"Tell me you want it," demanded Sherlock Holmes, almost angrily. He stood at the foot of the bed, his cruel eyes gazing at the helpless form tied spread-eagled to the motel bed.

"I want it," sobbed Twilight’s sparkling vampire Edward Cullen. He was face down, the ropes were cutting into his wrists and ankles, his face was red with embarrassment and shame, and there was a bucket of chicken stuck in his ass. But his every pore screamed with pleasure, and a hungry need for the pleasure yet to come, even when it was so very wrong.

Sherlock Holmes started to stroke his erect “little chiquita banana", but there was no need — hungry with desire, it stood tall like a Klingon bat’leth. Almost instantly, the two of them became one. Even as pleasure screamed like a barreling freight train through every pore, the shame poured forth and filled both their nostrils. Thrusting in frenzy, Sherlock Holmes yelled, “Say it!"

"No!" whimpered Edward Cullen.

"Say it! You know you want to, you grizzled, incontinent squid!"

"I have a third lactating nipple!" The words filled the air and mixed with the sweat, rutting heat and shame, and an orgasm that would not be denied. Finally, they stopped, both covered in WD-40. Edward Cullen was weeping quietly. All Sherlock Holmes could do was awkwardly pat his shoulder.

Suddenly, a voice cried from the motel bathroom. “Hey!" yelled Strawberry Shortcake. “You guys going to pee on me or what?