Lestrade of the Yard.M/M, T/T, M/T, T/M M&M/T&T etc....
by davistrell@aol.com.

    Lestrade of the yard, Scotland yard, was somewhat perplexed and sorely
puzzled. Opium smokers, Lotus eating; those he could understand.  They were
the meat and grist of detective work. Cocaine he'd come across with a
consulting detective he once knew, but Heroin was something else; beyond
his ken, beyond this was beyond his knowledge.
    He'd gone to Hanover Square, seen the dead body, needle still stuck in
the arm and shuddered. Why do the young die... so young? The naked eighteen
year old corpse must have been so beautiful when alive; what had gone
wrong? He did the clue hunting search with magnifying glass held low, but
little was to be found. A pasteboard card, the sort of thing you deliver to
butlers in upper class houses, simply read: 'The Ganymede Club: Let bearer
in.'

    Lestrade knew all the clubs in London, Soho included, but the name rang
no bells. The room was locked as in all the best detective fiction, so he
knew this was no suicide.

    "This is pretty rum, Gregson," he said to his junior, detective class
two, a smart young fellow, willing to learn, put two and two together, and
in this business, knew how to make it five. Had a scientific training, used
microscope and fingerprint techniques.
    "This youth has played the cupid to some man's lust. Semen in the anus,
thirty or more hours old." said Lestrade with his Scottish burr.
    But this was no rent boy, none of Charlie Parker's lot that had
fingered, done for the Irishman Wilde, down at the Old Bailey.

	"Look at his fingernails, manicured recently, this was, had been,
some darling mother's boy, preened for society." Lestrade looked at the
body, and came to no conclusions.
    Gregson bent down, lifted up the dead boy, and withdrew a solitary
peacock featherwhere it had lain hidden.Showed it to Lestrade, who
pooh-poohed it, said it was a symbol of decadence; that's all.

    Whistler, having composed and finished a nocturnal emission in white,
turned over in bed. Lying close by, was the twenty-year old guttersnipe
that he'd picked up at a party in Chiswick, where "Madame X" was on
display. The first picture he'd painted since the Ruskin fiasco, that
proved abstract art had no future. How he wished he'd had the courage of
his compatriots, Eakins and Sargent who could paint nude males without
bothering what society would think. But though Jarvis Whistler was a boy
lover, he knew that these days that could get you hard labor, three or four
years in gaol, depending on the boy.
 	That crazy Queensbury had done for poor fat Oscar; two years in
Reading. If he looked bad before he went in, just think what he'll be like
when he comes out.

He stroked the boy's buttocks,into which he'd come the night earlier, and
felt his cock tingle, he'd do it again, pay off and get the boy out of his
rooms; before anyone was the wiser.

    "Clues! We need clues!" yelled Lestrade. Back in his office, crammed
with criminological files, all to no use, he pondered this, his
thirty-seventh unsolved murder. He was on a roll.

	In a nouveau-riche part of town, where none was the wiser, Sir
Edward Burne-Jones straddled the fish-monger's lad, that had come highly
recommended and was furiously masturbating over the nineteen year old
youth's white chest. His dick short and shiny, glassily pink produced
stickiness that only a middle aged man could approve of, not like the
volume of sperm that only twenty years before he could've come up with.Less
volume, more quality as he was wont to say.

	At least I won't have to suck off the old man, won't have to take
that corkscrew dick up my ass today, thought Albert. As a perilously small
quantity of cum was delivered, dripping in the slight valley between his
nipples, spread in a thin pool, he knew he would still get paid, and
pretended to enjoy the process.

	A figure, slipping from behind an art-nouveau screen, wearing only
in a purple silk-satin smoking jacket, appeared. Burne-Jones's friend, the
young Frederic Lord Leighton, a sculptor, caster of bronze male nudes,
usually fighting enormous pythons, moved to the bed and the jacket fell
open, displaying an erection,like one of his heroes.

    "Thanks for warming him up for me, Bunny! Here, boy! Turn over,you
little jackanapes, kneel, open wide that adorable ass!"

    He too knelt, behind Albert, who was at least pleased that it was
Leighton, who was slipping in that fat cock between Albert's parted
buttocks, penetrating slowly but surely. They started to fuck, on the bed,
slid off, ended up with Albert flat on his back, legs up, facing toward the
ceiling, as Leighton exerted himself inside the boy's creamy white ass.

	One of the Androgyne women, really an effeminate man, with a
woman's breastplate on it's chest, gender confused, painted by Burne-Jones,
it's eyes followed the action, while the artist watched too, his hand
grasping his penis, rubbing till he ejaculated again, and spilt the excess
on the Moroccan shag-pile carpet.

    The Ganymede club was exclusive, known only to a very select few of
conneiseur, art lovers all, all in love with art, and themselves.
 	Robert Ross,the organiser, nay a spade is a spade, he was a
procurer; he had opened this club specialised clientele; a society of
famous artists and writers,broom-closet lovers all, and brought to them a
series of unemployed horse-grooms and valets that traded anal intercourse
for sovereigns, and referred to the practice as 'the noblest form of
affection, with the usual British courteous understatement. He found the
overage youths easy to come by, he had one rule, no pedophilia,and trained
them, his boys, in the high art personally. He used a series of specially
prepared short broom-handles, covered in Irish linen, until they were ready
for ultimate lesson, when he used his own broad penis, and those that came
late stayed behind in detention. He trained them, showed them what to do,
where to put it, how to guide it, how to make it erect, and how to grit
their teeth.

 They'd be paid, paid really good for doing what comes naturally, they
always were that kind of boy. He had a nose that could smell out a man who
probably liked taking dick up the butt. Once he was wrong, there'd been a
problem, this bloke he'd found preferred 'topping', but was useful, 'cause
one or two of Robert Ross's clients, were happy to have riffraff
cimney-climb up their ass.

    Lestrade gazed into his reflection, in the mirror back at his bachelor
rooms. His hair starting prematurely to grey, the trim mustache, the grey
haired brows, overhanging his troubled brown eyes. But all he could see was
the image of the dead, naked boy. Lying in death, spread-eagled naked,
still smiling, his butt full of cum. Why did it bother him so? He'd seen
plenty of dead'ns before, this was hardly the first. But the youth had been
so... inordinately beautiful...his lips still moist... The detective
shuddered at the unnatural thought, and climbed into the large hip-bath,
centered on the carpet, filled with kettles of hot water by his obliging
land-lady. He did his best thinking immersed in the hip-bath, with his
ducky for company.

	He took the back-scrubber, did his back, and switched to the
loofah, for his front, and his back.A sea-creature once, he'd been told. So
coarse on his skin, made him tingle, and then to relax, let his legs open
wide. The water turned milk-white from the generous application of
soap. Knowing he would have to get out soon, as the water was getting
cold. At least there was a roaring fire in the hearth, so he wouldn't catch
a chill. A sudden loud, insistent rapping hammered on the door.

    "It's me - Gregson! Let me in, quickly!"
    Lestrade stepped out of the bath, wrapped himself in a towel and
answered the door.

    Lestrade let his detective assistant in; one Tobias Gregson. His junior
by some twenty some years. Eager and handsome, like Lestrade had been, till
too many unsolved cases had caused wear and tear.And the facade to be in
need of a paintjob.
    "What are you doing here, dressed in civvies? Let me get some clothes
on."
    "There's no time, for that. I have to tell you..."
    "Tell me what?"
    "I know what it means...I know all about the Ganymede Club."
    "Well, why couldn't you tell me about it at the Yard?These are my
particulars, this my castle, even if its only made of sand."

    "To tell... I have to reveal a...secret."

    Gregson looked puzzled.Not unusual for him, alas.

    "You followed Wilde's trial?"

    "You know I did, that indecent bugger got what he deserved.'Gross
indecency between males.' - Bastard got two years penal servitude- just
deserts, should've been transported, if I'd have my way!"

    "Do you remember what he said though, in his defense, it was very
eloquent...."

    "Some rubbish about the love that dare not speak it's name..."

    "Sit down Inspector Lestrade, I have some thing to say that might shock
you."

    Gregson motioned his superior over to the bed, and they sat side by
side. God, he's so young, handsome, even his smell, reminds me of him, when
I was his age, thought Lestrade, but of course held it within.These are not
thoughts to have of juniors. Familiarity breeding contempt, as the saying
goes, And how true.

    "You've never married, have you Inspector?"

    "None of your damn business! ...just never found the right women...my
job....doesn't allow for...social intercourse..." he started to stutter
slightly, embarrassed.

    "Do you trust me, Inspector?"

    "Why of course, my dear boy. You're a solid addition to the Force.I
speak of you highly. Might even get you a raise."

    Gregson noticed something on one of the lacy pillow-cases.
	He picked it up.

    "This is a sleeping-mask," looking at the black eyeless domino.

    "Yes, working at night, it helps me sleep during daylight. You're
familiar with my schedule, know I keep odd hours."

    "Would you put it on...now. I don't want you see my face, while I have
to say, what I have to say."

    Lestrade didn't know why but he decided to follow his young friend's
instruction, and covered his eyes.

    "I just don't know where to begin." he began, "I am so proud to be a
policeman, so proud to work for you, even if you have been going through a
unlucky streak recently."

    "Thirty-seven unsolved murders, I seem to have lost my touch.  Used to
be an ace detective, Gregson! Used to visit a private detective, who helped
me solve them, but since his untimely death when he slipped over the
Reichenbach falls..."

    A wash of self-pity overcame him, and he barely notice a hand slip
between the folds of his towel, and wrap the fingers around his manhood.

    "Here, what are you doing?!?"
    "Trust me, Inspector Lestrade, this is the only way I know how to tell
you.Don't tell me to let go"

    Lestrade went quiet, and felt his penis harden in the young man's
hand.He looked for the aspidistra, but the decaying leaves; no help.

    "The Ganymede club is old, very old and very secret. I know
because...once, a couple of years ago, I was one of the....playthings."

    "Playthings?... I don't understand." He also didn't understand why he
also felt pleasure, with Gregson holding tight to his growing erection.A
simple man, in so many ways.

    "Older men have always enjoyed the company of younger men.Feeling like
older brothers, or teachers, or fathers. It goes back to the days of the
Greeks, who turned it into a social ritual. The youths would grow, and in
their turn, take new younger men and pass on these secrets of...love."

    "Love?!? It's unnatural! Furthermore, it's Illegal!"
    "But it's also beautiful. Let me show you..."

    And in the darkened room, illuminated only by the golden glow from the
fire roaring in the hearth,cortesy the landlady, the windows concealed by
heavy brocaded curtains, Gregson laid back the towel, leaving Lestrade
naked, apart from the blind sleeping-mask, and cupped his lips around
Lestrade's growing phallus, licked with a cupped tongue and showed him the
mystery and delights of homosexual sex.When one love's another, and how
that affection is made manifest.

    Robert Ross, current organiser of The Ganymede Club wrote notes of
invitation to his friends, asking them to R.S.V.P, quickly, if they wanted,
or not, to attend the next meeting, where previous minutes would be assumed
to have been read. The 'location', utterly secreet, to be held at the
discreet Savoy Court Hotel on the Bayswater Road, W.2. Tuesday, 19th March,
1896. Where hors d'oevres would be served, au naturel. Gazpacho soup would
be warmed over. And spicy Lobster, fried in butter, and can pick, any of
the lush pomegranite dessert.

    Lestrade had taken off his mask, and three of four times that night had
inserted his penis into Sergeant Gregson's rectum and came copiously. He
was making up for lost time.

    Charles Ricketts, of 7 Dowager Place S.W.1, art critic, book designer,
raconteur and bon vivant, major fairy, opened the lavender scented
envelope, withdrew his customised invitation, thought for four or five
seconds, and dashed off the acceptance, saying he would be delighted to
come at the next meeting of the Ganymede Club.He licked the stamp posted
his reply into the lips of the pillar-box, knowing that H.M.'s Post office
would deliver the correspondence all for the cost of a single black penny
stamp.

    "So you're convinced that the murder of that pretty youth, was
committed by one of the club members."
    "Seems most likely." said Gregson. "The two clues, the card found by
the dead boy and the peacock feather; they all wear one in their jacket
lapels. It's a tradition."
    "And you can get us into one of their meetings, through your old
contacts?"
    "But you'll have to pose as a potential member, disguise yourself as a
toff, a dandy. Lord Trollope, I think. Can you handle that?"
    "Me pose, as a practioner of 'the love that cannot speak its name'?
	Yes, I think I can do that. Yes I think I can. I feel a new man!"
    "You better not go butt-fucking any of the other boys- I'm likely to
get jealous!" said Gregson, adopting the servile position again.

    "Lord Trollope, so pleased you could come to our little soiree!
Jamie's told me all about you! You're sure to enjoy our 'Hellenic'
evening. We're to have a reading from Virgil's Ecologues!"

    Lord Trollope was in fact Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and Jamie
was in fact Sergeant Gregson, detective class two, new to the Force, but in
previous times was one of Robert Ross' boys, and all the Greek stuff was
'code' for homosexual sexual practices.
    "My dear sir, delighted to be here! Especially as I so enjoy Virgil,
but I had hoped for a little Ovid, any chance you could get mea..reading. I
would Catullus, but I must save my strength."

    Gregson had told Lestrade this was the buzz-word for anal sex and knew
that Ross would like this, as it paid more. More commission for Ross, who
did pay the over eighteens, that would allow themselves to beused in such
fashion, and he paid them top whack.

	Lestrade had dressed up as an aging foppish dandy, used photos of
Wilde as fashion reference.And atouch of Beau Brummel.

    'Jamie'/Gregson was dressed as a a bell-boy with a pill-box hat,
rakishly angled, an eight buttoned jacket, cut high to show off his cute
derriere. It all seemed proper, as this was a high class, but discreet
hotel. Just reeked of sexual anticipation, Lestrade had become turned on by
his new adopted life style.Fell fully into the role.
    "Let's meet the others. Jamie, show Lord Trollope to the sitting
room.We brought the pictures in, theyre from, Lord D'Arcy's collection, but
sadly he won'y be here."
	Carravagio's black-winged Cupid, inviting sodomy, Tenniel's elves,
bucking for straw, Monpassant's view of Vulcan' smithy; how they got work
done, the Lord alone knows.

    They wandered into the breakfast room, where, around a table sat four
men, each wearing peacock feathers in their lapels. Four boys were in
attendance in various stages of deshabilŽed undress.
    Introduced to Jarvis Whistler, he with a boy in his lap, he made
pleasantries. Charles Ricketts, looking world weary, held his boy, who was
standing, around the boy's nether regions with a limp-wristed dangle, as
the boy nibbled the older man's ear. Sir Edward Burne-Jones sat alone, next
to Frederic Lord Leighton, who was being entertained by a pair of twins,
their arms draped over his shoulders.

    "We have a quorum," announced Ross. "Jamie," motioning to Gregson,
	"Play the piano!"

    Trollope/Lestrade sat down, the boys stood up, and 'Jamie' began to
play, facing away, reading the music, as his feet pumped the
player-piano. The 'Bell' song from Lakme', one of Lestrade's favorite
pieces filled the air as the boys circulated, hopping and skipping around
the table. Gregson would eventually stop the music, and the boys would
stop, and whichwhomever of the older men they were nearest to, would sit,
plop, in their lap, and perform any sexual act the lucky party
demanded.These were the rules.
	The music stopped and basically everyone ended up where they
started.
	This meant that Lestrade was unpartenered, so he could cogitate and
wonder who of these dilletantes was, in fact a murderer. His attention was
diverted, when Jamie/ Gregson moved over, sat on Lestrade and pressed a
billet-doux on Gregson's lips.

    Whistler was holding his boy, one Georgie Porter, in such a fashion, to
enable him to manipulate the boy's penis, and was doing it totally,
sang-froid. Ricketts stood up, his boy bent down, his fly was open, his
cock stood out, but hidden from view in the boy's mouth.  The twins
stripped, stood butt- naked, and led the young Leighton to the adjoining
bed-chamber.Less than a marble's throw away.

    "The party is in full swing," said Ross to nobody in particular.

    Jamie took off his jacket to show off his fine chest, with Lestrade
gobbling on a nipple, but keeping one eye open, spying on his
suspects. Burne-Jones was doing something furtive under the table, and Ross
was counting the money.

    Jamie/Gregson suggested to Lestrade that they should also go to the
bedroom, and Trollope/Lestrade whose mind was distracted from police work,
agreed. Leighton and his two young friends, occupied most of the bed, he
now too naked, having his cock sucked by one, and tastingfreely of the
other twin's upturned ass. Our two detectives, joined the others, on the
bed and demonstrated the English way to perform soixante-neuf.

    The aspidistra plant next to the window blushed, couldn't watch, as
Frederic Lord Leighton fucked boy#1, sucked off boy#2.Names would be
worthless at his junction as primeval, primordial passion took
center-satge. And Lestrade embedded in Gregson, doing it missionary style,
learned only in darkest Africa, where missionaries are populous, and the
natives are few. And doing it quite well, with murmurs of approbation, as
the moans from Jamie/Tobias' mouth could easily be interpreted as moans of
satisfaction. Mere crocodile tears.

	Leighton switched boys, Lestrade turned "Jamie" over, so while
fucking him from behind, could also let his subordinate jerk himself off,
as his superior ejaculated into his rear.It was close, this horse derby,
the riders were straddled, all headed for the same winning post.Leighton
fell off, and was disqualified, so Lestarde, and Gregson took the honors,
and passed the post first.

    A pistol shot ran out and Ross lay wounded, squirming, in the
ante-room. The detectives disengaged, and rushed to the door. Peeking
around they saw Ross, lying in a pool of blood. Towering over him was a
small man, dressed as a gentleman, complete with top-hat and holding a
revolver in his small wrinkled fist.
    "I'll kill you all! Sodomites!Buggerers' all," said the old man his
white sidewhiskers bristling, his mind apparently demented.

    Lestrade, either brave or stupid or both, walked into the room, naked
and not looking much like a police-man, with Gregson behind bringing up the
rear and faced the senile with the revolver.

    "Put that down, sir!" using the voice of authority, he'd learned, that
would freeze the most hardened criminal.

    "Don't make me do it! I will kill you. Just as I did to that young boy
Ernest, son of Lady Windermere. He made me have biblical knowledge of him!
SAtan's kisses rained down, like volcanic lava! He encouraged me in
Beelzebub fashion, with lures that I was Abraham, and he indeed Isaac. All
god's work was undone that day! lured me on! I had to kill him! I had to!To
appease, him, all alone in his desolate mansion!" His hands
trembled. Gregson knew this was the moment, he leapt forward and rugby
tackled the old man, keel-hauled him to the floor, the gun went off, hit
the chandelier and the bullet passed painlessly into the ceiling.The
chandelier dangled dangerously.

    "Damn fine show, Tobias!" said Lestrade. "Keep him pinioned."
    Ross sat up, clutching his bleeding shoulder.
    "That's the Marquess of Queensbury! Boysie's father! His son was
Wilde's lover. They said the affair had sent him mad. They were right! No
second opinon is necessary, you heard his words."

	Confession is good for the soul, and the only way Lestrade could
make a conviction.Unfortunately, all declined invitation to be witnesses at
the dock, of the Queens Old Bailey. And policemen's words alone count for
naught.

    The detectives dressed, took the mad Marquess in a cab, stopped off,
changed into police clothes and delivered him to H.M.Prison, Wormwood
Scrubs. Under interrogation, Lestrade and Gregson forced out another
confession, and found the solution to the locked room mystery.  Lock the
door on the outside, and push the key back into the room on a sheet of
paper, through the gap under the door. They had a harder time learning
about the Heroin Overdose as Queensbury was becoming incoherent. And the
mystery is like Edwin Drood's and Jack the Ripper, still in the unsolved
files, as Queensbury took a tumble down the thirteen steps on the way to
the holding cell and broke his neck, saving the expense of a hangman.

    Lestrade had a nervous breakdown, recovered, but stays away from the
Ganymede club, resigned from the force, moved into the rooms of his old
detective friend; moved in with Gregson, who writes rather imaginative
tales of detecting derring-do, using pseudonyms, and that is the true story
of how Sherlock Holmes managed to come back from the dead, according to his
dear friend and longtime companion, John Watson.