The Grand Hotel Intrigue

By Maquis Leader




Rated NC17

Author’s note: I combined the deleted scene of Holmes and Irene from the trailer with the unaccounted for time period between when she drugs him and when he wakes up naked, and came up with this.





She opened the door in nothing more than a bath sheet. Damp as if she’d just bathed. The auburn hair however, was dry and carefully arranged, and her makeup was perfectly in place without smudges.


The question as to if she answered the door in a bath sheet as a regular habit was squelched. It was a stupid question. He knew that she’d been aware he was at her door before she opened it. She’d undoubtedly sat waiting for him, wrapped in the damp sheet until he’d arrived.


His eyes slid up over her. The dark shadowing of her mons venus, shallow indent of her navel – which held precisely one fourth of a teaspoon of wine if he recalled correctly, which of course he did for more than the usual reason in that he never forgot anything. Firm, modest handful sized breasts – if by jutting out they could be called modest – her nipples were hard and pressing into the nearly sheer cloth. The rose tinged areolas visibly pebbled as well.


If she’d answered the door naked, she couldn’t have captured his attention any more ably. Less ably actually, since he preferred mystery and nakedness provided none.


Pocketing the ring of keys, which were only a ruse at any rate, he stepped into the room – their old room as she stated – the truth from those crimson lips for a change. She handed him a bottle of wine – an excellent vintage they’d enjoyed before under less suspicious circumstances, and bade him open it before walking away.


With a deep breath and a stern reminder to himself to keep his baser urges in control, he turned and smiled at her. The smile was intended to be smug and condescending, but it wavered as she dropped the bed sheet, exposing her naked backside. His earlier thought of nakedness not being intriguing was disproven. He found himself clutching the bottle of wine she’d handed him in a grip that induced the label to crackle, and the wax that had dribbled down the bottle neck from the seal to break away.


Firm buttocks, each of which fit squarely – roundly more precisely – into his hands, again, memory served and sharply. Long legs, muscular, but only in the way that made her more attractive and feminine – not the current, plump ideal, but certainly his. Aphrodite – no, he corrected himself – Athena. Fresh from the hunt.


The bottle proved difficult to open, due either to his distraction or the excess wax coating the cork. He preferred to blame the French as with all things.


A resounding pop and it was open, the cork pulling free with a sensuous slip. He raised an eyebrow at his own thoughts. Sexual metaphors were unlike him. Due no doubt to her blatant display. His normally well behaved male urges were getting the better of him. He resolved to control himself better.


He breathed in the bouquet of the wine from the cork, not needing her instruction. He was well versed in the art of wine tasting. Fruity, spicy, a familiar vintage they’d shared before. She from a glass and he from her navel. Steeling himself again – and trying to remove the steel from his male urges – he poured wine into the two crystal glasses waiting on the table.


They did not appear to have been tampered with. No visible residue, no feel of liquid or powder on the rim. Still… caution as always with her. Since he’d compared her to Athena, ‘I fear the Danaans even if they bring gifts’.


Her scent – the expensive perfume she loved – as did he if he’d admit to, it which he most certainly did not –drifted to him. It surrounded him and went straight to his head.  Swapping the glasses from their original positions, he turned and offered one to her. His eyes widened as he saw the robe she’d put on.


It concealed and yet did not. Totally inappropriate for her to wear in front of a man who was not her husband, even if she were a divorcee and beyond most social conventions. The pink color reminded him of – dear lord, it was quite possibly the exact shade of – no, even she would not have exposed herself so intimately to a clothier.


Without caution, he gulped his glass of wine, abusing the delicate essence – effectively bloodying its nose – forcing it down past the lump in his throat. A part of his mind not taken in by her machinations – unfortunately, it was a very small part in the back corner under a shelf – noted an odd taste hiding within the otherwise flawless flavor. Too late that same part of his mind warned him that she had raised her glass but not sipped.


Numbness flooded through him even as he ransacked the falling stacks of knowledge in his mind for what she’d poisoned him with. Poison? No, she’d never done permanent damage to him – not counting his ego and possibly his heart. She intended to disable him for some reason. If she’d wished him dead, she could easily have killed him in his sleep this morning – or any number of other times that he found himself without the faculties to count.


His tongue stubbornly continued to repeat the last thing he’d said to her that she must either leave London or surrender to Scotland Yard, perhaps it felt it could hide his condition in that way. If only his legs weren’t giving way – and him away – and his tongue wasn’t thickening around each word.


She caught him as he sagged, his limbs seemingly cut loose from his control, tucking his face against her throat and taking the weight of his body onto hers. The one part of his body that was still stubbornly functioning pressed eagerly toward her, wishing to be free of the layers of cloth between them. Of course, since his cock did not require his mind to function, he was not surprised.


To her plea of running away with her, his conscience – perhaps even more stubborn than his cock – forced the world “never” between his slack lips. Lips gloriously covered by hers a moment later. Unable to respond to her lips and skillful tongue, he endured the – a lie – he reveled in the kiss, wishing he could respond in kind and capture her, bend her to his control.


Abruptly, she broke the kiss, leaving him gasping as his head bounced off the seat cushion. She walked away and left him there, sprawled undignified against the chair like a discarded doll. Perhaps she had discarded. She hadn’t once tried to strike him or force herself into the dominant position sexually. Perhaps she had grown tired of their game and of him.


The thought hurt and he looked away. He spotted it then, the syringe under the table. In plain sight had he but looked. It played out in his mind: she’d injected the poison into the wine through the wax sealed cork. Melted the wax with a match – also laying now on the carpet – to cover the hole, hence the dribble of wax down the side of the bottle neck. Ingenious as always. Damn her!


His eyes drifted closed, the weight too much for his drugged muscles. Even his traitorous cock had given up the fight, and it had the best motivations for continued struggle. Only his mind was left with the ability to function and that very slowly. Awkward, it rambled through the familiar deductive pathways – but doors closed, and piles of knowledge avalanched, throwing thoughts about like wind scattered pages.


He heard the rustle of her clothing, costly Chinese silk and French velvets, as she dressed. The sound of the brush through her auburn hair in a comforting, soothing rhythm that led him into darkness.





His senses began to clear and he struggled to lift his head. The light through the windows was the darkening gray of late afternoon, suggesting that he had been unconscious for a minimum of four hours. She was gone, no doubt to meet her mysterious – and supposedly dangerous – professor. Obviously, she’d drugged him to give herself the opportunity to meet with him and then get away.


Except... he’d offered her the opportunity to flee with no hindrance from him and she’d refused. He’d even gone so far as to offer to take her to the rail station. No… she was staying in London for who knew what purpose.


Since he was here alone, he was obviously not the reason – not that it mattered one whit to him. He’d given her a chance, she’d rejected it in dramatic – melodramatic even – fashion and he wouldn’t give her another. Whatever her scheme was, he had to put a stop to it immediately


When he tried to move his arms, he thought at first he was too weak to raise them before realizing they were restrained. Blinking, he surveyed his situation. Seated against the headboard of the bed – her bed – arms handcuffed to the posts. The angle was precisely right so as to not be uncomfortable and still not allow him to free himself.


He was also naked – completely starkers as the day he was born.


“Well, this is quite inconvenient.”


Experimental tugs and rattles proved the manacles to be both securely locked and strong enough to resist his efforts to break them. Likewise, the rails of the headboard did not give a single inch to his attempts to move them. A fact he was aware of from previous times they’d shared this room and this bed. If it hadn’t collapsed from their… efforts, then his pulling would yield nothing.


Sighing, he considered his options.


He had none.


She was unlikely to return and free him. Watson did not know where he was, and since he’d taken the extra care to hide the envelope she’d given him in his safe – Watson wouldn’t stumble upon it and come to his rescue. He’d outfoxed himself in that regard.


The maid wasn’t due until mid-morning – approximately nine-fifteen if he recalled correctly – which of course he did – a time when decent people were out of bed and attending to whatever business had brought them to London. If he wasn’t free by that time, the maid would find him.


Not the ideal situation. His eyebrows arched at the expected reaction of a mousy housemaid finding him chained – naked – to the bed. Depending on her age and inclinations, he would hear screams, be slapped, ignored, or possibly raped. None of these appealed, most especially the last. Those who believed that women were the gentler sex with no carnal desires had never been at a woman’s mercy.


He’d once been accosted by a dockside tavern slattern while he had been in disguise as a drunken sailor. While he was pretending to be unconscious from too much ale – mostly applied to his clothing – and listening to the conversation of the men he was following, the woman had first rifled his pockets rather professionally and then began to fondle his cock in a manner that suggested he’d been placed out as a biscuit for tea.


Eyes sweeping the room for anything that would possibly help him out of this situation, he noticed the neat stack of luggage – expensive and spare – next to the armoire. So she did intend to return. The question, of course, was when?


He discarded the idea that she intended to return and free him after her meeting with Professor X. She knew he’d put these selfsame handcuffs on her delicate, white wrists and throw her over his should for delivery to the constable much as a dressed goose for Christmas. After he’d put on his clothing, of course. And perhaps… after he’d done other things to her…


Hearing footsteps outside the door, he knew that, although muffled by the expensive imported Turkish carpeting – they were definitely female. And familiar. The footsteps paused, and there was the characteristic scratch, rattle, scrape of a key being inserted into the lock. Click, and the lock was disengaged.


Should he feign unconsciousness? No, she undoubtedly knew exactly how long he should have been rendered oblivious. He could play wounded and vow to never forgive her this latest deception and swear that he was through with her. No, she would arch a brow and smile, knowing he’d sworn this oath before and failed miserably to keep it.


Rail at her for treating him in this manner? No, not unless he wished to be chained to the bed forever. Ply her with sweet words of forgiveness? He snorted. No, she would laugh in his face at such a lame attempt to gain release. Ignore her? No, she might become angry and leave him here to rot, naked and chained to the bed – and at the mercy of a salacious housemaid.


Perhaps he should attempt to seduce her with word and looks so that she would free him in anticipation of sexual congress? No, while that sounded reasonable, she would be as likely to laugh as she would if he’d granted forgiveness. Sweet nothings and romantic words were not among his many skills.


His options were limited as was his time. The door was swinging inward and he could see the gloved hand – dainty, delicate, sheathed in garnet kidskin to match her dress – on the knob. He estimated twenty seconds until she had the door closed, locked, and would be facing him.  Another five would have her at the bedside – unless she had some theatrics planned, in which case he could not make a reliable estimate.


Think, Holmes! He bragged about his intellect and skills – justifiably so – time to put them to the test!


The previously considered approaches were discarded save for two. Anger and indifference. One she would mock and the other always infuriated her. But perhaps… perhaps a combination of the two? An idea began to unfold as she approached the bed. Yes, indifference and anger it was. Anger, as he certainly had a right to be, and indifference, because she hated to be ignored.


A catlike smile curved the garnet lips as she studied him. He turned his head, pretending indifference to her appearance as if he were were merely waiting on a cab.


She peeled her gloves off, tossing them carelessly toward the bedside table. The fashionable – and ridiculous – hat followed a moment later. All this he saw form the corner of his eye – his peripheral vision being as remarkable as his other talents. Hours of practice having seen – no pun intended – to his expertise.


“Nothing to say, dear Sherlock?” She arched an auburn brow quizzically. “That’s hardly like you.”


He didn’t answer, focusing instead on the wallpaper on the wall across from the bed.


“I’m sure you’ve deduced that the drug wasn’t fatal or long lasting. Not that I would kill you. Murder is… “ She made a moue of distaste. “Bad for business.”


A handful of comments came to mind of exactly what her business might be, with whom, and the fact that one of her business associates had been – in point of fact – murdered. Instead of voicing his thoughts, he continued to study the wallpaper as if it were a treatise on criminal evidence.


“Don’t be cross, it’s for your own protection, you do tend to leap into situations where you should be more cautious.” She frowned as he continued to ignore her. She didn’t like to be ignored – not by anyone and especially not by him.  “You may not believe me, but it’s true. You proved it yesterday when you followed me to my carriage.”


Eyes narrowing as he stayed silent, she grasped his chin in her hand and forced him to look at her. “It was so like you.”


His eyes focused on hers but remained flat and expressionless. “And this is exactly like you.”


What little victory she had won tasted bitter in the face of his lack of emotion. She stared into the dark coffee eyes – eyes she loved to get lost in – so deep and expressive and rimmed with thick, dark lashes she could only mimic through the use of expensive cosmetics. There was no response, she might as well be a stranger to him.


“You would have followed me into something so dangerous that you would most likely have been killed.”


When he tried to turn away, she clamped her fingers more roughly into his chin, digging into the stubble on his cheeks to hold him in place. “Do you want to die?”


“Have I no skill at all that you think I could be killed so easily? That I must hide behind your skirts in fear? From your professor?” He said mockingly. “I’m no schoolboy to be caned for reciting naughty limericks.”


“You have no idea how dangerous he is.”


“I have only your word, hardly a reliable source.” The dark eyes flicked away, once more studying the patterned wallpaper.


She realized that she as gripping his face so tightly that red marks were forming beneath her fingers. Reluctantly, she let go. “Is it outside the realm of possibility that I might care if you are hurt – or worse?”


A soft snort was his only response and her eyes narrowed once more. “It’s true.”


“Do not bore me with your insincere speeches. Gather your belongings and leave.”


“Leave?” She tilted her head in question.


“Surely your plan included escaping with your wardrobe?” He indicated the luggage with a jerk of his chin.


“Perhaps I have other plans.” Undoing the buttons at her throat, her fingers moved swiftly down the front of her dress until she could slip it down and step out of it. The garment stood upright, a testament to both the moral codes forced upon women and to the cost of the fabrics. Untying the bow at her waist, she let her petticoats fall away as well.


“I could leave, but I have other plans.” She moved to his side, stroking a hand over his ruffled hair. “We’ve hardly had a moment to ourselves, have we, pet?”


He jerked his head away from her touch.  “Thankfully, otherwise I’d no doubt be missing more than just my clothing.”


“I seem to recall you like being without your clothing.” A smile curved her lips. This room had witnessed a great deal of nakedness from the both of them. “You told me you loved the feel of my skin against yours.”


“Only because it’s the best way to ensure that you have no weapons with which to injure me. Otherwise, it’s no more than I could find with any woman.” He heard her sharp intake of breath and knew he’d scored a broadside blow to her ego. She held a – deservedly so – high opinion of her feminine appeal. “Without the concerns of waking with the contents of my wallet missing and my head aching.”


“You lie.” She clambered up onto the bed. “You lie!” When he refused to look at her, she grasped a handful of his hair with each hand and forced his face even with hers. “You said no other woman had ever satisfied you like I do!”


Ignoring the scalding pain, he met her angry gaze. “Something all men say. Your tricks are nothing special. Every woman in Whitechapel – “


Her hand cracked across his face and he tasted blood in his mouth.


She untied the satin ribbon at the top of her corset, tugging at the lace until the tops of her breasts were exposed. Rising up onto her knees, she pressed them against his face. “Do Whitechapel whores have these breasts – the ones you called perfectly anatomically pleasing?”


His response was muffled by creamy white flesh, but he did his best to project disdain. “All women have breasts. If you’re quite finished I have work to attend to.” He turned his face away as best he was able with her hands cupping his face to her cleavage, and his own baser, male needs urging him to stay and suckle.


She jerked his head back. “Tell me you’re unmoved.”


“I am quite unmoved. And I have other business that demands my attention, such as discovering and thwarting whatever nefarious scheme you and your professor are planning.”


“Really?” She tugged the garment lower, exposing her breasts completely.


Her nipples – that perfect shade of tea rose pink – caressed his cheek, demanding his attention.  Beneath the pillow – thank God for the concealment of the pillow – his cock had responded and likewise demanded attention.


“You – you’re demeaning yourself.” He kept his lips from capturing the nipples grazing them by sheer dent of will. “Stop that at once, you should be embarrassed at how you’re throwing yourself at an uninterested man.”


“Uninterested?” She scooted back. Arching an eyebrow in question, she lifted the pillow from his lap, exposing his erection. “I would say you seem quite interested.”


Damn his lack of self control! No matter how he focused, concentrated, and willed himself to be impotent in her company – his cock would never listen. “A physical reaction, nothing more.” He shrugged as best he could considering his arms were handcuffed to the bedposts.


A smile curved her painted lips once again. “Well then, you won’t mind at all – “


His eyes widened despite his best efforts at self control as she moved forward, straddling his cock which jerked upwards as if trying to reach her. Her hand grasped it just behind the head, rolling the foreskin back to expose the tender skin, and he bit down on his lip to hold in a moan of pleasure – which turned into a squeak of pain as she squeezed hard – harder – harder still until he was squirming in an effort to escape her grasp. With the pain was an uncalled for – in his opinion – amount of pleasure from the way she was torturing him. Pleasure and pain raced to his balls and into his belly and thighs like blooded horses at Newgate. It was pleasure by a neck at the line.


Her smiled widened, aroused and hungry at his efforts to hide his reaction from her. “ – if I do this.” Opening the slit in her pantalets, she guided his member to herself. Rubbing the swollen, abused head of his cock through her wet folds, she sank down on him in one hard move.


The groan escaped him despite his best efforts to remain silent. His cock welcomed her violation even as he tried to turn his mind to other – less sexual – things. Such as his last bout at the Punchbowl – where she’d left her handkerchief – damn!


“Relax, dear Sherlock.” She rose up, letting him slide free of her body. “It’s just a physical reaction, after all.”


“Not – affected at – all – “ He ground out, forcing a smile to his lips. “Not at – all!“


This last was forced out of him as she once again slid down the full length of his cock in one hard stroke. His traitorous cock welcomed her, swelled within her and strained to drive itself deeper. As she began to ride up and down on him, rising nearly off – only the very tip remaining inside of her heat – before falling – nay, slamming herself back down, he felt his meager grip on his self control fading.


While he was biting back his moans of pleasure, she felt no such restraints, letting whimpers and moans fall freely from her lips. Throwing her head back, she supported herself with the grip she had on his shoulders, painted nails digging into his pale, muscled flesh.


Ruthlessly, she bounced up and down, grinding on the hardness within, crying out softly as she approached the pinnacle. The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room. Anyone listening might wonder if a beating were taking place behind the respectable door.


When it was close – so very close – she brought her lips to his, licking away the small beads of blood where his teeth had broken the skin in his efforts to remain quiet. A smile covered her face as she felt his hips arch up into hers as she came down, and the corded muscles of his stomach standing out as she pulled away.


He whimpered and his lips parted infinitesimally and she smiled again – she had broken him. This time.


Gripping his head with both hands, she ground her lips into his, forcing her tongue deep into his mouth as she forced herself further down on his cock. Grinding – deeper – harder – past the point of pleasure into the beginnings of pain.  His hips were arched up – locked into placed as his cock strained and swelled within her.


She sucked in a breath as she reached the pinnacle – it broke and threw her back down. “Oh…” She nipped hard at his tongue, pleased with his yelp of pain, and let the pleasure roll over her. “Yes…”


Resting her forehead against his, she panted into his face. “Very nice… very nice…”


Nice? His male ego was insulted. Nice? His cock was similarly offended – albeit more so that she had stopped short of his own release. And – he turned his face away – she had done it apurpose.


Well aware of the hardness within, she lifted herself up so that his cock slid out of her body. His groan – barely muted – made her laugh softly. “Yes, very nice.” Dabbing at the sweat beaded across her breasts, she sighed.


She shifted back, resting her weight on his thighs. “Purely physical, of course.”


His cock was trapped between them, nestled into the hot, velvety folds and he couldn’t restrain the urge to shift and squirm in frustration.


“I was wrong to compare you to a Whitechapel pigeon.” He waited until her expression – smug smile and glinting eyes – told him that she’d believed she’d won this round. “At least they would finish a man off.”


Her eyes widened, and then narrowed and her lips thinned in anger. He knew he’d likely suffer for his words, but he wasn’t about to concede the bout without a fight.


“You should watch your choice of words or I might finish you off for good! I wasn’t aware that you paid for a tup, my dear.” She raked her fingers through his hair, nails scraping his scalp painfully. “I suppose, given your inept skills at courting – it’s the only way for you to relieve yourself.”


“And yet – I have no trouble getting you into my bed.” He responded, ignoring the fact that they were not – nor had they ever been – in his bed, and that she had gotten him here rather than the other way ‘round. “And I do quite well at relieving myself.”


“Then feel free to do so.” She slid back until his cock bobbed free. Settling her weight onto his thighs once more, she made a show of looking from his cock – hard and reddened with frustration – and back to his face.


“Undo my hands.”


“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve no intention of letting you go.” Easing off the bed, she unlaced her corset and threw it aside before stepping out of her pantalets.


While he watched, helpless and frustrated, she began packing her garments into her luggage with swift and efficient movements. Each time she bent, twisted, leaned – his cock hardened even more. His testicles had drawn up against his body and were demanding release. He slammed his head back against the headboard in an effort to take his mind off the aching between his legs.


“Don’t hurt yourself, darling.” She leaned over him, breasts brushing his face as she tucked a pillow behind his head. “Leave that to me.”


A sharp nip at his earlobe made him gasp. Unlike the knock to his head, this pain did not distract, but rather added to his suffering.


Satisfied that she’d packed everything except the clothing and makeup she would need to put on later – when she was finished with him – she strolled back to the bed and climbed back astride his thighs.


“Ask me nicely, and I’ll finish you.” She told him.


“Be gone, I’ll take my chances with the maid.”


She laughed. “You obviously haven’t seen the maid.”


Cupping her breasts, pressing them to his face, she rubbed them across the scratchy growth of his beard. He rarely shaved and the whiskers always left her breasts red and throbbing. She shivered.


“Suckle them.” She pressed her nipples to his lips. When he turned his head, she grasped his hair with one hand and forced his head back, using the other to pull his mouth open enough to press a hard nipple inside.


He bit down, unexpectedly, but with only a half hearted effort. While she abused and hurt him, he couldn’t bear to cause her the same pain. It was a weakness she adored.


Letting loose of his hair, she trailed her hand down the muscled chest, twisting a nipple hard enough to make him yelp – or make a similar sound – it was difficult to distinguish muffled as it was by her breasts.


Each rib was marked by her nails, scarped across and then down to his navel. The line of dark hair from his navel to his cock had always intrigued her, and she ruffled it with her nails, scraping at the skin beneath and tugging until he whimpered.


His cock was still sticky from her earlier ride and she brought her fingers to her mouth for a taste. Seeing his eyes on her lips, she sucked her fingers into her mouth, sliding them in and out until his body was shaking with need beneath her.


“Ask me…”


He shook his head, moaning as the movement rubbed her pebbled nipples across his face.


Stubborn man! She rose up on her knees over him once again and guided the head of his cock to her wetness. Guiding it back and forth, side to side, and in every way that made her grow wetter and wetter. Holding the head against her clitoris, she rubbed against it, clamping it harder and harder to herself and arching into the sensation.


His cock - tormented with the frustration of needing release, and this new assault without relief – overruled his mind, and his will crumbled. “Please…”




He glared up at her, baring his teeth in a last act of defiance. “Fuck me!”


“Of course.” She moved forward and slid the length of his cock inside her once more. Pressing her mouth to his, she dueled his tongue, sucking and nipping at it while she rode him. Setting a fast, hard pace, she rocked forward and back – nearly pulling him from her body before sliding back down as far as she could go.


“Free my hands – “ He wanted to clasp her ass in his hands – roll her onto her back and mount her like an animal. She did this to him – destroyed his rational mind – she deserved to feel his lust released.


“No.” Laughing, she shortened the strokes, twisting and writhing upon his cock. Her head tipped back, letting her hair brush against the tops of his thighs and bringing a fresh moan from him.


The sensations – pleasure and pain, wetness and heat – rolled over him and through his body until he was nearly blinded from it. Pulling on his restraints, he used them to leverage his thrusts upward into her welcoming body as his orgasm was finally allowed release. Her own soft sighs told him she’d reached her climax as well.


Kissing him lingeringly – dare he hope – tenderly, she pulled back to stroke his face. Her eyes were open, staring into his as his cock continued to jerk and spasm within her. Was there something – anything – to show she cared? The green eyes were dark with lust, but closed before he could read anything else.


She cradled his head against her breasts, holding him as his harsh breathing softened, and his pounding heart slowed. “Come with me, dear heart.” Rubbing her cheek against his tousled hair, she whispered into his ear. “Come with me, we’ll go somewhere away from all this madness.”


“Never.” Did she think that sex would be enough to change his mind? Granted it was exceedingly good sex, but it was not enough for him to sell his principles.


“You are so stubborn!” Sliding off of him, she went behind the dressing screen. “I don’t know what I see in you!”


“I lie awake nights pondering that same question.” Hearing the sounds of liquid – a bottle of something being poured into a bowl – a bowl with a cloth in it perhaps – he leaned to the side as best he could. “What are you doing?”


“I’m making sure that we don’t have any future responsibilities.”


“Ah, yes…” They certainly hadn’t used a skin, although he had brought one with him – strictly out of the memory of their past encounters in this very room. She’d also used some type of mixture as a spermicide of sorts after some of their previous sexual escapades. Given their history of going from rational people to rutting animals without a thought for the consequences, it appeared to work.


“You were right about one thing, I am leaving London.” She called out to him over the sounds of her bath.


“Then what was all of this for? Why argue with me and then do exactly as I ask?” This was why he was never marrying, women were totally without logic or reason.


“Because I like to do things my way.” Stepping out from behind the screen, she began to dress as quickly and efficiently as she had packed her belongings earlier. She applied her makeup, just enough to enhance but not enough to be scandalous.


“Of course.” He watched as she moved her bags to the door. “I’d be happy to put those into a cab for you.”


“No need.”  Lifting the telephone receiver, she waited until she was connected to the hotel’s switchboard. “I need a boy to my room please, and a cab called. I’m checking out.”


“I will need my clothes.” To his relief, she nodded as she hung up.


Picking up his clothing, she leaned against the bed, stroking his cheek for a moment before leaning in as if for a kiss. When he lifted his mouth to hers, lips opened slightly, she stuffed a portion of his waistcoat into his mouth.


He glared at her over the makeshift gag. This was simply one indignity too many. 


A few minutes later there was a knock at the door and she opened it carefully, not allowing the pageboy to see into the room. Not that she couldn’t bribe him, it was a very discreet hotel after all, but it was best not to let him see the naked man handcuffed to her bed.


After the boy left with her bags, she closed the door and took one last look around the room, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. Satisfied that she could leave, she stopped by the bed, removing the gag from his mouth.


“Remember what I said, he’s dangerous. Please, find another case to work on.” She stroked his cheek. “I know you don’t believe me, but I do worry about your well being.”


“As evidenced by your leaving me restrained and naked.” He snorted.


“Now don’t be that way, pet.” She kissed his forehead.


“Then let me loose!”


“If I did that, I wouldn’t have a head start.” Putting on her hat, she started for the door, stopping as she remembered something. “Wait, here’s the key.”


“At last you’re being – “ His eyes widened as she laid the key on his cock. “ – reasonable?”


“You’re right.” She laid the pillow on his lap. “There. Much better.”


Speechless, he watched as she sashayed to the door, opened it and left, locking it behind her.


Sighing, he rested against the headboard and waited for rescue.




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