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."
"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?"
"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.
"Nine and five-eighths inches."
"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?"
"Is your cock throbbing?"
"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.
.... There is more of this story ...