Lady Sherlock Investigates

Lady Sherlock, naked and on her hands and knees, blinked her great gray eyes slowly as she stared forward and assessed the situation, looking down her thin, hawklike nose, and her brilliant intellect calculated all the options before her. From the top, or the bottom this time? She made a decision, and delicately took her husband's left testicle into her mouth and began sucking on it, before proceeding to lick and suckle the other one, and then lick her way up his shaft.

As she pensively sucked him, occasionally gazing up at his face to gauge Watson's reactions to her efforts, she pondered all the complexities of their latest investigation. She had found that she did her best thinking during fellatio, which served as her personal version of meditation, and this case, she thought, was going to be a three-blowjob problem!

It was good that Watson was always so obliging about lending her his cock, though she did enjoy sitting up and begging for it first. She could beg very prettily, and he seemed to enjoy watching it.

Watson loved watching her suck him so thoroughly. Her expression was exactly the same as a professor at his club, who would sit in his easy chair smoking his pipe with the same half-lidded eyes and brow furrowed in concentration. That look was absolutely adorable on Sherlock's pretty face, he thought, though in her case it was quite obvious what had captured his wife's rapt attention. He found it enormously flattering.

Sherlock came from a minor noble family in a country where aristocratic ladies were collared at an early age, and were thereafter led about on a leash, naked and on all fours, and never spoke, on the pretext that they had no need to, since all their needs would be met without asking. She was a lean woman with long, strong limbs, black hair both above and below, a pert rump, a narrow waist, and surprisingly full breasts for her frame. Her narrow face, with its hawklike intensity, was not classically beautiful, but it was striking, and her large, piercing eyes gave it a unique charm. Her senses were preternaturally acute, and her sharp eyes constantly observed details that others would have missed. One would never guess, watching Sherlock's breasts bounce and dance as she gracefully trotted along on Watson's leash, that she was in reality the greatest detective the world had ever known!

Her marriage to Watson had been an arranged one, of course, but it was a very happy one. Sherlock often reflected that perhaps the secret of their happiness was that each of them thought of the other as a beautiful dumb animal. Of course, she was correct in her assessment, and Watson was quite wrong, as usual. Watson, to put it rather mildly, was a blithering idiot, who did not even have the sense to lead her in out of the rain, unless she subtly tugged on her leash to remind him. She often worried that without her to look out for him, someone might have him committed to a home for the feeble-minded. He really should have been on the other end of the leash. (To be fair, Sherlock had a very low opinion of most people's intelligence.)

He did have her to watch over him, however, and though he was an imbecile, he was her imbecile, by God! She loved him deeply, and not just because of his magnificent cock, to which she had devoted years of intensive study. He was a truly kind and indulgent husband, who loved to take Sherlock for long walks in beautiful gardens and parks he thought might please her. When he finally noticed how Sherlock's eyes brightened whenever they passed a museum or art gallery, he started to make a point of taking her inside to see the exhibits, and would wait patiently for her, placing her in a sit, as she studied them from her position at his feet.

He even liked to take her to the opera, famously the ultimate test of a marital relationship. He did not care for it himself, but he loved watching the pleasure on her face as she listened intently. He would stroke her hair as she lay enthralled by the music, stretched out on her belly on the cushioned raised platform arranged next to his own seat so that she could see the stage. She loved music, and she would repay him by humming entire operas as she fellated him, with her humming reaching a crescendo as his member twitched and throbbed its way toward ejaculation. He never seemed to notice, and it never seemed to surprise him, that Sherlock had memorized an entire opera from one hearing. It did impress him that Sherlock could keep the same exquisite blowjob going for hours, however.

Ironically, in spite of the astronomical difference in their mental capacities, Watson was the one who had a growing reputation as an amateur consulting detective, and was increasingly consulted by the royal guards and by fellow aristocrats who needed problems solved discreetly. This was entirely due to Sherlock's skill at detection, not his. Her magnificent brain needed interesting problems to solve; she would have gone mad otherwise.

Even though Watson always got the credit, and Sherlock was at best viewed by those who even noticed her as a sort of pretty mascot, Sherlock was always the one who solved the mysteries. She actually expended more intellectual energy on working out how to steer Watson toward the solution and let him take the credit, without letting him know that he was being manipulated by someone much more intelligent than he was. That was merely part of the intellectual challenge her agile mind needed.

She found the need for indirection very frustrating at times, but so far she had always managed to steer him every step of the way toward a solution, which was no small feat when one was naked, speechless, and on the ground. Fortunately, Watson liked having her with him when he visited crime scenes (mostly as his adoring pet and eye candy, she suspected), sometimes in the company of her clever quim-hound Prospero. Sometimes she would be on Watson's leash, sometimes Prospero would be entrusted with leading her around, and very occasionally Watson would even let her go off-leash and nose around on her own, as long as she stayed in sight, a rare sign of trust.

One technique she had found effective was to point her nose to a clue on the ground, while waving her ass in the air. Usually that eventually got even the dimwitted Watson's attention, and he would wander curiously over to see what she was peering at, if she waited long enough. Annoyingly, Watson responded much better to this when she had Prospero with her, and she and Prospero could wag their tails in tandem. It rankled a little that Watson trusted Prospero's judgment more than hers; but then after all Prospero was a dominant and assertive male, whereas Sherlock was merely a submissive female, so her darling dimwit's first instinct was to pat her on the head and patronize her (see: beautiful dumb animal). It was just as well that Sherlock had become so skilled at guiding her husband indirectly, and she preferred to stay behind the scenes anyway.

She actually preferred having Prospero along on their investigations. Not only was he smarter than Watson, but the hound's sense of smell was acute. She had long ago worked out a system for silent communication with him, and could generally get Prospero to do what she wanted. It was more of a challenge than with Watson, however, and sometimes Prospero's instinctive need to dominate her got the better of him and he felt the need to remind her of her place. Also, she genuinely loved Prospero, and felt safe with him guarding her quim.

In any case, Prospero had made substantial contributions to solving such mysteries as the famous Case of the Extra Hucow, after which Watson had even shared the public credit with him for rescuing Baroness Carlotta (whose mountainous mammaries seemed to exert a gravitational attraction for kidnappers) and returning her to her babies. Poor Carlotta! What indignities her poor teats had suffered! The fact that as a lady she could not cry out for help made her an even more tempting target. Sherlock idly wondered who would be kidnapping her next.

Their current mystery, she feared, was one in which the powerful quim-hound's nose could not be of assistance. Watson, Sherlock, and Prospero, along with a dozen other trios, were all visiting Baron Baxter's country house for the weekend. The agenda centered around a small private quim-hound race the following day, in which all the ladies and their hounds would of course be participating, while the men excitedly placed wagers on them. Sherlock was resigned to being raced, though she knew that other ladies found it thrilling. Sherlock considered it merely a form of healthy exercise and an excuse to spend a pleasant time frolicking outdoors with Prospero.

Fortunately, she had been able to reach a sort of accommodation with Prospero, who understood that his mistress for some reason always wanted to run in the middle of the pack, and not at the front. Her rationale was that she did not want her husband to be gambling too much; she knew how he could get carried away. She thought it best to manage Watson's expectations; he felt compelled to bet on her out of loyalty, but knowing that she always lost, he kept his bets small. She also enjoyed the challenge of pacing herself to finish exactly in the middle of all the ladies, for whom she had already calculated the odds better than any bookmaker could have done; and she very much looked forward to how Watson would console her on her "loss."

The truth of the matter was that Sherlock was not only built like a greyhound; she could run on all fours like one, too, at least for short stretches. Her wiry strength and iron will would have made her a formidable competitor, if she had actually cared about winning any merely physical contest. She was fairly sure that she and Prospero could win this race easily, if they tried in earnest. If she started winning races, however, she would attract far more attention than she wanted, and she could not afford to have people looking too closely at her, given the intelligence she was hiding so assiduously. Besides, her husband might start to wonder why she had consistently lost before, and the poor man would be heartbroken if he ever realized she had been deliberately nobbling herself. Sherlock was perfectly happy to yield first place to the whippet-like young redhead with sleek flanks whom she had marked as the likely winner.

Tragically, their pleasant country outing had been somewhat derailed by the recently discovered theft of the Baron's famous gem, the hefty emerald known as the Testicle of Poseidon. (Sherlock was slightly surprised by the name, since she thought that famous jewels were usually called the Eye of something or other, but she surmised that Poseidon's eyes must still be where they belonged.) Baron Baxter was hopping mad, not to mention frothing at the mouth, though Sherlock privately thought that only an idiot would have left a treasure like that out in the open with so many guests in the house, even if he did love to show it off. Obviously it must have been some member of the weekend party, but who? All of the guests were eyeing each other with suspicion, and a quick search had turned up nothing.

The Baron had quickly remembered that one of their party was a famous consulting detective, and urgently begged Watson's assistance. Watson had of course nodded gravely and promised that he would see what he could do, but it was obvious to Sherlock that he had absolutely no idea where to start. As usual, it was all up to her. It was time for fellatio!

She spent the first blowjob replaying, from her perfect memory, the movements of all the guests throughout the evening, carefully watching them speed around her mental map of the house, and observing all their interactions. It was unfortunate that she had not observed the theft itself, but she was able to narrow down those who had an opportunity to a small number of likely suspects by the time that Watson spurted into her mouth. She swallowed thoughtfully, savoring his taste.

Her second blowjob was devoted to going through her immense memory palace that held detailed profiles of almost all the country's aristocracy, including all the guests invited for this weekend's quim-hound race. Sherlock knew all their backgrounds, and could calculate their most likely course of action in any situation. She could even have identified any set of bootprints, accompanied by the prints on the ground of a lady's delicate bare toes and fingers, as belonging to a specific lord and lady just from their size and the depth of the impressions they had made. She had enumerated all the potential anomalies in their behavior since their arrival at the country house. Sherlock had finally identified the most likely suspect (and accomplice) in mind by the time Watson, driven to distraction, reclaimed his cock from her lips and started rogering her from behind in a frenzy. (She acquiesced happily; head or tail, it was all good.)

Her third and final blowjob (for this investigation) was spent meditating on exactly where a naked woman might conceal a heavy jewel the size of a large egg; how it might best be extricated; and how one might go about ensuring that there was evidence of guilt. She knew that the courts, not to mention the accused, would demand to see evidence, and "the naked woman on the ground over there pointed to him" would hardly be sufficient. Sherlock would need to arrange for witnesses, the more the better.

Eventually, Sherlock arrived at a plan, though it would call for more direct action, and more attention directed at herself, than she usually liked. As she licked Watson's cock clean, she noticed that the poor dear was desperate with worry about what a failure in this case would do to his reputation. Well, she would rescue him soon enough, she thought, as she curled up on the Persian rug at the foot of his bed to go to sleep, her leash looped around a bedpost.

The next morning, as the guests came down for breakfast under the surly eye of their host, who Sherlock saw was staring resentfully at her husband (obviously frustrated with the delay in getting his Testicle back), the ladies began exchanging formal sniff-greetings with each other, taking turns lowering their heads and pressing their breasts to the floor, and raising their buttocks high in the air to present their genitals for inspection. When Sherlock's turn came to sniff Lady Mimi's crotch, Sherlock hurriedly looked around first to make sure that Mimi's quim-hound was not in the room, and then struck like a snake!

Sherlock's questing tongue darted as far into Mimi's vagina as it could reach, while Sherlock's lips, strengthened by years of diligent fellatio, formed a perfect seal around Mimi's vulva. (Her hawklike nose, unfortunately, was closer than she would have liked to Mimi's butthole.) Mimi squealed loudly in shock and began shaking her impressively plump buttocks wildly in an effort to dislodge the intruder, but Sherlock's long fingers tightened around Mimi's thighs and pressed Mimi's nethers tightly back against her face. Mimi was well and truly caught in Sherlock's iron grip! As the aghast guests stared paralyzed at this unprecedented scene, which had never been known to happen before at any country-house party, Sherlock sucked as hard as she could. Her years of practice in intense suction paid off, and she felt a hard object emerge from Mimi's quim and slide into her own mouth, as Mimi started beating her fists against the floor, yipping even more loudly in her distress.

Sherlock disengaged from Mimi's hindquarters, leaving Mimi gasping and flailing, and pranced proudly over to her husband, who was staring open-mouthed like everyone else. Sherlock opened her mouth, and let the object drop to the floor at Watson's feet. It was the Testicle of Poseidon!

Watson quickly recovered from his surprise, and picked up the emerald. He took out his handkerchief and hastily wiped Sherlock's saliva and Mimi's juices off it before presenting the Testicle to the Baron with a flourish, as Mimi convulsed on the floor in what appeared to be an explosive orgasm. There was apparently more than one reason for her wailing.

One of the clues that had helped Sherlock to solve this case was Mimi's obvious sexual arousal, without any apparent cause; the jewel sliding around inside her must have kept her on the very edge of orgasm for hours, and Sherlock's strong tongue had merely pushed her over the edge. Sherlock had also detected a few other objects inside Mimi's capacious quim that could only have added to her stimulation. Sherlock had not bothered to retrieve them; if anyone was missing any small valuables, they now knew where to look. It had been relatively ingenious of Mimi's husband, the true thief, to use her moist sheath as his hiding place; but that trick could only work once, and he had neglected to consider what effect a heavy jewel moving around inside her would have on his wife.

Sherlock came around and heeled demurely at her husband's left side, looking up at him admiringly. Sherlock's adoring gaze at her husband's face was not lost on the Baron or the others, who reached the conclusion they were meant to reach. Everyone pressed around them, and the Baron, highly impressed, asked Watson how he had deduced that he should send his wife to search inside Lady Mimi's quim. Watson, fortunately, was very good at babbling nonsense, and happily began: "Elementary, my dear Baron!" as Sherlock surreptitiously removed a few pubic hairs from her teeth.

Sherlock was only half-listening as Watson cheerfully invented a tale of investigation that had very little in common with her own chain of reasoning, and much to do with his own vanity. She had heard most of his nonsense before, and winced as Watson declaimed, "You see, but you do not observe!" She was so sick of that bombastic statement that she vowed, half-seriously, that the next time she heard it, she was going to drown out his words with the loudest, juiciest fart she could manage. (Though of course Sherlock was too loyal to embarrass her husband in public that way.)

Of course Watson knew, or at least had known when he started talking, that he had given Sherlock no such instructions; but she estimated that there was at least an 87 per cent chance that by the time he finished, he would have convinced even himself that his own genius had in fact led him to send Sherlock up Mimi's quim, and that he had only momentarily forgotten this for some reason. Likely he would even remember hearing himself say the words, and remember seeing Sherlock nod dutifully in response. Memory was such a plastic thing, after all, and one should never forget the power of self-delusion. Watson was certainly a world-class expert in fooling himself.

That still left a 13 percent chance that Watson would fail to delude himself. In that case, it would almost certainly not even occur to him that Sherlock, whose main talent lay in giving exquisite blowjobs, had actually solved the mystery on her own. The only reason that would make sense to him would be that Sherlock had suffered from a spontaneous fit of lesbianism. (That might also be Mimi's theory, judging by the longing looks she was giving Sherlock right now.) In that case, he would probably feel compelled to discipline Sherlock for her misbehavior. He would not do so publicly, for fear of undermining his own story that Sherlock was acting on his orders, but rather privately; and Sherlock knew from long experience that her husband's idea of discipline invariably involved hauling her over his lap and spanking her for a while.

He did not have the slightest idea of how much being spanked by his large hands turned her on. She also knew that he would soon become distracted by his own erection. She calculated that even if she did get spanked, he would only deliver 10-12 blows to her reddening buttocks, as she whimpered and writhed lustfully, grinding herself on top of the cock trying to push its way up through his pants, before he abandoned the idea of spanking her and decided that he should just fuck the lesbian out of her as soon as possible. That trivial amount of spanking would be a mere appetizer!