Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Moriarty gets an apology

This one was hard to write. It's heading towards the end of the story (not there yet), but it had to happen eventually... At some point, Holmes NEEDED a win. Good must triumph and all that.

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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