Moriarty: A little protective

I wasn't entirely sure what to write today, so I started collecting good titles for stories about my dear psychotic domme Moriarty. One of them just screamed out a story, and I had no choice but to tell it.
Some day, I should really put these together into a novel. Or maybe someone else will take the stories and draw a comic for them.

I also sometimes imagine being approached by a porn company and asked to write scripts for their fetish movies. The ones that exist are often so trite and poorly written. Well, that's neither here nor there. What matters for right now is Moriarty, and how... protective she is of her slave.

Something to write Holmes about

Honestly, Leland, I was jealous at first. When I found out that you were helping to hunt down a serial killer, I was hurt. You were trying to solve someone else’s crimes? A girl can’t help but feel a little neglected when you do things like that. I was starting to think that maybe, in the past few months, you’ve forgotten about me. 

Or are you mad at me for that bit with the grenade? I know you didn’t get hurt, and I know you weren’t blamed. So what reason could you possibly have to be mad at me?

Is it because I told you I was going to whip you, and I still haven’t done that? Is it because you told me that you wanted me to fuck you with a strap on, but I haven’t done that yet either? You know that the tease is part of the fun, Leland dear. The anticipation, the wonder. Every time you come home and flip a light switch only to find yourself still in darkness, do you expect me to be there? Do you hope that I’ll throw a hood over your head, zip tie your hands behind your back, and push you over and have my way with you?

I sometimes wonder if that’s why there’s a straight line from your front door to the back of your couch. Do you tell yourself that it’s in the middle of the room just to pull the room together, or do you admit that you have it there, at the perfect height, so that I can bend you over it and fuck you like there’s no tomorrow?

I wonder if you dream about it. When you toss and turn, and those six hundred thread count sheets get wrapped around your legs, do you dream that I’ve tied your legs together? Do you sleep with your back uncovered because you imagine that it’s still raw from my whipping, or do you do it in the hopes that I might actually wake you up with a whipping? Maybe that’s why your hands are always up above your head, like you’re just waiting for me to tie you down. You make it so easy for me.

Do you do that on purpose? Is it a trap? Are you hoping that I’ll come in and set off that nice silent alarm you had installed, something that will call the police and all you have to do is stall me long enough for them to show up? Or is that just what you tell yourself, knowing that I’d disable the alarm before I ever stepped inside?

Do you think about me as much as I think about me? It seems lately like maybe you don’t. So you can understand why I was upset. Hunting down a serial killer as he moves across the country, murdering young girls with a straight razor, instead of chasing after me. Why would you do that, Leland? I know you’ve been following my actions too. That new office you just leased a few weeks ago has newspaper clippings from the diamond heist, my shopping trip through the FBI evidence locker, and even the Incan burial mask that never completed its transit from Peru. You’ve got them all neatly filed away, along with that delightful little psychological profile you’ve been trying to build on me. It really is adorable.

And yet, you don’t call. You don’t write. You haven’t even looked in your files for eleven days now. Too obsessed with this straight razor punk. I was hurt.

For a little while, I even wondered if maybe, just maybe, you thought that was me. Did you think I was trying to get your attention, killing people who looked like the women from your past or something like that? Maybe you thought the razor was meaningful, like I was trying to invite you to that Sweeney Todd performance you went to last week. Or maybe there’s a fetish in there somewhere. Maybe you want me to cut you up a little bit. Razors are nice like that; I can slice into you, relatively deep, and it won’t even scar. Your skin will just close right up. You won’t even feel most of the cuts until the blood starts to well up, until the sweat of your skin starts to get into the gashes themselves. Is that it?

But no. You couldn’t think that was me. I’m sure you don’t think so badly of me. How could you think I was capable of those atrocities? Random murder, even patterned murder, isn’t my style. You know that. So why would you look for someone else?

As you narrowed down the traits of your prey, as you put together the clues he left behind at his crime scenes, I chalked it up to being just practice. You want to be better at this so you can give me more of a challenge. That’s so sweet, Leland. You want to be a better servant for me. You want it to mean more when I break you again. You want it to be a challenge. Maybe you even want a win here or there.

Should I let you win once in a while? Or would you arrest me for real, and throw me into a deep, dark hole and throw away the key? Do you dream about doing that, Leland dear? And if you do, then I want you to think very carefully and ask yourself, honestly: which one of us is locked up in the hole when you imagine it? Are you entirely sure it’s me and not you?

I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Leland dear. You really are very good at this. That’s why I chose you. You were wasting your talent as a writer; you can help the world so much more when you put those skills to good use. You were hours behind the killer the other day. Scared him enough that he dropped the target he’d been stalking. And if your profile of him is correct, that was an extremely difficult thing for him to do. He’s a man of patterns, as you know.

He’s also a man of extremes who is obsessed with vengeance. Isn’t that what you said? He’s killing these girls because they remind him of the girls who laughed at him in school, the ones who said he wasn’t a real man because he couldn’t grow facial hair. That’s why he uses the razor, isn’t it?

You disrupted his plans. You broke his routine. Did you think he’d just let that go? A sane person would have run, maybe stopped the murder spree. He could have just settled down, maybe discovered that he had become rather charming, and could probably get a girl who actually liked him, one who would date him as long as he managed to stop himself from slicing her up and dumping her body on the front steps of the local high school. A sane person would see how close he had come to getting caught, and he would call it quits.

But then, if he was sane, he wouldn’t be doing this, would he? He blamed you, Leland dear. He blamed you for everything that was wrong with his life, and became convinced that you had to die in order for him to continue his great work.

He started stalking you, Leland dear. The same way he stalked his victims. He watched you talking with the agents who had been chasing him for years, and he knew that it was your fault, that it was you that had ruined everything. He followed you to your hotel, you know.

He watched you from across the street, looking in to your hotel room and watching your routine. He even took notes of the times when you went to the bathroom, the time you spent in the shower. He took note of whether or not you used the extra locks on the door, whether or not you checked the peephole when someone knocked on the door. He even took notes about your sleeping habits.

He didn’t focus on whether or not you were dreaming about a beautiful and brilliant girl beating the shit out of you and making you rub your cock until it came all over her boots, then making you lick them clean. Well, he might have, but he didn’t take any notes to that effect.

He just took notes of your movements and your patterns. I’m surprised you never spotted him following you today. He was within about a hundred feet of you all day long, from your trip to the coffee shop to your time interviewing his potential victim to the investigation of the storage unit he had been living in until you showed up.

He followed you, watching for times you were alone, waiting for his chance to come up and kill you. I don’t think he was planning on taking his time with you. For the girls, it was about retribution, about paying them back for the humiliations he suffered. For you, it was just about revenge. I think he was just going to kill you as soon as he knew you’d be alone for even a few minutes.

He was probably going to make his move tonight. That’s why he left off his pursuit when you went to dinner with that agency slut you’ve been spending entirely too much time with. He heard you were planning to leave town, planning to chase him down somewhere else, and knew that his chance to get you was slipping away, and that you’d keep thwarting him if he didn’t do something about it. I think that’s why he left the restaurant. I think that’s why he came here, to your hotel. He broke in. I’m sure you noticed the scratches around the key reader; he wasn’t exactly clean about it. You probably came in the door ready for a fight. He might not have gotten the drop on you at all.

Then again, maybe he would have. Maybe he would have hidden when he heard you coming, would have attacked you with that blade of his. He might have killed you, or at least hurt you. And I couldn’t have that.

I couldn’t have someone else hurt you, Leland dear. Hurting you is my job. And besides, I don’t think he would have your best interests at heart. I don’t think he would have stopped to make sure you weren’t really injured. I think he wanted to do some permanent damage.

That’s why I killed him. I know you understand.

By the way, don’t bother dusting for prints or for DNA. I wrote this letter before I came over and did the deed. What you have in your hand is a photocopy. And the blood is his, in case that isn’t obvious.

Kisses.

-M