Mummy looks again at the gentleman’s calling card in her hand. On one side is the printed cursive script – Professor J. I. Moriarty. On the obverse, in a neat, sharp hand are the directions to the college rooms where she now stands. She knocks and waits, pondering if she will - or even wants to - keep her angel wings clean playing in the Devil’s lair.
It had taken effort to get here, figuratively speaking. Their interactions had gradually progressed from her engineered meetings at formal dinners, to the flattery of his actively seeking her out. She suggested meeting for drinks whenever he was in town, and more recently he had suggested some pleasant walks - his arm kindly offered in close support as they talked pleasantly, heads together, winding their way through parks and by rivers.
It was almost an old-fashioned courtship, except, of course, she was already married, a fact they both seemed to find easy to overlook. But then, the best lies are so often the easiest. Still, she had encouraged the greeting embraces with the convenient excuse that he was, after all, the target of her Government assignment. His charm, intelligence, and good breeding ensured he was highly attentive towards her, and she found it wasn’t just a desire for his presence, but also the mere thought of that desire that frequently sparred with her constant self-reminders of his questionable motives. Then again, there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
When she announced she was coming to see Sherlock, the invitation to also see him was not unexpected. However, the suggestion to meet in his private rooms was confirmation they were ready to finally cross a line she felt they had pushed to the extent of its boundaries. Would she cross that line if the opportunity arose? Could she? She knows him well enough, both from his dossier and her own investigations, to know he is not sentimental. This is not love, he doesn’t need love, but maybe he needs loving. And what, exactly does she need, that she could so readily abandon a husband and sons to be with him?
As he opens the door she can faintly hear classical music playing within, something appropriately fugal – contrasting, chasing themes each taking turns to dominate or submit to the other’s melody. It adds to the inviting warmth of the rooms inside. “Madame” - his smile is friendly but strangely reminiscent of a cat eyeing some cream – “Hello, my dear” She ensures the welcome kiss on his cheek lingers a little, noting the pressure of his hand in the small of her back. The rooms are much as she expects: books, papers, a bench with chemicals and science equipment. He leads her through to a lounge at the far end where two comfortable chairs are positioned around a fireplace. Just beyond it, partially hidden behind a screen in a darkened recess lies the bedroom.
She notices a rather old bottle of wine breathing on the side table. Seeing her gaze, he introduces it, like an old friend, pouring two glasses which they sip as they make a brief tour of the stately rooms, the many books on many shelves fuelling their discussion as they enjoy the wine. He likes that her interest is genuine in his work and experiments.
Returning to the fireplace he asks, perhaps a little too eagerly – “You have seen Sherlock?”
“Yes – of course he wasn’t long interested in seeing me, dear, so I am glad of your invitation to fill out my afternoon.” Damn, her head was already fuzzy. “I hope I haven’t interrupted your work, darling?”
“No, Madame. I am glad for the respite, considering the compelling alternative before me.” She tries not to blush, but the wine is clearly having some effect and she focuses on maintaining some control.
Why did she come? Her very presence was acquiescence to the possibility of any advances, and she realises a little belatedly, that the wine is weakening her resolve of control. Frowning to herself, she stands gazing into the firelight instead. Feeling a slight movement of the air, she is surprised to realise he is standing directly behind her; he moves so silently. She is annoyed to feel her heartbeat quicken by his sudden proximity, as he takes her empty glass and places it with his on the mantelpiece, turning to face her.
“I am glad you came, Madame. I am most interested in deciphering the complex layers that entwine you, and what revelations we may find in stripping away any deceptions.” She panics momentarily. Does he know her true task or is he merely foreshadowing the likely outcome of her folly? Either way, she has an inkling of what these words foreshadow.
Determined to not cede too much control, she smiles and finds some imaginary specks to brush from his shirt and tie, an excuse to step closer. She is rewarded with his arms reaching around her in a comfortable hold, and she rests her head lightly against his shoulder. But he pulls away to better look at her face, and she has the fleeting thought that she has misread his desire – maybe she should go? Go now, while her dignity, reputation, and heart are intact.
Reading her face, he takes her hand in his and says “No Madame, you are quite correct. There are risks, but only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.” He reaches for her blouse. She sighs as he works his way down the buttons, so seduction is his game, but what is his end-game? And what is her part in it? The buttons are now open, and she enjoys the slight rise of his eyebrows upon discovering a fitted cream corset underneath. She was old-fashioned and there was some advantage to the garment in showing off her small waist. She smiles, almost smirks.
Looking up, she notices his eyes have gone dark, with a hint of challenge, daring her to deny him, as his long fingers commence their work on overcoming this extra obstacle. Undaunted, she holds his gaze pulling out the front of his shirt and sliding her hands underneath. Her fingers softly curled, she lightly touches his abdomen brushing the back of her hands along a firmness that reveals the toil of the boxer. She sweeps her knuckles up along his stomach, noting the strength coiled within and feeling the slightest disruption to his steady breathing as her fingers caress and uncurl to delicately explore the hair across his chest.
The stays have loosened a little and he takes a step closer towards her, his breath warming her ear as his words strangely warm and please her - “My vixen”. He kisses her neck lightly below her ear, and as she tilts her head back she closes her eyes focusing on the pleasure as he plays with her ear, providing unspoken promises of what his tongue and lips could achieve. She slides her hands back down his chest and abdomen, and smiles at the almost imperceptible hesitation between his kisses as she reaches the top of his trousers. Instead, she withdraws her hands and slowly undoes the buttons of his shirt and loosens his tie, allowing her hands to return unhindered to play across the strength of his chest and torso.
He is still working on the corset laces. She laughs lightly - “Have you bitten off more than you can chew with those laces, dear?” He gives a low assenting growl, moving his arms around her, pinning her tightly against his bare chest, his kisses on her neck becoming more passionate, her pleasure in them increasing with the pressure he places on her earlobe, until biting hard, she cannot but stifle the cry as pleasure crosses the line to pain. Her heart rate soars – did he really just bite her? She feels more than the moisture of his mouth on her ear, and realises he has drawn blood which now meanders down her neck and, with the unfailing force of gravity, will likely trickle beneath the loosened corset.
Trapped in his arms, he alternates between kissing and sucking the throbbing pain that is her earlobe, licking at the thin but long traces of her blood– following it down her neck, and tantalisingly across her collarbone. Somewhere in her body there is pain, but it is mingling with pleasure, so that her sense of where to draw the line has become suddenly uncertain.
She pulls back needing breath, when with a deft flick of his wrist, a knife appears from nowhere, and her eyes widen on seeing him with the blade in his hands, his lips already too red and vivid. He swiftly cuts the corset laces, the garment coming away in his hands as he lets it drop with the knife to the floor. She breathes out, unsure how long she was holding her breath. He pulls her toward him and licks the last drops of blood that have nestled between her breasts.
She tries to regain some composure and assess logically the danger of discovering how both wildly frightening yet exhilarating this insight into him is. But logic relents as his surprisingly soft mouth toys with her hardened nipple, his tongue making small circles around it, between kisses, as his hands caress her with a strength that contrasts the tenderness of his mouth.
His kisses work their way up her chest and neck and unable to resist her confused pout any longer he finally presses his lips to hers in a deep, long kiss. Their first, in which he shares the taste of her blood while she presses herself hungrily against him, all pain and confusion forgotten; having awakened some deeper part of them both that had long lay dormant. Taking back some control, she slides off his shirt and wraps long cool arms around him, as her tongue ventures to explore a mouth as warm and inviting as his body.
His hands move to the back of her head, and finding the hairpin that secures her bun, he removes it letting her hair cascade down around her shoulders. The room has darkened with only the romance of a fire and some candles casting shadows that chase out, rather than illuminate, the retreating natural light.
She reaches for his tie from the shirt on the floor, and a little hesitant, starts to wrap it across his wrists, eyebrows arched in question. His hand halts hers. With her best vixen purr she asks him softly “Do you need a safe word?” He grunts begrudgingly in response, but the twinkle in his eyes, as he then holds out his wrists for her to tie, suggest he is giving her the power, rather than letting her take it. His hands secured, she picks up the candlestick and leads him towards the darkened bedroom. She doesn’t mind that he is pretending to cede control; that she is pretending to wield it. Play with a weapon long enough, and you can still become proficient in its use.
Her manner is now firm as she places him kneeling, facing the bed head and secures the other end of his tie to the top of the bed. She kneels behind him. She can’t help but press her breasts against his back as she reaches around and unzips his pants. He all but springs out, the constraint of the material no longer binding him. Stripping him, her hands travel back up to caress his thighs and back, slowly and deliberately exploring every inch of him before she roughly pushes him down onto his stomach.
He complies, finding pleasure in allowing her this control, knowing he can take it back when he wants. It amuses him to let her think she has power over him. She straddles the back of his legs pinning him to the bed. He can’t see what she is doing, but the deduction is an easy one once the searing pain burns his skin. He squirms as he feels the candle wax harden, and is relieved to feel the coolness of her breath as she blows across the hardening wax, her nails gently lifting it off his skin, and her tongue and lips providing cool relief to the hot red circle. While she gently kisses the first burn with moist lips, he feels the exquisite torture again, and this time barely contains a groan, half pleasure, half pain.
He has no idea where or when the next sensation will come, and whether it will burn or soothe. He is surprised at the thrill of not knowing. Even more surprised that she would be the one to bring this revelation to him. He thought he was giving her a little, but she took so much more. She was indeed voracious. As she blows and kisses coolly on his shoulder, prone across his back, he realises with surprise that she is also completely naked. How distracted had he been by this harbinger of the pain and pleasure of his games to miss that?
With only a small effort he twists round to face her. His voice is hoarse, uncertain which side of pain or pleasure he lies on, as he says “Untie me”. Her hair tickles his face as she reaches above him to work on the knot. His mouth again finds her intoxicating skin - soft, fragrant and warm, reminiscent of bread, warm from the oven. He savours the taste of her with each soft kiss. His hands released, he wraps them around her and rolls her onto her back, her head slightly off the bed exposing her neck with its still visible traces of blood. He kisses her neck, jaw and face, one arm holding her on the precipice of the bed, the other following the contours of her body’s curves down to her thigh, which he lifts and wraps around him.
She hasn’t felt this alive for so long. She lets out a low moan as his hand explores her, appreciating the dexterity of those long fingers; his lips hot against her face and throat. She lets her hands move from his back and shoulders around to his stomach and down to his thigh and groin. His response to her touch registers in his more ragged breathing. When he stops and looks longingly into her eyes, she feels the panic rise again. She feels the profundity of what they are doing, the depth of the contract in the silence between and around them, sealed, not in ink or blood, but in that first thrust that finally unites them; her head tips back and she can’t help but break that silence; he smiles – the cat has its cream.
She awakens such hunger in him; how did he think he would control this, control her in all her vulpine voluptuousness. She dances with him, an age-old rhythm, and he yearns for her to yield even more of herself to him. He wants to possess her entirely, call her name, name her as his and his alone, bemused with the irony of only just realising he has never used her name. No matter, she could keep her name, he would take that which remains.
She surprises him by rolling them over, and sitting atop him. She is exquisite as she rises up and down, her hair usually so smooth and refined has come loose and wild as it falls over her breasts, clinging to the light sheen of sweat on them. He reaches up and moves the hair aside to better enjoy the view. He is the artist and she is the muse, inspiring a small death to prolong life. He sits up the better to kiss her, hold her, caress her.
As her grip tightens, there is a noticeable change in the pitch of her moans. He lays her in the centre of the bed, not once softening the rhythm. She is pinned beneath his body, and his hands seek to restrain hers, until she interlaces her fingers with his, and relenting, he entwines their hands as he does their bodies and starts to increase the intensity. “Ja- James” She has never used his name before, will never likely use it again. He is surprised by the effect it has on him as he presses fervent kisses on her lips and face. “Say that again--” he barely chokes the sounds out, as they are overtaken by a final groan, while her breath tickles his ear and in the unmasked face of final passion she moans his name again.
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