Indecent: 15 Erotic Victorian Romance Story Box Set (39 page)

"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on
his face, though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his
forehead."

Homes sat up in her chair in considerable excitement.
"I thought as much," said she. "Have you ever observed that his
cock is pierced for metalwork?"

"Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for him
when he was a lad."

"Hum!" said Homes, sinking back in deep thought.
"He is still with you?"

"Oh, yes, miss; I have only just left him."

"And has your business been attended to in your
absence?"

"Nothing to complain of, miss. There's never very much
to do of a morning."

"That will do, Miss. Wilson. I shall be happy to give
you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is
Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."

"Well, Watson," said Homes when our visitor had
left us, "what do you make of it all and would you like to fuck me?"

"I make nothing of it," I answered frankly.
"It is a most mysterious business and yes, yes I would."

“She stood up and descended on me, planting soft kisses on
my lips as her hands wrapped round me. We fell back together onto the floor and
then she tugged at my trousers until they were around my ankles, bringing her
mouth to my cock and sucking on it until it was as stiff as could be imagined.
At this point she moved up me and grabbed my shaft, guiding it into her pussy
and beginning to rock back and forth above me. I stared up at my cock vanishing
into her wetness as she balanced above me and the sensation of pleasure was so
strong I lasted no more than a minute before groaning with desire and spunking
deep inside her.

She brought herself to orgasm with her hand as I shot more cum
into her before she finally stepped off me and resumed her seat, a dribble of
my cum leaking from her pussy as she addressed me once more.

"As a rule," said Homes, "the more bizarre a
thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace,
featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the
most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter."

"What are you going to do, then?" I asked.

"To fuck myself," she answered. "It is quite
a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won't speak to me for fifty
minutes." She curled herself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up
to her hawk-like nose, and there he sat with her eyes closed and her black clay
pipe thrusting into her arse like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to
the conclusion that she had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when
she moved the pipe to her pussy and continued her thoughts. At last she took it
into her mouth and tasted her own juices before she suddenly sprang out of his
chair with the gesture of a woman who has made up her mind and put her pipe
down upon the mantelpiece.

"Sappho plays are on at the St. James's Hall this
afternoon," she remarked. "What do you think, Watson? Could your patients
spare you for a few hours?"

"I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very
absorbing."

"Then put on your hat and come in me one last time. I
am going through the City after, and we can have some lunch on the way. I
observe that there is a good deal of German lesbians on the programme, which is
rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective the way
they fuck, and I want to introspect. Come along!"

We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a
short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which
we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place,
where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small
railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded
laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial
atmosphere. Two gilt balls and a brass cock and a brown board with "JANE
WILSON" in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the place where
our red-headed client carried on her business. Shelly Homes stopped in front of
it with her head on one side and looked it all over, with her eyes shining
brightly between puckered lids. Then she walked slowly up the street, and then
down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally she
returned to the porn shop, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement
with her stick two or three times, she went up to the door and knocked. It was
instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked her
to step in.

"Thank you," said Homes, "I only wished to
ask you how you would go from here to the Strand."

"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant
promptly, closing the door.

"Smart fellow, that," observed Homes as we walked
away. "He is, in my judgment. the fourth smartest man in London, and for
daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known
something of him before."

 "Evidently," said I, "Miss. Wilson's
assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am
sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you might see him."

"Not him."

"What then?"

"The crotch and knees of his trousers."

"And what did you see?"

"What I expected to see."

"Why did you beat the pavement?"

"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not
for talk. We are spies in an enemy's country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg
Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it."

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the
corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it
as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries
which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west. The roadway was
blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and
outward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians.
It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately
business premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and
stagnant square which we had just quitted.

"Let me see," said Homes, standing at the corner
and glancing along the line, "I should like just to remember the order of
the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London.
There is Mortimer's, the dildoist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch
of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Wanker’s Restaurant, and
McFarlane's sex doll-building depot. That carries us right on to the other block.
And now, Doctor, we've done our work, so it's time we had some play. A sandwich
and a cup of coffee, and then off to lesbian-land, where all is sweetness and
delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-pubed clients to vex us with their
conundrums."

My friend was an enthusiastic lesbian, being herself not
only a very capable performer but a director of no ordinary merit. All the
afternoon she sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently
waving his long, thin fingers in time to the fucking, while her gently smiling
face and her languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Homes, the
fuck-hound, Homes the relentless, keen-witted, big boobed, ready-handed
criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In her singular character the
dual nature alternately asserted itself, and her extreme exactness and
astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the
poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated in her. The swing
of his nature took her from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew
well, she was never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, she had been
lounging in her armchair amid her improvisations and her black-letter editions.
Then it was that the lust of the fuck would suddenly come upon her, and that
her brilliant screwing power would rise to the level of intuition, until those
who were unacquainted with her methods would look askance at her as on a woman
whose sexual prowess was not that of other mortals. When I saw her that afternoon
so enwrapped in the sex at St. James's Hall I felt that an evil time might be
coming upon those whom she had set himself to hunt down.

"You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor," she
remarked as we emerged.

"Yes, it would be as well."

"And I have some business to do which will take some
hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious."

"Why serious?"

"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every
reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being
Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night."

"At what time?"

"Ten will be early enough."

"I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

"Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some
little danger, so kindly put your army dildo in your pocket." She waved
her hand, turned on her heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I
was always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with
Shelly Homes. Here I had heard what she had heard, I had seen what she had
seen, and yet from her words it was evident that she saw clearly not only what
had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business was
still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought
over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-pubed copier of the
Erotica down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with
which she had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why
should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint
from Homes that this smooth-faced porn shop assistant was a formidable man -- a
man who might play a deepthroat game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up
in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an explanation.

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made
my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two
hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the
sound of voices from above. On entering his room I found Homes in animated sex
with two men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the official police
agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat
and oppressively respectable frock-coat.

"Ha! Our party is complete," said Homes, pulling
her mouth from Peter’s cock for a moment. “Get over here will you Watson and
help complete my three pipe problem.”

It took no little manoeuvring but then we resolved ourselves.
I lay on my back on the floor and Homes was lowered onto me, my cock burying
itself deep in her pussy. Peter laid on top of Homes, squashing her between us
and easing himself into her arse as she gasped loudly. When her mouth opened to
moan the stranger in the frock coat shoved his cock into her mouth and at that
moment the three pipe problem was solved.

We fucked her as hard and fast as we could manage, all the
while our bodies growing hotter, our breath becoming laboured. The man in her
mouth came first, spraying spunk over her face as she let out a cry of
satisfaction, reaching her own orgasm a moment later. The feel of her pussy
contacting around my cock sent me over the edge and I shot my cum into her at
the same instant that Peter did, her arse filled with spunk whilst she sighed
with happiness.

Soon after Homes was buttoning up her peajacket and taking
her heavy hunting crop from the rack. "Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones,
of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our
companion in to-night's adventure."

"We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,"
said Jones in his consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful woman
for starting a chase. All she wants is an old dog to help her to do the running
down."

"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our
chase," observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

"You may place considerable confidence in Miss. Homes,
sir," said the police agent loftily. "She has his own little methods,
which are, if she won't mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and
fantastic, but she has the makings of a detective in her. It is not too much to
say that once or twice, as in that business of the Shitter insertion and the
Anal treasure, she has been more nearly correct than the official force."

"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,"
said the stranger with deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber
johnny. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have
not had my rubber johnny on my cock."

"I think you will find," said Shelly Homes,
"that you will fuck for a higher sensation to-night than you have ever
done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather,
the stake will be some 30,000 pounds; and for you, Jones, it will be the man
upon whom you wish to lay your hands."

"John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger.
He's a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession,
and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London.
He's a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke,
and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning.as his
fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to
find the man himself. He'll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising
money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I've been on his track for
years and have never set eyes on him yet."

"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you
to-night. I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree
with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and
quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I
will follow in the second."