april
1st Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Dec 16, 2006
- Messages
- 1,164
- Points
- 38
Featuring Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler from the BBC’s Sherlock. I posted a few videos by other youtube posters that tie nicely in with my story line. Hope you enjoy! ff/m All of my stories are available to read in my signature on my profile.
Sherlock meets Irene Adler
http://youtu.be/z1hcFQzeq_Q
Sentiment
http://youtu.be/_D7fQKVB10g
Losing the game
http://youtu.be/utwenXbh9hA
“Must you continue to mope about playing that sad music of yours?” asked an irritated John Watson as he shrugged into his grey overcoat.
“And where are you going?” accused Sherlock as he momentarily paused playing his violin.
“You my friend have an appointment.”
“So why are you leaving?”
John headed towards the front door.
“This one wanted a private consultation.”
Sherlock brought his violin down to his side.
“Why?”
“I don’t know Sherlock. But what does it matter? They have offered to pay a substantial amount of money for the consultation alone.”
“I don’t care about the money.” he replied insolently.
“Take the money Sherlock,” John began as he reached for the door handle “we can stand to use it.”
There was suddenly a sharp wrap at the door.
“And so this would be your 9:00. Behave yourself.”
“”Send them away. I’m far too busy to see anyone at this hour.” Replied Sherlock as he took up the violin and began to play once again.
Wearing his best smile, John opened the door. His expression suddenly dropped and he turned to face his partner in crime.
“Eh Sherlock, I think you will want to take this one.’
There at their front door stood none other than the woman herself; Irene Adler.
Irene let herself in without so much as glancing at John. Sherlock watched her walk in, his expression full of shock and disbelief. He immediately composed himself.
“Um, Sherlock, maybe I should just stick around for a bit.” offered John.
Sherlock quickly laid his violin down and straightened his posture.
“No, no. That will not be necessary John. You can go… now.” He squinted and gave him a harried look.
John took the hint and hastily left, shutting the door quickly behind himself.
She was wearing a short demure black cocktail dress and crimson stilettoes. Her hair was elegantly swept up away from her face and blood red lipstick stained her lips. She was a vision of perfection.
Sherlock watched her intently as she strode leisurely over to the coffee table and set down her purse. He could not help but notice the subtle lines on her womanly curves.
“Why have you resurfaced Miss Adler? Consequently you should be all too aware of the danger that is posed to you just by being here?”
“Well hello to you to Mr. Holmes. I would think that you would be a tad bit more pleased to see me.”
Sherlock walked over to an overstuffed chair and sat down, lacing his fingers together and bringing them up slowly to rest on his chin. This woman has always had the talent of making him feel awkward in his own skin. A talent, he noted that no other had over him.
She joined him and placed herself opposite him on his brown leather couch. Seductively crossing her legs, she gave him her most dazzling smile.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I’m just here to visit an old friend.” She replied innocently.
“Enough with the false sentiment,” he snapped “you are here because you need my help. What trouble have you aligned yourself with this time?”
“Really Sherlock…”
“Don’t play your silly games with me Miss Adler.” He cut her off.
“Your right,” she relented “I do need your help...husband.”
Sherlock could have kicked himself for allowing him to be coerced by this madwoman into masquerading as her husband in order to infiltrate a couple of Russian Soviet spies. As it was, he couldn't physically do so being that he was currently tied to a chair, again. Handcuffed was more like it but never the less. They had met with another couple, Mr. and Mrs. Utkin; the surname meaning duck, with which Sherlock wasn’t all too impressed with in either case. One drink had led to basically being ruffied and shoved into the backseat of a Volvo. He held as much appreciation for their choice of car as much as he did their alias.
There they sat; a couple of sad looking captives; back to back, handcuffed and gagged in a nefarious looking room filled with torture instruments; just another day in the life of Sherlock Holmes.
They heard low voices outside the door speaking in clear Russian. Unbeknownst to their captors, they both understood and spoke perfect Russian themselves.
“Get the information. I don’t care how, just do it. We have been given strict orders not to kill them so don’t bloody them up to badly.”
“But how am I supposed to…”
“I don’t know. Be creative. Just do it.”
They heard one set of footsteps walk off into the distance and the door opened. A tall, impossibly beautiful women, with short blond hair and an ample bosom swept into the room. She wore a sleek black cat suit and combat boots. A sinister looking gun and several hunting knifes swung precariously from her utility belt. She faced them with her hands placed determinedly on her hips. She glared at them silently for a few moments before carelessly yanking their gags out.
“You!” she pointed to Sherlock. “You I call good looking.” She glared at Irene “You I call mouse meat. We play little game yes?”
“I’m quite fond of games,” Sherlock cut in “I’m particularly fond of Parcheesi.”
The blond cold cocked him across his chin.
“You’re not a fan I take it.” He grimaced.
She punched him twice this time, effectively giving him quite the bloody nose.
“If you do not wish to upset your boss, I suggest you desist and tell us why you've brought us here.”
“I ask questions. You answer. Now, where is disk? You tell me and I let you go.”
“What disk?” he turned his head towards Irene “What disk? You never told me anything about a disk.”
He wasn't entirely being truthful. Sherlock did recently come into possession of an encrypted disk that had possible military and weaponry schematics. But how could they possibly know that?
Sherlock looked back up at the blond. “I cannot tell you anything you wish to know because I honestly don’t know what you’re going on about.”
“Okay. I kill you.”
“Chush’ sobach’ya (bull shit).” He whispered under his breath.
She slapped him across the face hard.
“You speak Russian funny guy?”
She slapped him again.
“We can go at this all day you know. I have an incredibly high tolerance for pain. Say, where did Mr. and Mrs. Duck pop off to? I sadly miss their company already.”
“You like funny? I show you funny.”
She proceeded to pull up a wide stool in which she positioned herself on facing Sherlock. She untied one of his legs and unceremoniously dropped his foot in front of her on the stool.
“I funny too. I like make people laugh,” she began as she unlaced his shoe and threw it across the room. After peeling off his black trouser sock she locked his ankle with one strong hand so that he could not budge his foot. Sherlock got the extremely uneasy feeling that she was going to start breaking toes.
“Listen,” he started, attempting to stall any possible toe breaking “I really don’t know anything about this disk your…ahhhhh!”
Sherlock cut himself off with a startled shout. He had mentally prepared his senses to tolerate the physical pain he knew was coming, what he was not prepared for was the incredible tickling sensations that wracked the sole of his foot. The blond Russian woman had begun flicking her long nails in an upwards motion against his bare foot. She was keeping to no specific rhythm but randomly flicking and lightly scratching. Every time she did this he would jump and let out a little shout.
“Now we getting somewhere.”
Flick
“You are sensitive, good looking.”
Flick
“Want to say something funny now, funny guy?”
Flick Flick
“Stop doing that!” he hissed his response between short gasps and shouts.
“You talk, I stop.”
Flick Flick Flick
Sherlock’s shouts were quickly sounding more like laughs the longer the beautiful Russian kept teasing the bottom of his foot.
“Ahhh! Has anyone ever told you…Ahhh!…that you speak atrocious…Ahahahaha…English?!”
The Russian gave him a murderous stare. She made quick work of untying his other leg.
“You move. I mess up your girlfriend’s pretty face.”
“Do as she say’s Sherlock.” piped in an up until now, otherwise silent Irene.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“She’s not my girlfriend, why does everyone assume that?!”
“Shut up!” the Russian slapped him across the face.
She made quick work of removing his other shoe and sock, but this time she made no effort to hold his ankles still.
“You move I break girlfriend’s nose.”
She attacked both his feet, her long fingernails sliding slowly up and down. Sherlock sucked in his breath, determined to remain still. He desperately tried to think up a way to get them out of this without divulging the location of the disk. His body trembled as he attempted to read his would be tormentor.
Scratch scratch
“Your unhappily married I see given the indention on your left hand and the noticeably missing wedding band,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “The state of your attire and overall appearance suggests either an affair or an arduous hope to ascertain one...ahhh! Mr. Duck seems an unlikely candidate, your boss then perhaps?”
Scratch scratch
“Shut it funny guy! They warned me you have smarts. No use with me. Tell me where is disk!”
Scratch Scratch Scratch
“I said that I don’t know ahhhhh!” he shouted, now visibly squirming, squeezing his eyes shut against the sensations and breathing heavily.
She quickened the pace and Sherlock didn't believe he could put up with it much longer.
“Do something!” he shouted at Irene.
“What am I supposed to do?” she protested. “Just tell them where the silly disk is!”
That’s when it dawned on him. Irene was the one who had approached him for his help. It was Irene that introduced them to the Russians. It was Irene who was conveniently not being tortured!
“You!” he gasped at her “It’s been you all along!”
Irene let out a long irritated sigh.
“Cat’s out of the bag Slanka. Uncuff me and string him up.”
The Russian woman obediently complied but not without giving Sherlock one last sadistic tickle. He yelped and nearly unseated himself.
They strung rope through his cuffs and attached it to a low beam beneath the ceiling. His feet were barely touching the floor and he had to stand on his tiptoes to retain his balance. Irene faced him while Slanka hung back in a darkened corner awaiting instruction.
“But why?” asked a visibly furious Sherlock.
“I need leverage; protection. If I’m ever to live my life with any normalcy I have to procure it through means of blackmail. The disk will provide it for me.”
“I am not handing you over that disk.”
She raised her hand and almost lovingly caressed the side of his face.
“Ah Sherlock, but you will. You will.”
She stared at him piteously for a moment and then turned to her associate.
“Slanka! Oil.”
She ripped open his shirt then, sending buttons skittering across the floor. She stared at him, smiling warmly and lightly caressing his chest.
“You’re such a beautiful man Sherlock, have I ever told you? It’s a bloody shame I haven’t gotten you on your knees.” She leaned in and gently kissed his lips. He stared back, silent and expressionless.
“You made me beg once remember that?” she chided. “I’m not accustomed to that sort of thing; begging. No, I’m much more comfortable making my clients beg. You will beg for me won’t you Sherlock?”
“Never.” He whispered.
She gave him a knowing smile and took the small vile of oil that Slanka had brought over to her.
“This I had made extra special for such circumstances,” she said as she leisurely unscrewed the top. “It contains special warming agents and a little something extra; an extract that heightens the sensitivity of the skin. Would you like to know what else I use it for?”
He ignored her and shifted his eyes away. His body was betraying him already as he felt himself begin to grow hard, no doubt a side effect caused by her suggestive words.
Irene emptied the content of the bottle onto her hands and brushed them together to warm up the slippery liquid. She took a step closer to her sullen victim who was now eyeing her suspiciously. She slowly ran her hands over his midsection and ribs, climbing her way unhurriedly up into the hallows of his underarms. Sherlock was holding his breath, her touch so light that it was already having an effect on him.
“Now Sherlock, tell me the location of the disk.”
Silence
She ran her fingernails lightly across his stomach. His breath hitched but she received no other reaction from him.
“Brave boy,” she cooed. “You won’t be able to resist the effects of the oil for long.”
And she was right. The oil had already begun to warm. He felt a pleasant tingling sensation across his skin and his sensitivity to her touch tripled instantly. Her fingernails kept skittering across his midsection and his awareness of them was all too maddening. He squirmed away from her touch but she followed him, never breaking contact. Those damn nails kept coming at him relentlessly. His body shook and his abs flexed automatically. He was giving in and she had only just begun.
“Nooo ahhh!” he grunted.
“Oh yes.” came her almost delighted response.
Her touch proceeded upwards toward his outstretched arms.
“No don’t!” he pleaded, an unwanted and tense grin spreading across his face.
Her fingers began to dance against the hallows of his underarms. His body began to swing against the ropes as he fought against his bonds and her expert touch.
“I know how terrible this must feel for you Sherlock. You can barely contain yourself poor baby tsk tsk. Imagine if it ever got out that the clever detective Sherlock Holmes was brought down because he is ticklish.”
“Shut up!” he shouted. The tickling was bad enough but her taunts was throwing him quickly over the edge.
“Then tell me what I want to know!”
“Never…ahahaha! Ahahaha! Ahahaha!”
The damn was effectively broken.
She slapped him across the face hard, bringing him momentarily out of his torment. Before he could register the change of sensations, she had balled her fists and was slowly grazing her knuckles along his sides, each rib being kneaded and punished.
His laughter became uproarious and he lost his balance, swinging loosely from the ropes. He couldn’t regain his footing and all he could do was endure the malicious torture.
“Tickle, tickle.” She chided as if speaking to a child.
Slap!
She attacked his stomach again, pinching and poking until his breath was ragged and laughter hoarse. He wouldn’t be able to stand it much longer.
Slap!
This time she dug her fingers in against his hipbones. Sherlock completely lost his senses, jerking and thrashing until his strength completely left him. He lapsed into silent laughter as tears flowed across his cheekbones. His dark hair was matted to his forehead, damp with sweat. He had no idea how long she had been at him. It could have been minutes or hours, it didn't matter. He was bested.
“I’ll tell you!” he screamed, his voice laced with humiliation and dejection "Just please...stop. Please."
She had raised her hand to once again slap him but lowered it, smiling triumphantly and eagerly awaiting his confession.
“My safe... at the flat. The combination is...” he inhaled deeply, desperately in need of oxygen “...32, 24, 43.”
“I’m so pleased that you remember my measurement Mr. Holmes…and thank you.” She said this as she lifted his chin to meet her gaze and tenderly kissed him on the lips. She released his face and abruptly turned to Slanka.
“Now, Slanka, get Mr. Holmes here cleaned up. Wait an hour and send him on his way by taxi. Anywhere he wishes to go.” She turned back to face Sherlock “Dinner then, tomorrow night; to catch up on old times with a dear friend?”
Sherlock hung there dejectedly, furiously imagining himself strangling the very breath from her body. He had been lied too, coerced, manipulated, drugged and subsequently tortured.
Of course he was meeting her for dinner.
To be continued
Sherlocked: Part Two sexual content m/f
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?247788-Sherlocked-Part-Two-Sexual-content-m-f
Sherlock meets Irene Adler
http://youtu.be/z1hcFQzeq_Q
Sentiment
http://youtu.be/_D7fQKVB10g
Losing the game
http://youtu.be/utwenXbh9hA
“Must you continue to mope about playing that sad music of yours?” asked an irritated John Watson as he shrugged into his grey overcoat.
“And where are you going?” accused Sherlock as he momentarily paused playing his violin.
“You my friend have an appointment.”
“So why are you leaving?”
John headed towards the front door.
“This one wanted a private consultation.”
Sherlock brought his violin down to his side.
“Why?”
“I don’t know Sherlock. But what does it matter? They have offered to pay a substantial amount of money for the consultation alone.”
“I don’t care about the money.” he replied insolently.
“Take the money Sherlock,” John began as he reached for the door handle “we can stand to use it.”
There was suddenly a sharp wrap at the door.
“And so this would be your 9:00. Behave yourself.”
“”Send them away. I’m far too busy to see anyone at this hour.” Replied Sherlock as he took up the violin and began to play once again.
Wearing his best smile, John opened the door. His expression suddenly dropped and he turned to face his partner in crime.
“Eh Sherlock, I think you will want to take this one.’
There at their front door stood none other than the woman herself; Irene Adler.
Irene let herself in without so much as glancing at John. Sherlock watched her walk in, his expression full of shock and disbelief. He immediately composed himself.
“Um, Sherlock, maybe I should just stick around for a bit.” offered John.
Sherlock quickly laid his violin down and straightened his posture.
“No, no. That will not be necessary John. You can go… now.” He squinted and gave him a harried look.
John took the hint and hastily left, shutting the door quickly behind himself.
She was wearing a short demure black cocktail dress and crimson stilettoes. Her hair was elegantly swept up away from her face and blood red lipstick stained her lips. She was a vision of perfection.
Sherlock watched her intently as she strode leisurely over to the coffee table and set down her purse. He could not help but notice the subtle lines on her womanly curves.
“Why have you resurfaced Miss Adler? Consequently you should be all too aware of the danger that is posed to you just by being here?”
“Well hello to you to Mr. Holmes. I would think that you would be a tad bit more pleased to see me.”
Sherlock walked over to an overstuffed chair and sat down, lacing his fingers together and bringing them up slowly to rest on his chin. This woman has always had the talent of making him feel awkward in his own skin. A talent, he noted that no other had over him.
She joined him and placed herself opposite him on his brown leather couch. Seductively crossing her legs, she gave him her most dazzling smile.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I’m just here to visit an old friend.” She replied innocently.
“Enough with the false sentiment,” he snapped “you are here because you need my help. What trouble have you aligned yourself with this time?”
“Really Sherlock…”
“Don’t play your silly games with me Miss Adler.” He cut her off.
“Your right,” she relented “I do need your help...husband.”
Sherlock could have kicked himself for allowing him to be coerced by this madwoman into masquerading as her husband in order to infiltrate a couple of Russian Soviet spies. As it was, he couldn't physically do so being that he was currently tied to a chair, again. Handcuffed was more like it but never the less. They had met with another couple, Mr. and Mrs. Utkin; the surname meaning duck, with which Sherlock wasn’t all too impressed with in either case. One drink had led to basically being ruffied and shoved into the backseat of a Volvo. He held as much appreciation for their choice of car as much as he did their alias.
There they sat; a couple of sad looking captives; back to back, handcuffed and gagged in a nefarious looking room filled with torture instruments; just another day in the life of Sherlock Holmes.
They heard low voices outside the door speaking in clear Russian. Unbeknownst to their captors, they both understood and spoke perfect Russian themselves.
“Get the information. I don’t care how, just do it. We have been given strict orders not to kill them so don’t bloody them up to badly.”
“But how am I supposed to…”
“I don’t know. Be creative. Just do it.”
They heard one set of footsteps walk off into the distance and the door opened. A tall, impossibly beautiful women, with short blond hair and an ample bosom swept into the room. She wore a sleek black cat suit and combat boots. A sinister looking gun and several hunting knifes swung precariously from her utility belt. She faced them with her hands placed determinedly on her hips. She glared at them silently for a few moments before carelessly yanking their gags out.
“You!” she pointed to Sherlock. “You I call good looking.” She glared at Irene “You I call mouse meat. We play little game yes?”
“I’m quite fond of games,” Sherlock cut in “I’m particularly fond of Parcheesi.”
The blond cold cocked him across his chin.
“You’re not a fan I take it.” He grimaced.
She punched him twice this time, effectively giving him quite the bloody nose.
“If you do not wish to upset your boss, I suggest you desist and tell us why you've brought us here.”
“I ask questions. You answer. Now, where is disk? You tell me and I let you go.”
“What disk?” he turned his head towards Irene “What disk? You never told me anything about a disk.”
He wasn't entirely being truthful. Sherlock did recently come into possession of an encrypted disk that had possible military and weaponry schematics. But how could they possibly know that?
Sherlock looked back up at the blond. “I cannot tell you anything you wish to know because I honestly don’t know what you’re going on about.”
“Okay. I kill you.”
“Chush’ sobach’ya (bull shit).” He whispered under his breath.
She slapped him across the face hard.
“You speak Russian funny guy?”
She slapped him again.
“We can go at this all day you know. I have an incredibly high tolerance for pain. Say, where did Mr. and Mrs. Duck pop off to? I sadly miss their company already.”
“You like funny? I show you funny.”
She proceeded to pull up a wide stool in which she positioned herself on facing Sherlock. She untied one of his legs and unceremoniously dropped his foot in front of her on the stool.
“I funny too. I like make people laugh,” she began as she unlaced his shoe and threw it across the room. After peeling off his black trouser sock she locked his ankle with one strong hand so that he could not budge his foot. Sherlock got the extremely uneasy feeling that she was going to start breaking toes.
“Listen,” he started, attempting to stall any possible toe breaking “I really don’t know anything about this disk your…ahhhhh!”
Sherlock cut himself off with a startled shout. He had mentally prepared his senses to tolerate the physical pain he knew was coming, what he was not prepared for was the incredible tickling sensations that wracked the sole of his foot. The blond Russian woman had begun flicking her long nails in an upwards motion against his bare foot. She was keeping to no specific rhythm but randomly flicking and lightly scratching. Every time she did this he would jump and let out a little shout.
“Now we getting somewhere.”
Flick
“You are sensitive, good looking.”
Flick
“Want to say something funny now, funny guy?”
Flick Flick
“Stop doing that!” he hissed his response between short gasps and shouts.
“You talk, I stop.”
Flick Flick Flick
Sherlock’s shouts were quickly sounding more like laughs the longer the beautiful Russian kept teasing the bottom of his foot.
“Ahhh! Has anyone ever told you…Ahhh!…that you speak atrocious…Ahahahaha…English?!”
The Russian gave him a murderous stare. She made quick work of untying his other leg.
“You move. I mess up your girlfriend’s pretty face.”
“Do as she say’s Sherlock.” piped in an up until now, otherwise silent Irene.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“She’s not my girlfriend, why does everyone assume that?!”
“Shut up!” the Russian slapped him across the face.
She made quick work of removing his other shoe and sock, but this time she made no effort to hold his ankles still.
“You move I break girlfriend’s nose.”
She attacked both his feet, her long fingernails sliding slowly up and down. Sherlock sucked in his breath, determined to remain still. He desperately tried to think up a way to get them out of this without divulging the location of the disk. His body trembled as he attempted to read his would be tormentor.
Scratch scratch
“Your unhappily married I see given the indention on your left hand and the noticeably missing wedding band,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “The state of your attire and overall appearance suggests either an affair or an arduous hope to ascertain one...ahhh! Mr. Duck seems an unlikely candidate, your boss then perhaps?”
Scratch scratch
“Shut it funny guy! They warned me you have smarts. No use with me. Tell me where is disk!”
Scratch Scratch Scratch
“I said that I don’t know ahhhhh!” he shouted, now visibly squirming, squeezing his eyes shut against the sensations and breathing heavily.
She quickened the pace and Sherlock didn't believe he could put up with it much longer.
“Do something!” he shouted at Irene.
“What am I supposed to do?” she protested. “Just tell them where the silly disk is!”
That’s when it dawned on him. Irene was the one who had approached him for his help. It was Irene that introduced them to the Russians. It was Irene who was conveniently not being tortured!
“You!” he gasped at her “It’s been you all along!”
Irene let out a long irritated sigh.
“Cat’s out of the bag Slanka. Uncuff me and string him up.”
The Russian woman obediently complied but not without giving Sherlock one last sadistic tickle. He yelped and nearly unseated himself.
They strung rope through his cuffs and attached it to a low beam beneath the ceiling. His feet were barely touching the floor and he had to stand on his tiptoes to retain his balance. Irene faced him while Slanka hung back in a darkened corner awaiting instruction.
“But why?” asked a visibly furious Sherlock.
“I need leverage; protection. If I’m ever to live my life with any normalcy I have to procure it through means of blackmail. The disk will provide it for me.”
“I am not handing you over that disk.”
She raised her hand and almost lovingly caressed the side of his face.
“Ah Sherlock, but you will. You will.”
She stared at him piteously for a moment and then turned to her associate.
“Slanka! Oil.”
She ripped open his shirt then, sending buttons skittering across the floor. She stared at him, smiling warmly and lightly caressing his chest.
“You’re such a beautiful man Sherlock, have I ever told you? It’s a bloody shame I haven’t gotten you on your knees.” She leaned in and gently kissed his lips. He stared back, silent and expressionless.
“You made me beg once remember that?” she chided. “I’m not accustomed to that sort of thing; begging. No, I’m much more comfortable making my clients beg. You will beg for me won’t you Sherlock?”
“Never.” He whispered.
She gave him a knowing smile and took the small vile of oil that Slanka had brought over to her.
“This I had made extra special for such circumstances,” she said as she leisurely unscrewed the top. “It contains special warming agents and a little something extra; an extract that heightens the sensitivity of the skin. Would you like to know what else I use it for?”
He ignored her and shifted his eyes away. His body was betraying him already as he felt himself begin to grow hard, no doubt a side effect caused by her suggestive words.
Irene emptied the content of the bottle onto her hands and brushed them together to warm up the slippery liquid. She took a step closer to her sullen victim who was now eyeing her suspiciously. She slowly ran her hands over his midsection and ribs, climbing her way unhurriedly up into the hallows of his underarms. Sherlock was holding his breath, her touch so light that it was already having an effect on him.
“Now Sherlock, tell me the location of the disk.”
Silence
She ran her fingernails lightly across his stomach. His breath hitched but she received no other reaction from him.
“Brave boy,” she cooed. “You won’t be able to resist the effects of the oil for long.”
And she was right. The oil had already begun to warm. He felt a pleasant tingling sensation across his skin and his sensitivity to her touch tripled instantly. Her fingernails kept skittering across his midsection and his awareness of them was all too maddening. He squirmed away from her touch but she followed him, never breaking contact. Those damn nails kept coming at him relentlessly. His body shook and his abs flexed automatically. He was giving in and she had only just begun.
“Nooo ahhh!” he grunted.
“Oh yes.” came her almost delighted response.
Her touch proceeded upwards toward his outstretched arms.
“No don’t!” he pleaded, an unwanted and tense grin spreading across his face.
Her fingers began to dance against the hallows of his underarms. His body began to swing against the ropes as he fought against his bonds and her expert touch.
“I know how terrible this must feel for you Sherlock. You can barely contain yourself poor baby tsk tsk. Imagine if it ever got out that the clever detective Sherlock Holmes was brought down because he is ticklish.”
“Shut up!” he shouted. The tickling was bad enough but her taunts was throwing him quickly over the edge.
“Then tell me what I want to know!”
“Never…ahahaha! Ahahaha! Ahahaha!”
The damn was effectively broken.
She slapped him across the face hard, bringing him momentarily out of his torment. Before he could register the change of sensations, she had balled her fists and was slowly grazing her knuckles along his sides, each rib being kneaded and punished.
His laughter became uproarious and he lost his balance, swinging loosely from the ropes. He couldn’t regain his footing and all he could do was endure the malicious torture.
“Tickle, tickle.” She chided as if speaking to a child.
Slap!
She attacked his stomach again, pinching and poking until his breath was ragged and laughter hoarse. He wouldn’t be able to stand it much longer.
Slap!
This time she dug her fingers in against his hipbones. Sherlock completely lost his senses, jerking and thrashing until his strength completely left him. He lapsed into silent laughter as tears flowed across his cheekbones. His dark hair was matted to his forehead, damp with sweat. He had no idea how long she had been at him. It could have been minutes or hours, it didn't matter. He was bested.
“I’ll tell you!” he screamed, his voice laced with humiliation and dejection "Just please...stop. Please."
She had raised her hand to once again slap him but lowered it, smiling triumphantly and eagerly awaiting his confession.
“My safe... at the flat. The combination is...” he inhaled deeply, desperately in need of oxygen “...32, 24, 43.”
“I’m so pleased that you remember my measurement Mr. Holmes…and thank you.” She said this as she lifted his chin to meet her gaze and tenderly kissed him on the lips. She released his face and abruptly turned to Slanka.
“Now, Slanka, get Mr. Holmes here cleaned up. Wait an hour and send him on his way by taxi. Anywhere he wishes to go.” She turned back to face Sherlock “Dinner then, tomorrow night; to catch up on old times with a dear friend?”
Sherlock hung there dejectedly, furiously imagining himself strangling the very breath from her body. He had been lied too, coerced, manipulated, drugged and subsequently tortured.
Of course he was meeting her for dinner.
To be continued
Sherlocked: Part Two sexual content m/f
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?247788-Sherlocked-Part-Two-Sexual-content-m-f
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