Regarding the Events of One Sherlock’s Scandalous St. Valentine’s Day (2 page)

"
Much
better," she crooned. She must
have then made some signal to the little steamdroid, for it
trundled toward her and a buzzing noise was suddenly audible over
the sounds of the train. It was the baton. It was
vibrating.

With horror and obscene interest, I watched
as the droid lowered the baton to her feminine parts. She watched
it hungrily, and as it drew closer, she bit her lip in a most
alluring way. A moment later, the character of the vibration
changed as the rounded metal tip pressed into the mound between her
legs. With that, her eyes closed and her back arched.

"Don't...stop," she groaned, pelvis
tilting.

Indeed, how could I? Maybe if I was a better
man, a stronger man, a more commanding man, I would have kicked the
little steamdroid aside. It was only the garden variety. I could
have gotten her a new one. Then, I could have made love with her
until she howled. I would not remove the wrist restraints. That
would be her punishment for defying me.

However, I did none of
these things. Obediently, I began to stroke my cock--slowly at
first and then with increasing speed.
This
is for a purpose
, I told myself, sternly.
Could I help that my body was responding to some primal urge that I
could not control?

She was watching me now. Her jaw moved
soundlessly, and she licked her parted lips, apparently unsure of
what to do with her beautiful, bow-shaped mouth. The droid's baton
rubbed rhythmically against her. There were wet noises.

No, I could not have stopped, even if I had
wanted to. She had awakened a hunger in me, a hunger that was being
fed by the sight of her naked curves, the voyeuristic pleasure of
watching that metal instrument rub her into a state of sexual
hysteria, the tantalizing feeling of indulging in a forbidden act,
and the exquisite pleasure of my own hand...

My cock was alive with a fire. Every nerve
in my body sang, and I pumped my hand vigorously, squeezing now
with every stroke. Unconsciously, I began to adopt the droid's
rhythm.

Her breath grew deeper and quicker, and so
did mine. Unconsciously, I began to thrust my pelvis back and
forth.

"Oh, yes," she sighed, her legs inching
wider as she strained forward. The baton slid across her lips
slickly, easily. Her hands flexed and curled above the rope that
bound her wrists. "You are such a dirty, debased man." She made the
words sound sultry. I would have laughed, but moaned instead. "Yes,
yes, yes," she groaned.

I will admit that I watched with more
anticipation than horror as the steamdroid began to slide the
length of the baton against her lips and, little by little, the end
of it slid into her a little more with each stroke. My pelvis
tilted forward of its own accord, straining, as if somehow I could
transpose my cock with that vibrating mechanical contraption. I
could feel her in my mind, yes, closing around me, hot and wet and
soft. I shut my eyes. My hand pumped.

Suddenly, she cried out, and my gaze lit
upon her as the droid thrust the baton into her again, and again,
all the way to its handle. She clawed at the rope that bound her.
Her knees were bent and her lower back was lifting off of the floor
as she pushed into the thrusts.

Like a dream, all of the elements of the
scene came together for me--the lamplight, throwing shadows over
Annette's curves; Annette, straining against her bonds; me, head
tilted back, hand working feverishly around my cock. All the while,
we raced toward Paris. I began to moan thinly.

"Finish for me, finish for me," she said,
breathlessly. "Now, please!"

This elicited a more guttural noise from me.
My breathing was ragged now. In my intense excitement, I lost my
rhythm, and my hand moved spastically up and down. The fast, quick,
irregularity brought a new level of stimulation. I felt my body and
mind moving toward a black brink. My eyes were screwed shut. My
entire body arched and jerked. I was so very, very close.

Annette cried out again, this time
throatily, and that was enough to push me over the edge. A wave of
sensation broke over me. I grit my teeth, riding in the wake of
that wave, hand still working my member until I hissed with pain
and leaned forward heavily, gasping.

My gaze traveled across the floor of the
car, following a trail of my own seed until it came to rest on
Annette, who writhed feverishly, impaling herself against the
steamdroid's baton. Her breast heaved, and she vocalized
wordlessly.

Suddenly, her body stilled and relaxed
against the floor. The steamdroid's thrusts did not stop, but
slowed. "Lick me," she begged.

I grimaced as I released my worn cock and
crawled across the floor to her side. I could smell her sex and see
how very wet she was. Her eyes fluttered open and she gazed hazily
at me, strands of hair trailing haphazardly over her forehead.

I hesitated for a long moment to watch the
vibrating rod slide in and out of her--that divine, living art of
her lips encircling a shining girth of metal--then lowered my face
to her clitoris and stroked it with my tongue. I tasted her salt
and the brass of the baton. Cunnilingus is another act that Annette
had introduced me to--unwillingly at first, on my part. I cannot
say I remained unwilling.

She groaned exquisitely, and I could feel
the movement of the instrument in and out of her. I licked her with
sure strokes, intermittently sucking, so that she wriggled under me
in pleasure. Her breath came in huffs, and she began to mutter
incoherently.

Suddenly, she convulsed under me, panted,
and went still. I sat up, while the steamdroid continued its
motion, and presently she said something I did not understand. It
stopped and withdrew.

I spoke her name quietly, questioningly.
"Yes?" she asked, breathless but sparkling as she looked up at
me.

"Are you satisfied?" I asked, raising one
hand to trail over the curve of her silky breast.

"Quite, my love," she said, smiling in a
tired, content fashion. "Now, would you mind untying these?"

"I ought to leave you in them, though I am
not keen on traveling to Paris," I said, frowning. I worked the
knots loose, muttering, "I will not ask how you got into this in
the first place." Because I did not ask, she did not tell. Once
freed, she massaged her wrists, then kissed me sweetly on the cheek
and went to a shadowed corner of the car. She returned in her
walking dress, carrying a portmanteau; into this, she placed the
steamdroid, after having casually wiped the baton with the hem of
her dress.

"Yes?" she asked, looking up at me boldly,
because I stared.

I shook my head, speechless. "I love you,"
was the only thing I could think of to say.

She rose to meet me and pressed her lips
against mine. "I love you, too," she purred, her mouth close to
mine.

We doused the lamp and left it, with the
rope and the bouquet of violets, in the car. We tumbled from the
train, and I had the distinct pleasure of carrying that portmanteau
with the droid for an hour and half all the way home.

Falling into bed with her that night,
exhausted, sore, and inexplicably content, I can't say that I
regretted the whole affair. No, I can't say that at all.

###

About the author:

Christine Danse is a native Floridian, a
rather rare species of hominid with an aversion to the sun and a
love of air conditioning. She has been writing stories of fantasy
and the paranormal since she was old enough to hold a pen, and she
has been telling them even longer. She is particularly fond of
shape-shifters and strange steampunk, although she has yet to write
a story that involves both. (The excitement might cause her to
spontaneously combust.) She lives in Ft. Lauderdale with her dog,
Bait; her best friend, Rhianna; and the two talking cats from whom
they rent.

Connect with Me Online:

Twitter:
http://twitter.com/dansedesirable

Smashwords:
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/christinedanse

My home page:
http://www.christinedanse.com

My Tumblr:
http://whispersfromtrees.tumblr.com