Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Moriarty: Truth or Bare?

I know that some people like this Moriarty thing. I know I do. It's fun to write, and fun (though disturbing) to get inside her head. Fun, sexy, and mildly disturbing. That's how I want people to describe me. And it's how I describe her. Just, you know, without the 'mildly' part.

Anyway, I'm a bit concerned that she's leaning more towards the Joker than Moriarty in this one. Though, to be fair, I'm not entirely sure how different the two are. But this is the first time we see her actually COMMIT a crime. Well, more or less.

You'll see; I'll show you.



Holmes is where the heart is

“Let’s play a game, shall we?”

“Step away, Molly. Let him go.”

“That’s not how the game works.” I do step away, but the tension on the string doesn’t lessen. “He doesn’t get to go free. Not again.”

“They found him not-guilty,” Leland says. His hands are up like I’m pointing a gun at him. The man tied to the chair, his mouth clamped carefully around a grenade, his eyes tightly focused on the pin precariously close to coming out and the long string attached to it, looks almost hopeful.

“And yet he isn’t innocent.”

“No one is innocent, Molly.”

I smile at him. “Now you’re getting it,” I say. “I’m so proud of you.”

He takes a step closer, hands still spread wide. “The court didn’t convict. He gets to walk.”

“And what, go back to raping little girls and killing people with impunity?”

Leland shakes his head. “I’ll catch him red handed next time. He knows that, and he won’t do it again.”

“But what about the times he already did? Come on, Leland. I know you hate the way the verdict went. I know it kills you that he got off on a technicality.”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter how I feel,” he says. “All that matters is the law.”

“That’s where we differ,” I say, my lip curling into a wicked smile. “I don’t have those limitations. And doesn’t that make you happy? I get to pull this string and run for the door. You’ll run to the window, knowing you don’t have the time to actually come catch me. The grenade’s fuse will run out, and then he’ll be gone.” The man in the chair screams piteously, but the sound is muffled by the grenade. “You’ll get to go home and tell yourself you did everything you could,” I say, completely ignoring him. “You’ll get to feel good that you let the system do its thing, but also feel confident that justice was still served.”

“That’s not justice.”

I laugh. “Of course it is.” Then I sigh and settle my feet. My boots are still shiny and look good as new, but they aren’t new. And when Leland looks down, when the movement draws his attention, I know that he recognizes them. He recognizes the knee high leather, the zipper at the ankle and the buckle over the top of the foot. He recognizes them, and I’m sure he’s remembering that bank vault, where I had him topless and on his knees, licking them clean. He’s thinking of the time his tongue made them shine.

And when he licks his lips, I know that’s remembering doing it.

“So let’s play a game,” I say.

“Okay,” he says, dropping his hands. “If I win, you let him go and come quietly. If you win, I’ll let you escape.”

I shake the finger of my free hand at him and make a chastising sound. “You don’t get to make the rules. You should know that by now.” Then I turn to the man in the chair. “Did you hear that, though? He’s willing to let you die if he doesn’t win my game. Doesn’t that inspire confidence?”

He looks at me with terror, and I can’t help but laugh.

“Fine,” Leland says. “What is the game?”

“I call it Truth or Bare,” I say. “I’m going to ask you a question. Either you answer it or you take off an article of clothing. And if you lie to me…” I give a gentle tug on the string, not enough to get the pin all the way out, but enough to make the man in the chair start whimpering, his eyes crossed and focused on the pin, sweat soaking his brow as I’m sure it once soaked the brow of his victims.

“And I get to ask you questions?”

I shake my head. “Not how it works,” I say.

“Then how can I win?” He seems honestly upset about that. Not about the fact that I’m going to kill the man in the chair; maybe he’s finally come to admit to himself that the bastard deserves to die. No, what upsets him is that he can’t win.

“You can’t win,” I say, shrugging. “Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

He shakes his head and frowns. “No,” he says. “That’s not true. There’s always a way to win. You always leave me an option. Always leave me a way out. It’s no fun for you if there isn’t a chance of losing. So tell me.”

I sigh with mock exasperation. “Fine,” I say. “Every time you answer one of my questions, I’ll answer one of yours. Then, if you guess what I’m going to make you do before I let this bastard go, and you do it, I’ll let him go.” Then I narrow my eyes. “But your questions are all yes or no.”

He bites his lip, then nods. “Deal.”

I smile. “Okay,” I say. “Now, either take off your shirt or tell me why you’re glad you met me.”

“I’m not glad I met you,” he says.

I shake my head. “I don’t believe you,” I say. “Take off your shirt.”

He sighs, but he doesn’t argue. Just unbuttons his shirt and tosses it aside. “What’s next?”

“Did you enjoy licking my boots?”

His face turns red, and he looks at the man in the chair, as if wondering if we are being listened to. I could assure Leland that the bastard in the chair isn’t paying any attention to what we say, or tell him that it won’t matter even if he is. But I’d rather have my boy a little embarrassed.

“Yes,” he says. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” I smile. “Is that what you want me to do?”

“Yes,” I say. “And no.”

“What does that mean?”

I shake my head at him. “You’re not following the rules,” I say. “Now. You told me that you like wearing frilly pink underwear. Have you been wearing it since we last talked?”

He frowns and kicks off his shoes.

I laugh. “Fair enough. How about this then: do you really regret that your life has taken this turn? Isn’t it more interesting chasing real criminals?”

“It is,” he says. “But I still regret that you ruined my life. And I still blame you for it.”

“And yet you like what I do to you.”

He frowns again. “Yes.” Then he takes a breath. “That’s two questions you owe me.”

“No it isn’t. I didn’t ask if you liked it. I made a statement. You agreed.” I smirk. “You get one question.”

“Do you expect me to be completely naked before you let him go?”

“Yes.” I let the word drip out of my mouth, let him see the fire in my eyes and the mischief in my lips.

He sighs and undoes his belt. He kicks off his socks, pulls down his pants, and removes his underwear.

“You’ve been working out,” I say. He really is in much better shape than he was. Not that he used to be a slouch or anything. Just that I can see –and appreciate – the difference. “Making sure that you won’t lose our next fight, or you just want to look pretty for me?”

“I have been training,” he says. “But mostly it’s the new lifestyle that you forced me into.” He doesn’t seem the slightest bit uncomfortable being nude in front of me. “Are you going to fuck me?”

“No.” Not tonight, anyway. No need to tell him that. Though I do wonder what he’s really asking. “Wait,” I say. “Are you asking if we’re going to have sex, or are you asking if I’m going to take a strap on and fuck you in the ass?”

He sighs. I bet he’s wishing he hadn’t just stripped to save time. “I was asking if you were going to fuck me in the ass,” he says.

“Would you like me to?”

He shrugs. “In different circumstances, maybe,” he says. “I do like you, Molly. But you keep putting yourself on the wrong side of the law. You’re making it impossible for us to have any kind of relationship. The more you do this,” he gestures to the man in the chair, “the more certain I am that you need to be put away. You’re crazy, Molly, and you’re dangerous. I have to stop you.”

“Even though you don’t want to?”

“It’s not a question of whether or not I want to,” he says. “It’s what I have to do.”

“Why you?”

He holds up a hand and shows four fingers. “That’s four questions,” he says. “And the reason it has to be me is that no one else could. You wouldn’t let them. For some reason, you keep giving me chances, like you want me to catch you. You do want it to be me, don’t you?”

I shrug. “Yes,” I say. “But no.” I smirk at him and let my eyes trace over the cut lines of muscle on his legs.

“And are you going to come quietly?”

“No,” I say. “Never.” I bite my lip and look at him, then shrug. “What can I say? I’m a screamer.”

His face tells me he isn’t amused. His erection disagrees. I’m amazed he still has enough blood to blush. He takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair. I watch the movement ripple through his body and can’t help the appreciative sound that slips out.

“What else do you want to do?” he asks. “What is it going to take?”

I shake my head. “Those aren’t yes or no questions,” I say.

“Why do they have to be? Is it just so that you feel like you’re in control.”

I smile. “No.”

“Is it because you want to see what I’ll ask?”

“Yes.” Then I point at the floor. “Now get on your knees. I’ll give you another question for each boot, if you do a good job.”

“Can I have a third if I do the soles too?”

 “I’ll give you one for each sole,” I say. “But since you asked… yes.”

He rolls his eyes and drops to his knees. He looks defeated, but I can see his eyes dart to the string in my hand. I can see him set himself ready to pounce as soon as I let my guard down. He puts his hands on the floor and begins to crawl forward, ready to take one foot in his hands and start licking, trying to figure out how best to immobilize me without letting me pull the pin out of the grenade.

I put a foot on his shoulder and stop him. “Not so fast,” I say. “Put your hands behind your back.”

He puts his hands back there and laces his fingers together; it’s as good as handcuffs. “Now don’t you dare let go,” I tell him. “If those hands move, so will mine.” I gesture at the man in the chair. “And that will leave you all naked and covered in whatever’s left of this inhuman slime once the bomb goes off.”

He sighs. “I understand.”

“Call me mistress.”

“I understand mistress Molly,” he says. I didn’t tell him to use my name, but I like that he did. He’s showing initiative, like a good slave.

The pressure of his tongue against my leg is like a massage, gentle but insistent. No need to instruct him to put more force into it this time; he’s licking like a man who’d been wandering the desert for days only to find a source of water. There’s a desperate joy, a love that I’m not sure he’s willing to even admit to himself, that pushes his tongue deep against the leather, as if he’s trying to lick his way inside me.

Maybe next time.

He slides over the zipper, over the buckle. He licks all the way up one side and then all the way down the other. Slow, methodical, making sure not to miss a spot, he does a fantastic job cleaning my boots, a perfect spit shine for the leather that I’m certain has absolutely nothing to do with the man in the chair or with the desire to get more questions out of me.

I have him lean back on his knees for the soles, pressing my foot into his face and smiling at the sight as he presses his tongue between the treads, eyes closed, bliss painted over his face as if he doesn’t realize how closely I’m watching his reactions. His shoulders strain, but I’m not sure if he’s so desperate to move his arms because he wants to hurt me or because he wants to hold my boots and give them the proper worship he knows they deserve.

He’s panting for breath by the time he finishes, and there is no doubt about his erection, or the gleam of the precum at the tip. I’d say something, make fun of him maybe, but I’m breathing just as thickly as he is. I lick my lip and run my free hand through my hair, pushing it out of my eyes. “Ask me your questions,” I tell him.

“Are you going to whip me?”

“Yes,” I say. “Next time.”

“Are you going to bite me?”

I smile at that, baring my teeth at him. “No,” I say, though I am going to file that little gem away for now.

“Is there anything else you’re going to make me do in order to set him free?”

“No,” I say. Then I kick him, right between the legs, as hard as I can. If he had been standing, I’d probably have lifted him off the ground. As it is, I don’t get the full momentum. Still, he collapses on the ground. I kick him in the chest, forcing him onto his back before he has time to unclasp his hands. It really is just as good as actually tying him up.

I bend down, straddling him with one knee pressed into his chest as he whimpers in pain, writhing a little bit beneath me. I carefully pull on the leather gloves in my pocket, careful to neither let the string go nor pull it too tight as I settle the glove on my free hand. I gently grip his neck, letting him feel the soft caress of the leather. Then I squeeze, a steady increase in pressure. At first, he doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on the pain of the kick. Then, as I first stifle and then completely cut off his airway, his eyes refocus on me. He tries to struggle again, and I press my knee harder into his chest and squeeze as hard as I can, making sure that not even a hint of air can get past my grip.

“I’m not going to force you,” I say, my voice a whisper. I bend at an awkward angle so that I can put my mouth at his ear. I want to bite him, but I said I wouldn’t, and I’m a domme of her word. “And I’m not going to let him go.” I put my tongue at the edge of my hand, the leather pressing just underneath, and I give his face a long and sensual lick. I know his vision is starting to cloud at the edges, but he still moans at the movement.

“You’re going to want to hurry,” I say, letting him go. He gasps for air, rolling over onto his knees and lifting himself weakly on his hands. It’s so tempting to kick him again; he’s so perfectly set up for it. But instead, I just nudge his clothing out of the way and step closer to the man in the chair.

“It’s a short fuse,” I say, looking at the man in the chair but talking to my Leland. I turn the chair so that he’s facing away from Leland, who is still coughing and gasping for breath, probably a bit insensible about the world around him. His focus will come, but not fast enough.

I yank the pin and dart for the door, stopping outside only long enough to hear him cough again after the explosion. I don’t even look to see if he managed to get out of the way of the splatter. He survived; that’s all that matters.

That, and the fact that justice, real justice, was served.

1 comment:

  1. Oh wow - she's showing her true colors! (MizNina)

    ReplyDelete