Otherworldly Discipline: A Witch's Lesson (21 page)

Alice, her stomach full with a large menu full of appetizers and finger foods, began to feel like she was in quite a predicament, since the only reason she was hanging around this long was she thought she might be able to get a second go at pollinating Moriarty. But after the last couple of hours, she found that she didn’t want to pollinate him.

She’d never stop feeling guilty about it, because there was no doubt—he didn’t deserve pollination.

Yes, he drank too much, smoked cigars right in front of the plaque on the desk that said, ‘no smoking’ and obviously ordered up prostitutes now and again when he was feeling particularly kinky. But he wasn’t married, he wasn’t being unfaithful. And he was extremely generous: he even got the concierge to find and bring up a pair of cute striped pajamas for her, saying that she’d teased him enough for one evening and that she might as well get comfortable.

Most men would have loved deflowering a virgin, thinking it a prize. This man thought it was the greatest shame to
part
someone of their innocence, especially if they obviously didn’t want their innocence lost, like she didn’t.

As he sat on the bed next to her, stretching his legs out over the covers as he tapped something
into a smart phone, he stopped
what he was doing to pour himself yet another drink. He had run out of whiskey by now, and poured himself cordial, which she thought was out
of
fashion for mortal men under the age of seventy.

“How have you been drinking since morning and not gotten sick yet?” she asked, looking him over.

“Practice, practice, practice,” was his response as he saluted her with the glass. He looked up from the
smart phone
he was reading, sneering at the television. “How can you watch cooking on television and eat at the same time? Isn’t that quite redundant?”

She shrugged, licking her fingers. “I’m obsessed
with
cooking,” she divulged.

“Then why don’t you… just go to school and become a cook? A chef? Wouldn’t that be ideal?”

“I’m not allowed to become a chef,” she replied.

His eyebrows narrowed and he slammed his smart phone onto his desk with frustration. “That’s ridiculous. There’s no reason you couldn’t. Nobody can keep you from doing the things you want. This is the twenty-first century, as my young employer keeps reminding me, and a young lady like yourself has no reason to not pursue her dreams.”

“It’s complicated,” she sighed. How could she tell him that even on a full stomach she still hungered? Even as she was drinking wine or water, she would still thirst? How could he possibly understand that her hive had addicted her to the Queen’s nectar since before she was even born? That the addiction was passed down even from her mother? That there was nothing she could do
but
obey her queen so that she might get another drink of it?

“I certainly hope it’s complicated! Bloody complicated! You know, I nearly wish you were illegal so I could call child protective services to save you, to put you somewhere, so I don’t have to worry.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not your problem,” she told him crisply. “Just… Just drop it, alright? Nothing can be done, this is my work now. There are no alternatives. I wish there were, but there
aren’t
. This is life.”

“I wish you’d give me one excuse for why you don’t just… get married off somewhere or something. That’s an alternative. Join a church and meet a nice boy there,” he advised aloofly. “Let him take care of you, have a bunch of pretty babies and cook all you’d like. Many men would love to have such as you.”

It was almost cute how frustrated he was. But then, this man was ‘a fixer’. She’d heard about them on morning TV—men who think that they could simply fix everything. But he couldn’t fix her. She was a possession of her hive—a worker. A collector, now. And there was nothing to be done. No solution in sight. “That’s not very feminist of you,” she finally said, grinning
, trying
to lecture him. “I thought we were talking about the twenty-first century? Why don’t you give it a try, hm?”

“Yes. Well, so sue me if I think that men should watch after women. Not me, of course, but men… in general… out there,” he twiddled his fingers in the direction of the window.

In lighter tones, she said, “You’re doing a pretty good job if you’re
going for
watching after me. You bought me
smashing
pajamas, didn’t you? Bought me a picnic! I am feeling like
Pretty Woman
. You’re my Richard Gere. Might you have a
Learjet
to fly me out for an opera on?”

“Unfortunately I don’t have one in my arsenal,” he replied simply. “And I don’t like Richard Gere.”

“Yeah, you look more like a young Tom Cruise, in my humble opinion,” she decided. “You know—like in Top Gun…. Only with black hair. And you’re probably taller. But I was trying to draw a parallel.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Wait—is that a compliment? To compare me with some poofty American?” he already sounded offended, like he thought himself much prettier. 

“You talk like Jeremy Irons,” she added, as if she hoped that might soften the blow.

He rolled his eyes.

“Who do I look like?” she asked him curiously, a mischievous smile on her face.

“You look like…” He looked at her analytically at first, but then his face melted in to admiration. “You look beautiful. Unique. Actors should try to look like
you
, not the other way round.”

She looked coyly down at the covers underneath of her. “Thanks.” She looked him over and grinned. “You know, when I met you, I thought you were sadistic. But I actually think you’re a really sweet man.”

“I think I’m just going through a sweet phase,” he replied defensively. “Why would you think I was a sadist?”

“I still have your fingerprints on my bottom!” She giggled, rising to her knees to wiggle her bottom at him in illustration, unable to keep from flirting with the man.

Yes, flirting with this man came as naturally as breathing.

“Hm,” he hummed. “If I recall properly, young lady,” he said, looking up at her, amused. “You enjoyed it as well. If you didn’t make me believe you had no hymen, I would have had easy entry. You were absolutely wanton.”

She had to be blushing crimson. She didn’t know quite what to say to that—it was true. For the first time in her life, she could even call herself that. Wanton. There were certainly parts she liked. And probably if she hadn’t been so damn nervous, she would have liked it more…

She didn’t say anything, just
grabbed
a plate full of desert and asked, “Cookie, Darling?”

He grabbed a cookie, chuckling. “Don’t be a tease, now. You know what that got you last time. And I’m even more sauced than I was then.” He stuffed it into his mouth.

“Already excited again? It’s the pajamas, isn’t it?” she rubbed her hand down the leg of them. She knew there couldn’t be anything sexy about them. They were just cozy.

He swallowed hard, and then washed it down with his cordial. “My
Dear
,” he replied. “I’ve never stopped being excited.”

She smiled mischievously and winked at him. “I tell you what—walk a straight line, and I’ll give you round two.”

He seemed to know he was foozled right away, and gave her a tortured look. “I couldn’t even stand up and get to the line
on
which to walk,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean that I won’t try…” He got fell clumsily out of bed with a heavy thunk. “No.
As I predicted, I fear…
”

She crawled to his side of the bed and looked down. “Need help?” she laughed, giving him her hand to climb back up to the bed. “You know,” she said, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Moriarty Miles,” he replied, straining his voice like he was climbing up onto a mountain.

“Moriarty? Like… Sherlock Holmes’ arch-nemeses?” she laughed.

“The same,” he said, unamused
in a manner more befitting to someone who thought the fictional villain was named after him, rather than the other way around
. He stretched out on the bed and relaxed his head on the pillow. “Although I haven’t made nearly as many take
over
the
world attempts, but I am a master of disguise…” He winked at her.

And then he passed out.

She sighed and brushed his hair out of his eyes and pulled him over to his side. “I wish everybody was as good of a surprise as you,” she told him.

She looked towards the door, knowing she should scoot out and back to collecting. As the Queen had said, she couldn’t come back empty
handed.

But she was so delightfully full, and the sound of his snoring, however soft, was as soothing as the ocean. Her muscles cried to lay down next to him, and she did, spooning her body up against his, feeling his member through the layers of cloth between them, remembering his feel. She fell asleep recalling the feel of his touch. 

When she woke up, he was mumbling in his sleep. He might have been speaking in English, but it was impossible to discern. She was unused to sleeping with a man, but certainly liked to do it with Moriarty. She liked his smell, at least—it was earthy, like cigars mixed with
the smell in the air
after a rain storm.

Do not come home without pollinating a man. You will not get another handout. The queen’s voice in her head rang out, making her tremble. Your blood is half filthy. The other half is of a traitor.

She used to hate her mother for falling in love with another man, letting him impregnate her. For giving birth to her at all. Now she understood better. Her mother had found a good man, and gotten attached. So attached
, appearantly,
that she didn’t even admit his identity to protect him. Protecting their relationship was more important than being punished by the hive, more important than being whipped, more important than being deprived nectar for sometimes whole months at a time.

Alice couldn’t allow herself to get attached. It was difficult, but it would kill her in the end. She needed nectar. She craved it. She would do anything for it. Anything treacherous, anything that would make her feel guilty. What was guilt? There was only nectar. Nectar was the only important thing on the planet…

Alice looked over at Moriarty hungrily. She could wake him up. She could play with him. She could get him in the throes. She knew it.

She could feel her stomach churn, begging her to move on. Begging her to go home empty
handed, to continue to plead with the Queen. That part of her didn’t want to taste Moriarty’s lust on her tongue. Poor Moriarty—he had spoiled her that evening. He hadn’t done anything at all creepy. He had been so caring and nurturing… It would seem nasty of her to want to pollinate him after everything he’d done. After knowing him.

But then, she was going to have to teach herself not to feel this way towards mortals. How many of her clients were this attractive? This strangely, appealingly gentlemanly? Maybe she had assumed wrong, and they were all like this.

If that were true, how good it would be for the world, and how bad for her.

She found her hand trailing around the smooth muscles on his chest. His skin gleamed. He wasn’t hairy except a small trail that began at his belly button and trailed into his pants. Her hand played with the trail, too. There was something so satisfying about touching him—his skin tingled against her finger pads, even. She wanted more.

Licking her lips, she thought about his cock. It had been blazed eternally on her memory. It had been gorgeous—scary, but gorgeous. Long, veiny, hard, with a fat, smooth head… She coyly plucked open the trousers he slept in. He didn’t wake; his eyes darted wildly back and forth under his eyelids, which kept closed even as she freed him.

She watched the object of her affection in the pale moonlight, and rested her fingers upon it. It was hard, and strangely appealing. Appetizing, mouth watering. She was overcome with the urge to taste him, to put him into her mouth and brush her tongue across that smooth head…

Timidly, she stuck her tongue out brought it slowly towards the head until she touched it. She felt drunk with the sensation, the naughtiness of just taking him in her mouth without permission, the feeling of his hardness in her hand. Why shouldn’t she take him in her mouth? He’d already had her virginity. What was the difference? Why not let the same man hold both trophies?

She continued to lick, and then she put the rest of his member in her mouth, nibbling and sucking on the tip.

Suddenly, she felt his hand on her head,
yanking her
mouth away from him. She looked up and saw his eyes peering through the darkness at her. He continued to pet her hair, running his fingers through her tresses. “You don’t have to do this, Alice,” he told her in a whisper, as if he was scared he’d frighten her off.

“You…Y… You don’t like it?” she asked shyly.

“I love it,” he assured. “But you don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she whispered back at him, as if they both were afraid someone was listening in.