Holmes Ch. 01

Its current owner has made a few additions of his own, of course. Under the guidance of his vision, the basement space has become something rather more resembling Patricia Ferguson's playroom. In parts, it is both a cozier environment and a more frightening one. There are several upholstered leather armchairs here, one seated across from a makeshift gas-operated fireplace, freshly built into the wall. There's framed photographs hung up, too, mostly black-and-white, featuring ornate shibari ropework constructions adorning beautiful women - wearing the hemp and little else. It is a cozier place because there is much more love and dedication, many years of work that appear to have gone into it. It is more frightening because in spite of this, it makes no pretense at domesticity. There is no bed here, only a stainless steel table, a St. Andrew's Cross and a gynaecological chair in the corner. Chains hang from the ceiling; rings are set into the walls with ropes still tied to them. The room has a singular function and it communicates that function unambiguously.

And then, there is M. He reaches a height of six foot or so, though Holmes cannot admit to having ever gotten out the measuring tape as such. His age would seem to be in his late thirties or early forties, with the physique of a man who is only just slipping out of his physical prime. The precise contour of his figure is readily divulged largely because he currently wears nothing other than a black, latex full-body gimpsuit, which even goes so far as to mask his face, except for the eyes and the mouth, while revealing every curve and ripple of muscle on the man's body. Only his hands, his feet, his cock and his ass are left exposed by the tight latex.

Holmes watches, squirming uncomfortably as M kneels down by the fireplace, feeding the woman's vestments one by one to the flames. The only when her shoes begin to crackle and twist under the high temperature, he finally stands and speaks again. "I am glad you have decided to come up here and visit again. I am less glad that your time-keeping skills have clearly deteriorated in my absense," he laughs. Like Grisley and Shelley Holmes, he is not a native to the rugged landscape of the Scottish Lowlands. His accent is distinctly Yorkshire.

As he approaches her, Shelley kneels down, her body still remembering the customary position. The warmth of his hand, sliding through her hair - as much as she would normally loathe to admit it - is both relaxing and comforting now once more. With her lips guided to the soft, but nonetheless voluminous length of his swaying cock, the woman starts to plant kisses up and down its length, breathing in deeply the familiar musk.

"I needed this," she whispers at last. "I'm sorry. I thought I would be able to let go of it, but..."

"But your cunt got the better of you. You needed someone to violate you and push your limits... you've tried to distance yourself from those thoughts until it became unbearable. Until you could no longer even spare the time to look for someone local to take care of your needs. You just had to get the first train here and a week off work. Because you needed me like a sorry little cunt," he tells her pacedly, guiding the redheaded detective down, smiling as her lips start to suckle on his ballsack.

"You know I don't like it. It is a... physical need," she replies, her voice a little unsteady. "I don't need you to tell me how disappointed you are with me."

"I am not disappointed. I still believe in my..." he laughs quietly, "...professional opinion, that the best course for you to take is to do what is natural and right. Satisfy your body's urges, maintain a healthy, balanced lifestyle. I still do not see why you find submission so burdensome. You would cope much better if you did not insist on your regimen of absolute abstinence."

"Yes, I hear drinking in moderation is all the rage these days as the number one cure for recovering alcoholics," Holmes glances up, gently biting the man's glans. She is rewarded a firm slap across the cheek.

"If you don't listen to my advice, I will take more extreme measures to do what's good for you, Holmes." The woman gasps as she's grabbed by her ginger curls, staggering to her feet just in time to catch her balance before she's thrown across the metal table and bent over at the waist. She grabs the edge, tensing up and anticipating any of several things that could follow - none of them pleasant.

"The first time you relapsed was after a mere week of celibacy," M contemplates, picking up a cane off a rack in the wall - stood directly in front of Shelley Holmes. She grits her teeth, but remains silent. The man circles the table slowly, running his hands down her spine. "I was as supportive as I could bring myself to be. You crawled to me on all fours and demanded punishment when you could no longer hold out. Do you remember, Consultant Detective Shelley Holmes?"

The cane whistles and slams into both of the woman's buttocks. She grimaces, mewls, but remains steadfast. "Yes, M," she replies, gasping.

"Do you remember what you asked me, Ms. Holmes? That night that you came back again?"

The detective squeals as the second welt decorates her soft, pale buttocks. "Yes, M," she grits her teeth. "I... asked for you to piss in my mouth," she winces, remembering the humiliation of that night.

"Interesting, isn't it. Before that night, I had tested your limits many times. One thing you had always, always found intensely abhorrent to the point of physical disgust, was bodily waste. Now, I've respected that. I've never pushed you toward that direction, never encouraged you to even consider overstepping your bounds. Why, then, that night of all nights you found yourself craving humiliation so intense, you yourself described it as 'nauseating'?"

The third swat of the cane causes the woman to twist her hips in place, grimacing even more as she endures the agony. "I... I don't know," she mutters.

"Think harder, Holmes, you're the goddamned genius."

"Fuck! I-I can't think when you're fucking caning my ass..." the redhead winces, holding onto the table white-knuckled.

"You told me you can walk into a room, see every detail within it with perfect clarity, all at once. You have five televisions at home, you can watch them at the same time you tell me. What did you say your Chrome record was? Twelve browser windows?" The next blow slices through the air vertically, slicing across the detective's cunt. Her entire body trembles in agony. "Yet I've had schoolgirls who are more lucid being caned than you are. I think you're avoiding the topic."

Despite herself, Shelley Holmes blinks tearful droplets out of her eyes, panting hard and recollecting her thoughts, "I thought that if I... if I pushed my boundaries, forced myself into something I abhorred, I would... I would kill the desire in myself," she explains quietly.

"And did it work?" the cane hits again, lighter this time. The skin, however, is painfully inflamed with the previous welts and Holmes shudders, pushing her body up onto her toes.

"You know the answer to that," she growls.

The cane hits the woman's sex again, forcing her to clench her thighs and howl out loud yet again. "Did it fucking work?!" M demands.

"No!"

"You became a little piss-guzzling whore for me didn't you?"

"Yes!"

"And you fucking loved it."

"No! I-I mean, yes," Shelley whimpers as the blows come hard and fast, both of her buttocks turning crimson and then deep purple. The beating is savage and unrestrained.

"What deductions can the world's greatest detective make from this experience?" M finally lets up, the room quiet for a few moments as the redhead sobs and whimpers. He pushes the tip of the cane idly against the woman's anus, watching the way she tenses up when the implement of torture starts to slide several inches into her body.

"Fuck, I'm not the world's... fucking... greatest detective..." the redhead gasps, wriggling her hips at the thin but unlubricated implement of sodomy.

"I think, you have either been very stupid for a woman of your intellect, or you have purposefully mislead yourself." With the cane left sticking out of the her anus, M circles around, lifting her chin up. She can't quite lift her eyes up to meet his, but she does find herself face-to-face with the man's heavy cock. Even in its mostly flaccid state, it is one of those cocks that resembles an elephant trunk. Having given the woman a chance to speak, he now feeds her the business end of his soft shaft, sliding it into the detective's wet lips. There, the familiar, revolting taste of the man's bitter urine greets her, gently trickling down her tongue. M waits until his submissive begins gradually gulping down her dose of piss before continuing. "I do not know why you repeatedly fail to see this. Every time you maintain a steady diet of submission and sexual servitude, your life achieves stability and normality, at least so far as those are words one could apply to your life, is that not so? Your desires never escalate, much. Certainly, you crave variety, but nothing dangerous or alarmingly self-destructive."

Shelley's cheeks start to blush as she looks down, still drinking, once more marvelling at the size of the man's bladder. He strokes her curly hair encouragingly, still talking, "Is it not clear that your abstinence is a far, far more dangerous habit for you to indulge in? As much as you hate your submission, as much as you seem to... admire, your free will and mental determination, the simple truth is that they are not strong enough to overcome your baser needs and desires. And if not for your rather unbecoming arrogance, you would be able to see past it. Ironically, it is of course your arrogance that makes you so ashamed of playing the role of the submissive, is it not?" he grabs the woman's hair, his prick hardening as her lips suckle the last few droplets out of him.

Bladder emptied, M steps back, grabbing a towel - making a show of meticulously drying his cock in front of Shelley Holmes, now a solid, swaying erection with an obscene side-to-side wobble when he walks around her. His path takes him behind the woman yet again, the cane pulled out of her asshole, allowed to clatter down to the floor.

"Tell me, do you disagree with my analysis, Holmes?" he asks, spreading her cheeks apart.

Shelley steels herself - M's member, once fully erect is only a little under the width of a Cola can. From personal experience, the detective knows just how loudly it can make a woman scream. Yet even with a rather vivid imagination, she still rather struggles to imagine what that sensation would be like without any lubricant whatsoever to ease passage. When her shoulders are grabbed and she's pulled back, impaled onto the turgid prick, she promptly finds out.

***

The pain in her throbbing, tender anus - now bruised and blistered under the violence of M's methodology - is strong enough that it even surpasses the revolting, bitter taste in her mouth. The redhead sits up nude on the table, cradling a cup of Tetley's. Still catching her breath, she leans back against the warm, firm, latex-enveloped figure of M, occasionally sipping the milky tea and ruminating on his words.

When she had first approached him, recommended to the dominant by a mutual acquaintance, M - of course - had tried to claim that the initial stood for 'Moriarty'. Her nominal resemblance to a certain fictional detective never seemed to cease amusing people. His real identity, however, M never revealed, much preferring an air of grandeur and mystery with his 'visitors'.

For Holmes, he had never been an especially difficult enigma to resolve though. On her very first encounter of the man, she had correctly determined that he was a blue-collar worker. Her guess, that he was a plumber, was also correct. It was the establishment that proved easiest to trace to the man. Searching through old copies of the yellow pages, she soon discovered that there had been a workshop once advertised at the very same address, belonging to a plumbing company run by one 'Mortimer Smalls'. Once that much had been established, it was no surprise to the woman that Mister Smalls, having moved his business to a more spacious home in 2005, never sold or vacated his former place of work.

Unravelling the mystery - she was amused to find - never trully lessened her enjoyment of time spent together with the man. It had turned up some surprises as well: he did, in fact, hold a degree in psychology from the University of Edinburgh. The precise circumstances leading into his present occupation (or occupations, rather) were something she opted never to question or investigate, however. Just as she stopped her curiosity short of attempting to see the man's face. It is perhaps likely that neither of these queries would have made an impact on the quality of her time with M either, but this far into the investigation the woman had realised it was not a chance she wished to take.

M never liked to speak much during the aftercare. In the initial few sessions they had together after their first meeting, he would murmur tender encouragements into the woman's ear, but Holmes found this irritated her and she told him as much. Since then, he simply made her tea and hugged her, which suited the detective just fine.

Having contemplated the man's words, she finally decides to break the silence. "So who's the woman?" she asks curiously.

"What woma-" M begins, then chuckles, "yes, yes I imagined I would hardly be able to keep a surprise from you Holmes."

The detective frowns, "Surprise?"

"Yes, I did intend to surprise you. All in due time, I would say, but I guess now is as good a time as any."

"What do you mean surprise me..." Shelley's voice grows increasingly alarmed. M releases her, making his way along to the small utility closet set into the side of the basement. She had seen him store a few toys in there before and had noted that the closet, too, possessed a fair few fastenings that would allow for a person to be tied up inside of it. She had - shamefully - not noticed the telltale signs of another play-partner when she'd come in: the fresh saliva on M's cock, the pair of women's shoes standing just beside the doorway, the fact that the closet was tightly shut when normally it was always left at least slightly ajar and, of course, the rather characteristic, if faint, whiff of freshly-applied cosmetics...

Only now, having finally received what she needed from M, her mind begins to clear and Shelley at last sees herself able to use the fullest of her mental capacity.

"Why would you surprise me with a woman? You know I'm not into..." the redhead demands, hopping up from the table urgently, trying her best to think despite the innumerable ways her ass hurts. M fails to provide a reply. When Shelley joins him, he has pulled the door open to reveal the other woman.

The nameless submissive appears to be in her late twenties, though given the general pattern of application of hairdye and makeup, as well as the general scent of her cosmetics - the brands of which Holmes had made herself rather familiar with through study - the detective places her instead at an exceptionally stunning and beautiful early forties instead. Her body is athletic, smooth and without a shred of clothing to hide her modesty of course. Washboard abs, a runner's thighs, nothing less to be expected of someone who takes as much care of her looks as this woman does. Not one stray bodyhair below the neck, either. Not waxing, Holmes realises, the mystery submissive shaves, regularly. Presumably at least once a day given the texture of her skin, suggesting both discipline and a relatively low income. Tiny freckles pepper the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones: she's a woman of southerner climes than Edinburgh.

Her hair is dark, curly, spilling across her shoulders and matted by sweat. Very much all of her is, in fact, glistening with sweat - the reason immediately apparent, too. The bondage that M has left her in is simple, but also intensely demanding over a long period of time. With her hands tied up above her head, the woman is lifted high enough that she cannot even support her weight with the balls of her feet, only the very tips of her toes touching the ground as if she were a ballerina. The muscles in her arms strain to keep herself suspended - given how little leeway M's ropework allows, if she were to relax her arms, her weight would likely dislocate her shoulders. Shelley Holmes almost grows pale at the realisation that the brunette has been enduring this bondage since she had arrived... and likely since quite some time before too, given the detective's lateness.

"Yes, this is why you should really strive to keep your appointments Holmes," M explains, "you never can know who else will pay the price for your failings. In this case, I'm sure Doctor Watson would have a word or two to share with you, if not for the ballgag."

Shelley nearly spits her tea, "Doctor Watson?" she peers at M. "Please tell me you're being metaphorical..." she hisses.

"Not at all. Shelley Holmes, meet Genevieve Watson, PhD."

"M..." the detective breathes in slowly, "what the fuck is the meaning of this. And when the hell are you going to release the poor woman?"

"You can release Doctor Watson from her bondage at your leisure, Holmes. As long as you do one small thing first," M explains, closing the door on the brunette, the sweaty woman's eyes widening as she twists against her bonds.

"I don't get what the fuck you're playing at, but I don't like it. Like, look, I get what you said about my abstinence just making the addiction worse... I get you're trying to teach me... lessons and things," she growls, "but why the fuck are you bringing other people into this, what is the meaning of..."

She's cut-off when the gimp-suited man grabs hold of her shoulders. "Holmes, calm the fuck down. I've thought for a long time about this. Doctor Watson's appearance, I feel was very much a sign for me to push you into the direction you really need to follow." With his hands on the redhead's shoulders, he guides her to the fireplace. "I admit, I am only going on gut instinct, but you yourself told me... in the majority of cases, one's first instinct is the correct one. So I posit, Ms. Holmes, that Doctor Watson is the real solution to your predicament."

"I don't follow," she glowers.

"You have spent a very long time trying to run from your submissiveness, but you cannot live without the lifestyle, that much is clear. It is an integral part of you. You don't care to admit it, but even I've noticed," he taps her forehead, "that this genius brain of yours begins to grind to a hold once your needs overwhelm you. At the same time, you do not want to be restricted - metaphorically speaking - by a long-term dominant in your life. You loathe the idea of life at someone else's terms. You refrain from seeking out more casual relationships, quite rightly, because you are concerned for your own safety in the hands of those few who can promise to truly excite your lust.

M leans toward the fireplace and pulls out an iron poker, which Holmes - with a skip of her heartbeat - realises is in fact a bespoke branding iron as its tip is unearthed from the coals, glowing a dull scarlet. Seen down the handle, there is no mistaking that the metal inscription on its tip reads 'HOLMES'.

"But what you require is not a dominant. You require a submissive," he offers the branding iron to Shelley. The young woman jumps back, as if repelled.

"THAT woman?" she exclaims. "M, what the fuck. I am not a dominant, I've told you, I..."

"You've tried dominating a boyfriend in university. You didn't enjoy it, it's not the same. Damned. Thing. That was a different you, it was a different relationship. You say you're not a dominant, but believe it or not, everything that makes you a good detective makes you an excellent mistress. But... no, listen me out Holmes," M holds out the brand, blocking the woman's path with it as she tries to squirm away to the side, finding herself cornered by the much larger man.