All is Satisfactory, Watson!

Sherbob smoothly inserted his tootentipper into the smiling Lady, and within approximately eleven seconds his eyes crossed in a perplexed fashion like those of the character Yosemite Sam in the as-yet uncreated Bugs Bunny cartoons.

"I do apologize, madam," he said, sweating profusely. "I have released my spend before I was able to spear the Gemstone."

"That is quite all right," Lady Dippingham replied, breathless. "I fear the selfish writhing of my hips in orgasm may have deflected your baldlord from its intended course. Perhaps a slightly longer tool will more easily achieve the intended effect?"

"Watkins," Hoames said, buttoning his trousers, "perhaps you can be of some assistance in this matter?"

I stepped forward and produced for the lady's inspection what I believed might be a more efficient and more durable device with which to draw the matter to a close.

"Mister Watkins!" exclaimed Lady Dippingham with a starry-eyed sigh. "It is a wonder your Miss Gunkenloaf survived even a fortnight after your breakup without the attentions of this particular manservant!"

"Well, she was really, really, really goddamned stupid," I told her. "Madam, would you mind if I undid your bodice to motivate myself to full potential?"

"Anything you say, baby!" Miss Dippingham said cheerfully, and with the freeing of her magnificent huge psalms to public inspection, I felt myself approach a state more than adequate to explore her inner reaches. I drew the tip of my moistened candleprod across her stiffening lickables for the sheer experience of it, then proceeded with my investigations.

We were led to a most happy conclusion within mere minutes. Certain angles of entry were found to be more conducive to detecting the Very Nice Gemstone than others, and thus it was my pleasure to service Lady Dippingham not only in the staid missionary position, but with her thrusting merrily down on top of me. Finally, she was Dippinghammed in a most hearty manner as she jovially bent over on all fours, releasing delighted but decidedly weird cries of "HOW'S YOUR BROCCOLI, BITCH?!" every seven seconds or so. In the end, I withdrew my ardent soldier to find that the Gemstone had blessedly hitched a ride upon it, and all was quite well—or so we thought!

It was Lady Dippingham who brought about the next unforeseen disaster. Anxious to clamp her ruby lips upon me and swallow the summerjuice that had begun to leap from my diggle like a team of Russian acrobats at the Bolshoi, she inadvertently sucked the Gemstone right down her cream-loving throat!

"Oopsie," she announced, wiping her mouth and grinning sheepishly.

"Lady Dippingham," Hoames pronounced, "I'll tell you what I told Marie Curie: you are one hot, nasty slut."

The case was finally resolved as were about half of Hoames' famous cases in those days—with the two of us frantically making a cardboard replica of a priceless gemstone in order to fool some chick's husband that nothing was awry. All the stress was most certainly worth it, however, for the few fleeting minutes we experienced amidst the glories of Lady Dippingham's unquenchable young softberry. Oh, that Sunday was not perhaps as awesome as the whole Hound of the Flaskervilles mystery—damn, did we get our pipes cleaned that weekend! But when you're stuck living in Victorian England with little to do but wait for the invention of pizza and Jenny McCarthy, any distraction is a welcome distraction.