AN: This is set post-season seven, during the time Emily works for Interpol in London and before A Scandal in Belgravia. It sort of ignores the whole blackmail and treason thing with Irene and focuses just on the fact that she is a dominatrix. This universe will have one more fic...unless I get a lot of response, I could see expanding it then. Obviously, heavy BDSM themes follow (I admit, I know next to nothing about the subject so I did a crap load of research because I am better than 50 Shades, but in no way am I an expert, so take it with a grain of salt). Enjoy!
Emily gets an average of twelve texts a day from Irene. And all of them are hilarious. And all of them make her heart feel like it's in a vice.
As much as she loves her son, as much as she wanted him, she was never meant to be a stay-at-home mother. Irene wasn't either, but she couldn't exactly entertain a client while a baby screamed two floors above, so they'd agreed Emily would continue working while she stayed at home with the baby. It was an odd arrangement, even for them, but it worked. For the most part.
According to the latest flurry of texts, Nero has Irene – a woman who has never once backed down from anyone or anything – halfway to a nervous breakdown. And Emily isn't laughing about it, she isn't. But she also isn't rushing to get home to experience the terror that is their son for herself.
When she does walk through the door that evening, she takes a moment to enjoy the silence that precedes the clamour of little feet across the floor to greet her and all its accompanying chaos. (Sometimes, that chaos is finger paint...all over her brand new white suit jacket.)
Today, Irene is the first to greet her at the door with a quick kiss and a tired sigh. She looks like she's been awake for about three days, so she guesses Nero didn't nap. He hates naps. He's getting a little old for naps anyway, but it's the only break they get during the day, so they've stubbornly continued the practice, much to his chagrin.
"Where's Nero?" Emily dares to ask, trying her best (and failing) not to smile at Irene's exasperation. She knows Irene loves their son, she does, but some days it's harder than others.
"Doing penance," Irene says wryly. That means he's thinking of new and exciting ways to create trouble.
Though she'll never admit it, Emily is secretly proud that her son takes after her. She imagines she'd feel differently if she were the one staying home with him, though. "What did he do this time?" she asks, doing a piss poor job of hiding her amusement.
Irene does not appreciate her delight. "He was playing Detective Agency..." Most stories about Nero started that way. "He went down into the basement, picked the lock on the dungeon, and got into the toys..."
"Oh, dear God," Emily muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. She'd had this fear from the first day he'd learned to walk, which is why they'd had a lock installed on the dungeon in the first place. They hadn't anticipated on her having given birth to a small cat burglar, though. If he doesn't grow up to be a detective, apparently he's got a lucrative career as an escape artist ahead of him.
"He then wrangled Sergio into bondage gear and set him loose around the neighbourhood."
Emily's not laughing, she's not, even though she's just gone through the five stages of grief, knowing they'll probably have to move if they ever want to show their faces in public again.
"But wait," Irene interrupts her laughter, "There's more." She is not laughing.
For a moment, Emily is almost impressed that one small child is capable of so much chaos. Almost.
She's too afraid to ask, but Irene tells her anyway. "He took apart the two hundred dollar vibrator and attempted to rearrange the parts to make an airplane."
Now Emily is a little upset because that particular vibrator turned airplane had been her favourite...and it had cost two hundred dollars.
That was the problem with having such a precocious child – there was no telling what new and interesting ways to create trouble he would come up with next... Emily had honestly thought they'd bottomed out when he'd found out urine made invisible ink and had proceeded to paint them secret messages in all their books and then, just to test if it had worked, started one of the books on fire in the oven. He'd barely been three at the time.
"Is he at least sorry?" Emily asks hopefully, knowing full well he wasn't. He never was. It was always done 'in the name of science' and, in the case of the invisible ink, was also 'sterile'.
Irene snorts. "Sorry he couldn't make the airplane work," she scoffs.
Emily nods. That sounds about right. She probably would have said the same thing as a child. Sometimes, she thinks Nero is her punishment for being such a difficult child herself. Most days, she's okay with that. She loves her son. Even if he may be secretly trying to have her committed and/or take over the world.
She gives Irene an apologetic kiss and promises her at least three orgasms in exchange for her forgiveness, knows she has it anyway.
Emily follows the sound of pen scratching on paper and sure enough, finds Nero not thinking about what he did wrong, but sketching designs for new and improved vibrator airplanes.
"Mommy!" he eagerly exclaims when he sees her, no doubt excited to tell her all about the day's exploits. He moves to escape the step that is time out, arms spread wide for a hug.
"Whoa, kid, I'm not here to spring you," she informs him. His face falls. She kneels down to hug him anyway. "I hear you gave Mom a hard time today..."
He acts pleasantly surprised by the news as if he's only hearing it for the first time. Emily has to admit, the kid is a pretty good actor. Also, possibly, a sociopath. She cocks one brow, puts her hands on her hips, and stares him down, waiting for him to crack. It's a look that's worn down countless hardened criminals, but Nero has received it so frequently, he's now immune.
"Prove it was me," he challenges, giving her the same look right back. And damned if it isn't just a little bit cute, being stared down by her still baby-faced preschooler.
"Do you think I was born yesterday?" she asks. She'd laugh if it was anyone else's kid, but of course, it's hers. She thinks maybe it's karma for laughing when JJ told her about Henry's mischief. "If it wasn't you, who was it?"
He opens his mouth as if to respond, but seems to think better of his answer. He doesn't have a good suspect in mind, apparently. He shrugs. He tried to pin his crimes on Sergio once, but they didn't buy that the cat had taken one bite out of every strawberry in the fridge, then put them neatly back.
"If you weren't my kid, I'd be charging you with breaking and entering, animal cruelty, and destruction of property," she informs him, "That's like six years in prison, if I play my cards right..."
For a moment, he seems to weigh whether six years seems a fair trade in exchange for the fun he had, seems to decide it isn't. He bats his eyes in his best approximation of apologetic.
Emily doesn't fall for it, she can see the machinations behind the facade, already deciding what he'll do tomorrow to make Irene want to pull her hair out. Sometimes, she has to remind herself how much she wanted him, wanted this.
"To be fair," he points out, "I was going to put the property back together when I was done."
"You're not helping your case, kid."
He shrugs. "Did you and Mom used to own a dog?" he asks, apropos of nothing.
She's surprised by the sudden tangent. "No, why?" If it's a wary response, well, no one can quite blame her for that.
"You sure have a lot of collars and leashes..."
Emily covers her face with her hands. "They're for grown up things," she says, voice muffled by her hands. She combs her hands through her hair, already thoroughly exhausted. She doesn't know how Irene does it all day, every day...thinks she owes her way more than three orgasms.
They've been raising him in a very sex-positive way, giving him age-appropriate information and answering his questions (including an awkward conversation about blow jobs and she still doesn't know where he learned that word), but she's not sure she's ready to explain to her son that she is the one wearing the collar.
For the moment, he seems to accept the answer. Either that or he's saving the embarrassing questions for a time when they're in public and can extort them for something he wants. "We should get a dog," he says, nods once, satisfied with that decision.
"We have Sergio," Emily points out, assuming the cat hasn't run away for good this time. She can't say she'd blame the cat for wanting to escape Nero.
"He's no fun," Nero pouts, "He just runs away when I try to play with him."
Emily doesn't point out that it's because his idea of play involves trying to pretend to perform an autopsy on the cat or, apparently, bondage. "We're not getting a dog."
"Uncle Derek has a dog." Whenever he got mad at his mothers, he insisted he was going to move in with Derek. They hadn't yet informed him that Derek was his father, only that he was a special uncle, but he was easily the favourite without the genetic relation. The one time he had visited, he'd taken Nero out for ice cream, let him get the coffee flavour, and then taught him a bunch of practical jokes and Emily still had not forgiven him.
"Uncle Derek's dog is old and he doesn't want to play."
"When he dies, will Uncle Derek get Clooney stuffed?" he asks innocently.
Emily groans inwardly. Sometimes, her child was creepy. She didn't have to wonder why he didn't have many friends at preschool. "I don't know," she answers honestly. "And no, we aren't going to get Sergio stuffed," she says before he can ask.
"When he dies, will we get a dog?"
"I don't know," she groans because there's no polite way to say 'no fucking way in hell, buddy' to a child. It's not that she doesn't like dogs, she just has enough trouble keeping Nero alive and out of jail and also not on fire that the last thing they need is another creature to look after.
"I'm going to name my dog Rex," he says thoughtfully, evidently already planning for the nonexistent new addition to their family.
She tries to get the conversation back on track before he can get much further in his planning. "Do you know why you're on the step?"
He nods solemnly. "Because life is unfair and I'm being persecuted without adequate evidence for a conviction."
She gives him an 'are you serious?' look and makes a mental note that her four year old watches too many crime shows.
Evidently, he is totally and completely serious.
"Are you sorry?" Then, "And being sorry you were caught does not count."
He nods again, even though she knows he isn't.
"And what does a locked door mean?"
"I'm not to go inside," he answers dutifully.
"And what are you not supposed to do?"
"Go inside anyway..."
"What are you going to do now?" she presses.
"Apologize to Mom," he mumbles reluctantly.
So, she releases him early for good behaviour.
And technically, he does apologize, he just doesn't actually use the word sorry. But he does give Irene a big hug and she melts just enough to forgive him.
As they hug, Emily can see in Irene's eyes that she's reminding herself that she wanted this too.
Emily cooks dinner that night, even though she can't cook, because Nero likes it better. She cuts the grilled cheese the right way and her alphabet soup somehow has more N's.
She also does bath time, even though she does it worse, apparently, but sometimes you don't get what you want, especially if you're four.
Irene perches on the counter to watch and Emily thinks she's never looked so sexy with her messy hair and her robe slipping off her bare shoulder and if their son weren't right there, she'd have had her right there on the counter. If Irene's smirk is anything to go by, she's well aware.
After Nero is safely tucked in bed, Irene – dominatrix mask firmly in place – takes Emily's hand and leads her down to the dungeon, the scene of the day's crime, and puts on Emily's collar.
The remains of the 'airplane' are still scattered on the floor and Emily pouts a little, lets out a sad little whine. It was her favourite, afterall.
Irene smirks a little at her pitiful whimper. "Oh, precious..." she coos patting Emily's cheek. "We'll find you a new favourite and I'll have oh so much fun trying." Her smile is latent with the implications of the statement.
Emily shivers at the tone in her voice, loves the way she goes from girlfriend to dominatrix, Irene to Mistress, with just a note in her voice, a change in expression. She'll marry her one day, she thinks...
Irene slips off her robe to reveal a lace bra and garter belt underneath and she's obviously planned this. Without her heels, she lacks the height to tower over Emily, but she doesn't need it to intimidate.
She circles around Emily to press kisses to the back of her neck, making her fingers fumble on the buttons of her blouse as she attempts to undress.
"Eager, darling?" she asks, nuzzling her nose into Emily's hair. She wraps the thick silk sash from her robe around Emily's eyes, blinding her.
Emily nods and swallows thickly as her vision goes dark. Her blouse falls to the floor, followed shortly by her bra.
While she works on the button of her pants, her Mistress selects a length of rope and wraps it several times around her hand, then pulls it taut, testing its strength.
She wraps her arms around Emily from behind as if to embrace her, but instead runs the rope along her neck teasingly, knowing she trusted her completely. She lets the rope slacken and drop down to encircle Emily's rib cage, tightening it around her breasts and knotting it in an elaborate pattern.
With a series of restraints, Irene ties both her wrists and ankles to the St. Andrews Cross in the centre of the room so she is spreadeagled, presented nicely for her to play with. "Look at you," she whispers silkily. "All spread and eager. And, oh look...wet already." She tsks as if disappointed, though Emily knows she's pleased. With a heavy hand, she slaps Emily's breasts, sending blood rushing to the tied up tissue, causing her to gasp sharply.
"Now, which one should we start with, hmm?" she asks. Emily doesn't reply, but it is mostly rhetorical anyway.
She selects a lipstick shaped vibrator that she knows doesn't have enough power to satisfy Emily – it had been a joke gift from Garcia when Emily had moved to London and was mostly designed to look cute anyway.
With red-tipped nails, she twists the vibrator on, then traces it teasingly around the lips of Emily's pussy, without pressing it to her exposed clit.
Emily yelps in surprise at the sudden contact, then whimpers. She presses her hips forward, trying to direct the contact where she needs it, needing more stimulation than she is getting.
"What?" Irene asks innocently. She takes the vibrator away. "Need something?"
"More," Emily begs, "More, please..." She wants to press her thighs together, needs something, anything, but is unable to with the restraints.
"You want more?" Irene taunts.
"Please," she asks again, "I need it."
"What the whore wants, the whore gets." She presses it to her clit this time, the barest of contact. "Like this?" she asks.
Emily whines, almost a whimper.
"No?" When Emily doesn't respond, she snaps, "Answer me!"
"More," she pleads, knows even then it won't be enough. She's nearly sobbing as her Mistress continues teasing her, giving her full contact for the briefest of moments before taking it away again. She's wet and horny and frustrated and she's nearly in tears when the contact disappears altogether.
Emily expects a slow, teasing progression in power, but is instead surprised when her Mistress' next selection is the magic wand. Even without seeing it, she knows it by the powerful buzzing against her clit. They almost never use it because it's much too powerful for Emily. She's previously used their safeword while using it, unable to stand anymore.
Emily cries out at the contact, bucking and writhing. "It's too much!" she cries, but doesn't safeword.
"But you said you wanted more..." she coos, cocking her head to the side as if curious. She presses the wand harder against her clit.
"No," she shrieks, eyes filling with tears, "Please..." In spite of her words, her hips are bucking forwards, eager for more.
"You'll take what you asked for and you'll like it," her Mistress snarls.
"Yes, Mistress," she agrees, voice catching on a sob. She comes then, suddenly and violently, with a noise half sob and half moan.
When her climax subsides, leaving her panting, but satisfied, she expects a reprieve that is not granted. Instead, her Mistress presses it harder against her. The vibrations are less pleasure now, more pain, but her pleading cries fall on deaf ears as she is brought to another climax, unable to keep her body from responding.
Ignoring Emily's begging and pleading and sobbing, she rides Emily through one orgasm after another until she comes with a gush of fluid, catching them both by surprise, as squirting had thus far eluded them.
Irene laughs, not cruelly, but not kindly either. "Look at that..." she muses, trailing her fingers through Emily's soaked pussy. "My little squirter. I'm so proud."
Emily is still panting, thoroughly spent. "Again?" she asks meekly, not sure she could survive another round, but eager to try anyway.
Irene laughs, then kisses her firmly. "What the whore wants, the whore gets."