SHERLOCK, SHERLOCK, SHERLOCK!
Last night, Shipwreck took Los Angeles by storm. Smutty, perverted storm. The book was Sherlock Holmes. The character I was assigned was Inspector Lestrade. The rules were…there were no rules.
(NSFW. Hopefully you figured that out.)
Inspector Lestrade still couldn’t believe it. Out of all of the detectives in all of the fictional universes, he — Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard — he was chosen to receive the coveted prize of Fictional Detective of the Year. The prestigious award was given to the Cleverest, Smartest, Best Looking Detective in the entire fictional universe, and this year, it was going to him. Finally, it was Lestrade’s turn. Did you hear that, Sherlock? IT IS LESTRADE’S FUCKING TURN.
Lestrade was still reeling from the evening’s ceremony, held in the finest banquet hall (a Four Points Sheraton in Paramus), with the finest dinner (a choice of chicken a la king or stuffed shells, cash bar), and the finest detectives in the land, all gathered to see him — him! — receive the incredible honor.
As Miss Marple placed the heavy bronze medal around his neck, Lestrade felt a quickening in his pants. He couldn’t help it. How could he not become fully erect, knowing that sniveling little Sherlock that beautiful, seething man sat sulking in the audience while the fictional detectives of the world celebrated Lestrade?
After the ceremony, Lestrade retreated to his room, eager to release his cock from the confines of the cloth prison that was his rental tuxedo pants. He sat down on the hotel bedspread, musty with the spent desire of a thousand sad erections. But Lestrade was not to be the thousand and one-th! He was Fictional Detective of the Year, dammit, and his seed would be spilled proudly on the muted maroon poly-fill blend!
Lestrade closed his eyes and dipped his hand underneath his cummerbund, imagining his rival’s face…his beautiful, perfect, angry face looking at Lestrade for instruction. “KNEEL BEFORE LESTRADE!” he cried, and Sherlock dropped to his knees. “Teach me everything, Inspector,” Sherlock whispered as he put his mouth around Lestrade’s co —
There was a knock at the door.
“Dammit,” muttered Lestrade as he re-arranged his manhood, attempting to conceal the behemoth that strained his pant seams. He opened the door to discover Nick and Nora Charles, still dressed in their evening finery and apparently quite tipsy, though one was never sure as that appeared to be the detective couples’ natural state.
“Darling!” Nora cried. “We thought we might interest you in a little nightcap!”
Lestrade turned pale. He couldn’t afford mini-bar liquor on an inspector’s salary! Nick whipped out a martini shaker. “Don’t worry, Lestrade, we’re always packing.” Nick’s eyes fell to Lestrade’s crotch. “And I guess we’re not the only ones.”
Nora turned to her husband. “Darling, take care of the drinks while I solve the case of what’s in Lestrade’s pants.” Lestrade clapped his hand over his bulge. Nick winked at him. “Don’t worry, Inspector, Nora always closes a case.”
Lestrade was in the Fictional Detective Big Leagues right now, and he needed to perform! He closed his eyes. He couldn’t mess this up. Think, think! WWSD: What Would Sherlock Do?
“Inspector Lestrade, does your nightstick have a name?” Nora cooed.
“Ch- Chief Inspector Lestrade?”
“Well, Chief Inspector, let’s get better acquainted.” Nora freed his mighty member from its cloth prison. She pushed Lestrade back on the bed. Nick clucked at her: “Darling, you have to remove the bedspread, you don’t know where it’s been.”
“Then we have something in common,” Nora quipped. Nick handed her her cocktail. “Time for a cocktail with a cock tale,” Nick said with a wink.
Lestrade couldn’t believe it: first Fictional Detective of the Year and now his flesh detective was about to investigate Nora Charles’ dark, wet hall of mysteries while her husband looked on. Was this what being a famous detective was like? Was this what being Sherlock was like?
Nora began to lower herself onto his mighty nightstick when another knock at came at door! Dammit!
“POLICE!”
Lestrade leapt up, his chief inspector still standing at attention. The Case of Nick and Nora and the Missing Orgasm would have to wait. “I should get that,” he said and opened the door to discover Detective Olivia Benson, dressed in a smart navy blue latex pantsuit and holding a riding crop.
“I’m looking for a private dick,” she said in a husky voice.
Lestrade panicked. “I’m so sorry Detective Benson, but… I’m an Inspector.”
Lieutenant Colombo pushed through the open doorway, naked under his rumpled trenchcoat. “Genius, she’s talking about your private dick. Anyway, don’t mind me, I’m just here to watch.”
Olivia threw Lestrade up against the wall, running the tip of her riding crop over his pulsing member. “You have the right to remain celibate. You do not orgasm unless I tell you to. Do you understand these rights?”
Lestrade trembled with anticipation. “Yes, Olivia.”
She smacked him with the crop. “It’s Detective Benson,” she growled.
Nick, who was drinking a martini, laughed, as he bent Nora, who was also drinking a martini, over the desk. Colombo sat in the corner and watched.
Lestrade really couldn’t believe it. This was the big fucking leagues — literally. Fictional Detective of the Year was a gamechanger. Finally, he would be respected! He would be admired! He would be feared! He would be the most famous Detective in all of London! He would get invites to all of the best Fictional Detective Orgies — starting with this one.
Lestrade’s erection was a volcano, ready to erupt, imagining the carnal pleasures yet to come when — there was another knock at the door!
“I’ve got my hands full with a case,” yelled Nora.
“A case of cock.” Nick replied.
Lestrade looked to Colombo: his trenchcoat was splayed open and he masturbated vigorously, but made no moves toward the door. Lestrade made a mental note: no more Colombos at the orgy. Detective Benson smacked Lestrade again. “Get the door, But no coming, or else you get it.”
Lestrade moved down the carpeted hallway, his legs quivering with the effort of holding his massive erection aloft. Who would be the next to join the gumshoe gangbang? Jessica Fletcher? Horatio Kane? Shaft???
Lestrade opened the door to reveal…
“SHERLOCK HOLMES?”
There he was: Sherlock. Beautiful, horrible, sexy Sherlock, leaning against the doorframe, deerstalker hat rakishly pulled over one eye.
“H-h-how did you know we were here?”
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Because I’m Sherlock Fucking Holmes.”
Sherlock pushed Lestrade aside. “Who’s ready for some Sherl-cock?” he bellowed, and the room erupted in applause. Lestrade watched as Nick and Nora and Olivia and Colombo and Sherlock dissolved into a giant flesh pile of pleasure, a mass of arms and legs and cocks and tits and moaning and laughing and breathing while Lestrade stood alone at the door, his erection sticking out like a sore thumb. A giant sore thumb. A giant sore thumb with the worst case of blue balls.
Someone tapped his shoulder. It was Colombo.
“Hey, Lestrade. Just one more thing?”
Lestrade looked up hopefully. Colombo shoved an ice bucket into his hands. “We need more ice.”
Colombo returned to the flesh pile while Lestrade’s erection deflated, his once-proud soldier going AWOL.
Fucking Sherlock Holmes.
