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Sherlock Holmes and the case of The Virgin Bride	By : Belinda-LaPage Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Het Views: 3418 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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I brought my chair over to the edge of the bed and guided Victoria to lay back down. Incredibly, she chose not to pull up the sheet and left her breasts exposed for me to gaze down upon lovingly. It would have been the simplest matter to lean forwards and kiss them as I had fantasised doing; to take a nipple between my lips and feel it harden beneath my tongue while I cupped the other tenderly in my hand and teased the same response with my fingertips.
“Shut your eyes please, Lady Palmerston,” I said softly in a confident but gentle tone. “I would like you to try to relax.” She did as I asked. “Try to take slow, deep breaths; and concentrate on the sound of my voice.”
I gave her a few extra moments to concentrate on her breathing, watching the perfection of her breasts gently rise and fall.
“Do you feel relaxed?” I asked.
“Yes, Doctor,” she whispered in a soft, girlish voice that filled my heart with lust.
“I shall remove the sheet now,” I warned her. Trying to avoid the eye of her husband sitting opposite, I plucked the edge of the bed linen between my fingertips and drew it slowly down to reveal her slim form in its entirety.
The flat of her stomach, the flowing curves of her waist, her hips, her wonderful thighs; they were entrancing. The blonde curls of her womanhood glowed golden in the firelight. I wanted to comb my fingers through them and feel the soft mound of flesh beneath and search for the hidden parting that guarded the gates to the paradise within.
My blood ran so hot. I had to touch her. I placed my palm flat over her lower abdomen below her navel, causing her to flinch.
“I apologise, my Lady,” I said. “Is my hand cold?”
“No, Doctor,” she replied kindly. “But given its location, I would feel more comfortable if you called me Victoria.”
I saw that Mona Lisa smile tracing at the corner of her beautiful lips again and wondered if she had any idea the effect it had on me.
“Victoria,” I said. “I understand that you enjoy riding. Is that true?”
“Is is true, Doctor,” she smiled fully now, but with her eyes still closed. “Did my husband tell you?”
“It was Holmes,” I said. “No doubt he saw it in your gait, or a stray horse hair, or any of a dozen other invisible signs that only he can see.”
“Actually, my dear Watson,” Holmes began from his position in the corner.
“Hush, Holmes,” I commanded quietly, and to my great surprise, he did.
“What is her name, Victoria?” I asked. “You horse?”
“She is a he, Doctor,” she smiled. “A stallion; seventeen hands. He is chestnut with a white blaze and fetlocks.”
“He sounds most handsome,” I said.
“He is very handsome, Doctor,” she replied. “I call him … ,” she paused and gently bit her lower lip.
“What is he called, Victoria?” I felt her tense beneath my touch and tried to keep the conversation moving.
“It is embarrassing,” she said shyly. “I have read of your adventures with Mr Holmes for long and long and never thought I should meet you. As a colt he was so bold and brave and handsome … I called him Watson.”
This time I really could see her colour rising in the firelight; I also felt nervous gooseflesh pricking beneath my palm while her nipples firmed into beautiful peaks.
“How flattering,” I tried to play down how this admission affected me, but I couldn’t avoid shifting in my chair to allow my manhood some more space as it surged with longing for the naked goddess laid out before me.
“I’d like you to go for a ride, Victoria,” I said. “This adventure will occur in your imagination. You are approaching the stable; how are you dressed?”
“Am I to ride alone?” she asked.
“Yes, you are all alone,” I replied. “With Watson.” I tried to suppress the smile in case Palmerston was watching me.
“Then I shan’t ride side-saddle,” she said. “I don’t enjoy it. If there are to be no men about then I would be wearing jodhpurs and a riding blouse. The fit is close and comfortable but somewhat immodest, so they are not suitable for mixed company. But if I am to be alone with Watson … ,” she left the sentence unfinished; however with the thought of her dressed out as described, I imagined several satisfactory endings that continued to tease the sensitive nerves in my loins.
“Do you have a Western saddle?”
“Shall I be roping some steers today, Doctor?” she joked, making reference to the horn on the front of such a saddle.
“Perhaps,” I replied enigmatically, although I had different plans for the Western roping horn on this occasion. “Can you saddle up your horse now, please Victoria.”
I gave her a few moments to imagine those familiar motions.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
“I’m ready,” she whispered. I felt her stomach muscles fluttering nervously beneath my palm and I believe she intuited what I had planned next.
“Then mount up and we shall get going,” I advised.
She had been lying with her thighs together; the rosebud of her sex hidden between her closed legs. But at my command she slowly opened them and drew her thighs up at an angle to her hips, keeping them flat on the bed as she had done for Palmerston.
My breath caught at the sight of the wonderful crease that split the centre of her sex; thinly veiled behind a few blonde wisps that covered the rounded perfection of her lips. I had planned my next move and now I was powerless to stop myself from completing it. Fulfilling my dream of a minute earlier, I slid my hand slowly over her mound, combing her silken curls through my fingers, delighting in the sensation as the sensitive tip of my middle finger traced the secret valley of her slit; down, down, until I cupped my fingers and held her young sex literally in the palm of my hand.
Victoria gasped softly and lifted to my touch, arching her back and tilting her chin to the ceiling.
“Shhhh, Watson,” she soothed, still playing the horse-riding daydream as she closed a hand over the top of mine and slowly pumped her sex into my hand a few times in an erotic parody of soothing a rearing horse. “It’s alright, my darling. It’s only me. We are going for a grand ride.”
“Start your mount at a walk, Victoria,” I instructed her. “We need to warm his muscles.”
“Gee-up, Watson,” she said in a soft voice, drawing her heels up the bed and squeezing my hand gently between her thighs to urge her mount to a walk. Without any encouragement from me, she began slowly pumping her hips in time to her stallion’s gait. Easing my grip, I held my fingers lightly over her sex, allowing the tips to graze over her sensitive lips and glide over the heavenly softness of her crease.
With this extra measure of control, Victoria tilted her hips so that my middle finger was low and beyond her entrance, touching the soft pink fold of flesh that lies between that place and her anus. Following her cue, I pressed gently with my fingertip, rolling and circling and massaging, causing her to gasp in delight; her tiny, delightful breasts heaving and peaking and all but begging me to take my tongue to them, to include them in the fantasy.
The erotic response of her body to my touch was more than I had dreamed; to have this innocent virgin girl naked and gently thrusting her hips into my hand in an instinctive parody of the sex act she had never yet performed to completion. As I massaged her perineum and brushed her virgin sex beneath my fingers, I delighted to feel the hot, slick juices of her burgeoning lust flowing from her opening and coating my fingertip. I began to glide it in short, sensuous circles; slowly expanding its range until I began to tease apart her lips, dipping closer with every circuit towards the increasingly moist entrance to her womanly core.
When I touched that place, I felt it open beneath my finger, beckoning, drawing me inside. I was powerless to resist. Victoria cried out softly as her furnace heat enveloped my probing digit up to the first knuckle and somehow I managed to withdraw, prolonging the moment of insertion and drawing out her anticipation as I toyed around the edges of her womanhood and spread the slick nectar of her sex along the length of her slit, tantalising her as it cooled on her skin.
“Do you know how to post the trot, my dear?” I asked, conscious now of the spreading wetness in my drawers where my straining shaft was crying out to replace the role of my fingers in Victoria’s steaming core.
“Of course I can post the trot, Doctor,” Victoria gasped as she continued to ‘walk’ her stallion with the gentle pumping motion of her hips. “As can every child in their first week of riding.”
Posting, or ‘rising’ the trot is a technique used by riders to counter the jouncing action of the trotting horse. It requires the rider to brace in their stirrups and thrust from the hips, moving back and forth in the saddle while keeping their head stationary. Apart from the presence of clothing and a horse, the action is almost indistinguishable from a vigorous, erotic fucking.
“Then see if your mount is ready for some exercise,” I said quietly. I leaned closer to her ear and whispered: “You may wish to imagine that Western saddle, now.”
As Victoria re-arranged her feet for leverage, I moved my finger into place inside her opening and poised my thumb over her clitoris like a Western saddle horn, where she should graze it at the top of each thrust.
Victoria gave my hand another quick squeeze with her thighs and clucked her tongue twice. “Come, Watson,” she urged, her eyes still shut. “Let’s ride, my beautiful boy!”
Whether she was toying with my emotions or simply living the riding fantasy I knew not; nor did I have the opportunity to give it further thought because at that moment the diminutive young goddess beneath me lifted, and with a low cry of sexual release she impaled herself on my finger. The heat inside her was incredible and the supple, rippling walls of her vagina sucked and clung to my finger; never before had her virgin sex been made such an offering and now at last, though it was only my finger, it was loath to relinquish its prize.
Victoria dropped back down, bouncing her tiny bottom off the soft bed and thrust back up and onto my finger with a quieter gasp as she established the trotting rhythm, the muscles across her tight, flat stomach bunching and the tiny mass of her young breasts lifted and bounced with each movement.
She had missed the saddle-horn of my thumb with the first few pumps and when I repositioned it to touch down on her clitoris at the top of her stroke, she cried out in a surprised alto voice – “Oh!” – and then redoubled her efforts, pumping greedily up into my hand. Unleashing mounting vocal cries and driving me deeper and deeper into her core, Victoria experimented with the new discovery of her clitoris, first brushing it against my thumb, then firmly touching, and within the space of a dozen strokes she was grinding into me and finishing the top of each thrust with an erotic twist of her hips that sent a quiver through her breasts and caused her silken sheath to spasm and lock down on my finger.
“Oh! Oh! Come on Watson, my lovely!” she cried, her voice rising with the approach of her climax. “Yes, my darling. Go! Run like the wind, my beautiful!”
Grasping desperately at my hand with both of hers, she held me deep inside her as she kicked up to a gallop, pumping and grinding her clitoris in a frenzy as she cried out for Watson to run, run; gallop like the Devil himself were on his heels. After a few more moments she was unable to cry out any more; I heard only three sharp intakes of breath as her fingers dug painfully into my hand and her bottom lifted high off the bed, and then suddenly she was carried away by her orgasm. Her thighs locked together, trapping my hand, and she twisted from side to side, writhing on the bed; rolling onto her side, she curled up her knees and thrust out her breasts and shook as if with a fever as she released a guttural, feline growl.
Locked inside her furnace embrace with the muscles of her vagina clamped hard and squeezing my finger, I took the opportunity with a sharp thrust of my hand to part her hymen at a moment that she should care least for its loss. I believe she did not even feel it.
“Whoa, Watson. Whoa back, my love,” she cooed softly in the afterglow of her climax. Slowly she released her thighs to the point that I could remove my hand from her sex, but before I did, I surreptitiously plucked the clean handkerchief from my top pocket and pressed it to her opening, wiping the blood from my finger in the same movement, and then with my hands I silently bid her to take it and stem the flow of her fleeing virginity.
~~~
“Well?” asked Palmerston obtusely. “Did it work?” I was beginning to wonder whether the man had even fucked a prostitute; if not, he should be the only Lord in the country to have never dipped his wick.
“Yes Watson,” piped Holmes. “What say you? It would seem that you pained the lass a great deal more than did his Lordship.”
Oh, my dear Holmes. I pray that the safety of the realm never depends on Holmes’s competency over the female orgasm.
“I am hopeful,” I said, biting my tongue, “that the lady will pronounce the experiment a qualified success.” I rearranged the bed-sheet to cover her nakedness and the crimson stains now showing on my handkerchief.
“A success?” Victoria breathed, fluttering her eyes open and focusing first on her husband and then rolling onto her back and looking long at me with moist, parted lips. “Oh, my word, Dr Watson. It was a great success. I feel myself to be cured. Am I?”
“Not yet, my Lady,” I smiled. “What I have shown you is a simple exercise that you can perform with your husband prior to … ,” and I paused, once again searching for the right word to use before the husband of the young woman whose maidenhead you have just taken.
“Prior to making an heir, Doctor?” Victoria smiled coquettishly up at me.
“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” I smiled back. “I would encourage you to practice the same exercise on your own, as well. But the act of making an heir, or perhaps we are well enough acquainted now to say ‘lovemaking’, may require considerably more patience and skill from both you and Lord Palmerston.”
“So these methods,” interjected Palmerston. “They can be learned, can they not? Might we not now retire to the library and you can give me the remaining instruction I require to fulfil my role.”
“Just a moment,” Victoria pleaded, the firelight flickering in the dark pools of her dilated pupils. “Dear husband, you are master trainer in your own right. Did my father not give you Watson as a young colt to break for me?”
“Of course, my love,” he laughed. “But mastery of one trade does not imply mastery of all. In this instance I feel I must apprentice myself to the good doctor and take on his wisdom in these matters.”
“And how would you instruct a young apprentice, husband?” she challenged him coolly. “Should you sit him down in the tack room and teach him all you know, then send him out alone with some unbroken filly?”
“Madness!” cried Palmerston. “He must mind his master working the lunge line; watching, learning the process. To go out alone? God’s truth, dear girl! I should break the boy instead and ruin the filly in the bargain!”
Victoria sat up in bed, baring her breasts yet again without a hint of modesty while Palmerston sealed his own fate. Rather than responding, she simply raised one blonde eyebrow and looked at her husband, waiting to see if understood the implications of what he had just said.
Suddenly his countenance shifted from consternation to outright surprise; his entire upper body jerked with the shock of understanding and his jaw unhinged in dismay.
“No! Victoria!” he pleaded. “You are my wife! Surely you cannot be suggesting … ?” I understood precisely what she was suggesting; it was what my poor, unrelieved cock had been suggesting from the moment she entered the room in that silken gown.
“And would you have your filly ruined, my love?” she challenged, a tear rising to her eye. “And would you have yourself as the broken apprentice?” She took his hand and her features softened. “Consider this: it was you who broke my stallion instead of me, but now to whom does his heart belong? Did you steal it from me?”
“No, love,” he said, the resigned defeat clear in his voice. “Though I was the first, he allows none but you to mount him.”
“And he loves me all the more for the unique bond we share,” she said tenderly. “The bond that was made possible only through your skill and training.” She paused for a few moments to let this truth fill the silence like ripples on a pond. “And I shall not love Dr Watson,” she whispered quietly. “But with what he teaches me, what he teaches both of us, we will be able to love each other more deeply than we could without his intervention; more deeply perhaps than we can imagine!”
“And you are willing, Dr Watson?” Palmerston asked.
“I am your servant, my Lord,” I said humbly, dry-swallowing in anticipation of fucking the delightful Lady Palmerston. I turned my eyes to Victoria and saw her looking back at me with naked excitement, her nipples rising again to hard points.
“Then I concede,” he said quietly, getting out of bed and donning the robe. “Dr Watson, you have the stage.”
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Sherlock Holmes and the case of The Virgin Bride