Chapter 3: "Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power." ~ Oscar Wilde
It's a beautiful morning for a Monday - for any day, really. I'm not a morning person, but it's hard to be sulky when the sun is shining and birds are chirping at the window.
I'm excited about my plans for today; I've never considered trying to cruise into a government building before, although I've weaseled my way into loads of other places where I wasn't supposed to be - nightclubs, private parties, corporate headquarters, that sort of thing. This shouldn't be any different. It's going to be fun.
When I yawn my way into the kitchen, it's still fairly early; for me, anyway. I'm already dressed, business-casual in linen slacks and blazer, my pale blond hair neatly pinned up, and nearly no makeup. I look like a human blancmange, ready to blend into any crowd. I just want to grab a quick cup of tea and some toast before I catch the tube for Whitehall.
Sara has other plans. She is still sitting at the breakfast table when I come in; she must be on the second shift at the animal hospital, and I can tell from her expectant expression that she wants to Have a Little Chat. She does this occasionally; it's an endearing character flaw that she is convinced that she knows best. Probably comes of being five years older than I am.
She gives me a once-over as I come in, and she looks surprised. "Hey, you look great! Do you have a job interview?"
I shake my head and put the kettle on. "No. Why would I? I already have a job."
"I meant, for a real job. And I made you breakfast, it's right here." She pushes a loaded plate across the table and points to the chair in front of it. God, she must really want to Have a Little Chat, she's been cooking all morning. I make a face.
"Sairs, you know I can't face a plate of fry-up first thing in the morning! I'll be sick. And I already have a real job, thank you very much." The kettle boils quickly, and after a splash of milk, I'm mashing around the tea-bag to get it ready faster so I can get out the door quicker. "I make almost as much as you do. The pay cheque might be irregular, but if I want more money all I have to do is let my manager know that I'll take harder assignments." I sit down with my tea to pick a little at the toast and some of the bacon on the plate. Actually, I ease my backside into the chair, because I'm still just a touch sore from that meeting last night. I'm a softy about pain, which is why I don't usually take the "harder assignments." There are girls who genuinely enjoy that sort of thing, so why deprive them?
Sara makes a sour face and flips the front page of the morning newspaper over at me. The headline screams, CALL-GIRL MURDER SPREE: NEW JACK THE RIPPER?
My stomach clenches down around the tea and toast, and I spread my hands flat to keep them from shaking as I scan the article to see if I know the new victim. I'm a little ashamed of myself to feel relieved that I don't know her at all. The grainy photo, obviously taken from an online gallery of girls-for-hire, shows a pretty brunette in black lace lingerie. I've never seen her before; her working name was Tanya, and they don't give her real one yet. There is a photo of Calypso as well, giving her real name as Alice Potts. I never knew that. No wonder she went by Calypso.
The latest murder happened last night, almost exactly like Calypso's the night before, only the assailant was on foot and waiting in the shadows of a hedgerow near her flat. The gunman obviously knew where she lived, and where the cab was likely to pull up when dropping her off.
"So." Sara addresses the mug of tea she has wrapped in her hands. "So, are you still so sure you have a real job that you want? I mean, this," she looks up and waves her hand at the newspaper spread out in front of me. "Doesn't that scare the hell out of you? As if it wasn't already bad enough!"
I toss the paper back on top of the rest of it. Here we go again. "Bad enough? What is already bad enough?"
"You know what I mean. It's already a risky business, what you do. You like to think nothing bad is ever going to happen to you, but it could. Those girls," Sara gestures at the newspaper again, "they probably didn't think anything bad could happen to them. It's not like you don't have options, Angelica. You don't have to do this for a living, you could finish your degree and get a really good job. You're good with people, you'd make a great therapist or human resources person or something."
She's leaning further and further forward, and I'm leaning back in my chair, finally crossing my arms in front of me. It's the zillionth time we've had this discussion, and I've no patience for it this morning.
"Whatever would you do for entertainment if I worked some 'real job' like you? And how would I keep from dropping dead of sheer boredom myself?" It comes out snarkier than I intended, and Sara's cheeks flush slightly.
She stands up abruptly, lips pressed in a thin line. "Fine. Whatever. I guess it doesn't really matter if you get yourself killed; it's not like you're doing anything useful with your life, are you?" She launches herself toward the door, grabbing coat and bag along the way, as I sit in stony silence.
Bitch. She can be so controlling. I know she means well and so forth, but she can be such a bitch about it. I gulp down the rest of my tea, looking at the front page of the paper again. Two escorts murdered in as many days on their way back home after meeting a client, both shot by a man with a handgun. Calypso was an independent, it looks like Tanya worked for an upper-end escort agency called Society Services. Both were...shot in the forehead, and at close range. That means that the gunman had to be looking them in the eyes when he did it. Definitely a psychopath. Former client? Did they suspect something was wrong with him, was he a little creepy, or were they shocked when they looked over and saw that face through the car window?
It's trendy to not have faith in the police these days, or much of anything else, but my father was in law enforcement; he was a good policeman, he really tried. He was no perfect human being, but he tried. I have faith that this psycho will be caught. For one thing, contrary to popular belief, Scotland Yard is actually pretty competent - but especially, because serial killers want to get caught. They're hungry to be noticed and acknowledged, it's part of their sickness.
And I hope they catch this sick fuck soon, because I really am beginning to get a little scared.
Well, there's nothing I can do about it, except try to be alert. Daddy taught Sara and I some basic self-defense, and I took it further to a brown belt in karate. Not any use against a gun, I know, but it does make you more confident, and sometimes confidence can make all the difference.
I stand up and scrape the plate of greasy breakfast into the bin. Nice thought, dear sister, but no points. I take one last look at myself in the mirror beside the door, practicing my pleasantly bland "nobody special" look, and then it's off to see what I can do to gain access to the Halls of Power. Well, the bastions of the civil servants, anyway.
# # #
By late morning, I am blending in easily with the crowds of purposeful-looking types that populate the government district that everyone just calls "Whitehall," after the main street. There are a few tourists here and there, and enough soldiers at station so that you know this is not just any busy office district. The buildings are all historic, and many of them are beautiful as well.
It turns out to be easy enough to get into the building where Holmes has his office-you just have to present a picture identification, and stand still in a plexiglass pod whilst they scan you for weapons and whatnot. And let them do a tiny search in your handbag. And answer a few questions about your purpose there, and do you have an appointment, and with whom? I have a story ready about being called in as a specialist consultant, naming a fellow with an office just down the hall from Holmes; if the security protocol requires that I have to be escorted to that office, my fail-safe plan is to suddenly remember that my appointment is for tomorrow afternoon, and beat a hasty retreat. If all else fails, act like a flutter-headed blonde, and people will dismiss you as impossibly dim and no threat at all. Being able to cry on cue helps as well.
But no theatrics are required; the bored woman behind the security desk waves me across the bustling atrium toward the row of lifts, and I pile in with half a dozen other people. My mouth is dry, from excitement and fear, but I feel like clapping and cheering for myself. Damn, but I am good!
I exit alone on the sixth floor, quite nearly managing to step out of the lift with a steady pace instead of a leap. There doesn't seem to be anybody about at all, but I'm still on high alert. I can't be seen acting suspiciously, I have to act like I know where I am going and what I am doing here.
Fail. Total fail. I haven't gotten more than a few doors down the hallway before a dark-haired woman in a black dress stops me and asks if I need help finding someone. Her pretty eyes are narrowed with suspicion. I can feel the color draining from my face, as my stomach sinks into my shoes. I stammer out, No, I am just looking for the loo? She points out the way, and I scamper off like it's an emergency. Which it is, because I am feeling sick to my stomach.
I hide in a shiny white stall and lean my head against the closed door. What the hell am I doing here? This is insane, I really am mentally ill. Not just a little bit, either. I'm stalking a client at his work. This is not the behavior of a normal, sane person. Sara wouldn't do something like this.
I do my slow breathing and gradually calm down. Yes, of course I'm a bit mad. That's why I majored in abnormal psychology; one of my instructors used to joke that most of the people who take up the study of mental illness are just trying to find out what's wrong with themselves.
I flush the toilet, even though I haven't been able to bring myself to wee, and take a long time at the mirror, washing my hands and smoothing my hair. I find my confidence again, and I take it with me.
Ms. Black Dress is no-where in sight when I emerge, thankfully. I scoot down the hallway briskly, taking myself past the door with a little brass name-plate beside it, "M. Holmes." I feel a little thrill in the pit of my now-calm stomach, but the door is firmly closed, and looking up at the high transom windows above it doesn't reveal anything. I pause just past the door and bend down to adjust the buckle on one shoe, listening carefully, but there are no sounds at all coming from the office. Probably he's not even in.
Oh, well. Remembering the black car that tailed my taxi yesterday, I decide that a second pass would be foolish. I head for the lift, passing a small herd of paunchy, grey-headed men coming the other way. One of them looks vaguely familiar, but I know he won't recognize me. They never do.
I have the lift to myself, and I lean back against the humming wall, feeling deflated and very, very foolish. All this stress and excitement, for what? To walk by the office door of some guy with a trust-fund income and a civil service post. Really. If I were hearing about this, I would think it was pathetic. I'm the one doing it, and I think it's pathetic.
The lift doors open at the atrium mezzanine level, and I have a sudden surge of prickles up the back of my thighs. I don't want to be in this lift even one second longer. As a group of young men with briefcases get in, I do a ballerina-leap out, and I'm not-quite-running away toward the stairs to the floor level. I just want to get out of here, now.
Stop. Acting like a ninny is going to just draw attention that I don't want. I make myself stop and breathe and take in my surroundings; I place my hands on the smooth metal railing that tops the low wall around the gallery where I'm standing, and look down at the people below. So much quiet bustling, so much purposeful busy-ness. These are the men and women in suits that keep the country running, and their voices hum like a beehive.
There are little clusters of people conversing, on their way here or there. I can see that a lot of informal business gets done in this bright, open space. Over there, a slim, balding man is holding court, relating a humorous story to a small audience of younger men; I can't make out his precise words because he's facing away, but his tone is dryly witty, and he punctuates his story with small gestures of the black umbrella in his left hand. There is some quiet laughter from his audience as the story ends, and the story-teller turns slightly to show his profile - and it is Mycroft Holmes. Gotcha!
Homes notices an older man with a grey mustache passing nearby, and moves toward him, the audience of youngsters following along behind like a shoal of fish. Pilot fish. I grin at the thought. Holmes moves around like a lazy shark, with his entourage of little pilot fish grooming away at him.
The older gent and Holmes greet each other warmly, and I realize that this is another big shark, since he, too, has his own shoal of little fishes. The sharks exchange pleasantries, the pilot fish groom each other anxiously and wait. Holmes stands with the umbrella planted in front of him, both hands on top. He looks to me to be wary of this other shark, who stands with both hands deep in pockets; the classic sign of someone who has something to hide. They are both smiling at each other, and talking with friendly animation. I can catch only little snatches of the conversation at first, then more as the grey mustache begins booming more loudly, maybe out of annoyance, even though both sharks are still smiling away at each other. There is much talk about a wedding and reception this Saturday, at Stoke Park. I know that resort! I was hired to go for a weekend foursome there last autumn. Nice place, very nice. Big beds.
Finally, the sharks shake hands with a promise to meet again on Saturday and part ways heartily, although the look that Holmes sends after the other man's retreating back is anything but pleasant. But then he tosses his umbrella over one shoulder like an infantry rifle, turns to his waiting pilot fish and jovially mentions a nearby restaurant. The idea is received enthusiastically, and Holmes glides off with his shoal.
I realize that I have been staring at this little scene below, and not stealthily. Anybody who saw me would know that I was staring at Holmes. I look quickly around, but there is no one near me at all; there are three women on a low bench at the other end of the gallery having a private conversation and texting on their phones, but I don't think they've noticed that I'm even here. One of them might-might!-be Ms. Black Dress from the sixth floor, but I can't be sure, as her face is bent over her phone.
It's time to get out of here, but not fleeing in panic. Slow but purposeful, I stride down the stairs, across the atrium. I give a nod to the security-desk woman, and then I'm out the door. For about two seconds, I consider strolling 'round to the restaurant that I heard Holmes mention, but immediately veto myself. I've had enough emotional roller-coastering for the day. What I need right now is a cup of tea, a couple of cigarettes, and some time to think.
# # #
Come Thursday I'm still thinking, and haven't come to any conclusions. I'm at a lunchtime meeting with a nice man named Mr. Li, and I am bored out of my mind. He is taking forever to come, but he won't allow me to help things along. Chinese guys are funny, they take it as a point of pride how long they can keep pounding away. They just keep going and going...honestly, it's really boring, but when it's all over you can get a huge tip if you tell them that you have never seen a man go at it so long and so fiercely. They love to hear that, it makes them feel virile.
So I while away the time by thinking about Holmes. I still don't quite get it. It's like the man with me at the hotel room is a completely different person from the one at work. Different voice, different expression, different body language. Everything. Could he be a multiple personality? It's really, really rare, but it would account for the creepiness factor. What an interesting thought! I need to study up this afternoon, because I have another meeting with "Mr. Tate" tonight at eight o'clock, at the Milestone in Kensington. I've already picked out the dress that I'll wear - no more pencil skirts! - and packed the little black gym bag. I'll need a good bath, of course, and probably shave again.
Mr. Li suddenly buries his hands into my hair and starts pulling it hard, grunting softly. I swing into my I-might-be-having-an-orgasm moaning and sighing routine, and he seems quite pleased with himself, relaxing happily. Some compliments, a few cuddles, a nice tip - the Agency handles the actual payment with a bank transfer, no crass bill-counting for me - and I'm dressed and out the door. Mr. Li took a little longer than his allotted time with me, but the Agency doesn't schedule us tightly for just that reason. It pays to be generous with your clients.
# # #
Six hours and forty-three minutes later, I arrive at the Milestone, armed with a mental check-list for Dissociative Identity Disorder, the new name for multiple personalities. Swinging at my side, the black gym bag jangles discreetly, the only noise in the quiet, wood-paneled lobby; even my steps are hushed by the cut-pile carpets underfoot. Everything is very 19th century, and very, very posh. The clerk behind the check in desk gives me a hard look as I stand waiting for the lift to arrive, but I guess I pass muster because he doesn't challenge me. I'm glad I wore the outfit I did, a sky-blue silk wrap dress, and some nice silver jewelry inlaid with turquoise. It's a pretty shade of blue, nearly matches my eyes.
Seventh floor this time. I'm not as nervous as the last time, actually hardly at all, and I think it's due entirely to my stalker activities. Maybe stalking gives me a feeling of power over the situation, like I'm in control of at least a tiny bit of it. I know where you live, where you work, who you are, mister! Whatever the reason, it's nice to not walk up to the door feeling like a quivering mess.
"Angel. Come in." Holmes is wearing a grey pinstripe suit tonight, and the music on the stereo is Handel, but otherwise the drill is exactly the same. I place the gym bag on a near-by side table, and take in the room whilst Holmes pours himself a drink. Very elegant room, very Victorian, and I can tell at a glance why this place might justify the price he's paying for it tonight. The center of the far wall is dominated by a huge, four-poster bed. Hmmmm. That presents quite a few interesting possibilities, doesn't it?
Holmes goes to sit down in a tawny gold Queen Anne chair, but has to first move the black umbrella leaned against the arm. He hangs it by the ridged handle on the empty coat-tree in the corner, and waves me to stand in front of the chair as he sits down. He seems less agitated tonight, maybe because I'm calmer, or maybe it has nothing to do with me. Whatever the reason, we're both more relaxed. I strike a pose for him, and stand absolutely still.
As he's doing his looking thing, I mentally run down the checklist for DID. The big tell-tale is apparently memory lapses between personality switching, and that's just not possible to check on a casual basis like this. Some of the other traits do fit, though, and it might-
"Undress." Holmes says softly, and I focus back on him and move to untie my wrap dress.
Abruptly, he says, "No!" I stop, and look at him, uncertain. Holmes rises, and reaches for the ties himself. Carefully, he unwraps me from the dress, and it flutters down to pool on the floor around my feet. My lingerie is blush-pink tonight, with frothy silk lace on the front of the bra and knickers, one of my favorite sets. He walks around and around me, fingertips barely brushing across my body, a touch light as a feather. I shudder as one hand trails across my nipples, and I'm sure that his eyes crinkle slightly in a subtle smile. Around he goes, slowly, his face calm and contemplative, like he's memorizing bone and muscle and skin.
When he gets to my backside, I notice that he frowns and makes a little displeased noise deep in his throat. I remember the riding crop from Sunday night; I guess the marks haven't all healed yet.
He waves a hand at me, then. "Off with all of it," he says, going to the side table and opening the gym bag. I oblige, and by the time he has gotten the harness out and untangled, I am bare. I am watching him closely now, but only out of the corner of my eyes. I'm trying to discern if he is really manifesting a different personality, or just being different because it's a different situation. We all do the latter, I think, to one extent or another; what if he just has a social persona that is very different from his private self? And am I seeing his private self, or just another variation of his social mask? The idea fascinates me, until I notice that, as he carefully and precisely lays the leather straps on my skin and tightens the buckles, he is watching me watching him, and he is amused.
I blush a little and look away completely, keeping even the corners of my eyes to myself.
Once the harness and cuffs are secured, Holmes taps my shoulder and looks meaningfully at the big, four-post bed, and I go turn down the sheets and sit on the edge of it. I start to feel more anticipation, but not anxiety. Something certainly has shifted for me.
He turns down the lighting, and removes his suit coat, like before, and like before he guides me down into the position he wants me secured in; tonight I am spread-eagled face-down, one limb tethered to each post and a stack of pillows under my hips. It's not physically uncomfortable, at all, but psychologically it's challenging to have your legs spread like that with no defense. I can feel cool air wafting across places where air rarely wafts, and it feels just a little delicious. I can hear him disrobing again, no doubt the exact same ritual as before. I wonder if the ritual is to reduce anxiety, or if he just likes to do things in the same way. I guess the proof of it would be if doing it differently made him anxious. Hmm.
I'm tempted to take him up on that extended contract just to poke around and see what happens - if he offers one to me, of course.
I feel the mattress shift as he sits down between my spread legs, and I feel a little more air move across my inner thighs. He must be close between my legs, looking. I can feel his breath, and I have an impulse to giggle at the image in my head of him down there "playing Doctor." After a few minutes, I feel a fingertip carefully exploring around, sliding on the gathering wetness. I didn't know my fanny was going to be in for such a close scrutiny tonight, but I'm glad I gave it a clean shave just a few hours ago.
The one finger becomes two, and bits are pulled aside to reveal other bits. Good grief, he is playing Doctor after all. Well, it's not like it hurts, he's being quite gentle for the most part. It's just very odd to be subjected to such a thorough spelunking.
Gradually, he starts to run his hands over my thighs and bum as well, his fingers lingering here and there on the bruises, like you might finger a chip on a teacup. Then I feel lips and tongue touching my skin as well, tasting me all over. And teeth, not always gentle. Oh, please don't turn into a biter, I think. Biting is a deal-breaker for me. I mean biting, not hard nipping. I had a client once who unexpectedly bit me, and I'll never forget the feeling of his teeth actually slicing into my skin; it hurt like hell, and I screamed bloody murder. The man apologized up and down and swore it wouldn't happen again, but he still got himself blacklisted from the Agency. I had to have a tetanus shot.
Holmes seems to be keeping it reasonable, although there are a few spots that I know from experience that will show bruises tomorrow. If he starts to go for the neck, I'll ask him to stop; I can't have marks where they will show.
His intensity is ramping up again now, and I can feel the length of his body pressing against mine, hard, though the cloth of his undershirt and pants. His tongue is exploring the curve of my ear in a very delicate way, alternating with hard nips, and I have my face buried in the mattress, trying not to moan. My ears are a huge erogenous zone for me; I can almost come just from what he's doing right now, and I am working to keep myself distracted. I don't orgasm with clients, not for reals, that's just how I keep the boundaries in place. Right now, though, it's taking an act of will to keep from toppling over the edge.
I hear a faint ringing noise, growing louder. It goes on and on, stops for a moment or two, then goes on and on again. Holmes doesn't seem aware of it at first, then he raises his head and growls, "Bugger it!"
He leaps off me, and hurries over to where his clothing is. My face is still buried in the mattress, but I hear him, slightly breathless, snap, "What is it?" and there is the tinny murmur of a man's voice. "The treadmill, of course!" Holmes answers primly.
I can't believe Holmes is answering his phone. It happens; I had one old fart who continued to gently slide in and out of my arse whilst chatting with his wife about the grocery list. It was surreal, but I suppose it had as much to do with his need to be a naughty boy as anything else.
But Holmes goes to such lengths to set the scene and enjoy himself in such a specific way, it's hard to believe he would even leave his phone on, much less answer it right in the middle of things. The caller must be important, then, but Holmes is talking to him in a very familiar way. I wonder if it's his boyfriend.
"Well, what do you expect me to do about it?" Long pause. "I'm not a magician, Sherlock. In any case it's late, there's nothing I can do at the moment." Pause. Exasperated sigh. "Oh, all right. Yes. I'll see to it myself." There is a beep as he hangs up, and a long groan.
And I hear him getting dressed. He's leaving? I crank my head around to catch a glimpse of the other end of the room and sure enough, Holmes is getting dressed, quickly, and obviously with great annoyance. He'd better not forget about me. I don't want to shout out, not in the mood he seems to be in, but I don't want to be stuck here until the maid comes in the morning, either. I wait until he's got his shoes tied and is slipping his coat on, and then I quietly call out, "Um, help?"
He looks up, surprised. Yep, he had forgotten all about me. "Oh, good lord. So sorry." He hurries over and unsnaps one of my wrists from the bedpost. "Family emergency." And, whoosh, he's gone.
I unsnap the rest of my tethers and lay sprawled on the bed for a minute, listening to the Handel rippling away on the stereo. Despite the interruption, I am still so turned on that I feel shaky. My god, what that man was doing to my ears. I am simply going to have to take care of myself right now, this minute. I wish I had some of my favorite solo toys with me, but I can certainly make do with my own hands.
I sit up to fluff the pillows strewn about the bed to make a comfortable nest, and as I do so, my eye falls on the coat tree in the corner by the door.
He forgot his umbrella. It suddenly occurs to me how much that stylish whanghee handle resembles one of my favorite g-spot toys. It really does, with it's knobby ridges, and curve - some differences in angle and size, but really, not much. Not much different at all...and the length of the shaft would give some wicked leverage...
I feel a little sorry for any woman who hasn't learned to love her g-spot; it's like discovering you have an extra clit! The trick is to be thoroughly turned on, so hot you can't hardly think straight, before you start to give it the deep-pressure stroking that feels so incredible.
And I'm there, right now. I go get the black umbrella off the coat tree, smiling a wicked smile as I heft the handle in my hand. Oh, yes, this is going to feel very nice.
It does.
I give myself a thumping good orgasm, pressing and rubbing that whanghee handle inside me against my g-spot; the ridges are absolutely perfect for the job, and it's so nice that I go for two more little ones...light, sighing waves. Heavenly.
I sprawl back on the pillows, reveling in the afterglow. When my legs have stopped wobbling, I strip off the harness and cuffs and wander into the bathroom to clean up. A hot bubble bath sounds lovely, and the tub is a huge claw-foot affair with gilded taps and fluffy towels, screaming pure decadence. I take the umbrella in with me to give it a good washing, but after the bath I decide that I'm not giving it back. I have a feeling that if M. Holmes knew what use it had been put to, he might not want it back. He seems the type. So, I think I'll add it to my toy box at home.
Giggling at the thought, I open the umbrella and prop it in a corner to dry, and climb back into the huge bed to snuggle down under the covers. The silly man paid for the room for the night, so I might as well have the use of it; I'll be cleared out before the maid service arrives in the morning.