Every Moriarty needs her Sherlock

This is something very different. I'm pretty sure it still counts as erotica, though there isn't really all that much sex involved. It's just the beginning, the tease. I hope you like it. I hope you think it’s clever.

If not, I’ll stop and go back to the tried and true. Either way, please, let me know.

Holmes Free

            They don’t often talk about it, but it’s an undeniable truth: Every villain needs a hero. Every Moriarty needs a Holmes. Even if she has to create him.

            It’s the challenge, I think. Where’s the fun in defeating an opponent if they can’t play the game?

            His name is Leland Crane. He’s not a writer anymore. He was, but then it turned out that the latest manuscript he was publishing actually belonged to someone named Miles Floyd.    Someone who hadn’t existed until I decided to make Crane mine.

            He knows that someone else is manipulating his life. He knows the work was original. If he hadn’t figured it out, hadn’t been certain of it, he wouldn’t have been of interest to me. But he is so determined to figure out what is going on, so set on finding the person who ruined his life that I know he has the drive that I need. The strength of character, the will that I can break. Oh, it makes me excited just thinking about it.

            I introduced myself to him at a bar, before he could have one drink too many. “You’re Leland Crane, aren’t you?” I asked, a look on my face both hopeful and excited.

            He scoffed at me. “I used to be,” he said. “Now, I’m—well, I’m nobody.”

            I waved a hand to dismiss the idea. “I don’t believe any of those stories,” I said. “No way you stole that stuff.”

            He laughed. “Well, at least one person thinks that.” His eyes traced down my form, and his eyebrow twitched before he could get control of it. He smiled and gestured to an empty seat.

            It’s not enough to say that I was dressed provocatively. I was dressed exactly the way he wanted. Some people try to deny that the things they write expose who they are as a person. But if you read between the lines, if you see the trends and the foci, the things that the author spends time describing, you can learn all kinds of things about his preferences, his desires, and his fantasies.

            So I wore a pair of ordinary jeans, with stitching clearly visible up both legs, drawing the eye to the lines of my legs. They hugged tight at my knees, flared out just a tiny bit below them, giving my legs an hour glass all their own. I had on heels, wide and solid, just a few short inches. Enough to push my butt up and add another curve to the jeans, but not enough to make it obvious. The leather was smooth, but shiny and clearly well taken care of. He could only see the tips of my boots sticking out from under the jeans, but when I moved, and when I sat down, he could watch the jean legs ride up just a little bit and reveal that the leather not only hugged tight to my leg, but also continued up past where his eyes could follow. He couldn’t see the top of the boot against the jeans, but he could imagine they went as high as he wanted them too.

            I wore a button down shirt that was untucked, the edges of the blouse spread out a little at the bottom, framing the button and zipper of my jeans. The white of the shirt then vanished under a vest so tight it nearly pushed the shirt inside my skin. It was pulled tight like a corset, and pressed my breasts together and out just a little bit. Not enough to be obvious or to demand attention, but enough to reward attention when it was given. I wore a tie, loosely hanging and drawing the eye down again, so that he would almost, but not quite, miss the open top of the blouse. So his eyes would trace over my collar bone, barely visible unless I turned just so. Which I did.

            I smiled at him from behind horn rimmed glasses that I don’t need. I hid my teeth, only smiling with my lips, which were painted so dark as to hint at black without actually being black. I didn’t want to be too perfect. Not good to rouse suspicion.

            My fingernails were dark purple for the same reason. Close, but not quite.

            “I’m a huge fan,” I said, once he had taken all the time he wanted examining and appreciating the curves of my body. “You’re very clever.”

            “Not as clever as Miles Floyd, apparently.” He said, turning back to his drink.

            I could have asked who that was; it wasn’t public knowledge that Floyd was the one who supposedly wrote the novels first. But I didn’t ask. That would matter later. “Sure you are,” I said. “No way he could have come up with work like yours. Like I said, I don’t believe the rumors.”

            He lowered his drink and smiled at me again, a world weary smile that I bet he spent time practicing. “What did you say your name was?” he asked.

            “Beth,” This time, I lied through my teeth, so he could get a glimpse of the best pearly whites money can buy. “Beth Skinner.”

            He raised an eyebrow at that. “Skinner, huh?”

            I nodded, pleased he had made the connection to the scientist, but wanting to let the seed settle into his brain for a while.

            “And what do you do, Beth Skinner?”

            I looked him straight in the eye, and I decided, for some reason, to tell him the truth. “I’m a criminal,” I said. “A thief, most of the time.”

            He didn’t believe me. Which was probably for the best. “That must be interesting.”

            I shrugged. “You’d think so,” I said. “But it’s actually kind of dull.”

            “Why is that?”

            “Because you’re the clever one,” I said.

            He looked confused at that. I shifted in my seat, leaning forward just a little bit, tipping my breasts at a just the right angle to almost, but not quite, be inappropriate. I put one hand on his leg, nails first. I let my hand spread out quickly, dragging the nails along the khakis over his knee and finally rested my palm on his thigh. He couldn’t suppress the shudder, which made me smile.

            “It’s like sex,” I said, drawing out the last word just a shade longer than it had to be.

            “What?” He was confused, but I could tell that he was also hooked.

            I leaned a little bit closer, lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s nothing wrong with a good hard fuck,” I told him. “Or with missionary position. But it gets old, you know?” I smiled again, blinked my eyes a bit slowly to draw his attention to my long lashes. I pushed my red hair back behind one ear and let the silence stretch out just a little bit. “The best sex is the naughty sex. The forbidden fruit.”

            “Are you propositioning me?”

            I smiled, but otherwise ignored the question. “Good sex is when you can tie your partner to the bed posts and have your way with him. When you can grip his throat tight, your fingernails digging in just a little bit,” I curled my hand on his leg so he could feel those same fingernails. “The look in his eyes as he realizes that you control his breath, the moan as he realizes that I’m going to fuck him, but that he’s just a toy to me, an object,” I couldn’t help the intake of breath any more than I could help the flush of heat down my body, “that is sexy.” I bit my lip as I took in another breath, smirking at the rapt attention in his eyes. “When a man is willing to do anything for me, when he doesn’t care how humiliating it is, that’s hot. When I’m whipping him and his reaction shifts, when that switch flips and pain becomes pleasure,” I let out a tiny little moan of my own. “That’s good sex.”

            He swallowed, briefly at a loss for words. “I don’t understand.”

            I smiled at him. “You will,” I promised him. Then I winked at him and patted him on the leg with the lightest of touches. He nearly jumped out of his skin.

            I leaned back and let out a throaty little chuckle. “Crime is like sex,” I said. “If it’s too easy, if no one can catch you,” I shrugged, “Well, then it’s just missionary position.”

            “And you want to get fucked up against a wall?”

            I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I want the man who wants to fuck me up against the wall down on his knees in front of me. I want his pride broken, his will shattered. I want him to lick my boots because he wants to show me that he knows his place.”

            He shook his head. “That sort of thing doesn’t really happen,” he said.

            I stood up and ran one hand over his jaw line, curling my finger so the nail scraped along just under his chin. “Tell that to your editor,” I said. I stood up and leaned in close, giving him a whisper that was just for him. “Broken,” I said, “Beaten, pathetic, on your knees.” I bit his lip. “Soon.”

            I walked out of the bar, and was halfway out the door when he put things together. His editor, the fact that I hadn’t reacted to the name of his accuser, the words that had slipped through his hormone-addled mind; all of that fell into the place. I heard him shout my name, heard him start chasing after me, but he was too far behind.

            I was gone by the time he caught up, leaving nothing behind but the memory, the sound of my boots on the street, and the taste of my name in his head. My name. Skinner, the psychologist, the behaviorist. Someone who wrote about behavior, about negative and positive reinforcement. About punishment.

            And, of course, there’s my initials.

            Hopefully, he’ll laugh when he gets that joke.

            Maybe I’ll ask him next time we talk.