Clockwork Stalker: The Dirty Heroes Collection

by Silverwood, Cari

  “I will handcuff you in a moment, with your hands at your back. Then… shall I cane your pert little derrière and make it red? Or should I place these clamps on your nipples until you squeal and squirm, and then put one of those hole-violators inside you? Those are your choices.”

  He sat beside her, messing up the rows as objects slid toward him, and wrapped his hand around her thigh, and his fingertips met hers where they lay between her legs, and he found, glory of glories, wetness on them on her skin.

  He repeated his question. “Hole devices and clamps?”

  “Ummm, I don’t know. Neither… The cane sounds too fierce.”

  Yet her thighs had squeezed together as she’d said that. Her fingertips curled on his, and she shuddered.

  “Good. I will trial the cane then.” He knew a cane well enough to swing it and make just enough of a whack. “Cane it will be, Miss Willa Moriarty.”

  “Trial? So you don’t know how to…” Her mouth stayed open. “Besides, you said—”

  “Shhh, again. I can tell it intrigues you, as it does me.”

  “Oh, you lia—”

  “For that,” and he shook her head a little, “extra strokes from the cane.”

  Her whine was… He stared. Damned enticing. His cock had stood up, hard.

  This could get out of hand, because he dearly wanted to go a long way with this. Did he really understand what he was doing? No, clamored his mind.

  He needed structure, restraint for himself, or else he risked anarchy. Asking her didn’t work well. Anarchy was not an aim; it was a disaster.

  “Stay.” He stood, pulled his vest straight, then on second thought he unbuttoned and removed it, undid the buttons on his shirt, but stopped short of taking off everything. A barrier between them was best. Until he made himself some structure.

  Plus, he liked the implied and obvious dominance it gave. Clothed while she was not. He stared at her ass, swallowed. A contract with her would mess with his needs. But one written on her…

  He fetched a fountain pen from his coat and kneeled behind her, raised the pen.

  If this didn’t work, what was it Freud said? “From error to error, one discovers the entire truth,” he murmured. If he made a mistake with her, on her, he would try again.

  But first he needed words of meaning, for this contract with himself. Yes, he had them.

  “Be very still.”

  At the first scratch of the pen nib, she flinched and wriggled. Sherlock sighed.

  “Put your hands behind you.”

  When she did so, looking amusingly worried, he placed the handcuffs on her wrists and locked them.

  Snuggly. The best-ever jewelry. One caught woman.

  Then he stared at the prettiness of those wicked circles trapping her. His toes clenched in his boots, his throat thickened.

  “Sir? Sir?” she whispered. “Must you do this?”

  “Oh I must, assuredly. Now.” He looked into her eyes. “Be still or one of the other things goes on you in a more severe way.”

  She was still as he inked her just above her bottom, though not when he was drawn to bite one cheek. Her squeal was followed by a bow of her head and some panting, and with her pretty cunt near his nose, he could see the leak of her juices from her slit glistening on her inner thigh.

  He could’ve plunged his cock into her, then and there, but didn’t.

  Restraint.

  Things to finish. He wrote out the quote he’d chosen and rose from his knees, walking his hand up her back, as if he needed to stop himself overbalancing. He didn’t need to, he just liked feeling her soft skin under his.

  The Hippocratic oath, or the first line of it, seemed apt today.

  “First, do no harm.” he said, repeating what he’d written across her back. It made a nice line of script across her spine.

  Then he picked up the cane from the blue covering of the window seat. He pulled her from the seat then pushed her front down, so she kneeled on the floor with her rear elevated due to her upper torso resting on the seat.

  He drew back the hand that held the cane. “Do not move, though I expect you may jump after each strike. You may squeak, but you may not speak unless this becomes unbearable. Curl your fingers out of the way. This should hurt,” he took a breath, remembering why he was doing this. “This is for being bad.”

  Bad? That was a simplification. His brain was not functioning well.

  He brought down the cane across her rear and felt the snap of it as it hit, saw her hiss and her jerk, saw the paleness he’d created on her buttocks, then the slow return of redness.

  Not too bad for a first try.

  “Keep your fingers up.”

  He struck her twice more, quickly, then four more times—fascinated by the language of her body, her gasps and shrieks, but when he halted there was a darker color welling, a purplish-red hue. Willa sobbed and slumped, and he caught her arm, but she said nothing more. He looked from her to the purple.

  She bruised easily. Or he hit too hard.

  Keeping a few fingers hooked in the chain between the manacles, Sherlock dabbed his forearm on his forehead, and he thought, and reread the words he’d inked on her.

  She watched him with her head sideways on the seat, one eye fully in view, the other buried. No accusation there, and she licked her lips as they exchanged stares. It was if she accepted this. But was she silent due to fear of his reaction or for other reasons?

  “Do you think you deserved this, Miss Moriarty?”

  “I…”

  Silence ticked by.

  “I feel it might be so,” she croaked while catching her breath. “I was wrong to take so much laudanum. I always knew it.”

  The addiction to the poppy was only recently understood. It should be manageable, however. More curious to him was how she wanted this sexual dynamic between her and him. The mystery of man and woman. The psychological puzzle, and it drew him like an unsolved case.

  First, do no harm. Such bruising on her.

  He tsked at himself and tossed the cane to the left, let it roll from the seat onto the floor.

  “I think we are done with this. But the punishment isn’t done. Something else… What shall it be?” He eyed the gleaming row of metal things.

  Something to shame her.

  When the curse was eliminated, he would be free of this need for this woman, this Willa Moriarty.

  This is an unnatural lust, he reminded himself as he reached for the retractor with a trembling hand. He grabbed his wrist and stilled it before he reached again.

  14

  Wicked

  The retractor looked thoroughly menacing in his hands. A bear trap was the closest thing Willa imagined it resembling—it had teeth, metal teeth, though they were wide, curved and blunt, while also possessing a devious ratchet mechanism at the side of the scissor-like handles.

  What evil man had devised this thing? It could only be worse if painted black and delivered by raven. Was he really using that on her? Why?

  Because he’s cursed.

  Because he wants to.

  Pinned to the window seat by her position and by her hands cuffed at her back, Willa nervously tried to see what Sherlock was doing. She was only partially successful. She twisted to get a better view when he moved further behind her, only to feel the sting of a slap on her ass that jolted her forward.

  She shivered, her eyes closing.

  The metal thing touched her lips below, then her entrance, and she felt the teeth of it being wriggled and slid inside. A second later, the ominous click, click, click, told of the ratchet being cranked. At the increasing stretch of the walls of her pussy, she shamefully found herself arching her spine in some automatic response.

  Being violated by Sherlock Holmes with that turned her on? Her head swam with confusion and arousal.

  “How pretty you are.” His fingers dipped inside her back there, and stayed, filling her.

  She whimpered, frustrated.

  What was most monst
rous about this was how she reveled in what he did to her… She’d been an independent, adventurous woman for years since Frederick died, and now this?

  “Does this bother you, dear Willa?” He pushed his fingers deeper and his chin onto her shoulder as he spoke. With his legs to either side of hers, his body pressed her down, and she felt the hardness of his erection on her backside, though shielded by cloth. The coarse hair from his chin roughened the skin of her nape.

  The maleness of his voice roughed up other, more intimate places. She listened, torn between wanting to escape, and craving him doing worse.

  “I cannot help wondering what it would feel like to put my cock in you, while you’re like this—cuffed and unable to resist.”

  “That thing bothers me,” she made herself say, dreading the shake in her voice, feeling the thrust of his fingers and the pinch of the device on her lips… wishing he would put his dick in her instead. “Please, remove it.”

  “You know, it’s not so much the look of it in your cunt, as it is seeing how much this troubles you. This is a reminder not to take too much laudanum. You will be more careful in future?”

  His body cloaked her, overwhelmed her. “I will,” she breathed into the upholstery.

  “Good.”

  At the slippery extraction of his fingers, she hitched in a breath. She’d never thought she could want a man to fuck her as she did today. She needed him, and all she had was this torture device, holding her open.

  “Wait there, while I consider what we will do for the rest of the day. I’ll be in the chair by the bench, watching you.” He straightened. “That can stay in a little longer to impress on you the importance of obedience.”

  Except she had been obedient, hadn’t she? Just careless. She wrapped her fingers through one another and listened to the retreat of his shoes. They stopped while he was still close. The strikes from the cane chose then to throb.

  Exposed to him, the device in her pussy, the metal about her wrists, the cane… She exhaled through the list of things he subjected her to. Appalling. Humiliating. A shivery, delightful heat washed through her. Her reaction vacillated from one to the other, then back again.

  A man like Sherlock looking, making her do this…

  “Such a strange spectacle, Miss Moriarty. You, restrained and naked with a red derrière, waiting for me with your pussy showing, as nature never intended. Remember this whenever I give you instructions, because next time you do something incompetently, I will do something baser to you. What do you say?”

  Oh lord. She wriggled the teensiest amount, squeezing her thighs together.

  The bastard expected an answer, while she was like this?

  She managed one, softly and barely audible, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good girl.”

  There was a raw satisfaction in his words that she could not recall hearing before. It thrummed through her, wakening her. She affected him so? Or this did? This unseemly fetish.

  The scrape and creak of the chair told her he’d sat.

  A clock on the wall seemed to tick ever more loudly as she waited on her knees, and she took much of her weight on her chest, squashing her breasts. An echo of where his fingers had been seeped into her consciousness when he turned a page, or cleared his throat, or when his chair made a sound. His presence would not allow her to forget what he’d done.

  A lady should not permit this.

  That line repeated in her head, over and over.

  Though at most five minutes passed before he stirred then approached her, it was near unbearable to be displayed like a piece of merchandise.

  “Come with me.” The device was ratcheted closed and pulled from her, slowly, and though she winced in anticipation, there was no pain. Then Sherlock wrapped a hand inside her elbow and helped her to her feet. She eyed him, feeling strangely adrift. There’d been a shift in their relationship she’d not registered, not until now.

  He freed her from the manacles and drew her to the bed. Padding over the cool timber was surreal. She floated dreamlike, barely noticing the tug of the scar in her leg muscle.

  “Lie down.”

  When she was on her back on the quilt, blinking up at him, he straddled her, bare-chested, trousers unbuttoned and open, with the head of his bare and rigid cock peeking into view. He pressed her wrists to the bedding, to either side of her hips.

  “Stay as you are.” His voice was quiet, his eyes dark, unfathomable, and fascinating. She lay, waiting, wondering how and when he’d hypnotized her. “Today, we will do our survey. I want to ask you questions about your machine, and to tease you.”

  A deviousness rose in his expression then he shuffled backward on his knees, rucking up the sheets. Without further explanation, or warning, he leaned forward until he was above her sex, her mons veneris, as her doctor once called it. With her breath locked, with her in thrall to this man and his inclinations, he put out his tongue and licked her.

  His tongue travelled so very slowly. She watched him, in awe.

  Bliss twined through her, building over a few fragmented seconds. Her mind blanked. She clasped the sheet, twisting it. Locked into a rigid curve of hip and backbone, she arched from the bed.

  He pushed her down and began again, licking her, swirling that warm instrument of delight about her nub as if it were a perfect sweet. Her thighs parted and she attempted to wrap them about his head.

  She pressed herself at his face and that wicked wet tongue.

  Sherlock stopped what he was doing, and though she whined, he straightened, wiping his mouth with his big hand, those long fingers.

  Ignoring her attempt at control, he grabbed a pillow and wrestled it beneath her ass, lifting her from the bed.

  “This.” He put a finger over her clitoris and toggled it slowly in a circle.

  Willa muttered a decadent word in Russian and shuddered, then a moan broke from her.

  “This I find I like. Teasing you. You’re not going to climax, miss, are you?”

  Her throat and tongue felt glued. She licked her lips, thinking, saw how he followed the moves of her mouth and found even that amazing. This man, curse or not, surpassed her one other lover as the sun did a distant star.

  His words she realized, were a statement.

  Then he answered her unspoken question. “I want to see you aching for my touch. For me. I want to see you beg.”

  Still surreal, so strange, and she murmured an okay, not really sure where this was going, but willing to let him do whatever he’d thought up. If curses did this to Sherlock, she was beginning to think she was all for them.

  “Open.” To her mouth, he offered her his two fingers, and she was sure those had been inside her, but she opened.

  She let him slide them into her mouth, over her tongue, to wet them and jam them in until his hand could go no further without choking her, then slide them out. While his gaze stayed fastened to hers, he probed slickly for her entrance below and stuck them inside her. The flutter of her eyelids made it impossible to see much at all, and she melted, her mouth opening wider.

  Panting, squirming, wanting more.

  The rise of her hands from the bed to drag him to her triggered a growling no, not unless I say, and she clutched the bedding, forced to wait.

  Her whimpers loudened, the sheet became a tangled chaos where she clawed at it, as he licked her, and paused. He let her descend from the near-peak of ecstasy before he started on her again, with his tongue on her nub.

  She ached, cried, cursed him, and was left sweaty, slippery, and panting—an unwilling yet willing participant.

  “Do you want more?” he would ask periodically.

  She’d nod and groan then curse him again. The writhing of her body seemed to fuel his dastardly torture of her, his eyes gleaming with a warped desire.

  Sobbing, finally, she found herself truly begging him to take her.

  Her one pleasure, one victory, was that he too was somewhat undone. His sentences had become choppy, less formal versions of Sherl
ock Holmes normal.

  He grated out orders, had her beg again using dirtier words, then leaned up higher until he looked directly down on her, his eyes searching hers.

  “Spread your legs more, open your slippery cunt for me. What do you say?”

  This was such a debauched conversation. She panted, widened her legs. “Please, sir?”

  “Hmmm. Say, please sir, put your cock inside me because I’m your little whore.”

  More than a little mindless by then, she choked out her breathless answer, repeating the words, while Sherlock relentlessly pumped his fingers in and out of her.

  Her shaking legs—she’d spread those wide, then wider, on his instructions.

  She would split in two if he demanded more.

  Then he went back on his heels and removed his fingers from where they’d been. Where they’d fucked her, she reminded herself. The word fuck was rapidly becoming her favorite one.

  He stood up, still on the bed and astride her at first, and brought his hands to the waistband of his trousers. Quickly, he pushed them down, and had to step to one side of her, to shove the pants all the way to his feet then throw them aside.

  Fascinated by the dark-pink venous snake of his cock as it bobbed into view, she waited, aching for him—she’d begged for a man’s dick to be inside her. It wasn’t exactly a luminous height of achievement, and yet… and yet this was such a new world she’d been plunged into.

  There were pluses. There were deficiencies. Right now, the pluses had ripped through everything else in the universe.

  “Beg me, again.” He dropped to his knees in a calculated way, bouncing, making her shriek. “I find it amuses me more than I could ever have imagined.”

  There it was. Both of them were caught in this sea of shameless lust.

  “Please,” she said quietly, not quite whining.

  He took up her hand, turned it, and kissed the back, then wrapped her fingers around his cock, wrapped his over hers, making her hold onto him. His cock was warm, hard, and seemed to move and swell as she squeezed. “This inside you?” His eyes twinkled, and probably those glints did an evil dance. “Say it.”