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Sherlock Holmes And The Case Of The Spanking Dervish (Grendel Butler)


Sherlock Holmes And The Case Of The Spanking Dervish by Grendel Butler

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London 1888: Overshadowed by the exploits of Jack the Ripper, another serial criminal is creating fear and alarm among the wealthier residents of London. Dubbed “The Spanking Dervish”, the miscreant targets young ladies late at night, breaking into their homes, pulling them from their beds, ripping off their nightclothes and administering a severe thrashing to their naked backsides before disappearing into the darkness. When he attacks a lady of the Royal Household, Queen Victoria is not amused and calls in Sherlock Holmes to catch the perpetrator, much to the consternation of the ever-faithful yet singularly innocent Dr Watson when Holmes deems it necessary to visit specialist brothels to research the case.

Grendel Butler brilliantly recreates the style and atmosphere of the original Sherlock Holmes stories in this witty, exciting and mildly erotic tale of Victorian London.

Product type: EBook    Published by: Strict Publishing Intl.    Published: 3 / 2011

No. words: 39300

Style: Just Spanking, Historical Erotica , General Erotica

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Excerpt

“I mostly write articles on historical subjects,” she said, “Which is all jolly interesting, but – gosh – not half as exciting as having Holmes and Watson in my bedroom.”

Holmes smiled at her as I have rarely seen him smile at a woman. She was certainly a new breed. A few years previous, a woman taking a degree was almost unheard of. There were still few opportunities and much prejudice against the notion. It was a prejudice I did not share. Miss Nightingale had taught us that a woman could possess profound intellect, commitment, and the stamina to achieve great things. Besides, education offered avenues of fulfilment to a plain woman like Dr Huntley, who might otherwise lead an empty and purposeless life as a family encumbrance.

“You’re a very accomplished young woman,” I said, looking round at the thousands of books filling the walls.

“Not so much of the young, you naughty man,” she giggled, wagging a scolding finger in my face. “I’m thirty-four, on the shelf, and I’ll almost certainly remain there.”

“Nonsense,” I said with a greater show of conviction than I felt, for I feared she was right.

She patted my hand, very forwardly I thought. “You’re a kind man, doctor, but men in general don’t wish to marry plain girls with glasses who have careers. And I’ve no intention of giving up my career to become a dumb little wifey, despite the compensations.” She shrugged. “Not that I’m likely to be asked.”

I strove in vain to find a convincing rebuttal, but Holmes mercifully stepped in and rescued me.

“The facts of last night’s attack, Dr Huntley,” he began, and I noticed how she beamed at him when he unerringly used her academic title. “Would you care to tell us exactly what happened – if you feel able?”

“Of course I do!” she began excitedly, with huge eyes. “Well! I’d been reading in bed as usual and I suppose I’d fallen asleep over my book with my lamp still burning. I frequently do that, you know. Anyway! I awoke, I think quite suddenly. The lamp had burned too low to read by, but it still afforded feeble light. My glasses had fallen off my face, as they often do, but I could still see vague blotches of dark shadow moving on the opposite wall, and I knew that someone was prowling around in my room.”

“How terrifying for you,” I said with genuine feeling.

She giggled. “Don’t be silly! I’d heard of this man attacking pretty young things hereabouts, you see, but I never dreamed he’d turn his attentions to a crusty old bluestocking like me.”

“You do yourself an injustice, dear lady” I assured her.

“Oh, tosh!” she continued breathlessly, and in the nicest possible way. “Anyway! I peered over my books and there he was, by the door, locking it or barricading it, I suppose. My glasses were off and all I could see was a blur, but he was clearly doing something of the sort. I’d read in some of the more entertaining newspapers that he did that preparatory to making his attack. Gosh! I thought. How awfully exciting!”

“Calm yourself, dear lady.”

“Don’t fuss, doctor!” She patted my hand again. “Anyway! I wondered whether I should start moving my books off the bed to make room, but I didn’t want to frighten him off so I surreptitiously popped my glasses on my nose, laid back terribly still, and screwed my eyes shut. I didn’t have long to wait. Before I knew it, he was ripping off the bedclothes. Oh! He was so flamboyant. He tore them all off with one majestic sweep of his strong arm and, of course, all the books fell off the bed with an enormous crash. There was silence then. I opened my eyes to see him standing, frozen and poised, listening for footsteps and sounds of general alarm. ‘It’s all right,’ I whispered to him. ‘I’m always doing that. No one takes any notice. Come on!’”

“You surely didn’t want him to attack you, dear lady?” I cried, for the notion of any woman welcoming such an outrage was inconceivable.

“Don’t fuss, doctor!” She patted my hand again, several times, and I fancied her fingers lingered, before she continued her torrent of words. “Anyway! He was upon me then. Ooh! He was so strong and masterful! He loomed over me like an avenging god, in his mask and his big green nightshirt. Then, he grasped me by the hair and ripped the front of my nightie right down, and all my wobbly bits spilled out in the dim light. Then, seizing my wrist with a grip of steel, he hauled me onto my stomach and ripped the back of my nightie right off me so I was completely naked. Completely! Not a stitch, you understand! I mean,” she continued breathlessly, her eyes like plates while her free hand fanned her face. “You read of Arab sheiks doing that sort of thing to English women they’ve captured as slaves, but I never dreamed it would happen to me. Golly! I thought. What an adventure!”

I was becoming seriously concerned for her. “But weren’t you… weren’t you terrified that he might… er… er…”

“Ravish me?”

“Well…”

“I suppose he might have, if he’d had time. It’s what the Arab sheik would have done, isn’t it?”

“I fear so,” I said gravely.

“And the light was burning very low, so he couldn’t clearly see what a fright I am, so I suppose he might have. Anyway, while I was lying there, squirming as provocatively as I could for him, I saw him pull out his huge whip.”

“Weren’t you terrified then?”

“Gosh, no! It was all too exciting. He stood over me, dragging the tail of the big whip lazily across my naked body a few times and I started getting this wonderfully tingly feeling all over, just like I used to when I was caned at school. I was a very, very naughty girl at school, you see, just so that I would get the cane because I loved the tingly feeling so much. Anyway. He dragged the tail of his big whip across my naked body a few more times, across my bottom and down my legs. The tingly feeling became almost unbearable and I started writhing uncontrollably. ‘Are you going to start whipping me now?’ I whispered, wriggling my bottom in the air.”

“Why did you whisper?” I asked, bemused, and deeply alarmed by her bizarre reaction to her ordeal.

“Silly man!” She was stroking my hand now. “Because I didn’t want anyone outside to hear me, did I? But he said not a word.”

“Nothing?” asked Holmes sharply.

“Nothing, through the whole electrifying encounter,” she said, still breathless. “There’s something wonderfully masterful about a man who remains silent and just takes what he wants, don’t you think, Mr Holmes?”

“Didn’t he even hiss a threat?” asked Holmes, completely unmoved by her disturbing raptures.

“Not a hiss, not a whisper, not a word. Anyway! He set to work then, and started whipping my bottom. Oh! He whipped it and whipped it and whipped it. The tingly feeling became so intense that I thought I might die, and so – silly me – I started screaming with the sheer agonised delight of it while he whipped, and whipped, and whipped without mercy.”

She stopped to draw breath, and I glanced sadly at Holmes. My anxiety at Dr Huntley’s distressing state of mind was profound, but his expression remained inscrutable and hawklike in its intensity.

“And what happened after that?”

“Well – worst luck – just as it was getting really exhilarating, there was a fearful banging at the door. The whipping abruptly stopped. There was shadowy movement by the window, and he was gone. Next second, as I lay there, still panting and tingling, the door fell in and Greavus our butler and daddy were in the room. They rushed across to the open window, climbed through it, and disappeared down the fire escape. Typical daddy!” she added forlornly. “He’s never there when you want him but he always barges in when you don’t.”

Holmes walked to the window, opened it, and looked out at the fire escape. “Did you get a good look at your attacker?” he asked absently.

“Well, not as good a look as I would have liked, because my glasses fell off my nose again at an early stage in the proceedings, and I’m as blind as a bat without them. Anyway, he was disguised in a green thing and a mask of some sort. But what I do know is that he was big, and strong… and assertive… and so, so masterful, completely unlike the dry weedy types I meet in the British Museum reading room – the sort who wouldn’t be able to rip a woman’s nightie off and whip her bottom if they tried for millions of years.”

“But no gentleman would dream of trying,” I said with feeling, still trying to calm her down.

“Oh, tosh!” Her eyes popped behind her thick lenses. “He was a gentleman all right – not that I’d have minded if he wasn’t.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Holmes, sharply.

“What?” she squinted. “That I wouldn’t have minded if he wasn’t?”

“No, Dr Huntley. What makes you certain that he was a gentleman, if he was masked and wearing a green disguise?”

“By his hands, of course. Or perhaps I should say hand. The hand that ripped off the front of my nightie was wonderfully strong and masculine, but at the same time, soft, clean, and superbly manicured, and it smelled of soap.”

“Interesting.” Holmes tapped his teeth with his pipe. “And what about the mask and disguise? Can you describe those?”

“Well, the mask covered his face and the disguise was green.”

“A sort of nightshirt, as the papers, say?”

“A nightshirt. Absolutely.”

“And the mask?”

She shrugged. “Well, it was a mask… you know.” She put her hand before her face and squinted at us between her fingers, giggling.

Holmes glanced out of the window and thought awhile. “Did you tell Doctor Willis any of this?” he asked.

“Gosh no! He’d have told daddy.” She gulped. “I do hope you’re not going to tell daddy everything I’ve said. He might not understand.”

“Have no fear, Dr Huntley,” said Holmes, gently. “My consultations are entirely confidential.”


Reviews

This is good stuff, a plot and characters and plenty of friction. Where did this guy go? We want more! 4 out of 5 (Innconnu)

External Reviews

I have always loved Holmes and Watson, but so much of the Holmes apocrypha disappoints - thinly disguised reworks of Conan Doyle originals, and others that neither taste nor feel like Holmes at all. But here we have a rare thing indeed - a tale that lives and breathes the atmosphere of the originals, but with a delicious touch of naughtiness added, as the Dervish stalks London administering his fearsome spankings and his lady victims tell Holmes of their harrowing (and sometimes not so harrowing) ordeals at his hands. Holmes remains Holmes throughout, remote and intense. Watson threatens to give the villain the thrashing if his life. The banter between them is as wonderful as it is in the originals. All the usual characters are there, Lestrade, Mycroft, and Mrs Hudson. Even Queen Victoria makes a brief appearance. Marvellous! Please write us another, Mr Butler. (Amazon Kindle)

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