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.
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.
"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."
"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."