still feels good…”
Sherlock rocked against him until his dick was limp and he could no longer do so. He withdrew, and sank into the bed to hold him from behind, arms around him, stomach against his back. He swept his hands over his body while he was still feeling the afterglow, and kissed the back of his neck.
The professor groaned again, this time not wanting to move. But he turned over to face him, letting his folded arms tuck neatly against Sherlock’s chest. “Thank you. I hadn’t expected you to be so sweet after.”
“I want you to remember me,” he said. “So I pulled out all the stops.”
“You did quite well.”
“That’s high praise from a noble with exacting standards.”
He laughed, almost a giggle. “I do like you. I can’t wait to know your name.”
“Me too. And when you find it, come meet me.”
He opened his eyes and it was strange. His looks that night had been sultry, condescending, and even coy, but now he gazed at him with unwavering fondness, as if he knew all about him and honestly, truly, loved him.
It lasted for just a moment, like a dream just after one has woken up, and was replaced by bittersweet regret.
Sherlock would puzzle over those last few expressions that appeared on his face before the coldness came back in like a gust of winter air, and he was wearing a mask again.
He helped him dress, then asked him—kindly, respectfully—to leave the suite, as he had an appointment to keep to.
Sherlock wondered if this was the world’s top arena of playing hard to get, and if so, he didn’t mind it. More information, more on his profile.
They’d know each other’s names one day soon, and they’d meet again.