All Lives End...

“Come prove to me that you like it, then,” your owner says and together you glide to the jumble of sheets in a corner of the room to perch on top of it. “I’d like to give you a token of my appreciation. That’s good manners, isn’t it? To thank someone when they give you a present?”

“Sherlock, I said…”

“I heard what you said perfectly well, Mycroft.” His tone is a little peevish. Your sash is unwound again and swept out of the loops. Holding one end in his right hand he starts winding it around his right wrist first, looping it loosely around the left after. When he’s done he falls back onto the bed, raising his arms above his head so your sash is close to those delectable black curls that eddy on top of it. His weight presses your back panel into the sheets. Thank God they’re a decent thread count at least, even though they’re nothing but plain cotton. But oh, how you cherish the brush of all that glorious skin which now rests on top of you.