The Case of the Thrusting Fatty
"You want this… you want it don't you, you bad boy."
The plum pudding sat wet and glistening. Mycroft Holmes picked it up and began to suck on one of the fruits protruding from the pastry.
"Mycroft?"
"Ack, ack, ack!" Mycroft quickly stuffed the treat into his trousers. "What do you want, Watson?"
"It's Sherlock, he's missing." Watson shuffled into the office, his forehead as crinkled as a handbag that had been left on top of a trash heap in the Sardinian summer.
"And? What? So what?" Mycroft shifted, feeling a small secret thrill as the pudding squished against his penis. He did not wear underpants. Underpants were for the stupid. Truly sophisticated men like himself hid their Forbidden Treats upon their person. As of that second, there was a Skittle lodged near his arsehole.
"He could be hurt!" John stomped one of his little feet. "I have nothing to BLOG."
"Listen Watson, we have more important things to worry about here in the guvvy-ment. We have to worry about taxes, and drones, and dead men in gimp masks."
"Wait, what?"
"Lestrade is dead, he died as a gimp. We found him in the Thames. His ribs had been crushed and his dick had been mashed into a wad."
"Oh no! He was a good boy!"
"The most succulent boy. But alas, he's being spanked by God now."
"If Sherlock was here he could solve the case!"
BEEP BEEP, beeped Mycroft's phone. A message flashed on the screen.
IT ME.
WHO YOU? Mycroft typed back.
THE FATTY.
Mycroft gasped.
"John. You must leave."
"But –"
"LEAVE NOW!" Mycroft leapt across the desk and karate chopped John in the neck, making him fall to the floor. John's head smacked into the carpet, and his skull was so weak that his brain rattled in his head and he lost consciousness. Weak, John, weak. As weak as a starving bug.
[BREAK]
Mycroft had been communicating with a freak who only called himself 'The Fatty' for the last two weeks. The Fatty never showed his face, but sent plenty of pics of the rest of him. His sweaty stomach rolls, his jiggling bottom, his swollen and distended sperm salami. It drove Mycroft wild.
As he waited on the corner of Plimpy Street, a dirty van chugged up to him.
"It me." A big obese bastard in a balaclava peered out at him. "We fuck now."
Mycroft gasped, looking like a goldfish with a big nose. He raced around to the passenger side and got in.
The van drove away to a secluded park. The Fatty said nothing. Mycroft's boner strained against the soggy pudding in his pants.
Once the van's engine had been cut, The Fatty took off the balaclava. Mycroft gasped.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock nodded. "It me," he said again, his voice changed through cunning use of helium balloon.
"But how… but how did you get so fat?"
"I have decided to destroy my body and brain through Cheetos and crystal meth. For every hit of meth, I would eat twenty bags of Cheetos, to keep the weight on. I called it Cheestal meth."
"But why?"
"Because I want to FUCK!" Sherlock banged his pudgy paw angrily on the van horn.
"BLUUUUUUUUUURRRRRNNNNTTT!" Said the van.
"But you can fuck as a detective!"
"No! I have no time to fuck! Only as The Fatty can I fuck! My cock is free of the constraints of crime!"
Mycroft was both horny and disgusted. But, as when he watched festish porn, eventually the horniness won out.
"Then let's fuck!"
Sherlock smuggled him into the back of the van, and then smothered him with his fat. Mycroft groaned as a big fat tit smooshed into his face.
"Ooo-er, oof!"
Sherlock now had both tits wrapped around Mycroft's face, and was wriggling his rolls all over his brother. After a substantial amount of motorboating, Sherlock removed Mycroft's trousers.
"What's THIS?"
Sherlock plucked the pud off of Mycroft's penis.
"I can explain!"
Sherlock ate the pud. "Don't. It will be our secret snack."
Mycroft wriggled as Sherlock invaded his anal orifice with his stiff beef.
"Hungh hungh hungh!"
"Ack ack ack!"
About thirty minutes into intercourse, Mycroft keeled over, dead. Sherlock smiled. He knew the Skittle was near Mycroft's bumhole. Brothers had no secrets. All it needed was a shove in the right direction to lodge in Mycroft's brain. He killed his brother through shooting a Skittle candy through his body chute with his chunky beanus. Later he would dump Mycroft's body in the river.
[break]
"Wow!"
All week Sherlock had been sending him vacation pics, after reassuring Watson that he was fine. There he was, looking slim and sexy near the pyramids. There he was, looking slim and sexy near the leaning Tower of Pisa. And finally, looking slim and sexy near a tower of pizza boxes by his hotel bedside in Belfast.
BEEP BEEP! Beeped Watson's phone.
IT ME.
Watson went red, and went to the garden to answer his phone away from Mary. He didn't want her to know that he had been speaking with… The Fatty.
But it was no secret that Watson liked to cruise. Often he'd come home and Mary would sniff him in the dark. He smelt like beer, cigarettes, and cock cocktail juice.
"What do you want?"
"I WANT TO FUCK!"
The game was afoot. Watson agreed to meet The Fatty at the Dawchester Hotel. When The Fatty revealed his true persona, Watson was shocked.
"But you were so slim in the photos!"
"Photoshop." Fat Sherlock lounged on the bed, his obese ballsack swaying to and fro. "Fuck time," his lips murmured from his balaclava hole.
Watson soon found his lips murmuring on rim of another hole. Sherlock's ASSHOLE.
"Mwuhmwuhmwuhmwuh," mumbled Watson as he gave Sherlock a rimjob. The detective's bumhole tasted like garlic butter. He'd only been eating ass for five minuted when he could feel sense a moist warmth closing in.
"Nooo!"
"Whee!" Sherlock clapped his ass cheeks together with a twerk of such force that Watson's brain gave a final rattle and he keeled over, dead.
[break]
"I did it baby. I did it all for you."
"Sherlock, you can stop sucking on those ridiculous balloons now."
Sherlock breathed in the helium from the Donald Duck balloon in defiance, making Donald's face crumple so hard it looked like the avian had a severe meth addiction.
"No! I love it!"
Moriarty bobbed up and down in his pool of chocolate pudding. "You know what I love, baby?"
"TO FUCK!"
"TO FUCK!"
Sherlock jumped into the chocolate pudding pool, the gravity and his girth causing a whole lotta pud to splatter on the walls. It had all been a cunning and effective ruse between the two of them. Eliminate their enemies so they can fuck in peace.
"Ooonce, oonce, oonce," Moriarty grunted, as Sherlock dug his fingers into his breast meat and shook his tiny tits. "Waaaah," breathed Sherlock, looking at Moriarty's nipples turn into a rosy blur.
Moriarty prodded Sherlock's humungous asshole, getting it ready. Moriarty was always the top, just in case Sherlock got any ideas in his head.
But Sherlock did have an idea in his head… and a cyanide capsule in his ASS.
"No! Nooooo!" The poison soaked into Moriarty's dick, even as it seeped into Sherlock's anal orifice.
"The Ultimate Fuck…" Sherlock sighed, as the men died. Their bodies sank into the chocolate pool. The detective was finally at peace, getting dicked in dessert. He just wanted to fuck.
FIN.