It was a dreary, grey, and rainy day as our car rolled up the long, winding driveway to Agnes Hall, looming just outside the city. It‘s a stretch to say the car drove us; Lockshire drove us, as he always did, with his usual unyielding focus. I was merely a passenger, though in his eyes, more than that—a decorative ornament, a mantle-piece brought to life for his use. My role was clear: to distract and entice, to lure his suspects with the sway of my hips and the persuasion of my, if I may say so, perfect body.
I took pride in my appearance, after all. At twenty-five, my figure was still manageable without much effort, and I was blessed with curves that made men practically die cumming on my milky white bosom. I didn’t hide what nature had generously given me; why would I? With a quick flip of the sun visor, I caught sight of my green eyes in the mirror, framed by a bright cascade of red hair. God, I looked stunning that day. The slightly sheer top I wore perfectly enhanced my to-die-for breasts, and whenever I gaze at myself like that, I can't help but feel a familiar heat stirring inside me. I’m lucky that way.
We had already tackled countless cases together, Lockshire and I, though I doubted this would be anything out of the ordinary. As usual, he would claim the limelight, and I would play my part, just like always. Lockshire Bones—a dreadful man, really. His reputation preceded him, a legend whispered in hushed reverence and incredulous awe. I’ll give him that much; his mind is a labyrinth of unfathomable depths, with an uncanny ability to unravel the most elusive riddles. The deeper you try to bury your secrets, the deeper he digs to unearth them.
Yes, I hate how Lockshire always basks in the spotlight, and yes, I’m envious. You fucking bet.
“Ah, here we are, Jo,” he exclaimed in that borderline demeaning tone as the car stopped in front of the massive and quite unnecessarily large stone stairs.
“Dr. Dr. Watts,” I reminded him. My voice was steady and just a bit sharp. It was always the same game between us—he loved to prod, and I refused to let him see me squirm.
He flashed a half-smirk, his gray eyes gleaming with something like amusement. “Of course. How could I forget?”
“You didn’t forget, you prick,” I thought, but before I could come up with a properly stinging reply, the hollers from atop the stairs abrupted us.
"Mr. Bones! Mr. Bones!"
There he was—Lester Stade, such a handsome man. Even as he hurried down the stairs, I caught a familiar whiff of his scent, a mix of musk and cologne that lingered in my memory. He smelled more of man than he perhaps was, but he more than made up for it with his fantastic body. Countless times, he’d had me heaving for breath with the most intense orgasms. Not the brightest investigator, perhaps, but a cock to die for. I found myself surprisingly pleased to see him.
We met him halfway up the stairs. Lockshire strode confidently ahead while I followed with a slower, more deliberate elegance.
"What brings you here, Bones?" Lester inquired, his tone a touch defensive. "Surely, this one’s pretty straightforward."
"Obviously, Mr. Stade," Lockshire replied smoothly, "but when a high-profile man dies, the department wouldn’t want you jumping to the wrong conclusions and embarrassing yourselves, now would they?"
Lester's expression faltered for just a moment. "Yes. Quite," he muttered, then brightened as his eyes landed on me. "Ah! Dr. Watts! How wonderful to see you again!"
His smile always made me tingle, and when his hand brushed against mine, a warm shiver ran down my spine.
"Likewise," I murmured, my voice slipping into a deep, husky tone.
My thoughts wandered to Lester’s hard pecs, his hard abs, and to the massive girth…
“The two of you can indulge in your fantasies later; we have work to do!” Lockshire’s voice was cold as always. Besides, he was annoyingly right. This was not the time.
“What do we have, Lester?”
“You’re well aware of Byron Agnes. There’s undoubtedly no need for me to introduce him further. He was found dead in his study this morning by his assistant, Miss Alice Sway. She called the ambulance, but they could only confirm his death. Then, we got called in and hurried on our way. We’ve been here for about an hour, so here we are, Mr. Bones.”
Lockshire was unimpressed as we hurried up the stairs. My eyes were fixed on Lester’s firm bottom, playing out the familiar fantasy of what it would feel like to have him pressed against me, his body warm and inviting. He was every bit the handsome officer, his tailored trousers accentuating the curve of his behind as he ascended the stone steps. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had the same effect on all the women in the department or if I was particularly susceptible to his charm. Or his massive cock. Yeah, that could be it.
“Dr. Watts?” Lockshire’s voice broke through my reverie, returning my attention to the task at hand.
“Yes?” I replied, slightly flustered, shaking off the vivid daydream.
“Focus!”
“Tell that to my aching twat, you prick,” my mind said as my lips formed a silent “Yes.”
Agnes Hall was everything I hated about the rich: tasteless marble floors, granite walls, and large wooden doors. Each room was a testament to Byron Agnes's misguided sense of grandeur, as if he believed that gilding the halls with opulence could compensate for his lack of substance. The marble floors were cold and uninviting, devoid of warmth or character, while the stark granite walls loomed like a constant reminder of the wealth he flaunted but could never truly own.
Byron Agnes obviously saw himself as one of the English Lords of old, a figure plucked from dusty tales of chivalry and grandeur that had long since lost their charm. But in reality, the English Lords were a dying breed for a reason: the world had no use for them. They were relics of a bygone era, clinging to outdated ideals and traditions no longer relevant in the modern world. The very thought of Byron prancing around as if he belonged to that elite lineage made my skin crawl.
The grand staircase was perhaps the most egregious display of his pretentiousness, taking up more estate than most family homes. It curved high up to the second floor, a sweeping monument to his delusions of grandeur. Each step felt like a challenge, mocking me as I ascended, a reminder of the absurdity of it all. Did Mr. Agnes think he was living in a castle? Because that’s how it felt—an overblown fairy tale where he played the king, surrounded by sycophants who indulged his every whim.
Yet, the image of myself on my knees on those very steps, Lester pounding into me as we soiled the marble with our juices, was hard to shake. Like a bitch in heat, I would push back into his every thrust, each drive sending me spiraling into a gushing orgasm.
“What a lovely house!” Lockshire exclaimed, stealing yet another fantasy from me. His poor taste was a testament to just how grotesque the place was.
The décor was as distasteful as the architecture itself. Ornate chandeliers hung from the ceiling like monstrous icicles, casting harsh, artificial light illuminating the gaudy wallpaper. Every piece of furniture seemed chosen not for comfort or style but for its price tag, each item a trophy in his collection of ostentations.
“Cum stains,” I thought, “Cum stains, sweat, and overflowing pussies are the only thing that could salvage this furniture—give it any sort of life.”
As we entered the study, the pungent smell of death hit me; I was used to it by now—every job came with its own scent of decay. The study itself was just as grotesquely oversized and tasteless as everything else in Agnes Hall. Dead cowhide wrapped the oversized sofa tucked into the corner. I don’t mind leather, but it looks better on me than on furniture.
The centerpiece, of course, was the absurdly large desk. It was suspiciously neat, with only an empty glass on its massive mahogany surface.
Byron Agnes was a tall and sturdy man who had been surprisingly attractive in life. Yet, death doesn’t become anyone. His tall stature leaned back in its empty shell, still somehow mocking the world as if to tell it to fuck off.
Lockshire studied the corpse. “No doubt you’ve concluded heart failure, Lester?”
“Well,” my handsome man stuttered, “it’s the main theory…”
“Enough! Everything about this place smells like murder! Don’t make a mockery of yourself!”
Lockshire donned his vinyl gloves, picked up the glass, examined it, and sniffed. “You should ensure this corpse is sent to competent care. I’m sure they’ll find his system full of toxins. Enough to kill an elephant, I’m sure. At least enough to make this dinosaur extinct. And send this glass for trace evidence.”
“Yes, sir,” Lester replied, his voice heavy with resignation as he sighed deeply.
“And have your men round up everyone in this household in the dining room. Oh, and ensure they’re competent enough to bring all of them.”
The dining room was steeped in the awkwardness of mourning, a palpable discomfort that lingered in the air. Two women, embracing between quiet sobs, were clearly related—sisters, as I quickly surmised. Diana, the older of the two at thirty, wore the weight of grief heavily on her face, while Eve, younger at twenty-seven, outshone her sister in beauty, even with red-rimmed eyes. Their presence felt oddly out of place in Agnes Hall, though they seemed accustomed to its grandness.
In stark contrast to the sisters' shared comfort was Loretta Agnes, Byron’s second wife, seated at the far end of the table. Her expression was steely. She was a solitary figure who seemed to draw strength from herself rather than seek it from others. Her occasional dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief felt more like a performance than genuine mourning.
Around the table sat the rest of the household: Alice Sway, Byron’s young assistant, looked tired and disheveled, her long blonde hair falling over her blue eyes. She had undoubtedly dressed to impress this morning, but grief had worn down the careful presentation. Her white blouse strained against her full chest, and the tight skirt clung to the curves of her firm backside. There was no mistaking why Byron had chosen her as his assistant—she couldn’t have been older than her early twenties.
Daniel, the groundskeeper, sat at the table with his head in his hands. He was a rugged man, likely in his mid-thirties, though his downcast expression made it difficult to gauge what role he might have played in the life of Byron Agnes—or his death.
Standing by the kitchen entrance was the head housekeeper, Signe Hallvardsson. At forty, she had been in Mr. Agnes's service for over twenty years. Though there was a hint of the beauty she once had, time and resentment had etched lines deep into her face. She wore a mask of indifference, as if mourning was too much to ask. In a pinch, I might let her lick my snatch, but she’d not be my first choice. Right now, Alice was far more appealing.
Lockshire interrupted the tense silence with all the subtlety of a battering ram. “Ah, yes! I gather this is everyone?” he proclaimed, his tone devoid of discretion. “I don’t know whether to share my condolences for your loss or congratulate you on your new fortune.” His gaze fixed on the sisters, whose sulking intensified.
“Or perhaps it’s the grieving widow?” he continued, turning his attention to Loretta, who gasped in indignation.
Lockshire began to pace, surveying each face at the table. I had seen this performance countless times before. It didn’t enthrall me as it used to in our earlier years; I knew Lockshire enjoyed the power he wielded, the thrill of having everyone's attention, and I could sense how it aroused him.
“Or could it be one of the disgruntled staff?” he mused, eyes sharp as they scanned each expression. “The assistant, weary of late-night demands?” His gaze flicked briefly to Alice. “Or the housekeeper, neglected for years?”
He paused behind Daniel, resting his hand on his shoulder. “Or perhaps it was you, the groundskeeper? Tired of picking up the discarded scraps of your employer and seeking to free the estate from its tyrant?”
“How dare you?” Loretta spat, voice thick with contempt.
“How dare I?” Lockshire’s laugh was cutting. “Byron Agnes was a despicable man. His power lay in his wealth and insatiable appetite. When he couldn’t take, he bought; when he tired, he discarded.” His eyes met Signe's momentarily, and something unspoken passed between them.
The rattle of teacups on a trolley broke the charged silence. “What now?” Lockshire snapped, clearly exasperated. “When I said everyone, I meant it. What utter incompetence!”
“Sorry, I thought tea or coffee might be appreciated,” came a voice that drew my attention like a magnet.
The woman’s name—Christy Blake, I would later learn—wasn’t needed to recognize her allure. Her dark-brown skin glistened with a deep, rich sheen that highlighted every curve, her maid’s uniform hugging her body like a second skin. Her wavy hair framed her face, and her full lips curved into a teasing smile that promised much more than polite service. The outfit itself—a skimpy black skirt, a generous cleavage on display, and stockings that accentuated her long, luscious legs—was a cliché, but on her, it became a fantasy realized.
When she bent to pour a cup, the curve of her backside seemed to taunt me, its fullness begging to be worshiped. The thought of tasting her, burying my face between her thighs and drowning in her scent, surged through me, setting a fire in my core. I could feel my pulse quicken, and my lips parted with a soft moan before I could catch myself.
Christy’s eyes flicked up, amusement dancing within them as if she knew exactly what effect she was having on me. “Tea or coffee?” she asked, her voice a sultry melody that weakened my knees.
“Yes, please,” I murmured, the words catching in my throat, my desire palpable.
“We are done here, Dr. Watts!” Lockshire concluded, “Come to my room to discuss and share our findings. You do have rooms ready for us, Miss Hallvardsson?”
The head housekeeper seemed to snap out of her trance. She was obviously uneasy and not fully able to comprehend the scene that had just taken place.
“Yes, certainly, Mr. Bones. Uh…this way.”
Again, we ascended the ugly staircase as the housekeeper led us to our rooms. They were adjacent to each other, regretfully, as I’d ideally like some distance from my tutor.
“See you in ten minutes, Jo?” he smirked.
I could have sworn the next murder mystery would be “Who Strangled Lockshire Bones?”. I hate it when he calls me Jo. Sure, short for Joanna. Joanna Henrietta Watts. But only my mother calls me Jo. To him, I am Dr. Watts!
“Sure,” I sighed in resignation.
My room was as distasteful as the rest of the mansion, but the bed was to die for. Comfortable beyond dreams, sturdy bedposts that would allow me to be bound and mercilessly pounded, and spacious enough to fit more than one servant. I longed for Lester to tie me down, face down, and mount me – hammer his cock inside me until I could take it no more. Perhaps Christy bound and spread eagle before me, lapping her juices until Lester had me screaming my orgasm into her wet snatch.
But work beckoned.
Not only were our rooms adjacent to each other, but they were, of course, connected by a door. Lockshire could not have designed our accommodation better if he had planned it himself. I found myself in front of his door, as I had been many times. I needn’t have knocked; I never did. As I entered his room, I found him precisely as I expected. Sitting in the deep chair by the window, zipping his drink. His usually perfect attire was loosened; his shirt's first two buttons were unbuttoned, as were his trousers. And in his hand, his massive, beautiful cock. Fully erect at his pleasuring.
Yes, I loathed the man, but he had the perfect cock. It lured me in, as always, and I dropped to my knees in front of him and hungrily took him in my mouth.
“Dear Dr. Watts,” he moaned, “What an eventful and glorious day! Don’t you love the smell of murder?”
“Mhmm,” I agreed, as I slurped on his fuck-stick.
“Ah, so many glorious suspects. I want them all to be guilty! The two lovely sisters? What shame to have a father like the rotten Byron Agnes? And what easy fortune to come by with him dead? The assistant? How do you like her? Promises of financial freedom in exchange for the services of her body, broken time and time again?”
His cock hit the back of my throat, and my pussy growled with hunger. My wetness, egged on since the morning, was overflowing as I started to rub myself. Part of me longed for him to release inside my mouth, but my hungry cunt rejected the idea. I mounted him, and she swallowed him in one slick, hungry motion.
“What about the groundskeeper?” I moaned, “He’s sketchy, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps, but my mind is on the housekeeper. Hearing and seeing how Byron feasts on the other women but never looks at her?”
“Hurt mistress? Too obvious, don’t you think?”
Lockshire pounded into me, bottoming out inside me. I gasped for air as he lifted me up and carried me onto the bed. His cock never left me, my weight pushing me down on him. Again, he was going to make me cum, but I would have plenty of time to be remorseful. Right now, I needed him to pound me hard.
“What about the maid?” I gasped.
“The pregnant one? Oh, why, Jo, would she kill the baby's father?”
“Pregnant?” I questioned, as he punished my pussy for me missing what stood out as obvious to him.
“You insist on me calling you ‘doctor,’ yet you cannot detect such obvious information?
His disappointment was real, and he pounded me into a ravaging orgasm. I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him deeper inside me. Once more, I screamed in spasms before he shot his load inside me.
And, yet again, I found myself walking into my room, cum dripping from my smugly satisfied and deceiving cunt, while the familiar shame flushed over me. God, Lockshire is a good fuck.
I glimpsed out at the downpour beyond my window. Agnes Hall stood with all its preposterous grandness, as if desperately flaunting its wealth. The estate was absurdly extravagant, every inch polished to a shine that screamed opulence. To my right lay the main building, our rooms were in the west wing, while the east wing mirrored us across the courtyard. A few windows glowed warmly in the opposite wing, signs of life that only underscored the darkness in the other rooms—hollow eyes staring blankly into the storm.
Below, the garden stretched out in all its manicured perfection. Pathways were lined with precisely clipped hedges, and flowerbeds bloomed with colors too vibrant for a place steeped in secrets and grief. Every blade of grass was cut to a uniform height; no leaf dared to mar the polished walkways. Northward, Woodworth Forest and the mountains loomed, blurred by the relentless downpour that shrouded the landscape in shades of gray. Even in the gloomy weather, the estate’s elegance was unscathed, and the upkeep was flawless.
Byron Agnes had poured his wealth into this absurd display of vanity, maintaining every stone, plant, and piece of furniture in impeccable condition. Yet he had allowed the people closest to him to wither like neglected houseplants—discarded and overlooked while he preened over his possessions. The house was a monument to his own self-importance, all grand façade and no soul.
I had a long, warm shower and prepared for dinner.
I entered the dining room with great anticipation. I already knew the evening would be interesting. With his balls freshly drained, I knew Lockshire would be at his sharpest. I felt pretty invigorated myself and found my seat next to Lester with a smile on my face.
The absurdity of the dining table struck me; it was large beyond reason and could easily fit at least thirty people. Now, our small group sat scattered around the table. The sisters, already picking at their plates with no genuine interest, sat at the far end, closest to the kitchen. Alice and Daniel sat by themselves, both with resigned expressions. And at the far end, the widow, respectfully dressed in black to at least express mourning her husband.
Mid-ship, as Lester put it, the three of us, Lockshire, Lester, and me, sat. We did not need to feign mourning; frankly, we were starving, and we greedily feasted on the generous food and drink.
“Did he…” Lester whispered.
“Did he fuck me?” I replied in a deep, hushed voice. My smile gave away the answer.
Lester’s eyes showed a hint of resignation.
“Don’t worry,” I assured him, “Tonight, you belong to me.”
“How long do you intend to keep this charade going?”
Lockshire’s loud and booming voice cut through the room like thunder, shattering whatever gloomy atmosphere its inhabitants had created.
“Not one of you regrets to see this awful man gone, yet you all sit here, each one of you more desperate to take on the role of the main griever. And yet, inside, you each celebrate your newfound freedom. And none of you really care that he was murdered, do you? Perhaps you even see it a fitting fate for him?”
He stood in all his extravagant glory; as always, all eyes were fixed on him.
“Inspector Stade will indeed receive confirmation as to his poisoning shortly, and we all know the murderer sits in this room unless she is in the kitchen preparing what is undoubtedly a glorious dessert.”
“She?” Eve questioned.
“Odds, woman. There are six women under this roof with motive and opportunity, whereas Daniel is the lone ram among you ewes. And there are only ewes in the kitchen. I’m certainly not discarding the idea of Daniel thinking there were too many rams in this glorious house. Maybe you got greedy, Daniel?”
Daniel showed no reaction, not even one of objection. Earlier in the day, he had eluded me; now, I could see what a beautiful man he was. There were enough desperate and willing women in the estate, and I could easily imagine each and every one of them throwing themselves at him. Fuck, I could easily see myself held up by his strong arms, my legs wrapped around his impressive frame and impaled on his cock as he pushed me up against the wall and hammered into me. I quickly put him on my list of people to interrogate. In private, of course. A small, wicked smile tugged at my lips; maybe I’d lose myself in the act too much. But right now, I couldn’t care less.
Signe and Christy appeared from the kitchen and swept our plates away. As Christy leaned in to pick up my plate, her breast brushed my shoulder, and her scent was divine. I longingly watched her curved bottom as she exited the room. Yeah, she made my list of prime suspects as well, just for the enjoyment of interrogating her.
Lockshire had continued his rant, and as I cleared my head, I latched on to his argument that had now switched back at the widow. He stood directly behind her and leaned in.
“Yes, indeed, you’re rightfully outraged and furious at the knowledge that your husband, in lieu of work, spent his nights feasting on the bodies of Alice, Christy, and whomever else he had an appetite for. Your own cravings increasingly ignored, and in need of a man to take advantage of you. You do like to be dominated and used, don’t you? Biting the pillow as your holes are ravaged. You even crave it now as your breath deepens. How long could his money overshadow your needs, bitterness, jealousy, and disgust?”
The loud smack as Loretta Agnes stood and slapped Lockshire across the face was a perfect punctuation to his accusation, and her storming out of the room was the ideal setup for Lockshire to refocus his reasoning.
“Yes, indeed, we know her motives, don’t we? We know all your motives by now. And even now, without her in the room, I sense a shift of atmosphere. Is it she who brings the gloom, or is it your gloom for her that infects this house? Ponder not the question; it is for me to answer. Have a good night.”
And with that, he left the room, much to the puzzlement of everyone, including myself. Even after all these years of working together, he still found new ways to surprise me.
As Lockshire left, the room fell into a stunned silence. I almost felt the unease settling like a heavy fog over the scattered diners. The sisters exchanged nervous glances while Daniel’s usual stoic expression seemed to crack, if only for a second. Alice looked at me and Lester to find some answers, but unlike Lester, I managed to hide my oblivion about his next move.
When Christy came to serve dessert, the mere presence of her cheerful spirit seemed to wipe the fog away. Conversations started, and I should have been listening to Lester as he tried to piece together the fragments of conversation. I tried, but ultimately, I left it to Lester to pick up what words were shared and their importance.
My mind had melted on Christy, and I had drifted away in dreams of drinking her flowing juices from her cup, her lustful moans and groans as I brought her into orgasm after orgasm, her locking her thighs around my head and drowning me in her sweet cum.
Even as I lay in bed, I was tossing and turning. The releasing orgasms Lockshire had provided seemed eons ago, and my cunt was driving me mad, like an itch you can’t reach. Lester’s room was in the east wing; he had whispered the directions as we parted after dinner. The third door on the right. My feet took direction before my mind had settled; after all, they were closer to my screaming pussy than my brain.
The hallways of Agnes Hall lay silent and dark, yet as I approached the landing on top of the stairs, I heard a rustle. I snuck up to the corner and peeked around the corner. I saw Christy hurriedly scatter across the landing, only wearing a skimpy thong and a bra. I observed her as she entered Byron’s study. Intriguing, to say the least.
Even my hungry snatch agreed to investigate further; she also shared my interest in this dark beauty. I snuck up to the big wooden door, and for once, I thanked Byron for his complete lack of taste. The oversized door also provided an oversized keyhole, giving me a pretty good view of the room.
At first, I could not see Chirsty. I did, however, see Alice leaning against the disgusting desk of her deceased employer. Only mere hours earlier, Byron Agnes' stiff carcass had been sitting behind that desk, not that the blonde seemed to care. Then, just out of my view, I saw the flicker of Christy’s bottom, perhaps leaning forward, and then I heard a faint click. Moments later, my goddess appeared in sight. She leaned in and kissed Alice deeply before tracing her hand underneath the edge of the desk. Then, clear as day, I saw her put something, a key perhaps, in a drawer, which she pushed shut. In a moment of clarity, I mentally noted a hidden key and maybe a secret safe. I had no recollection of seeing one in the study earlier.