Warning: This chapter deals with sexual toys being used on/in Sherlock. Mild violence.
The Berkley Horse is a real sexual device, created by Theresa Berkley in the 1800s.
She removes the ring, and he shudders with the effort not to react. He doesn't come; softens but stays partially erect. Interesting. She gathers his cock and bollocks in her hands, moving down closer to his groin. She begins a thorough examination of him, squeezing and studying. She lifts his balls, stroking, lightly ticking the underside with a fingertip. He remains nearly motionless, though his body begins to respond to the stimulation. She can see how much he tries to control his reaction and once again is amused and exasperated.
"I'm not going to stop until you're hard," Molly tells him. "You know that. Why fight it?"
"Because you'd win," he answers, still not looking at her.
She doesn't bother telling him that eventually she'll win anyway. He has become her living puzzle, and she is not going to stop until she's found the key to unlocking him. Instead she gets go of him and gets up, moving to her dresser.
He turns to look at her now, his curiosity getting the better of him. She removes a padded black silk blindfold and walks back over to him. His eyes narrow a fraction as he sees it. She doesn't have to be a consulting detective to know that he'll hate it; hate being deprived of his primary method of deduction. That's why he rubbed his face raw on the council floor; he was trying to get the blindfold off. He'd cared more about not being able to see than he had about being bound and gagged.
She holds it in her fingers and studies him before moving to slip it in place. His jaw clenches again, but he is quiet. She strokes his throat, enjoying the way his pulse leaps like a startled animal. Then she stands up and is completely silent, just looking at him. Beautiful. With the blindfold he seems more vulnerable, less sure of himself. Exactly what she wants.
She resumes stroking him, her skilled hands patiently drawing out the response she wants. Once she gets his dick hard, she lets it be, enjoying the slight flush on his pale cheeks. She transfers her attention to the rest of him, caressing his inner arms and thighs, lightly touching the soles of his feet, enjoying the way he quivers, ever so slightly, each time she shifts focus.
He is silent as she touches him, the only sounds in the room the soft background hum of the air vent and their quiet breathing. She's never encountered such stubbornness before. Either he doesn't understand that it arouses her, or he doesn't care. She suspects it is the latter. Which is a shame for him, since he should also know it means she's not going to relent any easier than he is.
"Have you been touched like this before?" she asks.
"You mean against my will, as a precursor to rape?" he answers.
"I told you, I'm not going to force you," she says.
"You already are," he says.
"Answer my question," she says, ignoring the jibe and squeezing his bollocks.
He winces slightly. "No."
Slowly she releases her grip. "You mean you're…"
"Yes," he says, voice devoid of any inflection. He could have been announcing the weather.
She reaches up and strokes his chest, watching him squirm slightly as she hits a sensitive spot near his navel. "Why?"
"It is incompatible with my work," he says simply.
Molly shakes her head. "Crazy."
He knows what she wants. He knows precisely what is driving her. Lust. Control. The need to keep order in her life; to make him yield. He's her unwilling slave, and it maddens her. Yet she's stopping just short of taking him. He doesn't delude himself; it isn't out of affection, and morality only plays a small part in it. No, she isn't forcing him because she wants him to offer; to give in to her. She craves his submission the way an addict craves a drug. It's a feeling he knows well.
What worries him is how far she's willing to go to get it. She's been fairly lenient with him so far, he suspects. Of course, she also didn't know just how stubborn he is. He is quite aware that most men would have given over by now. It's even a fantasy for some, from what he understands; being an object of sexual desire for a group of women. Those men would enjoy a fate like this, or at least make the best of it.
John would understand; well, his friend John. The John Watson in this world seems quite happy to belong to Mary Morstan. The only restraint he'd worn was the collar and leash. He'd followed where Mary led docilely, with no hidden urge to flee or resist. Mary had kissed him even, and he'd responded to it. But while she obviously had some measure of genuine affection for him, he was still her pet.
Contentment or happiness in slavery didn't make it any less of an enslavement.
He contemplates pretending; letting it seem as though she is gradually wearing him down. He could play the role; slowly seem to respond to her, first against his will, then let her think his defenses have crumbled at her feet. Be her obedient little favorite slave, gain her trust, then escape. But where would he go even if he got away? Mycroft is dead in this universe, John is a plaything, he doesn't even know where Lestrade is or if he exists. If he does, he certainly isn't in charge of the Yard because the Yard doesn't exist. And men aren't in charge of anything.
He'd be on his own, and though he's been on his own before, that was in familiar territory. If he escapes in this world, Molly will have him hunted and brought back. Of that, he has no doubt. Men do not wander about freely here. He'd need a disguise; need to dress up as a woman. That doesn't bother him. He's worn disguises before.
It's a risky plan, dangerous and full of loopholes. But it's an option, and he doesn't have many of those right now. So he keeps it in the back of his head to anchor him while Molly continues roaming her hands over him. She made him erect; only so much even he can do about that when he's receiving direct stimulation. Now that she knows he's a virgin, she'll want him more than ever, he thinks. His ears prick up; she's talking again.
"Last chance tonight, Sherlock. Agree to be mine and all this will stop. I'll give you the best life you could ask for here."
"No," he answers through tight lips.
Molly sighs. "Then I'm going to get creative."
"I told you; take your best shot," he replies.
She grins. What a silly thing he is, all but daring her. "Would you like to make a bargain before we begin?" she asks, running her fingertips gently under his eyes. He turns, tracking her movements by touch.
"What sort of bargain?" he asks.
"I'll take the blindfold off. But I want something in exchange."
"And what would that be?"
"A kiss."
"You can kiss me anytime you want. I can't stop you. Ah, but you want me to acquiesce to it," he smirks. He's silent for a moment, considering. "I despise being blindfolded even more than the prospect of you kissing me," he says finally. "So yes. You have your bargain."
She grins. It's a small victory, but she'll take it. After all, small victories can lead to bigger ones. She reaches behind him and unfastens the blindfold. He blinks, adjusting his eyes to the light again as she puts it aside. She leans over him, running a fingernail around the outline of his mouth. God, that mouth drives her insane. She wants to bite it, suck on it, devour it until his lips are swollen and sore.
She lowers herself down, one hand on the sheet beside him, the other tilting his face up. She shivers slightly as her lips touch his.
He's perfectly still beneath her. She presses her tongue against his mouth, and his lips part against its insistence, letting her tongue slide in. The entire time she kisses him, he is the perfect model of submission. He doesn't resist, just lays there, breathing quietly while she explores the inside of his mouth. And it isn't that she doesn't try to coax a response from him. She gives him her best kiss, to no avail. There is not a flicker of reaction. She might as well be kissing a dishrag.
She breaks away, sits up and looks at him. He gazes back at her calmly, the faintest bit of spiteful amusement in his eyes. See? He seems to say. I did exactly what you wanted. And he did; he was picture perfect in his compliance. But that's all it had been. Well, nothing worth having was easy, as the saying went…
"You're disappointed," Sherlock says. "Did you think you'd kiss me and I'd turn into a schoolboy? Forget what you're doing and give over?"
"No," Molly says.
"Good."
She gets up and walks over to the dresser again. She knows he's watching her. She removes a black cardboard box and carries it back over to him, sitting beside him on the bed near his thighs. His eyes flick over the box, trying to deduce what's inside.
She keeps him in suspense for a few more seconds, then slowly tugs off the lid. She holds the object up for him to see, enjoying the mild look of surprise on his face.
"Is that for me, or for you?" he asks.
"You."
"Oh."
"It will be easier for you if you relax," she tells him, opening a drawer in the nightstand near the bed and withdrawing a bottle of lubricant.
"As I recall, men have been telling women for centuries to just relax," he says, eyes narrowed into slits.
"Not in this world," Molly replies. She pours lube onto two fingers and rubs it in a bit. "Of course, men in this world are quite happy to accommodate without being forced."
"How do you know? Have you taken a poll recently?" Sherlock asks.
She reaches down and slowly slips half a finger inside him, watching as he winces and gasps, feeling him tighten. "Push out with your muscles," she tells him. "It'll be easier on you."
He's never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. He's never had to pay so much attention to his body in his life. The word stop gathers shape in his head, but he can't make himself let it travel to his lips. She slides the rest of the finger in, easing it past the resistant ring of muscle, the task made easier by the lubricant. The invading digit moves up until it finds what it seeks, the soft spongy mass of his prostate gland, and begins an insidious caress.
It isn't fair, her ruthless knowledge of anatomy. His body turns traitor and refuses to obey his commands, choosing to find pleasure in her probing touch. He won't admit it, though. That admission would be the first step into a descent where she coaxed and coerced him into saying that yes, he is hers. He belongs to no one, and certainly not to this Molly, who for all her care about it is violating him.
Transport, only transport.
He feels a second finger touch him. They both slip and rotate, moving slowly, steadily upward. He breathes deeply, directing his muscles to relax. There's no point in struggling and making it worse, but that's all she's going to get.
When she's satisfied that he's as ready physically as he can be, she slips her fingers out of him and goes to wash her hands. While she is gone, he looks over at what she has in store for him. It's small, but seems impossibly big as he contemplates it going inside him. It will be a distraction. Right now he isn't sure if he welcomes or loathes that.
Molly returns with a smile. It's the same sort of bright, happy smile his Molly wears when she sees him enter the morgue. But unlike his Molly, it isn't because she's pleased to see him. It's because she's going to make him gasp, make him squirm. She's a scientist who's fond of her lab animal, he thinks, with that look. It's fine. He can handle this.
She casually turns the vibrator on, and Sherlock's eyes widen. How can something so small be so loud? And…vibrate so much? He knows the mechanics. He's just never thought about them, and it's surprising how powerful it seems to be.
"Deep breath and relax," Molly murmurs to him as she slicks the device up with lubricant, and he feels it positioned against his arse for just a moment before she starts sliding it in.
Nothing could've prepared him for this. Not the lube, not a film, nothing. Small though it is, it seems to fill him to the brim; hitting his prostate over and over and making him wriggle in a mixture of treacherous pleasure and aversion.
How do ordinary people stand this? He's not going to let it continue. She can beat him if she likes, but he is not letting this…this thing, stay inside him.
He is in the middle of taking a deep breath, preparing to bear down to expel her toy, when he feels her slipping something over him and inside him, just barely, something smooth and made of rubber, that seems to be…
"No!" the word rushes out of his mouth before he can stop it. But it's too late; she has placed a plug there, obviously anticipating that he would do exactly what he'd been about to do. She fastens it around him, then steps back to admire her handiwork.
He knows his face is flushed, but he can't stop it. The sensations are almost too much; he flounders for a few seconds until he gets himself under some semblance of control. It's still unbelievably disturbing. He fleetingly wishes that he was not inexperienced in matters of the flesh; maybe he'd be better equipped to handle this. As it is, he has no choice but to endure it. Well, no choice he'll make.
"What a sight you are," she says, with a giggle that makes his blood boil. "That should keep you occupied for a bit."
"Are you going to leave me like this all night?" he asks.
"No. But for now I'll enjoy watching you squirm."
She gets a book from a nearby shelf and settles into an oversized armchair near the bed. She starts reading, glancing at him every few minutes. After half an hour she brings him some water and supports him while he drinks, making it very clear he can add a sound beating to the vibrator and plug if he's disobedient.
He drinks it without resisting. He's not ready to add additional stimulation onto this experience. Afterwards, she goes back to her book, and Sherlock goes back to cursing his curiosity, the gate he'd stumbled upon under the old ruins, this universe he is trapped in, and this ruthless, dominating version of Molly most of all.
It's maddening. Or it would be, if he hadn't have retreated as far into his Mind Palace as he can go. As it is, the infernal device is still there, hovering on the edges of his awareness. If there was any stimulus-based pleasure to be had in it, that has disappeared long ago. Now it's tiresome and dull but he can't quite shake free of it. The best he can do is keep it running in the background. So far that has been enough.
Two hours after his first drink, she moves back over to him and gives him more water. Then she seems to be debating something. Evidently she makes her decision, because she unbuckles his plug and removes it from him, then removes the vibrator and turns it off.
"How did that feel?" Molly asks, her tone curious. "I've never left one in a man for that long before."
"Like I was being shaken not stirred," he answers, and she laughs. Laughs.
She falls silent, contemplating something.
"I think it's time you addressed me properly," she says thoughtfully after a few minutes. "I've allowed your impertinence for too long."
"And what would you like me to call you? Mistress?" he asks with a scowl.
The slap is swift and hard. It leaves a warm print on his cheek.
"Impertinence," she says. "And no. You will address me as Domina."
Sherlock's eyes narrow. "You do not own me."
This comment earns him six slaps, each harder than the first. One on each cheek, one on each nipple, one on his cock, and one on his bollocks. He hisses in pain at the last one.
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law, pet. Now. I'll make this simple. Every time you don't address me as told, something will happen to you. And I promise you, it will be something that you do not like. And each one will be worse than the one before. So think about that before you speak."
He seems to be debating it with himself. After a moment he nods. "Very well…Domina."
"Good. Now. It's clear to me that you're used to living in that massive head of yours. You've put a lot of effort and discipline into emotional and physical control. And while I admire it, it's preventing you from giving over. So I'm going to have to change that."
"Oh? What now? Another vibrator? More drugs?"
She reaches down and pinches a nipple hard enough to make him gasp. "Quiet," she murmurs. "I'm thinking."
She keeps hold of his nipple, rubbing it absently and flicking her fingernail across it while she ponders what to do with this maddening man. He doesn't say anything else, watching and waiting with those cool, sharp eyes. Are they blue, or green? She wonders. They seem to change constantly.
When she decides, Molly grins. She presses the intercom button on the wall. "Laura, send up some escorts for my pet. Take him to the Green Room."
There is a beat of silence. Then the woman named Laura asks: "The Green Room, Lady?"
"Yes. Prepare him in the fourth position. I'll be down shortly to take it from there."
"Yes, Lady."
"Why do I think that this Green Room and fourth position aren't anything good?" Sherlock asks. He seems to be addressing the ceiling instead of her.
"They're very good," she replies. "I'll see you soon."
"I'll be counting the minutes, Domina."
Molly runs her fingers through his hair and lightly bites an earlobe before she leaves the room.
The Green Room is not aptly named. It isn't green. Of course, there's obviously another meaning to this designation. Some code he isn't privy to. In the larger scheme, it isn't that important.
What is important is that this room looks like it belongs on a film set. A pornography film set. Dim lighting from a chandelier, a table covered with various sexual toys and fetish items, marble tile on the floors. There is no scent in the air and the room is a surprisingly ambient temperature. But it's the device in the middle of the room that gives him pause.
It's a mechanized table, rectangular shaped, resting at a 110 degree angle. It is lightly padded with white leather across the entire surface and has three cut out areas. One is close to the top, circular, and padded around the hole. It resembles a massage table where the person being massaged would rest their head and look down at the floor below. The second is where the stomach and lower back would be. The third falls roughly where a person's buttocks would be, leaving both their arse and genitals exposed. At the bottom, there is a padded platform and two small cutouts, about a foot apart, obviously for resting the feet while leaving the tops of the feet and the toes exposed.
Eight metal rings are secured in the table; one on each side of the first two sets of holes, two in the area where the wrists would be, and down at the bottom near the footholes. The angle of the table can be adjusted to anything from 90 to 180 degrees, likely with the touch of the black button on the side. He remembers Molly saying "the fourth position" and wonders what that means.
He is strapped to the table in short order, and his deductions were correct. His head, lower back, and backside are all exposed thanks to the holes, while the front of him is in full display. His bindings are done in an X pattern, starting at the sides of his head and sloping down to cross his chest. His wrists are secured, and finally a strap is pulled taut across the tops of his feet near his ankles. He tugs at his bonds, finds them too secure for him to free himself by force, and leans back, staring at his guards.
"What's the fourth position?" he asks.
"This," one replies, pressing the button.
The table slides into a 115 degree angle. With Molly's height, it will be easy for her to stand behind the table in this position, and do as she likes to the exposed areas. While he loathes his current state, he does have to admire the efficiency of the device.
The woman ruffles his hair and smirks as he scowls. "She'll be here soon. Get some rest. You'll need it."
"No doubt," he mutters, watching them go.
He is left alone to contemplate his predicament. Of course he won't sleep; he's too wound up, knowing she will arrive soon, and trying to deduce what she has planned for him from the contents of the nearby table. Clamps, cock rings, a riding crop, a bullwhip, vibrators in assorted sizes, jars of massage oil and lubricant, a medicine bottle that he suspects holds either sildenafil citrate or some other sort of stimulant. There are also more plain black cardboard boxes, a bowl of fruit, jars of hot fudge and caramel, a carafe of water, and a bottle of wine with two wineglasses. An ice bucket filled with small ice cubes, the metal tongs resting on the edge.
Sherlock absorbs it all in a few seconds, then turns away from it. He doesn't want to think about whatever is going to happen. He goes into his mind palace, into the library, and accesses the dullest book he can think of: world rainfall measurements for the past 5 years and the effect on crops.
He's halfway finished with Africa when he hears her say: "It's called a Berkley Horse."
He turns to look at her, disconcerted that she managed to slip in without him hearing her. She is very stealthy, this Molly. Not that the other Molly is especially noisy, but…
Molly. It's difficult for him to look at this woman, who is Molly but is not Molly, and not think about the one that he knows, who is probably fretting along with John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft. He wonders what Mycroft is doing. Has he retraced Sherlock's footsteps yet? Surely he has. For all he knows, his brother is out there with half of MI5 or the CIA trying to locate him. But surely if they'd been spotted or captured, he'd know. Molly would waste no time telling him. Too many unknown variables. He'll simply have to wait and endure.
She's dressed differently. She's wearing a dark green nightdress, sheer with lace trim, and nothing else. It leaves little to the imagination. He quickly lifts his gaze from the tangled nest of curls between her thighs and the dusky buds of her nipples. Her hair is loose and hanging down her back. Instead of being barefoot, she's wearing black leather shoes with two inch stiletto heels. Her face is devoid of makeup, even the lipstick she wore the day before. She'd be the perfect picture of innocence, were it not for her clothes, her shoes, and the content of the room.
"Quite clever in design, isn't it?" Molly continues, moving down to stand beside him. "All the right areas exposed for pleasure." She scrapes a fingernail lightly down his chest, below the straps, down to his pubic hair. She stops just short of touching his cock, which threatens to stir to life from her touch of her nail on his skin. She scratches her way back up, this time sliding up his neck and chin, hooking her finger on his lower lip and tugging until he opens his mouth.
She firmly rubs her finger along his mouth, then slips it inside, her stare making it clear to him that something terrible will happen if he bites. Somehow, despite what she's done to him, what she will do, he can't bring himself to harm her. It's stupid, she's not his Molly. But she is Molly, at the same time, and that is why he doesn't try to sever her finger off her hand. That and the fact that something truly horrible would be done to him in turn. Even he has limits.
She withdraws the finger and moves to the table. "So. You can control that temper of yours," she says thoughtfully. "Good to know."
"What are you going to do to me now?" He asks in exasperation. "Haven't you conducted enough research yet?"
Her lips curve up in a soft amused smile. "Oh, pet. The research has only just begun."
She moves back to the table and opens one of the boxes. She sits it on a small rolling table near the Horse, pushing it over closer. He still can't see what's inside, but she knows he's curious and is happy to oblige him.
She pulls out two small pieces of curved metal, holding them up for him to inspect. The bottom of each side is designed to hold a small bolt to fit them together. Simple setup, it can quickly be put together, and just as easily taken apart with an allen wrench. It's ½ an inch thick and 1 3/4 inches wide. If it were assembled, it would be the perfect size for…
Oh.
Molly sets it down on the table with a faint metallic thud. She slides over to him, taking his cock in her hands, stroking him slowly, lightly. "I see you deduced what it is," she says.
"Clever design. Constricting while adding weight to increase awareness and supposedly lengthening."
"It's the awareness I'm interested in. I've no desire to alter you physically in any permanent fashion."
"Small mercies," he mutters.
She continues stroking him. Sherlock sighs. He doesn't try to stop it; lets her make him hard. The sooner this is over with, the sooner she might realize she won't get what she wants with sexual arousal and persuasion.
It occurs to him that perhaps she does know this; that she is simply enjoying what she's doing, whether or not she thinks it will get him to yield. It's possible; those who like to dominate and control love the act for its own sake. But if this Molly is anything like his Molly, and he knows she is, hope springs eternal in that ridiculously optimistic heart of hers.
He is jolted from his musings by the feeling of cold metal. She's placed the pieces around him (when did he become fully erect?) and is carefully bolting it together. It is heavy against him: not unbearably so, but enough to make him very aware of the presence of the weight, and how sensitive his cock will be with the trapped erection. When she finishes, she glances at him, the look in her eyes more clinical than lustful.
"I used the lowest weight on you," she tells him as she examines his imprisoned cock. "I didn't want to overwhelm you too early with stimulation. It's better to build it up."
Oh, yes. She knows exactly what she's doing. She's had years of practice. He's intrigued for a moment as to whether or not she truly is capable of changing his mind, but dismisses the thought. It's an interesting mental exercise, but it won't change anything. She'll stop short of doing serious harm to him as long as he's compliant with the small demands, and no persuasion, no matter how stimulating it might be, will affect that.
When she pulls out an injection kit, he finds that his conviction is no longer quite so convinced.
"Let's give you a little something to relax you, hmm?" Molly says absently as she cleans the injection site.
"I would be very relaxed if you'd let me go," Sherlock replies.
"And what would you do if I did?" she asks, inspecting the syringe carefully before plunging it into the vial and filling it. "You can't go back the way you got here, you know that."
"Why not?" He asks.
She stares at him. "You really don't know?"
"Tell me!" He snaps, adding "please" when she frowns.
"The place where you came from. The gate. It's gone."
He pales. "What do you mean, gone?"
"Gone. As in, not there."
Sherlock nearly swore. "How long ago?"
"From our estimation, it closed within two hours of your entrance here. There was nothing there when we investigated. Barely any residual energy that we could detect, and even that's gone now. And who knows how long it takes to reactivate it. With no matching gate on this side, there's not much to do right now except research."
Sherlock releases the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"So who knows how long you'll be here. And even if I wanted to let you go, which I don't, how do you think you'd manage in this world? This is more than a one country matriarchy, Sherlock. The entire world changed after that plague. No one wants to go back to the ancient ways where women were abused, raped, tortured and murdered for men's pleasure."
She clamps a hand down on his mouth before he can argue. "The point is, there are only so many roles for men here. I'm giving you a chance for one of the best. You should accept it."
"But I know you don't want to," she continues, ignoring the way he narrows his eyes. "And so we're back where we started. The games continue. You can either not argue or I can gag you. Your choice."
She removes her hand and stares at him. He's silent, though the look he gave her speaks volumes. She continues her task of injecting him. "What is it?" he asks as she presses the needle to his skin.
"An empathogenic drug. Medical level dose, not street use. Just enough to mellow you and enhance the sensory aspects."
"You're giving me Ecstasy?" His laugh is brief and dark.
"We don't have a drug called Ecstasy. The street name for this is Rapture."
"Same difference."
After she injects him and disposes of the equipment, she just stands looking at him.
"Going to wait for it to kick in?" He asks.
"No. Just admiring your body. You don't care about it, except for what you needed to do for your work. You've neglected it, denied it. That fascinates me. You're rather like a monk. A rude, cruel, overbearing monk, mind, but still."
She moves to the table and picks up a flogger. "Shall we begin?" she asks, her look making it clear what his response had better be.
"Yes, Domina."