It was a dark and stormy night upon the blasted moors of Nether Scrotum as detective Scrimshaw and his sister, Amygdyla, who swore that she had never known a man in the biblical sense, meandered from one tussock of sawgrass to another in pursuit of clues to the whereabouts of one Calcium, a local grain merchant, pickpocket, and orphanage embezzler.
They had followed Calcium’s footsteps through fens and copses, losing the trail only past midnight when the expected fogbank slummed in from the nearby Phaeces Fjiord, blocking the light of the full moon and rendering their chase futile, despite their rugged outdoor hand lamps.
Amygdyla suggested a standard search pattern sweep in the hope of finding some remnant of Calcium’s cloak on the sharp-edged sawgrass, locally known as “tattersnare”. But after an hour of diligent, serpentine searching, they found nothing.
Scrimshaw called a halt to their endeavors and pulled a large silver flask from the inside pocket of his Trathamshire Doublet camelhair overcoat, and took a mighty swig. He scrunched his eyes in pain as the cheap brandy burned its way down his throat, and he proffered the flask in the general direction of his sister. He felt the familiar touch of her fingers as the flask was unloaded from his grasp. He heard her take several smaller, more feminine swallows of the harsh brew, before he was able to open his eyes and brush away the tears.
He coughed loudly, harrumphed, and then spat on the fern-encrusted ground in that manly way that the men of Nether Scrotum were traditionally wont to do. He turned to his sister, who was neatly capping the flask.
“Amygdyla, dammit all to hell! What is this claptrap I hear about you never having known a man in the biblical sense? Is it true?”
“Quiet, Scrimshaw! Your burly voice can be heard all the way to Moistmerkin in this befogged silence. And what matters if it’s true or not? You can moot the question any time you like by removing my knickers, parting my thighs, and plunging your stolid manhood deep inside my quivering quim. I’ve told you that ever since we were abandoned by our pernicious parents at the orphanage, and it’s a reflection of your cowardice that you never have.”
“I am NOT a coward, madam, and I’ll be triced in a fig to encumber such statements about my honor, even if they come from my own beloved sister. Now, say you, what path did Calcium take? He knows this territory well, they say.”
“Dear brother, if I were Calcium, and knowing the umbrage he has harvested from the local townfolk of Moistmerkin, I would hazard that his path would turn here, follow the edge of the marsh, and eventually lay up at Cockscourt Mill a mile hence. He owns that mill, as is commonly known. I would warrant that he keeps a horse there, for just such emergencies. From thence, it is only three miles to Cockscourt village. And you are, too, a coward.”
She stepped into the light of his lamp facing him straight away, and with sudden speed lifted the hems of her skirt and slips. She held her lamp at waist level in front of her, to aid in the illumination of her crotch. Other than the lace waist belt from which her stockings were supported, and the stockings themselves, her nether region was naked. Scrimshaw’s gaze was rudely locked upon her neatly shaved quim, and the artful heart which had been painted above it with lipstick. Before he could bluster his outraged objection, she dropped her skirts and turned away.
“Woman, I’ll have you stop that nonsense! Your puerile sense of humor will come to haunt us one day, mark my words! We have work to do! And Calcium is making good his escape while you trifle with my sensibilities in such a vulgar manner. Come! Here is a path leading to Cockscourt if memory serves me correct.”
“Yes, brother, dear. You are right as always. Lead on. I am right behind you.”
Cockscourt Mill was dark and unoccupied, so they marched unflaggingly onward through the dark, as the trail joined others and became a wide, if somewhat muddy, road. They were in sight of the Cock and Pussy, a popular inn, ale house and bordello, when Scrimshaw called for a halt.
"I propose to empty my bladder here in the fragrant night air, rather than expose myself to the noxious latrine rooms of yonder inn. Amygdyla? If you will?"
"Certainly, dear brother. You know I am always at your beck and call."
The comely lass, attired in Victorian Era fashion, set her lamp on the ground alongside her brother's, and then attended to the unbuttoning of his Scottish wool breeches, while Scrimshaw himself brought out his leather tobacco pouch and filled a pipe with Three Nuns burley blend. He tamped the tobacco firmly with his sterling silver buttner, and lit it with a dry twig he had ignited in the flame of one of the lamps.
As Scrimshaw sucked in and lit his pipe, surrounding them both with the fragrant smoke, his sister extracted his manhood, ten full inches of human penis flesh, and grasping it gently in her soft hand, pointed it at the roots of a nearby elm.
Scrimshaw puffed out more smoke and closed his eyes. Amygdyla watched in fascination as a mighty stream of steaming urine arced down and noisily made a puddle at the foot of the tree. She thrilled as she hefted the massive organ, and surreptitiously felt with her fingertips, the veins carved upon its warm yielding suface. She permitted herself to imagine this self-same organ distended and bloated with carnal lust, throbbing with the imminent need to ejaculate -- this organ erect and penetrating her ravenous womb. She reveled in the resultant flow of warm fluids within her female organ of reproduction as she, in her imagination, embraced the vile fantasy.
But she neither moaned nor in any way revealed her inner turmoil. As was her filial duty, she assisted her brother in draining his bladder. When the stream lessened and stopped, she shook her brother's penis clean, and returned it back into his trousers, careful to place it down the left trouser leg, and equally careful to verify that his bull-like testicles were safely supported by his linen undergarment.
Scrimshaw blew out a huge, fragrant smoke ring.
"Thank you, Amygdyla. I do so hate to entrust my urination to the hands of strangers. Our father taught you well."
Amygdyla humbly nodded, and proceeded to refasten his trouser buttons.
"Yes, dear brother. I only wish that on some future occasion, you would allow me to insert your manhood into my mouth, so that I might cause it to become erect. In this manner, and with much gentle stroking of my hands and lips, I could also relieve you of your other fluids. Your potent manly fluids."
"Here! Here! Watch your tongue, woman! It is permissible, nay, even necessary for men of powerful urges to speak that way to one another, but I will not have a woman of my own flesh and blood to do so. I can only wish you would find a man -- of honor, of course -- to trifle with. Let him know you in the biblical sense, and shed yourself once and for all of these lustful demons."
"But dear brother, as I have said before, my demons shall only be expunged by the manly thrusting of your erect cock within my moist sisterly cunt."
He took a final puff from his pipe and knocked it empty on the heel of his Shropshire leather boots.
"That shall hardly happen in our lifetimes, dear sister. Now, away with us to yon inn. Speaking of manly fluids, I believe I shall find a suitable trollop here to spill my seed into. A man of my potency requires such relief at least once a day, or he may come down with goiter or gout."
"Yes, dear brother. Say, do you see that horse tied up outside the stable? Does its saddle not bear the mark of Calcium? The same motif was visible on Cockscourt Mill."
"By Jove, you're right, Amygdyla! Calcium is here!"
The detective and his sister entered the Cock and Pussy, and were immediately assaulted by the odors of sweat and smoky cook fires, and by the noise of raucous voices and singing. They fought their way through the melee to the bar itself, where the proprietor was serving out drinks and hollering orders to his serving wenches. Scrimshaw banged on the counter with the flat of his hand.
"Good sir! I can put an extra shilling in your pocket for good service. Quick, I say!"
The proprietor spat in a cuspidor and wiped his red walrus mustache on his sleeve.
"Ahh, good evening to your lordship. How may I be of service?"
"I shall require two pints of your best Guinness, and a private room for my sister, for one night. For myself, I will need the services of your best harlot, a woman of youth and good manners, to drain my manly fluids and preserve my noble name."
"Ahh, your lordship, you need to speak to my wife, Philatio, as she runs the bordello upstairs."
Scrimshaw thanked him, then obtained a corner table where he and his sister could watch for the presence of Calcium without being detected.
A while later, the proprietor picked up their empty steins. "Can I interest your lordship in a bowl of mutton stew?"
Scrimshaw glanced at the bubbling cauldron in the fireplace to which the proprietor pointed.
"Yes, some mutton broth would be the thing.