The Incident of the Despondent Dick

By John H. Watson, M.D. as told to E. Z. Riter

I was at my desk on the top floor of The Watson Clinic for Women building, located adjunct to the Medical Center, when the intercom buzzed to inform me a woman was holding on line one.

"Dr. Watson," I answered.

"This is Catherine Holmes, Dr. Watson. I need your help." Her voice was low, husky, and sexy.

"Certainly, dear lady," I replied. "We've helped many women. What seems to be your problem?"

She chuckled, creating a sound normally heard during foreplay when a woman is preparing to feast on a penis she finds particularly stimulating. My cock twitched in response. "It's not that kind of problem. I'm trying to locate John H. Watson IV, descendent of John H. Watson, Sr., the friend and chronicler of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"I am that Dr. Watson," I replied.

"Thank God," she answered, visibly relieved. "I've searched high and low for you. I'm calling on behalf of Sherlock Holmes IV, great-grandchild of the fabled detective and a detective of some renown in his own right. Mr. Holmes has become terribly despondent, Doctor, and we don't know where to turn except to you."

"I'm a gynecologist, not a psychiatrist, Mrs. Holmes."

"We've tried psychiatrists, urologists, new-age doctors, and voodoo doctors. We've even tried television doctors, but to no avail. We're desperate, Dr. Watson. You must help us."

"But how?"

"How indeed, my dear Watson?" a strong male baritone said over the phone. "By examining the clues-the evidence-and reaching a logical conclusion. How else?"

"Mr. Holmes?" I asked.

"Excellent, Watson. You have deduced that since I am on the same phone line with a woman who identified herself as Catherine Holmes calling on behalf of Sherlock Holmes, then I must be Mr. Holmes. But, Watson, but...what if this woman isn't Catherine Holmes? What say you then?"

"Well, I..."

"Or assume she is. That doesn't make me Mr. Holmes. She might be a slut and I might be her lover."

"My dear sir," I said strongly. "You shouldn't refer to your wife by that pejorative."

"Thank you for coming to my defense, but the word certainly applies to me," Mrs. Holmes said. "Doctor Watson, can you help us?"

"How, Mrs. Holmes? How?" I asked, for they had taken me off guard and I was befuddled by the entire conversation.

"By coming to visit with him, and talking to him, and doing what else you think is necessary. Your visit might well find the source of the problem, either through your conclusion or by stimulating his little gray cells."

"That's the Belgian, Catherine," Holmes said with a condescending frostiness. "I have big gray cells."

"Oh, that sounds like the Sherlock I know so well," she said in a voice ripe with hope. "See, Doctor Watson. Just a few moments of your time and he's better already."

"It wasn't the resurrection, dear, and I want the resurrection," Holmes said snidely.

"Please, Doctor Watson. Please," she begged.

Suddenly, the import of Holmes' words rang in my ears. "You are impotent, aren't you, Mr. Holmes?" I asked.

"Brilliant, Watson, absolutely brilliant. You have identified the problem, you sorry bastard. Now, oh great one, what caused it and how do you correct it? Suck on that for awhile." Holmes slammed down the phone.

"Doctor Watson? Are you still there?" Mrs. Holmes asked.

"Yes, I am."

"Say you'll come. Please."

"I don't think I could be of benefit, and, even if I could, I simply don't have the time. I have over a hundred women to impregnate."

"They can wait, but I can't. Please," she begged. I must admit my days spent looking at vaginas and peering in vaginas and talking about vaginas to their possessors stimulated, not sated, my own desires to penetrate vaginas and bury my cock in their pulsating warmth, particularly when that vagina belongs to a woman with the voice of Mrs. Catherine Holmes. That voice itself was magnificent and her begging only magnified its impact. I had been stroking my cock since I first heard her and now my erection throbbed against my leg.

"Doctor Watson," she whispered. "Are you playing with yourself?"

"How did you know?" I gasped.

"I just know, Doctor. Take it out for me. Please," she pleaded, drawing out both the "please" and my nerves like a tensioned rubber band. I complied with her request as quickly as I could. "Is your cock in your hand?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"Are you stroking it?"

"Oh, by all means."

"I am a slut, Doctor, just as he said. A slut who loves to fuck and suck. I wear bright red lipstick and not one of the new formulas, but the old kind that comes off on a man's cock when I wrap my lips around it. I love to redden a man's cock with my mouth." She moaned and a shiver went up my spine. "Stop playing with yourself and just look at your cock. That's it. Now tell me all about it. I'll bet it's big and red and hard."

"Yes," I said, for I was unable to say more.

"How long?"

"Nine and five-eighths inches."

"And thick?"

"Unusually so."

"What's his name?"

"John Henry," I said without thinking. I felt a wave of embarrassment flow through me for none of my ex-wives or mistresses knew my cock's secret name.

"John Henry was a steel driving man," she sang. "Want to drive that steel into me, John Henry?"

"Yes," I gasped.

"They say I look like Kim Basinger. I've got the same thick blonde hair and those full, oh-so-kissable lips, but I think I'm better looking. I know I'm sexier and sluttier and my breasts are bigger. I'm a thirty-four double-D. Do you like big breasts?"

"Yes."

"Is your cock throbbing?"

"Indubitably so."

"Don't touch it. Just watch it. Watch it and see what I tell you. I'm naked and on all fours before you. I crawl between your legs. Your legs feel so good around me, John. They enclose and protect me and narrow my world to the big cock before me. I'm close now, with John Henry throbbing just inches away from my face. My knees are spread wide-wantonly-like the hot slut I am. I push my long blonde hair out of the way with my red-tipped fingers and lick my lips. Can you see me?"

"Yes," I replied, nearly to tears.

"Oh, I can see John Henry. See his pulsating hardness and his big, purple head. He's drooling from his one eye he wants me so badly. I want him, too. In my mouth. Slowly, oh so slowly, I lean toward him. Oh, God, my lips are caressing his crown! He tastes so good. I've got to suck him!"

Her erotic descriptions and superb sound effects that followed inflamed my mind, creating an imaginary reality as real as real reality if not more so. I could see Mrs. Holmes as she described herself, and, moreover, feel her mouth on my needy cock. My hands held fast to the arms of my chair as I watched her lips slide up and down my cock, leaving a trail of hot red lipstick. I heard Mrs. Holmes slurp and moan and whimper and gasp. She was so real, in fact, that I soon felt the tightness inside my ass indicating millions of my sperm were readying for a swim in their thick, white sea.

"Oh, Jesus. Shit," I cried as my ejaculate flew from me to spatter against the side of my desk.

Mrs. Holmes slurped and gulped, licked her lips, and chuckled bawdily. "Did John Henry like that?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied, trying to regain my breath.

"I liked it, too. I love sucking cock, but Sherlock is impotent. I need a cock. I need John Henry. If you can help him, I will be eternally grateful, and my dear, dear Watson, I am a woman who knows how to be grateful."

"How do I get there?" I asked.

* * *

I arrived at Los Angeles International that night and, upon exiting the aircraft, looked for Holmes' personal driver who he dispatched to pick me up. I saw a woman holding a sign with my name upon it. "I'm John Watson," I said when I stood opposite her.

Her expression was overtly lewd and suggestive as she slowly gave me the once over. She said, "Follow me, stud," turned on her heel, and led us down the corridor. I did follow, as did the eyes of every man in the terminal.

The driver was about five six or so, but her five-inch, stiletto-heeled, open-toed shoes brought her close to my height of six two. Her bright auburn hair was cut short and tight around her head in a style called "pixie" in my great-grandfather's age and "carefree" in these first days of the twenty-first century.

But I suspect I was the only man who noticed either her feet or her hair. The lady wore a pearly-white, skin-tight, Lycra-spandex catsuit covering her from ankles to neck, leaving only her face and hands bare, and exposing little of her pale white, almost translucent, skin. Her finger tips were painted in bright, wet-looking red, matching her lipstick and the paint on her toes.

The catsuit, more sensual than nakedness, revealed a body in the style of Angelina Jolie or Jolene Blaylock, a body with thin legs and arms, an impossibly narrow waist, large and well formed breasts, and a prominent and muscular ass.

She slowed in the corridor's congestion and I was beside her. Discreetly, her hand fell to squeeze my erection, which was straining to free itself. "Nice cock, Doc. I'm Sugar Coate. My bedroom is down the hall from yours and my number on the house intercom is twelve. Call me when you want to fuck." She took a long stride and quickened her pace, making her ass twitch delightfully as I followed her behind.

We exited the terminal into the warm, dry L.A. night and walked to a long, black Cadillac limousine resting by the curb with its motor running. Sugar Coate took my suitcase, tossed it in the trunk, and held the door open for me.

I stepped in, sat down, and a feminine hand fell over mine just as the door car shut behind me. I turned to see a magnificent blonde with hot red lipstick dressed in a floor-length mink coat wrapped tightly around her.

"Mrs. Holmes?" I asked.

"Shut up and take out your cock," she said forcefully, in a high pitched voice sounding as if she were under extreme tension.

"I beg your pardon."

She slapped me hard and my face burned from the flat of her hand. "Do as you're told," she hissed.

There are times when the manly thing to be is to appear to be unmanly, allowing one of those delightful creatures we jocularly refer to as the weaker sex to have her way. This certainly was one of those times because it didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce what the lady wanted was what John Henry wanted, and, therefore, I wanted. In a flash, I yanked down my trousers and boxers and John Henry sprang into the air, sniffing about.

"Short, but very thick. He'll do nicely," she said. She pushed me on my back, threw open the mink to reveal it was all she wore, grabbed John Henry as if she were throttling a chicken, and mounted.

"Oh, thank God," she groaned as she drove her hips down and buried John Henry is her hot, wet cunt.

I must tell you, my faithful reader, that I, as a Doctor of Medicine specializing in gynecology and proprietor of a clinic dealing with sexual problems and infertility in women, deal with female sexual organs on a daily basis and in a quantity few men can imagine. Familiarity does not breed contempt, at least not for me, for familiarity allows one to realize they are all the same and yet all uniquely different, for each is a hole that's part of a greater whole. It is that greater whole that brings the panorama of diversity and immense personal satisfaction to my profession and my avocation, which are one and the same.

As the limousine pulled away from the curb, I noted the woman riding me as if I was a thoroughbred in the Derby did indeed display a striking facial resemblance to the actress she'd named. And, as promised, her breasts were large and pendulous with puckered and hard nipples in a deep red color from their blood engorgement.

"Oh, it feels so good to have your cock in me," she moaned in a voice I recognized at once as belonging to the lady who had so deliciously seduced me over the phone that very morning.

I almost leapt to the conclusion this woman was, in fact, Mrs. Catherine Holmes, wife of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when I remembered the admonishment the man gave me over the phone. I vowed to accumulate more facts and to assume nothing. I will, however, refer to her as Mrs. Holmes for ease of identification and nothing more.

"Uh...Uh...I'm going to cum. Oh, yes, cum from a big thick cock stuck in my hot twat."

The limousine suddenly served and a cacophony of car horns blared about us. "Quit masturbating and drive, you stupid bitch. Do you want to get us all killed?" my rider screamed.

"No, Mrs. Holmes," the driver responded in a contrite and obedient tone. That response was one additional piece of evidence that I was indeed fucking Mrs. Holmes, or rather, should I say, she was fucking me.

Mrs. Holmes' approaching orgasm had been derailed by the traffic occurrence and her need was not met. She stared down at me with a look of sexual intensity radiating from her contorted face and unfocused, wet eyes. "Roll me over and pound John Henry into me," she said.

"Beg me," I answered.

"Bastard!"

"Beg, slut, or I'll pull out of you," I replied arrogantly.

Mrs. Holmes' anger flared and her hips stilled, so I lifted her upward to free John Henry. "Please no," she pleaded as she struggled to keep him in her.

"Beg like the worthless, wanton slut you are if you want me to fuck you," I said in a low and cold tone. I pulled out of her, rolled her on her back on the limousine's broad rear seat, pinned her hands by her head, and pressed my body against hers so she could not get my cock in her cunt.

I do not wish my readers to believe I am a cold and arrogant man, for I am not. Indeed, nothing gives me greater joy than bringing a woman to a mind- and cunt-blowing orgasm. But in order for a woman to obtain such a strong release, she must be motivated mentally more than physically. In other words, the mind is the primary sex organ.

While my deductive skills and analytical reasoning powers might not equal those of Sherlock Holmes, either the current one or his great-grandsire, I knew my abilities to read a woman had no equal. And I had read in this bountiful blonde beneath me that she wanted and needed to be treated like a submissive slut and made to beg for her climax.

As expected, I had analyzed Mrs. Holmes correctly. She began to beg, and with her begging, her pretense of control fell away to reveal her deeper needs, and with them, a woman of possibly unique ardor and beauty.

As with the female, the male's primary sex organ is his mind. Despite years of study of males and females, I had been unable to determine if the mind's pictures and proclivities were genetic or environmental. I reached the conclusion the source made no difference. They were there and must be fulfilled for true sexual satisfaction to be reached.

I explain this so you will understand that I, like all members of our species, have "hot buttons" as these individualities are sometimes called. And the woman I believed to be Catherine Holmes was punching every one.

I snugged John Henry between the grasping petals of her sexual portal, which elicited a long and forlorn groan from the lady. I thrust down, feeling her cunt spasm around me as John Henry stretched her membranes with his bulk.

"Sweet Jesus, I'm cummmmingggg," Mrs. Holmes shouted, and she was, for I observed all the signs.

Scientific detachment is a learned art, and, as with all art, has both positive and negative aspects. As I humped away in Mrs. Holmes and felt the onslaught of multiple orgasms within her, the animal lust part of my mind was without thought and lost in the sheer pleasure I was experiencing as I drove John Henry into her with rapid and rhythmic thrusts. But that part of my mind best trained in detached observation noted that while John Henry's girth stretched her vagina laterally as would be expected, for his circumference was 2.21 times the circumference of the average penis, I had not felt her cervix on my glans, despite John Henry's length being four inches, or 72.7%, greater than average. Or, to phrase it in the vernacular, I was beating hell out of the sides but I couldn't reach the end.

From this, I deduced Mrs. Holmes received frequent fuckings from a cock longer but less thick than mine. I further surmised Mr. Holmes, or perhaps another man, for she was a self-proclaimed slut, was hung like a horse. Not being the longest cock my partner had experienced was an unusual circumstance, but it did not bother me. I well knew width and staying power was equally or more important than length, and I possessed both of those in copious quantities.

With the animal lust part of my brain on remote control and the thinking part contemplating the scientific ramifications of our intercourse, I was oblivious to my surroundings until I noted Mrs. Holmes' screams and orgasms had stopped. I returned to the present where I observed Mrs. Holmes was unconscious, the vehicle was not moving, and Sugar Coate, the driver, was leaning into the back seat with a wild and sensual look in her eyes.

I smiled and Miss Coate squirmed into the passenger compartment to flop onto the limousine's rear facing seat. She propped one leg on the seat back exposing her spandex covered crotch to me. It was then I saw that the material between her legs was darkly stained with moisture and held in place by a series of metallic snaps.

I dismounted Mrs. Holmes, yanked open the snaps of Miss Coate's costume to discover she wore no panties, and mounted her forthwith. Once again, the uniqueness of a woman, measured by all five of my senses, was marked on my mind, which noted that while Miss Coate was a hot little number and a damn good fuck, she was not the equal of Mrs. Holmes.

* * *

I drove the limousine the remainder of the way for Mrs. Holmes was still unconscious in the passenger compartment and Miss Coate, who was curled against me in the driver's seat, would not release her hand's grip on John Henry despite his flaccidness resulting from pumping her pretty mouth full of cum.

I turned where Miss Coate indicated and stopped at a closed gate. We were at a mansion in the Malibu area overlooking Santa Monica Bay. I seized her hair to lift her face from my lap where she has been sucking John Henry to his former state of readiness. She sighed dejectedly and pushed the remote controller to open the gate, after which I drove down a narrow drive toward the garage.

I killed the engine and was trying to convince Miss Coate to release John Henry when someone yanked open my door. I turned to see who it was only to have arms go around my neck, hot lips press against mine, and to be shoved back into Miss Coate as the person leapt into me.

"Leave him alone, Candy, he's mine!" Miss Coate shouted as she squeezed John Henry painfully.

While I do enjoy being the object of feminine pursuit, a man must be manly on occasion. "Goddamnnit, get off me," I said forcefully, pushing the new perpetrator away. "And you bitch, unhand my cock."

I extricated myself from them and exited the vehicle only to have not one, but four beautiful young women dressed only in thong bikini bottoms surround me. John Henry was not in an enviable position for it was he, more than I, who was the object of their attention. I slapped away prying hands only to have them replaced by other hands.

Fortunately, someone came to my rescue. "Ladies, at attention," a man said in a crisp, military tone. The four scantily clad women and Miss Coate, with the bodice of her catsuit down to her waist and the crotch snaps still undone, jumped to form a line as sharp as any Marine Corps inspection.

I turned my attention to the man and for the first time I saw Sherlock Holmes, detective and namesake of the legendary detective.

He was a tall man, probably six-six or seven, sloppily dressed in a dirty bathrobe with an unkempt three-day-old beard. Determining his correct height was difficult, for he was stooped. Indeed, Mr. Holmes, if this was Mr. Holmes, appeared to be ill, for he was gaunt and rail-thin with pasty skin and sunken eyes. I estimate his weight at only one hundred fifty to sixty pounds, too little for a man of his height and much less that my own well conditioned two ten. His handshake was infirm and brief, a quick pump and nothing more, as he introduced himself. While his tone over the phone had been forceful, it had also been on the edge of despair. Now, only the despair was present. Clearly, he was a despondent dick.

Turning to the ladies standing with their feet together and shoulders back, a position that thrust out their lovely breasts, he commented that I had already met Sugar Coate. He seemed not to care about her disarray that clearly evidenced our frantic coupling in the car. He then introduced the others: Candy Cane, Honey Bear, Cookie Doe, and Chocolate Barr. Each of them was different with an unbridled lust seeming to be the common denominator.

Yet, in one of them I observed another, darker quality-a hidden secret peering from behind a facade of wanton earthiness. I resolved to keep a sharp eye on her.

He instructed them to revive and assist Mrs. Holmes. He dismissed them, told me to follow him, turned, and shuffled away.

He led me through his home, which was a mansion far exceeding any I'd seen. The architectural and decorating style, sometimes called Malibu modern, was a gaudy display popularized by film stars who lived in the area. All its nouveau riche vulgarity testified that the owner was a person of position and wealth, but not good taste.

We were in the den, as he called the barn-like room devoid of human warmth but with an unparalleled view of the bay, when a giant dog bounded into the room.

"Be very still, Watson," Holmes said. As Holmes called the dog to his side and ruffled the loose skin on his great head, I noted the beast appeared to be approximately three feet tall and two hundred pounds. Holmes pointed to me and said to the dog, "Friend, Henry. Friend."

The creature eyed me suspiciously, slowly walked toward me, and drove his muzzle into my crotch. I stood perfectly still and fought back the desire to pee in my pants. Henry, as Holmes had called him, walked behind me to goose, and audibly sniff, my butt. His inspection complete, he returned to be in front of me. He stood on his hind legs, making him my height, with his massive paws upon my shoulders on either side of my head, and looked me in the eye.

He could not speak, of course, but dogs, as all animals, do communicate with nonverbal signals, including facial expressions, that humans call body language. His signs said, "We both know who the big dog is, so behave yourself or I'll rip out your throat." At least, that's what I read in him.

"He likes you," Holmes said.

"How nice," I replied.

Henry barked in my face, sprinkling me with saliva and gassing me with his breath. At that moment, Mrs. Holmes, assisted by the others, slowly made her way into the room. Henry sniffed the air, plopped down, and padded toward the ladies. He went directly to Miss Barr, sniffed her thong-covered pussy, and barked twice before turning and walking toward the hall from whence he came with his tail swishing from side to side. Miss Barr followed him. Her tail swished, too.

Holmes chuckled. "Chocolate must be in her menses. Henry thinks she's a bitch in heat."

His eyes met his wife's and his smile vanished in an instant. As for Mrs. Holmes, her smile was unceasing, but she walked as if she ached as she and the others made their way toward the hall. When they left the room, Holmes sighed dejectedly. "I used to do that to her. I did it to all of them."

"How many of 'them' are there?" I asked.

"You've met them all. There used to be more, eleven who lived here not including Catherine, and others who came and went." He sighed. "The others left me. They said they needed a good, hard fucking on a regular basis, and not just from Henry." He straightened to raise himself to his full height, only to sag again under the weight of his troubles. "I can't do that for any of them now," he said.

For a moment, I feared the man would weep, but he regained his composure and lumbered away. I followed after him. He led us to a door opening off a short hallway. When he opened the door, I gasped. A wry smile crossed his face. "Wait until you see upstairs," he said.

I followed him up the stairway to a small landing with three rooms off it. He led me into an office with a roaring fire in the fireplace.

"Amazing," I said. "It looks like a movie set."

"Actually, my dear Watson, a movie set looks like my office. I went to great trouble and expense to duplicate my fabled ancestor's suite at 221B Baker Street in London. My research was expensive and thorough. When it was complete, my agents scoured London for authentic Victoriana to recreate here what he had there. When BBC decided to produce a new Sherlock Holmes series-the one staring Jeremy Brett-they asked if they might reproduce this since it is an accurate reproduction of my ancestor's offices. I, of course, agreed."

He lovingly stroked the violin that lay on a small table beside a chair. "All is authentic except this. It's a Stradivarius."

He lifted the instrument in his giant hands, tucked it under his chin, and played. The music, from Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto, was sweet and pure, but over too soon, for his melancholy overcame him again and he flopped down in his chair. I stood and waited for him to speak.

"Please forgive my rudeness, Dr. Watson. Sit and talk to me," he said. "Would you like a drink?"

"Jack Daniels neat if you have it."

He pulled the velvet cord used to call the servants. In a moment, Candy Cane appeared. She was dressed in a French maid's costume directly from Frederick's of Hollywood with a corset tight around her waist to lift and emphasize her bosom and frilly petticoats covering little more than her tush and bush. The costume was so meager that when she bent over her naked pussy flashed at me invitingly. After taking our drinks orders, she curtsied politely and left.

"Where shall I begin?" he asked.

"If I may, Holmes, I have a few questions."

"Certainly, Watson."

"The dog-Henry-he's quite big and ferocious looking. He reminds me of the hound of the Baskervilles."

"He's descended from that famous dog. Sir Henry Baskerville found a litter of puppies after the poor animal in the story was killed. Sir Henry gave one to my ancestor, who named the puppy after him. Our family had raised them ever since. This Henry is actually Henry the tenth."

I contemplated living in a home with that giant dog descended from a hell-hound of such ill-repute. Truthfully, it gave me the willies.

Holmes, apparently reading my thoughts, said, "Henry is very protective of the house and its inhabitants, but he's gentle with friends. I have only one warning, Watson. Never try to deprive him of a steak when he's hungry or a pussy when he's horny."

"I wouldn't dream of it," I replied most sincerely. I cleared my throat and continued. "I've been thinking about our ancestors, and, frankly, how you came to exist. In those chronicles my ancestor wrote about yours, there is no tale of a love interest. Indeed, that Holmes seemed to be immune to feminine wiles, but here you are, so there must have been a woman in his life."

He smiled and I saw a devilish twinkle in his eyes. "During that era, they did the dirty deed probably more than we do, but they didn't talk about it. I can assure you both our ancestors had an active sex life."

"How do you know?"

"Your ancestor wrote about the two of them for publication. Mine kept diaries."

"The hell you say."

"I do say and hell be damned. Do you remember a tale entitled 'A Scandal in Bohemia'?"

"Of course. Irene Adler foiled Mr. Holmes, earning his grudging but undying admiration. She escaped justice by running off to marry a lawyer named Norton."

"That was the story as published, Watson, but it wasn't that way. My fabled ancestor was very much a ladies' man but singularly intent on never marrying. Irene Adler seduced him, got pregnant, and squeezed him into marriage. She's my great-grandmother. And, from his diaries, I presume she is the one woman who could manage Sherlock Holmes."

In the short moments he discussed his ancestor, his eyes brightened and his gloom temporarily lifted. I saw in him the deep interest in humanity and its foibles expected of Sherlock Holmes.

"That didn't stop him from screwing every woman who caught his eye, any more than your great-grandfather's marriage slowed his dallying. His wife never tried to restrain his fun."

Miss Cane reappeared with our drinks. Her expression was sympathetic when she handed Holmes his glass, but, with me, blatant sexual interest flared. He waited until she left before rejoining our discussion.

"Oh, yes, his diaries are filled with their sexual exploits, Watson. They were a couple of swinging studs in jolly old England." He took a short sip of his drink and chuckled. Instantly, his demeanor darkened. He studied the remainder of the amber fluid as he swirled it in the glass. He sighed again, a deep and mournful expression of his despair. "And now I, the current Sherlock Holmes, can't get it up."

I used that comment as a lever to open our discussion of his problem, beginning by querying him about the physical possibilities. He had been to many doctors and endured every medical test and procedure known to mankind. He provided me with reams of paper documenting those tests and their results, but I didn't read them at that time. His own concise summations were enough for the moment. I guided our conversations in another direction.

"Money woes are often the cause of impotence, Holmes. If I may ask, how are things in that area?"

"Money? No problem and, with a mind like mine, it never will be a problem as long as idiots make financial decisions."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"A person with an analytical mind can make millions in business, Watson. Are you familiar with the Enron debacle?"

"Isn't everyone?" I replied.

"It was evident, as any logical thinker such as I could immediately see, that one group of crooked idiots was dealing with another group of crooked idiots. Have you surmised to which groups I refer?"

"The California legislature and Enron management."

"Exactly, Watson. Such situations are ripe for financial profit by those who bring a logical and orderly mind to the problem. I bought Enron on the way up and shorted it heavily on the way down. I made half a billion on it."

"Billion?" I parroted, for I was amazed.

"Yes, Watson. Billion." His eyes were pinpoints of intensity. "Enron wasn't the only company run by crooks. I was heavily short in Adelphia and WorldCom and many others I could name. I am a billionaire and as long as crooks and idiots play in the public arena, my wealth will grow."

His intensity passed and the melancholy captured him again. I said nothing and observed him sitting as a lump in his chair. Clearly, he was a man of rare mental abilities. His own knowledge of medicine and his condition, and his success in the marketplace, vouched for that.

"That sounds more profitable than hunting down criminals," I said.

"They are criminals, although it is hard to know which group is more culpable."

"I was thinking of murderers like those nabbed by the first Sherlock."

"Oh. Them." His sigh rattled the windows. "That's another problem, Watson. Our ancestors had much more fun catching murderers than I do, although it was fun when I first began. They would sniff out clues, holler 'Ah Ha. The game's a foot,' and charge off in search of more clues. Then they could sit by the fire, smoking and drinking and having their cocks sucked, as they applied their cognitive powers and intuition to an issue and solve what otherwise was unsolvable. That's an amazing high, much better than cocaine, I assure you."

"Have you tried the white death?" I asked.

"Of course. My ancestor used it regularly, so I thought 'what the hell.' I haven't used it since college, though, because I like to have all my senses about me." He sighed again. "Maybe I should try it again, because catching murderers today is no fun. No fun at all. It's all DNA and CSI and other drudgery. That's why I have abandoned my detective career except for a rare case needing my assistance." He sloshed his drink in his glass. "Damn, what I wouldn't give for an old-fashioned murder with a delectable damsel in distress."

He tossed down the last of his drink and pulled the cord to ring for a servant. Miss Cane quickly appeared. He ordered a fresh round of drinks and she hurried away.

"Holmes, I don't want to appear to pry, but you have asked for my assistance."

"What else, Watson?" he said. "Ask anything. I do want your help."

"Have you considered the possibility that you might be...gay?"

His head jerked to face me. "Why do you ask?"

"Your comment over the phone. 'Suck on that for awhile' I believe you said."

Miss Cane reappeared with our drinks and accompanying her was Cookie Doe costumed as a porno-film nurse in a revealing and short frock with a cute nurse's cap on her head. Miss Doe positioned herself facing Holmes with her back toward me. With knees locked, she bent from the waist toward him.

I immediately observed that her costume, like Miss Cane's, left her pussy bare. That pussy, a scant six inches from my face, was bloated and glistening with juice, and her clitoris was rigid and extended. Her natural perfume wafted from her. From those clues, I concluded someone had recently been caressing her cunt, although I could not ascertain whether she had masturbated or been assisted by another. I further concluded, and I believe rightfully so, that Miss Doe had deliberately stuck her pussy in my face to incite me to either lick it or fuck it. John Henry presumed the latter and was demanding I act on that conclusion, but I did not.

"It's time for your medicine, Mr. Holmes," she said sultrily.

"Not tonight, Cookie," he said. "Doctor Watson and I are engaged in heavy conversation."

"Well, if you say so," she answered in a true nurse's condescending tone any former patient would immediately recognize. As she turned to leave, her hot eyes burned into me.

Holmes had a half-grin as he said, "Ready to get laid, Watson?"

"You mean Miss Doe?"

"I mean all of them. They're all excited you're here because they're accustomed to hard, regular fucking and I can't give them that anymore."

"Do you allow that? Your ladies having other men, I mean."

"They never wanted it until I...Shit!" He jumped from his chair to pace the room like a grounded stork, and with his face clouded in dark thoughts. He picked up the violin and played. What he played was the surprise for it was country and western, a mournful piece of unrequited love. As he communed with his fiddle with his eyes closed, the tension slowly melted from his face and a sad, sweet smile appeared. When he was finished, he was calmed. He sat down the violin and returned to his chair.

"Do you know that piece, Watson?"

"Of course, Holmes. Bob Wills' Faded Love."

"Ah, yes." He leaned back with his eyes closed as he hummed the tune and accompanied himself with the rhythmic patting of his foot on the floor. Again, I waited until he said, "You asked if I was gay. The answer is no. I am certain of that for I dressed myself as a boy-toy and went to San Francisco to frequent the gay joints. Never once did my cock respond although the best of that community tried to arouse me."

"I'm a bit surprised you took such a tack," I said.

"Why? With your eyes closed, you don't know who's sucking you and you don't care." He was staring at me. "And, Watson, my cock was appealing to them. Let me show you."

Without waiting for my response, he opened his bathrobe to reveal his sexual organ.

"Great God in Heaven," escaped me, for I was looking at the largest male organ I'd ever seen.

He hefted it in one hand as if testing the weight of a salami. "Magnificent, isn't it?" he said wistfully. "Too bad it doesn't work."

Clearly, Sherlock Holmes was not only endowed mentally, but physically as well, for his mammoth prick and balls would make any donkey proud.

"I'm reminded of another Holmes," I said. "One named John of pornographic movie fame."

He laughed. "I called him Cousin Shorty."

"Was he your cousin?"

"No, but we knew each other, and since we shared the same surname and similar apparatus, the sobriquet seemed appropriate." He chuckled evilly. "Actually, he hated being called Shorty, but it was true. We measured them one time and I'm a full inch longer."

"That would make you fifteen and a third inches."

"No, Watson. He was actually an eighth of an inch under thirteen inches and I am a thirteen and fifteen-sixteenths of an inch. The later publication of his measurement as fourteen plus was an ego-driven lie in response to the contest he lost to me."

While he spoke of his cock with great pride and was massaging it with his long and bony thumb, his cock itself did not move, not even a twitch. Certainly, it was dead. Holmes' comment of seeking a resurrection returned to mind.

He stood, closed his robe around him, tied its belt, and sat, to be lost in his misery again. I sipped my Jack Daniels and contemplated his vexing but not unique problem. For a man of his young age, which I estimated to be near my own age of forty-one, to lose penile function and the resulting pleasure of intercourse must be a terrible blow, particularly for one accustomed to the variety he had enjoyed.

I somehow felt kinship with this man, whether because of our great-grandfathers' closeness or our mutual love of pussy, I didn't know. Certainly, he had both my sympathy and my empathy. And he desperately needed my help.

The door opened with a creak and in crept Catherine. Man does not need training in the powers of observation when a woman like Catherine enters the room. Nature itself focuses our attention on her, particularly when she is dressed, as Catherine was, in a diaphanous white gown with nothing underneath. John Henry, always the gentlemen, stood when he saw her.

"Hi, John Henry," she said sexily to me. I winked. She gently shook her husband, who raised his head to look at her. "You need your medicine," she said lovingly. "And Cookie told me you refused it."

"I'm fine, Katie," he said, but she would not be put off. Grumbling, he swallowed the pills she gave him, chasing them with the remainder of his Tennessee sour mash whiskey. Holmes turned to me and said, "I'll be asleep in ten minutes so I must go to bed. We can talk again in the morning. Why don't you let Catherine show you to your room?"

I graciously accepted his offer for I was tired and the drinks I'd consumed added to my weariness. She helped him into the small bedroom adjoining his Victorian office before leading me downstairs where the decor was in the present.

"I'd take you to my bed, but my pussy's too sore," she said. "That was the best fucking I've had in a long time."

"My pleasure," I replied.

She emitted that sexy chuckle again. "Mine, too, but don't worry. You won't have to sleep alone. The girls have been negotiating to see who gets you, and Candy and Cookie will be joining you tonight." We stopped at a bedroom door and she kissed me lightly, but sensually, on the lips. "Sweet dreams, John Henry," she said before continuing down the hall to her room.

I opened the door to find myself in a large and ornate bedroom with a king-sized bed in its center. On that bed, Candy Cane and Cookie Doe were naked and dozing in each other's arms. I quietly went into the bathroom where I undressed and brushed my teeth before using the water closet. I was starting a good piss when I felt warm breasts brush my arm and a hand cover mine.

"Let me hold it for you," Cookie said sweetly. I had previously noted her similarities to Lucy Liu, and her supermodel's body with high and hard breasts, a long waist, and hips less pronounced than many women.

I deduced mine was not the first cock she held while its owner passed water for she directed the stream unerringly and gave it three perfunctory shakes when I was through. She didn't let go however. Pulling me by my cock, she guided me beside the large Jacuzzi tub where she lay back on the thick, white rug.

Observing her needy wantonness and the way her erect nipples seemed to throb in a heart's tempo, I concluded her nipples were very sensitive and I theorized that she may well be a woman who could orgasm from breast stimulation alone.

I resolved to test my theory by lying upon her with my mouth at her breasts. Despite her pleading with me to fill her needy twat with my dick and her erratic contortions, I held down her arms and focused my attention on her small but perfectly formed tits until she indeed did climax with no vaginal stimulus. One theory leads to another. I turned my attention, and my mouth, to her cunt, finding it drenched with moisture and possessing a sweet taste with a hint of ginger. My experimentation proved, to no one's surprise, she loved to have her pussy eaten, and from oral stimulation alone she could obtain multiple orgasms leading to unconsciousness.

I covered her with two of the large terrycloth towels and left her on the rug to sleep. While bringing women to orgasm is my life's work and I am adept at it, I was astonished each of the three women easily reached multiple orgasms, and in two of the three the orgasms continued until she lost consciousness.

I knew such results were statistically uncommon and I was determined to discover if Holmes' other women reached such conclusions, beginning with the stunning blonde awaiting me in bed. Besides the scientific aspect, John Henry was screaming with need.

I returned to the bedroom to find Candy Cane, who reminded me of Marilyn Monroe, masturbating using two vibrators. In her left hand was a vibrator with a small rubber cup atop it. That one was pressed against her clitoris. When she saw me, she withdrew the other vibrator from the confines of her pussy upon which I observed a replica of Holmes himself.

"I was warming up for you," she whispered. She sounded like Marilyn, too.

"You're warm enough," I said. I attacked her without preamble, for none was necessary. As I leapt upon her, she brought her knees up and out in welcome. I buried John Henry within her pussy with one strong stroke.

She drove her heels into the mattress and orgasmed as her scream resounded in my ears. While she was pleasing, the overall results were less so, for she quickly began a long series of orgasms that ended when she fainted, which was before John Henry had shot his load.

Fortunately, Miss Doe appeared from the bathroom. "I wanted to be fucked, not eaten," she said accusingly.

I directed her to her knees on the bed and had her as I suspect Henry had Miss Barr. Miss Doe was quite pleased with the results and so were John Henry and I. However, I successfully resisted the urge to bark when I came.

* * *

The following five days were exhausting but productive. Each day started the same way-with one or the other of Holmes' ladies awakening me with a blowjob. Breakfast followed. Then Holmes and I adjourned to his unique office to discuss his condition. Lunch was promptly at high noon.

At one each day, I interviewed one of the ladies. The purpose of that interview, as I saw it, was to gather evidence. As the ladies saw it, the purpose was to get her hotbox reamed. By deferring their objective until mine was complete, I did discover some interesting facts, and the delay stimulated their desires, as if any stimuli were needed.

Each night promptly at six, the group had dinner. Afterwards, we all adjourned to the beach to sip champagne and watch the sun set over the Pacific before retiring for the evening. One of the ladies joined me each night. While Catherine Holmes was, in my own humble opinion, the best piece of ass of them all-and the best piece I ever had-it was Honey Bear who was most perplexing.

Miss Bear was the woman in whom I detected a darkness behind her lusty facade. When she first came to me, which was in the afternoon, I noted that her desire to fuck was restrained, in part at least, by other and hidden desires. She was definitely made for fucking, for she was a bigger breasted version of Elizabeth Hurley. And she did want a hard cock for she, too, achieved multiple orgasms leading to unconsciousness. But she was hiding something and I could not, for the life of me, uncover her secret.

On the sixth day, I departed Holmes' garish abode for the UCLA Medical School where I spent the morning and early afternoon in their laboratory performing tests, and the late afternoon contemplating my results and ogling scantily clad coeds.

One such young woman, a stereotypical California girl, caught my eye. Upon learning she shared a large apartment with three other girls and that they had additional space, I arranged to rent the extra space from them for a period of two weeks.

"You're not buying sex, buster," she said stridently, but the twinkle in her eye broadened to a lascivious grin. "You might get laid, but you won't have to pay for it."

I gave my strongest assurances that my associate and I would not approach her or her roommates for sex. That assurance and a payment equal to their total rent for three months garnered us a hideaway for two weeks.

That evening after dinner, I asked to speak to Holmes alone, whereupon we adjourned to his office. "I have discovered your problem, Holmes," I said assuredly.

"What did you say?" he said, sitting upright.

"There is nothing wrong with you," I said. "You are the victim of a foul and dark deed, my dear Holmes, for I tell you without fear of correction that you are being fed copious amounts of a chemical by the perpetrator of this scandal."

Holmes was at full alert. For the first time since we met, I saw the bright and brilliant eyes signifying the intense concentration for which his ancestor was noted. He jumped to his feet and towered over me.

"Go on," he demanded.

"That chemical causes male penile dysfunction."

"What chemical?"

"Why, Holmes, saltpeter, of course."

He collapsed in his chair. "Good God," he said. "No wonder the food has been tasting funny."

I sat smugly waiting for him to think about my revelation. When he again turned toward me, I said, "We need to get away to allow your body to recover. I have made plans but I don't want to reveal them here in case your office is bugged."

"That's a problem that didn't concern our ancestors," he said wryly.

"You'll need to trust me."

He grinned broadly and said, "I do trust you, Watson, my dear friend. Lead on."

Within the hour, a cab arrived at his mansion. Holmes and I, packed and ready to go, entered it and were whisked away. We left six crying women and a barking dog.

Upon arriving at the building housing our hideaway, we exited the cab, took the elevator to the top floor, and knocked on Apartment B.

Jessica, the coed with whom I negotiated, answered the door. She quickly introduced us to Brittany, Tiffany, and Barclay, her three roommates. Both Brittany and Tiffany were carbon copies of Jessica, which is to say C-cup breasts, magnificent asses, and long, long legs, all nicely tanned to a dark honey hue, and topped by blonde hair. Their demeanors were also the same-new-age sluts who would fuck long and often, but only who they wanted when they wanted, and the world be dammed. They welcomed us warmly.

Barclay was different. She had short cropped black hair and a structure indicating many hours of weight sculpting to produce the ultimate hard body, with her big hooters the only visible fat. She did not welcome us warmly. In fact, she scowled and said, "I'm against this and if we didn't need the money, I'd stop you from moving in."

"Why?" I asked innocently.

"We don't need a man around here." She drummed on my chest with her index finger. "You promised not to make any moves on us and you damn sure better keep your word."

"I assure you, we will not suggest sex with any of you," Holmes said in a soothing tone containing only a hint of condescension.

"What's the matter? You queer?" she snapped.

"No. Are you?" She jerked back, flushing crimson, before she set her jaw. I feared she might strike Holmes. He smiled at her and gently said, "We won't poach your harem, Barclay."

The other coeds burst into protest, insisting they were neither gay nor Barclay's private collection, but the "lady doth protest too much." Holmes' conclusion was patently correct-we had stumbled into a little love nest with Barclay as the matriarch.

After being informed we were to cook our own meals, maintain our own room, clean the bathroom after every use, and, most importantly, not leave the toilet seat up under any circumstances, Jessica showed us to our room. It was pitifully small but the two single beds were adequate for our height.

"And one more thing," Barclay said as she stood at our door, "We like to go naked in the house. No comments and no pictures. Got that?"

"Yes, ma'am," I replied.

"May we go naked?" Holmes asked.

Barclay snorted. "If you're not embarrassed by your tiny ding-a-lings," she answered maliciously.

After they departed, Holmes and I agreed we would be fully dressed around them until we felt it to be to our advantage to do otherwise. I, of course, was thinking of the potential embarrassment to him from his condition.

My plan for Holmes' recovery was simple-lots of good food and exercise. Both were essential. Poor Holmes had been living off a California diet of sprouts, broccoli, and tofu, and was near malnutrition. I insisted he consume nothing but hamburgers and fries, Mexican food, and steak, all washed down with beer. The beer was necessary to flush the saltpeter from his system.

At the beginning, all we did was sleep, exercise, eat, and pee. The change in Holmes was miraculous. He gained twenty pounds and his emotions brightened significantly. As a medical professional, I believed him cured of his despondency.

On the seventh night there, we were each lying on our beds, for we did little fraternizing with our roommates. They were in the main room watching television and talking, which they did nude. They did everything nude, including sexually harassing both Holmes and I, which was a game to them. Our lack of response to their aggressive toying left them the impression we were gay and left me with an ache that wouldn't go away.

"You haven't asked who gave you the saltpeter, Holmes," I said.

"Why ask? I know. It's funny, Watson, but my mind was fogged by my problem. Now that my mind is clear again, the culprit is obvious."

"Honey Bear," I said, referring to the one with the hidden secret whom I believed to be guilty.

"We'll see," he replied. "Watson, look at this."

I turned toward him. He was on his back with his arms folded under his head. His cock, hard as a rock, rose from his flat belly like the Washington Monument rises on the Mall.

"Good God," I whispered. "It's magnificent."

"Yes, isn't it," he said softly. There were tears in his eyes.

I must admit to you, faithful reader, that I had a strong urge to caress that cock, for it was magnetic. I could easily understand its mystical impact on the fairer sex.

"Welcome back, old friend," Holmes said to it as he stroked it not to produce ejaculation but as if it was a work of art. "Watson," he said without looking at me. "I have a favor to ask."

"Anything, Holmes."

"Of our four roommates, it is the dark darling Barclay that I desire. I have a plan to capture her. I know you've been without a good fucking for a week, but I ask you to defer a little longer."

"Certainly, Holmes."

"Put on your shorts and join the ladies. I will be out shortly."

I did at he asked. When I entered the main room, Barclay chided me for being dressed and commented that my petite penis size must be the reason. I didn't respond to her barb. Jessica, however, caught a quick glimpse up my shorts leg as I stepped over her and her eyes were wide with wonder. While the others continued what they were doing, Jessica sat at my feet and struck up a conversation as I sat on the corner of the couch and waited for Holmes' entrance.

We had spent hours each day running and lifting weights. Although Holmes had gained twenty pounds, it was all muscle and he was buff as any male model, with prominent pectorals and six-pack abs. He strutted into the main room and stood straight and tall with his fourteen-inch prick protruding in front of him like the battering ram on a Civil War ironclad.

"Good evening, ladies," he boomed. "May I join you?"

Jessica's hand shot up my leg and under my shorts to grasp my erection. She must have been pleased with what she found because she stroked it and leered up at me.

The other three ladies were stunned, using that word with the meaning as given under item 2a of my dictionary, which is: to shock or paralyze with a strong emotional impression. Brittany slowly fainted, falling backward and her head hitting the carpet with a thud. Tiffany began to shake and tears silently ran down her face. Barclay was rigid.

Holmes seemed to ignore the impact he had on them. He marched to the center of the floor, sat, and reclined to lie prone with his head resting on the unconscious Brittany's tanned and firm thigh and his monster climbing toward the sky like a flagpole to demand the ladies attention. He locked eyes with Barclay.

"Fuck me. Oh, please fuck me," Tiffany groaned. She turned on all fours to crawl to him.

"No, Tiffany," Holmes said. She ceased movement toward him, but began to shake as if she had palsy. "I can't fuck you. I promised Barclay I wouldn't."

That, of course, was incorrect. Holmes and I had discussed the issue and were in agreement our commitment was not to ask to fuck them. If they asked, fucking them would not violate our oath. However, I said nothing for I presumed his misstatement was part of his plan.

Tiffany launched herself at Barclay while screaming that Holmes must be released from his promise and be allowed to fuck her or else she would die. Barclay slapped Tiffany across the face, and yanked her head back until Tiffany sat on her tanned and well padded bottom.

"Shut up and be still, Tiff," Barclay said.

Brittany awakened, turned her head to spy Holmes' erection, and passed out again. Neither Holmes nor Barclay noticed, for each was intent on the other.

"You're not a lesbian and you're not a shy virgin either, are you, Barclay?" Holmes said in a hypnotizing voice. "You know what you are." Barclay nodded her head.

"Watson," Holmes said. Barclay's eyes flicked to me for an instant before returning to him. "Barclay is afraid of nothing except herself. Deep within the secret passages of her mind, she has known that one day she might meet a man who would enslave her. She would see him and his machine and be lost, lost as hopelessly as if she was captured and spirited away to a foreign country to be a willing slave-girl in a sultan's harem. That fear underlies her sexuality. But she has a strong sex drive. Her apparent lesbianism is a way to enjoy sex without risking herself to that man and nothing more."

Barclay looked at me again and I knew Holmes spoke the truth.

"That man can do anything to her. Anything but abandon her. Have you met that man, Barclay?" Holmes said.

Barclay gave one slow nod of her head.

"Come," Holmes snapped, as if talking to a dog. That was not inappropriate. Barclay had been quite the bitch with us.

Slowly, Barclay lowered herself to the floor. She crawled on her belly like a snake until her lips were at his feet. She suckled his toes before slithering upward until her lips met his cock. She began to kiss and lick his shaft.

Brittany was awake again and watching her roommate serve Holmes' dick. Tiffany was still as a mouse watching the cat. And Jessica held my cock in one hand while her other hand played with her pussy.

Barclay positioned herself above Holmes' cannon and slowly lowered her hips. Extreme stress produces extreme results. Sweat burst from every pore on Barclay's body as she grunted and groaned, twisted and turned, forcing herself to accommodate that monster prick. As a doctor, I knew the vagina is elastic and will, given time, adjust itself to accommodate any penis, but seeing the strain and effort that accommodation required brought the issue into another dimension.

But Barclay wasn't going to be denied and she struggled for twenty minutes to accomplish her goal. The poor girl was spent when, at long last, her pussy had swallowed all of Holmes. By then, the other three had masturbated themselves to several orgasms. John Henry, although spending his energy once in Jessica's experienced and eager mouth, was again in dire need of relief. Holmes hadn't moved the entire time.

When her pubic hair met his, Barclay beamed with pride. "Please own me, Mr. Holmes," she said in a clear and happy voice.

"Elaborate," he demanded.

"I give you my abject and complete submission. Take me, keep me, enslave me. I want your collar around my neck, and I want your babies. Lots and lots of babies."

"I accept your surrender," he replied.

Barclay, who had cum many times as she impaled her burning twat on Holmes prodigious prod, orgasmed again. She jerked as if she were receiving electro-shock and clawed at her breasts and screamed as the rest of us watched in awe, for it was the longest and strongest orgasm we'd ever witnessed. When she had lost consciousness, Holmes rolled her off him to reveal his erection, undiminished and glistening with Barclay's girly-cum.

An orgy ensued, which left the four coeds satiated beyond their expectations and with stretched pussies. They were happy now, but they would be four sore little whores in the morning. Holmes and I both were in a much more relaxed frame of mind.

* * *

Two days later a hired limousine arrived to transport us back to Holmes' mansion. Jessica, Brittany, and Tiffany bid us happy farewell and promised to visit Holmes' mansion often. There was never any question they would live with Holmes, for those three sluts liked to have many dicks and limiting themselves to one, even ones like Holmes' and I possessed, was not appealing to them. Holmes, for his part, paid for their apartment for the remainder of their college careers as a gesture of appreciation.

Barclay departed with us. At her insistence, we stopped at a mall where we visited the pet shop. She selected a dog collar in black leather approximately two inches wide, a matching leash, and a silver, heart shaped owner's tag, which she had engraved "Barclay, Holmes' faithful pet." She wanted him to have her registered as a pet with the city, but Holmes demurred. Over her hard and delightful body, she wore only bright yellow, skin tight short shorts, a matching halter to barely restrain her C-cup tits, five-inch heels, and the black collar. As he led her toward our limo by her leash, they attracted quite a following. Seeing them brought The Pied Piper of Hamlin to mind, although this Pied Piper would be from Sodom and Gomorrah, or their sister city, Los Angeles.

As the limousine wound its way toward Malibu, I said, "Holmes, I believe Honey Bear is the perpetrator of the crime against you."

"No, Watson," he replied.

"If not her, then who?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary," he replied, but he refused to elucidate. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and gently stroked Barclay's head as she sucked his cock. In respect for his new found manhood and his joy in it, I did not question him further.

When he arrived at his mansion, we exited the limousine, stacked our luggage on the driveway, and walked toward the house with Barclay's leash in Holmes' hand. Holmes stopped at the refuse containers, opened one, and peered inside.

"Look, Watson. It is as I expected."

I peered in to see hundreds of discarded batteries. The ladies had kept themselves occupied while we were absent. We continued into the house and into the den, where Holmes' stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

In seconds, they all appeared, to throw themselves upon him and kiss him, dragging him to the ground in a pile of happy humans. I was surprised Catherine was the one who held back, but I was pleased by the look she gave me. It was then that Henry lumbered into the room. The poor animal, who looked exhausted, dragged himself to a warm spot in the sun to collapse.

Holmes said forcefully, "Attention, Ladies." Grumbling and whining, they all stood to form another perfect inspection line. "Kneel," Holmes commanded. Obediently, they fell to their knees to await his next command.

Holmes introduced them to Barclay by saying, "This is Barclay, my new pet."

At the word pet, Henry raised his giant head and stared at the new addition. He came to Barclay, sniffed her crotch, and barked twice. "What does he want?" Barclay stammered. Holmes only smiled. "Oh, God," she said. Henry took Barclay's leash in his mouth and led her from the room. While his predecessors may have been giant Mastiffs and Great Danes, Henry was definitely a cock hound.

Holmes stared at the six women kneeling at his feet: Sugar, Candy, Honey, Cookie, Chocolate, and Catherine. He unzipped his trousers, hauled out his flaccid prick, and let it hang like an elephant's trunk. For my part, I watched the women, for I knew that one of them was guilty and observation of their reactions would provide the final pieces of evidence to nab the culprit.

Holmes said, "I have been the victim of a crime, and I couldn't solve the puzzle. Ironic, isn't it? The great detective unaware he is a victim. Fortuitously, my dear friend, Dr. Watson, identified the problem. I was being fed saltpeter, which rendered me impotent. We went away to give my body time to flush that poison from itself. Now, I am potent again."

We all stared at his cock, which had not moved.

"I'm thinking of a number between one and a hundred," Holmes said. "What is it?" Each of the women guessed. "You won, Chocolate," Holmes said. The little Halle Berry look-alike scurried to wrap her fingers around Holmes' shaft and draw the head to her mouth. At the first touch of her tongue to his massive cockhead, his cock stiffened, rising like Phoenix from the ashes. The ladies squealed with happiness and cried tears of joy as Miss Barr slurped away blissfully.

"But Watson identified only the means of the crime, not my despoiler."

The ladies hushed. Even Miss Barr ceased her sucking to stare up at him with big, brown eyes. All was still and quiet. From down the hall, we heard Barclay scream "I'm cumming," and Henry's accompanying bark.

"Now which of you did this to me?" Holmes asked. Miss Coate began to babble and Miss Bear put her head in her hands. I knew at once I was right and she-Honey Bear-was the guilty party. "Does anyone want to confess?"

No one said a word.

"Catherine?" Holmes asked with a steely softness.

"Yes?" she replied innocently.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" Holmes said.

"My dear Holmes, are you saying your wife is the villain?" I asked.

"She isn't my wife."

"But her name is Catherine Holmes. I know. I even examined her drivers' license."

"And you jumped to a conclusion, Watson. I warned you about that if you will remember." I did remember.

"If she isn't your wife and her name is Catherine Holmes, than she must be..."

"His sister," Miss Cane squealed.

"Ooooo, how kinky. I just love it," Miss Doe said.

"Vice is nice, but incest is best," Miss Coate drawled sardonically.

"Yes, my sister," Holmes said firmly. "The first woman I ever fucked. The one who has been with me the longest. The one who wanted me all to herself."

"Yes, I did," Catherine Holmes replied. She looked at me lustfully. Holmes and I glanced at each other.

"Ah," Holmes exclaimed. "But now a different man interests her."

"Yes, he does. Do you mind?" Catherine said.

"Not at all. It saves me the trouble of punishing you," Holmes replied.

"Don't worry, Holmes," I said. "I'll enjoy punishing the lady."

"I'll enjoy it, too, John Henry," Catherine said to me in a voice dripping carnal promises.

I began her punishment immediately by stripping her and tying her over the dining table to tease her unmercifully as she begged me to fuck her. While I was thus engaged, Holmes and his ladies brought renewed pleasure to one another.

Our adventure was at an end. Holmes acquired a pet, reacquired his manhood, and his ladies reacquired him. I acquired a wonderful woman who became the fourth Mrs. John H. Watson IV. And Holmes and I began a friendship that hopefully would last the rest of our days.

And that, dear reader, is how it was.

The End.
E. Z. Riter