More of Moriarty

This story is starting to make itself a bit more developed, and taking a bit more of my time. I hope it still counts as erotica, and I hope you all still enjoy it. I may end up turning this into a novel, or maybe not. Who knows where inspiration will strike?

Like it? Want to see more? What would you like to see?

Oh, the fun she’s going to have at his expense…

Making myself at Holmes

            It took some doing to actually get him into position as a consulting detective. Leland had made a lot of contacts with investigators while writing, but he wasn’t a cop; he had no real qualifications. I thought of just sending him some, getting a private eye license for him and having it sent to his home. But that would tip my hand too much.

            So instead, I took hostages. I took hostages, at gunpoint, and I made sure that the police knew about it. Ostensibly, it was a bank robbery. And as far as most people were aware, I wasn’t the brains behind it. In fact, as far as most people were aware, I was one of the hostages. But my people knew. They knew it was the best way to get what we actually wanted.

            So I was the ‘hostage’ who was supposed to do the negotiating. I remember the tremble I forced into my voice when I told the cops that “they said if you don’t talk to me, they’ll start killing people.”

            The negotiator asked me why, and I told him I didn’t know. I suggested that maybe they didn’t want their voices recorded. Seemed a plausible enough lie.

            “Tell them they need to make a show of good faith,” he said to me.

            “I’m supposed to tell you that they will, but you have to do something first.”

            “That’s not how it works,” the negotiator said, trying to stay friendly.

            I ignored him. “They said they’ll only speak to Leland Crane.”

            “Who?”

            “The writer.”

            “Why?”

            I told him I didn’t know. He asked if they were playing for time. I said I didn’t know.

            It took almost an hour to track my Leland down. During that time, my men moved our hostages from room to room, slowly integrating themselves into the groups, leaving just me and one other hostage taker unbound and unsecured.

            When Leland came on the line, I wondered how much coaching they were giving him. How much prep work they had done with him. Had he been told the basics of hostage negotiation?

            “Hello?” he sounded confused. Which was just fine.

            “Are you Leland Crane?” I asked, my voice sweet and completely lacking in fear.

            I could almost hear him get cold, could almost feel the anger in his voice. “Who is this?” He demanded.

            “They’re releasing some of the hostages,” I told him. “Tell the men around you to get ready for them. Then step away from them and call this number on a cell phone, so they can be sure that you’re the only one they’re talking to.”

            “I can’t do that,” he said. “I don’t think they’ll let me.”

            “Try,” I said. “Try really hard.” Then I cut the line.

            We let five people go. One of them had walked in with a gun a few hours earlier.

            The phone rang again, and I picked up. “Is this Leland?”

            “Who the hell is this?”

            “Is there anyone else on the line?”

            “No.”

            “Prove it.”

            “How?”

            Excellent question. I was so proud of him. “Tell me something embarrassing,” I said. “Something you wouldn’t want other people to know.”

            “I don’t know what to say.”

            I sighed, and contemplated just killing a few of the hostages, to show that I was serious. But I didn’t want that on his conscience. Guilt can be a great motivator, but it can also be a source of will that I didn’t want him to have. “Tell me that you like to wear lingerie,” I said. That’s the kind of thing no man wants to say in front of other men, especially strangers.

            “I like to wear lingerie,” he said. I waited, letting the silence stretch, listening for the sound of breathing, the static of someone else listening in, some sign. Mostly, though, I was waiting to see if I could make him get more specific.

            Leland didn’t disappoint. “I like wearing frilly panties, teddies, corsets, and satin bras,” he said. “I like sheer stockings, pretty pink garter belts, and lacey collars.”

            I laughed at that. “Okay,” I said. “That’s pretty specific. Good to know your fantasies.”

            “It’s not true,” he said, a little hint of protest in his voice. “I don’t actually like that.”

            “And yet, so many specific details.” I laughed a little more. “Pretty pink garters. Oh, you are a naughty girl, aren’t you Leland Crane?”

            “Who are you?” He was getting angry again. Good.

            “I’m just a hostage,” I said.

            “Bullshit. You’re the girl from the bar. The one who taunted me.”

            “I did taunt you,” I said. “I also gave you my name.”

            “No you didn’t. Beth Skinner. B. S. Bullshit.”

            I laughed. “I’m so glad you got that,” I said.

            “So what’s your name?”

            “Molly,” I said. “That’ll do for now.”

            He sighed. “Why did you want to speak to me, Molly?”

            “I’m going to make you a hero, Leland.”

            “What?”

            “There are still twenty-seven hostages in this building,” I said. “And they are all going to die in an explosion as soon as your friends in blue out there decide to breach and try to take out the gunmen.” I glanced out the slats of the window. “You might want to warn them about that before they cut our chat short. It’s okay. I’ll hold.”

            “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

            “Walk to where you can see the front of the bank,” I told him. “Tell them about the gap between the doors, how there’s no light shining through because of the plastic explosive pressed up against it. Point out the glint of light from the laser sensors installed in the windows that will cause them to detonate if the windows are broken or opened. Have them talk to the hostages already released and find out that the men came in with quite a few bags full of explosives.”

            I watched out the window as the spreading men suddenly stopped and pulled back. I caught a glimpse of a sniper on the rooftop across the street. He was following my movements, which was unnerving. But he didn’t fire.

            Leland came back on the line. “Okay, they’ve stopped. Now what?”

            “Now you’re going to save the day,” I said.

            “How?”

            “I’ve got a new pair of boots,” I said. “They come up to my knees. There’s a zipper over my ankle and an elastic band at the top. When I put them on, the leather hugs my skin. The heel makes my ass look amazing, if I do say so myself. There’s a strap with a buckle over the top of my foot, which just emphasizes the shape of it all.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “They’re new boots,” I told him. “Beautiful, comfortable, lovely. But dirty.”

            “So?”

            “So, if you come inside, get down on your knees, and clean them –with your tongue –then everyone inside is going to go free, and you’ll be a hero.”

            “I’m not going to do that.”

            “Oh, I think you will,” I said. “I think you’ll come in and do it, and I think you’ll make up some story about what really happened, so you don’t have to tell anyone the truth. You’ll come up with some brilliant ploy you played to outsmart the gunmen, and you’ll get to rescue all the hostages.”

            “I’ll tell them it was you.”

            “I’m sure you will,” I said. “But not until after.” I let the silence draw out, then said each word with eloquent cruelty. “After. You. Lick. My. Boots.”

            “And if I refuse?”

            “Then there’ll be too many bodies to sort through to ever find out whether or not I was inside,” I said. “I’ll open the door for you in sixty seconds. It will remain open for exactly five seconds. If you aren’t inside by then,” I took a deep breath, as if the idea of it was exciting. “Boom.”

            “Wait, Molly.”

            “Fifty five seconds,” I said, and hung up.

            Once he was inside, and the door once again secure, I led him back to the vault, which was wide open and empty. “Here we are,” I said. “No one can see, no cameras recording anything.”

            I snapped my fingers and pointed at the floor.

            He didn’t move.

            I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you like them?” I asked.

            He couldn’t help it. His eyes took him down to look at the leather. He nodded, but then met my eyes again. There was more than just anger there. He had intent in his eyes. His shoulders twitched, and he took a step forward.

            I moved to the side before he could hit me, and slammed my palm into his chest. He staggered back, not as hurt as he would have been had he not been wearing body armor under his shirt.

            He charged forward, shoulders down, intent on tackling me whether I moved to the side or not. So I didn’t move to the side.

            Instead, I stepped forward and kicked him between the legs. He was already off balance, and the sudden force knocked him to the floor. I kicked his hands out from under him when he tried to get back up.

            “Now now,” I said, pressing the sole of my boot against the back of his neck and applying pressure until he stopped struggling. “You’re really going to need to do better than that.” I reached down and untucked his pants, looking for a gun or a battery pack or something like that.

            He coughed and whimpered in pain. I took my boot off his neck and stepped away, far enough to be out of reach, just in case. “Take off your shirt,” I said.

            He didn’t stall, just did as he was told. Passed it over, and took off the Kevlar without being told. “Good boy,” I said, going through his shirt looking for the special button that would have a camera linked to it. There was no way it was transmitting; I didn’t pick the vault just because it was protected from prying eyes on the outside.

            I flicked the tiny camera into the empty vault, smiling to myself at the way they’d react when the picture finally came back and that was their first sight.

            He was rising back to his feet, shakily, when I tossed the shirt to the side. I appraised his form and nodded. “I like,” I said. Then I snapped my fingers again to get his attention and pointed down. “Now do as you’re told.”

            “No.”

            I sighed. “Leland,” I said. “You have a chance to be a hero here. No one can see it, and the camera they attached to you won’t work in here. The other bug, the one recording audio, isn’t getting anything but static. I promise, it’s just us. I know you want to do it, you know you want to do it. So do it.”

            I gave him a mischievous grin. “Unless you’d rather I beat the shit out of you a bit more first?”

            He probably wanted to argue that I had only gotten lucky, that I couldn’t really beat him in a fair fight. But we’d both know he was lying.

            I pointed downward. He sank slowly to his knees, then put his hands on the floor, just a few feet away.

            “Now,” I said. “Lick.”

            He crawled slowly forward and bent down. His tongue came out and flicked just the barest tip against my boot. I bent over and pressed his face into the leather, feeling the pressure of his tongue against my foot. “Do it like you mean it,” I said. “Really earn that hero title, you naughty girl.”

            His skin flushed red, and I wondered briefly what it would look like crisscrossed with lash marks. That would come in time. Baby steps.

            He reached out and took my foot in his hand. I leaned back against the wall, in case he tried to yank me down. I slipped a pair of brass knuckles on. If he resisted again, I’d make sure he remembered the price of defiance.

            But he didn’t try to trip me. He just pushed his tongue along the leather, sliding around my ankle, licking the sides of the zipper on its way up. I looked down at him. His eyes were closed, and he was clearly enjoying himself, whether he knew it or not.

            I smiled as he tried to hide his pleasure, careful not to make a sound as his tongue went along my calf. I know he thought about the kick to his groin, because he shifted his legs as he moved to the toe of the other boot.

            I didn’t feel a need to hide my own pleasure. I let out a soft moan, made encouraging sounds. Called him a good boy, let my voice almost purr as he licked my boots, as he made the leather shine in the dim light.

            I let my guard down a little, and he stood suddenly, my right foot still in his hand. He pressed me against the wall, off balance with my knee pressed between us.

            “Give me one reason,” he said. “One reason not to just bring you in right now.”

            I smiled, my breath almost as heavy with desire as his. I licked my lips, wanting so badly to lick his. “I’ll give you two,” I said. “First, because you liked that. And you know that if you bring me in, you’ll never get a chance to figure out why.”

            “And two?”

            I raised my arm and lightly tapped the brass knuckles against his temple. “Because if you don’t let me go,” I said, “I’m going to hit you, right here, just like that. You’ll get a pretty nasty concussion, and when you wake up you’ll realize that you just licked my boots clean for nothing.”

            I smiled at him and touched his face with my other hand. I leaned my head forward and gave him a quick peck. Then I pressed my back into the wall and pushed him away from me with the very foot he had been holding, the one he’d let go while I was talking.

            He staggered, tripped over the Kevlar he was supposed to be wearing, and fell heavily to the floor.

            I was on him in an instant, straddling him with my knees on his shoulders. I grabbed his hair and gave it a pull. “Until next time,” I said, sliding my tongue up the side of his face, from his chin to his hair line. I patted him on the face and stood up.

            By the time he made it to his feet, I was out of the vault. By the time he got out of the vault, I was gone.

            He was a hero, even though the criminals, somehow, got out without being seen and even though a fairly large amount of money was suddenly unaccounted for. He provided a sketch of me, and was able to prove that I was the mastermind all along.

            If I hadn’t left so much for him to find, I might have been worried.