After spending my first week at sea either below deck, or on top hanging over the railing, my head and stomach were finally getting acclimatized to the constant motion of the ship. Captain James of course, could hardly wait for the briny smell of the open seas, but me, a landlubber to the bone, only agreed to this trip after Sherlock's endless insistence.
To my secret satisfaction, Sherlock had spent just a much time as me, down on his knees retching. As a matter of fact I spotted him on the deck just now, still down on his knees.
"Sherlock, THERE you are. What ARE you doing kneeling in front of Peter holding your spyglass up to his crotch?"
"He's getting ready to suck me off," Peter joked.
"No, no, Watson, my dear fellow, it's strictly business, professional curiosity, if you must know," Sherlock protested, then drew deeply on his pipe and blew the smoke at Peter's crotch before continuing: "People literally wear their lives on their sleeves, or tights, as the case may be. We have but to look at the evidence."
"And what evidence did you find THERE?" I asked
"Here" answered Sherlock, plucking a speck of something from the top of Peter's tights. "This was actually lodged underneath the waistband, indicating it had been there BEFORE Peter pulled up his tights"
"And..?"
"Well, can't you see what it is? Look carefully through the spyglass, notice the little hooks at the ends of the dendrites, this is a tendril, a small fraction of an ostrich feather"
"I didn't know Peter dressed in feathers"
"He doesn't, but who do we all know that does?"
"James?" answered Peter.
"Precisely, Captain James wears an ostrich feather in his hat," emphasized Sherlock, "and to clinch it, we have THIS!"
And with that he plucked a short black hair right off Peter's crotch.
"What's that?" I asked ingenuously.
"Hold this up to the nose of Captain James, and I guarantee it will be a precise match with his other moustache hairs," claimed Sherlock.
"Modern forensics, its all about fibres" he continued." In the good old days you had to THINK, now you just match fibres under a microscope, and voila, case closed."
"Just what case are you making, Sherlock?"
"The case that Captain James has had carnal knowledge of Peter."
"That doesn't surprise me," I answered. "James has had his hands on Peter's ass ever since we set sail."
"What a crude observation" replied Sherlock in disdain. "But anyway, it DOES corroborate my findings."
"Sherlock, I've learned NEVER to doubt your findings," I answered. "We must have James arrested at once?"
"Arrested, what for?" asked Peter.
"For having sex with a minor, of course," I answered.
At that, Peter started laughing uncontrollably.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"Watson, I was created about a hundred years ago, and I was about eleven then. That makes me about a hundred and eleven years old now."
"But you never grew up," I protested.
"Exactly, my ass is still as bubbly now as it was a hundred years ago, I love it, everybody loves it"
"I believe I must concur," Sherlock chimed in. "Peter is every bit as delicious now as he always was, but he hasn't been jailbait for a good ninety years; my investigation was motivated strictly by professional curiosity"
"Well investigate THIS" laughed Peter, pushing down his tights in front of Sherlock's nose.
Sherlock held Peter's little peter up to his spyglass and commented.
"My, I do believe I see some red lipstick adorning your penis, Peter. Wait, don't tell me. It IS Captain James' lipstick, isn't it? I'd recognize that shade of red anywhere."
"I KNOW he is a bit of a dandy, but I never pictured James wearing lipstick!" I exclaimed.
"Are you not a doctor of medicine, Watson? You should take a closer look at Captain James' remaining hand, and you will notice the flesh under his fingernails to be a light shade of purple. I will leave the diagnosis up to you, but no doubt his lips will suffer the same shade of purple - underneath his red lipstick, that is"
Peter's little peter, meanwhile, had transformed into a stiffie.
"Diligent observation" said Sherlock, "must involve ALL the senses,"
and with that he stuck Peter's stiffie in his mouth.
"TOLD you he was getting ready to suck me off," smirked Peter.
"Strictly professional curiosity," protested Sherlock, upon releasing the stiffie from his mouth. I definitely tasted some human excrement on your penis."
"Sherlock, how did you learn to discern the taste of human excrement?" I asked.
"No line of work is as pretty as they would have people believe, Watson. We all have to make sacrifices that we would rather not talk about. You of all people should appreciate that."
"True," I admitted, "a doctor often has to get into some messy areas"
"Like in people's fat asses you mean!" quipped Peter.
Sherlock and I both stared back at him.
"You know, for a prostrate exam," Peter explained, almost defensively.
"How would a boy like YOU know about prostrate exams ? " I started but Peter reminded me "I'm a hundred eleven remember."
"Oh that's right, I keep forgetting. But I bet YOUR prostrate is still as tiny as an eleven year olds"
"Wanna check?" asked Peter, bending over with his ass towards me.
"Love to, " I answered, checking my pockets for examination gloves.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows at me, so I gave his words back to him: "Strictly business, professional curiosity."
"I guess being a doctor of medicine has its perks after all," observed Sherlock.
"Well its not exactly a rose garden," I reminded him. "Last prostrate I examined belonged to a seventy year old who had an abscess at his anus. And not only that, he was nearly three hundred pounds overweight. He was so huge my finger wasn't long enough to reach his prostrate, so instead I had to probe him with my "
I bit my tongue before I finished my sentence. Sherlock always made a fool out of me whenever I talked too much.
"Never mind, I must be boring you with all this doctor talk."
"Not at all my dear chap. Please do go on," Sherlock replied, encouraging me. But I did not take the bait.
"No, no, I'm sorry I can't. Doctor patient confidentiality, you know."
"Watson, if you were to do a prostrate exam of Captain James instead, I do believe you will find some of his own lipstick there."
"Yes, I think I can follow your line of reasoning, Peter's penis being the vector" I answered.
"My penis is a vextor! What's that?" asked Peter, quite alarmed.
"A vector is the agent transmitting the disease, or in this case, the lipstick. Your penis would have transferred the lipstick from James's mouth to his anus, are we right?"
"I can't tell you" answered Peter. "Seaman's honour".
"Speaking of seamen, there he is now," said Sherlock, as a very distraught looking James walked over to us.
"My, has he lost his sea legs?" I wondered out loud, seeing how awkward and bowlegged he was walking up to us.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, I have been violated!" he cried, raising his hook to his forehead.
"Come, come" I interrupted. "An eleven year old boy violate you? I would rather say it was the other way around."
"Huh? You mean Peter. Oh, not that. I said I had been VIOLATED, split asunder, not TICKLED! Peter's little dick is so tiny one can hardly even feel it."
"Prepare to die!" shouted the insulted Peter, holding out a dagger but not looking the least bit threatening with his tights still down around his ankles.
"Stop it, all of you!" interjected James. "Didn't I just tell you all I have been VIOLATED?"
"You mean by the Blue Rose Rapist." observed Sherlock quietly.
"Uh, now THERE's a real man. Could be - but how did you know it was him?" James asked hopefully.
"Elementary" answered Sherlock. "But lets first examine the evidence, shall we?" and with that he pulled down James's breeches.
To our surprise he was wearing lacy underwear underneath. Sherlock hesitated for a second, but Peter stepped forward and tugged down roughly the white frills. And there it was, on his right cheek, a drawing of a blue Rose, the mark of the Blue Rose Rapist.
"You got the rose" said Peter, awed, poking his finger at it.
"I TOLD you I was violated," sniffed James, pulling up his drawers.
"Wait," I commanded, and spread his cheeks with my hands. There, for all to see, was a still a smear of red lipstick.
"See, just like we figured," I said, pointing at it.
"See what?" asked James.
"Nothing, just professional curiosity," I answered before anyone else could.
"Your ass is red," Peter explained, then added: "You never told me you wore lipstick".
"What has that got to do with my ass? And how did you find out about my lipstick?"
Sherlock told us, figured it out from your purple fingernails"
"My, all this deductive reasoning, it's an invasion of privacy is what it is," James complained.
"The rapist, he got you face down on the bed, hands and feet tied to the corners"
Sherlock stated.
"Uh yes, if it wasn't for Smee I would still be there. How did you know?" asked James.
"Your wrists are red, your socks are ruffled, but the hair on the back of your head is perfect," Sherlock summarized.
"And that's what the Blue Rose Rapist did with all his other victims" I added.
Sherlock shot a withering glare at me, for stealing his spotlight.
"Of course that doesn't mean anything," I added hastily. "Each separate case must stand on its own evidence. But this may be our chance to finally unmask the Blue Rose Rapist. What do yo say, Holmes?"
"For starters, Watson, note the bizarre markings on the posterior."
"Good God, Holmes," I stuttered. "The footprints of some gigantic hound?"
"Keep up, Watson. That was several yarns ago. Scratches, pinpricks, no more. But suggestive, don't you think?"
"Uhm indeed. Now captain, tell Mr. Holmes everything you remember, don't leave anything out, no matter how trivial it may seem to you."
"Let me see... I was in my cabin inspecting the plank. Smee has orders you understand, strict orders. Twice weekly, thrice in the walking season, the plank must be a-sanded and a-buffed and a-polished. Best Plank in Show three years running we was ... Stuff that Jack Sparrow!"
Holmes brushed this aside.
"No need for this tarradiddle, Hook. Remember my maxim, Watson. Eliminate the impossible and whatever is left ..."
"No matter how improbable, must be the truth," I completed.
With that, Holmes turned heel and set of to the Captain's Cabin.
"Come," he proclaimed, beckoning the others to follow.
"Sugar," muttered Peter, sighing. "I can't cum, no matter how I've tried."
"Perhaps I could try it for you ...?" suggested James "I think you've sampled quite enough of me for one day," Peter retorted, as he tucked his genitalia back into his tights.
"Smee!!" roared Holmes as we approached the cabin door. "Smee ...eeee."
Into the cabin we all trooped, me, Holmes, James and Peter.
Panting, Smee arrived soon after.
"Ah, good man. We must reconstruct this crime scene. I understand it was you who released our good captain from his bondage?"
Smee nodded assent.
"Aye, aye, sir. That 'twas."
"Then perhaps you could show us how he was disported? Captain, if you please."
Obligingly Hook lay, face down, on the bunk and Smee proceeded to tie him up.
Holmes examined the knots closely.
"The same knots? Good, good. Now, let me see," mused Sherlock. "Trews at his ankles?"
Smee nodded and Holmes yanked down the officer's pants.
"Lacy undergarments too?"
Another nod and the officer's arse was bared.
"Good start" said Sherlock, "now up we go, James."
With that, he placed a pillow under the spread-eagled Hook thus raising his posterior up into the air.
"Thus?" he asked. "Higher would be better. It would allow easier access to the Captain's proud pucker."
Seizing the prized plank, Holmes inserted it beneath the pillow thus raising Hook yet higher. Holmes then mounted the bed, pluffed up the pillow and pulling his erect member from his pants he demonstrated by placing it against the piratical hole.
"Thus!"
He now pressed forward and the thick cockhead slid inside the good captain.
"Ooooo..." murmured Hook.
"Mmmmm....." sighed Holmes.
He then pulled out his cock and a silk handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed that into the captain's mouth.
"Sadly, we won't be hearing from you for a while, James." he said. "Watson, please round up the boys; that should be the easier first step. While he's doing that, Peter would you oblige by felching the captain. Let's see what our rapist has deposited in there. And once you've done so, place the results in this phial."
Grinning broadly Peter planted his lips around the Captain's rear entrance and prepared to extract the evidence.
While this was going on Watson returned with an assortment of boys. There was Hawkins the putative cabin boy, Balfour the heavy-hung Scot recently rescued from kidnapping, the Darling Boys - two appropriately named little cuties with the dearest little bubbly bits - and of course the gang of 'Lost' boys that trooped around with Peter when not working on the latest episode of the sky soap.
Holmes slapped the Captain's rump.
"See this me hearties? I want you to line up and sample the good captain's cavern of delight. Once Peter has finished, naturally. His mouth has priority at present.
Perhaps you could line up in order of size?"
The boys hastened to do so, eager to begin.
"No, no!" Holmes exclaimed. "Not height. That will not do. Size of equipment, lads. Don't want Davie Balfour buggering up the works. Well , we do, but if he enters first the captain is hardly likely to notice some of these more petit peckers."
Holmes and I retreated to the Captain's drinks table and helped ourselves. Sherlock lit his meerschaum and surveyed the room.
"See there, Watson. There is a trail of sawdust leading from the doorway over to the bed. And by the headboard, I see one or two feathers, bright green and azure blue.
Suggestive?"
"The ship's carpenter? Or ... the ship's ornithologist?"
Holmes looked at me as if I was mad. In the next moment, however, his attention was taken up by the approach of little Peter holding a small bottle filled with a white viscous liquid. Holmes took the glass and held it to his nose. Then he swirled the liquid around and took it to his lips. After savouring for a moment he spoke slowly.
"A hint of fruit, blackberry perhaps? That'll will be you, Peter. A sweet and tender flavour imparted by your boyish lips."
"But there's a stronger flavour, too. Heavy, perhaps almost heady. No! I have it. It is brie, no, camembert! It's distinctly cheesey!"
"Holmes! You have solved the case in one swallow!" I exclaimed. "Gunn. Benn Gunn, the cheese-eating mariner!"
"Perhaps. Let us proceed with caution, Watson."
Turning his attention back to Pan, Holmes issued further instructions.
"Peter, you may join the queue. Unless you've had your fill ..."
Peter shook his head as if to say Holmes must be crazed to think this. Peter crossed to where the boys stood in line and spoke to Hawkins briefly. He fondled Hawkins at the crotch as he spoke and the boy responded likewise, cupping Peter's crotch.
Opening the flap of Jim's sailor pants, Peter took out the Hawkins' cock, handling it to full erection. Meanwhile Jim had done the same for Peter.
I felt a little shaken if not stirred as I watched Peter's man-wand rise in Jim-Lad's hand. Squeezing it once or twice to firm it up, Jim then held it in his palm in order that the two might compare, decide order of precedence. An argument ensued though it was clear to me that Hawkins had the advantage over the boy who had refused to grow up or develop sexual potential. It then occurred to me that this was stratagem, an excuse each connived in to prolong the handling of each other's pricks.
Meanwhile the queue of boys, one by one, mounted the bed and buggered Hook for all they were worth. They cheered each other on, lent a hand when necessary to guide a penis to the spot or wrenched the ruddy cheeks apart to ease access for the next boy up.
The queue advanced. Each new entrant caused a distinct squelching sound as he thrust into the red-arsed captain.
"All slippy slidy in the back passage, eh, Holmes," I observed.
"Behave yourself, Watson. You're at it again. Wrong story! This is not a Beatrix Potter. We have no use for Jeremy Fisher here."
"What are you learning from this, Holmes?"
"Learning? Fuck all, Watson. I'd already eliminated this lot - except Balfour, possibly. He must remain a suspect. I merely thought it might stimulate the juices to watch the lads in action."
"Sherlock, I think you might be stimulating the wrong juices."
Holmes glanced down at the front of his trousers.
"Yes, I see. Some leakage. It was the grey cells I meant to stimulate ... No matter.
Let's just enjoy."
Davie was next and last in line, a fine specimen of Scots boyhood. His head of flame- red hair, his broad chest, his hairy tree-trunk legs inflamed the libido. His vast cock, set in a wiry bush of russet red, was already at full attention. Its length and girth and weight meant that, when fully aroused as he was now, Davie required some assistance to wield the weapon. On this occasion little Michael Darling was at his side hefting the mighty shaft in both his hands.
"It's why they wear kilts with no underpants," Holmes remarked.
I turned to him with a puzzled look.
"Scotsmen," he confided. "Prodigious well endowed race, Watson. No trouser can handle the tadger of the pict and the underpant is still to be designed that could support such fulsome rod and ball."
Meantime Balfour had taken up position at the gate. The others gathered round to cheer him in. Young Mikey aimed, young Davie thrust, old Hook screamed a scream of wild delight.
The scotsman's balls bounced off the pirate arse, the shaft pistoned back and forth until it juddered to the hilt.
"Wow, look at Balfour buck," said John Darling, "like a bronco-rider on a wild horse!"
"More like he's riding a worn-out old nag," sneered Hawkins, affectionately running his hand along the Darling butt crack.
"No, I'm a rodeo cowboy, riding the wild angus bull,"
said Balfour, one hand
waving his hat in the air, the other slapping his mount's buttock.
"And I'm a matador," said little Michael, walking around to the head of the bed, whipping off his red shorts and waving them in front of James' ruddy face, yelling "Toro, toro." The captain's eyes seemed to follow Michael's little bobbing dickie more than the red flag and a globule of drool dripped from the captain's mouth.
I guessed then that there was a tender, softer side to the pirate captain, one that loved children
"And I am the picador," chimed in John, grabbing James' sword.
"I want to play too" said the Lost Boys in a raccoon suit.
"You can be the banderillero," John suggested, plucking an ostrich feather from James' hat. "After I make the first stab, you plant the banderilla next to it."
You know, my dear readers, I recall how I used to play bullfighter with my own grandfather many years since, me holding the flag, him charging over the lawn, hands on his head with a finger out, pretending they were horns.
Ah, the halcyon days of youth! It was a heart warming scene, really, now to be watching the infamous James Hook, pirate of the high seas and captain of the Jolly Roger, flying the skull and cross bones no less, innocently playing bull and bull fighters with the sweet little munchkins. It brought a tear to my eye, almost, it did. Guess we all get sentimental in our old age.
John moved as if to prick the bull in the rump, but instead stabbed the pillow underneath, mercifully.
"Bull's eye" exclaimed John, triumphantly.
"Careful with that," warned Balfour, eyeing the blade just inches from his prick.
Darling John laughed and the next time Balfour pulled out a way he thrust his hand between Balfour's belly and Hook's arse and gripped the aforementioned tool.
Davie paused mid-thrust while John squeezed hard.
"Still in one rock solid piece," John reassured.
Balfour smiled.
"You can play with it later. But for now, out of the way, Darling, I've got some serious fucking to do."
And with that Davie Balfour pushed hard his cock into the captain's hole.
"You don't stab him there, not in his ass, you gotta prick the bull in the neck," advised Hawkins, moving behind John and putting his own hand over John's hand on the sword, pulling it out of the pillow and moving towards the neck to demonstrate. While he did this, Jim Hawkins rubbed his stiffening cock against John's rump.
It was funny how James' eyes almost bulged out of their sockets as the point of his own sword danced around his neck. Of course the boys were only play-acting, but with both of them trying to take control of the sword and distracting each other, they just might inadvertently slit a throat, and we would never solve the case of the Blue Rose Rapist if we lost our key witness this early in the game.
"Sorry boys, I know you're having fun, but we're supposed to be re-enacting the crime scene, not playing bull- fighter, so just put that sword back where you found it."
The boys obeyed, pouting, while I pulled the gag out of the captain's mouth. While James was still spitting fluff out of his mouth and trying to catch his breath, I questioned him.
"Captain James, judging from your, uhm, intimate experience, are any of the suspects we tested thus far likely to have been the Blue Rose Rapist?"
"My, I am getting too old for this, nearly had a heart attack," gasped James. "But no, no, these boys haven't the equipment, except for this last one, young ooh, ooh, young Balfour here. His ooh, ride actually carries an impressive resemblance to the original crime. I think I should like oohm, like to question him on his own, say an hour after
supper tonight?"
Sherlock intervened:
"No, I am sorry captain James, this is the responsibility of the investigator. But rest assured I will question young Balfour myself tonight, in my private quarters, in great detail, and will personally give his weapon a most thorough examination."
"YES!" interrupted Balfour, his body spasming with his final thrust into the captain, then juddering to a halt.
Dave threw back his head as the juice poured from his balls, round, through his prick to be jetted at high speed into the waiting rectum. The captain let out a low plaintive groan as Balfour withdrew his meat and dismounted.
Seeing the captain' s hole freshly exposed now, the little raccoon walked up and planted his bandillero. The captain, with his head down and his feathered ass elevated, reminded me somewhat of a plucked ostrich, and the kids, they too all had to laugh at the sight. It was so endearing, seeing them all have such a grand time, I had to whisk a tear from my eye.
Peter pounded his chest and crowed.
"Go on, say I'm a big cod no, a big chicken."
And with that we decided to adjourn.
"Holmes," I reproved him, "we are no further forward."
"Nonsense, dear chap. We have the sawdust, the feathers, the strong scent of cheese, the strange markings on the bum-cheek and the knots. Do not forget the knots."
I turned this over in my mind. Realisation came quickly.
"Of course, Holmes. Boy scouts!"
Holmes glanced at me and shook his head.
"It is time to consider the adult passengers. Mr Alan Breck, I think. A lusty rogue methinks, Watson, or I don't know my lusty rogues."
"Ah, yes, the Scotchman who has earned young Balfour's gratitude," I remarked.
"I think we can assume yon Davie has shown prodigious gratitude," agreed Holmes.
I began to wonder if Holmes might need assistance in his examination of the Balfour tool. After all, two heads and four hands are better for the examination of such a fine weapon.