Clockwork Stalker: The Dirty Heroes Collection

by Silverwood, Cari

  I believe terrible and deadly events are impending, and they need to be nipped in the bud before we all suffer the consequences.

  Yours brilliantly,

  Sherlock Holmes

  After completing the letter, he sat in his armchair, thinking. When he roused, he found the shadows were heavy. Late afternoon, and it was raining. The windowpanes were dimpled with water. The temptation to visit Miss Moriarty was strong, but he tamped it down. Letting emotions and lusts get the better of him was not allowable.

  He should occupy himself usefully.

  There was the bordello. It was abandoned, and no one would protest if he strolled the corridors and poked at things. Yesterday, he’d been devoted to dealing with that woman and had not methodically examined the place. Was it only yesterday? Time had warped, for it felt as though that had happened ages ago, and he’d known her intimately for a very long time.

  “Yes!” He struck the armrests and rose, went to the coat stand, retrieved his coat. If they’d drawn symbols on the walls, who knew what else he might find there?

  Boringly, not much at all was to be found in the corridors of the bordello on ground level, or upstairs—just a series of rooms for the clients, a few of those better decorated than others, and a waiting room. He headed downstairs, past the room where Willa had been tied to a table and found what some would call the mother lode, though he dearly hoped no mothers were actually involved.

  “Well, well.” Sherlock paused, hands on hips, shoes planted flat.

  He had more than a passing acquaintance with the deviancies men and women performed on each other in the name of sex and titillation. It was a necessity due to his investigations. This surpassed that as an airship did a penguin.

  If left here, the equipment would probably be thrown out by the next tenants.

  “I should take a few pieces. If only to shock Watson when he turns up again. They really did leave in a hurry.” The bigger devices were not moveable by one man. A pity.

  Watson would return. That jezail bullet at the Battle of Maiwand couldn’t kill him; the man was near unkillable. Except perhaps by himself, Sherlock Holmes.

  Imagining Willa inside the iron maiden with all those steel dildo attachments plugged into her… Hmmm. Most curious. Apart from the restraints it was not a true torture device, for the internal spikes were not long or sharp. Nevertheless he had to wonder, how long would it be before she’d gurgle, wriggle delightfully, and scream to be released?

  Leaving all of this would be criminal, but what should he souvenir?

  He found a piece of sturdy black hand luggage then set about gathering implements. All of them were steel—he didn’t trust the cleanliness of anything rubber or leather. Again, such a pity to abandon the rest. He packed, shut the bag, and trotted up the stairs.

  When he reached the front door with the now-heavy bag in hand, nevertheless, he paused.

  One last thing? It couldn’t hurt?

  Well, it wouldn’t hurt him.

  13

  Such a Disobedient Girl

  There was no reason for a spring in his step. Sherlock slowed and sedately took the stairs to the fourth floor and room four-zero-one. With one hand in his vest pocket touching the smooth weight of his watch, he knocked. When no noises from within indicated anyone was stirring, he knocked again then took out his watch to see the time.

  Eight AM.

  Time for anyone with verve to be awake and doing things.

  The heavy iron key was fished from another pocket, fitted in the lock, and then he turned it. He let the door swing quietly open on its excellent hinges. Perhaps the aunt had upgraded the door?

  The gap widened, and still no one spoke or moved, no shadows shifted.

  Of course he had a room key, having obtained one from David yesterday. He was paying for the room, so he had a say in who did what, including… as he spied the tussled bed linen and a long, bare leg… including getting the buried occupant to move her pretty rear.

  He kicked the door fully open then entered and shut it behind him.

  “Miss Moriarty! Why are you in bed at this late an hour?” Though the curtain was partially drawn, the casement window illuminated the corner where her four-poster bed was positioned.

  “Late?” Her squeak almost made him grin, as did the sudden rustling and swooping of sheet as she hauled it higher. Him stalking closer had her revealing her face, then scowling at him. It also meant he spotted the bottle on the bedside table, with the stopper beside it.

  He dropped the hand luggage near the bed. It clinked and lower down his parts clenched—a startling reaction for him, but the clink had brought to mind what the bag held.

  “It’s eight AM. Why am I suspicious of this bottle, miss? May I?” He gestured then sat on the edge of her bed anyway. She moved closer to the wall, scrunching the sheet against her. “Are you naked under there?”

  “No! Of course not.”

  “Then you can remove the sheet. Do so.”

  He could have wrenched it off her, but this was more fun. A few seconds was all it took for her to remember her place. Pretending to ignore the rustle and downward shift of the sheet, Sherlock took the bottle and checked it was the same as the one on the airship. It was.

  “Laudanum. How much did you take last night? Show me your eyes.”

  By then the sheet was down by her ankles, so he took a moment to admire her legs and the shape of her body through a cotton nightdress.

  “Very lovely.”

  She squinted at him, stifled a yawn. “I can’t recall how much—”

  “Come here.” He crooked his finger and wondered if she’d choose now to protest.

  After a tussle with her brow and a twitch of lip—all of which were signs of her thinking about resisting—and a reluctant sigh, she squirmed across the bed.

  By then his cock was in thorough agreement with him touching her. “Thank you.” With his hand cupping her jaw, he tilted up her head. “Your pupils are far too constricted. You woke and took a second dose, in the middle of the night?”

  “Yes.” Willa shrugged.

  “Too much. Far too much. It will wear off, but I don’t want you dosing yourself like this in future. Understood?”

  “Ummm. Was this a part of our agreement?”

  “Utter obedience was, miss. Remember?”

  She harrumphed but nodded.

  “I cannot have you disabled by the poppy. From now on you will swallow half the dose of last night, for three evenings and no more. Then I may reduce it again. Did you get much of the survey done yesterday? More importantly, is it working?”

  It being her green machine, which sat on the bench as naked as she was—with a cream cloth over part of it. Which was really such a pity. A naked woman in bed with him was preferable to a clothed one.

  “Have you a written record of what you found? A map? Figures?”

  “Yes.” Another yawn broke from her. “I didn’t cover as many streets as I’d hoped to, but it’s written on the papers beside the machine.”

  “The Machine is so vague. Let’s agree to call it the ME machine from now on.”

  “Very well.” She shrugged.

  As he rose and headed for the neat pile of papers on the bench, he glimpsed her hauling the sheet over herself again. “No. Sit up while I look at this.”

  Once she was perched there, somewhat primly, she set her pretty mouth in a line, in what might be interpreted as mild disapproval.

  The brattish girl. Now he really wished he’d find reason among these papers to use his bag of devices on her. The pink line of ribbon, tied with a little bow beneath her breasts, exaggerated their roundness. The nightdress clung to her waist and the feminine contours of her thighs, bunching into a V where her sex dwelled. It was provocative to his male eyes, though little skin showed.

  “I thought… you were reading, sir?” She cocked her head.

  “I am. I like the Sir. Use it in future instead of Mr. Holmes or Sherlock. Or else.” He raised his brows
until he saw her eyes widen, and knew she’d registered the or else emphasis, and the why. She was intelligent, if unruly.

  He began to read the four pages as well as the roughly drawn street map with numbers inscribed on it. From memory, the calibrations on the ME machine dials corresponded to these. He turned to the last page. So few streets had been covered. London would take a year to do at this rate.

  Sherlock tapped the papers. “Are these low measurements?”

  “Yes. I’ve seen higher. Much higher at the church in Russia.”

  “What time did you finish repairs, or rather, when did you begin the survey?” He placed the papers back where he’d found them.

  “About…” Willa shrugged. “Midday.”

  “Yet so little accomplished. Come here and measure the ME around me. I want to see this in action.” Also, he wanted to know how speedily this could be done. Sherlock took out his watch as she padded over on bare feet. “Stop.”

  A few feet from him, she halted. “Yes?”

  “Strip.” Then he stepped aside from the machine. “Once naked, do what has to be done.”

  Her innocent blush was endearing to him.

  The sight of her as she pulled the gown over her head and dropped it to the floor, endeared other parts of him to her. He almost placed a hand over his trousers to adjust himself, he’d grown a full-on erection so quickly things were catching below.

  He cleared his throat.

  The lush pinkness and bounty of that ass.

  The allure of her rosy nipples… and the way things jiggled and swayed as she walked to the bench.

  This woman was a goddess, and this goddess he wanted to fuck. At their core, humans were sexual animals. The room air grew heated.

  He removed his coat and tossed it to the bench.

  She flicked a switch, adjusted a knob, and picked up a wand attached to the machine by cord. The metal wand she pointed his way flared into a mushroom shape at the end. The indicator hand on a calibrated dial flicked, then it swung from the green area into the orange. Willa turned the machine off and made a note.

  Her scarlet eyebrows kinked while she tapped the pen on the paper next to where she’d written, as if she was concerned.

  “Tell me the results.” Arriving at her shoulder, Sherlock slipped his hand over her ass cheek then gently squeezed. Her sharp inhalation and how she paused there, with her lungs full, unable or unwilling to exhale, it made him smile. “Tell me.”

  “Ummm. High. It is quite high. It seems your theory may be correct.”

  The curse might have been his theory, but her answer still jarred him. “Go on.”

  “I’ve not seen this high a reading since the church. If malignant energy can curse a man, then you, Sir, are thoroughly cursed.”

  The Sir brought him back to earth. He eyed down the slope of her shoulder and breast, and kept a hold of her below, squeezed a little harder until she winced. “I know you must have been lazy yesterday. The measurements are quickly done. You took laudanum in a high dose the night before also.”

  “I… You disconcerted me, Mister Holmes. I had to get some rest.”

  “Hmmm. It is Sir. How easily you lose your memory. Go over to the window seat. Kneel on it, face outward, and wait for me.” The cushioned covering on the seat looked sufficient for knees.

  “Truly? This was—”

  “Miss Willa.”

  She sighed.

  Out of all the devices in the bag, which should he use on her?

  He had his excuse to punish, to defile, to violate. He released her buttock and watched the flow of her walk, not simply because it aroused him, it was because the roar of blood in his head was a phenomenon and nothing similar had ever happened to him before.

  The power in this.

  The sexual power.

  He wanted to engrave it on his soul.

  And yet, he knew she wanted this. Her willingness made it less interesting, if anything. Perhaps he could exceed her expectations?

  Make her worry. Fear him? Too far, he decided. Fear was a step too far.

  Still pondering, he made his way to the window seat and her.

  On the way, he hooked his fingers into the handle of the black leather bag and scooped it up.

  At a yard away from her, he halted, stilled his shoes. Her scent came to him, tantalizing. This time, it was he who paused at the peak of inhalation. His thoughts froze.

  Goddess.

  A naked woman whose side profile was limned by the light sneaking through the smoky glass of the window. The dawn light dared caress her, to cup her breasts and lend an angelic ruby-golden hue to the edges of her skin, to the undersides of her breasts, and to the flaming curls of the triangle at her mons. A woman in porcelain.

  When she inclined her head to see his approach, her red tresses swam in incandescence.

  He wanted to eat her, swallow her, keep her close in a dungeon beneath his house, reached by faerie stairs. Where no one else could find her.

  Sherlock swore, shook himself from the vision.

  What was he becoming? A lazy poet with a lute, who swanned about in a boat and sang to maidens? Or was he a monster?

  Pick one then write an essay.

  A goddess or was she the opposite sort?

  “You are a demoness incarnate,” he drawled, walking around the back of her where the swell of her rear begged for his touch—and so he did touch her. Sherlock trailed a finger across her rump, dawdling a little in the divide of it, teasing a lower invasion as he neared where her rear hole must be. He drew them from that crevice and trailed his fingers over her other cheek.

  The way she’d pinched her lip in her teeth.

  “Stay there and be still.”

  Methodically, he opened the bag, placed it on the floor, and began to lay the contents in neat rows, on the window seat beside where she knelt.

  He’d made assumptions as to their intended use but considering what else he’d seen at the bordello—the wall chains and manacles, the floggers, whips, and wooden stocks, he was probably correct. All of these were shiny metal, well-polished, and very clean. He’d made an effort there.

  Just to tease her, and to see what effect this had, he recited a description as he laid them down.

  “Vaginal retractors with scissor handle and rachet lock.” His attendance at various operations and study of surgeons gave him that knowledge.

  That made her incline her head to look.

  “For you.” He smiled and held the smile a tad too long, which felt as if it broke his mouth. He was so unused to smiling.

  “A chain of various potential uses.”

  “A pair of small chain-linked screw-closure clamps. For nipples, I assume, but elsewhere seems possible.”

  “This?” He rotated the heavy, silver-sheened object in the light. It was a fat cone and shaped as if to be inserted somewhere, and it narrowed to a base then became a thick circular handle, like a corkscrew minus the screw? “I think this goes in your bottom hole. One of them. Both?”

  “Sir!” Willa had been making increasingly odd sounds. “I think not!”

  “You speak, dear girl? Be silent unless I ask you to say something, from now on.”

  He laid down a smaller version of the cone.

  Her mouth wriggled as if she strived to speak, or not speak. Her knees shifted. Willa grunted then frowned, deeply.

  “Good. Exactly that.”

  A pair of manacles—self-explanatory—and a rattan cane, were the last things to be drawn from the bag. The cane was what he’d gone back to retrieve. It seemed cleanable and had niggled at him to take it, seeing how it was the foundation of a good British school education.

  “Cane,” he said, laying it down so it stretched in a line above the array of things, and was very obvious to her sight.

  She cleared her throat, swallowed, so he reached and placed his hand around her neck, squeezing lightly, feeling the beat of her pulse with his thumb.

  “Where shall I begin?”

  �
��Is… is that a question, Sir?”

  “Shhh.”

  Educating Willa would be scintillating. This was supposed to be punishment. Remember?

  He found himself breathing faster than necessary for such minor exertion.

  If he did everything at once… and now he imagined her like that. The marks from the cane. The handcuffs, the chains…

  She might never forgive him.

  Normal, this was not his normal. Though it might be for another, lesser man. It was the curse at work. He’d had sex with whores, to relieve the needs of a man, but this was to that as a bomb was to a firecracker.

  Willa had, in essence, gifted him with her. For a price, but one he’d arranged.

  She’d agreed.

  He must still be a gentleman. At that, he studied her again, this siren woman who called to everything base and sexual in him. Maybe this was himself unleashed, perhaps this was the real Sherlock?

  Perhaps. He would wrestle with that idea after he’d trialed a few objects on her. Yes?

  No. He needed a way to stop himself. A brake. A key.

  Musing as he was, without conscious thought his hand chose to stroke down her back, making her shiver. He could see the effect on her nipples. How they tightened.

  He loved watching her response. He could make her his key? Her body. Or mind? Then he would never lose it.

  “What do you want me to use on you, Miss Willa?” As he spoke, he played with her back with his knuckles and fingertips dragging up it, scratching down, and she winced and flinched and wriggled. “Put one hand out on the sill while you think of your answer. The other between your legs. What do you deserve for being naughty and taking too much laudanum?”

  “Naughty?” she protested.

  “Yes.” He dug his hand into the back of her hair and pulled her head back. “Yes. Agreed?”

  “I…” Her eyelids fluttered, then closed, and she uttered a throaty, “Yes.”

  So, his hand there aroused her. Noted.