Well, for a little while, at least.
The Holmes Stretch
Am I losing
my touch? Am I not being careful anymore? I should have more been suspicious when
as he stopped resisting. Leland had been playing the martyr, forced into the
horrible and degrading scenarios by the evil criminal mastermind, for so long
that when he finally stopped, I just took it as a good thing, as him finally
accepting the way things work.
I really
should have suspected something. I should be more paranoid.
I’m not
stupid; when he told me that he wanted to meet, I did my homework. I made sure
to set up a location for us to meet, one that was far from prying eyes, one
that couldn’t be well observed. I made sure we would have privacy, that even a
satellite following us from space wouldn’t be able to watch all the things I’m
planning to do to him. I told him to meet me in a church, suggesting that it
would be extra kinky if we had all that religious iconography around while I
put him through the most intense scene we’d ever had. I even waited to give him
the name of the church until an hour before we were meeting. He barely made it
in time.
And once he
did, once he found the note I’d left for him and put the beeper with the new
address he was meant to go to written on it, I activated the signal scrambler
so no one could follow him. Then I watched him walk out, watched him get into
his car, and followed him to make sure he never made a call, never turned off
the signal scrambler, and never even tossed aside a piece of paper that might
have a note on it. I was careful.
Once I saw
him go through the front door, I headed to the back, coming through the steam
tunnel to the secluded little room I’d set up earlier. I arrived a few minutes
before him, so that my dear Leland would never know I hadn’t been there all
along.
When I
heard him at the door, I stood up and adjusted my outfit. I put my bag on a
stool, where he will be able to see it. I spread my legs and stared, waiting to
see the look on his face as he took me in.
I’ve gone
all out for what he likes this time. My lips are black as pitch, my nails,
barely visible out of the fingerless leather gloves, just as black. I’m wearing
a light chain collar that is pressed against my neck without choking me in the
slightest, just a small jewel hanging off the center to draw his eyes down over
my otherwise bare neck, along the collar bones and up to the curves of my
breasts, pushed up and together by a tight leather corset. The deep purple
bands under the lacing are, I know, like icing on the cake. I watch him caress
my form with his eyes, knowing that he can’t hide that smile, and that he’s not
really even trying.
There’s a
small gap between the bottom of the corset and the top of my pants. I think it
looks like the corset doesn’t fit, but from Leland’s gaze, from the way he
practically drools, I know it was the right choice. He looks at the leather
gently hanging over my hips, at the removable section in the center, without
which these leather pants would be no more than chaps. His eyes travel down the
bright red lacing along the sides of my legs until they come to the boots, just
under my knees. The leather already has a dull shine, the heel curving in a
little bit before spreading out, an hour glass below my ankles. There’s a
little platform under the toe, not enough to stop me feeling his tongue when he
licks the sole, but enough to give me a bit more height, enough to make it so
that I can actually, at least a little, look down at him.
I want to
tell him to wipe his mouth, but there really isn’t a need. Instead, I just say
one word, the word he must have known was coming. “Strip.”
Maybe I’m
doing it because I still don’t trust him. With him naked, I can be confident
that no one else is going to rush into the room. I can check to make sure he
isn’t wearing a wire, and I can be sure that he is vulnerable. But mostly, I
just like seeing him naked. He’s such a pretty slave.
Once he
stands there naked, shivering a little from either cold or excitement or both,
I gesture for him to drop his clothes outside, and to come into the room. “Lock
the door.”
The locks
can’t be picked. There’s a chain on the door, a bolt that drops down, and a
brace at the bottom of the frame. All are locked from the inside. No one is
getting in without one of us letting them in. We’re alone. Safely alone.
I point to
the floor at my feet. “Kneel,” I say. Once he’s there, I bend down to put a
collar on him. This isn’t like any other collar I’ve used though. This one
seems like more of a mix between a collar and a neck brace: a posture collar,
one that will force my dear Leland to keep his chin up, to look at me. One that
means that if I get too close, he won’t be able to see my boots anymore. I wonder
how long it will take before he realizes that last bit.
I tighten
the strap around the back, press the buckle through it, and then snap the
padlock onto the buckle. No way to get it off without either cutting him free
or unlocking it. “There we go,” I say. I take the next article out of the bag.
It looks like crumpled black canvas and a bunch of string. “Put your hands
behind your back,” I tell him.
“Yes
mistress Molly.”
God, I love
it when he calls me that. He puts his hands behind his back, and have him grip
onto the little piece of rubber inside the sleeve, then start to lace my way
up. He doesn’t ask what’s going on when he feels the canvas cover his hands. He
doesn’t seem concerned when it covers his wrists. He barely seems worried when
the canvas crosses over the line of his elbow.
Then I pull
the string, and the binders get tighter. His arms are pressed together, and his
shoulders pull back farther than could possibly be comfortable. “What the hell?”
he asks, before he can think better of it.
I give him
a light slap to the back of the head. “You speak when spoken to,” I say. “Do it
again, and I’ll gag you.”
“Sorry
mistress Molly.”
I like the way
that rolls off his tongue. Still. “Maybe I should just gag you anyway.” I pull
some laces tighter, moving the arm binders up his biceps, pulling his shoulders
even tighter, into an even more uncomfortable position. “I have an inflatable
one,” I tell him. “I could put the ball in your mouth and start inflating it.
Push your jaw as wide as it’ll go.” I step in front of him and make a show like
I’m actually considering doing this. “Or maybe I’ll pump it even farther.
Dislocate your jaw. You realize that I could do that, don’t you?” I step behind
him again and tie off the string on the arm binders, making sure they won’t
come loose on their own. Then I lift his wrists a little, forcing him to bend
forward, increasing the pressure on his shoulders even more. “In fact,” I say, “I
could lift here a little harder, dislocate your shoulders too. Would you like
that?”
He doesn’t
say anything. I think he’s in too much pain to really talk. I let go of his
wrist and kick him the leg. I kick with the tip of my boot, knowing that the
impact will make the muscles in his leg tense up, knowing that he can’t massage
away the Charlie horse, and in fact can’t really do anything about it at all
without laying down to stretch out his leg. “I asked you a question,” I say.
He leans
forward again, resting his forehead on the floor, and stretches out his leg
behind him, making pained noises. “Please, mistress Molly,” he says.
I like
that. What a wonderful response. Could be taken as him asking for mercy, could
be taken as him asking me to dislocate his joints and possibly do some real
damage to his body. Could just be begging me to kick him again. I suppose I
could interpret it however I like.
“You’re so
clever, Leland my love,” I say. I step forward and put my boots on either side
of his head, pressing them against his ears, cutting off his hearing with two
soft pads of leather. He doesn’t struggle.
Which makes
me reach into the bag for my next toy.
I use my
boot to roll him onto his back, smiling at him as he grimaces in pain. He’s
crushing his arms beneath himself. I can’t let him do that for long, but he
doesn’t need to know that. For all he knows, I’m going to leave him like that.
“Lift your
knees,” I say. He bends at the knees. I strap the shackles to his ankles,
buckling them tight to his calves and to one another. I reach up and hook the
climbing rope to the shackles. I doubt he saw the rope, or the brushed metal of
the carabineer, before hearing the click.
He looks at
me with a mixture of confusion, fear, and arousal when I press the button by
the wall and start the winch. The pressure comes off his arms as his whole body
raises off the floor. I make sure to move slowly enough that he won’t jerk or
hit his head. I leave him dangling just high enough for his chin to be at the
level of my belt. He can’t look at anything higher up on me, but can tilt his
eyes to admire my boots, if I want him to.
I hook a
strap over his chest and to either side of the arm binders. Wouldn’t want them
sliding off. Then I strap a belt around his waist, and hook that to the bottom
of the binders, locking his arms not only together behind his back, but also
safely out of the control of gravity. There’s enough strain on his shoulders; I
don’t want him to hurt himself.
“Comfy?” I
ask.
“Wh—” he
stops himself just in time. “Mistress Molly, may I ask a question?”
I applaud,
literally. “I’m so proud of you,” I say. “Yes, you may ask a question.”
“What are
you going to do?”
“I’m not
entirely sure,” I lie. “I’ve been debating using you as a punching bag. You’re
hanging at the perfect height for that, you know. I could put on boxing gloves
to protect my knuckles and just go to town on you. You’d end up a mass of
bruises from here,” I put my finger just under the start of the posture collar.
Then I slide it up, over his chest, my nail scraping his skin just a little bit
until I get to the belt at his waist, “to here.”
He
swallows, as hard as the collar will allow him. He knows I’d do it, and knows I
might really be considering it.
“Or,” I
say, “I could just unhook my pants a little bit and let you lick me to orgasm
as a thank you for not beating you
senseless.” I tap my fingernail, the same one that scratched a line up his
body, against the front panel of my pants, right at the level of his mouth.
Then I take
a step away. “Or I could put a tight leather mask on you, with pads over your
eyes, plugs in your ears, and mint scented tubes in your nose. Then I could
leave you there, just hanging in complete and utter darkness, no sensation of
any kind. Maybe it would be a few minutes. Maybe a few hours. You probably
wouldn’t know the difference, after a little while.
“I could
put headphones on you and hypnotize you,” I say, walking around his swinging
form, occasionally scratching at his skin. “Or I could electrocute you until
your twitching got boring. I’m really not sure.” I stop in front of him again,
my feet spread, one foot tapping to draw his attention. “Do you have a
preference, little slave?”
He opens
his mouth, then closes it.
“It’s okay,”
I tell him. “You may speak.”
He takes a
breath. “If it’s all the same to you, Mistress Molly, I’d prefer to bring you
to orgasm.” He swallows again. “As a thank you.”
What a
shock. Seeing as I didn’t bring an electric prod, a leather mask, headphones, or
boxing gloves, it’s just as well that he chose that option.
I unbutton
the front of my leather pants and step close enough to push his face into the
strip of hair I still have down there. “Do a good job,” I say. “Or I’ll piss
down your throat when you finish.”
He gets to
work, and I’m soon moaning and gasping. He is certainly doing a good job. For a
little while, it feels like he’s spelling out the alphabet with his tongue. I
cum by the time he gets to I, then again when he hits M. He stops the alphabet
at S, doing a few circles with his tongue, then two quick curls followed by a
line. I’m too deep in to what he’s doing to really pay attention anymore.
He keeps
moving that wonderful tongue, and I cum a third time. I laugh at the idea of
pissing down his throat when he
finishes, knowing that this is going to keep going until I’m done, whether he
wants it to or not. I’d never actually pee down his throat, of course. I’d hate
to give him a bad association. I want that tongue to—oh, I want that tongue to
do so many things.
I fall on
my ass after orgasm number four, my eyes practically rolling back into my head
as I go. I don’t think I black out, but who can say for sure?
“Molly.” His
voice is calm, laced with—is that sadness?
I look up
at him, my order to stop his speaking forgotten. He’s upset, and that’s not
good. “What’s the matter?” I ask.
“It’s over
Molly.”
“What is?”
“All of
this,” he says. “Let me down.”
I shake my
head. “I’m not finished yet.”
He sighs. “Yes
you are,” he says. “There are about a hundred marshals out in the steam
tunnels. By now, they’re waiting right outside the door.”
That makes
me laugh, still not thinking clearly. “With your clothes?”
“Yes.” He
says. “I told them you would make me strip to ensure I wasn’t wearing a wire.”
“I don’t
believe you.” That’s a half truth.
“I told you
it had to end this way,” he says. “Why couldn’t you just walk way?”
“I love
you,” I say. “And you love me. We can’t just let it end.”
“Let me
down,” he says. “Untie me. Uncuff my legs. Take off this collar.”
“Why?”
“If you
come quietly, it will go better for you.”
I shake my
head, trying to force myself not to see the line between his eyes that means he’s
sad, trying to ignore that his right eye isn’t twitching the way it does when
he lies. I try to force myself not to see the straight set of his mouth, the
tension of his sorrow clear as day, but the honesty of his words just as
impossible to miss.
“You wouldn’t,”
I say. “You couldn’t.”
“There’s
only one way out of this room,” he says. “I promise you, there are people out
there.”
“I’ll blow
them up.”
He sighs. “No
you won’t,” he says. “You didn’t think they’d be able to follow me. That’s why
you had the signal jammer, right?”
“How did
you know?”
“Can you
let me down?”
I bring him
to the floor and unhook his ankles, help him to his feet.
“The arms,
Molly,” he says.
I start
unlacing, still not entirely sure what’s going on.
“I know
you, Molly.”
“I’m not
predictable,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m pouting.
He laughs.
He actually laughs. “Oh, I know that,” he says. “That’s part of what made this
so difficult.”
“You let me
play with you,” I say.
“I had to
give them time to get set up.”
I step away
from him as the arm binders fall to the floor. He rolls his shoulders and I
look at him with absolute betrayal in my eyes. “You used me?”
He turns towards
me. “Don’t pretend you’ve never done the same,” he says.
“That’s
different,” I say.
“How?”
“It was for
your own good.”
He sighs. “So
is this. Can I have the key please?” he holds out a hand.
I pass him
the key, and he goes to work on the padlock. “How could this be for my own
good?” I ask him. “They’re going to put me away. Forever.”
“In a
psychiatric facility,” he says. “That’s part of the deal.”
“I am not crazy,” I say, my voice icy. I
debate smashing my dear Leland’s face in, just to make sure the deal is
invalidated, just to make sure they can’t throw me into a padded room.
“I know
that,” he says. “But if you struggle, if you leave this room without your hands
either up or tied behind your back, the deal is off.”
“And then
what?”
He wrests the
collar from his neck and looks at me with pleading desperation. “Then they will
assume that you are resisting,” he says. “And they will shoot you.”
“They can’t
do that,” I say. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“You have a
reputation for using explosives, for killing people in your way. You are
considered armed and extremely dangerous, Molly.”
My vision
clouds a little bit as tears fill my eyes. “They’ll… they’ll really kill me?”
“Please,”
he says. “Please don’t call their bluff.”
“You think
they’re bluffing?”
He shrugs. “I’m
afraid they aren’t,” he says.
I smile. “So
you do care.”
“Of course
I do. Now come on. Let’s end this. Without you dying.”
I sigh and
nod. Should I change? No, fuck that. I look good.
Besides. “Okay,” I say. “We’ll go to the next stage.”
“There is
no next stage, Molly,” he says. “This is the end.”
I laugh at
him and start to unlock the door. “Oh, Leland,” I say, “have I taught you
nothing?”
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