I wanted to do some quick, off-the-cuff writing today as I wait for my lovely betas' comments on my holmes_big_bang fic. First up, a fill for an already-filled prompt over at the Cabin Pressure prompts comm - Pre MJN Douglas/Carolyn: They got together briefly when Douglas was a student lazing about in a med course and Carolyn was jet-setting about with a proper airline. 30 years later, one of them remembers and the other doesn't. For some reason, it called to me. So here it is.
God, it was all so dreary. The girls at medical school were all such swots, not a spark of life or lust in their eyes. Three of them, pretty and shiny-haired and pink-lipped, had come into the canteen and staked out a corner of it, leaning towards each other over the table and whispering, their pretty mouths arousingly close together. He'd felt a pressing need to head in that direction, perhaps offer his own perspective on whatever delicious matters they were discussing, and he'd perked up when the tantalising word insertion floated to him. Ah, his expert opinion was clearly needed.
He'd run his fingers through his hair, feeling it settle into "appealingly tousled" and strolled over. His best smile had garnered no reaction at all, and the visions he'd been entertaining of a very pleasing afternoon, three little vixens and him in the middle, vanished when he heard a full sentence. "Dr. Frye said quite specifically that we had to be able to name the insertion points for every muscle and bone!" one of them insisted, causing the other two to dive into their bags to fetch their own notes to verify the statement.
Doug had rolled his eyes and walked away. What was the point of spending days and nights hunched over notebooks, when there were more practical demonstrations of the human body's pleasures and limits? So what if he was failing because he hadn't taken notes all term and hadn't managed to charm his way into borrowing proper ones from any of the little arse-kissers who lorded their perfect attendance and unfailing attention over him?
Ah, but this was more like it - a proper bar, away from bespectacled geeks and the smells of the hospital. A place where the men were no better than he was but the women were real, endlessly alluring and ready to be satisfied.
That one with her legs crossed just so, that sharp little uniform tight across her bust and bottom, the hourglass shape of her an insistent invitation for his hand. He tried it and felt her spine, already tight, tense further. She shot a glittering blue look at him from underneath her lashes and lost a bit of the stiffness. "Has your voice dropped yet?" she asked, sharp and yet indulgent; all at once he felt like a mouse being battered around by a not particularly hungry cat. Right. Time to show her he was a lion.
"I think you'll find it goes rather deep," he said, laying down velvet across her ear and cheekbone. The short, crisp cut of her hair left her nape bare, and he could see her creamy skin flush with a sudden heat. She swivelled on her barstool to face him, to hide the rising pink of her skin, and he took in her face: the perfect arches of her eyebrows, the strong straight nose, the determined jut of her chin. And the nametag she'd left on, by accident or by design, three little letters set between two wings. "Hello, Lyn."
He held himself completely still while she dropped her eyes and assessed him frankly, from his scuffed shoes to his artistically wrinkled shirt. He debated trying out a smile before she got to his face, then wondered if his hair had bypassed rakish and gone to seedy. Whatever she saw, she didn't show it on her face. One red-tipped fingernail tapped twice, insistently, on his chest; a moment of blankness, and then he realised that was where his own nametag would rest, if he'd had one. "Oh! Doug," he said, cursing himself for sounding all of fifteen again.
"My drink is a sour-cherry martini, Doug," she said without any inflection, but he knew what he was about now, and signalled the bartender to come by.
"Another sour-cherry martini for the lady, and a gin highball for me." The bartender eyed him dubiously until he saw the twenty-pound note Doug held between his first and second fingers, then scuttled off to mix the drinks.
"You're looking very pleased with yourself, Doug," Lyn said. "What would you do if I said 'fuck off'?" She sipped at the last of her drink and pushed the glass away.
"I would -" he let his eyes roam down her body, more appreciative but no less deliberate than she'd been "- wait for my drink and leave you to it."
Ah, there was a gleam in her eyes at that; he'd passed the test. "And if I said 'fuck me'?"
"I might not wait for the drink."
The sharp clicks of her heels as she navigated the narrow staircase were proof of reality; he paid no attention to what his own feet were doing, too transfixed by the sight of her bottom in that trim navy-blue skirt to care.
Her mouth tasted like cherries, sour and sophisticated, and he pushed further in with his tongue, chasing the flavour. He wanted her lipstick on every part of his body, but the imperious glint in her eyes said that first he would have to pay his dues. She didn't let him undress her, just gave him a pointed look as she reached for her own zippers and buttons. The care she took with the uniform made him pause, blink, before scrambling to step out of his trousers and pants, chest already bared and ready to be touched.
She had to be ten years older than he was, but her skin was not what betrayed her. It was taut and smooth and warmly responsive. He kissed her from collarbone to navel and she tipped her head back and sighed. He pushed her down onto powder-blue sheets and touched her thighs, firm pressure until they opened like magic, while his mouth kept trying to pull the last drop of nectar from her tongue. Her hands stayed on his shoulders the entire time, long fingernails drawing painful designs against his back. When they lifted suddenly, he grinned around her tight pink nipple, happily anticipating her touch on his prick; he shifted accommodatingly and she slithered out from under him, twisting in the most provocative ways. He closed his eyes against the sinuous lines of her, striking against the nubbly sheets, opening them only when an unfamiliar sound reached his ears.
Condom, singular - so this was still a trial run. These were still a novelty to him; he had always liked the look of a woman's skin striped with his spunk, so pulling out early was his method of choice, made easier with innumerable girls by fast-forwarding a bit and assuring them that he was a doctor. Only Lyn had seen through his confidence and known how old he was, and the look on her face promised that things would go no further unless he obliged.
The feel of the latex was unpleasant, and he fumbled with it while she lay back down, hands wandering lazily to caress her own breasts, her eyes closed in pleasure. He swore and she smiled; the moment his cock was fully sheathed in the damned thing, she was on top of him. She touched him then, guiding him into her with no fuss or hesitation, and he rocked up so sharply at the tight heat of her that he nearly unseated her.
He could barely think, had to turn his head and gasp just to catch his breath, but he dimly recognised that she wasn't like the other girls he'd taken to his bed; she had experience, and he had only one shot at this. His hands skated frantically over her skin as he thrust up into her, trying to find that pounding rhythm that was his signature move. He rolled so that she was underneath him and he set to it, watching for another smile, listening for moans catching in her throat.
Those blue eyes were like lasers, he thought, gulping when he found them locked on his face. "Like that?" he gasped, driving home forcefully. She didn't bother to answer, stretching languorously and letting her hands settle again on her breasts, as if her whole body - the bed itself - wasn't being pounded by his insistent thrusts. She closed her eyes as if his presence made no difference, and he rolled again so that she was back on top.
That got him that cat-that-got-the-cream smile and he knocked her hands away, feeling the heavy softness of her breasts with his own hands, and gentled and slowed his pace. She murmured something appreciatively and clenched silkily around him, rocking tightly against him, and he could feel the pressure in her building up, tugging him along, and yes, she knew what she was doing, and once he went off he was going to touch her until he was full and ready again and have her on her hands and knees and then on her back and then once more on top of him, where he could see the curves of her stretched out seemingly to infinity.
He came, flooding that wretched condom, and she was such a wet heat around him, throat finally unlocked as she screamed. His eyes shut, the better to savour every moment.
When he opened them, it was dark and the bed was empty. She was gone.
Douglas sipped his Italian roast and considered what word game was most likely to induce Martin to turn that amusing shade of puce that clashed so horribly with his hair. Martin and Arthur had gone on an errand - Martin most likely failing to control Arthur's exuberance - and the tiny office was therefore blessedly free of chatter. He closed his eyes and took another satisfying sip.
Noise returned with a vengeance. Arthur's voice came through first, excitedly explaining to his mother the variety of tarts the bakery had had. "There was lemon - that's for Skip - and peach and apple and cherry! And there were others too, but those were just the first four I saw!"
"Cherry for me, then," Carolyn said, expertly shepherding her son into the office, Martin trailing behind.
"Meeting time already?" Douglas sighed, and Carolyn shot him a glare. He had no doubt she had something blistering to say, but her mobile rang just then, saving them all.
"Hello? Yes, hello, Herc," she said. He could make out the low murmur of Herc's dulcet tones, though not the words, thank goodness. "I did indeed," Carolyn said, sounding awfully pleased. Herc's voice shaped a question. "All right, then. Please," Carolyn said, and in response Herc's voice got lower and growlier and Douglas would have rolled his eyes in disgust had he not been struck by a second viewing of a sight last seen thirty years ago - the pink flush rising from her nape to mantle her cheeks.
"Lyn," he whispered to himself, wholly disbelieving, then caught himself. Carolyn, still flirting with Herc, hadn't heard him, and Arthur, prattling to himself about the oddness of the word tart couldn't have heard him. He dared a glance at Martin, who was looking back at him and pondering the significance of that one little word.
As always, I'd love to hear what you think.