Meeting Mr Holmes

Aletta moves in that black dress, hands already on Holmes the moment he offers his help. Says she needs it. Doesn’t sugarcoat it. Holmes says he’s happy to assist so she hooks her fingers in his fly and hauls the whole thing out like she just found her upgrade. Next heartbeat, she’s on him—spit-slick, gripping tight, going down slow, eyes locked up like she’s waiting to see how long he lasts. No tease, just wet glide and a soft gag each time she buries it. Holmes spreads her open on the nearest table, thick head nudging, she arcs up, takes every inch until her moan cracks, hips bucking down. They find the rhythm fast; desk creaks every thrust. Juice coats him, noisy slap after slap, her laughter bouncing between curses and soft pleas to go harder. He laughs back, slams in, holds her open wide while he drives until nothing’s dainty anymore—just filthy, soaking, slick slapping heat.