Fic: Feet: Mature
Mar. 21st, 2016 01:07 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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holmes_minorTitle: Feet
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 499
Warnings: foot fetish, masturbation, Turkish bath; POV Holmes; Holmes/Watson (one-sided)
Summary: Holmes explains. “…It was over a smoke in the pleasant lassitude of the drying-room that I have found him less reticent and more human than anywhere else…” The Illustrious Client.
I smile as I read his account. Oh, Watson!
I took no pains to hide my curiosity at Watson’s zeal for Turkish bath and so an invitation was readily extended and accepted and we soon found ourselves in the vestibule of a Northumberland Avenue establishment. As we disrobed, I saw a part of him that I had never before seen and the sight of which shook me to the core.
He had small—no, not small, but smaller than expected for a man of his stature—perfectly formed feet.
I reserve the word ‘exquisite’ for only the finest of wines and melodies and puzzles of human nature.
Watson’s feet were exquisite.
I was so struck by their beauty—and a stab of want—that I abandoned my usual impassivity and decorum.
I stared.
He laughed. “Not the feet of a soldier, eh? I will tell you my secret. Come.”
We moved to the calidarium, sitting opposite each other. He leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone,
“There is a man here, straight from the banks of the Yangtze as they say, who massages feet—the only part of the body he touches, but oh! Does he touch them! Nothing short of a miracle, I tell you. Like the fountain of youth! He is as much a master of his field as you are of yours.”
A dry ‘indeed’ was all I could muster.
In truth, there is no part of Watson that is not aesthetically appealing, and in that moment, much of him was on display, but my gaze was drawn down to the parts under discussion.
My lust grew until I feared that I would betray myself. I coughed and said as coolly as the extreme temperature of the room and situation allowed,
“Perhaps I could observe a session. Such knowledge may figure prominently in a future case.”
“By all means.”
What followed would be the stuff of reverie. I imagine myself splendidly-robed, sitting before him, taking his feet in my hands, washing and drying them, grooming his nails, scouring his soles—a rough stroke to the left producing a charming noise. I massage his feet with a lightly-scented unguent, employing deep, long strokes that elicit sighs and groans, and when my Watson is relieved of his tension and restored to his youth, bow my head to kiss each arch. And take one plump toe in my mouth.
On rawer nights, I imagine that we are in a less reputable establishment and that Watson takes himself in hand, making his pleasure equal to my own as I worship him.
Fantasy, of course.
In reality, I observed, politely refused to avail myself of the miracle-worker’s services, and fled to the coldest pool available. And though we frequented that—and other—baths on many occasions, I was never again party to one of those particular sessions.
And so you see, my loquacity and humanity at the Turkish bath are no mystery:
I am quite simply a fool in love.
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 499
Warnings: foot fetish, masturbation, Turkish bath; POV Holmes; Holmes/Watson (one-sided)
Summary: Holmes explains. “…It was over a smoke in the pleasant lassitude of the drying-room that I have found him less reticent and more human than anywhere else…” The Illustrious Client.
I smile as I read his account. Oh, Watson!
I took no pains to hide my curiosity at Watson’s zeal for Turkish bath and so an invitation was readily extended and accepted and we soon found ourselves in the vestibule of a Northumberland Avenue establishment. As we disrobed, I saw a part of him that I had never before seen and the sight of which shook me to the core.
He had small—no, not small, but smaller than expected for a man of his stature—perfectly formed feet.
I reserve the word ‘exquisite’ for only the finest of wines and melodies and puzzles of human nature.
Watson’s feet were exquisite.
I was so struck by their beauty—and a stab of want—that I abandoned my usual impassivity and decorum.
I stared.
He laughed. “Not the feet of a soldier, eh? I will tell you my secret. Come.”
We moved to the calidarium, sitting opposite each other. He leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone,
“There is a man here, straight from the banks of the Yangtze as they say, who massages feet—the only part of the body he touches, but oh! Does he touch them! Nothing short of a miracle, I tell you. Like the fountain of youth! He is as much a master of his field as you are of yours.”
A dry ‘indeed’ was all I could muster.
In truth, there is no part of Watson that is not aesthetically appealing, and in that moment, much of him was on display, but my gaze was drawn down to the parts under discussion.
My lust grew until I feared that I would betray myself. I coughed and said as coolly as the extreme temperature of the room and situation allowed,
“Perhaps I could observe a session. Such knowledge may figure prominently in a future case.”
“By all means.”
What followed would be the stuff of reverie. I imagine myself splendidly-robed, sitting before him, taking his feet in my hands, washing and drying them, grooming his nails, scouring his soles—a rough stroke to the left producing a charming noise. I massage his feet with a lightly-scented unguent, employing deep, long strokes that elicit sighs and groans, and when my Watson is relieved of his tension and restored to his youth, bow my head to kiss each arch. And take one plump toe in my mouth.
On rawer nights, I imagine that we are in a less reputable establishment and that Watson takes himself in hand, making his pleasure equal to my own as I worship him.
Fantasy, of course.
In reality, I observed, politely refused to avail myself of the miracle-worker’s services, and fled to the coldest pool available. And though we frequented that—and other—baths on many occasions, I was never again party to one of those particular sessions.
And so you see, my loquacity and humanity at the Turkish bath are no mystery:
I am quite simply a fool in love.
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