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From the Diary of Doctor John Watson
By Taleya
From the diary of Doctor John Watson
I have observed quite often that Sherlock Holmes seems to be queerly fixated
with things of an oral persuasion. When he is not puffing upon his pipe or
smoking a cigarette his lean, clever fingers can often be found lingering at his
lips.
This whole miserable debacle began with the case I had fancifully described as
"The Speckled Band". We waited, long into the night in Miss Stoner's rooms, ears
straining, every nerve a-quiver, waiting for the slow, sinuous hiss of Roylott's
death adder making its way down the false bell-pull. Holmes did not allow
himself to smoke - the scent would surely have betrayed our presence - and I can
only conclude that it was this aforementioned oral need that brought forth the
miserable events that were to follow.
In the silence of the night, every nerve strained and aching, I heard him make
his way towards me. I heard the sound of his knees upon the carpet, then without
warning he had taken my member from my pants and was engaged in an act of
hellishly enthusiastic fellatio.
I am a happily married man - a fact Holmes is well aware of, as he is acquainted
with my beloved Mary - so all I could do was sit there, stunned as he worked his
way upon me, that clever tongue laving at my member, those high cheeks hollowed
and high as he sucked upon me in a most foul manner. His hand was clasped over
my mouth to stifle my cries of outrage as he worked me to orgasm, caressing my
cheek afterwards as if this would make up for this desecration.
It became a habit. We would be working upon a case, and I would feel his mouth
upon me, look down once more to see the damnable sleek of his hair nestled
against my groin. It came without warning, always without warning - I would be
inspecting a mantle, a ledge, innocently reading a paper with my legs outspread
and hands occupied with a paper and I would feel the warm wetness of his mouth
upon me again and again. When we are on a case, or I am visiting Baker street, I
dread every time Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson leave the room - no sooner have their
backs turned than Holmes' knees are upon the carpet, his coat-tails swept back
elegantly behind him as he bows his head to me. In the gentleman's facilities at
the opera, at his brother's country estate, in my bathtub - even in my own
practise while Mary dusted outside the door! I can see his pants have begun to
fray at the knees in a most abominable manner from the ill-use - how soon before
others also notice and begin to remark?
Throughout my chronicles I have expounded long and hard upon the remarkable
mental abilities of my friend, but please do not mistake me - I myself am no
addle-brained milquetoast. I have tried all manner of actions to dissuade him -
pained groans, clutching at his hair, even on one occasion spanking his
shoulders with a riding crop while he milked me to completion. Nothing seems to
set him from his path.
I am at my wits end - he approaches me even now as I sit at
my writing desk, a familiar light within his grey eyes. He is practically
salivating as he contemplates his latest depravity upon my person. His lean
form is lit by the gas lamps as he knees beside me and slips under my desk;
already I can feel his eager hands at my belt. If this continues, then by
evening's end I shall have no choice but to spread him forcibly upon my desk and
rodger him thoroughly - perhaps then, with his shirt in tatters, his pants about
his ankles, his coat sopped and stained with the remnants of my pen ink and his
neck scored with the marks from my teeth - perhaps then he will finally come to
the realisation of where my true passions lie.
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