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Today had been an awful day, this was a fact that was not up for debate. You woke up in the morning, with an odd feeling in your lower body. Not quite a stomach ache, not quite period cramps. A discomfort, that was an apt description. You had been getting these false alarms for the past three days, so as you padded bare-footed to the bathroom, you already had an inkling of what you'd see this time. Your body, as treacherous as it may have been by making you go through this every month, was trying to alert you and spare you the humiliation of wearing pastel dresses on the wrong day.
Indeed, today there was blood. Odd, because your monthly was supposed to be here next week, according to your calculations... damned irregular cycles. But oh, well. One has to see the bright side of things. At least you had no cramps yet. Just some bloating, gas and a lot of blood. You could work with that. After all, it usually was worse on your first day, so you'd gladly take the hand dealt to you. Once the rags were firmly in place, you went back to your bed, ready to lounge around the whole day and do nothing. Period fatigue always got you, and for the next few days, you would have little to no energy or motivation for anything. But that was easier said than done. As if one could spend a day doing nothing when sharing a house with a man like Sherlock Holmes.
It was well past noon when he finally decided to leave his experiments and come and bother you instead. Holmes flops down on the bed next to you, with a loud, theatrical sigh. In a very unconvincing attempt that he was coincidentally in the room, like a cat pretending that it's curling into its owner's lap for no particular reason, the detective scoots closer to you on the mattress, leaning in for a kiss. The affection is welcomed by you with open arms. Your lips move gently against his, while one hand grips the front of his dressing gown, and the other supports your weight on the mattress. He breaks the kiss a few moments later, only to begin trailing his lips down your throat, to the hem of your nightgown. Of course this was what he was after when he entered your room.
"No, dearest. Not now. I'm not...how to put it? I am not in the state for such a thing today." , you say, giving him an apologetic expression as you gently move his hands away from your breasts.
At your words, Holmes lets out a huff and fixes you with a playful glare. "And why not?" , he asks , raising an eyebrow for extra dramatics. "You seemed eager enough with that kiss."
You meet his gaze, reaching out to mess up his hair. "I really do wish I could say yes, I want it as well, but as I said, I am not in the proper state—" , you begin weakly.
"You know I don't want you to shave or whatever you women are taught to do to please your husbands. I have hair as well. On my arms, on my legs, even there, why should I feel disgusted? And to soothe your nerves, I quite like the vegetation, so to call it. Keeps the secret treasure well hidden." , he responds, flashing you a smug smile and a wink.
You let out a surprised laugh at the comparison. How did he come up with these absurd metaphors? Fitting, you thought. The clit was like some sort of mythical, unachievable treasure to the majority of men. "No. It is not that, either. It's—"
"What is it, then?" , the detective asks, not even letting you finish your sentence. "Just be honest. I can take no for an answer, do not feel obliged to cave in just to not upset my feelings. Intimacy needs to be enjoyed by both me and you."
You take a deep breath, before finally broaching the topic. "My...monthly. I am currently going through it now. It's quite bloody, in spite of being the first day. And I do not think it is what you would like now."
Holmes lets out a simple "Oh." of understanding at that. He furrows his brows in thought, staring at your lower body, before looking up at you again.
"And?" , he asks after a few moments of contemplation.
"What do you mean "and?" ?!", you ask. "I am all bloody, and bloated. It's disgusting, and smelly..."
"It is natural, is it not? You go through this every month. I see no reason to treat it as some sort of anomaly. Is that the only reason you have?"
You nod slowly.
"Thought so. Well, I am a man of science. If nothing else, we can consider this an experiment to see whether a woman's taste is that greatly influenced by her monthly."
"Taste?!" , you cannot help but exclaim, surprised he was suggesting this. When he mentioned intimacy, you had assumed the regular type. Cock in cunt and all that. But it seems not. This man, who was almost cat-like in cleanliness, and hated dirtiness, was now acting as if it was nothing out of the ordinary to eat you out while on your period.
"Are you sure?" , you ask him , just to be clear he understood what a period really meant. "There's blood down there. Constantly, it doesn't come out only on the toilet."
"I know how menstruation works, my dear. And yes, I am sure. Now lie back and enjoy."
"We need more men like you. Maybe then, women would not need to rely on themselves for pleasure." , you finally say, slowly pulling down your drawers, and the rags stuffed inside. As expected, the thick pieces of cloth were already stained dark red, even if you had last changed them half an hour ago.
Holmes just looks at your undergarments curiously, while shrugging off his dressing gown, now left only in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. There was no disgust in his eyes, just the scientific calmness that he always showed when confronted with something interesting. You were half expecting some nose wrinkling, or maybe some wincing, but he was simply observing.
"Does it also hurt?" , he asks, his eyes betraying his worry. The beginning of your monthly always was the worst. He knew your first day was an absolute nightmare. You'd have the type of cramps that would keep you in bed all day, needing a hot water bottle and medication for the pain to be able to function. At one point, you had been in such severe pain, you had almost passed out.
So when he sees you shake your head in a negative response, Holmes relaxes. "You look more excited than anything." , he remarks, noticing how you were watching him.
"Well, I do have to admit, I am as curious as you to see if there is any difference. Enjoy your meal, I suppose. Bone a-pay-tits, or whatever it is they say in France before eating." , you tell him, your accent a bit lacking.
"Bon appétit." , Holmes corrects, his accent flawless. He loved any chance he got to flaunt his language skills, and to remind you he had French roots as well.
"Yes. That is what I said."
"No, your pronounciation was slightly off."
"Perhaps. But I do not think you're here for a French lesson." , you concede, spreading your legs a bit more to offer him better access.
"I could give you a language lesson as well, if you'd want me to." , he offers, mostly joking. (Or so you hoped.)
"No need to!" , you quickly insist. Now was not the time for pedantic lessons on how to roll your Rs in French, or whatever nonsense he would come up with.
You lean your head back on the pillows, getting ready to feel his mouth on you. First come the kisses on the inside of your thighs. Gentle brushes of his lips, that move towards your cunt.
It takes a few moments before his tongue begins slowly licking around your folds, like some sort of cleaner who took it upon himself to make sure you wouldn't stain the bedsheets. He was going upwards, aiming for your clit, but not yet paying particular attention to it.
"Hmm. Interesting. The taste is slightly metallic. Just like normal blood. A hint of bitterness. The taste lingers slightly on your tongue after the first lick quite a bit, I'd say." , you hear Holmes' voice speak, offering you a very clinical description of his first taste of your period blood and juices.
You cannot help but burst into loud laughter. Out of all things he could say, he had to launch into this. No dirty talking or flirting, no.
"Do you also want a small notebook to write down your results in?" , you ask, the teasing in your voice obvious.
"How you mock me... I was merely describing the taste for you. Satisfying your curiosity, if you will." , he responds in a muffled voice, not lifting his head yet.
"Sherlock, dearest. You make it sound as though you are writing some report.", you say, between giggles. "Or like those stuffy old men who taste wine and wiggle their glass around , claiming the action enhances the wine's taste." After a pause, you speak again, suddenly realising a very overlooked detail: "Wait. What do you mean it tastes like normal blood?! How do you know what that tastes like?!"
Your question receives no verbal answer, just a dismissive hum. Though you cannot be angry for long at his refusal to elaborate, because he begins to actually pay attention to your clit. The hidden treasure , as he referred to it. This man was sucking on it and running his tongue as if he intended to remove it from your body with his mouth alone. Whether this was to distract you from the blood question or not, you could not tell, and frankly, you also could not care less right now.
"Oh! Mmm...slow...slow down a bit...greedy man...", you pant out, not wanting to come too soon.
He lets out a grunt of acknowledgement, and obliges, but only for a few seconds, probably just to catch his breath. It's not long before he goes back to eagerly licking and sucking your swollen, pulsating bud. The only sounds in the room were your soft, needy whimpers, his occasional moan against your cunt, and the wet noises coming from between your legs.
One of yours hands goes down, gripping his hair hard to keep him in place. Your thighs join the effort, clamping around his head to make sure he would not pull away until you were completely satisfied.
Your bold act of restraint seemed to make the detective even more eager, if it was possible. He lets out a loud moan, his nose diving deeper into your folds, rubbing against you in a way that made your toes curl.
"Oh, my...", you breathe out, squirming against his nose, desperate to get more of that feeling. Your soft, thick thighs were squeezing his head like a sort of press at this point, you were sure of that, but it didn't look as if Holmes actually minded that. The bastard could probably die right now, and it would be with a smile on his face.
With a long whine, your legs rising off the bed, the tension in your lower body finally gives way to that all too familiar orgasmic bliss. If you had to describe it, it felt like the relief you feel after sneezing, though much more intense.
But the consulting detective was not done with you. He continued his feasting, trying to coax a second, consecutive pinnacle out of you. You were not entirely opposed to the idea, in spite of your current overstimulated state. Every sensation tenfold was felt tenfold, your whimpers growing needier and louder.
By now, you were sure your thighs were excellently fulfilling the role of a hydraulic press against his head.
You are brought back to the world of the living when you feel his hand snake around one of your thighs, and squeeze it. That was his sign he needed some air. With a pathetic-sounding whine, you take mercy on him, spreading your thighs so they weren't squashing his head anymore.
You look down at him, panting slightly, and the sight that greets you between your legs is one that makes you let out a wanton moan.
If anyone could see the great consulting detective now, they would swear this was not the same man who lived for logic and reason. Blackmailers would gladly give a limb in exchange for some sort of photograph of this scene. His enemies, for he had made many during his career, would likely enter into some sort of demonic pact , selling their souls and getting a first-class seat in Hell, all to see the famous Sherlock Holmes like this.
His face was red. Visibly so. Whether from the lack of oxygen or from the exertion, you could not say. But the lower part of his face was the most arousing thing in this picture. His mouth and nose were glistening with an oddly appealing mix of your juices and your blood. He flashes you an arrogant half-smile, and slowly licks his lips clean, not once looking away from you.
You stare at him, your chest still heaving, as he continues this obscene clean-up. He uses his fingers to wipe the rest of the incriminating evidence off his face where his tongue could not reach, and then licks his digits clean as well.
"Mm. Cannot let a single drop go to waste now, can we? It is a rare resource, after all." , he playfully replies. "But I am not done. You have not finished properly this second time, and I would be a very poor husband if I simply got off this bed now and ignored your needs."
You nod absentmindedly, still a bit distracted from watching him taste you off his fingers as if you were some fine delicacy.
He gives your thigh another squeeze, and moves to lie on his back next to you.
"Oh, you want me to..." , you ask, slowly crawling to straddle his hips.
Holmes' eyes widen when he sees you do that and he quickly shakes his head, his expression scandalised as if you had just proposed some absurd idea.
"No. Absolutely not. Not when I have a better idea." , he says, pointing to his face. "Oh, come on, don't look at me with that appalled expression. I know you want to. I know how fond you are of my nose. I have seen your lustful gazes, directed at it. My hawk-like nose, as Watson called it once."
"Tempting as it may be, I do not think it's a very good idea. What if I break your nose? I'm not light as a feather, really."
He shrugs at that, not worried at all. "I'd rather have my beautiful wife break my nose than some common ruffian. It'd be more enjoyable, for one."
You give him an unimpressed look. "You reckless man. I could suffocate you and you'd be happy to die this way. I'm not some stick-thin figure!" , you point to yourself, and the obvious softness of your body. You knew you had more meat on your bones than most ladies of society.
"Oh, I know you're not some fragile little thing, that's part of the appeal. And as I said. There's worse ways to die out there."
You shake your head. This man was incorrigible. Slowly moving to hover over his face, you grip the headboard of the bed for balance, looking down at him.
"Alright then, just like a few minutes ago. You squeeze my thigh if you need air, yes?"
Holmes eagerly nods, looking positively excited when he sees how close your cunt was to his mouth. His grey eyes already had that familiar enthusiastic gleam of theirs.
You slowly lower yourself over his face, wanting to make sure you wouldn't hurt him from the very beginning.
"All good?" , you ask.
A muffled "Mmmhmm" from underneath you acts as confirmation. Relieved, you slowly begin to move, letting his nose brush against your clit.
You grip the headboard for balance and begin to move in earnest, riding him, feeling how his aquiline nose rubbed you in the most tantalizing way.
Emboldened by the new position of power, you pick up the pace a bit, the only noise in the room being your sighs and soft moans.
CRACK.
The cracking noise is followed by a loud groan of pain from underneath you.
You slowly look down, as if to confirm that you were, in fact, not hearing things. No, it definitely came from Holmes. You quickly get off his face, pulling your drawers back on and making sure the rags were in place.
The man who had claimed five minutes ago that he'd die happily smothered by your thighs was now touching his nose, wincing in pain as the blood (his blood, this time) continued to flow onto his face. Holmes gently taps his nose, letting out another groan when he feels not only a sharp pain, but also hears a crunching noise.
"Oh, God. Is your nose alright?" , you ask, though it felt as a bit of a silly question in this particular context. His nose was obviously not alright.
The detective manages a nod, his face scrunched up in discomfort. Still, in the midst of what was certainly not at all a pleasant experience, he gives you a lopsided grin.
"Before you ask, yes, it was very much worth it, my dear girl. It should heal in a few weeks."
"You— stop smiling!! I broke your nose and left you with a very noticeable injury."
"I am sure it is not bad enough to attract too much attention. I've been hurt before on cases." , he counters.
"It's very much noticeable. What will you tell people if they ask what happened?!" , you ask him, your face still looking guilty.
Holmes shrugs, sauntering off the bed towards the mirror, to examine his nose. He was annoyingly cheerful in this moment, you could not help but notice. He was on the verge of jumping around the room in joy, and his eyes flashed with a smug pride, as if getting his nose broken when his wife sat on his face was some sort of medal he'd proudly get to show others.
"I suppose I'll tell them I... bit off, or rather, ate more than I could chew."
The only response he gets to his terrible wordplay is a pillow thrown in his direction.