Chapter XVI
The Weekend Inhabitants
After our first somewhat precipitous visit to the villa in Kent back in ‘91 after Holmes had returned from Europe, we were given a standing invitation to visit on weekends and some of my fondest memories are of the times we spent at Willow Grove - for that was the name of the estate which Mycroft Holmes and his intimate friend Harold shared on weekends.
Harold had purchased the estate many years before so that he and Mycroft could have a place where they would be able to spend time together in complete privacy for their many official duties precluded them from seeing each other during the week. He had guaranteed their privacy by expressly forbidding any members of his family, or that of his late wife, to visit there under any circumstances for he thoroughly despised them and assured us that none would dare to show their misbegotten faces.
Unfortunately, many were the times when we could not go there as Holmes was working feverishly on a case. However, I am of the firm belief that it was on the occasions when we could make the journey to Kent that he really learned to relax for the first time in his life. Living at 221B, which was also our place of work, there were always interruptions to our routine what with clients, Scotland Yarders and all manner of persons knocking on our door, but on these peaceful weekends in the country we could be sure that there would be no interruptions what so ever and so could relax accordingly.
Our early visits to Kent had been somewhat formal occasions and Harold and Mycroft were always impeccably behaved in our presence, as were we in theirs. Although they knew full well of my relationship with Holmes, I was very careful never to touch him in front of his venerable elder brother. Not withstanding my reticence, it was the delightful Harold who loosened our tongues and lightened our moods as he regaled us over cigars and port with tales of ministerial misdeeds that would have horrified the general populace had they known of such goings on in the hallowed halls of the Houses of Parliament.
It was on one of these convivial evenings as we sat side by side on the settee and Mycroft regaled us with the tale of a proposal for a new road that had been doing the rounds at Whitehall for literally years being shuttled from this to that minister and from this to that department and committee, that my very tired partner who had had little sleep that week because of working feverishly on two cases, and had probably had one too many glasses of excellent cognac, literally yawned and keeled over with his head in my lap.
"Oh, move up, my sweet!" he muttered.
With some manoeuvring I managed to move up to the very end of the settee so that Holmes had room for his long legs. With a sigh of, "Ah, that's better!" he promptly fell asleep like that, his head resting comfortably against the most sensitive part of my anatomy.
Blushing a little, I glanced at Harold and Mycroft to gauge their reactions. Mycroft shook his head, gazed heavenward and muttered, "I never did succeed in teaching him manners!" Harold simply gave a soft chuckle. We spoke in low murmurs after that so as not to disturb Holmes.
Holmes had been sleeping on my lap for some ten minutes or so when I suddenly realised that I had been unconsciously running my fingers through his hair, as I always did when he lay with his head on my lap. However, as both Harold and Mycroft had shown no reaction to my open display of fondness toward my lover, I decided that there was little point in ceasing the activity now as everyone had witnessed it. My resolve firmed, I continued my affectionate petting.
It was after this little episode that I believe we all realised the pointlessness of pretence and formality, especially since we all went there for the same reason - to be ourselves. Henceforth, Holmes and I were much more free in our expressions of affection in front of Harold and Mycroft, as were they in front of us.
If the weather was fine Mycroft and Harold always went for an evening stroll around the grounds together and on our second visit they invited us to join them. This became a most pleasant evening ritual. Arm in arm, Harold and Mycroft would stroll along ahead of us. The four of us would always stop at the large rose trellis to admire the profuse and lovely blooms, inhaling their magical scent. In springtime the fragrance of flowering plants including daffodils, tulips, roses and archways of wisteria seemed to fill the air with a heady sweetness.
Like his younger sibling, Mycroft had little interest in gardening and I am sure would not have lifted a finger to care for a single plant had it not been for Harold who was a keen gardener and took positive delight in explaining the many varieties of plants to us and how to care for them. Personally, I loved a garden but had never been in one on a regular basis, at least not since I was a child, and therefore knew little about them. Harold was quick to sense my interest and, to his delight, I was a captive audience, so while the two Holmes brothers would eagerly discuss some much more esoteric subject, Harold would be keenly explaining about planting, fertilising and pruning the various plants. Previously, the only plants that Holmes was interested in were the poisonous varieties, but then, gradually, a change came about and he began to listen more and more as we strolled about the garden admiring the beauty of nature perfected, and it so did my heart good to see this. As time went by, between the three of us we even managed to get the indolent Mycroft to help out in the garden and this pleased Harold no end. In fact, over the years we managed to get Mycroft to take sufficient exercise that he even lost a little weight, though not too much as Harold claimed to like him the way he was.
The gardens sloped gently down to a most wonderful little lake. This lake was fed by a clear stream that ran along the eastern boundary of the estate and was in the shape of a perfect horseshoe. So perfect was the shape that I had assumed - quite wrongly - that it was man-made. However, I was informed by Harold that it was, in fact, natural. There was also a punt on it which we often took turns using if the weather was fine.
In warm weather we played croquet and swam in the lake. Later we got another punt so all four of us could be on the water simultaneously. Holmes was also able to practice his archery skills and my own skills were much improved. Despite spirited protest from the brothers Holmes, in cold weather Harold got us all playing bridge. A keen bridge player, he had had no one to play with since his wife was alive and since there were four of us he naturally could not resist teaching us all. Although I knew the rudiments of the game I had never bothered to learn it properly but now, on long winter evenings, I became an eager student of bridge, as did my partner and even his elder brother and the competition between us was keen. The sight of my dear Holmes playing croquet and cards was truly a sight that I had thought never to see in my lifetime. Being a Holmes he was quick to learn the short-cuts to success - in other words he learned to cheat at both. In that respect he was just like his elder brother and when a Holmes caught a Holmes cheating, well, there was just no point in continuing with the game so Harold and I would just throw up our hands and walk away for the ensuing argument could go on for hours. Rather pointless it was too since both brothers cheated, but it was a matter of family honour when someone actually got caught in the act.
However, there was one very special feature of the villa in Kent, one that Holmes and I came to appreciate very much. Of all things, it was a willow tree, or Salix babylonica, as Holmes proclaimed.
Along by the lake shore near where the stream ran into it there was a grove of willow trees, but there was one in particular which must have been of considerable age and was a most wonderful old tree. I had discovered this particular tree on a previous visit and had shown it to Holmes. The profuse branches hung so low that they swept the ground so that you could not even see the base of the trunk but, upon investigating, we found that there was plenty of room to sit under it. Thereupon we had spent some time just sitting under it and admiring it whilst noting the privacy it afforded. Its long, thick branches completely concealed anyone beneath it from view and as we sat there, leaning back against the trunk, I was filled with a wonderful sense of well-being. I know that my dearest Holmes felt it too for he reached out and took my hand, smiling at me affectionately at me as he did so. We knew that we had found a most special place.
One warm Saturday Mrs. Galston had packed a large picnic basket for the four of us and after lunch Harold and Mycroft went punting on the lake. After they had departed, Holmes winked at me, picked up a rug and cushions while I grabbed the wine, strawberries and grapes and together we made our way along the shore to the lovely old willow tree and proceeded to conceal ourselves under its low-hanging limbs.
We spread out the rug and cushions and sat back, leaning against the massive trunk, totally hidden from the outside world, including the lake. Dappled sunlight filtered dimly through the myriad stems and reflected from the surface of the water. The profusion of leaves waved gently in the light summer breeze, and it was as though we were in our own private world and nothing else existed but the two of us.
Reclining against the trunk in cream linen trousers and white shirt with sunlight enveloping him in infinite, ever-shifting patterns, it seemed to me that my lover was the most enthralling and beautiful sight that I had ever seen. As I surveyed his long-limbed form from head to toe I considered him to be the most graceful - and the most indolent - of creatures. He was also utterly desirable, and he knew it.
He opened his eyes and turned to gaze down on me in most indulgent fashion, a small smile playing about his lips, making him look boyish, charming and completely endearing.
As we shared the delicious wine and fed each other the sweet, juicy strawberries and grapes, it became a game - a highly sensual and enticing game. As I would hold up another strawberry for him to eat, my darling took to nibbling on them in most lingering fashion, watching me through half-closed eyelids. As he went to pop one into my mouth, I would kiss his palm, my lips gradually moving higher to linger at his wrist. He picked up his wine glass, but instead of drinking from it, he held it up to my lips for me to drink from - and I did, covering his fingers with my own, our heated gazes meeting.
We continued to beguile each other in this enticing fashion for some time, my dear one's allure and indulgent mien causing the blood to pound in my ears and my member to engorge deliciously. I made no attempt to hide my hunger from my seductive darling, nor he from me. Far from hiding our burgeoning excitement, we shamelessly flaunted it before the other's avid gaze.
As his exquisite grey eyes watched keenly I deliberately held a small amount of wine in my mouth and as I drew his sweet lips to mine. Realising my intent, he pushed his tongue into my mouth to taste the wine and literally suck it from me in luscious, devouring kisses that turned every nerve in my body to flame.
Quickly, I took up the glass and held it to his lips and as he took a small mouthful I pressed my lips to his to sip the sweet nectar from them, drinking deeply of my dear one's voluptuous sensuality. As we continued to kiss, our hands strayed where they would, undoing garments and slowly removing every last one until we lay side by side on the rug, gloriously bare-skinned and revelling in it.
Since my lover was in the mood to pamper me, I lay back on the rug and sighed, looking up at the heavy boughs of this splendid old tree, grateful for the fact that it had survived for so long. But then I beheld a sight twenty times more captivating - the pale, smooth-skinned and supple body of my wonderful lover gazing on me with such fondness and lust, his manhood hugely engorged and throbbing gently with need.
Taking another sip of wine, my sweet Sherlock dribbled a little over each of my nipples before sucking on them as though they were the most delectable morsels in existence while I tossed my head in abandon, stroking him, running adoring fingers through his hair and telling him how wonderful he was, how he excited me to distraction, how wild and uninhibited he made me, and how very much I cherished him for being the remarkable and gentle man that he was.
Gazing at me, he whispered, "Oh, my dear, dear boy, you turn my blood to fire! Never get enough of you! Never!"
As he took more wine and dribbled it down my torso I was consumed with need, my prick aching longingly for his mouth to swallow me whole, or to bury my devouring need in the hot, inviting tunnel of his gorgeous body where I was always so welcome. He dribbled wine into my navel, glanced up for a moment and grinned wickedly at me before sucking it out and licking all around my belly. Lower he journeyed, using his tongue lavishly all around my balls, dribbling more wine on them and sucking it off while running playful and sensitive fingers through the springy coils of hair around my groin as I groaned and shamelessly begged him to take me in his mouth.
"Not yet, my dearest, for you are a rare and mouth-watering delicacy to be savoured slowly - and I have not yet finished savouring!"
He rolled me over onto my belly and stroked my flanks and back, dribbling wine down my spine and parting my legs more as he poured some down the crack of my buttocks. As first he massaged them, then rubbed and squeezed them just the way I loved whilst I lay there sighing with pleasure. But then his tongue wandered lower, and still lower, as he parted them and lapped up the wine. By this time I was begging incoherently and I raised my rear invitingly as he licked at me, lapping everywhere but that one most sensitive spot. I held my breath as he deliberately poured a little wine onto my entrance.
"There - ah, yes! - there, my love, there!" I groaned. "Oh, yes! Oh, God, sweet love, yes!" I pushed my rear brazenly higher, begging for more and still more as his enthusiastic tongue stroked continuously at my entrance, teasing me still as I implored him to continue until, finally, he plunged his tongue into me, adoring me with his mouth until I was forced to plead for mercy.
"Oh, God, love, you'll finish me! Wait! Let me catch my breath!"
Silently, slowly he desisted, running his delightful tongue up the length of my spine until his excited breaths rasped in my ear as he nibbled on the lobe. I rolled over to take him in my arms, at the same time reaching for the wine and holding it to his lips for him to sip delicately its tart sweetness.
In leisurely fashion I allowed small drops of wine to fall on the satin surface of his warm flesh - an intoxicating feast to glut myself on - and proceeded to devour him with such zealous greed that he moaned constantly, begging me to abstain from my ardent assault. I, however, would not be swayed and his pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears as I licked and sucked the wine from him, his impassioned response only inciting me further. However, it was my own excitement that drove me to take his steel-hard prick in my mouth and lick it, wetting it thoroughly, for I desperately desired to feel him within me and could wait no longer.
"Come into me, my love!" I implored, getting up on my hands and knees to face the tree. "Don't make me wait!"
"I thought you would never ask, my love!" he remarked teasingly, moving behind me and massaging my buttocks gently. "You see you have only to ask and you shall receive. Your every wish is my command."
With my knees wide apart I braced myself against the tree, my hands grasping the rough bark of the wide trunk, yearning for my dearest love to fill me. As I felt him part my buttocks with his thumbs and press up close against me, I opened to him, loving him, wanting him so very much in that singular moment that I could not wait for him to possess me. After he had returned to me from Europe he had said that he felt as though he came home whenever he entered me, and so I welcomed him ‘home' now as I always did; my body his sanctuary and comfort as much as his was mine.
There were times when my dearest Holmes was the most tender lover that I could ever ask for, and there were times when he was commanding and totally unrestrained, as he was now. Emitting small rapturous whimpers, he plunged back and forth, hips buffeting me as his hands continually caressed and stroked my full-to-bursting prick. Finally, on the very edge of the precipice, I groaned, "Together, my love! Oh, now, my sweet! God, now! Together!"
As my dear one gasped his assent I let go all restraint, calling his name repeatedly, ecstatically as my seed burst forth and he ground his hips against me, his rampant manhood claiming me for his own, flooding me with his essence, pouring deeply into me in heavy spurts as my own issue soaked his hands and fell in heavy drops onto the base of the tree trunk. As my darling clutched me fervently I clung to the tree for support, both of us surrendered to these long, blissful moments of mutual adoration.
Afterwards, we simply collapsed onto the rug. The wine had made us drowsy and we fell asleep in each other's arms to the muted sounds of twittering birds and the soft rustle of the leaves, the tree's drooping fronds sheltering us and guarding our privacy. My palms were imprinted with patterns from the tree bark and, for one half-awake moment, it reminded me of stigmata. Marks that bore witness to love, I decided.
Unfortunately, we were rudely awoken some time later by the voice of Mycroft Holmes loudly proclaiming, "Ah, there you are, Sherlock, John! We've been looking everywhere for you! Now come along, it's about to pour and you will get soaked if you stay here, as indeed we all will!"
As we opened our eyes and saw the low-hanging branches in front of us parted to reveal both Mycroft and Harold gazing in on our naked selves, we both scrambled to our feet and proceeded to dress post-haste.
"Really, Mycroft! You might have just called out!" Holmes remarked, scandalised.
"But where would be the fun in that?" Harold replied wickedly.
"Oh, I quite agree, my dear!" Mycroft concurred. "Besides, a little revenge is good for the soul, would you not agree?"
"Oh, indubitably, my dear Mycroft," Harold agreed, "and it was very little, if I may say so."
"No, you may not!" Holmes remarked crossly. "So that's what this is about! You two will never forgive me for that one moment of accidental indiscretion!"
"Oh, consider it long forgotten!" Harold remarked.
"Oh, indeed - now!" Mycroft agreed. "Besides, Sherlock, we could have interrupted you much earlier."
Whilst buttoning my shirt, I turned to look at both of them in dismay, my mind shying away from the implications of that particular remark. Holmes, too, had momentarily stopped dressing to stare at them in consternation.
"Come, come, you two!" Mycroft chided. "You were making enough noise to scare the birds to flight!" he chastised.
Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, I remained silent as I continued to dress, although I am sure that I was blushing furiously. Risking a glance at Holmes, I observed a distinct rose colour on his normally-pale cheeks.
"I say, Harold," Mycroft remarked conversationally, as I pulled on my socks and shoes, "did you perchance notice that there is a remarkable resemblance between Sherlock and John?"
"Oh, indeed, my dear Mycroft, indeed! Quite remarkable. Such is the resemblance that one could almost believe that John here is a Holmes."
Although realising that it was a compliment - after all, my dear partner was generously endowed - I blushed even more, briefly wondering if perhaps the Holmes and Watson families might have had a common ancestor.
As we emerged from under the tree I saw heavy, grey clouds building up over the hills. The sun was already obscured and the sky was darkening rapidly as thunder rumbled ominously. Carrying our picnic paraphernalia the four of us hurriedly repaired to the house as the first fat drops of rain fell. We only just made it onto the back porch as the downpour started in earnest.
That night, as we climbed into bed together, it was still pouring, gusts of wind driving the rain to lash our bedroom windows with fury, but I knew then that I would never forget the glowing warmth of that summer afternoon; the fruit, the wine, the willow and, most of all, the love. It was rare for us to indulge in amorous activities out of doors, but this afternoon my lover had been remarkably uninhibited, as indeed had I, and I felt a warm glow inside now as I thought of it.
As we lay in bed together listening to the rain, my dear Holmes was looking at me most fondly.
"What is it?" I asked, puzzled by his continuing silence.
"You," he murmured, leaning over to kiss me with great affection. As our lips parted he murmured, "Thank you, my love, for the most remarkable and pleasurable afternoon that I have ever spent in my whole life. You have taught me so much, dear heart, but I still have much to learn. Will you continue to teach me?"
"It would be my pleasure, my dearest love, and I, too, will never forget our wonderful afternoon."
"Nor I, my heart," he vowed. "Nor I."
Many times over the ensuing years when Holmes and I visited Mycroft and Harold at Willow Grove we returned to our special tree to share the sweet and guileless pleasures of the flesh, and always the joy that we knew at those times was unsurpassed, but the memory of that first time will always be with me as though it were yesterday.
It was on those carefree weekends in Kent where we could be with family and yet be ourselves that my dearest one came to enjoy more and more the simple pleasures of life. Harold's charming little house became our second home and I came to hope that one day, when Holmes and I eventually retired, we would be able to find a place like that - a place that we could truly call home.
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