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The Savage Succubus	By : Provocateur Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Threesomes Plus Views: 2850 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
- 1-The Discussion of a Jungle in a Rather Holy Settin
- 1
A/N: I do not, nor shall I ever, own anything having to do with Sherlock Holmes. Well, I own some books and movies, but as for the characters themselves - no dice. This story is a work of satire. There's a little man-on-man lovin' and a little Mary-Sueness. Enjoy!

I was not a man who prayed. Men who pray are often men of great spiritual worth, and I am no such man.

It was not that I did not believe in the existence of a most powerful creator, but I was unsure as to how to approach a subject so far removed from my own experiences as a humble man of science. Can one who believes in the absolute nature of the stethoscope believe in the invisible, loving hand of a paternal entity? How does one – a man so lost within the walls of a church, yet so at home tending to a patient’s devious ailments – reconcile his doubt with his immeasurable guilt?

Oh, I was feeling guilty over a great many things. My fear of the loving Father, my uncertainty regarding his power, my reservations pertaining to his supposedly unconditional love for flawed creatures such as I. I was not only being assaulted by unease regarding my spiritual fallibility, but also by a horror embedded deep within my soul. A horror that most men only experience in their most treacherous of nightmares. A horror that you, my humble reader, must hope to never experience.
What is this horror of which I speak with such shame?

Come along, dear reader. Follow me, the formerly inoffensive and even-tempered Dr. John Watson, to a world of the most sinister nature. Walk slowly and peer intently at your surroundings. Please, fight against the demons of lust that might seep into your mind and penetrate your righteous horror. Fighting it will not only preserve your gentlemanly or ladylike purity, it will protect the sanity on which you have a deceptively fragile hold.

My tale begins in a house of the lord. A stunning, ominous structure perched sternly atop a great hill. It overlooks the city of London, its cold grey body starkly contrasted by colourful, stain-glass eyes. It judges, yet simultaneously reaches out a hand with which to provide loving strokes and stinging blows. As most are aware, a loving pat almost always negates the impact of an angry fist. We hurt, some say, because we love. I never believed such nonsense, that is – until today.

I was wounded. My blood, though invisible, was draining out of my body. My flesh, once pink with pigmentation, was now ghostly white. My wife had nearly screamed at the sight of my bare legs peaking from beneath my woollen brown dressing gown. “So pale”, said she, before demanding I spend a day in the sunlight.

God was punishing me by burying me in heaping piles of shame, and only with his good graces could I throw away the thick coating of mortification that made each and every stride a tedious, painful chore. He was striking me repeatedly, and I could only bend low before him and beg that the next blow be sharper than the one before it. I deserved it. I deserved to rot for what I had done.

I mused upon my warranted fate as I slept at night, the silken sheets pulled up to my quivering, stubble-ridden chin. Oh, what shaving did to my nerves! I thought of the wrath of the almighty as I chuckled forced chuckles whilst taking my beautiful wife to dinner. I mused while eating a delicious piece of rye toast and sipping fine wine. Oh, I did not deserve such rich accoutrements!

I walked up to the grand architecture before me and stopped to catch my breath. Holding my favourite blue handkerchief to my trembling lips, I closed my eyes and imagined the exoneration that would surely my follow my most dreaded confession.

The handle, so brass and unwelcoming, beckoned forth my cold, weary hand. The door, so large, creaked ominously as I opened it. I startled a woman who was softly sobbing in a pew – so large and wooden it was. She glared at me. I offered her the handkerchief in my back pocket. She accepted, her gratitude expressed in the thunderous emptying of her nasal passages into my kind satin offering, patterned delicately with fine fruits and lovely flowers. I was not going to ask for it back.

The Lord, I assume, smiled upon my good deed.

A sweet music played in my mind as a man who resembled a friar grumbled about having lost the regular organ player to a mighty resilient case of some Irish-born influenza. He was not dead, the friar assured me, but rather at home attempting to wrestle away the dastardly foreign disease.

I continued my walk to the confessional, the kind eyes of our saviour looking somewhere above my head as I moved.

I reached it then, the box of my salvation. A tiny wooden structure decorated by a brilliant rectangle of (a?) netting of some sort. I knelt upon the leather platform and closed the door behind me, a soft click confirming my fate. This day, I would speak of not one, but two treacherous sins.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

“What is this sin of which you speak, my portly middle-aged son?” The man’s voice was kindly, but weak from years of projecting his vocal prowess onto the masses. It cracked; its raspy tone conveying both strength and wisdom.

“I have committed the sin of lust.” I bowed my head, my shamed eyes unwilling to peer through the netting to the man about to hear the most hideous of hideous tales.

“What did you do, my son?” The kindly voiced asked. “Did you poke at the maid while she dusted the tea set? Expose your private appendage to a governess? Think unholy thoughts while watching that delightful young lass from the village mount a horse with her legs spread wide?”

I gasped and wiped my brow.

“No!” I stammered. “I did no such things! Which lass rides her horse with her thighs parted?”

“Never you mind!” The finality in the priest’s voice left me silent. “Confess your sins to me, my troubled man. I am listening.”

I began.

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My most intriguing of companions, a one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, was never far from my thoughts. My wife provided me with no end of stimulating conversation, but her sweet, feminine voice never carried with it the certain wisdom of my dearest of dear companions. I would awaken in the morning and wonder if such an opportunity would present itself that would lead me into his company. Oh, such a fascinating creature was he! A strange fellow too - brilliant, but deeply eccentric. A rarity among men.

You can imagine my blissful excitement when my morning tea was interrupted by the soft rapping of a man’s hand upon the door of my home. I knew it was a man because the pounding was so forceful and relentless, yet tender in a firm sort of way. A call so early – and so unexpected – could only signify thing, an encounter with my Baker Street companion.

Leaving my wife in her seat, her cool eyes following my jaunty frame as I skipped towards the door, I fantasized about the grave mystery soon to be resolved by the only man capable of solving it.

You can only imagine my intellectual arousal at the sight of a feeble creature at my door, his thin hand clutching at a worn walking stick. Why, such a clever man my dear friend was! So brilliant an actor was he, so astute in his craft that even the most discerning of eyes could not penetrate the expertly constructed disguises resting upon his youthful, lithe figure.

“You rascal, you!” I stepped forward and patted my friend on the shoulder, only to be taken aback by the sharpness of the bones pushing against the frayed fabric of his jacket.

“My dearest detective!” I ejaculated. “Why ever have you stopped eating?”

“Eating, sir,” the unfamiliar, raspy voice began, “is for fools and fat women.”

I was puzzled, a fact that was immediately betrayed by my stunned silence.

“You will accompany me, good sir, to a house on Baker Street.” The strange man spoke. “The address I was given was false, but I hear you know your way there well. That brown urchin on the street corner says you frequent the premises often.”

“Yes, I do.” I kept my tone steady, but I knew my face conveyed my perplexity.

“He says you go there during the afternoons and do not return until the mornings. He says that you often leave wearing the same clothes in which you arrived. He says that your face is often red and your attire askew. He says that-“

“Enough!” I ejaculated once more, far more ferociously than the first time that morning. The man’s dreadful insinuations had succeeded in reddening my complexion, and I would not allow him to make a fool of me in front of my own home.

Setting off at a brisk pace, I walked in front of the bothersome stranger that had brought me such disappointment following a moment of unrestrained glee. This man could not have been my companion; so roguish was he in his suggestiveness. Holmes, though an animal of a strange disposition, was a proper man. I had never heard him unleash but one uncouth word. His manner was dignified and his tongue as clean as that of an infant – figuratively speaking, of course.

In fact, Holmes also kept an impeccably neat appearance. Even on those dreadful days when I would be confronted by his glazed eyes and perspiration-sprinkled brow, his shirt would always be pressed and his trousers finely creased. No amount of cocaine could ever take away from the boyish brilliance of his fine complexion, nor the beauty of his flattering wardrobe. I often wished for hips so slim and legs so long. If he were a man who loved women, he would certainly have difficulty detaching them from his person. So tall and strong was he, no woman would be able to resist the urge to wrap her slender legs about his trim hips. I once had a terrible dream in which I did such a thing, but my enthusiasm – so unexpected – caught him off-guard and caused him to drop me on the wooden staircase.

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After what felt like, and what was, exactly fifteen minutes, I arrived at my former home. The queer stranger waited behind me, shifting his feet awkwardly as I took my key from my pocket (it was a possession too prized for me to relinquish) and pried upon the heavy door.

“Holmes?” I cried out.

There was no answer.

“Holmes! My dearest detective, where are you on such a lovely day? I have a visitor here-“

“Indeed you do!” The man behind me spoke, his voice taking on the tone so dear to my heart.

I turned to him, my bewildered expression coaxing an adorable grin from the formerly grim face of my travelling partner.

“I fooled you, Doctor. You were able to discern the probability that it was I standing in your doorway, but my manner was so drastically off-putting that you figured the tramp standing before you could not possibly be I.”

“There is no one quite like you, Holmes.” I chuckled then, so impressed by his phenomenal performance that I was tempted to both throw my arms about his body and slap his insolent cheek.

“Dear Watson, acting is not simply about altering one’s appearance. Anyone can do such a thing; it is not a difficult to task. The true art form exists in one’s ability to become another in both attitude and demeanour. The man you saw at your door was not I, but a perverse blackguard abhorrent to men of our stature. You saw me become another, and so convincing was I that you turned from me in disgust.”

I blushed.

“What was the purpose of your experiment, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“You may ask me anything at anytime, good men keep no secrets from other men who share their goodness.”

“Well then!” I began, “Whatever was the purpose of your-“

“Fun, Watson. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I see.” I did not, but I never questioned the eccentric genius of my former housemate, no action existed without reason.

“We have a mission ahead of us, however. I have been given an extensive account of a creature of sorts who has been terrorizing an English expeditionary team in Sri Lanka.”

“Good God!” I sputtered. “Sri Lanka!”

“Indeed, the researchers have fallen victim to silly superstition, but I have committed no such folly.”

“Dearest Holmes, what have these people been experiencing?”

“It’s dark, Watson. Very dark.”

Holmes had dealt with many events that were dark in nature, but never did he allow the blackness of the circumstances that he found himself in deter him from his mission. A driven man, he was, one propelled forward by forces beyond the reckoning of someone as simple as myself. Or as simple as yourself, my humble reader.

“How dark is it?” I asked.

Holmes look away, a slight blush seeming to spread across his roughened cheeks.

“Well doctor, how can I put this decently? Let me see…”

For a moment, the silence between us felt shockingly heavy. I was caught between feelings of suspense and dread. Would he scandalize me with this seemingly obscene tale? I am a difficult man to scandalize, as I did once find myself in a Turkish bathhouse after a long night of consuming spirits in a Persian pub. Well, they do not call them pubs in Persia, but I can think of no other apt comparison, so a pub I shall call it.

“These men,” Holmes began, “believe that a sinister but lovely spirit has been seducing them one at a time, night after night. A succubus, they call her. According to my research - and it has pained me much to seek out articles on things as frivolous and childish as mythological legends – a succubus is a female spirit who engages in sexual intercourse with men while they sleep. More than one man on this excursion has woken his tent-mates with those ridiculous sounds of pleasure that men make while engaging in exercises of hollow physical gratification. So disturbed have they been, that they have sent a missive across the ocean to none but I, in hopes that I will come to their aid and find this wretched creature who prides herself on feeding off of the virility of young Englishmen.”

I stood there, aghast.

“You are aghast, dear Watson!”

“Indeed I am!”

“I told you, the story would be most shocking.”

“I was thinking that perhaps the men were being robbed, or that their mission was somehow being sabotaged…”

“You never suspected that an imagined floating vagina would weave its way into our casebook.”

“Holmes!”

“All of the blood in your body just rushed to your face, Doctor. You look like a freshly boiled lobster.”

“You spoke a filthy word!”

“Vagina?”

“Don’t say it again.” I begged as I fought the childish urge to throw my hands over my ears and sing a merry old schoolboy song.

“Watson, you’re a married man, and a doctor…”

“That does not mean that you, my civilized male companion, should freely name such an…organ, with such flippancy.”

“Well, I certainly have no time for vaginas myself, I am not afraid to acknowledge that they exist.”

I began to fan myself with my hat.

“Our boat leaves in an hour, Watson. You should pack your things.”

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The journey to Sri Lanka was most awful. The boats we boarded, though strong enough vessels, often smelled of rotted food tainted by the unmistakable aroma of mannish perspiration. I often slept with a silken handkerchief pressed tightly against my nose, lest the stench begin to turn my stomach.

Ah, my stomach did not escape the inevitable turning. The waters were never calm, and the heavy brown waves would pound against the sides of the ships while I gave my unappetizing lunches to the deep. The further we travelled from home, the hotter the air became. I was being positively strangled by oppressive heat, poorly prepared food and foul-smelling sweat. I shall not even begin to address the manners of some of our companions; it will only make me weepy and nauseous.

At least I had my friend with me to wile away the hours of alarmingly volatile discontent. He never went so far as to massage my back as I heaved, but his reading aloud of classic scientific literature soothed my soul in more ways than a gentle hand ever could.

It was a cool day when he first approached me with more news of our mission. Unseasonably cool, if I do recall. The wind was still, the sun was hidden, and the exotic plants did not sway with the breeze as they so often did while I sacrificed my meals to the creatures living below the murky water.

“They call her The Black Cat,” he said. “Le Chat Noir.”

“Le Chat Noir?” I questioned.

“Yes, they find it more erotic to call her by a French moniker. The French, some say, are people of great passion. I think they’re fools.”

I wiped the sweat from my brow and adjusted my spectacles.

“They so fear this creature that they have attempted to make her name more sensual?” I asked, bewildered.

“Perhaps,” said Holmes. “I do not find animals, referred to in either English or French, erotic.”

“Nor do I.”

“But lonely men, they do strange things…” Holmes looked away, his eagle-like gaze resting upon a cluster of forestry a mile or so in the distance.

I glanced away as well, and both of us shared in that horribly awkward, heavy silence that rests between people discussing subjects best left out of discussions.

“Well,” I began, “do they truly want her gone?”

Holmes laughed so uproariously that I jumped away in shock.

“Watson!” He slapped me across the back so hard I nearly choked. “The creature does not even exist! Native women are providing the men with fruits tainted by hallucinogenic herbs common to the land. Once the night falls, they are – let me say this plainly – ravishing the individuals whom they have deemed attractive. A Pagan ritual, surely. The men are vaguely aware of partaking in sexual activity, but their altered states of mind have led them to believe that they are being pleasured by a surreal being. One or more men have been so affected by the drugs that they believe that they have – do not laugh Doctor – fornicated with a panther.”

My hand shot to my mouth, my eyes as wide as sausage patties. “I’m not laughing.”

I wasn’t. I was not sure if I would ever laugh again.

“Holmes, this is too queer for me, I cannot properly deal with this dilemma. I cannot approach this problem with a clear head. I cannot fathom meeting one of these ridiculous me-“

“Quiet, Doctor!” Holmes waved my protests away with one elegant, slender hand. “You will find this case to be the most colourful of all, and we shall look back on it with mischievous glee several years from now.”

“I will do no such thing!”

“Suit yourself.”

Holmes walked off, his stride more confident and powerful than I had ever remembered it. I learned something new then; I learned that my dear friend had a strange and perverse sense of humour. I felt uncomfortable, yet intrigued.

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We arrived at the campsite at dusk. A foggy night it was, the kind spoken of in frightening tales written solely for the purpose of encouraging Europeans not to travel to destinations in Asia and Africa. Mist rose off of the river, so thick and forbidding it was. I wondered, silently to myself, if it hid strange serpentine creatures from unaware human eyes. If the lingering ancestors of prehistoric creatures roamed the earth, they surely resided in this backward, barbarian land. Beasts as savage as the homosapian inhabitants, how frightfully poetic it was. If I were not a man of reason and logic, I would certainly have been frightened beyond all reason. Well, why should I lie? I was frightened, dreadfully so. This was, after all, the location of a mysterious entity that convinced men that they were making love to wild animals in their sleep.

The men seemed tired. They greeted my companion and I with weary smiles and downcast eyes. I sensed shame in their demeanours as they shyly offered us restorative edibles, which both of us enthusiastically declined. I did not blame them for their guilt, they had confided in us a most horrific secret, and surely they lived with disgust at their own perceived actions. I granted the lads reassuring smiles of sympathy, but I refrained from touching their hands.

One young man, a well-built blonde boy about eighteen years of age, casually offered us a spot in his tent. After much silent debate, we consented. Who were we to shame one for his courtesy, despite the fact that he may or may not have believed himself to have been sexually penetrating some ghost woman who may or may not be some kind of erotic feline?

As night continued to fall upon us, the lads became more and more agitated.

“She’s coming,” one said, “she’ll be here soon.”

“She ain’t coming for a while yet.” Another added

“She’s got to wait til’ we’re sleeping.”

“Well,” Holmes began, “sleep you shall, my jolly companions. My colleague and I shall wait for her, then we will find out how she has been deceiving you into believing her to be a spirit.”

There was uneasy silence, and then a cacophony of enraged voices emerged from the stillness.

“She ain’t no real woman, detective.” One said. “No real woman could do what she’s done, no one is so light and so…invisible. We can feel her when she’s on us, but we can’t see her, and we can’t touch her. We try, but it’s like stroking the air, air that is heavier and warmer than usual, but still air nonetheless. She moves like a woman and she, uh, she feels like one, but she ain’t got no bones and no skin neither.”

“Sometimes,” another young man said, “sometimes we hear her making noises. You know, the kind of noises that the ladies make when you touch them. Those noises that let you know that whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it right.”

A chorus of approval followed. I sat there, stunned and horrified. Such mouths on these young men! And so focused was my companion, so thoughtful and stoic. His eyes did not betray his certain shock; instead they appeared sharp and aware. I could almost hear the machinery behind his skull working, the gentle clicking granting me the knowledge that he was piecing this obscene mystery together.

“Sleep well, my good men.” Was all that he said.

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“It’s rather cold at night here, isn’t it?” I asked casually. The heat in Afghanistan had been oppressive, even during the late hours of the night.

“It’s a tiny bit chilly. That’s a good thing Doctor, heat makes people slothful, and we’ll be upright and aware when this woman -or perhaps women - comes to make an appearance.

“Right, right.”

He looked so relaxed, my eccentric friend. He was not bothered by weeks of intense sickness and doubt. He was not grieved by the salacious tales told to us by men who were clearly suffering from some sort of jungle fever. Or drug-induced afflictions. There were times when I thought, and this is my sordid confession, that Holmes was here for reasons beyond my understanding. Perhaps he only wanted to witness this debauched masquerade so that he may add it to the book of his existence that resided only in his mind. He wanted, maybe, to make this trip so that he may die knowing that he once experienced wildness at its most extreme. Such a cool tempered man he usually was, so stoic and so unaffected by emotion and desire. How out of character he felt to me right now.

I felt, and I hoped I was wrong, that he somehow desired to see this perverse event unfold. Did he want to study it in that same detached way that he studied all things? Or, and this made my heart beat with both fear and thinly veiled excitement, did he want to participate?

No, that was preposterous. Absolutely preposterous.

“Watson!” Holmes bellowed. “To your left, do you see her?”

“What? I…no…” I stammered, peering into the distance and seeing nothing.

“Fool! Your other left!”

Before I had a chance to reply, Holmes quickly pulled a pistol out of his jacket pocket and shot into the foggy beyond. I was hurt that he so callously referred to me as a fool.

“Goddamnit!” Holmes ejaculated with voraciousness and ferocity before firing again.

I trembled with horror. He was like an animal, screaming into the night and firing a weapon. Well, animals did not often fire weapons, but they often coloured the night air with their cries. Holmes’s eyes were wild, and I just noticed that he hadn’t shaved in at least four days. The rugged look was, dare I say it, becoming on his person.

As his last dart was ejected from the pistol, a hoarse cry emerged from the heavy fog.

“Yes, Doctor!” Holmes cried. “Oh yes, I’ve done it!”

Like one of his prized darts, he shot off into the distance like a bolt of lightning. I followed, my hand clasped tightly to my chest as I attempted to keep up with him. We ran for what seemed like, and what was, about thirty seconds.

That was when I saw her. A woman, almost as tall as I, lying facedown in the grass. Her skin, smooth and bronzed from the sun, was nearly naked save for some tribal apparel. She was muscular, yet not shockingly so. I would probably fear her had she accosted me in the street, but lying here - incapacitated before me - she seemed wonderfully benign.

“Good work, Watson. Now, we must carry this woman back to the-“

I saw Holmes briefly grasp his throat before elegantly sinking to his knees. In mere moments, nay, seconds – I did the same.

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I felt…something.

Something warm yet firm, touching my face. It moved about awkwardly, as though it had no dexterity on its own. The hand of another was manipulating it. It was thicker than a finger, much thicker. And hard. So very, very hard. But smooth!

I turned away once, but it remained on my cheek. Poking me, prodding me, making me want to both slap it away and giggle girlishly at once.

“Do you like that, Doctor?”

Whose voice was that? I felt…odd. The world around me seemed hazy, as though everything was under water. Shapes were blurrier than they had a right to be, and my body felt as though it were adrift in a sea of gentle waves. I preferred gentle ones to crashing ones at this juncture in my life.

“Do you?”

That same voice returned. It was not the voice of a man, nor was it the voice of a lady. It was…harsh, perhaps? No, not harsh. It was raspy, as though it was expressing some sort of physical distress, or intense satisfaction. It was breathy, yet soothing.

“I’m not sure…” I tried to answer, but I felt too weak.

“Doctor!”

I recognized that voice. It was his…

“Holmes?” I croaked.

“Ha!”

Did he just laugh? A sordid, maniacal laugh?

Then I saw it. Above me, plain as day, was the manly organ of my friend, gently stroking my perspiring face.

I screamed, I think. A shrill bellow of absolute terror. I moved my head this way and that, pleading for him to stop his dreadful ministrations.

“I can’t stop, Doctor,” he began, “she will not allow it.”

“No,” the woman agreed, “I will not.”

Something inside of me began to burn. No, burn is too vague an adjective. It ignited. I was deathly afraid, yet nothing else but the feel of that fine, fleshy organ poking my chin mattered. I wanted to touch it, to taste it, to take down my muddied trousers and sit on it.

It was wrong. There was wrong, and then there was this. This, this was abhorrent. It was sinful and grotesque. It was…shockingly arousing.

Without the consent of my shrilly protesting intellect, I opened my mouth wide and took the bobbing, thrusting purple head into my mouth and sucked it enthusiastically. It was hot, much like a sausage that has just emerged from a stove.

I heard Holmes gasp in delighted surprise as my tongue made deep, passionate love to his thoroughly unloved and eternally untouched penis. No, should I call it a “penis” during such an encounter? No, “penis” is just too clinical. Will “cock” do? I hear that those who like to be greeted with filthy language enjoy having their genitals referred to in crude and unspeakable terms. Perverts, the lot of them.

“Position switch!” The woman, the one I could only assume was the fabled Le Chat Noir, cried out.

Sitting up, I noticed that my clothing had vanished. It did not seem to be anywhere within reach. Had it simply evaporated?

“You,” the woman ordered whilst pointing to my well-muscled friend, “I have a present for you.”

“A present, my dear?” Holmes asked.

“Yes, something of great value and significance. Something men from my village have fought and killed for. Something that has put knives through flesh and spears through bone. Something that has caused tears, pain, blood and death. Something that brought only a select few pleasure beyond imagination. Something that changes lives and will alter the course of history. Take from it now, I beg of you.”

With those final words, our daring temptress spread apart her firm dark thighs and thrust her pelvis into Holmes’s face.

He attacked her with a lust I had never thought he could experience. Holmes was not a man of passion; he was not even a man of emotion.

His face was a mass of waves as he plunged between the legs of the animalistic woman. The world still spun around me wildly as vague poems depicting the amorous exploits of snakes and tigers came to the forefront of my mind. Everything moved so slowly, yet all of it was happening so fast.

She moaned with intense satisfaction while my favourite detective gripped her hips with unyielding force. His hands and tongue working in tandem with one another while she threw her head back and cried out in ecstasy towards the heavens.

“You!” She pointed at me, her hand shaking as she wiped sweat from her brow, “do something to him. Anything. Immediately. Now!”

His body looked so strong, yet so vulnerable. He was lying on his stomach, the legs of his lover thrown over his shoulders, her feet pressing into his back. I could see almost every part of him, save for the cock that had briefly caressed my face with gentleness.

I could not think, I could only feel. The desire to touch him and be touched by him was too strong. I wanted to know each and every inch of his body, I wanted to curl up inside of him and revel in the warmth of his flesh. I wanted to press my skin into his skin, I wanted to hold him until he could not utter a single syllable, so strong my grip would be.

I did what any man in my position - one whose mind is clouded by lust, and possibly drugs - would do.

“Take a deep breath, Holmes.” I whispered.

Slowly, I began to prod at the tiny brown puckered hole in his buttocks with my saliva-slicked finger. He trembled at first, his body jerking away from the inevitable invasion. I placed one hand on his back to hold him in place as I gently massaged the skin outside of his forbidden entrance; no doubt it was an entrance that had never been used as such before.

With a tiny squeal of lust, I plunged my thick finger into his body, revelling in the spasmodic jerking that accompanied the action.

Letting out a ragged cry, Holmes thrust his face deeper into our wild companion’s womanhood. The word that some use to describe a woman’s genitals during times of passion is too crass a word for me. I cannot say it, I’m sorry.

“Stop…. stop…stop…” Cried the woman as she pulled Sherlock’s face away from her pulsating flesh.

She got to her feet; her incredibly large yet incredibly firm breasts elegantly swaying with the movements of her body.

Lying down in front of Holmes, she pulled him on top of her with alarming strength. He looked like a rag doll, so limp and weak was he as she grasped him under his arms and dragged him up the length of her body.

“Fuck me.” She said, so vulgar yet so honest. I gasped.

“I will do just that, my fine jungle woman.” Holmes responded.

With one hard, fast, savage thrust, Holmes entered her body. They both cried out, so loud were their voices that I feared they would wake the entire country. He grasped her large breasts, his hands kneading the taut flesh like golden-brown dough. She grasped his hair and bit into his neck and shoulders, her heavy-lidded eyes seeking out mine.

I knew what she wanted, and what I wanted for all of these years.

It was difficult, at first, to position myself at his posterior. I was hard, harder than I had ever been, but I was frightened. This action would forever change my life. It would destroy my marriage and possibly a great friendship. But oh, the skin of his tight bottom looked so inviting. I wanted it, and I could not be denied any longer.

Holding his hips in place, I pushed the head of my…cock, into his awaiting…hole. It was tight, so much so that I was almost in pain.

“Oh Doctor!” Holmes cried out, his muscles clenching around me as he continued to move within the woman.

“Oh Detective!” Cried the woman.

“Oh Holmes!” Cried I.

All three of us cried out together as we experienced what the medical profession has always called “sexual release.” It’s harder for women to achieve then men, but by God, it does happen! We collapsed in a pile of hazy, sweating flesh.

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“You see Father,” I said, “It’s almost too much to bear. The guilt, the shame, the realization that I want to regret it but I cannot bring myself to.”

“Indeed.” His voice was no longer kindly, but hard.

“I would never have told a soul, but I cannot die with this secret, it’s too much.”

“It certainly is.”

“Holmes and I did not speak once on the way home, we have barely looked at one another. The woman, Le Chat Noir, she has disappeared. We fled without informing the men of our departure.”

“I can imagine.”

“I cry often, at night…”

“I will cry at night too, after hearing this tale.”

“Forgive me.”

“I will, I do.” He said. “But I need you to do something for me.”

“Oh?”

“Tell me, would you do it again?”

I paused. Would I? No, never.

“I don’t know.”

“If the man whom you care for so deeply were to appear before you right now, would you ravish him like a beast in a field?”

I blushed down to my toes and stammered incoherently. Who was this man to think he could ask such questions? I unlatched the door and stepped out, adjusting my hat angrily as I strode forward.

“Wait!” Called the priest.

I continued to walk away.

“Would you leave an old friend behind after he has asked you to wait?”

I turned.

I stared.

I clutched my chest in horror.

“Holmes?”

“Of course.”

“What are you-“

“Waiting for you, my good friend. You’re a predictable man, don’t you know. Some tea back at the house on Baker Street?”

I pondered.

“Yes,” I answered, “that would be lovely.”
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The Savage Succubus