Miss Violet's Journal

On Memoirs of a Voluptuary, Or the Secret Life of an English Boarding School

2014-07-28T20:29:14Z

Given the sleepy pace of this blog, you might think I have given up writing slash, but you'd be mistaken. I still write frequently, although lately my efforts have been devoted to completing a collection of Sherlockian pornographic stories for possible publication. But I still find time for other kinds of slash, and am working on my very first Aubrey/Maturin story as I have recently become enamoured of the Master and Commander series. So this blog will be updated, albeit slowly. Meanwhile, if you're interested in 19th and early 20th-century pornographic writings, see my recommendations at my Goodreads Author Page at www.goodreads.com/violetvernet

You can also follow me on Archive of Our Own, a fan fiction repository (though I still post any new writing to my LiveJournal as well, but Archive of Our Own is very user-friendly).

Recently I participated in Circlet Press' "Ten Dirty Books" series. I chose to write on Memoirs of a Voluptuary (full title: Memoirs of a Voluptuary, Or the Secret Life of an English Boarding School). Below is an excerpt of my essay, the full version can be found on the Circlet Web site.

Ask any collector to name a favorite piece, and most will cite their latest acquisition. I discovered Memoirs of a Voluptuary only a few months ago and have since become thoroughly entranced with this charming Edwardian schoolboy romp. I’m an ardent fan of the pornography of this era, and especially that which includes homosexual acts. The very phrase "Edwardian schoolboy romp" sets my voyeuristic heart aflutter.

Though published in the early twentieth century, it is purportedly a memoir written years after the events described. It is a classic naughty Victorian schoolgirl tale, except with bisexual boys – rather more unusual for the era. As with most anonymous vintage porn, the provenance is murky; it was likely published in 1905 by Charles Carrington, neè Paul Harry Ferdinando. His connection to fin de siècle notables such as Oscar Wilde, A. C. Swinburne, Sir Richard Burton, and Aubrey Beardsley – who were then regarded as sexual outlaws, if not outright mollies – makes the question of Memoirs’ true authorship an intriguing one. Like most Victorian pornographers, the writer is well-educated, and probably a youthful person, if the carefree Edwardian slang and jargon are any indication:

"You are doing it a treat," said Bob as he wriggled his bottom under my luscious caresses. "It feels ripping."

Read the rest on the Circlet Web site

FIC: "Highbury Street" Hornblower/Bush NC-17

2012-11-12T17:40:27Z

You probably thought I'd never post anything again, but I'm still at it, writing very filthy tales of erotic excesses between men. I've been working on my Sherlock Holmes stories to market commercially, so I can't give those away for free, although I will be posting excerpts. I also have some BBC Sherlock porn simmering away on the back burner, some House/Wilson, and I might post some ancient stories from the early days - Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings. So do stick with me, although I can't promise frequent updates, but hopefully I make up in quality what I lack in frequency.

This story is an alternate ending to Lieutenant Hornblower, in which Hornblower invites his comrade-in-arms (and only friend in the world) Lt. Bush to share his lodging in Highbury Street. The last chapter is filled with slashy innuendo, longing gazes, and heartfelt emotion. Due to various circumstances, the two men don't actually spend the night together, but I imagined what would happen if they did. The story takes place in the novel-verse, though I was inspired by the actors who played the characters in the A&E series - Ioan Gruffudd as Hornblower and Paul McGann as Bush.

Title: Highbury Street
Author: missviolet
Pairing: Hornblower/Bush
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: PWP, heterosexual and homosexual acts
Summary: Erotic conversation between Bush and Hornblower leads to hot naval action
Notes: My first Hornblower fic! Some knowledge of the Hornblower novels may be required.

Highbury Street

Mrs. Mason’s surcharge for the flimsy cot and paper-thin blanket was less than Bush would have paid at his usual lodgings above the tavern. To a sailor accustomed to the clean fresh spray of the sea, the room was dark and constrictive. But even if it had cost more than Bush’s usual lodgings, he would have paid gladly, for the little room had the added benefit of Hornblower in it.

They were to share a can of hot water – clearly Mrs. Mason wasn’t going to waste any coal heating additional water for the two of them. But Maria crept timidly upstairs with a second can, after the domineering landlady was safely out of the kitchen. Hornblower insisted Bush go first, so he removed his shirt and stripped down to his small clothes. He unrolled his “housewife” in which he kept soap, razor, comb, and toothbrush. With pitcher and washcloth he scrubbed his arms and torso, feeling slightly awkward as Hornblower watched him lave his under-arms with soapy water. He supposed it was payback for all those times he’d watched Hornblower under the deck pumps, droplets of sea-water glistening on his fine young body.

With great care, Bush poured the soapy water from the basin to the pitcher, poured the remaining hot water from the can to the basin, and then the soapy water back into the can. He began his rinse, wringing out the washcloth, mopping himself down. Normally he’d wash his nethers, too, but normally he did not do his ablutions with his fellow officer watching him with keen interest. Fortunately he’d had a penny bath the day before at the naval hospital, where such services were granted to officers on half-pay.

The cooling water was poured back into the can and Hornblower took his turn with the extra can. He was far more thorough than Bush, taking time to soap the dark, alluring thatch of hair between his legs, and actually standing in the wash basin to pour clean water over himself to rinse. He looked slightly ridiculous with his feet so close together, and a good deal of water splashed to the floor.

“They only give me one bath a week,” said Hornblower, “but Maria often brings me an extra can, and I can manage a bit of a splashdown, if I can borrow the wash-basin.” Bush knew Hornblower hated to be dirty. He remembered with fondness the young man’s showers at the deck pump, particularly after hot, sweaty labor. He had a sudden flashback of Hornblower disporting himself under the spray, the pump manned by grinning seamen, while Bush stood watching, a hot prickly feeling rising about his neck and throat, and his woolen lieutenant’s coat suddenly clingingly restrictive.

“It’s not as good as a deck shower, but a fair bit better than waiting till next week for a proper bath,” Hornblower said as he splashed himself. Bush remembered how unabashed he was at the pump, laughing and frolicking in the altogether, unconcerned that the men he commanded had a fine view of his bare body. He tried to busy himself with toweling and his night shirt and cleaning his teeth with cool water that Maria had thoughtfully left in a jar near a small finger-bowl. Anything to stop himself from dwelling on happier days on deck with droplets of sea-water clinging Hornblower’s slim, muscular body.

Hornblower finished his messy bath, mopping the floor as best he could with a bit of old sheeting. He shivered as he dried himself with a rough bit of toweling. The grating was cold; Bush knew that Hornblower could not afford a fire.

“Sorry about the chill. Maria brings me a hot brick some nights, but she couldn’t manage that and the extra hot water,” explained Hornblower. “Mrs. Mason keeps tabs on everything.”

“Oh, it’s quite comfortable,” Bush lied. In fact he was already shivering under the thin blanket on his cot, wondering if he should put his uniform jacket over his nightshirt, and how he could do so without making Hornblower even more apologetic.

“Well, even if it’s too cold to sit up, let’s have a chat when we are tucked in,” said Hornblower, climbing into his bed. He had an extra quilt – Maria’s doing, no doubt. But it was a windy night and the room none too well-sealed. Cold drafts crept in through the window sill, next to which Bush’s cot was placed. Bush had slept in worse conditions; after the strain of battle and many missed nights of sleep, he had stretched out on the very gun-room floor, insensible with exhaustion, and asleep within seconds. But he was not exhausted; in fact, the lack of physical exercise kept him awake, for he was accustomed to being on his feet on deck for 15 hours a day.

Hornblower got out of bed and used the damp sheeting and towels to block the draft from the window. “I’d move your cot away from the window, but...” he trailed off, shrugging as he looked around the tiny room, which offered no other space for the cot to be placed save near the window.

“I’ve my boat cloak,” said Bush. He had brought it in case he could obtain a few days’ work with the ferrying pilots or some other harbour vessel, but every sailor on half-pay had that same idea, and the more experienced hands were in greater demand than the officers. Bush drew his boat cloak from his sea-bag. It was a fine garment, of boiled Melton wool in a rich navy blue, with brass buttons and gold cording. It was lined not with satin as typical, but with thick quilted cotton stuffed with wool batting, so it was exceptionally warm. He draped it over the thin blanket and was rather warmer, except his feet stuck out the end and were still frozen.

Bush could not sleep with cold feet. He cursed himself that his felt slippers were at home with his mother and sisters. He curled up as small as he possibly could, trying to tuck his feet under the cloak, but then it pulled off his shoulders and his head was cold. It was frustrating to be so vexed by a minor inconvenience, when he had worked at sea in soaking clothing, in gales in which dry clothing could not be had for weeks on end, and never felt half as cold as he did now.

“Let’s pool our resources, shall we? Bring your bedding and your cloak and yourself here. We shall be warmer if we share.” Bush was startled; he thought Hornblower had drifted off, but perhaps he could not with Bush’s tossing and turning. It was a sensible idea and he spread the thin blanket over Hornblower, then the cloak, and then finally brought his pillow and himself into Hornblower’s bed. He did not feel embarrassed as he lifted the bedding and climbed in beside Hornblower. As a ship’s boy he had shared a hammock with another boy; as a midshipman he’d had but 18 inches of rack space; a cot of his own behind a closed door was a privilege he had only enjoyed since reaching lieutenancy.

Right away he felt warmer, with Hornblower’s body heat and the extra layers of blankets, and his feet even warmed up. “Now, about that chat,” said Hornblower. “What did you do in town today?”

“I picked up my pay and inquired about a posting, as I do every month. I went around to the harbour-master to inquire about work, even a few days’ posting to a pilot ship, but they prefer the seamen to the officers for that sort of work. I guess we are only good in times of war,” said Bush ruefully. “I supped at the Bull’s Head where I know one of the tavern girls; she’s a good sort, always slips me an extra bit of bread and makes sure my bowl of stew is topped off. Says it’s her patriotic duty,” Bush recalled, smiling fondly at the memory.

“Is she your girl?” asked Hornblower curiously. There was only an inch between them on the narrow bed, but at least they were both warm.

“I can’t afford a woman,” said Bush with regret. He did love to keep a girl and treat her to fine clothing and good meals whenever he was in port. In the past, when he was stationed on patrol for a particular harbour, he’d even kept a sweetheart in her own lodging, although he could never afford to keep a mistress in luxury, so his girl still had to take in piecework, but at least she’d had her own little place, and enough money to buy food and firewood and to have fresh eggs and butter for him when he returned home. He knew that some other fellow was “digging his potatoes” as they say, but he thought that was only fair, as he was not at home often enough to be a proper man to his lady, but she always had the decency to make herself wholly his whenever he was home.

Of late his duties had kept him roving too far and in too many unpredictable places to have a girl-friend, and he missed it. Bush would have liked to be married. He had jolly times with the women of the many towns he visited, and especially if the French were routed at sea, the local women threw flowers in his path, they opened their wineskins, and at night there were never any shortage of pretty bedmates ready for a romp with a handsome young officer. At heart he craved a steady English girl to keep the home fires burning.

“Do they always cost money?” asked Hornblower, rousing Bush from his thoughts.

“In some way or another,” answered Bush. “Oh, it’s not the doxies. They are always available for a price, and many are good girls who just cannot find a living any other way. But even the respectable girls must be taken to the dances, or given a new bonnet or a bottle of scent now and then. It is hard for a sailor on half-pay to enjoy female company.”

“Do you miss women?” Hornblower asked. Bush realized with a start that Hornblower had probably never had a woman. Perhaps he’d kissed Maria; that seemed likely. And maybe he’d had a Spanish lass somehow, but certainly his questions seemed to indicate a decided lack of experience.

“Fortunately the girls of Portsmouth are patriots,” said Bush with a smile, thinking of his flame-haired tavern lass. “I have a special friend at the Bull’s Head, and since her father keeps the tavern, she can always find a spare room for us to steal an hour or two.”

“To lie together, you mean?” asked Hornblower. Bush again was struck with the naiveté of Hornblower’s questions. He knew that the lad had no brothers, that before going to sea, his only company was his elderly father, a country doctor, and a few of the village matrons who played whist with them. With the death of his mother, there would have been no one to explain the way of a man with a maid.

“Yes, that is what men and women like to do,” said Bush. “Have you never?”

There was a long pause, and Bush figured Hornblower would decline to answer, but he did, in his own way, by asking, “What is it like?”

“Oh, it’s lovely,” answered Bush. To his surprise, he was not embarrassed. He hated the coarse language of men who had too much drink, or the bawdiness of the men of lower decks, but he welcomed this genteel erotic conversation with Hornblower. “My Gigi is a lush ginger lass, with a head of fiery curls and a sweet little flaming thatch.”

“Between her legs, you mean?” whispered Hornblower. Bush detected the barest hint of excitement in his voice.

“Yes, it is the most splendid part of woman’s body, save perhaps the breasts. Hers are so full and ripe, with pert little pink nipples. They are not too large, just enough to fit into my cupped palm. When we are alone together, I cannot resist them, although with women it’s always nice to start with a loving, tonguing kiss.” Bush felt his loins stir at the memory of his girl’s passionate kiss, of the way her eyes sparkled and her breath quickened as their kiss deepened. He had run his fingers through her thick mop of curls, and she had untied the ribbon that kept his hair in queue.

“Then when the furnace is stoked, so to speak, and her bosom is heaving under her bodice, that’s when I unlace her and let her luscious breasts free,” he continued, without waiting for Hornblower to prompt him. “Women get very excited at that point, so accustomed they are to being laced; it’s like opening a flood-gate. I caressed my G’s bosom and kissed her heartily, and when she was panting, I kissed and licked her little pink nipples, which hardened like pebbles between my lips as she writhed in pleasure.”

“Is that the usual reaction?” asked Hornblower. Bush could hear that his breath was elevated, and he felt the waves of heat emanating from Hornblower’s body. At least they were keeping each other warm, and perhaps Bush’s tale had some utilitarian purpose, but feeling the pleasant glow and the familiar ache in his lower parts, Bush felt sure that Hornblower was equally affected. After all, Bush had been thoroughly tailed only a few hours ago, not once but several times, as the pub was closed while the men were laying fresh straw on the floor, so they’d had a few hours to satisfy their carnal urges. Hornblower had probably never tasted such delights.

“Oh, yes, women love when their bubbies are kissed and licked and sucked. It always gets them heated up. I teased Gigi’s darling breasts until I could feel her trembling underneath me. She has straddled my lap, you see, so I had easy access to her entire person. I removed her bodice so all was loose and free under her chemise, which I lifted to lay kisses on her adorable body, pausing now and then for a loving billing kiss on her mouth, until I finally reached below her skirts and felt her delicious cunny soaking her drawers with its juices.” Bush paused in his recollection. His cock was slowly stiffening, his heartbeat was decidedly elevated, and next to him, Hornblower stirred and sighed. No doubt he was equally affected. Well, what was the harm? Many a night Bush and his bed-mate had satisfied each other under the cover of darkness, even as a ship’s boy, for it was accepted that boys would frig themselves and no one much cared whether they frigged each other. Bush had never imagined that things would proceed in that direction with his handsome friend, but he realized with a start that he wanted Hornblower more than even his red-haired lass. Was it Hornblower’s innocence and the pleasure of corrupting him? No, Bush had never fancied the virgin girls, and frowned upon officers who paid a high price for them. He liked saucy women with some experience, and was never attracted to boys, but he often fantasized about courageous fellow officers. In his mind he saw Hornblower with cutlass in hand, swinging down onto the deck where Bush lay defeated and dying, recapturing the ship with the kind of courage that had already become a legend.

“It eases the passage, then?” Hornblower asked eagerly. Bush was so lost in his reverie that he momentarily forgot the progression of his tale.

“Oh, yes, if a woman is ready for you, her love’s tribute will flow freely. I like to push a finger inside, just to make sure, and because it gives them many thrills. Gigi squirmed about, gasping and panting, begging me to do it properly, but I alternated my plunging finger with rubbing the little cherry nub between her legs to give her greater pleasure. It is the seat of woman’s delight,” he explained, certain that Hornblower had no clue about women’s passions, given that most of the men he knew, despite their sexual activity, were ignorant as to pleasing women. “It can fetch them altogether with no other action, but we were too hot to play long at that game, and Gigi soon cast off her drawers and mounted me properly in the fashion we call ‘riding a St. George.’”

“Fucking, you mean?” asked Hornblower breathlessly. His uttering the vulgar word sent a thrill through Bush’s frame. The shy, proud young man, always courteous and proper, lying an inch away from Bush, talking of wet cunts and fucking, with his cock doubtless pointing stiff and proud, the heat from his body palpable, making no attempt to hide his panting breath. Bush stifled a groan.

“Yes, we had a jolly good fuck. The darling girl began to bound up and down, riding me like a jockey at steeple-chase, squealing with joy. I was helpless and could do nothing but gasp and groan and cling to her with open-mouthed kisses. Oh, if you could feel the glide of a hot little cunny sliding down your stiff pole, engulfing you, squeezing your throbbing prick with delightful pressure!”

Bush paused, feeling the heat of Hornblower’s body, hearing the unabashed panting of his bed-mate. It was all he could do not to spring upon Hornblower, rip the night-shirt from his flushed body, and lay kisses all over his breast. He would find his cock proudly unhooded and straining eagerly towards his hot lips which would enclose it, sucking and licking…..

“Oh, we must find a way to get you a girl!” said Bush, still delicately avoiding the topic of Hornblower’s virginity.

“Tell me what happened next!” Hornblower demanded, with an imperious urgency that Bush found irresistible.

“I gripped and moulded her lovely bottom, pulling her closer, trying to jam my aching cock deeper into her hot, wet quim. My sweet lass was not a minute upon me before she rode herself into ecstasy, bounding faster and faster, her delightful cunny gripping and squeezing my throbbing tool, until I felt her innards tighten so hard it took my breath away. Her arse began to tremble, she moaned long and low, and then, with a loud shriek and tremendous gush that soaked my bollocks, she attained the peak of her pleasure, and rewarded me with exciting contractions that nature in her infinite wisdom designed to wring the spunk from my stones and shoot it deeply inside her womb.” At this, Hornblower exhaled, halfway between a sigh and a moan. Bush breathed heavily, feeling unable to restrain himself from gripping his throbbing shaft and letting the spend fly. But for all their bawdy talk, they were still just bed-mates, and he stilled his hand.

They were both quiet, each wrapped up in their erotic thoughts. Hornblower made no attempt to conceal his excitement, while Bush tried to calm himself thinking of a dreadful gale in which he’d had to works four hours at the pumps. His attempt at distraction was unsuccessful. He could only think of Hornblower panting beside him, and of Gigi shrieking as she bounded up and down on his overheated cock.

“Would you care to continue?” asked Hornblower, after several minutes during which they both breathed heavily and deeply.

“Oh, yes,” replied Bush. “That was just the beginning of a romp that lasted hours. After her little cunny creamed – it’s called ‘spending’ or ‘coming,’ you know - my cock was still hard as iron as if I had not attained my pleasure. I turned her around without dismounting, so her bottom was rubbing against my belly, and she continued her delightful ride, for women are stronger than men in this regard, and my G always comes at least three times, as she says that it has to last an entire month until my next visit.” Bush had doubts that he was Gigi’s only man, but he did not mind her bit of flattery, as she really was fond of him.

“I kissed the back of her neck, grasped her soft breasts, and thrust my fingers down into her parsley bed, rubbing the nub between her legs to give her greater pleasure as she began slow, leisurely fucking motions. That is the one place you must always touch a woman, Hornblower, if you want the pleasure to be equal, or as I prefer, greater for the woman. And soon enough her cunt was squeezing and her honey flowing down again, soaking my balls, and her bounding increased as she rode eagerly towards her second thrilling spend. And this time I could not contain myself, and we almost wrecked the chair in our exertions, and with a shout from me, and a hard groan from her, we fetched each other, her pussy gripping me in its usual charming fashion, whereas my hot, tight balls drew up close to her cunt and my spunk flew out in several strong, pleasure-giving jets, while we writhed and moaned and our juices mingled in sweet connubial bliss.” Bush could not help it; his fist circled his cock, just at the base, cupping his bollocks, but still trying to stop himself from taking his cock fully in hand.

“And that was the end?” asked Hornblower, the disappointment clear in his voice.

“Oh, no, we hadn’t even made it to the bed yet. That was just to cool our fires in preparation for a longer enjoyment. We cast off our clothes and lay down on the coverlet, for Gigi had to keep the sheets clean for a paying lodger. Then we explored all the delightful ways our bodies give pleasure to each other. I kissed her wrists, and her inner thigh, collarbone, and every sensitive point on her lovely body. She is just slightly plump, with a trim waist and wide comfortable hips. Her legs are particularly well-formed. I have already mentioned her breasts, which are without parallel. While I caressed and kissed her, she likewise returned the favor, pinching my nipples, kissing my neck, and grasping my worn-out tool, which was very slowly beginning to restore its vigor.”

“Men and women both have pleasure at their breasts, then?” asked Hornblower.

Bush could not resist. He leaned over and laid his hot hand on Hornblower’s chest. “Oh, yes, but it is better to show than to tell,” he exclaimed, and his fingers circled Hornblower’s left nipple, pinching slightly, relishing the gasps and the way Hornblower squirmed beneath the sheets. He thought perhaps that he was the first to lay a loving hand upon the shy young man, and the idea filled him with pride at being chosen, for if Hornblower’s teasing, eager questions weren’t an invitation, then Bush did not know what else to make of them.

Bush took a moment to tease and pinch the other nipple, looking down at Hornblower’s finely sculpted lips as they parted on gasps and moans. “You see?” he whispered raggedly. “It is pleasure for both.”

“Oh, oh!” Hornblower moaned. “Please, finish your story.”

Bush did not interpret this as a request to stop, so he left his hand across Hornblower’s chest, and the inch between them had long since closed, so he could feel, in every atom of his body, the hot tension of his companion, the tightened muscles and trembling body. He continued.

“In bed we writhed around topsy-turvy, arsey-versey, until her sweet red thatch was so close to my mouth that I could not resist plunging my face between her legs, tickling her little nub with my lips, and pushing my tongue up her slippery avenue. So overheated with lust was I that I did not mind my own leavings, which in other situations would be distasteful, but in the heat of passion, no impediment to joy. She nothing loath, and pushed her darling quim into my mouth, thrusting her hips so as to urge me on. And somehow the dear girl maneuvered herself so that my stiffening tool was over her eager lips, and when I felt her tongue touch the throbbing head, I quite naturally and easily dropped my hips so that it found a safe haven between her loving lips. Thus we began what the French call soixant-neuf, that legendary pleasure which is perfect equanimity between men and women.” Or men and men, thought Bush, but he would hold off before explaining all that.

“Ah, God, the pleasure of her tickling tongue, her sucking mouth, and how quickly my prick stiffened up again! She fingered my bollocks and I could not help but thrust, not wanting to hurt her mouth, but she kept a fist wrapped around the base of my cock to prevent that. Meanwhile I was sucking and nibbling at her little button, pausing to thrust my tongue up her womb, then return to lick and tease, and her own hips were going like pistons as my hot-blooded lass ramped up to her third luscious spend! Oh, Horatio,” Bush sighed, calling him by his given name, for they had come too far for anything else. Bush felt as overheated in his passion as he had when originally enacting the exciting scene he described. If anything his desire for the courageous young lieutenant was even keener than that for his good-natured Gigi.

“Oh, do go on,” whispered Hornblower, his face flushed red, his eyes glittering in the darkness.

“As you can imagine, my sucking and licking and nibbling soon fetched her, and to increase her pleasure, I held her hips tightly pinned to the bed while I coaxed her sweet little cunt, until with a long wail of release her hot little box issued forth yet another gushing tribute. Her spend seemed to last forever, for that is the way with a randy-arsed woman who likes to come not twice but thrice or four times. Her thighs quivered, her little button danced beneath my tongue and she moaned in sweet torment, until finally her limbs were rigid and still. ‘Oh, William,’ she said, ‘how you do fetch me! And I hadn’t the presence of mind to minette you fully,’ she said sorrowfully, for my rigid prick had dropped from her lips when she began to spend. ‘Never mind, lay over me and we shall do it like mothers and fathers.”

“My word, but how you can fuck!” murmured Hornblower. “I had no idea it could last so long.”

“I am regarded as especially talented in that regard,” said Bush, pleased at the compliment. “No doubt that is why Gigi cares for me so, for I can never afford so much as a flower for her bonnet, but I make sure she is well-content in our frolics, and she is good to me.”

“And you to her,” said Hornblower. “Did you have yet another go-round?”

“Oh, yes, I lay over her, and her pussy was so moist with our mutual spendings that my hard prick slipped right in with the greatest of ease, and we began to fuck slowly in the normal fashion that is easiest and fastest for both men and women, and gives great pleasure to both. She was quite worn-out with all the delicious spends I had previously given her, and at first she just lay dreamily, barely moving her hips, while I thrust away with increasingly hardening cock. It is a curious pleasure when one has already spent a few times, for the prick feels sore at times, but then, as the motion increases, the pleasure is almost too great. When Gigi felt my shaft throb and stiffen even firmer than previously, she roused herself and heaved her bottom, meeting me as I began to pound her into the bed. ‘Oh, William, you darling man!’ she cried. ‘Oh, fuck me with your glorious tool!’”

“Do all women speak that way?” asked Hornblower. Bush was quite sure he had himself in hand, in just the same way Bush’s own hand gripped his deliciously hard cock.

“Perhaps I embellished a bit, to make a more colourful story,” admitted Bush.

“For me?” asked Hornblower, pleased. In response, Bush leaned over and kissed his collarbone. When Hornblower didn’t pull away, he gently pressed their lips together and was pleased when Hornblower opened them. Ah, the first kiss, a deep, soul-stirring kiss, and it didn’t take long for Hornblower to learn the art of ‘tipping the velvet,’ or kissing with twining tongue. He gingerly placed his hands on the small of Bush’s back.

“Yes, for you, darling boy!” gasped Bush, kissing in earnest. With a passionate groan he untied the riband that held Hornblower’s hair in queue, and ran his fingers through the rich curls. He could barely restrain himself from covering his bed-mate, from grinding their cocks together urgently, riding towards bliss, but he would let Hornblower make the first move towards release, as indeed he had started this whole thing with his eagerness to hear Bush’s randy tale.

“Go on, then, tell me the rest,” Hornblower panted between kisses.

“Gigi and I did not hurry through our last and final spend, but I paced myself carefully, watching her flushed face, her trembling bosom, until I felt she was nearing the pinnacle of bliss. She began to urge me on violently, drumming her feet against my bottom, digging her nails into my back, which only increased my pleasure. ‘Oh, you hell-cat,’ I cried out affectionately. ‘You naughty little tart, I’ll give it to you now!’ All of which only made her more excited, and her overheated cunny began to throb and grip and milk me as she gasped and moaned out her pleasure. Through our chorus of groans and cries I heard her high-pitched squeal which always heralded her crisis, and I relaxed the muscles which help me to contain myself and make me such a long-lasting delight to women. She squeezed me so tight, I thought she’d suffocate me, and her legs clasped around my bottom and held me nearly motionless, so I could only fuck on with gentle heaving motions. ‘Oh, I’m coming, William, ah, ah, push harder, ahhh!’ she cried, and my balls tightened up, I rammed my prick like a steam-engine, and positively howled with ecstasy, while she shrieked out her bliss, and a gush from her overheated cunny fetched me, the boiling spunk spilled from my throbbing shaft, and we both spent furiously with moans of bliss. Oh, what a good hard fuck that was! If only Gigi were here right now!” Bush was so hard, he could not stop himself from stroking his overheated tool, not until Hornblower leaned in and took over for him.

“I am no Gigi, but I have the advantage of being here, now,” said Hornblower, as his hand closed around Bush’s cock. “May I please you?”

“Oh, my dear!” cried Bush, immediately regretting it, but it was a true measure of his feeling, and Hornblower did not pause, he just fit their lips together and engaged in another loving, open-mouthed kiss, which grew bawdier and more demanding as their pulses raced towards the inevitable conclusion. Bush pushed Hornblower’s hand away and lay on top of him, feeling for the first time the heat of his entire body, and their bare cocks slid together with a frisson that made them both gasp and tense in anticipation.

“Let me show you all that men can do for each other,” he whispered, for he felt sure that Hornblower had no experience in this regard, either. “Feel that, my dear?” he asked, as he rocked his hips and their slippery cocks slid together. Hornblower answered him with a gasp. Bush bent low to kiss him again, insistently, robbing him of his breath, kissing ardently with tongue and teeth, and even dipping down to nip at his collarbone and the sensitive place where the neck meets the shoulder.

“May I call you William?” Hornblower groaned, writhing beneath him, thrusting his hips upward to meet Bush’s straining cock.

“Of course, dearest,” he groaned, feeling the familiar ache in his balls that signified his impending release, but no, not yet. Not until he had the satisfaction of watching the handsome young lieutenant come undone. It didn’t take very long before Horatio’s kisses grew sloppy, his breathing erratic, and the little gasps at each slippery thrust of their pricks became lustful cries, and then Horatio groaned his name at every push. “William, William,” he cried out, “It feels so good, I shall spend, love, I shall die!” And he then stopped his thrusting, he circled Horatio’s prick with his hand, and feeling it throb under his fingertips, and knowing the crisis was imminent, he lowered his head, took the head of Horatio’s cock between his lips, and tickled the slit with his tongue.

“You devil!” Horatio cried out. He sucked and flicked his tongue right underneath the throbbing head, at the precise point where it was the most sensitive, and a thrill shot through Horatio. Never had he known such pleasure, such ecstasy as his dear friend’s clever tongue coaxing the spunk from his delighted prick. He wanted it to last and last, but he was too eager for his spend. He gripped Bush’s hair almost painfully, while his hips pistoned urgently to drive his aching prick deeper into the hot wet heat, the sucking, teasing mouth. Ah, it was too much, he would die of pleasure. “I’m spending,” he cried as his spunk jetted out into William’s eager lips. In the throes of ecstasy he was treated to William’s expert ministrations, as his lips teased and sucked the dripping head, his loving tongue lashed all the sensitive places, flicking underneath the slit, sucking and licking until Horatio groaned hard as his cock jetted once more and his body relaxed in the final throes of his release.

William, of course, had the intense pleasure of seeing the officer he so admired come undone, a wet, boneless mass, with his face flushed red, his limbs utterly relaxed, and his softening prick curling into its nest of dark hair. Of course he was an inch from spending himself, so utterly was he moved by the enchanting sight of Horatio’s intense climax. It would only take a stroke or two of his hand, but Horatio pushed his arm aside and gripped him tightly. “Like so?” he asked, and all the shyness was gone. William nodded. It didn’t matter how he touched him; any touch at all would fetch him, and soon. He kneeled over Horatio’s body, helpless with pleasure as Horatio stroked him. He did not close his eyes, but looked down, taking pleasure in the sight of his friend in all his exhausted release. But he was too hot, too excited and achingly hard, and as much as he wanted it to last, it was only a few seconds before his arse and thighs tightened and with a lusty moan, he pleasure peaked. How good it felt as his friend stroked him, and he groaned ecstatically as his spend jetted out, soaking Horatio’s belly, again and again, until it was too much and he pushed his hand away, collapsing on top of him.

“I am afraid our washing-up was all in vain,” said William.

“Never mind, Maria will bring us more hot water tomorrow,” said Horatio. His arm was around William’s back; their legs luxuriously draped together. Horatio dozed, and William rested his lips on Horatio’s neck. The room now seemed warm and cozy, and neither noticed when the boat cloak slipped to the floor.

happy birthday to Mr. Sherlock Holmes

2012-01-07T05:40:11Z

Since it is Mr. Holmes' birthday by the BSI's reckoning, I shall talk a moment to wish Sherlock Holmes a happy birthday. I've always found this photograph of William Gillette to be one of the sexiest depictions of the Great Detective, and his dressing gown is magnificent:

I apologize to my patient readers for the six-month lag in updating; I've been busy with work, school, martial arts, and my other hobbies. Happily, Renaissance e-Books/Sizzler bought my story "The Turkish Bath," so if you wanted to read the other half of that, you should be able to buy the e-book in a few months. I'm still writing Holmes/Watson tales - current, something akin to "The Adventure of the Gloria Scott," which is one of few narrated by Holmes instead of Watson, about Holmes' university years. If you are a House/Wilson fan who enjoyed "Cupid's Dart," you'll enjoy it, I promise. I am also writing a Holmes/Watson story about a journey by rail but am still researching Pullman cars in 19th-century Britain (they were more widely used in the States).

I probably should swap out my top banner and move Holmes/Watson to the position of honor. I still find House/Wilson hot, as well as other slash couples - I'm a secret Remus/Sirius slasher, maybe I will post some of that someday. But I confess to being preoccupied with Holmes/Watson slash lately. They were my first slash coupling, from before I had heard of the term "slash" or knew what it was. I love Victorian pornography, and I have a fetish for the clothing, slang, and daily rituals of the 19th century, that it's my preferred fantasy. My stories are written for a utilitarian purpose, but that doesn't mean they can't be beautiful.

I want to self-publish my naughty tales of Holmes and Watson, perhaps using The Espresso Book Machine. It seems like erotica publishers prefer e-books these days, so I would give print-on-demand a whirl. Thanks for sticking with me and I hope you'll enjoy the excerpts of Sherlockian naughtiness that will be posted, albeit slowly, in months to come.

FIC: excerpt from "The Turkish Bath" Holmes/Watson NC-17

2011-06-25T01:57:48Z

I wrote this long Holmes/Watson tale last December, for Sizzler Books' call for submissions for a planned Holmes anthology called My Love of All That Is Bizarre. The editor is backlogged and has not yet begun to read for it, so I'm posting an excerpt here on my journal. This is the first half of "The Turkish Bath." Having placed Holmes and Watson in a hot, steamy bath, you can imagine what happens next. I may end up posting the second half, but I am balancing my blog posts with my ambitions towards earning modest income with my Victorian-styled pornography.

Title: The Turkish Bath

Author: missviolet
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: PWP
Summary: Holmes and Watson visit a bath-house and things heat up
Notes: written for Sizzler Books’ planned anthology My Love of All That Is Bizarre

The Turkish Bath

Sherlock Holmes enjoyed the same comforts and pleasures as any gentleman of his station. He was fond of music, dined out several times a week, and subscribed to no less than seven London dailies. I have not made a record of his daily habits, for no writer can fashion a story from mundane details. There is little adventure to be found in Holmes toasting a piece of bread-and-cheese over the coals, or lounging on the wicker sofa reading the police blotter. To satisfy a public eager to read of his exploits, my chronicles describe his extraordinary cases and the means by which he solved them. It is merely for my own amusement that I set down this account of how we bathed in the early years of our acquaintance, before the march of progress brought ease and comfort to daily life.

Until the twilight of the century, conveying water to upper levels was a tremendous feat of engineering, and only the finest hotels were equipped with baths. 221 Baker Street had a water closet below the stairs and a cold faucet in the kitchen. Hot water was drawn from a heated reservoir on the kitchen stove, but it wasn’t proper for two men to bathe in a kitchen where servants worked. We bathed in our own quarters, behind a screen before the fire, in a huge copper tub filled by our unlucky page. The poor lad was obliged to march up the stairs carrying metal cans of scalding-hot water balanced on a yoke across his shoulders, and then repeat the whole process in reverse to empty the bath.

If the kitchen stove was fully stoked, it took the better part of an hour to fill the bath, otherwise, it could easily take several hours to heat the water and carry it up the stairs. It was cumbersome, and we often made do with a pitcher and washcloth, or with a dousing bath, standing in the empty tub pouring water over ourselves, followed by a meager scrub and rinse.

Between our adventures, my medical practice, Holmes’ chemical experiments, his love of disreputable disguises, and the dirt and smog of London, bathing was less of a comfort than a necessity, but it was never easily attained. Our erotic dalliances, though delightfully satisfying, increased our need for daily hygiene. During one particularly lively morning session, I awoke with a shudder, Holmes’ hand encircling my painfully stiff prick. He lay next to me, fetchingly clad only in his striped pyjama bottoms, with his chest bare and his hair an uncombed mess.

“Good morning, Watson,” he said cheerfully, pausing to squeeze the base of my cock before resuming his ministrations, stroking me until I was wide awake and throbbingly hard.

“Ahh,” I sighed, as his hand found a teasing rhythm. He unbuttoned my pyjama top and pinched my nipples into taut little points, while I writhed and groaned with that deep-seated pleasure peculiar to our morning bouts.

I was eager to return delightful sensations he was bestowing upon me, so I untied the drawstring of his pants and slid my hand inside. His long thin cock was pleasantly stiff, a pearly drop suspended at its fiery tip. With my thumb I smeared it into the cock-head, tickling the sensitive underside, while Holmes sighed and thrust his hips with the utmost abandon.

Like most of our morning frolics, it was over rather quickly. I had only just gotten a firm grasp of his stiff-stander, when all too soon I felt the sharp stabs of pleasure that heralded my release.

“Oooh, frig harder,” I groaned, until Holmes’ lips covering mine silenced me. I lost myself in his open-mouthed, plundering kiss, and felt the throb and ache of my impending climax. My bollocks tightened and drew up, my arse clenched, and with a hard groan my spunk flew out in a half-a-dozen strong jets, soaking my belly and chest.

“Holmes, oh!” I said helplessly, the waves of pleasure coursing through me. In my excitement my own grasp had loosened around his stiff tool, and Holmes brushed my hand aside and frigged himself.

“How quickly you spend in the mornings, Watson,” Holmes murmured, sliding his hard cock into my softening one, smearing it into the pearly spunk that coated my belly. His lips sought my slackened mouth and he kissed me ardently. One hand caught the back of the neck in a tight grip, and with a moan of pure lust he shot out his spunk, further drenching my belly and chest. We shuddered together for a few moments, gliding our softening pricks through the frothy spendings, before my cock became overly-sensitive and I murmured in protest and gently pushed him away.

We lay side-by-side, breathing hard, my hand resting on his thigh, his arm still around my neck, straying through my hair. He was a most devoted friend, and far more affectionate than I have revealed in my chronicles, for even the most loyal readership has its limits.

“I’ll have to summon a bath,” I said, for we were clearly beyond pitcher and washcloth. Untangling myself from his long limbs, I made my way to the wash-stand. I splashed my face and rinsed my mouth with some of Holmes’ tooth-powder.

“Why wait? Come with me to the bath-house. A shilling will admit us both,” said Holmes, shucking out of his pyjama bottoms and lazily stretching his limbs across my bed.

“I’m not overly fond of the public baths,” I said without enthusiasm, for I found the convenience of a large supply of hot water diminished by the cloudy appearance of the bathing pools, the grime of the slipper-tubs, and the densely packed and questionable clientele.

“The Eastern style of bathing is far better than our native methods. Let us go to the Turkish bath on Northumberland. It is a well-run establishment, perfectly clean, and frequented only by respectable gentlemen.”

Having never been to the Turkish bath, I agreed readily. I mopped my chest and belly perfunctorily and dressed in yesterday’s underclothes. I packed a clean pair of drawers, socks, and a fresh shirt, collar, and tie in a valise, along with a razor and the boar-bristle hairbrush we shared between us.

Together we walked out onto Baker Street. Holmes led me to a row of low brick buildings on Northumberland Avenue, only a few short blocks from our abode. We entered through an unmarked door, finding ourselves in a small vestibule, similar to a ticket-booth at a music-hall. A grizzled old clerk sat behind the glass. He did not greet us, nor say any word at all, until Holmes paid our admission. The clerk handed up two white robes of Turkish toweling and a small key on a loop of braided horse-hair. “Have a pleasant bath,” he said blandly as he returned to his Pall Mall Gazette.

“Is this a public bath-house?” I asked curiously, for there was no signage, no list of fees, nothing to indicate the purpose of the rooms within.

“It has a certain exclusivity,” he said, “but I’m well-known to the management, and you are welcome as my guest.”

I followed Holmes down a long white tiled corridor, which grew increasingly steamier. We saw no other patrons; by then it was mid-day, and gentlemen typically bathed before dinner or in the morning. Holmes stopped in front of a wooden door painted with the number five. He slid the key into the lock and ushered me inside.

It was cooler than in the hallway, and the walls were made of slate. The room was only just large enough to accommodate two double-wide chaise lounges of sturdy teak. It was well-stocked with a stack of fresh towels, a pitcher of water ingeniously nestled in a block of ice, a couple of drinking glasses, and a bell-pull to summon the page. A low cabinet held a row of small bottles of oils and emollients. One wall was lined with cubby holes and pegs for hanging clothes.

Holmes removed his clothing and I followed his lead, hanging my jacket and waistcoat carefully on the pegs and stashing my worn shirt and drawers in a muslin bag, which I tucked into a cubby. We wrapped towels around our waists and Holmes locked the door behind us. He slid the room key around his wrist and I followed him down the white-tiled hallway.

We made our way to a shower room, or rather, a tiled room containing a row of watering cans lined up near a spigot. Holmes doused me with warm water, a bracing quick rinse to clear the skin in preparation for the heat. I marveled as every drop of water circled neatly down a drain in the center of the floor, conveyed by gravity to the sewers below the street.

Holmes dried his face with a towel, leaving his body still dripping. “The usual approach is through the warm room, the hot room, and finally the steam, but we’ll try the Russian bath first,” he said, leading me out into the steam-clouded hall.

“Isn’t this a Turkish bath-house?” I asked.

“When the Queen’s grand-daughter became engaged to the tsarevich, many London bath-houses added a banya, as the Russians call it. It’s a new addition to this facility, and very invigorating,” he replied. “Hasn’t really caught on with the locals; for months I’ve not seen another soul in there. There is some talk that it causes pleurisy,” Holmes said carelessly. I stopped in my tracks.

“Oh, but a medical man would never believe such nonsense,” he said, lips twitching with amusement. “Come, Watson, I have spent whole afternoons in the Russian bath and I’m as hale and hearty as can be.” He stopped in front of a heavy oaken door.

An oppressive wave of heat greeted us as we entered the stone room. In one corner was a fiery hot furnace, an empty bucket beneath a spigot, a smaller bucket of soapy water, and a stack of leafy oak branches. The walls were lined with staggered rows of wooden benches.

“You will quickly become accustomed to it,” Holmes said as I gasped in the still air. “It is not nearly as hot as the Russians would prefer, but it is a dry heat. Even the steam hardly lasts.” Holmes picked up a long-handled ladle from the big bucket. He tossed water over the stones above the furnace, generating a cloud of fragrant steam that quickly disappeared into the ether.

Holmes shook off his towel, spread it along a low bench, and lay on his back with a contented sigh. I followed his lead and stretched out on my stomach. For several minutes we lay in silence, punctuated only by our heavy breathing. Droplets of sweat flowed freely down my brow, and I tilted my head to avoid stinging my eyes. The sound of the water rushing through the bath-house pipes was strangely soothing. Between the still heat and the strong fragrance of oak leaves, I felt almost light-headed, yet completely relaxed.

“We have added much perspiration to the remainder of our morning frolic,” Holmes said. His voice sounded distant and faint, as if speaking to me in a dream. “You are probably wondering how we are to bathe.”

I had been idly wondering, but was too lethargic to bother asking. Holmes didn’t elaborate further, but simply stood up and walked to the corner, retrieving a leafy branch and the small bucket of sudsy water.

“This is the traditional platza technique. I learned it from a Russian tenor some years ago. Stand here next to the drain – leave your towel on the bench.”

I was curious to know more about this tenor, feeling a slight pang of irrational jealousy at the men he might have known before we met. But there was no time for questions, for Holmes dipped the oak leaves into the sudsy water and slapped it onto my back. The water felt as hot as the air, and I flinched as he sluiced me over and over again with thick suds of olive oil soap, until I was absolutely drenched with the viscous fluid. Then he set down the oak leaves and began to massage the soap into my body. He kneaded my shoulders, and I sighed as his strong hands soothed me.

It was a curious feeling, to be so attended by one of the greatest men of our age, who crouched on the floor to better reach the tight muscles surrounding my old wound. Seating me on the lowest bench, he stretched and kneaded the ligaments of my feet and the knuckles of my hands. His nimble fingers sought out all the long-buried tightness in my muscles, penetrating deeply, making me groan with satisfaction as he worked out the kinks in my thigh where the Jezail bullet had nicked me

When Holmes had loosened every muscle in my body, he doused me with clean water and instructed me to lie face-downward on the bench. He picked up the oak branch again, and I expected more soaping and scrubbing. To my surprise he began to beat me with the sodden leaves. On the muscular parts of my back, the sensation was tingling and pleasant, but on the more sensitive thighs and buttocks, it was downright stinging.

“Holmes!” I gasped at a particularly sharp lash across my arse. “Have a care!”

“You need to relax to absorb the full benefits of platza,” he said sternly, unceasingly wielding the bundle of oak leaves against my tender skin. He paused, but only to use the leaves to fan the hot air so that it wreathed my entire body. That was a welcome relief, but inevitably he resumed the lashing. Curiously, I felt myself relaxing under the treatment. My skin grew heated, warming my blood, and my muscles loosened under the stimulation. I no longer flinched even when the leafy whip caught my inner thigh or buttock.

Seeing that I had begun to enjoy the treatment, Holmes wielded the branches in a furious rhythm, until my bottom was glowing and a pleasant warmth suffused my lower parts.

“Not so fast!” I gasped, for his lashing had raised the blood to my cock, and I found myself squirming to free it from the tight constraint of the thick cotton towel beneath me. I managed to position myself more comfortably, but the rough toweling was an additional stimulation to my overheated pego.

Holmes laid aside the branches and pressed a knee into my lower back. Slipping his hands under my arms, he lifted me towards him, stretching my torso so that several vertebrae cracked in pleasant release. He lowered me down gently, pausing lay a kiss and a bite on the back of my neck, sending a shiver through my frame. Then he picked up the oak leaf lash and flicked it quick and light across my buttocks. I groaned in mingled pain and pleasure and thrust myself into the wooden bench.

“Does it hurt?” he whispered in my ear, hot and sultry.

“Yes,” I whimpered, as he fanned the hot air over my trembling body.

“Yet you enjoy it,” Holmes said teasingly.

“A purely physiological response,” I said in a strained voice. Holmes laughed softly as he slipped his hand between my body and the bench, finding my cock stiff and rampant.

“Oh, don’t!” I cried. “We’ll be caught!” Despite myself, I arched into his grip.

“We’ll just have to be quick about it,” he said. His sharp little teeth nipped my neck, and his hand around my cock was slick with soap. I couldn’t help but buck my hips, pushing my aching rod into his tight, slippery grasp.

“Quickly, then,” I groaned, for my blood was on fire, all notions of decency forgotten. Holmes turned my head to kiss me roughly as his hand moved faster. His hot tongue plundered my mouth and I felt his cockstand hard against my back. “Fuck,” I gasped out.

“Randy-arsed Watson,” he whispered affectionately. “Let us see how swiftly I can fetch you.” So overwrought was I, so enflamed with his skillful lashing and the heat of the room, that in no time at all he coaxed out a luscious spend. With a voluptuous cry I arched into his hand, muscles contracting, my whole body tensing as my cock throbbed blissfully. I shivered in delight as I spurted into rough towel beneath me.

Suddenly Holmes was on his feet. “We should not have tarried in here so long. Ten minutes is the recommended duration.” I was still panting for breath when he dipped the oak leaves into the sudsy water and sloshed my back and thighs. “Turn over,” he said. I obliged, allowing him to lather my front, then did the same for him. We doused each other with clean hot water before we exited the room, but our next destination was only a few feet away. I followed Holmes through a white-painted door marked “COLD” and found myself at the edge of a square marble-lined pool into which water continuously flowed and re-circulated. Holmes gestured for me to pinch my nose before we jumped in. The water was so frigid, the instant I plunged in, my innards contracted and my bollocks drew up tightly into my body. I bobbed up to the surface, gasping and sputtering as I climbed out of the pool.

Wrapped in our thick white robes, we walked back to the drying-room. Holmes stopped at the concierge desk to order a pot of tea. Inside our private sanctuary, he lay naked on a towel spread on the chaise. I drank a glass of water from the icy pitcher and lay on the adjacent lounge. I felt a sense of utter peace, relaxation, and satiation such as I had hardly known. Holmes’ eyes were closed, his lean body limply draped. We lay in easy silence until the page knocked at the door.

Holmes accepted the tray and sent the page away, preferring to pour out the strong brew himself. I sat next to him as he passed me the tea, but he had me lay back before he gently placed the steaming cup in my hand.

“Recline and sip it slowly, Watson, to maintain the deep relaxation I’ve instilled in you,” he said. I was touched by his attentiveness, and I took the cup gratefully. Following his advice, I drank slowly, feeling the warmth of the tea penetrating my vitals.

It was luxurious to lie in the sweetly-scented room, listening to the rushing water of the many pipes and pools that supplied the bath. I drifted off into a dreamless sleep, my head resting on Holmes’ shoulder, soothed by his steady breathing. When I awoke, I knew not how many minutes had passed, but Holmes was in deep sleep, with such an expression of peace on his handsome features that I was careful not to wake him. I felt unexpectedly sentimental as I gazed at his sleeping form, pondering how my fortunes had changed in a few short months: from lonely pensioner to friend and confidante of the cleverest man in London.

(continued in part two)

FIC: "Upon the Use of Electrical Vibration in the Treatment of Hysterics," Holmes/Watson NC-17

2011-04-28T01:12:00Z

It's been awhile, dear readers, and that's because I have been preoccupied with writing Sherlockian porn for commercial publication, and because of graduate school and other hobbies taking their respective slices from my scant free time. Regarding the former, Elementary Erotica was published recently and one of my stories is included. I hope you'll enjoy this excerpt, which is written in my (dare I say trademark?) highly descriptive, flowerly, filthy way. It is unusual in that it includes heterosexual scenes, something which I have never posted to this LiveJournal. It also includes gadgets, something I never thought I'd include in a story, but the anthology has a steampunk theme. If you like it, please buy the Elementary Erotica e-book - it's modestly-priced, and includes six other sultry Sherlockian tales. plus the rest of mine. It's 10,000+ words of relentlessly hot sex scenes. I won't go so far as to promise you a plot, and my story does stand out from the others which are plot-driven erotica. But if you like the rest of my writing, the following will be pleasing to you - enjoy! ♥ MissV

Title: Upon the Use of Electrical Vibration in the Treatment of Hysterics
Author: missviolet
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: PWP
Summary: Watson treats a lovely hysteric and randy Holmes lends a hand
Notes: published by Circlet Press in the Elementary Erotica anthology

Upon the Use of Electrical Vibration in the Treatment of Hysterics
Violet Vernet

Mr. Lillie's wife suffered from hysteria, that mysterious ailment that is the bane of the upper class woman. He ushered me into her bedroom, she being too frail to come to my offices. It was toasty warm from a cozy fire, and Mrs. Lillie lay in a magnificent carved bed, propped up on pillows and underneath a pink satin coverlet. She was a comely woman of five-and-twenty, scarcely half her husband's age. Her jet-black ringlets were tied into two bunches with matching pink ribbons, and she wore a delicate lace cap upon her head. Her lips were a dainty Cupid's bow and her teeth like a row of tiny pearls. Underneath her pretty bed-jacket, her well-formed bosom heaved gently.

"It is an honor to meet you, Dr. Watson," she said breathlessly, looking up at me with limpid eyes. "I have read of all your exploits with that dashing Holmes fellow."

As I suspected, my association with my far more famous companion was the reason for my engagement. "I am also an experienced medic, Mrs. Lillie, and I will endeavor to make you well again," I said gravely, drawing up a chair to her bedside. "Please tell me when your symptoms began." I took out a small pad and pencil to jot down notes. I nodded to Mr. Lillie to indicate that he could leave us, for I have discovered that female patients are often more forthright without the presence of their husbands.

"It was shortly after we married two years ago. Poor Edgar has lived with it all our married life. I began to feel light-headed, especially while we were out dancing at parties. The first year of marriage is such a whirlwind, you know."

I nodded as if I understood, although I had yet to experience the joys of matrimony.

"I'd be out dancing with half-a-dozen young gallants - it is bad form to dance only with one's husband, of course. And I would feel very warm in the face and bosom," and here she blushed becomingly. "And sometimes I would begin to breathe very fast, to pant, almost. And on a few occasions, I fainted."

"And how did you treat your condition?"

"My doctor advised me to abstain from dancing and to loosen my corset. Eventually I stopped wearing one altogether. I feel so much freer without one, but I don't think it's abated my hysteria. I have been on bed rest since my last incident the evening before last."

"I would like to examine you, Mrs. Lillie, if you have no objection."

"Of course. Shall I stand up?"

"I'll stand, and you sit in this chair, madam." Mrs. Lillie climbed out of bed. Her bed-jacket topped only a frilly pair of drawers, showing a goodly expanse of shapely calf. She slid her dainty little feet into satin marabou slippers and drew a quilted wrapper about herself without any apparent embarrassment at her half-naked limbs.

I performed the usual examination of eyes, nose, ears, and mouth, and then pressed my palm to her heart and gauged its vigor. Under my hand, I felt the thump of her heart as it quickened.

"Dear me, I do believe I feel one of my spells coming on," she said. Her cheeks were flushed scarlet, a fetching contrast to her porcelain complexion. I listened with my stethoscope and confirmed that her heart was pounding far too rapidly for good health. I assisted her back into bed where she lay, chest heaving, gazing at me with the same limpid-eyed look I'd noted when I first walked into the room.

"I have a brand-new method of treatment for hysteria, Mrs. Lillie. It is a mechanical device that will cause a paroxysm that releases the tension from your muscles, preventing fits. It is said to be painless." I knew nothing more about the Weiss Rejuvenator than what I had read in the pamphlet. None of my colleagues had tried it, and it was an impulsive and rather expensive purchase. Hysteria was an all-too-common affliction of the upper classes and I was set on finding its cure.

"I am an adventurous sort, Dr. Watson. That is why your chronicles speak to me so deeply. We are of a common make, the two of us. So I will try your mechanical treatment. How shall I arrange myself?"

"Lay back, Mrs. Lillie. I will draw the bed-clothes, and, I beg your pardon, madam, but you'll have to remove your knickers. The treatment is to your nether regions."

"Please, do what is necessary," she said, drawing the coverlet and wiggling out of her frillies. Her bottom half was then bare, and I noticed the fine shape of her white legs. I could not resist a peek at her darling little cunny before turning away. Indeed it wasn't proper, but the pouting rosy lips tipped with crisp glossy hair were too charming a sight not to sneak a covert glance. It was difficult to imagine this lovely specimen of womanhood suffering from a crippling complaint, and I resolved to do everything within my power to heal her.

I removed the Rejuvenator and cradle from its cushioned wooden box. It was a beautiful instrument, gleaming with brass and polished wood. The main part of it was fashioned into the form of a sphere the size of a small orange, covered with leather. At its center was a steel ball which, when the device was plugged in, produced the vibrations that were so helpful to women with hysterical temperaments. A slightly larger flat disk was mounted above the sphere, with polished wooden knobs for handles on either side, much like a ship's wheel. Its purpose was to allow the doctor to position and steer the vibrating core for maximum penetration. I rested the device on its cradle, a brass stand similar to the bottom piece of a candlestick telephone. I plugged it into a socket on a lamp on her bed-table and allowed the engine to warm up. After several minutes, the engine was purring. I lifted the Rejuvenator from its cradle and brought it to the open legs of Mrs. Lillie.

"This won't hurt a bit," I reassured her, not yet realizing how completely true that promise would be. I applied the device to the crimson gap between her legs, unsure of how exactly to position it. She gasped and squirmed, and managed to arrange it herself to her satisfaction.

"Oh doctor, that’s lovely. It's just the right spot," she sighed, wriggling her hips ecstatically.

"Is it comfortable, madam?" I asked with concern.

"It is heavenly," she replied, tossing her head from side to side as the engine whirred.

Mrs. Lillie's quickening breath, her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, were like a woman's in the first flush of love. It soon became apparent to me that, however flowery the description in the mail-order catalog, the Rejuvenator was an instrument of female sexual pleasure.

Curious, I took a closer peek at the device nestled between her legs. She did not notice, so engrossed in the pleasure it bestowed on her clitoris, the seat of woman's delight. I looked at the lips of her adorable cunny, moist with spendings. The sight thrilled me.

"Have you many emissions, Mrs. Lillie?" I asked curiously.

"Oh, yes. It's simply running out of me. Press harder, doctor," she said, thrusting her bottom vigorously to lodge the Rejuvenator more firmly between her legs. I slid a finger into her quim - merely to gauge the quantity of her emissions, to be sure - and her interior muscles clenched and captured my finger in a loving grip. I tried to suppress a gasp, but my sigh was audible. She bucked her hips, thrusting so hard that she dislodged the Rejuvenator, causing her to pant with distress until I somehow managed to hold it firmly to her while simultaneously exploring the walls of her gushing cunny.

Her moans were lovely, low, musical sounds, and the delighted wrigglings of her backside were shamelessly sensual. Despite my earlier assurances of objective professionalism, my cock stirred in my trousers. I added another finger to my exploration and, with a pounding heart, I began to plunge them in and out of Mrs. Lillie's pussy, not forgetting to lean heavily on the Rejuvenator to drive the pleasing vibrations deep into her toes and fingertips.

"Ah, you darling man," she cried out, as her hips pistoned between the throbbing Rejuvenator and my plunging fingers. She was so tight and wet that I felt a rush of envy for Mr. Lillie, who could bury his cock inside her any time he pleased, while I had to be content with just my fingers.

"Shove harder," she sobbed, as her cunt contracted and throbbed around my fingers. Her thighs quivered and her shapely bottom rose off the mattress as she strained against me in blissful release. "Oooh," she shivered out, as another wave of pleasure shook her lovely frame, her interior muscles almost nipping my fingers, and with a last lustful moan, her pleasure was complete.

She lay back among the ruffled pillows, her face beet-red, panting to recover her breath. I gently slid my fingers from her cunt, which felt soft, wet, and slippery after her exciting climax. The whole procedure had taken less than ten minutes. Fortunately she was too absorbed in her own marvelously sated state to notice the tenting of my trousers.

I was too overwrought to take a hansom back to Baker Street, fearing that the vibrations of rattling over the pavestones and the privacy of the cab would be too great a temptation to self-abuse. I walked quickly, avoiding eye contact with other pedestrians, and in twenty minutes' time I was at Baker Street.

Holmes was still in his dressing gown, as it was only noon and it was his habit to linger over coffee and cigarettes. He was sprawled on the wicker sofa with the morning's papers spread around him.

"How was the lovely hysteric?" he asked, putting aside the Pall Mall Gazette.

"It's the most uncanny thing," I said, dropping my bag and coat and sinking into an armchair. "I think I just diddled a respectable married lady with the aid of an expensive new medical device."

"Is that the treatment for female hysteria?" Holmes asked, sliding closer on the sofa. "Do tell, for I've never heard of such radical methods."

"The Rejuvenator is a miraculous new device in the form of a vibrating steel ball covered with soft leather. It is a recent addition to my catalog of the latest medical contraptions. I must say, it's terribly effective in producing a paroxysm, followed by a state of soothing calm. You should have seen Mrs. Lillie writhing about. It was a matter of moments before a crisis overcame her. Her shapely thighs shook like a leaf in a storm as she tossed her beautiful head, moaning in bliss. It was a most exciting spectacle."

"I can see that," said Holmes, lifting an eyebrow in the direction of my middle, where my cock had tented my trousers in response to my pleasant recollection.

"Lock the door, won't you, Holmes," I said. Holmes got up to fasten the latch. I unbuttoned my trousers and slid my hand down my drawers. "That woman went off like a firecracker. I could hardly stop from throwing myself on her and rogering her soundly." I gave a sigh of pleasure as my fingers tightened around my cock.

Holmes stood over the back of the armchair and rested a hand heavily on my shoulder. "I sympathize. It is most stimulating to watch someone transported in the throes of erotic agony. I suspect I'm about to experience that first-hand."

"Can't help it," I groaned, pushing down my drawers for better access. "That adorable little minx got me all riled up and telling you about it has made me twice as stiff." My fist was a tight home for my swollen prick, and my breath caught as I jerked myself faster.

"Care for some assistance?" Holmes breathed in my ear. He reached down and nudged my hand away from my cock, taking over. I stretched my legs out and sighed with pleasure as his elegant fingers played a teasing melody upon my throbbing instrument.

"Oh-ho," I groaned, as his hand tightened and found a rhythm. "You know just how I like it."

"You like it any which way, Watson, you randy dog," said Holmes affectionately. He gave my cods a loving squeeze, and began the lovely up-and-down strokes until my prick throbbed with delight.

"That's good," I sighed, and Holmes turned my head to give me a rough kiss with a little bite. I leaned back and opened my mouth, and he slipped his tongue inside. We lost ourselves in an exhilarating soul-kiss, and all the while Holmes continued his measured stroke on my hot, hard cock, bringing me ever closer to the breathless culmination of our erotic labor.

Holmes, too, was excited, as I could see by his glittering eyes and the quick rise-and-fall of his chest. With a graceful movement, he stepped around to the front of the armchair so he could lean down for a proper kiss. His scent was of strong shag tobacco and the slight tang of bitter chemicals. Our kiss was ecstatic and he moaned into it, leaning so close that the heat of his body maddened me. I gripped him about the waist, wanting to pull him close. He pulled on the cord of his dressing gown and it fell open, revealing his lean, muscled body, and a long and pleasingly stiff cock jutting proudly from a thatch of glossy brown curls. I only had a glimpse of this mouth-watering sight before he straddled me, and our bodies slid together with a hot spark of lust.

I groaned as he rocked against me, and his hard kiss grew sloppy. Our cocks rubbed together, slickening with our mutual excitement. Holmes hitched his breath as his fingers found my nipples and tweaked them hard, one after another, making me cry out.

Holmes stood up again, looking down at me with satisfaction. His hair was mussed, his face flushed from exertion, and he was panting, but that was nothing compared to my own state. I was close to spending, and I could not stop myself from uttering soft little pleas.

"Finish me," I begged him, grabbing his hand and pulling him hard. I thrust my hips, willing him to touch my aching cock.

Holmes said nothing, but he dropped to his knees. I gasped in expectation, and his lips quickly found my cock and kissed the head experimentally while I dug my fingers into his shoulders and urged him to take my full length. He very soon did, sinking his mouth down on my cock with an obscene sucking noise that only furthered my excited state.

I thrust my hips, trying to be gentle, but his lips and tongue were maddening, and every other breath was a groan of pleasure. I was in ecstasy, pushing my rigid cock into his wet lips, and he obligingly bobbed his head faster. I wrapped my fingers in his hair, pressed the back of his head. My bollocks ached sweetly, tightened and drew up, and my thighs quivered.

"I'm spending," I sobbed, and my cock pulsed and throbbed as the first spurts hit the back of Holmes's throat. Good sport that he was, he kept plunging my delighted cock deep into his hot sucking mouth, and I clenched my bum and thighs as I poured my libation past his wet lips.

"Holmes, you devil!" I gasped, as one last paroxysm swept my body, one last jet of white-hot froth shot from my prick, and Holmes, after tonguing me delicately into softness, finally released me from his mouth. He stood up, cracked his neck, and resumed his position on the sofa. His dressing gown was askew and the fiery tip of his erect cock peeked out from between the folds of fabric.

"I wouldn't dream of leaving you in that state," I said lazily, although merely getting up to sit next to him on the sofa seemed an impossible task in my pleasure-drenched langour.

"I'm in no hurry," said Holmes, and he let the sides of his robe fall open. He stroked his handsome cock almost absently as he poked around an ashtray on the side-table, finding a pinched-off cigarette and re-lighting it. He inhaled with pleasure, tightening the grip of his fist, speeding up a bit. His eyes were half-closed and his legs spread wide to facilitate access.

I couldn't help but be fascinated with Holmes's self-abuse, so unashamed and matter-of-fact as he was about it. At any other moment, the sight would have had my cock standing to attention, but even though I was fully spent, I relished the sight of Holmes jerking himself. It was like indulging in a too-large delicious dinner, only to be presented with a magnificent delicacy for dessert. One couldn't help but look, even if tasting was too much of a strain.

"I know you like to watch, naughty Watson," said Holmes. He slid down farther into the sofa, his hand gliding up and down his rigid tool.

"It is a pleasing spectacle," I agreed, "which nearly always results in a raging cockstand; but your extremely satisfying tongue-lashing just moments ago has my poor spent prick completely wilted."

"Yes, I am rather good," he said smugly, before catching his breath on a particularly erotic touch of his fingers, which strayed and tickled around the sensitive underside of his cock-head before resuming the glorious long strokes.

I finally mustered the energy to rise off the armchair and approach the sofa. I sat next to Holmes and leaned forward to press my lips to his. With a little sigh he opened his mouth, met my wandering tongue with his own, and we engaged in a luscious kiss, tipping the velvet until Holmes was breathless. All the while his hand was fast upon his straining prick, coaxing himself further into that crisis of delight which is the culmination of our basest and most enjoyable instincts.

It wasn't gentlemanly to let him finish the job unassisted, of course. I brushed his hand aside, squeezed his cock in greeting, and took over his pleasant task. Naturally any erotic stimulation is more enjoyable when another administers it, and Holmes responded immediately and enthusiastically to my touch.

"That's it. How good it feels, Watson," he sighed. I jerked my wrist faster, urging him towards heavenly release.

"Oh! Faster, love," he said, and the unexpected endearment made my throat tighten. I kissed him ardently, stroked his hot throbbing cock firmly and steadily, and with my other hand I cupped and squeezed his balls, which made him groan and push his rigid staff into my tight fist.

His tongue plunged my mouth, and his panting breath and trembling thighs told me the crisis was imminent. I made sure to cover his mouth with my own, so that his luscious moans were half-muffled. He was quieter as his pleasure peaked. With a quick sharp breath, his body tightened, his cock pulsed once, twice, three times, as the pearly spunk flew out, soaking my hand and his belly. I squeezed his cock reassuringly, teasing out the last drops, while he moaned in lustful spent pleasure, each moan decreasing in volume until at last he pushed my hand away from his softening pego.

"That'll do, Watson," he said. "Mustn't overindulge, or we'll have nothing left for other pursuits."

By "other pursuits" he meant our regular bouts of athletic sex before bedtime, which often ended with me on all fours on the Persian carpet, huffing for breath with Holmes's stiff-stander stuffed deep inside me, stroking my insides, forcing groans of pleasure from my lips. It would be a shame to use ourselves up before getting to the best part of the day.

No fear of that, gentle reader. Holmes and Watson continue their erotic adventures with tireless abandon in my 10,000 word short story published in the Elementary Erotica anthology. To read the rest of this story as well as six other sultry Sherlockian tales by various authors , buy the eBook on Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Elementary-Erotica-ebook/dp/B004S7A7GI or Circlet http://www.circlet.com/?p=2726

more Sherlockiana and another call for submissions

2010-11-18T22:34:36Z

It's an exciting time to be a Sherlockian porn pastiche writer. A few short years ago, Sherlockian erotic pastiche was extremely obscure, even in the bizarre world of erotic fan-fiction. But nowadays the idea of the Great Detective having a sex drive is no longer quite so laughable and I daresay, has a wider appeal than any time since the 19th century (when Sherlock Holmes received many marriage proposals from ladies who did not realize he is fictional).

Certainly the Guy Ritchie movie had a lot to do with that. With Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law cast as the famous friends, the sexual attraction and slash factor was inevitable. Lately the BBC series Sherlock is creating a stir. Set in modern London, it stars Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman - certainly not two actors who are immediately identifiable as sex symbols, but they are both extremely appealing in their roles and Benedict Cumberbatch in particular has become an unexpected sex symbol. I think this is due to his brilliant portrayal of Holmes as much, or more, than his looks. His Holmes is as cold and uninterested in sex as the Canon original and this unattainability makes him irresistable.

Circlet Press' Elementary Erotica is in the final copyediting stages and it may be released before the end of the year, so that's exciting. I read the manuscript, and I'm very pleased and humbled that my pornography was chosen to be included, as the rest of the stories have actual plots and seem to be a lot more than just porn. I think my sex scenes hold up fairly well in comparison to the other writers', but overall, as a story with a plot, mine can't really compare. I am not abashed by this as I've always considered myself a writer of 'one-handed reading,' but I'm flattered that the editors chose to include my story despite its meager plot and non-stop sex scenes.

Of course, once Elementary Erotica is published, I will post a link here and possibly an excerpt, if Circlet's policy allows this.

There is another call for submissions for Sherlockian erotica: The Erotic Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, to be published by Sizzler Editions. Like Elementary Erotica, it will be an e-book. One day I hope there will be sufficient interest in Sherlockian erotica to warrant an ink-and-paper edition - it seems a shame that the dismal Sexual Adventures of Sherlock Holmes should be the only one - but for now, I'm just so pleased to see a second collection in the planning stages. I'll be submitting something to Sizzler, possibly a story I've already written, but perhaps a new one, as I have until January 1 to get it together. I still plan to collect all my Holmes erotica into a self-published edition one day, but of course, it's more exciting to submit to regular publishers.

Lethe Press' A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes is slated for April 2011 release, and I believe it's going to be an ink-and-paper edition, but decidely non-erotic. Should be an interesting read anyway.

Although part of me thinks that Sherlockian erotica isn't for adolescent girls and they ought to leave my fictional crush alone, another part of me is thrilled that people are talking about Sherlock Holmes again. My curious and obscure hobby isn't quite so obscure any more!

I apologize that I haven't written a new fic in ages, I am actually working on my Sherlock Holmes erotica but can't post it to my LJ if I intend to submit it. If you are following BBC Sherlock, I think you will love the writing of irisbleufic . Try this extremely hot story Perspective and if you like it, be sure to leave a nice comment at her LJ.

other writers in the upcoming Elementary Erotic

2010-09-08T19:54:43Z

If you want to read about the other six authors included in the upcoming Elementary Erotica collection (of erotic steampunk Sherlock Holmes stories), check out their bios on the Sex In Sepia blog, which run by the collection's editor J. Blackmore. Since I write under a pen-name, my bio is quite succinct and boring, but I really cannot include personally identifying details in case anyone I know stumbles across Elementary Erotica. And besides, that's always what I imagined my bio would be on a book jacket, if I am ever lucky enough to be published in print.

I don't know exactly when Elementary Erotica will be published, but hopefully soon. I know that Ms. Blackmore plans to promote the book with more teasers on her blog, and maybe some cover art will make an appearance soon.

Oh, if you are a regular here, you may have noticed I changed the header graphic. No more little Valentine heart with House and Wilson Photoshopped together. I changed it because Ms. Blackmore requested a link for her blog, and in case anyone drifts over from Sex in Sepia, I didn't want them to wonder what this LJ has to do with Sherlock Holmes.

You may be dissappointed to know that I am writing lots of Sherlock Holmes porn for a collection of stories that I intend to self-publish, if I can find a vanity press that will agree to print it, being as Sherlock Holmes is widely believed to be copyrighted by Andrea Plunkett (she actually does not hold the copyright, but she thinks she does, and most vanity presses want to avoid any potential trouble). I am hoping the prevalance of Holmes pastiche already in print will be sufficient to convince a vanity press to work with me. After all, Laurie King has probably made a small fortune from her Holmes pastiche, and she hasn't been snagged by Plunkett's lawyers, so what are the chances that the few copies I might sell would draw their ire?

As to whether I will write more House/Wilson slash, yeah, sure, I expect I'll always return to that, but right now I'm having lots of fun with my Holmes porn, since the Victorian style suits me so well. Sorry I cannot post it, but the idea is to eventually sell copies and you know the old axiom about why buy the cow? But I appreciate any of the f-list who haven't given up on my sporadically-updated LJ!

good news from Circlet

2010-08-16T21:37:51Z

I'm very happy to report that Circlet Press wants to include my short story in their upcoming "Elementary Erotica" collection of Sherlock Holmes stories set in a steampunk universe. Although it will be an e-book and not a conventional printed book, it is still quite an accolade for me because I've always considered myself a slash fanfic writer of plotless masturbatory aids. I mean, there's nothing wrong with masturbatory aids, but I'm just a little surprised that the Circlet editor found enough substance in my Holmes story to include it. I had been planning to post it here on my journal, but I can't do that until the e-book is published.

My lengthy story, which was edited by two long-time members of my f-list, is called "Notes upon the Use of Electrical Vibration in the Treatment of Hysterics." It is narrated by Watson, as are almost all of the original Canon stories. He describes his adventures treating a female patient for nervous hysteria, using the latest in Victorian medical technology, the electric vibrator. I snuck in the steampunk element by portraying Holmes as a tinkerer who modifies the vibrator to be easier to self-administer the treatments. If you've ever seen pictures of the bulky 19th century vibrators, you would understand why someone would want to mod them.

I've portrayed Watson as solidly bisexual, so there are some heterosexual sex scenes - rather unusual for me. I've written Holmes to be completely gay. That is sure to ruffle some feathers - most people seem to want them to be straight or gay, but never bi. But it's hard to believe Watson as entirely homosexual - his "experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents" would seem to preclude that. Of course, Holmes is also explicitly described as asexual in the Canon, but I've chosen to conveniently ignore that as a mere cover-up for his true nature.

So that's given me a bit of inspiration and I may submit another story to Cleis Press, if I can edit it down to 1,200 words for their "gay quickies" anthology.

Meanwhile, I haven't written much House/Wilson lately, and I know that the bulk of my f-list came to my LJ for my House fics, but my interests have expanded. I'd really like to do a Chuck/Casey fic from NBC's spy-fi comedy Chuck. I've always crushed on Adam Baldwin, ever since he was the tough kid in My Bodyguard. And I'd like to continue my Holmes stories and see about self-publishing them. The market for Holmes erotica is a pretty small one, but I am hoping to find a vanity press that will publish it - not so easy, since many people are under the impression that the Holmes character is copyright-protected - and that isn't too pricey, and also will get me an ISBN so I can sell on Amazon.

Thanks for sticking with my LJ although it's so infrequently updated. I do have a couple of fan-fics in the works so do check back once a month or so and maybe I'll surprise you with something new.

FIC: After Hours, NC-17 (something a little different: original homoerotica)

2010-06-18T16:52:25Z

Here's something a trifle different - original homoerotica, set in contemporary times. I have been toying with the idea of self-publishing an anthology of historical homoerotic fiction, starting with the Middle Ages and ending in the present day. This would the last story in the collection, set in modern times. I'd love to know what you think. Are the characters believable? Would you buy something like this, if packaged in a paperback with another dozen or so original erotic tales of men loving each other throughout the ages? Or are you content with the free stories and fan fiction that is available on my LiveJournal?

Title: After Hours
Author: missviolet
Pairing: original characters
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: PWP – explicit gay sex here, but you probably knew that!
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely accidental.
Summary: Co-workers get to know each other in the office after hours.
Author's Notes: This could be part of a longer anthology of original homoerotic fiction that I hope to self-publish.

That Colin was still in his office at seven was a game, a challenge. Everyone else had gone home; theirs was not a department of go-getters. The hallway between their offices was silent except for Colin’s sighs, each of which vibrated through John’s body in a pleasant little frisson. Colin’s nearness generated an anticipatory thrill as he pushed around paperwork. Distracted, he shoved it all in a pile and leaned his head forward. Eyes closed, he imagined Colin across the hall. Those little sighs were for him, he felt sure. He’d never known such a tease. For months they exchanged secret glances, accidental touches that caused a spark of heat between them. John remembered Colin sucking the stem of his black-rimmed glasses, looking at him with curiously naked eyes, while working together at John’s round table. Heads bent low, voices a low murmur. It would have been maddening, except that John was sure it was all leading somewhere.

There was a quiet snick of the door, and Colin’s footfalls. He paused, and John’s heart thudded. Then yes, he approached and stood in the doorway, hands on hips sweeping his jacket behind him in classic Superman pose. Indeed he looked more than a little like Clark Kent, with his magnificent jaw and lush brunette curls masked by thick-rimmed glasses and indistinct sport coat. There was, of course, the promise, even the threat, of Superman underneath his catlike smile.

There was John, his hair mussed, though it was usually so carefully styled. Colin realized with amusement that he must have been running his fingers through it, perhaps in frustration. He entered the room and closed the door behind him. John’s dusky Mediterranean complexion deepened a hue. He dropped the pencil he had been twiddling. Colin removed his jacket and hung it carefully on the hook on the back of the door. He rolled up his sleeves methodically, locking eyes with his handsome young colleague, who looked at him hungrily. Oh yes, Colin knew the art of creating anticipation.

“Come here,” he said, and John obeyed, meekly, shyly even, and Colin took him by the hand and maneuvered him into the little space between the door and the file cabinet. John’s hand tightened around his. The tension between them was unbearable, but still Colin tarried, his hand lightly around John’s waist, the distance between them proper, like a pair of old-fashioned waltzers.

Because it was new, the pleasure of anticipation was sharp, but a glance at John looking downward shyly convinced him to hasten things along. Poor Johnny was surely a first-timer, and there was a blush to his cheeks, an uncertain look in his eye.

“Oh, honey,” Colin said, without even thinking twice about it, and John came into his arms and lifted his finely sculpted lips, and then Colin was kissing his very own Greek god in a crisp white shirt and tie.

John was eager, but Colin slowly and patiently taught him the art of the tease. Lips soft and yielding, tongue just the barest swipe. Each of John’s exhales ended in a little sigh. Finally Colin opened his mouth invitingly, and then they were kissing deeply with tongue. One of Colin’s hands crept down to John’s ass and drew him forward. He allowed himself a soft groan when he felt John’s cock brush against his. How long had he been hard, he wondered, liking the idea of driving him crazy from across the hall.

“Oh,” sighed John, face buried in Colin’s neck. The throb-throb of their cocks was divine. Colin wanted to blurt out all sorts of filthy things to the fucksome young man who strained in his arms. But there would be other times, not the first time. The first time was for tenderness. His lips sought John’s. “Kiss me," he said, with urgency. And John complied, and felt the luscious slow grind of their bodies, the way they kissed until their lips felt bruised and tingling, and how close he was to spilling over in his trousers, so intense was the pleasure of his best friend’s embrace.

But oh, the thrill of tongue-kissing his straight-laced colleague, whose hands fumbled at his shirt buttons, found their way inside to trace a delicate path around each nipple, was forbidden, and therefore tantalizing. Though Colin was older and had been working at the company longer, John’s recent promotion meant that Colin now reported to him. When they began their flirtation, they had been peers, and now John was the boss, at least, in workaday matters.

In their first intimate moment, Colin clearly was the boss and John the quickly learning novice. For it was only with Colin that he had come to accept that he wanted men, that he felt his relationships with men were on a much deeper level than those with women. Colin was well-versed with the delights of sex with men; there was never a time when he did not know he was bisexual. He loved his wife, a petite little Latvian woman who worked as a veterinary assistant and ran a pet portrait painting business from their home. She did not mind at all his escapades with men; indeed she rather liked it. She knew he had been courting John and he would enjoy telling her all about their encounter.

So Colin was showing John the ropes, so to speak, and the first step was sharing with him all the pleasure that men can give to men. The kissing and the frottage were just to warm him up. He teased John’s nipples, pinching lightly, rolling them in his fingertips. His hands explored John’s finely-muscled chest. John spent a lot of time at the gym, and his body was as sculpted as a Michelangelo statue. Colin explored every detail of his muscular chest, tracing each rib, dragging his nails over his abdomen, but always returning to John’s nipples. He bent low to tongue them, and John groaned in frustration.

“Suck them,” he whimpered, and pushed Colin’s head down, and Colin obligingly tongued and licked his nipples into two little fiery points of pleasure, the ache of which resonated in his painfully stiff cock. But it’s his mouth that he loves best, the deep, wet kisses that leave them both breathless and wanting each other so badly it hurts.

John was practically swooning in his arms, and his hips bucked to drive his throbbing erection more tightly into Colin, his mouth warm and wet and open, begging for a deep kiss, and his breathing so ragged that his voice is just a rasp.

“Come on, Col, don’t tease,” he begged. He dragged Colin’s wrist to his midsection, placed his hand on his cock. Colin squeezed obligingly, savoring the heavy fullness in his hand and John’s dirty moan. He was generously endowed, straining the fabric of his trousers. John was no longer shy, thrusting his constrained cock into Colin’s accommodating grasp.

At last there the most erotic sound that John had ever heard: his own belt unbuckled, his trousers unzipped, and Colin yanking his pants down, shorts too. He was bare-assed against the file cabinet, his rigid cock pointing towards his chest, utterly at Colin’s mercy.

“Tell me the truth, you’ve never had it from a man,” Colin asked, but it wasn’t really a question. “I know just how you like it,” he said, cupping John’s balls so that a shiver ran through his frame. He handled his magnificent cock with undisguised pleasure, feeling the heft and the weight of it, tracing a lightly maddening finger up the thick vein along the bottom. A tight squeeze just below the head made John gasp in his arms. Colin thrust his tongue into his mouth to quiet him.

“Aren’t you eager for it!” he said. He wanted to talk dirty to him, to call him an adorable slut with a sweet fuckable mouth, but he restrained himself, wanting John’s first time to be romantic and sweet.

There was one kind of pleasure that every man craved, and Colin happened to be extraordinarily good at it. He knelt and gently nuzzled the crease of John’s thigh, feeling his hot cock nodding against his cheek. He cradled John’s balls affectionately, and John sighed appreciatively and spread his legs just a little bit wider.

And then his mouth enclosed the ruby head, and he sucked tightly, and John flinched and his head fell back against the cabinet. Colin’s tongue tickled all his most sensitive points, and he sighed with delight while his hips heaved gently to work his throbbing cock into Colin’s eager wet mouth.

“Mmm,” he groaned, and Colin replied sympathetically, though his mouth was full of cock. He was getting off on John’s getting off, which made the whole scene so much hotter. When Colin deep-throated him, John could not stop his fingers from tangling in Colin’s hair, forcing his mouth to take him all in, and then he was fucking Colin’s mouth, unable to stop himself from spinning out of control.

“Suck hard,” he pleaded, and he was thinking, Take it all, you darling slut. For it was only later that they would discover how much they both enjoyed dirty words whispered in heated passion. But for now, John merely begged to be sucked, and Colin obliged, flicking the point of his tongue over the sensitive little spot just below the head, making John swear lustily.

Through the haze of pleasure, John heard approaching footsteps and the jangling of keys. “Stop,” he told Colin, pushing on his shoulders. Colin ignored him and continued his masterful blow job, tonguing him so artfully that John couldn’t help himself, he had to keep shoving his erection into that wet sucking heat. The footsteps grew nearer.

“Ahh,” he moaned loudly, and instead of pushing Colin away, he gripped his shoulders hard, pulling him closer. Colin blew him noisily, with obscene sucking sounds that mingled with John’s groans in an unmistakable chorus of sexual sounds. The footsteps stopped. Panicking, John managed to lean over and grab the phone from his desk.

“Just a bit of indigestion,” he said loudly into the dead line. “I’m trying to finish up, I should be home soon.” He hung the phone up noisily. The footsteps resumed, walked past his office and to the end of the hall. With a quiet chirp the guard scanned the checkpoint, and then there was the slam of a door as he walked down the stairwell and onto the next floor.

“Nice improvisation,” said Colin, pausing in his task. John’s cock was wet and throbbing, and he trailed a finger delicately along the side, and John inhaled sharply.

“Go on,” he said, his fingers buried in Colin’s hair. It was agony to have stopped when he was so close to coming. When Colin resumed, it was all he could do not to tear his hair, the pleasure was so intense. He was deep-throating him, cupping his balls, alternating tight suction with tongue-tickling the swollen head, the slit, and that hypersensitive point just below. John was in ecstasy. His head lolled back against the file cabinets, and his hips heaved gently to plunge his rock-hard prick in and out of Colin’s lush mouth.

“Oh, Colin, oh, it’s… it’s…” He wanted to warn Colin that he was on the verge of spurting in his mouth, but Colin replied with a deep groan that vibrated along his cock. Fair warning, John thought, and he grabbed Colin’s hair and pulled it harder than he meant to, and his cock pulsed and with a moan of delight, he spurted his cream into Colin’s eager lips.

“…coming,” he gasped out in the throes of pleasure. His ass clenched and his cock throbbed out another exquisite jet. “Ohhh, Col,” he sighed, thinking, you lovely cocksucker. Colin finished him thoroughly, his dainty tongue coaxing every last drop from his balls, until his groans and sighs of pleasure ceased and his cock was small and soft in Colin’s mouth.

Colin stood up and immediately kissed him, enjoying the slackness of his mouth, the gentle huffing of his breath as his pulse slowed and he began to come down from his exciting climax.

“Do you want me to, uh…” John asked tentatively.

In truth there was nothing Colin wanted more than for John to reciprocate. Sucking him off, listening to his sweet sighs and luscious groans, feeling his legs tremble and the pulse of his cock as it throbbed in release, the salty taste of his come, the deep moans of satisfaction as his pleasure was complete… all had made Colin rock-hard and eager for erotic relief.

Any other man, he’d have shoved down to his knees already, because turnabout was fair play. But he was John’s first, and that was special. He wasn’t going to make him do anything he didn’t want to do, only he was sure that he’d eventually want to, but all in his own time.

“Only if you’d like,” he said. John bent down to pick up his trousers, and put himself back together. He seemed to be thinking about it, but when he slipped a gentle hand over Colin’s groin, he exhaled in surprise.

“You’re hard,” he said, palming him through the thin fabric.

“I liked blowing you, the noises you made… God, you’re sexy.”

John gently rotated their positions so Colin was against the file cabinet. He leaned in for a kiss, laying his hand on Colin’s chest, kissing slow and easy, feeling how Colin’s breath grew faster. And his other hand, slipped between their bodies, rubbing and teasing Colin’s erection, oh, John knew what he was doing, for all his innocent appearance, he knew just how to touch him, to tease him so that Colin moaned into his mouth with lust and longing.

“Is it alright?” John asked, continue to rub and palm Colin through his trousers.

“Yes, it’s nice, only….”

“What?”

Colin didn’t answer, just unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly and eased his pants and boxers to the floor, then he placed John’s hand gently on his erection. Obligingly, John tightened his hand around him, and Colin’s cock stiffened in his grasp. “A little harder, love,” he whispered, bucking his hips to encourage him.

And John tightened his grasp, and jerked him just as he liked to touch himself, and found that he was quite good at it. He sighed and his prick throbbed in John’s hand, which made Colin moan.

“Oh, yeah,” he whispered, “like that, just like that.”

“No,” said John, holding his cock, squeezing tightly. “What you did to me, I want to…” instead of saying it, he simply sank to his knees. His tongue touched the head of Colin’s cock lightly. Colin swore and restrained himself from grabbing the younger man and forcing his cock down his throat. He would be patient, but oh, John’s lips were beautiful, and looking downward, he saw the most erotic sight in the world: his erection disappearing into the wet heat of his friend’s mouth, inch by inch, just slow enough to force a groan from his lips.

“Mm,” he sighed in appreciation, and when his cock was buried, John began the lovely tongue-tickling. He was gentle and tentative, and his inexperience drove Colin wild. His lips were so soft, and his tongue trailed lightly over the head of Colin’s cock, and he tickled all around the slit. Occasionally his tongue dipped underneath the head, which made Colin’s breath hitch. His hands rested on John’s beautifully muscled shoulders, for his shirt was still unbuttoned, allowing easy access.

Colin slipped two fingers under John’s chin and gently lifted his head. “Look at me,” he said. Their eyes locked; John’s were startling blue, such a contrast to his dark hair and tanned skin. His mouth was still full of Colin’s cock and he didn’t cease tonguing and sucking as he gazed into his lover’s eyes. Colin felt a wave of heat and lust wash over him, mixed with a burst of affection. His sweet, inexperienced John giving his first blow job – no one would have him like this again. Later, there would be so much more for him to experience. They would go home together, perhaps to John’s place, and stretch out on his white-sheeted bed underneath the ceiling fan, and twine their naked bodies around each other. The anticipation was delicious.

John’s mouth was beautiful, and cocksucking made it even more so. His lips were wet and reddened as they slid up and down Colin’s pole. He began to suck a little harder, and the tight suction made Colin gasp.

“Ohhh, honey,” he sighed, letting his fingers wander through John’s dark hair, and tugging a few strands lightly. He was a fast learner; his tentative licking and tickling had transformed into a masterful blow job. He caressed Colin’s balls, making him shiver, and took him so deep, his forehead rested on Colin’s belly.

“That’s it… oh, yes,” groaned Colin, as John began to bob his head up and down, alternating tight suction with delicate teasing licks, paying particular attention to the swollen head and the sweet spot just underneath.

Colin grabbed the back of John’s head and pulled him in closer; he couldn’t help it, the way he licked and sucked and tickled his cock was driving him wild with lust and pleasure. He spread his legs a little wider, leaned back hard against the cabinet, and felt his orgasm blossoming in the tightly clenched muscles of his ass and thighs. He gritted his teeth, trying to make it last longer, but John applied tight suction in a particular artful way, and the pleasure washed over him.

“Ohhh, Johnny,” he moaned, thrusting his hips. One leg was cocked to allow him to bury his cock more deeply in John’s willing mouth. His fingers scrabbled through John’s hair desperately. He wished he could remain this way forever, his cock engulfed in the tight wet heat, his body trembling with the ecstasy of his imminent release. But he had reached the crest of his pleasure, and with a cry of ah-ah-ahhh he exploded in John’s mouth in blissful release, grabbing the back of his head to force himself deeper into the soft sucking heat.

It seemed to go one for an awfully long time, and he shivered as each jet of come spurted from his pulsing cock. John sucked and licked him carefully, making sure to tease out the last of his come, to tongue him thoroughly and bless him, he swallowed every drop, tickling his softening cock with the tip of his tongue, until Colin pushed his head away with a hard groan.

John stood up, smiling with satisfaction; he knew he’d just blown Colin’s mind. “How was that?” he asked anyway, leaning in for a kiss.

“Wonderful, just wonderful,” said Colin breathlessly. His arms tightened around John’s back and he drew him close, held him firm. John buried his head in Colin’s neck, inhaling the scent of his aftershave and the slight musk of a man who has just come.

They stood like that for a long time, enjoying the feel of each other’s warm bodies. Colin thought that he was falling for the shy, handsome young man. And John’s heart was soaring with the new-found thrill of loving a man, of touching a hard, masculine body, the rough, greedy kisses, the way Colin had grabbed his head, the sexy way he had groaned and shuddered and spent himself in John’s mouth. How lucky he was to have found Colin, just at the point where he was beginning to wonder if being gay could be any lonelier.

“Let’s go to your place,” Colin suggested. They didn’t live far from each other, although both had to be at work early the following morning. Colin wasn’t thinking carnal thoughts, but that it might be nice to sit together in John’s cool, minimalist living room and watch television. Colin could fix dinner, or perhaps they’d order in. He hoped to spend the night but of course, that would be dependent on whether he got an invitation.

“I’d love for you to spend the night, but what will you tell Joanna?” said John, as if reading his mind.

“She’ll understand,” he said. There would be time to explain their unusual marriage later on. Right now the pleasure of walking out of the office with his boyfriend and riding the metro together was foremost in his mind. Getting sucked off in the office was delightful but the real pleasure of John was simply his company. Sitting close together, sharing private jokes, stealing a kiss whenever he wanted to.

They straightened their clothing and John slung his trench coat over his arm and picked up his briefcase. Colin smoothed a hand over his hair and wiped the fog from his glasses. They left the office holding hands, and took the stairs rather than the elevator, so that Colin could stop for a kiss on each of the landings. The night air was cool and refreshing on their overheated skin. Every so often they stole a glance at each other, savoring their secret, a little world to which only they belonged, so fresh and new to even the veteran Colin that he thought it might just be love.

coming soon: more Sherlock Holmes slash

2010-05-24T17:01:29Z

I was extremely excited to stumble across a call for submissions for Elementary Erotica , an upcoming publication from Circlet Press:

There's always been a certain… something about Sherlock Holmes. Though a confirmed bachelor, and a cool logician, there's a certain sexiness about him, and about many of the people who passed through the doors of 221b Baker Street. Now it's time to tell their stories. Was more going on between Watson and Holmes than friendship? What are the missing details of Watson's courtship of Miss Mary Morstan? Could "The Woman," Miss Irene Adler, have had other misadventures before or after her run in with Holmes? We're looking for these stories, set in an alternate steampunk universe. Anything goes, as long as Doyle’s characters are involved, and there's at least a flavor of steampunk.

I was introduced to slash via JoAnn Soper-Cook's delightful Sherlock Holmes stories, and my own Holmes erotica, "The Violin Concerto", is my favorite of all my slash fics. I've always had a thing for Sherlock Holmes - he combines all the masculine qualities I find so attractive - cold logic, intellectual brilliance, devastating martial arts skills, and 19th century clothing. It's no wonder that Holmes has been my literary boyfriend since I first read the short stories (at the advanced age of 19 - whatever took me so long?).

I was a little off-put by the "flavor of steampunk" requirement. Although I am a steampunk, I've never been a big fan of the literature, preferring straight-up historical lit to alternative steampunk universe stuff. However I found a way to incorporate steampunk elements - everything just fell into place beautifully in my mind, and an idea I had been kicking around for an erotic steampunk story was intrinsically suited to the world of Sherlock Holmes. The deadline is June 30 so that's what I'll be frantically working on for that for the next few weeks.

Whether or not it's accepted for publication, I will certainly post it here. If it is accepted, it would be the first story I've sold, although the payment is very meagre and it may only be an e-book. Still, I'd be immensely excited. I would probably be unable to post it to my journal until it's been published, but I will certainly make it available here for free. If it isn't accepted, I'd post it right away, towards the end of June. So either way you can look forward to a new Sherlock Holmes story coming soon. It's going to be quite different from my usual style - there will be some heterosexual sex scenes involving the bisexual Dr. Watson, and the steampunk flavor is definitely different for me, but overall the style will be similar to that of "The Violin Concerto."

After that, more House/Wilson is on the way, and maybe something in the Sherlock Holmes movie-verse, as that was a slasher's delight and who doesn't like to think of Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law having a go? It's really a lovely thought, and here's an image to spark your imagination:

FIC: "Trial Period," Jack/Ianto, NC-17

2010-05-17T18:08:15Z

Title: Trial Period
Author: missviolet
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: PWP – explicit gay sex here, but you probably knew that!
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Russell T. Davies, BBC, et. al. No infringement or disrespect intended.
Summary: During Ianto's first few weeks as part of the Torchwood team, Jack provides specialized training and more.
Author's Notes: After a long absence, I'm diving back into slash fiction.

Jack is pleased with his marksmanship. On his first day at the Hub, they spend the better part of an afternoon at the firing range, where Ianto proves himself a crack shot. Ianto is careful to control his breathing, not to give himself away, but his fingertips tingle when Jack corrects his posture or hand placement. He knows the Captain relishes the excuse to touch him. After several hours, Ianto has passed all tests with flying colors and is graded by Jack as an expert marksman.

He is less proficient with hand-to-hand combat. Ianto is a tough brawler, to be sure, but he lacks the tactical maneuvers of a professional. He also needs to be trained to capture as well as to kill when necessary. He spends the next several weeks with Jack, learning the art of combat. Owen and Suzie drop in about once a week, to keep their skills fresh, and together they work on group exercises. Tosh opts out of Torchwood's martial program though she is, like all of them, an expert marksman. Jack insists this of his team.

Ianto is a fast learner. With Jack's dedicated tutoring, in six weeks' time, he can spar with Jack and hold his own for a few minutes. He's learned how to fight on the ground, how to disarm guns and knives, and how to control an assailant without damaging him. One hot muggy morning, Jack tests his skills in the small gymnasium on the lower deck of the Hub. Ianto wears a track suit, Jack an old-fashioned gym uniform of white shorts and a polo shirt with a canary yellow stripe. He's wearing knee socks, and Ianto wonders at Jack's preference for old-timey clothes. The braces, the great-coat, and now this Edwardian athletic ensemble. On anyone else, it would look straight-laced and stodgy, but Jack somehow manages to make his outdated clothing look dashing and romantic.

They circle around each other, exchanging blows, warming each other up with strikes to the body. Jack demonstrates several different ways to choke a person into unconsciousness without causing permanent harm. Ianto practices on Jack, stopping when he taps out so Jack doesn't lose consciousness. Not that it would be fatal, as Ianto knows from reading Jack's personnel file.

Jack gives an impromptu demonstration of improvised weapons, using his wallet, a jacket, and a hat to disarm Ianto's knife attacks. Ianto tries out a few of these unconventional tactics before Jack says, "Let's finish with you on the ground." He walks up to Ianto and drops him with alarming efficiency. He simply rotates Ianto's shoulder, throws him over his outstretched leg, and takes a large step. Ianto falls to the floor like a rag doll. He knows how to land without hurting himself, and even how to be strategic in falling. Right before he hits the floor, he latches hold of Jack's ankle, using his falling body weight to force it to buckle and dropping Jack to the floor beside him.

"Nice," Jack pants, as he crawls to cover him. They wrestle, and Ianto's learned to be slippery. Jack can't get a hold of him; somehow he is always just out of reach. He finally drops his body weight abruptly and, by a stroke of luck, pins Ianto beneath him. He quickly locks Ianto's arm, cranks it just enough to be uncomfortable. Ianto knows he's beat but he's still proud of himself for giving Jack a good run. He's made him break a sweat, which has never happened before. There is a light sheen on his forearms and across his brow. Jack's out-of-breath. He applies a little more pressure, and finally Ianto taps out. They rise, and Jack takes an old-fashioned handkerchief out of his pocket and mops his face.

"Well done," says Jack, patting him on the shoulder. "Let's continue tomorrow. I'm a little worn-out." Jack heads for the showers and Ianto knows that there's nothing to stop him from following. What could be more natural than showering after a workout on a hot day? But he's afraid of what might happen, of what he might do if he saw Jack's naked body under the hot spray. Would he stand and stare like an oaf? Would his cock betray him with a massive hard-on? It was better not to risk it.

He heads to the locker room and sits on the wooden bench. He's been rolling with Jack and he smells like him, that lemony musky smell that is so appealing. 51st century pheromones, Jack called it. Ianto isn't sure if that was why he craves Jack so. He suspects that Jack's devilish smile, his deep blue eyes and broad shoulders have something to do with it as well. But he certainly doesn't mind the way Jack smells, and the fact that his scent lingers on him excites him so. Ianto doesn't want to shower. He wants to lie in bed and inhale the fragrance of Jack on his own skin.

He mumbles some excuse to Suzie and Tosh about taking in the laundry, and grabs a laundry bag. The hamper is only half-full and it's mostly Jack's clothes. For reasons of security, a top-secret waste disposal facility launders Owen's scrubs. Ianto fills the bag and tosses it into the back of the SUV. The launderer is near his flat and he intends to stop home first. He tells himself it's merely to shower and change but a hot thrill runs through his body when he thinks of what he is about to do.

On a whim, looks in the laundry bag to see what Jack has dirtied up this week. The first thing he sees is that gym-suit shirt with the canary yellow stripe that Jack had worn earlier in the afternoon. He pulls it out of the bag. Feeling slightly embarrassed, he takes a whiff. It smells like Jack, that same citrusy scent that lingers on Ianto's own body from their earlier grappling session. Ianto grabs the shirt and locks the SUV before going up into his flat.

He feels vaguely like a stalker but his hands are shaking with excitement. He doesn't even bother to go into the bedroom, just draws the blinds and collapses on the couch, with Jack's shirt half-draped over his face. As soon as he is horizontal, his fantasy overwhelms him. What if Jack had subdued him in the gym, not with pain compliance, but with pleasure? In his heated imagination, Jack pins his arms, bends down to kiss him deeply. He envisions their tongues crashing together, teeth snapping, as they tear into each other with savage passion. His imagination is filled with the sound of Jack's hitched breath, and the fragrance clinging to Jack's shirt enhances the effect. Ianto is stiff in his pants. He moans as he draws out his cock, letting his hands wander up and down his body, inhaling the scent of Jack from the shirt and from his own forearms.

"Oh, Captain!" he sighs, pretending that the other man is running his hands all over his body, ravishing him. Ianto tosses his head, and his hand grasps his cock more tightly. He arches his back, thrusts into his own grip with a gasp of pleasure. It's intense, his hot fantasy. Is it really the pheromones, or just the sheer charisma of the man? His cock is slick and aching. He wants it hard, fast, and dirty, so he jerks himself rapidly, pulling the shirt over his face so that his eyes are covered, so that his whole mind and body are suffused with the essence of Jack.

"Jack!" he sobs out, as the first spurts splash across his belly. He comes hard, moaning shamelessly as his body is wracked in pleasure. Even in his fantasy, the very idea of Jack Harkness is hotter than anyone he's actually touched. Ianto strokes his cock tightly, shuddering as he squeezes out the last of his spend.

He draws a deep breath, moves Jack's shirt off his face, and looks down at his ruined track pants. Now he really needs a shower, after coming so explosively. Yet he still thinks of Jack, even as he soaps himself under the hot spray, he feels his body stirring at the thought of what he is sure will ensue between them. That makes it a thousand times hotter than any of his previous sexual fantasies; he's sure it's actually going to happen.

In a fresh shirt and chinos, Ianto tosses his soiled track pants and Jack's shirt into the laundry bag and continues with his original errand. He checks his stop watch: 22 minutes from parking the SUV to returning to it with the laundry. Hardly a noticeable detour. He feels calm and relaxed as he drives. It always soothes him to be freshly bathed, and maybe his sexual tension, ever on the increase the longer he's known Jack, will be at a manageable level after his interlude of erotic self-gratification.

It's close to 4:00 p.m. when he arrives and Suzie and Owen are looking antsy. He brings them a round of freshly-brewed coffee, unasked. Tosh is deep in her work and he dares not disturb her. That leaves only Jack, working quietly in his office, and for some reason, he's embarrassed at seeing him. It's not like Jack's a mind reader, he tells himself. He walks up the iron staircase, balancing Jack's coffee on a tray. He knows just how he likes it and always takes care to fix it specially: one cup in Jack's favorite mug, another half-cup in a stainless steel thermos. Cream in a tiny pitcher and two sugar cubes on a saucer.

Jacks knows his footsteps, speaks to him without turning around. "Is it four o'clock already?" On quiet days at Torchwood, they take a tea break at about this time. Ianto established this pattern on his first day.

"Yes, sir, it's that time," he says, bringing the tray to the coffee table. Jack sits on the sofa, examining a tiny bit of brass. He drops it into a matchbox, slides the cover shut, and picks up the steaming mug.

"Nothing for yourself?" Jack asks.

"I'll have it in the kitchen," says Ianto.

"Why not up here, with me?" says Jack, with that charming smile that makes Ianto's heart race. His gaze is penetrating, and Ianto feels foolishly afraid that Jack knows exactly what he's been up to on his lunch hour.

"I, uh, didn't think I was invited," Ianto stammers.

"I'm giving you a standing invitation. You can always have your afternoon coffee with me." Jack pats the sofa beside him. Ianto sits down nervously. "We can share the cup. Do you like cream?" he asks, looking mischievous. Ianto doesn't know why this one word should make him blush so. Cream. He thinks of the creamy mess he spurted onto his stomach a scant hour ago. Does Jack know? Of course not, how could he?

Ianto simply nods and Jack presses the cup into his hand, making sure to touch his fingers so that Ianto again feels that spark of excitement. Everything about Jack electrifies him. He sips the coffee; rich, strong, and delicious as always. He passes it to Jack, who again takes the opportunity to brush his fingers against Ianto's. What an incorrigible flirt, Ianto thinks, but he's pleased, trying to suppress his catlike grin as he senses the low current of Jack's attraction in the touch of their fingertips.

"So, how was your lunch? Try anything new today?" Jack asks as he sips.

"Um, I just stopped home. I needed a change of clothes." Ianto blushes furiously. He has no reason to be embarrassed, but his flushed face will surely give him away.

"Good that you live nearby. Convenient, isn't it?" Ianto nods. Jack pours more coffee, passes the hot cup back to him.

"I'll tell you a secret. Your hand-to-hand skills are sharp, very good. You're almost a match for me. And I find that rather devastatingly sexy. I had to cut our lesson short today because you made me sweat. Do you know what I mean, Ianto?"

Ianto looks down, nodding shyly.

"I was getting a little too excited to focus. If it bothers you, I can have Owen take over. Or Suzie. To be honest, I think you'd trounce either of them at this point. Does it bother you, Ianto?"

Ianto shakes his head.

"I didn't think so," says Jack, grinning. "In fact, I thought a felt a spark between us … is it too much to hope for a little reciprocation?"

"Yes… I mean, No! No, it's not too much, ah…" Ianto trails off uncertainly, but it doesn't matter because Jack tilts his chin, forces him to meet his gaze, and sees the faint smile playing around Jack's lips. The kiss is not as Ianto expected. It's light and sweet, and Jack puts his hand around Ianto's neck as he kisses. "Mmm," murmurs Jack. "What a lovely kisser you are, Ianto." He sighs, rubs his hands fondly across the fabric of Ianto's trousers, stretched tightly across his thigh. Ianto leans in for another kiss. He's impatient and this time he opens his mouth. He's thrilled to hear Jack's groan as their tongues touch. Jack's hand tightens on his thigh. "That's right, love," Jack pants. Ianto feels a kind of exhilaration as he loses himself in their kiss, in Jack's hot mouth, his hand caressing Ianto's neck, the other gripping his thigh possessively, their quickening breath, the scent of Jack aroused. Ianto moans into their kiss, he shifts his hips, hoping Jack will slide his hand upward, will take the next step and move their interlude forward into the bliss that Ianto is sure awaits them.

"The others are still here," whispers Jack around their kiss. "They might call out for me." He draws away regretfully. Ianto bites his lip, trying not to moan in disappointment.

"Come to me after they leave," says Jack. "I'll be waiting for you." He winks at Ianto, shifts his hips, letting his hand falls suggestively close to an impressive bulge in his trousers. Ianto's hard, too, and standing up and returning to work is the last thing he wants to do. Jack kisses him briefly before he returns to his desk. Ianto makes his way down the iron staircase gingerly, willing his erection to subside.

He hides out in the kitchen, purportedly tidying and drawing up a list of items to be restocked, but in reality just sitting there with the coffee cup he and Jack had shared. He brushes his lips to it thoughtfully. At 6:52 Jack texts him Tosh is finally gone. Come upstairs. Ianto's heart pounds as he climbs the iron staircase. Jack's waiting for him on the sofa, half reclined, one hand resting lightly on his thigh. He says nothing, nor does Ianto. They simply come together, Jack's mouth open and expectant, Ianto biting his lips delicately as they kiss.

"Darling," whispers Jack, and with a catch of his breath, his tongue touches Ianto's lips lightly, then more forcibly, prying them apart for a deep, wet kiss. Ianto grips Jack's shoulder; he pants and his face is flushed scarlet.

"Your first time?" asks Jack softly.

"With a man, yes," Ianto admits, feeling slightly embarrassed, thinking of Jack's centuries of sexual experience with creatures from all over the galaxy.

"Then I want it to be special." Jack cups Ianto's chin, looks into his eyes. He's thrilled at the prospect of being Ianto's first. Jack's hand underneath his chin is shaking. Ianto sees his lust and nervousness and is oddly touched by it.

"Yes, please, Jack," he says, leaning in for a long kiss, with lots of tongue and teeth. They kiss until they are breathless, until their lips are hot and bruised. Then Jack straddles him, forcing him back into the sofa. Their bodies are pressed together delightfully; he can feel Jack's long hard prick straining through his trousers, rubbing against his own throbbing erection. Ianto throws his head back and gasps with pleasure. Jack muffles it with a tongue-kiss. Ianto arches up to him, kissing and grinding his hips, feeling the hot rush of passion in the tangle of their tongues, the slow measured thrusts of their hips. Jack's teeth find the sensitive points of his neck; it hurts a little and Ianto moans half in protest as the pain flares up his senses and sends a flush of pleasure straight to his groin.

He slides down Jack's braces, feeling brave, and so excited, his cock stiff, and Jack panting in his arms. He unbuttons Jack's shirt nimbly, fingers fast on the buttons. Jack's skin is warm, and Ianto slides his hand inside, finding his nipples, stroking and pinching them and measuring Jack's reaction. He's pleased when Jack's quickened breath ends on a whimper as he pinches and rolls his hard little nipples between his fingers. Jack catches his hands, he leans down and kisses him aggressively; he wants to take control. Ianto's arms wrap around his backside. Jack forces their bodies together, and he sets to work on Ianto's jacket, his tie and his white dress shirt.

"Always so well-dressed," says Jack, unbuttoning Ianto's shirt, stroking it away from his body. "Oh, you're beautiful, you are," he whispers, trailing his fingers down Ianto's chest to the sprinkle of dark hair below his belly button. He leans in, so that Ianto can feel all the heat of his body. When they kiss again, Jack settles himself completely on Ianto, the bulge in his trousers throbbing against Ianto's painfully hard erection, his bare chest rubbing against Ianto's own. He strokes Ianto's arms, making small noises of appreciation. His cock rocks over Ianto's unhurriedly, and Ianto arches up. They begin a luscious slow-grind, rubbing together, cocks confined by their trousers. Jack rocks into him, forcing the breath from his body at each thrust. Ianto feels the pleasure wash over him in waves. He closes his eyes, feeling the heat and the hardness of Jack's body, the sound of his ragged breathing, the delicious pressure against his groin, making his cock throb. Jack Harkness is a tease, a deliciously wicked cocktease, and Ianto intends to enjoy every moment of him. He wraps his arms around Jack, forcing his body closer, dropping his hands to Jack's ass, squeezing him, trying to make him rock faster. Jack strokes Ianto's hair away from his face, and leans in for a long slow kiss that leaves Ianto trembling. Jack rolls his hips, forcing a soft little cry from Ianto.

"So eager for it," Jack whispers in a voice strained with lust.

"Oh-ho," groans Ianto, and his fingers dig into Jack's shoulders. He kisses Jack greedily, wanting him to move faster, to thrust harder. For the second time that day, Jack makes his rock-hard cock ache in the confines of his trousers. Jack unzips him, palming his erection through the fabric of his boxer shorts. Ianto jerks his hips. "Not so fast," he gasps.

"You're stiff as a poker," Jack whispers in his ear, caressing his cock through the thin cotton. He draws it out, sliding the shorts down Ianto's slim hips, letting his cock spring free. He looks intently into Ianto's eyes as he starts to stroke him. He sits close to Ianto, straddling him over the sofa while he works his cock. Ianto bites his lower lip and thrusts his hips fast and hard to push his stiffened cock into Jack's tight grasp.

"Slow… slower," Ianto pants, but it feels so good, and Jack knows just how to touch him. He groans and grabs Jack's ass, hard, and thrusts himself into Jack's hand. He's gasping for breath as Jack jerks him a little faster. It's too much, Jack's quickening strokes, the wild look in his eyes, his lips half-parted as he pants in sympathy. Ianto feels his body tensing on the brink of pleasure. He grabs the back of Jack's neck, forces their lips together in a hasty kiss.

"Oh, fuck," Ianto gasps, and he bites Jack's lips. His ass clenches, his balls tighten, and with a low moan, he creams under Jack's steady hand. Jack is thorough, squeezing out every last drop with long, luscious strokes. Ianto shudders, wanton moans escaping his lips until his cock finally softens. Only then does he become aware of Jack's heaviness, pressing down on him. He shifts his hips in discomfort and Jack slides off and sits next to him, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. "Wow," he says.

"Sorry I came so fast."

"Don't be sorry. It was gorgeous," and the last was just a whisper in Ianto's ear. Jack's unexpectedly tender, rubbing Ianto's leg thigh fondly, threading his arm around Ianto's shoulder and squeezing him close. Ianto feels messy, his soft cock smeared with spend, clothing all rumpled, and his mouth is dry. Jack uses his handkerchief to mop him up, tucking his cock back into his trousers, loosely buckling his belt. He fetches a steel canister from his desk, unscrews the cap, and pours a small cup of icy-cold water and hands it to Ianto, who drinks gratefully. He hands the cup back to Jack, who sets it on a nearby table and takes Ianto's hand in his own. Ianto blushes under Jack's intense gaze. He hadn't thought this far ahead. He's hyperaware of Jack's enormous erection straining at the cloth of his trousers.

"What about you?" he asks, dropping his hand shyly, feeling Jack's cock through the thin cloth.

"We have all the time in the world. Why don't you come downstairs?"

"What's downstairs?" Ianto knows there's a little cubbyhole, accessible by a steel ladder. He's even peeked down there and seen nothing more than an army cot, but never ventured further. He's not averse to a little snooping but something about that area seems way too private.

"Just a place. I rest there sometimes." Ianto notices that Jack didn't say sleep.

"You mean, like a bedroom?"

"I guess you could call it that. Would you like to see?" He holds out his hand, and Ianto allows Jack to lead him the iron ladder, and they descend. The ladder leads directly down to an army bunk covered by a worn green wool blanket. A shallow bracketed shelf lines the wall. It's dark and cool, and Jack lights a lantern, an old-fashioned glass hurricane lamp, its wick floating in oil. He sets it on the shelf, illuminating their faces with a warm yellow glow.

"That's a fire hazard, that is," says Ianto.

"I want to see your body in the lamp-light," Jack says bluntly, and blows out the match. Ianto comes into his arms. Jack draws him close and tight, and they sit together on the tiny cot. Jack kisses the top of his head, so tenderly that Ianto forgets all the heat and lust of earlier and melts into the warm safe embrace of the Captain. He pulls Jack towards him. They lay together in a sweet embrace, Jack's lips resting lightly on the side of Ianto's neck, feeling the steady pulse. Ianto, eyes closed, has never felt so warm and protected as in Jack's arms. And once again he's hard for Jack Harkness, beyond what he would have thought possible. He feels like a horny teenager. Jack's leaning close, with that charming crooked smile that always makes Ianto go weak in the knees. And there's that scent of Jack, lemony and slightly sharp, that scent that Ianto craves. He buries his face in Jack's chest with a little whimper, hands reaching for Jack's belt.

Jack has other ideas. He pushes Ianto down onto the narrow bed, pins him to the mattress as he leans down for a kiss. His cock is rock-hard against Ianto's belly. He kisses him deeply, and Ianto pants and his cock throbs. When Ianto gasps with pleasure, Jack slips his tongue inside his mouth. He thrusts and rubs himself against Jack, who finally, mercifully, unzips their trousers. Their bare cocks brush against each other for the first time.

"Quick recovery time, Ianto Jones," he whispers in Ianto's ear, lips barely touching the lobe as he fondles Ianto's erection. Jack takes their cocks in his hand, squeezing them together. Ianto groans hard; it's the third time in just a few short hours that he's got the horn for Jack Harkness, and it's even more intense than before.

"Something about you, Jack, I just … I… ohhh!" Ianto cannot finish his sentence because Jack thrusts against him, rubbing their cocks together in just the right places, teasing the sensitive undersides. Ianto groans and latches his arms around Jack. He squeezes tight, arching into his thrusts. Jack leans in for a fiery kiss, full of teeth and tongue. He's panting now, too, and his kisses grow sloppy as his cock throbs and stiffens in response to the delicious friction.

Jack pauses to sit up and look at Ianto, with his flushed face, his swollen lips. Ianto's shirt is unbuttoned and Jack strokes it away from his body, and then he pulls off his trousers and shorts and just looks at him.

"Why are you still dressed?" Ianto asks, feeling vulnerable under Jack's gaze, naked with his cock pointing stiffly. Jack merely nods and starts to unbutton his shirt. Ianto takes over, hands trembling a little as he strokes away Jack's shirt, slides his shorts down, and then Jack wiggles against him to kick off his trousers. They lie naked together, and Ianto gasps at the luscious feeling of their hard cocks and bare chests sheened with sweat and gliding together.

"You're so lovely," Jack whispers in his ear, and then his hand is on Ianto's cock again, stroking, squeezing, feeling his hardness. Jack slides down, and Ianto knows what's coming next. He feels a jolt of nervousness mixed with hot anticipation. Jack smiles, catching his gaze, wanting him to look as he touches his tongue to the straining head of Ianto's cock. Ianto flinches nervously, but then Jack's hot wet mouth engulfs the head, and he moans and clenches the rough wool blanket beneath him.

Jack moans, too, because he loves to blow, and because Ianto's so vocal in his appreciation. He gasps and threads his fingers through Jack's hair, encouraging him to go deeper. Jack obliges, sucking and tonguing the head, gliding up and down with his soft lips, tickling the sensitive underside.

"That's good, Jack, ahhh," Ianto sighs with pleasure. It's the best thing he's ever felt, Jack's teasing hot lips and tongue caressing his swollen shaft. He bucks his hips forward, and Jack grabs his ass and pulls him deeper into his willing mouth.

Jack pauses in his sucking to lick and kiss his balls, and his teasing tongue delicately strokes the sensitive spot just below. It's a new sensation for Ianto, and it feels so good, he wonders why no-one's every done that before. And then, before he can protest, Jack's tongue is laving his most private place, and he flinches and groans a lustful protest.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice strained.

"Licking you. Relax, you'll love it." Jack meets his eyes with a feral grin. He lowers his head and resumes his tongue-lashing, and Ianto closes his eyes, concentrating on the feeling. It's maddening and lovely, Jack's clever tongue licking him, occasionally working the tip inside of him, which makes him cry out and rake his fingers through Jack's hair. He grows accustomed to the feeling, relaxing into it, and Jack moves back to that delicate in-between spot, then he licks and sucks his balls again, and then back to his straining cock for another long, loving suck. He bobs his head, flicking his tongue and making Ianto pant with lust, then moves back to his licking his balls and tonguing his bottom-hole.

Ianto moans freely now, because this is beyond sex, beyond getting off. Jack's driving him mad, sucking his cock and making his ass and balls ache for his tongue, then tickling his hole while his neglected cock throbs and leaks. He plunges his tongue inside and Ianto can't help it, he bucks his hips, wanting him to push in deeper. When Jack replaces his tongue with his moistened finger, Ianto sinks his ass down to drive it in. Jack wraps his lips around his cock again, sucking and teasing, and he crooks his finger, looking for that secret place. Ianto's soft cry tells him he's found it.

"This will make you feel so good, Ianto," whispers Jack, laying a kiss on his belly and wiggling his finger. Ianto clenches his ass, he groans hard but cannot find any words to tell Jack to do it harder, faster. Instead Jack is slow and teasing, his warm mouth and prodding finger make Ianto flush hot with pleasure, feeling a warm glow spreading from his tightening balls to his groin and hips and even down to the soles of his feet. Jack's finger probes him deep, firing all his nerves, making him pant and tremble. He starts to ride himself on Jack's finger, slowly and rhythmically at first, then a little faster. Then suddenly, Jack slides his finger out and Ianto can't quell a helpless moan of loss.

"Let's do it," Ianto says impulsively.

Jack eases a finger back inside Ianto, slides it deep, and starts to work him over again. Ianto clenches his ass and grabs Jack's shoulders hard.

"Are you sure?" Jack asks in a strained voice, and Ianto knows that he's dying to.

"Yeah, let's go," says Ianto breathlessly. But Jack works his finger soothingly, leans down for another loving suck, and asks him again if it's his first time. Ianto nods.

"We'll go slow," Jack reassures him. He reaches over to the narrow shelf tacked to the wall and finds a small glass bottle. He rubs it between his palms to warm it, then pours the oil all over Ianto's cock, a veritable puddle, letting it drip down between his legs. He pours it over his fingers, saturating them. He rubs the head of his cock over his hole, again and again, until Ianto grabs his hips and holds him steady, urging him on. Their lips touch; Jack kisses him slowly and sweetly as he enters him. Ianto inhales sharply, then exhales with a measured breath. Jack groans in his ear, motionless except for the tremble in his limbs, struggling to contain his lust. He lets Ianto take the lead, waits until Ianto's arms clasp around his waist, until his gorgeous lips are parted on a moan, before he finally rocks into him.

Ianto responds with delight; the sensation is delicate and new, and Jack thrusts his hips languidly, drawing him out. He leans down for a deep wet kiss, quenching Ianto's groans. "Oh, darling," he breathes into Ianto's ear. He fucks him in slow grinding circles, relishing Ianto's short sobs of pleasure, the way his fingers dig into his hips. He pauses to spread Ianto's legs wider, and leans down for another deep kiss. He rests his hands on his narrow ribcage, feeling the ridges between his fingers.

"Jack," Ianto's voice is pleading, submissive. He jogs his hips impatiently.

"Oh, yes," sighs Jack, resting his lips on Ianto's neck, tasting the salt, feeling the throb of his pulse fluttering under his lips. Deep inside Ianto, he's hard and aching; if he relaxes for a moment, he'll spill over.

Ianto's tight, and his clenching makes it tighter, so that Jack catches his breath. Ianto's kisses grow sloppy and when he starts to whimper with every stroke, Jack finally begins to rock into him, leaning low so that Ianto's hard cock is trapped between their bellies, and Ianto shivers with a hot thrill of lust.

"You hot little crumpet," Jack says affectionately, pinching his nipples.

Ianto groans hard. Every stroke of Jack's cock nudges his prostate with electrifying pleasure. Just when he thinks it can't get any better, Jack slips his hand between their bodies, grasps his cock tightly, and starts to stroke him. He alternates between thrusting and stroking until Ianto wants nothing more but for Jack to synchronize. Each thrust sends a warm flood of pleasure deep inside him, and each stroke of his cock is a sharp shock of lust which makes Ianto cry out. He's moaning and gasping constantly now, as Jack shortens the time between rocking into him and stroking his cock, until at last he is doing both simultaneously. Ianto groans helplessly, and presses his palms against Jack's muscular backside, wanting to draw him deeper and faster. There is a fiery ache in his cock, and a riot of lust and pleasure deep inside him.

"Ah, Jack, fuck me harder, fuck… oh!" Ianto gasps out as Jack obliges, rocking a little faster, and his hand drop from Ianto's cock as his own pleasure overwhelms him. Jack at last begins to lose control. He pounds into Ianto, all delicacy and care forgotten. Ianto's cock is trapped between their slick bellies, and the pressure is good, though not as good as Jack's artful hand. But Jack can no longer compose himself, and with each thrust, he moans shamelessly.

"Darling, I'm going to come so soon," Jack whispers brokenly, and his lips find Ianto's in a deep wet tongue kiss. Ianto moans around it, the pleasure so intense he is barely able to keep his lips on Jack's. And then Jack's hand finds his cock again and that's all he can take.

"Oh, harder, please, Jack," he moans shamelessly, and Jack obliges him, his hand a tight slick home for Ianto's throbbing cock. There is a sweet burgeoning ache deep in his body, and he feels a sudden synchronization of cock and ass and Jack's soft lips and tongue, until everything rises together and becomes almost too much for him to bear.

Jack cries out in unbridled passion, a sound unlike any Ianto has ever heard before. Once again he bends deep to kiss Ianto wetly, their tongues twined together, until Ianto can't kiss for groaning, and he feels himself going over the edge. His thigh muscles tense and clench in lustful anticipation. The pleasure is so sharp and acute that he cries out as the waves crest deep inside him and his cock pulses and with one last sharp squeeze from Jack, he starts to come in long agonizing spurts.

"Ahh, fuck!" he cries out in a frenzy of unbridled lust. Jack's eyes widen and he finally allows himself to feel the full brunt of the pleasure of fucking Ianto's tight little hole, of kissing his soft rosy lips and handling his delightfully hard cock. His balls tighten and draw up and with one last rough thrust he too comes with a hard groan.

"Ohhhh, oh, yes," he moans, his cock pulsing. And Ianto answers him with soft little sobs as he too feels his balls emptying in long fiery streams of pleasure, and each thrust of Jack's hips makes him come just a little bit more. They shudder together for long minutes, and when the first violent waves of pleasure die down, Ianto lifts his head for a kiss. Jack kisses softly, breaking the kiss only when another little helpless paroxysm of pleasure overtakes him, because it takes him a long time to finish. Ianto feels pleasantly full and satisfied but Jack is still thrusting languidly, emptying himself fully, until with a final hard short groan, his pleasure is complete.

"Darling!" he whispers, as his head nestles into Ianto's shoulder. They are still joined together, and Jack's in no hurry to uncouple. Ianto strokes his back and shoulders, beautifully muscled from many lifetimes of conditioning. He mumbles sweet blandishments in Jack's ear, but there's nothing particular that needs to be said. Jack doesn't sleep, but his eyes are closed, and he's a dead weight across Ianto's body, but Ianto doesn't mind. He feels drowsy and well-fucked, but also safe and loved in Jack's embrace.

"Sleep a little while, love," whispers Jack, as Ianto starts to drift off. "I'll be here when you awake." And Ianto falls into a deep, untroubled sleep, and his last waking thoughts are of Jack.

Occcasional Message

2010-01-01T21:33:41Z

Happy New Year to the f-list! Best wishes for 2010!

I apologize for not updating this journal more often. When I first starting posting my erotic fan fiction here, it never occurred to me that anyone would miss it if I didn't post regularly. To my surprise, I do occassionally get comments wondering when the next fic will appear. Although I enjoy writing slash fan fiction, it's not really my priority as far as writing goes. As enjoyable as it is to create, fan fiction is derivative. All the hard work of characterization has already been done by another author. That doesn't mean fan fiction writers aren't great writers, but I don't consider it as creative an endeavor as writing original fiction. It is, however, a wonderful way to improve writing skill, to hone style, sharpen dialogue, and get better at motivating plot and developing character.

First and foremost on my list of priorities, as far as writing's concerned, are my short stories, which have nothing to do with fan fiction or even sex. I do consider those to the real writing, whereas fan fiction is a fun diversion. Then my martial arts essays, which are read and enjoyed by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people all over the world. At martial arts seminars throughout the country, total strangers approach me and recognize me from my writings. So, while that isn't fiction, it is a kind of writing that's very important to me personally. If I have any spare time to write, I very often prefer to work on my short stories. I always feel like writing short stories, and only sometimes like writing erotic fan fiction.

But just because I don't feel like doing it all the time doesn't mean I don't enjoy it. Many of my hobbies and diversions fit into that category. Sometimes I feel like sewing costumes, other times I can't be bothered to fiddle around with yards and yards of fabric and trim and all the detailed work that goes into creating a vintage style garment. It's the same with writing slash fan fiction - it's not something I feel like doing all the time.

So, what's next for my fan fics? Well, I have completed a Torchwood Jack/Ianto fic, but I think it needs more editing. I haven't written any House/Wilson lately, but it has been in the back of my mind. Especially now that House and Wilson are living together again, that does mean possibilities! I'd really like to write more Holmes/Watson, especially after seeing the Guy Ritchie movie, which I loved, despite its total disagreement with the Canon.

So if you haven't given up on my LJ, I hope you'll continue to check every now and then, or follow the House/Wilson LJ where I always post my fiction.

Have a wonderful New Year!

-MissV

the old grad school drill again (in case you were wondering where I've been), some sneak previews

2009-03-02T22:22:47Z

This will be a familiar story to anyone who's been on my f-list for more than a year: once again I am distracted by grad school and haven't had time for fan-ficcing. This semester promises to be the most gruelling yet. It's only one course but it's the toughest one in the curriculum, and considering that nearly all my computer science courses are tough, this one is out of the proverbial ball park. I spend at least ten hours a week working with my partner on our project, and I've hardly had enough time to exercise or cook decent meals the way I normally do. But since it snowed heavily today, my office is closed, and therefore I have a little spare time in which to post this message and possibly whip up a curried chick pea recipe I've been meaning to try for months.

A couple of things I'd like the f-list to know: firstly, you never have to worry about me dissappearing altogether (I mean, as long as I don't get hit by a bus or something equally awful). A few of my favorite writers have dissappeared - their journals haven't been updated in years and I still wonder where they are. Did they get too busy to keep up their journals? Give up writing slash for religious reasons (I have seen this happen!) Was it something good that caused them to give up their journals - new baby, going back to school - or something bad - illness in the family or heaven forbid, in themselves? There's no way to know, since we all use aliases, and it's nearly impossible to find anyone's true identity. I can only hope they are doing fine and just don't have time for fan-ficcing any longer. But I wanted to assure you that I don't plan on dissappearing, even if my LJ seems a little slow to be updated, it simply means I'm busy with schoolwork. If for some unexpected reason, I couldn't update any longer, I'd certainly post a message to let the f-list know that there is no reason to be concerned. But have no fear, I plan to keep this journal forever as I cannot imagine tiring of writing slash fiction.

Even though I have less time for writing, I still think about my fics all the time. That is the way I write - I think it through in my head, and only when I can imagine the entire scene from start to finish do I sit down to type. This method of writing ensures that I'll never feel 'stuck' at the keyboard. I find it much more satisfying to whip out my stories in a few sittings than to sit there pondering a blank Word document. The other reason I write in this manner is just because I don't have time to sit at the computer pondering, but I always have time to think. I often think while I am commuting to work on the train, and sometimes, while I'm supposed to be working. Whenever I have a spare moment in which I don't have to think about anything else, I am thinking of my fiction. I may not have time to type it up, but if I think of the scene and setting of a story over and over again and I still find it interesting, I can be sure that it's worth typing up.

Another thing about the way I write: I am usually working on anywhere from 2-5 stories at the same time, so it takes a little longer, as I write them all concurrently, but I generally end up posting several at once. If anyone's wondering what's next up, I am whittling away at two stories. I have a Jack/Ianto fic nearly complete. It's a longish one, going on ten pages, but it's squarely in the "plot, what plot?" category. All sizzle, no steak, and it's quite explicit. Since we've seen Jack and Ianto frolicking onscreen, in some ways, it's more challenging to keep them in character because the canon sex lives of the characters are more kinky than I have written them in my fics. I am a vanilla-flavored pornographer and so the way I write Jack and Ianto is probably a bit tamer than they appear onscreen, but hopefully still hot enough to keep you scrolling the page.

The other fic in progress is a House/Wilson that describes their first meeting, when House bailed Wilson out of jail, as well as their reconciliation after House's father's funeral. It's a kind of a 'then and now' fic, and since it will contain not only first-time sex but also make-up sex, I hope it will be as saucy and exciting as I have imagined it.

So, a little sneak preview of the nearly-complete "Trial Period," which is about the early stages of Jack and Ianto's relationship. This little snippet takes place after Ianto has returned to the office in the afternoon after going home for lunch in order to indulge himself, because Jack's so sexy and all, Ianto just can't make it through the day without a little relief. (Try not to laugh, it is fan fiction, after all!)

“I’m giving you a standing invitation. You can always have your afternoon coffee with me.” Jack pats the sofa beside him. Ianto sits down nervously. “We can share the cup. Do you like cream?” he asks, looking mischievous. Ianto doesn’t know why this one word should make him blush so. Cream. He thinks of the creamy mess he spurted onto his stomach a scant hour ago. Does Jack know? Of course not, how could he?

Ianto simply nods and Jack presses the cup into his hand, making sure to touch his fingers so that Ianto again feels that spark of excitement. Everything about Jack electrifies him. He sips the coffee; rich, strong, and delicious as always. He passes it to Jack, who again takes the opportunity to brush his fingers against Ianto’s. What an incorrigible flirt, Ianto thinks, but he's pleased, trying to suppress his catlike grin as he senses the low current of Jack’s attraction in the touch of their fingertips.

And a sneak preview of my upcoming House/Wilson "Then and Now," which is nowhere near as complete as "Trial Period" but ultimately I believe it will be the better story with a more developed plot. This snippet takes place after House bails Wilson out of jail and sneaks him back to his hotel room, because Wilson is of course banned from the hotel after his destructive behaviour in the bar:

“That’s hilarious,” Wilson said. He laughed, easy and free, and put his hand on House’s knee. House felt an irrational swell of pleasure at making him forget his worries - though perhaps Wilson’s hand, rubbing his thigh fondly, also had something to do with it. Wilson drew back, sliding his hand against the couch as if wiping off its errant ways, but House took his hand and returned it to his thigh.

“You can touch me,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“You want to touch me.” He covered Wilson’s hand, moved it a little higher on his leg.

“It was an accident,” said Wilson, blushing so deeply, it was perfectly obvious that he was lying. He tried to pull his hand away, but House held it fast.

“Bullshit,” said House teasingly. “You want to.” He squeezed Wilson’s hand hard enough to hurt, so that Wilson drew a sharp breath.

“Let’s do this,” said House, kissing him. Wilson closed his eyes, thinking to himself that he’ll hate it, that he’ll let House kiss him just for a moment or two, just to be polite, before making his excuses. House’s lips are gentle, and while Wilson is considering his we-can-still-be-friends speech, he suddenly starts to like it.

Naturally, there's a lot of editing still needed before both of these are posted to my journal. I'm wary of becoming overly formulaic - we all know that the characters in my fan fics will end up in bed together (I mean, I have a reputation to preserve!) and I'm wary of overusing the same plot devices to get them to that point. The scenes above may end up quite different in the finished product, but I still thought you might enjoy a little peek ahead of what's to come. I can't say when I'll post them, but I don't think you'll have to wait until the end of the semester. Meanwhile, thank you for remaining part of my f-list even when updates are few and far between.

Love,
♥ MissV

FIC: "Solo Flight," Tenth Doctor, NC-17

2009-01-01T22:15:17Z

Here's something slightly different - a Doctor Who fic that I wrote about one of my favorite kinks: the Tenth Doctor has a go at himself. It's difficult to ascribe sexuality to Doctor Who, as he has generally been portrayed as uninterested in sex. As such, I feel somewhat ridiculous writing pornography about a traditionally 'family-friendly' character, but that hasn't stopped me from giving it the old college try!

Title: Solo Flight
Author: missviolet

Pairing: Tenth Doctor/TARDIS (!)

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: PWP, and, ah, the solitary vice

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Russell T. Davies, BBC, et. al. No infringement or disrespect intended.

Summary: Lonely without their Companions, the TARDIS soothes the Doctor.

Author’s Notes: My unconventional interpretation of the asexuality of Doctor Who.

The Doctor’s on his knees, repairing the chassis that holds his ship’s heart in place, when she lurches and throws him down to the floor. His sonic screwdriver clatters away and he sprawls flat. He sits up unsteadily, tries to rise to his feet but is hit by a wave of dizziness. Clutching the walls of the TARDIS, he pulls himself upright and staggers down the hallway to a little-used room whose door resembles a broom-closet.

Inside, it’s dark and hush; the Doctor only comes here when he needs quiet. There’s a modest four-poster bed, a maroon quilted coverlet, a plain wooden dresser and wardrobe. The Doctor collapses to the bed, his head spinning. The bed-frame is humble, but the mattress is lush - a soft pile of feathers and down. The Doctor sinks into it, feeling his senses re-aligning. It’s the heart of TARDIS, steadying him, comforting him so that his mind is better suited to power the ship.

He unlaces his trainers and leans his head onto a feather pillow, slipping off his shoes, which he drops to the floor. The Doctor very rarely sleeps, but when he feels the urge, he yields to it. This time, it doesn’t feel like sleep approaching. It’s something else; he feels the humming of the TARDIS, the psychic connection in his brain; suddenly it’s in his body, too.

Love you, the TARDIS speaks in his mind, sending a gentle breeze throughout his quarters. It stars near the ceiling, ripples throughout the room and finally sinks down into the Doctor’s body, making him shiver.

You’re so lovable, says the TARDIS. Her affection for the Doctor wreathes around him like a warm blanket of air. It sinks deep, sending a shock of warmth from deep in his loins, bursting outward into his midsection, stealing his breath,

“Oh,” he says helplessly, because he knows this feeling. It’s happened before, especially when he’s been without a Companion for too long. It doesn’t happen often, and it’s always a surprise. He shudders as a wave of intense pleasure washes over him.

Lovely, sighs the ship. Suddenly the room is hot; the Doctor tears at his clothing until he lies naked upon the quilted coverlet, his lithe form covered with a fine sheet of sweat.

“What’s next, darling?” he whispers, because he can’t quite recollect.

There is a soft and barely perceptible whoosh, and the heat of the room becomes moist and tropical. The air is lightly perfumed with something like jasmine. The Doctor is aware of his physicality, sharp and heavy, in a way that doesn’t usually affect him. The feeling is intense, not pain, as he had thought, but pleasure. The rush is unbelievable. He trails his fingers up his ribcage with a shiver of delight. He pinches his nipples, hard, making himself gasp. His cock hardens and he slips his hand down between his thighs. It’s heavy and full in his hand, and he shudders as he squeezes it. He strokes himself tightly, feeling an answering throb in the bowels of the ship. It’s a lowly-registering hum, something he feels in the pit of his stomach, this pleasure that resonates between himself and his ship.

“Are you doing this to me?” he asks softly, but even as he does so, his hand starts to move in rhythm, stroking tightly, up and down, until his hearts are racing, his breathing fast and shallow. He’s pleasuring himself, which is not typical behavior for a Time Lord. A momentary shock of surprise makes him give pause, holding his stiff prick in his hand uncertainly, until he feels the warm throb of the TARDIS responding to his actions. For some reason he thinks of Rose, her full pink lips, the lushness of her hips. He remembers how she looked at him, and wishes she were with him now. The ship pulses in response, and he feels it in his body, and in his mind, the tightening of his muscles, his shortened breath and damp brow. His hips jerk as he strokes himself, biting his lower lip as the sensation grows more intense.

“Oh, it’s lovely. Oh, yes…” he whispers, and arches into his own hand, stroking his cock and thrusting his hips to increase the sensation. He’s caught Jack at this, late at night, when he couldn’t resist peeking after hearing Jack’s moans from the corridors of the TARDIS. The memory flashes through his mind: Jack, nude and stroking his impressively large cock, panting and unaware of the Doctor’s gaze. How beautiful Jack was as he finished himself, lips parting on a sigh as his cock twitched and spent under his steady strokes. The TARDIS remembers Jack, too, and her fondness for him sends a jolt of electricity through the Doctor’s lower body. He wishes Jack were here now, watching him do this to himself, and he groans at the naughtiness of his fantasy. The TARDIS likes the Doctor’s luscious memory of their handsome companion, all the more sweet because it is so rarely retrieved. The thrumming of the ship grows more insistent.

“Mmmm,” the Doctor moans softly, loving the throb and pulse of his cock that mirrors the humming of the ship. He feels it in his temples, in the back of his calves, the low purr of the engines, the dense heat of the room, the salty taste of the drops of sweat that pool on his lips. He parts them, taking deep breaths as the pleasures courses ever more quickly through his slim frame.

The Doctor’s skin, normally so cool, is warm and damp. He grips the light cotton quilt in his left hand, pulls it off his body. In his right hand, his cock is stiff and hot. He jerks himself lazily, wanting to make it last, but the TARDIS sweeps him along at her own pace, engines throbbing ever more insistently, and his own pulse quickening in the carotid arteries on either side of his neck, and in the low thrumming in his belly.

There is a slight stagger in the ship, which makes his hips jerk and roll forward, forcing his rock-hard cock into his fist, and the feeling is so sharp and immediately intense that he does it again and again, bucking his hips eagerly. His muscles tighten and start to ache, and his body stiffens until he’s sure he’ll break. He moans freely now, relishing the pure physical sensation that washes over him, crying out as he touches himself, as his long strokes become short and fast, and his heartbeats so rapid that he pants for breath.

“I’m close,” he whispers, and he feels the vibratory answer of the ship low in his groin, and the hard hot arrow between his thighs aches tight and sweet. His body stiffens, and with a short sob he starts to come. It’s slow and agonizing, and his muscles shudder and tense as he arches into it and moans with release.

“Ah, darling,” he sighs, stroking himself ever more slowly, enjoying the soft lingering feeling of his subsiding pleasure and the slick wetness between his legs. Idly he considers returning to his work at the console. He slides one leg down the side of the bed, nearly touching the floor, but the throb of his ship’s engines pushes the idea of work beyond the realm of his thoughts. The Doctor pulls the cotton quilt over himself and slips into a deep sleep, enjoying the calm drift of his mind, the gentleness of the TARDIS as she sends a perfumed breeze through his quarters.

something a little different: Victorian homoerotica

2008-12-31T23:13:03Z

Here's something a trifle different - some original Victorian-style homoerotic fiction. I have decided, after much pondering, that my conventional short stories are worth the investment in time, although pornography is more marketable (short stories have declined in popularity since the 1950s.) I may yet continue the adventures of these two 19th-century New Yorkers, but for now, this is all I have and I thought the friends list might enjoy it.

An Early Evening's Frolic

It was hard not to be envious of Cedric as I returned from another soul-numbing day of clerking for Jas. Bros. Printing House. The city was sweltering in the August heat. I was sweating profusely in my suit, and my fingers were blackened with ink. He was still in his maroon dressing gown, no doubt entirely nude underneath, lolling indolently on the sofa surrounded by a scattering of sporting pamphlets, the Pall Mall Gazette, and a stack of books with lurid covers.

“Hullo, Jack, how’s the daily grind?” Cedric looked up from his yellow-backed novel - another lewd selection from the Cortland Street shops. I groaned and dropped my satchel onto the carpet, sinking down into one of the Chesterfield chairs.

“Dreadful. It’s killing my soul,” I said, perhaps a bit too dramatically. I loosened my tie and waistcoat.

“Sorry to hear that, old fellow. I’ve had a rather fine day.” He lit a Turkish cigarette and stretched lazily, pushing aside the scattered papers. His chestnut curls were in disarray, and his dark eyes could only be described as languid.

“Reading flash weeklies and smoking perfumed cigarettes?” I asked, not without envy.

“Plus a round or two of the solitary vice,” he said archly, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “Oh, and I developed some films this morning.” Photography is Cedric’s hobby - the only of his many recreational pursuits at which he displays a real talent.

“That’s hardly good for the complexion, nor are those cigarettes. And French novels corrupt the mind.” In truth I had no objection to Cedric’s vices; I share many of them when luxury permits. I was simply jealous of his life of leisure. I picked up the yellow novel irritably, intentionally breaking the spine as I held it open. It was a romance tale of the more prurient variety. The adventuress depicted in lush color was full-bodied and winsome, her golden locks flowing, her generous breasts barely contained by her half-ripped bodice. A handsome dark-haired man in a kilt loomed over her, rather ominously, I thought, but she looked up at him with passionate eyes. I tossed it dismissively onto the sofa next to Cedric.

“It’s not bad! Rather a good read, actually.” Cedric snatched the novel and closed it carefully, restoring the loosened pages.

“It hasn’t given you the horn,” I said, casting a glance downward as the gap in his robe, through which I could see his soft pego nestled between his legs. “Not like having a strapping lad straining in your arms.” I gave him a lewd glance, which he returned twofold, touching the tip of his tongue to his lips.

“You know that kind of smut is a sin against morality and the law,” Cedric replied, with mock indignation. “Even worse, it’s not so easy to find in the book-stalls. I had Porter looking hither and yon this morning, but he found nothing fresher than this week-old Cremhorne.” The aptly-named Porter was Cedric’s valet, a fastidious foppish ponce of a man, banished from his post as second butler on their country estate because he refused to stop wearing a lady’s dressing-gown on his half-days.

“I could write some for you,” I said impulsively. In truth, the idea of writing fodder for the smut-peddlars had crossed my mind many times. Other writers, under the guise of ridiculous noms des plumes such as Rider St. George and John Thomas, were making substantial income writing lewd stories, anecdotes, songs, poems, recollections, and even entire novels dwelling on the arts of procreation. There was a lively trade in these sporting publications among the book-stalls south of the canal.

Cedric looked so doubtful that I boldly pressed on. “How much was that copy of The Rake – ten cents? For two bits I’ll make you stiff as a poker with just one page.” Cedric loved wagering, and I knew he was unable to resist.

“You’re on!” he said enthusiastically. “I have to warn you, I’ll do my best not to win. I’ll be thinking of steaming piles of offal, and that sort of thing, to keep the old pecker soft.” He extended his hand, and we shook on it. I held his hand a moment too long, squeezing the smallest finger as I released him, merely as a reminder of our ongoing dalliance.

“I haven’t any worries about my abilities to bring that matter to attention. Give me a cigarette and a sheaf of fools’ cap,” I told him.

Cedric rounded up both without even rising from the sofa, stretching his long languid limbs from one end to the other, propping himself up to reach the desk drawer, from which he extracted several sheets of paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen. He lit a ready-made cigarette and handed it to me, and our eyes met as I drew on it.

“Ten minutes,” I said, exhaling smoke in a thin stream. As I turned to my task, I thought of his fine lips and the way they’d wrapped around my stiff-stander last night, milking out every last drop of spend while mine were similarly engaged with his own swollen priapus. Soixante-neuf, it was called. I found the image inspiring, and started to write. For several minutes I scratched away at the sheet, while Cedric sat reading the Gazette and clocking me with a stopwatch, carefully setting aside the more colourful sections of the paper so as not to give me a jump-start.

“And three…two…one,” said Cedric, after I had written for ten minutes, dramatically clicking the button on the top of the stopwatch. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I passed him the sheets, but he waved them aside. “Read to me,” he said, and I read aloud:

Cecil and I were late getting out of the music-hall, for we lingered over cigars, drinking one last bottle of wine and waiting for the crowds to clear out. At last the usher entered our box and busied himself with emptying ashtrays and collecting our crumpled napkins and spent corks, making it clear he wanted to close up.

“Let’s push off,” said Cecil, standing up and wobbling slightly. He headed for the staircase, and I followed. I was also halfway tipsy and avoided looking the carpet, patterned in bold cabbage rose. It was making me walk crookedly. Instead I watched Cecil’s arse as he descended each long, shallow step. It was a mesmerizing sight, pert and well-rounded, clad in the cobalt-blue wool of his well-fitted full dress suit.

“Cece old fellow, your bottom is simply cracking,” I muttered, as I crept up behind him.

“Quit talking like a schoolboy,” he said. “It doesn’t suit you, James.” Nonetheless I felt an irresistible urge to sample the goods, and goosed his adorable bum, making him leap down the stairs in surprise.

We stumbled out onto the pavement and I fetched a hansom. I had to flag several, for most didn’t want to drive all the way out to Irving Place, as there was no chance of a picking up a return fare. Finally I found one who was willing to take us. Cedric climbed the footboard and offered me a hand up, and I closed the door behind me and rapped on the roof to signal the driver to set off.

We fell to it forthwith, the jolt of the carriage acting as a kick-start to our luxurious activities….

At that I heard a groan from Cedric. I paused in my reading and looked up from the pages to see him reclining on the wicker sofa, and an impressively large cockstand poking out through his robe.

“That’s rather a cheat,” he said, though I noticed his elevated breathing. “Really, Jack… 'James and Cecil'… not to mention, that’s precisely what we did Saturday last, when my great-uncle gave me those theatre tickets!”

“You didn’t specify that it had to be fictional. It’s not half-bad for only ten minutes!” I cast a significant glance downward at the gape in his dressing-gown. “Ha - I win! Those hack scribblers down on Cortland Street haven’t seen the likes of me,” I said triumphantly, forgetting for a moment that I was aiming for a respectable career in letters.

“Come here and let me settle the bill,” Cedric said, one hand resting on his cock. I cast the sheaves aside and joined him on the sofa, loosening the belt of his dressing gown.

“I’ll take it in trade, you luscious tart. Down you go!” Cedric slid down to the carpet and pushed my legs apart roughly. I struggled with my buttons and braces while he slid my trousers down and put his cool hands around my hot shaft. He licked his lips teasingly before settling to, and I ran my fingers through his curly hair and gave a gentle tug forward to hasten him.

Ever masterful, he began slow and soft, rising up to a pleasing crescendo, teasing me just to hear me beg, until at last I groaned helplessly and admitted that yes, I was at his mercy, and to hell with the two bits. A clever flick of his tongue made me spend copiously, nearly sobbing with pleasure and relief.

“What a darling you are!” I said foolishly.

“You sentimental old sap,” he replied fondly, removing the handkerchief from my waistcoat to mop me up a bit. “I’ll spring for dinner over at the tavern if you like.” He sat next to me on the sofa. Weary though I was, I grasped his stiffened prick and stroked it a few times. Cedric leaned his head into my shoulder and sighed as I jerked him.

“Let me show you the master’s strokes,” he said teasingly, pushing my hand away, and taking over for himself. We kissed softly, and Cedric pushed his tongue in the French manner, tipping the velvet, moaning around our kiss, and jerking himself until he too spent in an agony of delight and his mouth slackened around mine.

“You are quite skilled in the art,” I said, as he panted to regain his breath.

“There’s no method like practice,” he replied. “Let’s dress and have a sup – I’m famished.” He rang Porter for hot water to dress for the evening, while I tidied myself in front of the hall mirror, tucking in my shirt, shaking out my waistcoat, and placing a fresh handkerchief into my pocket. While Cedric shaved, I brushed off my sack-coat and ran a comb through my hair, thinking to myself that the rosy glow to my complexion was a comely style for an evening at the pub.

Happy New Year to the Friends List!

2008-12-31T21:07:11Z

Happy New Year to the Friends List!

Best wishes for 2009,

- Miss Violet

Occassional Message

2008-12-24T20:48:26Z

Merry Christmas to the Friends List! Here's a lovely graphic from www.victoriana.com

Best wishes for a bright New Year!

All the best from Miss Violet

FIC: "Lucky Charm," House/Wilson and House/Lucas, NC-17

2008-11-01T03:36:25Z

I’ve been distracted from fan-fic while writing original porn that I want to self-publish. I have a mild sense of guilt about undertaking this project, since my collection of conventional short stories is nearly complete and I feel as if I’ve derailed myself from that. But I think the porn’s more saleable and I need the money. Naturally, I love writing the stuff, so money is far from the only reason. I also want to revive the genre found in Victorian bawdy journals. I’ll still be writing fan-fic, of course, but probably not quite the same format as the House/Wilson “No” stories. I have fallen in love with Doctor Who and Torchwood slash, and I might also try House drabbles – single paragraphs - which I’ve never written before, but I like the idea of a prompt table.

I wrote this for housefic_meta’s One Hour, One Story challenge. I used a lot of literary pauses to speed it along, but still completely missed my deadline and wrote and edited over the course of a week. That’s super-duper fast for me. In this story, I tried to capture House’s first-person snark rather which is way more difficult than writing in my own Victorian-styled narrative. House and Wilson have been doing it for years, and guess who’s the bossy one? There is also a dash of Lucas.

Title: Lucky Charm

Author: missviolet

Pairing: well-established House/Wilson, House/Lucas

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: PWP, mildly kinky!Wilson

Disclaimer: All characters belong to David Shore, Fox, et. al. No infringement or disrespect intended.

Summary: Set during and after “Birthmarks” and "Lucky Thirteen." Wilson proves that he’s really back—in a naughty way, of course.

Notes: Written for housefic_meta’s One Hour, One Story challenge

I’ll admit that my heart skipped a bit when I see that Wilson and his sofa are restored to his office. I sorely missed them both. He keeps telling me he’s back and I keep reminding him of that one thing we used to do, that we haven’t done, that maybe he’d like to consider doing again if he truly wants to reassure me? I tried looking frail and pathetic as I delivered this line, but I used up my sympathy points long ago. Wilson, unaware that I wasn’t acting, just says all in good time.

To drive the point home, I pester him in his office, wanting him to catch me up. I settle into the sofa, thrusting my hips to smooth the back of my jacket underneath me. It catches his eyes. I tell him the sofa remembers my cheeks but he knows what I mean. If a sofa could remember anything, this one would remember my ass tacked to it as Wilson held my thighs and sucked me off. He made sure to do it slowly, insisting I remain silent, and when I couldn’t, he stuffed his sweaty gym tee-shirt into my mouth so he could finish me off. I came so hard, I nicked a hole in the fabric with my teeth.

Wilson likes to be in control, but he’s just the opposite with women – a real pussycat. I’ve tried to lure him over to the dark side but he keeps one foot respectably planted. That time on the sofa, I was still panting for breath when he told me how sorry he was about the gym tee, and I berated him for ruining a perfectly good masturbatory recollection with an apology.

* * *

For a skilled liar, Lucas is remarkably gullible. He’s a consummate snoop but he doesn’t know Wilson like I do. The prankster! I hobble over to his office, drop the dummy trash on his desk, and congratulate him on coming back. He offers to drive us over to the taco stand, refusing my offer to take him for a spin on my bike.

“Is it because you don’t want to put your arms around me?” I pester him.

“Merely because you drive too fast on that death trap. Don’t decode this. I am back.”

I sulk and limp around to the passenger side. Wilson doesn’t unlock the doors. He walks up behind me, puts his arms around my waist. “I still like this,” he whispers in my ear, making me shiver. It’s been a while, and my body is hypertuned to Wilson’s wavelength. “Putting my arms around you, the way you taste. Just let me do this at my own pace.” He tenderly bites the hollows of my neck. I groan and press my erection into the side of his Volvo. I’m practically swooning, and I don’t even realize he’s gone until I hear the blip of his remote control unlocking the doors.

* * *

Refusing to pay Lucas extra for mileage and gas means I have to chauffeur him around if I want to continue getting his reports on Wilson. He was relieved when I told him Wilson’s not a junkie being sapped dry by an opportunistic prostitute. Lucas is compassionate, though he tries to hide it with his flat dialogue; bad news and good delivered in the same slightly cheerful tone.

“You like him a lot, huh?” he says conversationally. I’m driving him over to Wilson’s so he can interview the neighbors.

“We’re best friends.”

“Something missing from your newly re-forged friendship?” he asks, looking through the glove compartment. He finds a box of Chiclets, rattles it, and offers me one. I shake my head.

“Come on, they’re tasty,” he prompts me, though I notice that he doesn’t take one himself.

“Not in the mood,” I tell him. He tosses the box back into the glove compartment and snaps it shut.

“Is that what Wilson’s told you?” he asks, worrying at it like a terrier.

“No, he said he wants to do it at his own pace.” Lucas will find out anyway; if he doesn’t get it out of his gal pal Cuddy, he’ll hack into my racy e-mails to Wilson during an especially feverish few weeks before he ditched me.

“You must get lonely,” says Lucas, and his hand rests on my knee. I should have known a wife or girlfriend wouldn’t let him spend all his spare time skulking the hallways of Princeton Plainsboro and eating takeout dinners with me. And I’m having a bit of a dry spell because of Wilson’s months of moping. Hookers don’t have the same panache, even porn’s gone stale for me. I’ve never thought of Lucas as a possibility, but my irrational cock immediately hardens.

Lucas smiles, coy and knowing. “You into this?” he asks softly.

“I’ll pull over,” I tell him.

* * *

“Was the Chiclet offer a comment on my halitosis?” I ask him nervously. We are parked at a lookout on the Palisades

“Nah, I just wanted to touch your hand. It’s sexy, you know,” he says, touching it. His fingers are light across my bones and tendons, slipping underneath my fingers, delicately tracing my palm. I clasp his fingers in my own.

“Can this be kind of a one-time thing?” I don’t want to hurt him, but he’s willing, and I’m randy.

“I know. Wilson,” he says. “But you’re hot, and as poor old Mildred Rogers said, ‘I don’t mind.’”

I don’t bother to ask him about Mildred. Lucas’ cultural references could fill a concordance. Instead we kiss. I’d forgotten how good that is. He kisses slow and teasing, making me work for it before he opens his mouth, and by that time, I’m so rock-hard and panting that I force my tongue in ungraciously.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, fumbling for my zipper as we engage in fierce makeout session. “I like to kiss in cars. Reminds me of being a teenager.” He finds my cock pleasingly stiff and already throbbing. “Ever do it in a car?”

“Many times,” I tell him breathlessly. He kisses my neck, that little place where Wilson nipped me at lunch time. If he sees the bruise, he doesn’t comment on it, but that’s probably because he’s too busy pulling his cock out of his trousers with both hands.

The best thing about this little interlude with Lucas is that he doesn’t stop kissing as we jerk each other, even as we both start to moan, start to thrust our hips to make the other stroke faster, longer, harder, anything to inch us closer to the edge. The kisses muffle our groans but still we keep going, tongues twining, cocks throbbing, until at last he can’t continue. “Ah, House. Ah…yes…” and his voice goes all soft, his body rigid, and he spills into my hand.

“You beat me to it, or should I say, I beat you to it,” I tell him smugly. My voice is only a little hoarse, but my cock aches with unfulfilled lust. Lucas slicks his come into his hand and resumes jerking me. The lube is nice, and I close my eyes and focus on his panting, slowing breath, and the white-hot stiffness of my cock.

“I was hard as soon as I got into your car.” he tells me. With that, I come into his hand. “Nice,” he mutters, jerking me slowly to draw it out. I grit my teeth, it feels so good. I reach for his lips, a hot melting kiss as the tension drains from my limbs. Lucas slows his hand to the rhythm of my panting breath, finishing me off neatly just as I am about to push his hand away.

“Let’s talk Wilson,” he says matter-of-factly. I don’t want to talk. I want to kiss him, but I did say it’d be a one-time thing. He fishes some napkins out of the console between, putting me off from saying something foolish.

“You want my advice, stop reading—“

“No. ‘You want my advice’ is a question, and I don’t.”

“Stop reading too much into it,” Lucas continues anyway. “Wilson’s busy getting his department together, angling to get back onto the Board, and attending Spanish 101 and Handmade Soapmaking classes down at the Learning Annex.”

“Seriously?”

“All except the soapmaking.”

I thought about what Wilson said: Don’t decode this.

“All right. Thanks, buddy.” I pat his thigh to show it isn’t just about the hand job. At least, that’s my intention. It may have the reverse effect. “Is this going to show up on my invoice as a Miscellaneous Service?”

“I’ll take an IOU,” he says, and winks at me. I start the car.

* * *

Wilson leans in the doorway of my office and asks if he can give me a lift home. I love it when he stands that way; one hand on his hip, the other in the doorframe. It makes him look shy and sexy, and I know he’s no shrinking violent.

“Got the bike,” I say briskly, not meeting his gaze. I shuffle papers, which is absurd. I never shuffle papers.

“I’ll drive you back tomorrow morning,” he says.

“And you’ll stay the night to conserve petroleum, a precious global resource?” I ask him flippantly. I’m sure he doesn’t know about my little liaison with the PD, but given the current rosy outlook in the Wilson-holding-out situation, I’ll have to spill it later.

“That, and I’m angling for some sweet action on your sofa,” he says, deadpan.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He’s gorgeous when he smiles. I have to remind myself not to gloat as we head out to the parking lot.

* * *

In the car outside my apartment, he asks if I’ve missed him. Hand on my thigh as he puts it in park.

“You know I have,” I tell him, exhaling loudly. I stretch my leg languidly, causing his hand to slide upward, sparking a pleasant tightening feeling in my groin.

“Yes, I do know. I like to hear you say it, though.” His hand creeps up. We share a nice deep proper kiss, not a quick tease like last time. Right away he opens his mouth and I rake my fingers through his silky hair. Wilson exhales that quick, sharp breath that means he’s feeling good, that his heart’s beginning to pound and his muscles tense with anticipation.

“Ohhh,” I groan around our gaping kiss, tugging his hair, because I know he likes that, and he likes when I cry out like the wanton I am. “Come inside, damn it,” I tell him.

Wilson smiles. “I was going to insist upon it.”

* * *

Indoors Wilson’s even saucier, demanding I sit on his lap. I position my ass right over his erection and lean backwards into the kiss. It’s completely corny and more than a little awkward, but it doesn’t matter because he puts his arm around me and kisses me down to a horizontal position.

“Hey,” I whisper, my voice shivery, because I don’t know how else to respond to the sudden electricity as Wilson grinds into me.

“No time for foreplay,” he says coolly. “You’re stiff as a poker.” He’s smug about being so self-possessed. I don’t have the wherewithal to contradict him as he unbuttons my shirt to bare my skin, which he licks and sucks and bites, giving me chills. A short sob when he straddles me hard, pinches my nipples; a moan when he bends down for a greedy kiss. We kiss for a long while, causing a little nostalgia for me but mostly making me feel deliciously rock-hard. It’s so good, I arch my back to press my cock closer to his. I want a little of the Princeton Rub; it’s fun get off that way. But Wilson prefers to be a royal tease; he’s like that sometimes.

“Hasty, hasty,” he says, in a voice rough with pleasure.

“Do you want me to come in my pants?” He’s luscious but I go off like a firecracker.

“Absolutely, but I can’t fuck you with your pants on. Off they go.” He’s brisk with my jeans. “I’ll leave mine on because it’s kinky,” he says. “Turn over.”

He wants to take me from behind, but not before a little good-natured taunting. Wilson bites my neck, rubs himself against me pleasurably, the serge of his trousers and the buttons of his dress shirt a rough tease against my bare skin. He thrusts into me in a pantomime of what we’re about to do, and when he gives me the old reacharound, I groan and swear.

“Fuck, that’s right. I’ll do it to you,” he whispers. Wilson’s never been much good at the dirty talk. It’s the buzz of his voice tickling my ear that drives me crazy. I crane my neck for a hot tongue-kiss as he starts to stroke. One hand on my cock, the other unzipping his own fly. I tremble when I hear the sound. He reaches for the Astroglide, still stashed in the magazine rack where he left it, all the while jerking me steadily with the other hand.

“Neat trick. Ambidextrous, huh?” I manage a feeble crack, but my voice wavers when he oils me up. He slips a couple of fingers inside.

“You ready for this?” he whispers, accompanied by another love-bite to my shoulder. Another lazy slick stroke, a curl of his fingers, and my cock twitches and starts to ache sweetly.

“Ho, yes, go on,” I encourage him. My ass tightens around his fingers just as he eases them out. He enters me so swiftly it hurts a little, but his lascivious groan is worth it. Then he remains motionless for a good long time, but I can feel his cock start to throb.

“Harder,” I encourage him, one hand gripping his thigh. With a gorgeous moan he plunges into me. Once, twice, then he picks up a steady rhythm, soothing the stretching burn into a lovely warmth. He doesn’t neglect my prick, either, and the wet sucking sounds of him jerking me are masked by our groans. His cock rubs my prostrate just so, and I collapse onto the sofa, helpless with pleasure. His hand is trapped underneath my body, but it doesn’t matter, because my hips are going like pistons.

“You always come so fast,” he says fondly, slowing down a little, jogging his hips leisurely, enjoying my groans. His fingers tease my cock, sliding along the underside, cupping my balls, tickling the head, then stroking it tightly again. My ass clenches his cock as he drills into me. I want to beg, but I can’t find the breath. I finally manage a few inelegant words.

“Oh, yes, oh…honey.” The endearment slips out of my slackened mouth. My thighs tense, my cock throbs, and I spill hotly into his hand. He whispers soft little words of encouragement. My ass shakes like a leaf in a storm as I spurt. Wilson rolls his hips, squeezes my cock to make sure I’m thoroughly creamed before he lets go, pounding me.

“You coming,” Wilson says fondly. "It always fetches me.” His voice is strained as he tenses over me. He comes with a hard sob, fingers digging into my ribs. Then he grabs my neck roughly, seeking my lips for a deep, spine-tingling tongue-kiss.

“I’m back,” he tells me, still panting for breath.

* * *

Afterwards, my leg twinges predictably. Wilson helps me to bed, fetches me a Vicodin, and to my delight, he crawls in next to me. He drapes an arm around my ribcage, leaving me some room because he knows I always need to stretch out after a hard rogering.

“We should brush our teeth,” he murmurs in my ear. Relaxing in his arms between the cool sheets, with the painkiller settling in nicely, I feel euphoric.

“We’ll do it twice tomorrow,” I promise him.

“Brush, you mean?” he asks mischievously.

“That, too,” I tell him. He laughs softly and flattens his palm possessively over my belly.

“Oh, damn it, it’s Thursday,” he says. “Alternate side of the street rules. I’d better move the car.”

“Leave it. I have a special arrangement with the meter maid.” I don’t, but nor do I want him to get up. I’m not sure if it’s because of my insecurity or simply because the night is cold and I know he’s tired.

“It’s not the meter maid, it’s the cops, they walk down this street twenty minutes before the street-cleaners. I’ll be ticketed.” Wilson likes to be prepared, which doesn’t exactly mesh with his lusty aggression in our relations, and he’s all the more charming for this contradiction.

“I’ll get it,” I tell him, removing his arm with what I hope is well-concealed regret. Before he can protest, I swing my legs around, grab the night-table, and start stumbling around, looking for some pants.

Wilson gets out of bed, too. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he tells me. “You’re two seconds from falling asleep.”

“I can stay awake long enough to move your car across the street.” I don’t find any pants lying around, and I’m too sticky to wear a fresh pair. I remember that Wilson left the car keys in the living room. The jeans I was wearing earlier are no doubt mashed into the sofa cushions. I start to hobble out the door but Wilson stops me.

“I’ll do it.”

“I insist.”

“I won’t let you.” He blocks the doorway, and there’s not much I can do about it, but I tell him, “I won’t let you,” which makes me sound about five.

“I’d rather pay the ticket,” he says. I lift my eyebrows in surprise.

“What?” he asks me in indignantly. “You think I’ve never gotten ticketed before? It’s just a parking ticket, not a moving violation.” He can afford to pay the seventy-five bucks for the ticket but it’s the principle of the thing. Wilson’s no scofflaw; he’s loathe to break the law.

“Come back to bed,” I tell him, limping over there. I’ve been itching to say that to him all these months. I had to wait until I was sure he’d listen.

* * *

In the morning, we circle the car, but all the windows are ticket-free. An orange parking ticket is neatly tucked under the windshield wiper of the ‘Cedes parked in front of Wilson.

“Fancy that,” says Wilson thoughtfully. “You must be my lucky charm.” The doors unlock with a remote-controlled chirp, a pleasantly familiar sound.

“I do fancy that,” I tell him, with a friendly slap to his rear before he settles into the driver’s seat.

Finis

homoerotic fiction recommendations

2008-09-07T22:15:44Z

I’ve been crippled and on crutches after surgery to repair torn ligaments in my ankles - housebound for almost a month now. As you can imagine, I’ve been doing a lot of reading. I’ve zipped through quite a few books. I wanted to share some of the more homoerotic selections with you. Gay romances have become more commonly available in recent years, and now they are pretty much a distinct genre.

Sins of the Cities of the Plain by Jack Saul is an historic classic of the rather small genre of gay Victorian erotica, and considered to be the first Victorian homosexual pornographic novel. There really aren’t too many, although homosexual scenes are included in many classics such as The Romance of Lust and My Secret Life. Teleny, written by Oscar Wilde and his circle of friends, was published a few years after Sins of the Cities of the Plains and is the most famous of the rather scant selection of Victorian homosexual erotica.

Sins of the Cities of the Plain opens with a well-heeled gentleman picking up a marvelously well-endowed ‘rent boy’ named Jack Saul and bringing him home for an evening of decadent pleasure. I found the opening chapters to be the most exciting. After that, Jack Saul tells his story of early initiation into the joys of homosexual coupling. At boarding school, the entire boys’ dormitory engages in frigging and buggery. As a young man, Jack takes up with an exclusive gentleman’s club, a ‘molly house’ of sorts, and acquires a taste for cross-dressing. He manages to maintain himself quite nicely on the income he earns from the parties given by the house, and embarks on financially and sexually satisfying life as a high-class male prostitute.

As a novel, it’s quite readable, but except for the first few chapters, it’s not really my preferred style of erotica. Unlike many women who enjoy slash, men in dresses doesn’t do anything for me. The original narrator’s tale was more interesting to me than Jack Saul’s own story, and I wish their few encounters together were drawn out a bit more before Jack’s narrative began. Even so, it’s a fascinating glimpse into the Victorian underground. It is worth a read for the sexual slang along; many words which I had thought to be strictly modern, such as ‘rent-boy,’ were already in common use by the time Sins of the Cities of the Plain was published.

Quite a bit raunchier is the recently published The Great Cock Hunt by the pseudonymous “Alex,” based on his blog of the same name. The story unfolds over the course of a reunion weekend at Alex’s college, accompanied by his male and female best friends. During these few days, Alex hooks up with a myriad of guys, and recounts memories of even more hook-ups. No doubt about it, Alex is a huge slut, but an oddly engaging one. It’s hard not to sympathize with his love for his ex-boyfriend Jack, whose on-again, off-again relationship is the source of much angst. Alex’s unrequited love for his straight friend Dave is also a tender point. I found his sex-buddy relationship with his best friend to be one of the more intriguing characteristics of the gay men I know: they can have sex with their friends and not destroy the friendship. That’s never been possible for me.

The book is clearly marketed to gay men and the lengthy and somewhat clinical descriptions of sex didn’t do much for me. Yet I found Alex’s story to be a compelling one. I can’t help wondering if I know Alex, or if I’ve seen him walking around town. I wonder if things worked out between him and Jack. I couldn’t help but be fascinated by his unrelenting sexual appetite, and his musings on sex and love were rather poignant.

Phyllida and the Brotherhood of the Philander by Ann Herendeen was quite entertaining, sexy without being overly graphic. It’s gotten a fair amount of criticism for being historically implausible, but seriously, who’d pick up a novel labeled “a bisexual Regency romance” and expect historical accuracy? Phyllida is a beautiful country girl and the author of sensational romances, which she writes under an assumed name. She agrees to a marriage of convenience with the dashing Andrew Carrington, a gay aristocrat seeking to fulfill his familial duty and produce an heir. Despite knowing his sexual orientation, she’s attracted to him, and eager to escape her lower class dull country life with her bawdy mother. The marriage of convenience becomes a passionate relationship as Andrew, rather implausibly, suddenly awakens to his desire for a woman. Yet he still loves men, and with his handsome American lover, the three form a happy trio, with Phyllida eventually enjoying her husband’s romps with his lover as an avid observer.

A flimsy blackmail plot is rather secondary to the more fascinating fantasy of the erotic relationships of the three principal players. It is a fantasy – how often do such things happen, in the modern world or in Regency England? I personally found it most enjoyable, probably because the idea of a handsome, aristocratic bisexual love triangle is rather appealing to me. Andrew’s dalliances with various handsome men are lovingly described, erotic but never explicit, leaving much to the imagination. Phyllida is not quite as fascinating as Andrew, though a serviceable narrator, and her enjoyment of the hot man-love naturally strikes a sympathetic chord. I look forward to more by this author.

The God in Flight by Laura Argiri is a fairly serious novel, one which took 18 years for its author to complete. It is the story of a romance between Doriskos Klionarios, an ascetic Yale art professor, and Simion Satterwhite, a precocious scholarship student from an abusive home. It is a beautiful book, lush with 19^th century details, and intently focused on Yale’s lavender scene. Only one female character appears in the entire book, which is mostly focused on the highly intelligent Simion: his abusive childhood, the sickly tutor who ensures that he can escape from his father and get an education suited to his intellect, and the passion he finds with the shy Doriskos, who for many years is too timid to consummate their relationship. Simion finds friendship and sexual comfort in the arms of his well-heeled friend Andrew, while still passionately involved with Doriskos, who tolerates Andrew, though he is occasionally jealous of their physical relationship while unable to pursue the same with the willing Simion.

Their relationship, apparently tolerated by Yale as merely a professor and his assistant and protégé, is suddenly put on trial when Doriskos creates a statue modeled on himself and Simion. A fellow Yale student, who is enamoured of Doriskos, reveals the existence of the statue to the Yale administration, which had been exhibited in Europe. Trouble ensues and reaches a crisis point in Simion’s final year. Eventually, after many travails, Doriskos and Simion finally enjoy sexual relationship, though their lives are forever changed before they can reach that point.

The God in Flight is sensuous in its details, the food and clothing, the interior furnishings, and all the beauty of the well-to-do life of Doriskos, in harsh contrast to the poverty from which Simion came. The passion of Doriskos, who for many years dreamed of a boy just like Simion and was surprised to meet him in the flesh, is somewhat mysterious and almost asexual, until his jealousy of Andrew flares up. The issue of a thirty-something art professor involved with a 17-year-old freshman is hardly broached. The two are soul mates, and their ages are irrelevant.

I hope you’ve enjoyed my selections. If you’ve read any good homoerotic romance lately, leave a comment. I’ll be on crutches probably for another 2-3 weeks and expect to be doing lots of reading while I’m stuck home. Maybe some writing, too; despite my well-intentioned reader survey, I’m still hot on Jack/Ianto and am about halfway through my next fic featuring this lovely pair. I have also considered writing some original fiction. Reading all those gay romances has sparked some thought that perhaps I could do no worse than the published authors. It’s a tough market; gay romance is still a niche genre, and it’s not exactly lucrative. Self-publishing might be the only option; or at best, publishing an online serial for a very modest compensation. Still, I can’t help thinking that perhaps I ought to give it a try, since writing homosexual pornography is a favorite pastime, and even if my only payment is seeing my pseudonym in print, it could open some doors for me. Anyway it’s an idea worth considering.

What kind of slash should I write next?

2008-08-03T21:40:56Z

View Poll: What kind of slash should I write next?

Despite the fact that my Jack/Ianto fic was my least popular of all the pairings I've written (getting only about 8 comments, as opposed to the 25-50 I typically get for a House/Wilson fic), I'm probably going to write more Jack/Ianto, because they're such a lovely couple, and I'm really into their relationship. I suppose I'm in a state of limbo with House/Wilson and want to see the new episodes to get me back into the swing of their dynamic, even though I know things will be rough between them for awhile, but according to Huge Laurie, the 'lovers make up.' I've also considered writing more Holmes/Watson, or other Doctor Who slash, but for some reason, House/Wilson are at the bottom of my list.

What do you think I should write next, for any of the f-list that is reading my journal?

FIC: "Not For The World" Jack/Ianto NC-17

2008-07-28T16:03:59Z

Title: Not For the World

Author: missviolet

Pairing: Jack/Ianto

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Very smutty PWP

Summary: Takes place after that lovely kiss in To The Last Man.

Notes: My first Jack/Ianto fic. Just getting my feet wet here.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Russell T. Davies, BBC, et. al. No infringement or disrespect intended.

I know that look in his eye; passionate and tender. Ianto’s a man of subtle emotions. He never gets his ire up in a slow burn; it’s more like a sparking tinder; calm to flame. I speak from my heart, and he nods and looks downward shyly. When he realizes that it’s him I wouldn’t trade for the world, he looks up at me with burning eyes, swoops in for a kiss. I thought I was ready – my mouth open invitingly, drowsy, half-lidded eyes. But nothing could have prepared me for the storm of Ianto’s kiss. He slips his hand forcefully around the back of my head, holds me steady as his tongue explores my mouth. He pries my mouth open and my teeth snap against his. I tremble under the onslaught. I clasp his shoulders, cup my hand around the back of his neck. We kiss, deep and wet. It’s exhilarating. I feel my pulse flare up, my senses kick into overdrive.

Ianto stops kissing and sits up to look at me. His lips are red and swollen, his hair mussed. I’m nearly swooning in my lust for him. Ianto knows this, and it shows in his sly catlike smile as he rolls my desk chair to edge of the room and dumps me unceremoniously on the sofa. He loosens his tie, looking at down at me suggestively, his eyes speaking volumes. He straddles me and I moan in anticipation as he settles on top of me. Then his full lips are on mine and, oh, heaven help me. I’m lost again in his gorgeous, soulful kiss. We writhe together, and I can feel his cock throbbing against my belly. He grabs my shoulders hard and kisses me hotly. My hips jerk against his, maneuvering myself until our cocks are lined up, and even through our trousers, the touch is so electric that I gasp in pleasure, and Ianto groans in my arms as he rubs against me, slow and deliberate. He kisses passionately, tonguing me deeply, biting my bottom lip, working himself into me, until we are twined so tightly together, I feel my breath start to come short.

Ianto’s like nothing in this world nor all the worlds I’ve seen. I ache for him, and I’m not afraid to let him know it. “You darling,” I sigh, hips bucking into his, my arms wrapped around his slender waist, dropping to the curve of his ass. Cupping it, I force his body into mine, and shiver as the pleasure washes through me. We’re both achingly hard; and now each thrust of our hips draws a moan from the other.

“Undress me,” I whisper, because I can’t stand it, I need to feel his silky skin against mine. He slips down my braces and his graceful fingers are fast on my shirt buttons, and the flap of my trousers. I can’t wait for him to get further, I’m too excited. I draw him close for a kiss, and the feel of his soft cotton shirt, the silk of his tie and the hardness of his shirt buttons, add to my excitement. Then his fingers find me, through layers of wool and cotton and what he calls my daft old-fashioned drawers, and his cool hand grasps my hot cock.

We kiss deeply, and he starts to jerk me. I arch my back, huff into his mouth, feeling the pleasure mounting, my balls tightening as Ianto works me over. “That’s it, darling,” I gasp out, as he starts to stroke me, bending to kiss me again, to muffle my moans and desperate cries. He pauses in his labor to look down at me, that catlike smile still playing about his lips. He drops his head, looks at my throbbing erection, and licks his lips. He doesn’t hurry, because it’s not in Ianto’s nature. On the contrary, he likes to draw it out, savour every last moment. He begins by pressing his lips to my belly, kissing the tender skin beneath. His teeth drag lightly over the bones of my hips. The very fact that he is lying between my legs, eager to take my cock in his mouth, makes me stiffen. I thrust my hips into his face, moaning impatiently.

“Oh, honey,” I sigh in anticipation. I close my eyes, mind flooded with erotic imagery. His tongue traces a trail of fire on my tender skin. Maddening feathery kisses on my belly and on the crease of my thigh, making me flinch with pleasure. I card my fingers through his hair, wanting him to put his mouth on that one part of me that is achingly hard for him.

“Ianto,” I groan helplessly, steering his head gently towards my groin. At last his luscious lips wrap around my cock. Sucking softly, getting me acclimated, until I start to thrust into his wet mouth. He sucks a little harder, and deeper, and flicks his tongue against the underside of my cock. I arch into it, jerking my hips, breathing in panting gasps, and calling him sweetheart and you lovely tart.

He stops blowing me and looks at me with that self-satisfied smile. He’s such a consummate cock-tease. He knows the art of delay, of pausing and resuming again and again…what a masterful lover, for one so young! The look in his eye, the way he licks his lips, has got me panting in anticipation.

“Come here and kiss me,” I tell him, and he slides up for another deep, wet kiss. It is a piece of heaven on earth, our madly exhilarating kiss. I can feel his erection digging into my thigh, his panting breath in my ear as he kisses and nibbles my neck, stirring up all my passion. I’m so hard for him it hurts, and every once in awhile, his cock brushes up against mine, deliberately, making me groan with frustrated lust.

I’m on the verge of pleading with him when he lowers himself again, taking the tip of my cock between his luscious lips, sucking softly as I arch my back and push my aching prick between his eager lips. He turns his head, licking the underside of my cock most wickedly, looking at me mischievously as he blows me expertly into a state of bliss. His teasing, flicking tongue drives me mad.

“Ah, Ianto,” I groan, thrusting my hips. He slides his lips up and down my hot shaft, sucking and licking me exquisitely. “Oh, darling….” I want it to go on and on, at the same time, I want nothing more than to spill into his hot mouth. I grip his shoulders tightly, urging him to suck me faster.

Ianto, the tease, sucks me tighter, but more slowly, to draw it out my pleasure, make it last as long as possible. He slides his hands under my ass, cupping me as he bobs his head and flicks his tongue under my sensitive cock-head.

“Oh-ho,” I groan in helpless agony. I feel my imminent climax in the backs of my calves, and my thighs shake with lust. “Oh, suck me, sweetheart, harder, please!” And Ianto, that lovely obliging boy, starts to suction me, up and down, bracing his hands under my ass as my hips jerk out of control, forcing my aching prick deep into his luscious mouth. It feels so good, but nothing this good can last. With a hard sob, the pleasure overtakes me, all my muscles tense, and my body goes rigid as my cock explodes into the tight wet heat. Ianto finishes me properly, licking and sucking while my cock throbs and pulses. He’s nothing if not thorough, careful to suck me off completely, tickling the slit of my cock until he’s sure that his teasing tongue has forced out every last drop of spend.

“You darling,” I sigh in contentment, pushing his head away from my softening prick. Ianto slides up for a kiss. I pull him down so we are lying together horizontally on my low narrow sofa, my arm around his shoulders. It’s a bit uncomfortable, and too narrow, so that when I shift myself slightly, Ianto slides off and lands on the floor.

“Let’s go downstairs,” he says from the floor, and as much as I like to see him down there, he’s an even more lovely sight spread out on the bed in my cubby-hole. Because of Ianto, I replaced my sad green army blanket with a soft down comforter. I don’t sleep, I just rest, but Ianto does, after our bouts of love-making, and I want it to be cozy for him. When we descend the iron stairs, there’s nowhere to sit but the bed, which doesn’t exactly displease me. We land on it together, Ianto reaching for me eagerly.

“Just a moment,” I say, looking around for matches to light the oil lantern. I want to see his body glowing in the lamplight. I strike a match, open the glass door of the lantern, and set the wick aflame. Now I can see Ianto’s eyes, soft and limpid with passion, looking at me like the cat who ate the cream.

“I’m so hard for you, Jack,” he says huskily, and then he takes my hand and rests it on his straining cock. I stroke it lightly, just a few times, but Ianto is aching for it. He arches his back, grabs my hand and presses it into his cock.

I pull him on top of me and cover his lips with mine. I feel his stiff cock straining through his trousers, and with a groan he starts to grind himself into me, and I feel my cock stirring and responding to the delicious feeling of his body pressed to mine, the firm muscles of his arms, his hot lips kissing and plunging his tongue into my mouth. I groan lustfully, ready as if I hadn’t been tailed for a week. I can hardly believe my good fortune, that this luscious lad is straining in my arms, stiff as a poker at the prospect of having me. He bends to suck me again, and I try to push him away; I want to reciprocate so badly.

“Let me do you,” I say, my mouth watering at the idea of taking his hard length between my lips, of making him flood my mouth in a helpless paroxysm of lust. But Ianto is insistent; he quickly takes my half-hard prick into his lips again, making me forget all my objections. He’s a wonder with his lips and tongue, and my cock soon stands to attention again.

Ianto sits up, admiring his handiwork. At last he begins to unloosen his tie; he’s remained dressed all this time, the tease.

“Let me do that,” I tell him, sitting up to remove his tie, to unbutton his spotless white shirt, and stroke the jacket from his shoulders. I can’t resist another kiss, even as I have his shirt and jacket half-off, rucked about his waist. We kiss sloppily, and Ianto moans, and pushes me down as I fumble with his flies. I get his trousers unzipped, his erect cock out of his pants, just as he pushes himself on top of me for another strong, passionate kiss. Our bare cocks thrusting together is delicately maddening. Ianto’s mouth is fixed to mine, panting, our tongues twining … he’s close to coming, I can feel it in the tremble in his hips.

He sits up, flushed, hair disheveled, lips swollen, the very picture of sexual arousal. He fishes around my bookshelves for something I put there just for him, a tiny bottle of almond oil. He pours generous amount all over my cock and balls. It’s warm and drips slowly down my body; Ianto rubs it in with his palm and fingers, taking care to cup my balls and tickle them, and finally his clever teasing finger slips into my ass and works its way inside me.

“Hello there!” I gasp out, as he finger curls and finds my prostate. He strokes me lightly, and it’s not too much, but not quite enough, as I arch into it, rock my hips, and urge him on with gasping cries.

“Oh, yes, fuck me, you luscious tart…ah!” Ianto has taken my cock his mouth again, and I’m torn between pushing into the warm wetness of his luscious lips, and riding myself on his teasing finger.

“What’s that?” he asks, pausing in his delightful sucking, and wiggling his finger invitingly into my bottom.

“Fuck me,” I sob out, as he licks the swollen head of my prick, plunging his finger deep into my twitching hole.

“Quite right,” says Ianto, removing his finger, and kneeling to pour the sweet oil all over his throbbing prick. It’s long and hard, and I watch hungrily as he strokes the oil over himself, moaning a bit at his self-pleasuring. He catches my eye, strokes himself a little faster for my benefit.

“You like to watch, you naughty boy. But not tonight.” Ianto rolls me over onto his stomach, pours the oil down my back, massaging it into my crack, inserting his finger once again to make sure I’m ready for him. I groan hard, clenching my ass. He reaches underneath me to encircle my stiff cock... “Want me to do it to you?” Ianto asks, and his finger jumps and throbs against the sweet spot deep inside of me. He loves the dirty-talk, loves to hear me beg for it.

“Please fuck me,” I pant, and he obligingly fits the head of his cock against my entrance, and pushes in. I grunt softly as his hardness fills me. Ianto’s never rough, never hasty, but I know the intense passion beneath his polished exterior. Ianto leans down so his breath is directly in my ear. He jogs his hips gently, seeking the exact angle, the position that will drive me into a lustful frenzy.

“That’s good,” I sigh, as his hips find a rhythm. I’m in heaven, each thrust of his hips scraping delightfully against my sensitive spot, stiffening my cock, which I force into Ianto’s slippery hand. He jerks me delicately as he rocks into me, just slowly enough to make me beg for him to do it faster. He starts to fuck me more purposely, hips pounding against my ass with a deliciously pornographic slapping sound.

“Honey,” I moan helplessly, as the heated pleasure sparks deep in my ass, stiffening my cock, which Ianto holds tightly, and making me gasp at each thrust of his hips. He’s so big and hard, filling me utterly, and I’m entirely submissive to him, skewered on his enormous stiff-stander.

“You randy little minx. You want it so badly, don’t you?” he groans. What a tease, what a luscious cock-tease he is! My ass clenches and my cock jumps at his naughty words. I’m balancing on the knife-edge of sheer physical pleasure and a mind-blowing orgasm; a few more thrusts of his hips, and Ianto will push me into untold ecstasy.

“You gorgeous slut,” Ianto whispers in my ear, pushing his throbbing cock deep inside me, his voice breaking as the pleasure courses through his body. He slips a hand around my mouth, pushing the fingers in, and I suck them eagerly as he pounds me into bliss. “You can’t get enough of my cock,” he pants out, as his finger plunges into my mouth, his cock into my delighted hole.

“Yes, fuck me,” I sob, as his hips slap against my ass. Ianto jerks my cock almost roughly, but I don’t mind. I’m lost in his lewd moans in my ear. My voice breaks as his hard cock strokes my insides until my ass is trembling, my cock throbbing, and I’m on the brink of ecstasy. Ianto’s close too; his cock impossibly hard, his breath coming in pants. He slows his pace, jogging his hips steadily, almost soothingly, making me moan uncontrollably.

“I love you like this, Jack, an inch away from coming,” Ianto whispers, his own voice ragged with barely controlled lust.

“Please,” I moan shamelessly, and finally Ianto begins to rock me hard, thrusting his cock deep inside me, stroking my prostate again and again, until my cock drips in his hand, and I’m shivering and gasping, hovering on the edge of the peak of delight. Ianto bites the tender skin on the back of my neck, and I feel his own orgasm start to overtake him. He thrusts hard and fast, riding me into an excess of pleasure, his hand stroking my aching prick tightly.

I feel him coming, his breath fast in my ear, his sweet moans which spur me on. The feeling of his oncoming climax excites me so much, my balls tighten and I start to come, agonizingly slowly. His cock, throbbing in my ass, rocks forth jet after jet of white-hot come from my trembling body. It seems to take forever, and Ianto’s muscles tense and release, tense and release, as my ass twitches around his semi-hard prick. I bury my head in the pillow, groan hard as my ass clenches and the come spurts from my delighted cock, spilling over Ianto’s hand. He moans sympathetically, drills my ass harder, and murmurs obscenities into my ear as he rides out his pleasure.

“Sweetheart,” I pant out, as Ianto’s body trembles, and my ass milks out every last drop of spend from his softening cock. Ianto gives a long, low moan of pure voluptuousness. We’re utterly drained, our pleasure complete. With a hard groan and a final jerk of his hips, he slips out of me, and turns me over for a long, sated kiss.

“You fuck divinely,” I tell him, between kisses.

“As do you,” he says, his breath still coming fast. I take his hand, lace his fingers through mine.

“I wouldn’t trade this for the world,” I tell him. He nods, looks down shyly just as he did when I first told him. “Not for the world,” he agrees.

</div>

FIC: "The Violin Concerto" Holmes/Watson NC-17

2008-07-14T16:52:24Z

Title: The Violin Concerto

Author: missviolet

Pairing: Holmes/Watson

Rating: NC-17
Warnings: PWP

Summary: A violin concerto sparks passion between Holmes and Watson

Notes: One of my first slash fics, half-finished for years. I only just found the inspiration to finish it.

I could hardly believe my eyes when I returned to Baker Street after my morning rounds. Holmes, normally abed deep into the morning, was sitting at the breakfast table in a freshly starched shirt, drinking coffee and picking at some scraps of toast and jam that had been his breakfast.

“Awake so early? It’s only eleven, Holmes. What’s the occasion?”

“It’s Joseph Joachim’s violin concerto!” he said, fixing his glittering eyes upon me. I saw his joy at the prospect of a performance by his favorite virtuoso. “If you’re interested, ah..” he said shyly, and placed two tickets to the Winter Garden on the breakfast table.

“Why, Holmes, I’d be delighted. How thoughtful!” I said, happy at the prospect of an afternoon in his company. He dabbed his mouth daintily with a napkin and nodded at me, looking pleased. “You’d better dress, then,” he said.

I took care with my appearance, calling Mrs. Hudson for hot water, shaving carefully for the second time that day, and wearing my second-best suit. I put my brother’s pocket watch in my vest and wore the gold cufflinks presented to me by the Fusiliers. With a dash of lavender water and a shoe-shine and brushing from the street-boy, I cut quite the figure, if I do say so. But Holmes out-did me with his perfectly tailored, funeral-black frock coat and grey pin-striped trousers, with spotless white Egyptian cotton shirt, and maroon necktie brilliantly bolstered with his emerald stick-pin, a gift from the Queen. Instead of his Inverness, he wore a black wool great-coat that looked as if it had survived the war. He was a serious, imposing figure in his dark clothes and old-fashioned coat. But the sparkle in his eye was contagious; it was a great treat for him to hear the violin virtuoso.

We caught a hansom cab to the theatre. He sat close to me in the cab, gazing out the window, for reasons of his own, he wanted to observe the west side of the street, though he was sitting on the east side of the carriage, and so we sat pressed together. I was conscious of the scent of his shaving-soap, slightly reminiscent of violets or bluebells, and as he chatted lightly about the crimes that had been committed along the boulevard, he leaned closer to me to emphasize this or that point. I began to grow light-headed from the close contact. I thought he must be oblivious to my secret feeling, otherwise he would not take such liberties as resting his hand lightly on my trouser leg, so that a thrill ran through me. He trailed his fingers against my leg, perhaps accidentally, but I caught my breath, and he looked at me for one intense glittering moment, it was almost as if he were angry, his eyes burned against me for a few seconds, and I was startled by his gaze, my cheeks flushed, and then the cab stopped and he lightly stepped out and into the theater, and I followed.

The theatre was warm and dusty, a low, respectful thrum moved through the crowds as they found their seats. We had a small box to ourselves, the tickets a gift from a satisfied client. I looked through a pair of opera-glasses at the dress circle below. Women in their dramatic silks, jewels sparkling in their hair and at their throats, rows of graceful little buttons up their elbow-length gloves, and the gentlemen, in their dark cutaways and starched collars, the silk toppers and Sunday ties. The stage was dark, a mass of velvet curtains, as the patrons were ushered into their seats. I glanced over at Holmes. He was looking at the stage with keen excitement. There was a low hum running through the crowd; Joseph Joachim was thought by many to be the greatest violin virtuoso who ever graced the stage. Finally the audience was seated, the aristocrats and their women with their glittering décolleté in the dress circle, the merchants in the balcony and the workman and kitchen-maids standing in the back. At the very top of the balconies were the private boxes, six plush seats where the lower levels fit ten, the privacy of curtains, and a waiter to bring brandy and cigars during the intermission.

The lights were dimmed, and the curtains drew back. The audience leaned forward in anticipation. I looked at Holmes, who smiled at me with nervous excitement. From the first rich notes flowed from the virtuoso’s bow, he was transported. His eyes shone with passion, and sometimes he was nearly breathless. It was a thrilling performance, and though I was unschooled in music, even I could see that Joachim was a master of the instrument.

During the intermission, we got up and stretched, but did not have to go down to the concessionaire, because a waiter came and took our orders. We ordered a couple of brandy-and-sodas and a box of Egyptian cigarettes. The waiter returned only a few moments later with a decanter of brandy, a siphon, and a bucket of ice. The cigarettes were on a small wooden tray with a box of matches in elegant black and gild.

“How luxurious,” I said. “I’m accustomed to fighting the queue for bar service during the intermission.”

“Yes, there are occasional rewards to my profession, in addition to the satisfaction of solving the puzzle and restoring justice, which is, of course, my chief reward.” Holmes closed his eyes and exhaled a stream of perfumed tobacco smoke. He jingled the ice in his glass with obvious pleasure, savouring the fine brandy.

Perhaps he’d had a bit too much; during the second half of the performance, which was even more awe-inspiring than the first, Holmes periodically grabbed my hand during the most thrilling sequences, and sometimes he’d rest his hand lightly on my leg. Once, he’d left it there just a shade too long, and his eyes met mine with a hint of guilt. By the time the performance was over, Holmes’ eyes were burning, his cheeks flushed pink. He took my arm as we walked to the row of hansom cabs, and clung to me tightly as I found us a ride.

We slid in together, and I was unsurprised that he sat right next to me. Things had been going in that direction since we first met, and now he was euphoric with the fine brandy and the majesty of the performance. The jostling cab threw him into my arms, and that is where he stayed for the duration of the ride. I tried to remain calm, but holding him was maddening. I willed him to do something, strike up a conversation to steer my mind away from the possibilities. We approached Baker Street, and suddenly I panicked. The moment would soon be over; I had to make it go forward. Before I could, Holmes leaned down and kissed me greedily, stealing my breath. It was a few seconds of passionate ecstasy before the cab pulled up to our Baker Street lodgings. I wasn’t even sure if it had happened, so brief was the contact. He opened the door and jumped down, offering me a hand. I stepped down and we made our way up the steps.

Holmes shrugged out of his heavy overcoat and left his collar and tie on the mantle. He sat in the wicker armchair to pull off his polished boots. I stood and looked at him curiously as he worked at his boot. He looked up at me, struggling with it, and our eyes locked. I moved closer, took his boot in my hand, and gently pulled it off his foot, replacing it with one of the soft felt slippers he favored for indoor wear. I did the same to the other foot, unsure as to why I was taking over this curiously intimate task, but nonetheless taking great pleasure in it.

“You were moved by the performance,” I said. “How rare to see your poet’s soul shine through your rationalist’s mind.”

“Oh yes, there is more to life than deduction,” said Holmes as he stood. “My heart is still beating quickly with the master’s notes. Feel it,” he said, taking my hand, and at his touch my own heart began to race. He pressed my hand to his chest, and I felt the thumping of his heart beneath the thin cloth. It seemed to beat faster even as I measured it, and I felt Holmes’ chest rise and fall, and then he sighed softly, almost inaudibly. My cheeks flamed, and my groin suddenly ached. I jerked my hand away, but he caught it quick as a cat, and held me like a vise.

“My heart is beating like a sparrow’s,” he whispered to me. “Feel it.” I looked at him desperately, hardly believing what he had just said. His eyes burned into mine, and I couldn’t meet his gaze.

“Why not touch me, if you wish to?” and he asked me suggestively, lips slightly parted, seducing me with half-lidded eyes. I pressed my hand to his heart, and I felt how quick it was, and how his breath rose and fell with it. At my touch, he exhaled softly, for my ears alone, and I bit my lip to keep from ravishing him. He grabbed the back of my neck, pulling my hair, drawing me closer, and then our lips touched, and quite naturally he opened his mouth. I kissed him deeply. He twined his fingers through my hair as our kisses grew more desperate and abandoned. I bit his lips, and his cheeks flushed scarlet and his eyes shone.

“I want you,” Holmes whispered. As if in a dream, I took him in my arms, and suddenly our bodies were pressed together, our pricks straining against too-tight trousers, tongues fiercely entwined. The rise and fall of his chest was exotic and maddening. I’d never undressed a man before, and now I slipped my hand eagerly underneath his satin lapels, his dark waistcoat, and impatiently tore at his shirt buttons, exposing a little of his lean chest. His bare skin beneath my fingertips was hot and silky. He moaned and pressed himself closer. My hand was fast on his buttons, and soon I had his clothes in utter disarray, feeling the smooth planes of his body with unfettered delight. His hand touched mine, and he unbuttoned the white cotton of his dress shirt, inviting me to gain entry, and I slipped my hand inside, caressing his hot skin, and then, almost without thinking, I brushed his nipple, and he moaned sweetly, trembling. I rubbed his nipple between my first and second finger, feeling it harden like a small pebble, and Holmes was panting and sighing underneath my touch. Suddenly driven with lust, I tore at his clothing madly, and then we were both crying out with heat and passion.

Never would I have guessed that his calm exterior cloaked a hot-blooded temperament. He grabbed my wrist tightly, almost hurting me, and kissed me passionately, drawing my hand to his waist, placing it there suggestively. My hand dropped down; he was stiff in his trousers. I caressed him through the fine wool and he moaned greedily. How desperate he was! It was enthralling, and I quickly unbuttoned his fly and took him in my hand. He was smooth and hot and very stiff, and his hips thrust uncontrollably to force his straining prick into my tight grasp.

“It is heavenly,” he panted into my ear, resting his head on my shoulder. I had one hand encircling his stiff cock, and the other cupping his charming buttocks. Holmes drew his breath sharply. I began the slow, steady strokes, his hips bucked, and I pinched his bottom in my excitement, “Oh! John!” cried Holmes and the last was uttered with a groan. I bent to kiss him again, and Holmes kissed me back, a long, hot kiss, full of ardour. I squeezed his stiff manly tool, feeling with pleasure the dew that leaked from its tip, while Holmes groaned voluptuously. His damp locks fell bewitchingly over one half-closed eye, his fine cherry-dark lips were parted, and his cheeks beautifully flushed. His white dress shirt was in disarray, and his bare chest rose and fell as his breath quickened.

He was so lovely in his pleasure. I tightened my hand and stroked him so hard his bottom twitched. “You look so naughty,” I murmured, terribly excited by his approaching climax, and by my shameless words. I squeezed his bollocks encouragingly and he gave a short hard groan. “John!” he cried, “You tease me so!” and then he was coming, gasping and crying his relief, while he soaked my hand with the fruit of our delightful labour.

“That was so lovely,” I whispered to him, as I stroked his damp locks from his forehead. He moaned, a sweet, low sound of satisfaction.

“It was,” he agreed. “And now I will return the favor.”

“Ah, it’s no matter…. that is to say…” I stammered. Suddenly I was embarrassed. I was stiff in my trousers, while Holmes was pleasantly satisfied, flushed and beautiful in his deshabille.

“You don’t want it?” asked Holmes teasingly, and I gasped as his long fingers brushed the crotch of my trousers, feeling the hardness enclosed therein. Pleased with himself, his elegant fingers brushed again and again, until I was bucking into his maddeningly feather touch. Then he leaned in to kiss me, and I opened my mouth, kissed him passionately, and his hot, slick tongue was twined with mine.

“Let me see you,” he breathed, tearing his mouth away from me. “Let me see you come in my hand, my mouth. Wouldn’t you like that?” he asked, and I trembled in anticipation. He brushed away my top-coat, fumbled with the buttons of my waist coat, laying my pocket-watch carefully on the end-table. Then his clever fingers unfastened the buttons of my dress shirt and reached inside eagerly. His hands were cold and I gasped as he touched me. He shivered, too, as his hand found a rhythm. Up and down, leisurely, stroking me into a glorious cock-stand, until I was clinging to him desperately, thrusting my stiff-stander into his warm tight grasp.

Without a word of explanation, he bent low and sucked the tip of my cock into his soft mouth. I had never felt anything so divine. I nearly swooned as I tore at his hair and begged him to suck me. He did so obligingly, kneeling to make himself more comfortable, and his eager compliance drove me to a frenzy. I lasted a very few moments in his warm wet mouth. When he licked the sweet spot beneath my cock-head, I spent in a torrent of lust, groaning hard as I flooded his mouth. He held my hips steady as I came, trapping me, making it last longer, an agony of delight. When the storm passed, he rose to his feet, sought my lips, making me shiver one last time as we kissed deeply.

“We look a mess, don’t we?” asked Holmes. Dress clothes, once mussed, always look a sight worse than day-wear. Holmes’ white shirt was crushed and wrinkled, and my collar was askew. With nimble fingers, he quickly removed it, and my waistcoat, and every last stitch, waiting for me to step out of my trousers, and leaving everything in a neat pile over the wicker arm-chair. For the first time, I felt embarrassed, standing naked before him, in only my socks, while he stood and looked at me without a trace of self-consciousness. He lit a cigarette, inhaled with great enjoyment, and simply looked at me.

“I think it is only equitable that you disrobe as well, Holmes,” I said awkwardly.

“Fair enough,” he said, and slid out of his shirt and waist-coat all at once, adding them to the pile over the chair. And then his trousers, and even his socks, until he was standing before me, his body beautifully illuminated by the gas-light. He was lean and strong, tall but deceptively thin in stature. I felt a twinge of embarrassment for my own scarred body, no longer in the peak of youth, and worn hard by battle and tropical illness. But he drew close to me and trailed a delicate finger across my collarbone, making me shiver. He didn’t say anything, but I noted the look in his eye as he touched me. It was voluptuous, almost greedy, and I saw how much he wanted me, and how he was anticipating a continuation of the afternoon’s delightful activities.

“Let us stoke the fire and order a bath,” he said, fingers still trailing across my body.

“What about Mrs. Hudson?” I asked.

“I’m sure she’s seen worse than two bachelors enjoying an afternoon frolic. Sequester yourself in your bedroom while I order the bath, if you feel shy.”

Holmes was nonchalant about a practice which I feared would have us evicted from our lodgings, but he knew the landlady better than I. I withdrew to my bedroom, sat naked on my bed while Holmes pulled the bell to summon Mrs. Hudson. I presume he cloaked himself in his mouse-grey dressing gown so as not to shock her.

Bathing at Baker Street was an arduous business, which is why Holmes often visited the Turkish baths. Getting the hot water up the stairs and into our lodgings was a bother. Mrs. Hudson sent the pageboy with bucket after bucket, and he filled our great old tin tub, which Holmes had placed by the fire. When it was half-full, Holmes added a dash of wintergreen oil and essence of slippery elm bark. Then he joined me in my bedroom as the pageboy continued his tedious chore. He sat down next to me on the bed, leaning in for a kiss.

I felt myself descending once again into the passion of our earlier encounter, as I opened my mouth to his tongue, panting as if I hadn’t just spent explosively between his lips only moments earlier. Again I felt my heart racing, my pulse throbbing, and the heat washed over me. I groaned with sheer lust, and grabbed his shoulders hard as he kissed me.

“They’ll overhear,” I breathed, my panic at being discovered not quelling my passion in the slightest.

“You’ll just have to be quiet, then,” said Holmes. But he left me sitting on the bed to check the status of our bath. The page was done, and Holmes gave him a few shillings for his hard work. Then he summoned me from the bedroom, and when I walked out, he shed his robe, his body magnificently illuminated against the firelight.

“Come and join me,” he said merrily, stepping into the bath. It was a double, so there was room for the two of us to face each other, but Holmes insisted we lay side-by-side in the steaming, fragrant water. I felt his hardness brush against my thigh as he shifted himself. He squeezed the sponge over my shoulders, washing me tenderly, pausing every now and then to lay a kiss on the sensitive points of my neck.

“I hope you have no plans for the evening,” he murmured. “I rather think I’ll stay in tonight.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I gasped, as his hand found my stiffness. The hot water, and his firm grasp, were delightful. I shifted myself, sloshing water over the edge of the tub. Holmes began to stroke me, making me tremble in an effort not to splash too much water over the sides.

“Excellent! We’ll have a fine meal, and retire early, perhaps,” he said casually, as if he wasn’t teasing and stroking my cock to aching hardness.

“Yesss…” I breathed, arching my back, trying to push myself deeper into his grasp, to make him stroke me faster.

“Oh, yes!” he said, laughing merrily. “The pleasures of home and hearth. There’s nothing like it.” I didn’t reply, but my head rested on his shoulder, and he continued to murmur pleasantries, as my short gasping cries bespoke of my imminent release.

“I do love an evening before the fire,” he continued, peeking slyly at me, enjoying the tease.

“Ohhhh,” I groaned, my entire body trembling in ecstasy, the pleasure thrumming through my limbs, as his hand found a quick rhythm, driving me mad with delight. My excitement was reflected in Holmes’ sparkling eyes. He bent to kiss me, and that pitched me over the edge, into an abyss of ecstasy, and with a violent splash, I spent for the second time, even longer and more agonizingly pleasurable than the first.

I was then so limp and relaxed that Holmes’ arm was all that kept me from sinking into the water. We washed each other, and I took special care in stroking his throbbing prick, making sure it was thoroughly clean, until my ministrations produced the expected result, and Holmes, with a hard groan and a lewd word, spurted into my hand, hips twitching madly as he rode out his pleasure.

“Tired yet?” he teased me, when his body finally went limp.

“I think some refreshments will invigorate me. Why don’t you ring Mrs. Hudson for dinner?”

“Capital idea, my dear fellow. Let us dress, but not too much, because I don’t want the bother of removing it all again.”

“In a moment,” I said. The bath-water was still warm, no doubt enhanced by our heated bodies and white-hot spendings. I leaned into the crook of Holmes neck, and he put his arm around me. We savoured the moment, which neither of us wanted to end. Holmes made some small sound of pleasure and contentment, and I realized, to my surprise, that for the first time, he appeared to be happy, and it was all because of me, and us. I felt a pang of joy, and wanted to stay forever in his arms, in the soothing, fragrant warmth of our bath, but the prospect of dining together, perhaps enjoying an aperitif or two, and then, the whole evening laid before us, sparkling with promise… that was exciting, and reason enough to rise and dress again.

</div>

FIC: "Cupid's Dart" House/Wilson NC-17

2008-06-16T05:44:14Z

I'm proud of this one – it took a long time to write and edit, and at 17 pages, it's three times as long as my typical House/Wilson fics. It's my version of the House/Wilson backstory, based on my fanwank that the two have been romantically and sexually involved, off and on, since they first met. This is not an original theory, and the House/Wilson college fic is not a novel idea, either. It's just my take on their history, based heavily on my own college experience.

It's a little different than my previous H/W fics in that it has a plot. I approached it with a little more gravitas, and treated it as I would my conventional non-erotic short stories. I hope you'll like it – I though of the f-list many times while writing it. As always, it's my gift to you. Enjoy!

Title: Cupid's Dart
Author: missviolet
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Drug use (marijuana). Hardcore romance, graphic tenderness, fluff. Oh, yeah, and sex - lots of it.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to David Shore, Fox, et. al. No infringement or disrespect intended.
Summary: Wilson meets House during his freshman year in college. Sparks fly.
Notes: A slightly alternate universe in which House and Wilson attended the same unnamed university.

Cupid's Dart

The knocking on James Wilson's door is urgent, almost frantic. He hurriedly rises from his cramped little desk, grabbing his jacket in case the building is on fire.

It's only Greg House, the tall rangy boy with deep blue eyes who lives in the corner suite. Wilson doesn't know him very well; they nod to each other in the hallways, but he knows his name only because he drew the much-envied corner room, the L-shaped suite, in the dorm lottery. Wilson lives in a barely-shareable little box of a room, as do most other freshmen.

"Thank God you're home. Do you have three dollars?" House asks.

"For what?"

"It's an emergency. It's only three dollars. I'll give it back," he insists. "C'mon, please?"

Wilson fumbles in his jacket for his wallet, thinking himself a gullible fool. He hands over a crumpled fiver and House disappears.

He returns to his desk and looks again at his anatomy textbook. He's not studying for an exam; he just loves the topic. The book's a beautiful work of art, stoutly bound, thick with colorful illustrations. It had cost nearly $200. He studies an illustration of the bones of the wrist, repeating the names quietly, drilling himself.

Moments later, House returns. The knock is quieter this time; Wilson opens the door, thinking it might be one of his study partners.

"You want me to pay you back in kind?" asks House.

"What?" House reaches down the front of his pants; and Wilson's both horrified and relieved when he pulls out only a baggie full of weed.

"I don't have the $3 just yet, but I can give you some weed from this skimpy bag. That bastard Connor always cheats me."

"Connor sells weed?"

"Shit, yeah. Where have you been living?" House closes the door, locks it. "Wanna toke?" he asks.

"I can't, my roommate would freak," says Wilson, glad that he has an excuse.

"My room, then," says House, and Wilson accompanies him, not without some reservation. He's a little fascinated by House's lean good looks, his sporty ways. On the treadmill in the gym, he'd seen him playing pickup basketball through the glass windows. House is pretty good, too. There's a rumour that he was kicked off the team in his first semester for alleged substance abuse, or maybe it was unnecessary roughness. There are several versions of the story.

The L-shaped corner suite allows each boy to have his own space, and House had torn down the curtains from the windows and affixed them diagonally across the angle of the L to section off his space. They slip behind the curtains, awful yellow tapestry heavy enough to provide a modicum of privacy. Wilson sits at the desk chair, and House sits on the bed. He breaks up the weed on a Victoria's Secret catalog, then twists it into a neat little joint, waving it back and forth in the air to let it dry.

"Got a light?" he asks.

"I don't smoke," says Wilson, even though he is about to do just that.

"Well, there's a first time for everything." House scrabbles around in his desk drawer and digs out a book of matches. He lights the joint, takes a deep drag, and passes it to Wilson, who accepts it hesitantly. He's gotten stoned exactly once before, at a Fourth of July part right before he started college. He had thought it was a nice feeling, but passed out on the lawn before the fireworks were over, and his date had to escort him home, to his embarrassment.

Nonetheless, Wilson tokes up. It's Saturday afternoon, his first semester away from home. House is interesting, and he has nothing better to do. They pass the joint back and forth until Wilson's head spins. House is even more stoned, and starts talking about freakish medical cases, a topic which appears to be his hobby. Wilson feels the same floating, faraway feeling as he had during his first experience with marijuana. He's heard of people getting wildly creative inspirations while stoned, and tries to open his mind to these. House is lively enough, going on about hermaphrodites without even pausing for input from Wilson, who lies down on House's bed and stretches out, without asking first. It doesn't seem to matter.

House finally stops talking and moves to the bed to lie out next to him. "Hey," he says softly, looking intently at Wilson. The afternoon light streams through the tall vertical windows, glinting off their hair and eyes. Wilson's eyes are drawn to House's. How intensely blue, how beautiful House's eyes are. He wonders if that's a poncey thing to think about his new friend. Just as he is starting to question their lying together on the bed, and thinking he'd better sit up for propriety's sake, there's the sound of a key in the lock. House sits up and puts a finger to his lips.

His roommate enters and plunks down something heavy, maybe a stack of books, and sniffs deeply. "House!" he calls out, clearly annoyed. House looks at Wilson, shakes his head and again puts his finger to his lips.

"I know you're in there," says his roommate, yanking aside the yellow curtains. He's a large boy, not as tall as House, but much broader, with a mean, pinched face that is flushed pink with irritation.

"Hi, Weber," says House cheerfully.

"I told you not to smoke in here. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Sorry, I forgot. I can be forgetful. Probably early-onset Alzheimer's."

"I want you and your fairy friend to clear out of here," says Weber angrily.

"If you're talking about Wilson, that's not a nice thing to say. Apologize," House demands.

"Fuck off."

"Apologize to Wilson, you stupid son-of-a-bitch." House springs to his feet and steps ominously close to Weber.

"Drop dead," says Weber, and pushes House's chest, so hard he stumbles backwards. It doesn't take him long to recover, and as soon as he regains his footing, he tackles Weber to the floor. Wilson jumps up in alarm. Weber tries to punch House but House merely grabs his fist, cranks his wrist and then bends his fingers backwards. Weber whimpers in pain and anger.

"Apologize, or I break your fingers. Can't dribble with a broken finger. You might even lose your athletic scholarship. So, apologize, or say hello to community college next semester." House's cool voice is frightening. He's no more excited than if they were discussing the weather. He cranks Weber's fingers more viciously, making him groan in pain.

Finally, Weber mumbles, "Sorry, Wilson. You're not a fairy." He actually does sound sorry. Wilson immediately tells him that his apology is accepted, and House lets him up. Weber storms out, slamming the door.

House just laughs to himself. He picks up the phone and dials a number from a tattered leather address book. Wilson feels a strange mixture of horror and fascination at the calm way House dispatched Weber. The entire exchange had lasted only a minute or two.

"Yes, Dr. Raskin, this is Greg, Greg House. You said I could call you if I had any problems. Yes? Good." House pauses, collecting his thoughts. "My roommate's been harassing me. We just got into a fight. He knocked me down. It's because I'm gay, I'm sure of it. He called me a fairy." Wilson is still shocked by the brutality of House's strength; no swinging punches or messy bloody noses; just the sure inevitability of fingers snapped with a careless twist of his wrist. He's shocked at the easy way that House lied, and at him being gay. His heart is pounding, but House's voice is calm.

"Thanks, Dr. Raskin," says House, hanging up the phone.

"Who was that?" Wilson asks.

"The school psychiatrist. I made an appointment when I first moved into the dorm. Told him I was gay and afraid of bullying, blah blah. Strictly precautionary measure, but it paid off. That asshole Weber will be punished."

"Are you gay?"

House shrugs noncommittally. "Who cares? It always works, they can't risk the bad PR and if I get in any fights, the other guy's the gay-basher."

"I don't care that he called me a fairy," says Wilson nervously.

"I do. He's an ill-mannered creep."

"It's not a big deal."

House sits on the bed and calmly re-lights the joint, takes a couple of drags, and offers it to Wilson, who shakes his head. "Are you a fairy?" asks House casually.

"What? No!"

"You don't like boys?" asks House flatly, as if he doesn't believe it at all. He sits close, draws deeply on the joint, blows the smoke provocatively in Wilson's face, challenging him. There's a long moment of silence before House stubs out the joint in a dusty saucer.

"I don't—no," says Wilson at last.

"Don't know? Wanna find out?" House touches his knee, just lightly enough that they might still laugh it off as nothing, but unmistakable just the same. Wilson blushes but does not move away from his touch. House slips his other hand around the back of Wilson's neck, he caresses him lightly, and asks, "Want to?" in such an affectionate voice that Wilson's heart pounds, his body thrills to the touch. He isn't sure exactly what's going to happen next; he's a little frightened.

"Say ‘yes'" whispers House. His hand tightens a little where it rests on Wilson's knee. Wilson's pulse skips a beat. He's never felt so awkward with any girl. This is uncharted territory. But all he has to do is look at House, the wistful expression on his face, as if he's fully expecting Wilson to say No. His gorgeous eyes, half-lidded as he looks at Wilson hopefully. His beautiful chestnut curls, lean, sexy body clad in jeans and a white tee shirt. Wilson knows what he wants. He nods, looking at House with lowered eyes. House leans in, tightening his hand around the back of Wilson's neck, and kisses him with sultry confidence. The feel of House's lips, the stubble of his jaw, and House's hand tracing his neck and collarbone - these new sensations are raw, and Wilson feels them intensely. He pants and grabs House's wrist where it rests across his neck. Soon enough House teases open his lips, and suddenly they're tongue-kissing.

Wilson hitches up House's tee shirt, slips his fingers inside, and caresses his belly, enjoying the smooth, lean planes, the way House quivers under his touch. House leans closer, lips parted expectantly, and takes his breath away. He's beautiful, his startling eyes, strong lean body, all toughness melted away as their lips meet for a sweet and sensual kiss.

Wilson feels no surprise, shock, or angst at suddenly kissing another boy, practically a stranger, for the first time in his life. He feels pleasure when House caresses his neck, kisses him hotly. It washes over him, coming in waves when House's feather tongue licks the pulse points of his neck. In these circumstances it seems entirely natural to open his mouth to House's probing tongue, to press forward until he can feel the heat rising from House's body, and even to grab a handful of his tee shirt and pull him close.

They lay down together on the narrow bed, and House holds him tightly. He leans over and turns off the light, and in the dark he kicks off his shoes and removes Wilson's tasseled loafers, pausing to rub each of his ankles fondly, his fingers wandering under the cuff of his khaki trousers, touching Wilson's bare skin above his somber dress socks.

Wilson feels his legs go weak as House caresses him. He leans backwards into House's embrace. House's lips rest at the side of his neck, over his carotid artery. His pulse flutters under the kiss. Wilson shivers and feels House's body shudder in response. House licks the sensitive points of his neck delicately, until Wilson is quivering. He can't quell a groan when he feels the nip of House's teeth, the rasping breath in his ear, House's erection presses against his hip. He turns his head, and House kisses him passionately.

"I think you do like boys," says House, eyes glittering. "Wouldn't you say that you do?"

Wilson does not reply, he just kisses him again, and again, making his answer clear. He can't get enough. He's fascinated by House: good-looking, athletic, clearly intelligent, but also a little bad, with his easy lying, his drug use, his fighting, and there is something irresistible about that contradiction.

Wilson pushes him down on the bed, straddles him, and House gasps softly in surprise. His heart beats madly as he settles himself on top of his new friend, the first delightful crush of their bodies, a sweet flash of House's erect cock pressing against his belly. He maneuvers himself so that their cocks line up, hard flesh pressed together, and a delicious thrust that makes House catch his breath.

Wilson slips his hand inside House's tee shirt, rubs slow circles on his stomach. House pulls his head down, kisses him fiercely. Wilson thrusts his hips, rubbing their cocks together. He lifts House's tee-shirt, traces his fingers down his ribcage, to his belly, up to his nipples, lingering there, making House moan around their kiss. He teases House's nipples with a sense of wonder at the way he writhes under his touch, the way his kisses grew messy with his twining tongue and soft love bites.

"All right?" Wilson asks, his voice strained with lust and anticipation.

"You're sweet," sighs House, hands gripping Wilson's ass, creeping upward to lift his shirt, stroke his back. He presses their bare chests together and curves one long leg around Wilson, using it to pull him closer. Wilson groans as their bodies find a rhythm, and his cock strains through his trousers, rubbing deliciously against House's. He slips his hand down, feeling House's erection through the rough fabric of his jeans.

House struggles out of his tee shirt, tosses it aside, and Wilson lifts his arms so House can undress him, too. His hands linger at the belt of Wilson's jeans. Wilson, half-propped up, nods, but his heart leaps. So they're going for it, and he wonders if House had ever done this with another boy.

House unbuckles his belt, unzips him, and ever so slowly, slides down his boxers until Wilson's stiff cock is fully exposed. House looks at him intensely. Wilson is stripped bare by his gaze, but he likes this new feeling of vulnerability. He reaches down and slides House's jeans down his thighs. House isn't wearing any underwear, and his cock springs out. Wilson slips his hand between them, clumsily squeezing their cocks together, and slides his hand up and down, stroking them. House's hands grip his ass, forcing their bodies together. The friction is luscious. A hot thrill washes over Wilson, and he grinds his hips against House's, relishing his soft sighs as their pleasure mounts.

"Feels so good," House pants in his ear. It's sloppy and clumsy, and Wilson strokes faster, thrusting his hips, gripping House's shoulder tightly, feeling the slickness of their cocks, the damp sheen of sweat across House's chest. House groans loudly, but Wilson covers his mouth with his own, silencing him, kissing hard, almost too hard, their lips sliding together, Wilson's tongue slipping into House's mouth. He's utterly entranced and distracted with kissing House's panting mouth. His hand slackens. House works his own hand between their straining bodies and grips Wilson's cock, sending a shiver through him, and House moans. That's maddening to Wilson – the pleasure House takes in touching him. He arches his back, thrusts his stiff and aching cock into House's slippery hand. It's intense, and Wilson stops kissing House to whisper in his ear, "Oh, yes. Make me come," and with one hand buried in House's hair, he kisses him deeply, moaning and biting, until he cannot stand it any more. House is flushed hot, slick and salty with sweat, and Wilson moans into his lips, bucking into House's caress.

"You're so close," House whispers passionately, as he feels Wilson's body stiffen. He let Wilson's cock drop from his hand, just to hear the sigh of disappointment. He strokes himself a few times, catching up, and then both of them at once. The feeling of their hard pricks mashed together, and House's slippery hand stroking and gently squeezing them, drives Wilson over the edge. He forces his agonizingly hard cock into House's tight grasp, he grips a handful of House's hair with a cry of lust, and his fingers dig into House's shoulder so hard, he'll surely leave marks. As the crisis overwhelms him, he seeks House's lips, kissing messily as his balls tighten, his cock throbs and spurts, and his body goes rigid, pleasure coursing through him.

Wilson moans as he feels House reach his peak, hot come splashing his belly, mixing with his own, and House's short panting gasps. It's beyond delight, tensing together, feeling House's trembling muscles, and his sweet, slackening lips as he rides out the waves of his climax.

"Ohhhh... oh-ho," House moans softly, and then one last paroxysm makes him arch into Wilson's embrace, and Wilson thrusts into him, feeling the last of his come spurt from his aching cock, until they both relax into each other, muscles softening, and their gasps and cries growing softer and less frequent, until it is altogether finished, and they lay in each others' arms, spent and satisfied.

Afterwards, Wilson doesn't really know what to do. Before it had seemed so easy; the flirtation, increasing physical contact, the obvious hard-ons, the shared satisfaction of their release. Now it's awkward, and he lies next to House, staring at the ceiling. He wants to hold his hand or do something to show him it wasn't just a mutual wankoff, but what to do? Within a few hours of first meeting House, he'd gotten stoned with him, watched him fight someone who insulted him, kissed passionately, and jerked each other off. With House, things moved quickly, and now Wilson has no idea how to backtrack to the nice-to-meet-you stage they'd so conveniently skipped.

Finally he stands up, wipes himself off with his boxer shorts, pulls his pants up, and looks around for his shirt. House says nothing; Wilson figures he's dozed off, and it bothers him somehow. So this is trivial to House, and that angers him, because anger is easier than hurt. Hurt means he's crushing on House, to whom he is just a convenient wankoff. Wilson is disappointed in himself for not knowing what sex means. The other freshmen can handle it; he's heard them talking in the smoking lounge, about this girl or that one, not just the easy ones, but their girlfriends, the ones they really like. They can all get the hang of sex with affection, or without affection; they can have it either way, and not be bothered. Wilson feels hopelessly immature. He finds his book bag, stuffs his wadded-up boxers into it, and walks towards the door.

"Hey, Wilson." House's voice is soft and raspy.

"House?" Wilson pauses, holding his breath, though he's not sure why.

"You coming back?" House's voice is flat and wistful, as if he does not expect an affirmative answer from Wilson.

"Sure. I'll come back."

"Tonight?" There is hurt in House's voice; the expectation of disappointment, which somehow hurts Wilson, too. There's an ache in his heart, a feeling he always thought was allegorical, but it's like a pain in his chest, this idea of House's bruised feelings.

"I'm just going to get snacks from the vending machines downstairs," Wilson lies.

"So why are you taking your bag?" says House, eyes closed. He sounds far more hurt than Wilson had been just a moment ago, when he thought House was indifferent to him. Wilson looks over at House, sprawled across the sheets, wet, naked, and limp. House looks at him with new eyes: unguarded, honest, no barriers there. This is House not as a persona but a man who craves affection. Wilson has to look away, because it almost hurts to look at House, in a way that he can't quite pinpoint. His book bag falls to the floor with a thud. He digs some change out of his pocket, and takes some more from a pile on House's dresser and from a pair of jeans slung over his chair.

"Be right back," he says, and House nods and closes his eyes, not believing him.

When Wilson returns, they feast on Sesame Party Mix, Zebra Cakes, and Orange Crush from the vending machines. For dessert they have ice-cream sandwiches. Wilson watches House lick the vanilla ice cream from the edges, pushing his tongue between the wafers, squeezing them together and licking all around again. House watches Wilson watching. They both know that it is the first of many such nights, and the knowledge is both comforting and exciting.

* * *

As it turns out, Weber is re-assigned to a different room, leaving House in the enviable position of having the entire L-shaped suite to himself. Wilson soon becomes quite a regular there. They fall into an easy pattern of spending nights together, watching television, playing House's Nintendo, or just talking. House loves to talk, and Wilson is a good listener. He talks with enthusiasm about freakish medical cases, his childhood in Egypt and Japan, his wild teen years manufacturing LSD and pipe-bombs, and always mentions how much he hates his father. Wilson doesn't have anything as interesting to say. He's never been a delinquent, his childhood had been happy, his parents love him equally, and they are terribly proud of him for getting into med school. But House seems to enjoy hearing about his home life, how he grew up in a comfortable Jersey suburb, playing with the same children since kindergarten, how he lost his virginity at a Fourth of July party right before starting college. The ordinariness of his life appeals to House, and sometimes, when Wilson can think of nothing more to say, House quietly remarks that he is lucky.

House is a pothead, usually smoking a dime bag a week, bemoaning the fact that he couldn't draw on his meager allowance till Friday, and at the end of the week, they'd pool their money and re-stock on Friday night. Wilson spends most Friday and Saturday nights stoned in House's room, watching movies, playing video games, and fooling around. They'd stripped Weber's bed (House insisted on washing the vinyl mattress with Chlorox) and pushed it close to House's to make one big bed, and there they make a thorough study of the act of love. Wilson gradually loses his inhibitions and ends up spending most nights in House's room. Their mutual craving is so intense, it's not uncommon for them to bring each other off two or three or even four times a day, whenever they can find the time between classes. Early in the morning, Wilson wakes to House jerking himself.

"Didn't want to wake you," says House breathlessly, and he looks at Wilson through half-closed eyes as he strokes himself. Naturally this gets Wilson going too. He props himself up and lets his hand wander down to his groin. He always wakes up with a hard-on anyway. They watch each other, voyeuristic thrill adding to their masturbatory pleasure, spurring each other on with rude words and breathless kisses full of teeth and tongue. House likes to bite; he sometimes leaves marks, but now he's too distracted with pleasure to kiss properly. His head falls back as he thrusts his hips forward, and his hand is fast along his erect length.

"Feels so good, Wilson," he pants, and arches his back.

Wilson huffs out Yes as he jerks himself steadily, eyes moving from House's hand, fast on his cock, to his gorgeous eyes half-lidded in an agony of delight. He's so close, like some frail, trembling creature. Wilson feels unfettered affection for him. With a small sob, House comes against him, striping his belly, and Wilson's got one hand around his bare waist, stroking his lower back soothingly while he rides out the peak of his pleasure, then Wilson is shooting, too, with a lustful groan. Finally his hand is still and he draws a long, ragged breath.

In the afternoon, between classes, there's not much time, but still they engage in heavy make-out sessions. Kissing House makes his heart pound in his chest; Wilson's afraid he'll come in his crisp chino trousers. They start out sitting side by side on House's bed, and end up half-clothed, rubbing against each other in a frenzy of lust. House's cock strains against the thin fabric of his sweatpants. Wilson lifts his tee-shirt, trails his fingers along his thin rib-cage and up to his nipples. They have only minutes before their next class, but it doesn't stop Wilson from lightly stroking House's erection through the fabric, from pinching his nipples and biting at the tender skin of his neck. House groans and arches his back; he loves to be teased. Wilson palms his cock through the thin cotton. When Wilson bends down to suck House's nipples, he feels his cock throb under his touch. He licks and sucks, making House writhe with pleasure.

"Oh....ohhhh, yes, suck," House says breathily. Wilson tongues his nipples into sensitive little points, he rubs his hand firmly over House's straining prick, until House bucks under his touch and the cotton grows damp under his palm. Wilson kisses him passionately, mouths gaping, tongues twining, until House is breathless. He grabs a handful of Wilson's hair, he swears, groans hard.

"Take it out," House says desperately, and Wilson feels his cock pulse under his palm. But he doesn't comply; instead he rubs more firmly, using his fingers to tease the underside of House's cock, as much as he can reach it through the constraining fabric. House bucks his hips, he writhes under Wilson's caress, and Wilson pins his shoulder to the bed. He sits across his legs, trapping him, driving him crazy. He finds his lips, and House pants and gasps into his mouth. Wilson feels that delicious tremble in House's limbs, and he bends down for a gaping, sloppy kiss, but House can't meet his lips, because he's out of control, he cries out fuck, and with hard thrust of his hips, and a shameless moan, House comes in his pants.

House breathes raggedly as his pleasure subsides, but Wilson's heart is pounding. He yanks down House's pants, looks with satisfaction at his cock, still half-hard and wet with come. He unzips his chinos, pulls out his own straining cock, and strokes it a few times. It feels good, making House come uncontrollably, and now jerking himself while his friend watches, wide-eyed. He rubs the come into House's belly and smears his own cock, sighing as he starts to stroke.

He teases House. "You couldn't wait until I got your pants off," he says hoarsely, jerking himself, enjoying the way House looks back at him, sated, but with burning eyes. It doesn't take long for him to work himself into a lather, and soon enough he strokes himself to a hard climax, his come jetting out and mingling with House's.

In the evening, they have more time to explore, to get to know each other. It doesn't matter if they've already come once or twice earlier in the day; they are young, highly sexed, and fascinated with each other. They don't even say a word as they lie together on House's bed, making out. They like to kiss and tease each other for a long time; it's like a game, to see who's going to move it along. Tonight, it's House, who pants let's go into Wilson's open mouth as they kiss, tongues sliding together.

House can't wait a moment longer. He unzips Wilson's jeans roughly, bends his head to take him in his mouth. Wilson hurriedly does the same; his lips finding House's erection. They suck each other, head-to-toe, not even bothering to remove their pants. House slides a moistened finger into Wilson's ass. He's never done that before, and Wilson jerks his hips; he's not quite sure he likes it, but there's House's tongue swirling over his cock-head, and his lips are occupied with House's own hot shaft. House fingers him slowly until he finds just the spot, the very spot that makes Wilson's hips tremble, and he moans long and low. House's clever finger draws him out, his soft lips and tongue coax his throbbing cock, until he comes hard into his hot sucking mouth. It seems to last forever, the pulsing of his cock, the twitching deep in his body, the waves of delight ricocheting between his prostate and his tightened balls, his swollen cockhead caressed by House's teasing tongue. Wilson groans with sweet release; House grabs his hair and tries very hard not to yank it as he comes a moment later. Wilson, distracted with his own pleasure, lets House's cock slip from his mouth, so that his come spurts across his lips. Wilson uses his hands and mouth to finish him off completely, and House moans again and again, relishing every last throb, every last lick of Wilson's delicate tongue.

Wilson wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and slides up next to House. Both are still breathing hard. Wilson wants to say something; he has to. Instead he buries his face in House's neck; he tastes the place where his curly hair meets the soft nape. House puts his arms around him; Wilson feels safe, protected, and vulnerable, he feels this in his heart, for the first time, and it's like a little pain. He had thought of Cupid's arrow as a fairytale, something for greeting cards, but now he's not so sure.

"You don't have to talk," says House, looking up at the ceiling. His arm drops from Wilson's neck, to his waist, and tightens around him. He holds Wilson close, but it's not tender, it's almost too hard, the way he's holding him. Wilson kisses him, a soft little reassuring kiss that says all the words he doesn't have, and House doesn't want to hear. They kiss for a long time. There's no lust, no nervousness, nor any emotion. It's a light, airy kiss that simply says I'm yours.

* * *

Wilson grades start to slip. He's gone from being the straight-A geek, meeting with his study group three times a week or more, to being a slacker, doing the bare minimum, cramming in his homework and studying during those hours when House is in class. Wednesday evenings are one of those times, and he meets up with his old study buddies in the library. They're mostly foreign students, quiet, diligent, not exactly friends, but perhaps a bit more than acquaintances. They lecture him regularly on his absence from their get-togethers, even though most of the time they're just sitting around together in silence, eyeballs glued to their respective textbooks.

"That gay friend of yours is taking up a lot of your time, is he not?" asks Sid, a brilliant Indian student with a disconcertingly blunt manner.

"Which friend?" asks Wilson, though he knows perfectly well.

"That Gregory House, whom everyone says is so smart, he doesn't even have to study."

"He's not gay," says Wilson defensively, although he knows it's a lie.

"How can that be so, when you two sleep together every night?"

"I'm not gay, either!" says Wilson, panicked. To his chagrin, Sid rolls his eyes, and April, normally so quiet and studious, starts to giggle. Barton, the smartest and most humourless of the bunch, just glares at Wilson, as if to blame him for this latest distraction, then closes his textbook with a show of irritation and heads out to the terrace for a smoke.

"It's no big deal, man, it's okay to like boys, but not to flunk out," says Sid, but that makes it even worse. Wilson, unable to keep his mind on his work, tells the two of them that he's through for the night and heads off in disgust. Barton, returning from his cigarette break, catches Wilson by the arm as they pass each other.

"You're slipping behind, Wilson, you'd better cram or else you'll be lucky to pull a B this semester," he says seriously. "If you keep toking up and screwing around with House all the time, you're going to be on academic probation by the end of the semester."

"Thanks for the advice!" Wilson says irritably, pushing past him. He strides to his dormitory with the intention of studying by himself. He keys in and drops his books on his desk, flings his jacket on his bed. His room-mate looks up from his own textbook, says nothing but his eyes narrow. Bill is a senior and has no life but studying. He's glad Wilson is his room-mate, since he's never home, and sleeps in House's room nearly every night.

"Fine, I'll go to House's," says Wilson, although Bill said nothing at all, but Wilson's knows his restless irritable state is a distraction to Bill's studying. He likes Bill, who has always been reasonable, if not exactly personable, but what more can you expect of a guy who is always buried in his textbooks? Wilson closes the door quietly as he leaves. He walks down to the corner suite, knocks loudly but opens the door before House can respond.

"Have some respect for privacy," says House, when Wilson enters.

"Sorry, I'm distracted. My study group is lecturing me again." Then he notices House's suitcase, half-open on his bed. A wheeled trunk on the floor is filled with books and House's few possessions.

"Where are you going?" asks Wilson, and his heart is pounding with anxiety.

"I've been kicked out. I cheated," says House matter-of-factly. "Turns out that's against the rules. Who would have guessed?"

"What? Can't you appeal it?" The pitch of Wilson's voice is higher than he intended. He needs House to sympathize with him, to tell him his study group is just a bunch of old biddies with no sense of fun. The last thing he needs is for House to tell him he's leaving.

"Why bother? I cheated, and got caught. Nothing to contest. And that sonofabitch Weber would fight me every step of the way."

"You cheated off Weber? You're way smarter than him."

House shrugs. "Parisitology's boring – just a lot of rote memorization. I didn't feeling like cramming. Weber sits in front of me."

"So you got yourself kicked out. Now what am I supposed to do?" Wilson shoves the suitcase aside and sits on House's bed.

"Listen, honey," says House, and Wilson flinches. He'd never called him that before, and now it seems too good to be over. "You're better off without me."

"How can you say such a thing?" says Wilson, shocked. House sits beside him on the bed.

"Your grades are slipping, you hardly leave the dorm, all you do is get baked and fuck around with me. You're blowing your exams. I won't let you do this to yourself."

"You're no different!" says Wilson accusingly.

"All except the grades, buddy," says House sadly. It's true; House has a decent GPA. He gets by merely by cramming for the topics that bore him and submerging himself in his particular fascinations. And maybe he's been bolstering his exam grades with occasional cheating. Wilson, without his slow, consistent daily studying, is starting to flunk.

He hates to admit House is a bad influence; the truth hurts. He sits on the bed, despondent, and House puts his arm around his shoulder and squeezes him reassuringly.

"You have one chance to become a doctor. You have your whole life to be with me." House's arm around his shoulder is firm, but Wilson's heart is breaking. He leans his head against House, closes his eyes, tries to imagine it isn't happening. House kisses the top of his head. Then he stands up, shuts the suitcase and trunk, balances the suitcase on top of his trunk, picks up his guitar, pushes the wheeled trunk onto its side, and heads towards the door. Wilson followed, and House locks the door for the last time.

"Don't come down with me. I'm afraid you'll make a scene," he says. Seeing Wilson's sorrowful face, he adds, "Or I will."

They hug tightly, and promise to write, and with a deep, soulful kiss, they part.

"Don't cry about it," are House's last words. "I can't stand to think of you crying. Promise not to." Wilson nods and watches him go.

As the weeks drag on, there are a few times, late at night, when Wilson breaks his promise and brushes away a tear or two. He waits for a letter from House. A cute boy who shares nearly all his classes asks him out. Horrified, Wilson says icily that he's straight. He asks out a plain-looking girl whom he knew wouldn't say no and fucks her to prove to himself he's straight, and not in love with his best friend. It has the opposite effect.

Finally, a few weeks before Thanksgiving, he receives a postcard.

Wilson,

I am at U. of Michigan and doing alright at school. I quit smoking if you know what I mean. They let me join the intramural b-ball team, guess they have lower standards here, ha hah.

Am fighting with my Dad as always and he doesn't want me home for Thanksgiving on account of me being a no-good cheater. Can I stay with you and your parents for the holiday break?

Can't wait to see you again Jimmy boy.

Yours,
Greg House

Wilson clutches the postcard to his chest tenderly. There is no return address, but for now that doesn't matter. All that matters are the words from House.

But eventually it hits him that he didn't know what building House lives in, or if he even lives on campus, and he has no idea how to reach him in Michigan. How would he tell House his parents' address, give him directions? The day before Thanksgiving, he feels a terrible unease; it was too good to be true. He's had no word from House and is leaving that night for his parents' house in New Jersey.

He goes to the station early, buys his ticket and sits on the hard wooden bench watching the clock. It's cold, but he doesn't move to the indoor waiting room. He feels so low that he wants to sit somewhere bleak and cold to match his mood. When the train finally pulls in, his hands are frozen, but he doesn't even notice until he feels the pain of his cold fingers defrosting in the heat of the car.

As long as he's on the train, there's still the possibility that House somehow, some way, will find him, perhaps tomorrow, just in time for dinner. He's told his mom to cook an extra-large turkey just in case.

She's waiting for him at the station, his cheerful, good-looking mother, with her fashionable short bob of chestnut hair and her tailored blouses. She kisses him and says how much she likes his new friend Gregory.

"House?" asks Wilson, gaping.

"Yes, Greg House, your friend, the one you said is coming to Thanksgiving dinner. He arrived yesterday. We put him in your room, hope you don't mind bunking together, dear. Your Aunt Winnie's in the guest room. They've been playing Ping-Pong all day."

Wilson grins wildly. How on earth House had found his parents' house, he had no clue. He doesn't even bother to ask. He practically runs up the steps to his house, his mother trailing behind. The sight of House sitting at their kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal, fills him with joy. House stops, spoon midway to his mouth, and grins at Wilson. While his mother is busy in the pantry, he grabs House's hand, squeezes it hard. They exchange a long, meaningful glance.

"I'll pull out the sofa bed for him," says Wilson to his mother, but he looks at House, and mouths the word Not. No way is House sleeping anywhere but his bed tonight, and his body thrills at very thought of his gorgeous friend in his narrow childhood bed.

Dinner takes far too long but finally they finish the washing-up and Mr. and Mrs. Wilson sit down to watch the evening news. House and Wilson withdraw to his bedroom and immediately fall into each other's arms, holding tight.

"Missed you," sighs Wilson, and they kiss for a long time, all their passion flaring up, quickened pulses and hearts beating madly.

"And you," whispers House, hands low on his back, then resting on his ass.

Wilson locks the door carefully, puts on some loud jazz, and tells House to be absolutely quiet. They fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, tongues crashing together. It's far more sharp and immediate and hotly exciting than either had imagined.

"Did you jerk off last night, in my bed?" whispers Wilson, teasing.

"How could I resist?" says House. Wilson closes his eyes, his mind flooded with the erotic imagery of House coming between his sheets. They kiss each other hastily, making out with frantic urgency. It doesn't take long at all for House to unzip Wilson's jeans, to rub his cock firmly through the damp fabric of his shorts.

Wilson bites his lip, trying to be quiet as House touches him. It's difficult, especially when House slips his hand inside and pulls out his stiffened cock. Wilson's kiss grows sloppy as he feels the delicious pressure of House's hand on him. House knows just how he likes it, and how to bring him off quickly. Wilson can't stifle a small groan of lustful anticipation as he starts to work his hips.

"Shhh," says House around their kiss. "If you can be quiet, I'll suck you off."

Wilson knows House is talking dirty, teasing him. He's not even sure if House really did jerk off in his bed last night, or if he just knows how the very idea drives Wilson crazy. He rests his head in the crook of House's neck, his senses sharpened by the fragrance of House, by the familiarity of his quickened breathing, the slightly salty taste of his neck.

"I'll be quiet," he whispers, but House's clever fingers fondle and caress his most sensitive part so deliciously, he can't help another quiet moan, though he tries to muffle it by burying his mouth House's neck.

"Impossible, you're a screamer," says House, and he strokes Wilson's cock steadily, tickling his balls, fingering the swollen head and the sweet spot underneath. He kisses Wilson slowly and tenderly, tempering Wilson's eagerness. Wilson forgets entirely about the ache of missing House, the surprise at his early arrival at his parents, even the astonishing fact of the two of them in his boyish twin bed. He forgets everything except for the feel of House's hands, his lips and tongue, the lovely scratchiness of House's unshaven face, and the mounting pleasure in his groin.

"Ah, yes, House....yes," he whispers, struggling to keep his voice low and calm. House laughs quietly, but he doesn't vary his pace. He strokes him not too fast, not too slow, edging Wilson closer towards his release. But Wilson is too excited; his face is flushed, there's a damp sheen of sweat on his skin, and he's constantly biting his lips to silence himself. House grabs his neck, kisses him hard with lots of tongue. Wilson's moans are lost in their kiss. It's over too quickly; just as he really getting into it, thrusting his hips, breathing deep and fast, suddenly he's tipped over the edge. House quickens his hand, and Wilson starts to come. His back arches, his entire body goes rigid, and with a muffled sob, he spurts into House's hand. Wilson tries not to moan aloud as House strokes him slow and tight, squeezing out every last drop, until his cock is spent and softened.

House doesn't waste any time. He's breathing hard with excitement as he unzips his jeans, pulls out his hard cock. He sighs with contentment as he grasps himself.

"Take off your shirt," he orders Wilson.

Wilson pulls his polo shirt over his head and moves himself closer to House. His pants are still unzipped but he's pulled his jockeys up over his sodden prick.

"Slide down your shorts," says House. "I want to see your body."

Wilson complies, and House tells him he's gorgeous. Wilson blushes with pleasure at the compliment. He knows his body is nothing special. It's a scholar's body, pale, thin, and soft. But House likes it, and that makes him feel sexy.

House's lips are parted, eyes half-lidded as he speeds towards his climax. Now he too must try to be quiet. Wilson watches, fascinated, as he strokes himself.

"Kiss me," says House, and when Wilson moves close enough to do so, he also puts his hand on House's, wanting to take over. House drops his hand to his side complacently, and huffs with pleasure as Wilson begins to jerk him.

He doesn't last any longer than Wilson did. Wilson feels him starting to come; House pushes his tongue insistently into his mouth, exhales loudly, tries very hard not to moan as Wilson strokes him. Still, he can't stop a short, sharp cry as the first drops spurt from his aching prick, splashing Wilson's chest. Wilson strokes him expertly, teasing out his climax, making it last. He cups his balls affectionately, slides his hands up and down his wet cock, kissing him slowly. House huffs into his mouth, hot breath slowing as his cock throbs out the last of his spend.

"Oh, Wilson," House sighs, face buried in Wilson's neck. "What you do to me... " Wilson feels an ache in his heart. Only four more days with House, then back to his lonely dorm. He tries not to think about it. They are hot and sweaty and for now, satisfied to lie in each other's arms. House drifts off, then Wilson follows. In his dreams, he's floating in a pool, a warm pool with the sunshine bright on his eyelids. He remembers that House is in his arms, and feels that curious split between dreams and waking reality – how can House be in his arms, if he's floating on his back in a warm pool? He can smell the chlorine, and something about it excites his senses. He moans in his sleep, starts to turn over to float on his stomach, but he can't turn himself. He awakens in a slight panic, and feels a sudden rush of sexual pleasure. He gasps, and his hips buck forward, pushing his erection into House's wet mouth.

Ohhhh, Wilson moans, with that sweet erotic rush that is peculiar to being woken up in such a delightful way. House works his cock softly, tonguing him, letting him get used to the feeling. Wilson's body responds instantly, his heart pounding, cock swelling into House's mouth, and his groan is too loud. But it's the wee hours of the morning, and his parents are deep in their REM cycles. He can be a little more adventurous.

"Oh, that's good," he whispers, and his fingers ruffle through House's hair. His cock aches sweetly under House's caressing tongue, his soft lips. House savours his task, and the wet sucking sounds of Wilson's cock plunging into his mouth add to their enjoyment.

Wilson cries out, and his pleasure mounts; he feels it in the backs of his thighs and his calves. He tenses, his body quivering. House tickles the head of his cock with his tongue. He licks that sensitive place just under the head, but slowly, so that Wilson arches his back and writhes under his teasing. Wilson's hips buck forward uncontrollably, and he shoves his cock deep into House's mouth, he grabs handfuls of House's hair, and House, the cocktease, keeps him hovering on the edge just long enough to drive him mad.

Suck, Wilson begs, as House's lips and tongue go slack and still. He pauses long enough to make Wilson whisper please, then licks him slowly, just the head, before sinking deeply all the way down to the base. He cups Wilson's balls, squeezing lightly, just to feel how heavy and full they are.

"Fucking tease!" Wilson sobs out, but he loves it, loves being driven half-mad with lust. His cock throbs between House lips, and he pushes it deep into the tight suction, feeling the feather-edge of his climax just out of reach.

House groans, a wet, half-muffled sound that almost tips Wilson over, the obvious enjoyment he takes in his masterful blow job. He licks a little faster, starts to bob his head, and then, just as Wilson's body tenses on the cusp of pleasure, he stops. He lets his rock-hard prick drop from his lips and crawls up to whisper in Wilson's ear.

"Try not to scream, okay? I don't want your parents to think I'm murdering you in your sleep."

Wilson only moans in response. How can he control himself with House teasing him so? House returns to his enjoyable task, and this time, he doesn't tease. He sinks his tight sucking mouth deep onto Wilson's throbbing cock. Wilson's body twitches, and he cries out. The brief absence has made the return so much more intense. With a hard groan, his cock throbs, his balls tighten, and he comes explosively, creaming into House's mouth, arching his back and shuddering as he works his cock into the hot suction, each jet more pleasurable than the last. His body is flying out of control, and he feels his ass clenching, his thighs tensing, as House wrings every last drop out of him, sucking and licking softly as Wilson trembles and comes down from his exciting climax. House licks him until he starts to flinch from over-sensitivity, then he lets his softening cock slip from between his lips. He kisses the inside of Wilson's thighs, kisses his way up his damp belly, and finally lays a kiss on Wilson's slackened lips.

"Not bad, huh?" says House smugly.

Wilson can't answer, he just moans with satisfaction, grabs House's hand, and kisses him hard. He wants to return the favor, but his entire body feels as if it's made of quicksand: melting and sinking into deep sleep. He fumbles for House, feels his hardened cock between his fingers.

"Don't worry about it," says House, and his voice is faraway.

"Thanks. I'll get you tomorrow," says Wilson.

"I know you will," says House, grinning. Wilson closes his eyes, but he can't fall asleep. Something is nagging at him from the corners of his memory. Suddenly he realizes that it's all temporary, fleeting. House will be gone in a few days. He opens his eyes suddenly. House is staring right at him, a curious smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"You're already thinking about us being apart, aren't you?" asks House. He turns over onto his side, props himself up on one elbow to look into Wilson's eyes.

"I can't help it. Only four more days." Wilson closes his eyes, unable to look directly into House's intense gaze. It hurts him, and he wonders if they'll ever have the time together he so desperately craves. Will it always be a few days snatched here and there, struggling to be quiet with someone always just down the hall?

"Yes, but Christmas break is just around the corner. A whole two weeks, if your parents don't mind."

"You know I'm Jewish."

"So can I spend Hanukah with you?"

Wilson laughs, but House is deadly serious. "I'm spending Hanukah with you. Make sure it's okay with your parents." House grabs Wilson's shoulder and shakes him a little to emphasize his point.

"It'll be okay, but what about after that?"

House rolls his eyes, flops onto his back again. "There's no end to your projected misery. After Christmas, spring break, of course. Maybe we'll go down to Fort Lauderdale, pick up some girls gone wild."

Wilson grabs the pillow from under House's head and thwacks him with it. "I'm serious," he says. "How can we do this when we're miles apart?"

"Summer's right beyond spring break. Only a few months after."

"And then?"

"Then Thanksgiving break again. We're never more than a few months apart, see?"

Wilson thinks about it, and realizes House is right. He can last a few months without House, knowing that he'll see him again soon. He closes his eyes in relief. It's the first time they've talked about the permanence of their relationship. Wilson realizes that his real fear is that House will tire of him if there's too much distance between them, that House will forget about their shared ecstasy, and the way they can be true selves around each other.

House takes Wilson's hand tenderly, and Wilson is, as always, surprised by House's bare emotions in these intimate moments. He squeezes Wilson's hand reassuringly. "I need you, and you need me. That'll never change, no matter where we are. It's as simple as that."

Wilson grins. "Yeah, it's simple, it's always simple with you, House, that's what I love about you. I make things complicated, you keep them simple."

"We're good together," House says decidedly, and then he nestles his head in Wilson's shoulder and drifts off. Wilson is sleepy, but stays awake a little longer, savoring the comfort of House's steady breathing, until the sweet haziness overtakes him. He falls into a deep slumber, their love suffused in his very limbs. </div>

sexy man eating a donut, Edith Wharton's pornography

2008-06-10T17:29:57Z

I finally found Edith Wharton’s pornography, which is regrettably short but just as exquisite as I expected. Here’s the link if you’re interested. Before you click, be forewarned that it describes incest, but it’s not an overwhelming theme, and I still think it’s worth reading for its sheer loveliness. I am not surprised, as Edith Wharton is one of my all-time favorite writers; definitely one of my top ten.

Edith Wharton’s “Beatrice Palmato” fragment, transcribed by katho

I am trying not to clutter up my LJ with posts that don’t contain writing, but my current House/Wilson fic is taking forever to edit, because it’s nearly 15 pages, and I wrote it in the past tense, but then decided it should be present tense. I’m more comfortable with present tense, particularly with the sex scenes. So that’s a massive rewrite, changing every past tense verb to present tense, and it’s not as simple as that – often the entire sentence has to be restructured. I thought I was doing great last night but at 1 a.m., I had only gotten 5 pages edited. But it will be posted soon, I promise, and I think you’re going to love it! I almost couldn’t stop writing it, I had so much fun, but finally I had to put a cap on it.

I never thought I’d be turned on by donuts – generally I hate the very idea of food and sex together. But we had a little office birthday party and the sexy metrosexual who’s half of this pair of flirty guys I’ve been perving ate a Boston crème donut today. Let me first explain that my eyes lit up like a casino slot machine hitting the jackpot when I saw that tray of donuts. I friggin’ love donuts more than any other treat and, along with potato chips, are the only foods that drive me into a true orgiastic frenzy. I will eat donuts and potato chips until I actually start to feel sick. So of course, I never have them, because I pack on the pounds so easily, I hardly ever eat anything too tasty these days. Still, it doesn’t hurt to look, and I eyed that tray of donuts with intense longing, that is, until this sexy metrosexual guy took a Boston crème – my very favorite one, the king of all donuts. Soft and slightly chewy, stuffed with silky custard, covered with dark chocolate glaze. This coworker of mine is a tall drink of water, with a killer bod (he showed me a photo of his ripped torso – hee hee, what an adorable ponce), curly dark hair, and narcissistic tendencies that are sexy in that way that is attractive only in principal – definitely not boyfriend material, but kind of fun for just flirting.

He bites into the Boston crème and of course all the lovely custard squirts out. It’s blazing hot in NYC and the chocolate glaze melts all over his fingers. Pretty soon he’s licking custard and chocolate off his fingers and making a huge mess. Chocolate drips onto his spotless white dress shirt. I was trying not to drool but I think he knew I was looking – he loves to be looked at, did I mention that? He was licking his fingers like a true exhibitionist. It was the perfect sinful combination of a favorite forbidden food, a sexy man, hot day, melting chocolate – a messy, erotic spectacle that I’m still thinking about, hours later. I copped a few sly peeks and eventually he finished the donut and we all went back to our desks.

The office can be a bit dull so I’ve got to make my own entertainment. As homemade entertainment goes, that little donut interlude was a pretty good one! For more on sexy gay men eating donuts, read this hilarious short play “Donut,” by Robert Farrar, complete with illustrations. I thought it was funny, sweet, and sexy, even though the very idea of food in the bedroom is repellant to me, but I think if I found a man like Phil, maybe I’d loosen up a bit.

“Donut,” by Robert Farrar

You just might find me cruising the local donut shops this summer, prowling for my next Boston crème moment!

Stay cool and ♥ from,

- MissV.

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real-person slash, but not the celebrity kind

2008-06-05T21:29:02Z

I just had to get rid of the “busy with grad school” message, since I’m now free for the summer. I’m still working on my House-and-Wilson-at-university fic. It’s a long one – 14 pages, and I’m still not quite finished. It also needs more editing. It does have a plot of sorts. I have put many hours into this one, so I hope it’s worth it. If nothing else, it does include six or seven sex scenes, so that should provide some redeeming value ;)

After I finish that, I may write my Wilson-gives-House-a-massage fic, or maybe try my hand at a Jack/Ianto fic. They’re such a lovely couple, both of them being so gorgeous and all. Also, they can both act, so when they kiss each other onscreen, it’s, ah, pretty convincing.

On a different topic, lately I’ve been a bit bothered by real-person slash, and by ‘bothered,’ I mean ‘hot-and-‘ and by ‘real-person slash,’ I mean, not the celebrity kind.

I’ve never been too keen on RPS about celebrities, as it seems creepy and stalker-ish. Not to say that some of it isn’t hot, because there are good writers in every genre, but it’s not my cup of tea and I usually avoid it. But now I’m faced with two hot guys in my office who are carrying on like they’re madly in love with each other. Not only do they take lunch together every day, they also go out for numerous Starbucks runs together. I mean, I’ve seen them going to the bathroom together. But all of that wouldn’t be enough to put the naughty thoughts in my mind. It’s the way they look at each other – so flirtatious. I mean, they flirt with each other and it’s quite obvious to everyone. One of them is kinda metrosexual (he showed me a picture of his torso that he keeps on his PDA, to show how ripped he is. Just the torso, no head. I wonder why he doesn’t just unbutton his shirt if he wants to show others that the gym is working.) The other wears glasses and is quiet and bookish. I think they’re both adorable but together, even better. They are the subject of much gossip, not because they may be gay or bisexual, as we’ve had plenty of gay employees and it’s not a big shocker. It’s because of the office affair, and the fact that the metrosexual one had a girlfriend until he met the quiet one, who is married and the rumour is that he ‘stole’ the metrosexual from his girlfriend. So there’s this whole forbidden fruit aspect of it – because you’re not supposed to date your coworkers, and of course, dating a married man is usually frowned upon (though we don’t know the status of their marriage, maybe the wife is fine with all of this, or maybe she’s a beard.)

So, try as I might to avoid thinking about the two of them together, I sometimes do anyway, especially if I’ve been down there to meet with them on work-related stuff and I see the flirtation first-hand. I love the way the metrosexual looks at the quiet one – his eyes sparkle, and it’s touching, really, even if they are just friends, to see one person look at another with such affection. The quiet one looks back rather smugly, as if he knows that he’s got the other wrapped around his finger. Sometimes I think about the quiet one ordering the other to go down on him, bossing him around sexually, and generally acting out of character when they are behind closed doors. Then I feel vaguely guilty, because these are real people – they are men that I like and respect, and I don’t even know for sure if they are a gay couple, I just want them to be, because it’s hot. They’re both sexy, sharp dressers, and I like to think of them removing each others’ ties, unbuttoning their crisp white shirts, and kissing passionately while half-dressed. I keep hoping I’ll catch them going at it in a supply closet or something.

I try to keep it in check, but work’s often boring, and daydreams are free. It almost seems worse than celebrity RPS, because with celebrities, at least you don’t know the subjects and presumably feel less guilty about using them for your own private sexual fantasies. So, if I have any friends left after my long hiatus, what’s your take on real-person slash that’s not the celebrity kind?

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