Prompting Part XXXIII
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They'd soon helped each other out of their trousers and pants and were standing by the sofa regarding one another with intense interest. He reached out and took one of her arms, checking for a scar he (they?) had obtained in childhood. She knew what he was looking for and angled her arm so he could see it.
"Did Mycroft rescue you as well?" she asked.
"Indeed he did," Sherlock confirmed, reminiscing a little.
"Do you have that freckle on your bum?" she wondered and he grinned. They compared spots, and then Sherlock ran his hands over her strangely unfamiliar body, with its markedly different skeleton beneath, hands pausing on hips that were wider than his own, and on the petite ribcage and the small breasts that overlaid it, as she absorbed the texture of his skin and its lack of fat, the hard muscles standing out noticeably under her fingertips.
She soon crouched down and began exploring his genitalia, hands curiously running over the different sorts of skin and hair to be found in the region. She looked and sniffed and touched until he was quite hard, and then she examined that, too, comparing the erection to the flaccid organ in her mind's eye.
Satisfied, she stood and went to the sofa where she lay down on her back, leaving some space for Sherlock.
"May I?" he asked, approaching.
"By all means," she assured, spreading her legs. He settled down on his belly between them.
"You know, I've never actually gotten a close-up look at one of these that wasn't on a corpse," he mentioned to her.
"Same, in regards to your type of equipment," she replied.
First, he simply looked, for it was a strange sight, if he was honest. It looked complex and a bit like an orchid. Soon he was touching, fingers delicately manipulating the silky skin and venturing into hot, wet darkness as she squirmed slightly and clenched around his fingers.
He pulled his fingers out and sniffed and tasted and he found himself so aroused that he nearly began rutting against the sofa cushion. "This is getting out of hand," he frowned.
"No pun intended," she added wryly. "I do agree, though. Shall we...?"
"Yes," he confirmed and rose to a seated position, leaning against the back of the sofa. He held his erection up for her and she sank down onto it with a groan, leaning on his shoulders as she rode him.
"Do you suppose we'll make a clone?" he panted facetiously, hands stroking her hips and venturing down to caress her clit.
"Shh," she scolded, "you'll ruin the incest."
They both giggled a little and then fell silent but for their laboured breathing, intent on their shared goal. They became entranced by each other's eyes, identical as they were, and were staring green-into-green as they climaxed, their orgasms arriving one after the other.
She dismounted and flopped down next to him, sighing, and commented, "Such a mental fog that brings on."
"Mmm, true," he murmured. "Not good."
They lay together on the sofa like bumps on a log until their mental faculties regained full strength, then continued where they'd left off before they'd gotten distracted. They were comparing the scent of their underarm sweat when John walked in the door. He stood stock still for a good twenty seconds, just staring at the tableau before him as it stared back, then went to the kitchen muttering, "Sherlock's drugged me again. Fantastic."
The End.
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