No more Moriarty... here.

Okay, so the novel is almost finished. Here on the blog you have seen nine parts of the tale; this makes ten. That's close to 40% of the total novel. Would you be interested in seeing the rest of it? We're going to see if we can get a publisher to do it real justice, so you may have to wait a bit. But tell me you're interested in the comments. That might help the publication.

The last part you saw was dear Moriarty finally getting caught. This time, she's in prison, after the trial, and just before... well, you should be able to figure out what happens next by the end of the story...

Coming Holmes to Roost

 “You have to tell them that you're consenting.” I lean against the door frame and gesture over my shoulder at the guard outside. “That you know that there will be some actions that appear to be violent, but you consent to it all.”

Leland looks at me from the couch. I think he wanted to talk first. The tension in his shoulders is pretty obvious; they're all but covering his ears. He looks like he hasn't slept. He must have been excited to see me.

“What?”

I sigh. “If they think I'm being violent, they'll stop us,” I say. “And if I do anything violent, it violates the terms of the deal and I get transferred to a regular prison.”

“I thought they had to give you a warning first.”

I smirk at him. It was worth it to get a private room. Private cell. Whatever.

He goes and confirms that he is consenting, that things might get rough, but it shouldn't be considered violent unless it continues after he shouts out my middle name, which is our safeword. I hate the thought that someone is going to be listening, even if they're just listening for one word. But I don't get to set all the conditions right now.

Leland gestures to a chair across from the couch and sits back down. I do my best to look sexy, but there's only so much I can do with what I have. They won't let me wear makeup, my shoes don't have laces and the canvas monstrosities are as far a cry from boots as something can be while still technically qualifying as a pair of shoes. At least I'm not wearing a jumpsuit anymore.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Bored,” I tell him. “I'm getting very tired of the routine of all this. I'm glad you came to visit me.”

“It took some doing,” he says. “That trial hurt my credibility a bit.”

I wince at the tone of his voice. “I'm sorry about that,” I say.

He waves me away. “You did what you had to do.” He wrings his hands a bit. “Look, Molly, I just wanted to say--”

I hold up my hand. “Leland, please. Don't go down that road. We don't have the time to rehash all that. You won that round, fair and square. Can we just get to the real reason you came here?”

He gives me a tired smile. “What's that?” he asks.

I give him a smirk, one that isn't as effective in the billowing looseness of the prison clothing as it would be in tight leather with a nice riding crop in my hand. “Well, it isn't to tell me that you aren't coming back,” I say.

“No,” he says, “It isn't. I wouldn't do that to you.”

“Good,” I say. “Because this time together has been one of the only things I could think about.”

He smiles. “Horny?”

I shake my head. “Just like a challenge,” I say. “My therapist says that I need puzzles to keep myself busy, or I might” I hold up my hands and make air quotes “fall back into bad habits.”

He laughs. “Sounds like rehab.”

I roll my eyes and kick off the slipper shoes. I'm not wearing socks. There's something incredibly not-sexy about wearing socks. I'm sure there's an attractive way to take them off, but I haven't found it yet. The only way I've ever enjoyed it is when someone, like Leland, is on his knees in front of me, peeling them off my feet after having cleaned and reverently removed my boots, before gently pressing his lips against the top of my feet. Without that nice kiss, there really is no point. So I didn't bother wearing them.

“So what's been keeping you challenged and interested?”

I push myself to my feet and begin unbuttoning the over shirt, leaving only the tank top underneath. “Trying to find a way to keep my word to you without having any real tools of the trade.”

“Your word?” he asks.

“Didn't you read my letter?” I spread my feet and roll my neck, enjoying the loud cracking sound it makes.

His blush tells me that he did. I snap my fingers and point at my feet, idly wishing they were long and painted, and not cut short like they force me to keep them here. Leland smiles up at me, then gets off the couch and comes to kneel at my bare feet.

“Now beg me,” I say.

“Please, Mistress Molly.” He's keeping his voice low; obviously, he doesn't want the guard outside to overhear him. “Use me, beat me, degrade me.”

I shake my head at him. “I can't hear you,” I say.

“Use me,” he says, a little bit louder.

“Louder.”

“Tie me up and beat me,” he says. Still not loud enough for the guy in the hall.

I smirk at him. I don't want the guard listening in, but I can see that the idea is humiliating him, so maybe that's more important. “I don't think our friend in the hall can hear you,” I say. “Try one more time.”

He looks up at me, sighs, and gives me a doubtful look. I stare at him for a few seconds. He blinks first.

“Mistress Molly,” he says, loud enough that he, at least, will think the guard can hear him. “Please torture and defile me for your pleasure.”

I laugh at him, at the flush of his skin and the arousal so obvious I can almost smell it. I reach down to my waist and start to pull off the canvas belt. “Take off your shirt,” I say to him. “In fact,” I pull the belt off and wrap it around my hand a few times, “you should just strip. It'll save time.”

He wore a tie. That's good; makes a great blindfold. The canvas belt around his wrists, tightened through the buckle and then wrapped around itself between his wrists, keeps them pretty solidly behind his back. He might be able to get loose eventually; it's not as good as the real thing, but it will work for our purposes.

His belt I use to tie up his ankles. Then I push his knees apart as far as they will go and nudge him with my toes. I give him a light slap with the top of my foot. He winces a bit, and I laugh at him. “I'm just getting started,” I say. “How much pain do you think you can take?”

He looks at me; or rather, he turns his face in my general direction. “I can take a lot.”

“Say my name if you need me to back off,” I say. “First name.”

He nods. “Yes mistress--”

I cut him off with a swift kick, punting his balls like a football. There should be a joke there. But watching him curl up on the floor, teeth clenched and face pale, was funny enough. I push him over onto his back. He tries to curl his knees up again, and I push them away. I sit on his waist and look down at him as he slowly catches his breath.

Then I take one finger and start to circle it slowly around his left nipple. I move with agonizing slowness and the lightest touch, the kind of touch that is needed for cracking a combination lock. I know he can feel it, but it's like a feather.

My other hand takes a grip on his right nipple. Thumb on one side, the second knuckle of my finger on the other, I squeeze. He hisses in his breath, and I twist, making him squirm a little. I twist the other way, still carefully swirling my other finger gently around his other nipple.

I squeeze my right hand as tightly as I can, pinching like I'm trying to rip it off. His teeth clench tightly, but I don't let go until he whimpers. Then I open my grip, and he just gasps at the relief. I flick his nipple, which makes him jump, then I put my hand on his cheek.

“There's so little time,” I say, my left finger still tracing gently around his other nipple. “I wish we could drag this out for days.” I grip his chin in my hand and press my lips against his. There's resistance, but only for an instant. Then my tongue is invading his mouth, exploring like I was trying to memorize the contours. He kisses me back, passion bubbling up in him. I let go of his chin and run my hand through his hair. His shoulders tense, and I know he's trying to reach around and grab me, to hold me, to run his hands over my body. He moans in pleasure, and it vibrates into my mouth and down my spine.

I close my eyes, and nearly stop making little circles around his left nipple. It's a perfect moment, wonderful in every way but the costuming. I try to stretch it out, try to let the feeling linger. But nothing perfect can last forever. Try to force it, and you ruin everything. So I ended the kiss with a light nibble on his lower lip, pulling it away from his mouth just a bit before letting it slip from between my teeth.

Then I lean back a bit, glance over my shoulder for the aim, and punch him square in the balls. He tenses again, gasping at the sudden shift from pleasure to pain. He coughs, knees coming up to try to protect him. I push them away and punch him again.

He gasps for breath.

“Oh, don't tell me you're done already,” I say, increasing the pressure with my left hand, so the finger is just pressing hard enough for him to feel it over the burning pain in his other nipple. “Don't tell me you can't take any more. I've just started.” I make my voice sound as pouty as I can. “You're not going to wimp out on me, are you?”

He doesn't answer, taking a few breaths and trying to calm down. I reach behind me and rub his balls, gently massaging him until he starts making happy noises again. Then I twist them a little bit and squeeze, crushing his balls in my hand. “I asked you a question.” My voice is cold now. Harsh as I can manage with the man I love so much.

He winces. I squeeze harder.

“N-no,” he says, his teeth clenched so tightly I'm a little worries he's going to break them. “No mistress,” he says.

I let him go, and he gasps for breath again. I lift my weight off him, but don't stop my left hand from its circles. “Good boy,” I say. My right hand undoes my pants, and I step out of them, leaving me in just the tank top. I didn't wear panties either; not once I knew I was seeing my Leland.

“Please,” he says, wriggling a little bit, trying to pull away from the gentle torture of my left hand.

“What's the matter?” I ask, as innocent as I can manage. “Is my finger bothering you?”

He nods, whimpering a little, trying to pull away but with nowhere to go.

I pull my finger away, and he sighs in relief. Just for a second though. I lean down and run my tongue around his nipple, just as lightly, just as slowly. The exquisite torture of a gentle touch.

I circle his nipple with my tongue for almost a minute. I know that to him, it must feel like hours, a gentle sensation that never stops, never slows, and never gets more intense. Then I pull my mouth away and give a gentle exhalation, letting the wet nipple dry. He whimpers again.

“No?” I tease him, put my finger back to his nipple, back to the gentle circling. “Is pleasure not floating your boat?”

“Please,” he says, his voice weak.

“Should we go back to pain?”

He nods, looking miserable.

“Are you sure?”

“Please.”

“You'd rather I hurt you than be gentle?” He nods again.

I laugh and kneel straddling his head. “Okay,” I say. “But you'd better show your appreciation.”

I bend down enough for his tongue to reach me, and he gets to work. I try not to think about the last time he did this, the way it ended that time. I focus on the pleasure of his tongue, the joy that burns up my body as he goes.

I consider just leaning forward and taking him into my mouth, letting us both fall into the roaring wash of pleasure. But he might lose focus if I do that. His tongue might miss a beat, skip a letter.

Besides. I promised him pain. And he asked for it.

I put my hands as far down his legs as I can, jabbing the tips of my fingers into his flesh. If I still had long nails, they'd be deep in his skin. As it is, my clipped down nails still tear a bit of the surface skin away, leaving satisfyingly red lines up his legs, then over his hips and up either side of his chest. He tenses at the pain, but his tongue doesn't slow down.

I bite my lip to hold back a moan, and settle myself down on his face, knowing that I'm cutting off all air. I don't have to put a hand on his throat to choke him. I focus on counting as he keeps going with his tongue. I watch his body, watch him get tense, watch him fight down the panic. I hold myself a little bit longer, letting the count get all the way to thirty, before pulling away just enough for him to get a breath. Then I lower myself again and snicker a little. He can't hear me, I don't think.

I only count to twenty this time before letting him breathe. His legs are tense, his whole body covered in a sweaty sheen. I want to say something taunting, but his tongue is making it harder and harder to focus on anything other than the rising orgasm.

I run my nails up his shaft, hearing him whimper. I flick against his balls, then pinch the still soft tip of his erection. His feet try to kick away as I do that, and I briefly wonder what would happen if I bit it when I start to orgasm from his tongue.

For a moment, everything else is forgotten. Everything else exists in a haze. There is only his tongue and my orgasm, washing through my body, making every inch of me shake. A burning rush of pleasure lights up my every nerve ending, and my vision starts to fade at the edges. It's intense beyond any orgasm I can remember feeling, and I very nearly pass out.

When the wave finally starts to recede, I know there's nothing left in me to torture him. He is my love, and I can think of nothing other than fucking his wonderful, amazing, brilliant brains out.

I'm still riding my first orgasm when he has his. If I were a crueler woman, I'd make a comment about him lacking staying power. But I know how close to the edge I've been keeping him. And besides, I'm enjoying it way too much to really think about much else.

I collapse against his sweaty chest, moaning with pleasure. After a few seconds, I slide him out of me and roll over to lay next to him. We pant for breath together, laughing a little bit and looking at the cheap ceiling tiles of the crappy little room they've put us in.

“That,” he says, gasping for air and trying to find a comfortable position for his wrists, “was.” He laughs. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” I push him onto his side and unlash his arms. He groans as his shoulders move, and then he has his arm around me, holding me against him. “That didn't suck.”

He laughs again.

“Worth the wait?” he asks.

“Worth the prison,” I say, snuggling up against him. “Well, so far, anyway.”

He tenses a little when I say that. “I wish it didn't have to be this way,” he says. He kisses the top of my head.

“Yeah.” I sigh, give him a squeeze, another kiss, and then pull away. I get to my feet and start pulling on my pants. “Pretty great though.”

“It was,” he says. “We need to do this again.”

I button up my pants and start running the belt through the loops. My skin is still flushed, but I don't care. I'm sure the guard outside knows what we were doing. Even if he wasn't intending to listen, by the end of that I'm pretty sure he would have heard us anyway. There's a chance everyone in the building heard us.

“We should do it again,” I say, slipping my feet into my shoes and heading to the door. “Next time, though.” I knock on the door so the guard will let me out. I look over my shoulder at my Leland and I wink at him. “Let's do it at your place.”

I leave him there to get himself cleaned up and dressed, and to wonder just how serious my last comment was.

It's all the warning I intend to give.