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It was cold in this beautiful, extremely-lit room.
Molly blinked against the glare. It felt odd in such an intimate setting, a bedroom (that wasn't hers), not one stitch of clothes on her body, standing in front of an employer. A woman she barely knew. Diffused bulbs at ten million watts seemed overkill.
Miss Adler studied Molly from her wingback chair in a dramatic slouch with one leg thrown over the arm. A long, burgundy silk dress dripped from her statuesque frame. Molly stood, and only that. She did not pose. She did not arch. She didn't even do that thing she knew women did when they toed the floor, their leg bent inward and sexy.
This was not sexy. This was inventory.
Her hair was down. Her legs, arms and pussy were waxed, as instructed. Her eyes lightly made up, but no lipstick. Molly never wore lipstick. It only drew attention to the obvious. Her attributes lie elsewhere, anyway. She took a slow, silent breath. She felt her nipples draw tight in the chill. She assumed that was deliberate. Flesh pulled inward against cold. It flabbed out and sweated in the heat. One was preferable to the other, in this situation.
"Thank you for filling out your questionnaire so fully," Miss Adler spoke while staring at Molly's navel. "I appreciate your level of detail."
"Given the job, clarity seemed important," Molly replied, shifting only slightly.
"Indeed," a pause. "You're sure you're ready? Opening night, so to speak?"
"I didn't make this decision lightly. Prostitution isn't for everyone, I'm sure. But I know myself. I know what I can take. I know what I like. And I need a job that pays a rather large bill. This part-time work seems ideal."
"Ideal?" Miss Adler smirked. "Getting fucked by strangers, people you wouldn't have normally chosen for yourself? Ideal is your descriptor?"
"The money is ideal. The job isn't time-consuming or a moral issue for me."
"We'll see," her new boss said. "A moral exercise is hardly the same as reality. Speaking of which," she leaned over the pressed a button on a small panel on a side table. "It's time for a second opinion about that."
"Oh?"
"I've read your answers to my questions. What you think you like. What you think you can take. I can make my own assessments from a woman's perspective about another woman, but to know what I really need to know, I'll need a man."
Molly felt her irritation rise. "I'm a fully functioning adult capable of telling you what I like. I don't need a man to validate my opinion about my own body."
"You're right, of course. Enlighten me. What's it like to fuck you?"
The question hung. Molly turned it over in her mind. She remained silent.
Miss Adler smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes. "How wet do you feel when you're penetrated? How tight is your grip? What sounds to you make? How does your skin feel to hands that aren't yours?"
Molly looked down, deep into the expensive carpet as cold fingers of embarrassment crept along her spine. She must look freaking spectacular by now, if all of this chill was meant to work to her advantage.
"I don't know."
"Naturally you don't. Nor could you. This is mostly information the owner of a dick can tell you. And sadly, the vast majority of them lack the intellect and inclination to articulate these sensations. Luckily for us, we have the sexual equivalent of a male unicorn."
The door to the White Room (one of many colour-themed rooms in Miss Adler's bordello) opened and a man stepped into the bright space. Dressed in a thin navy robe over what looked like his nude body, he closed the door behind him silently. His gaze settled over one woman, then the other. His appearance caused no reaction at all and the silence held between the three of them.
Molly's mind fell into its bodily categorisation process.
Caucasian. Six feet tall. Eighty kilograms. Approximately thirty-five years old. Muscular. Svelte. Equivalent to a middleweight boxer with not one ounce to spare. Dark hair, curly. Blue eyes. Symmetrical features.
Molly's sexual appraisal interpreted the information differently.
Flawless white marble. Tall, catwalk silhouette. Wild, thick hair that made her fingertips itch. Bright, halogen, high beam eyes that almost made her want to squint from their perch on two razor-edge cheekbones.
She filed it in seconds and redirected her stare over his shoulder.
Because that was ridiculous. They were human eyes (sort of?) that weren't emitting light of their own. They were just…nice…in a sort of…Siamese way.
He appeared to be doing his own assessment of her nudity, his high beams flicking down the length of her, no expression at all, before turning to their Mistress.
"You've summoned me for a test drive, Miss?"
"Will," Miss Adler gave a lazy wave from her careful slouch. "Please do join us."
He took his cue and padded on bare feet to stand beside her. He pivoted, facing Molly. They held a frank stare between them.
Molly kept her arms down. She kept her chin high. "Test drive. Classy."
"I wouldn't think an academic would prefer euphemisms."
She blinked. "Academic?"
"Obviously."
Miss Adler stared hard at Molly, but snapped her fingers once at Will. "First impressions."
"Petite. Late twenties. Working class upbringing. Cat owner. Single. Bookish. Elfish. Waifish. Dark eyes two millimetres larger than a woman of similar proportions. Heart-shaped face, high-set ass. Thirty-two inch chest, twenty waist, thirty-two hips, so an hourglass symmetry. Easily mistaken for a teenager from behind. She'll appeal to the doms and the white knights."
Molly's head tilted, almost imperceptibly.
Almost.
Will's eyes slitted in turn.
"Actually, scratch the doms. Not submissive enough."
The Miss chuckled gently. "Layman's analysis, please."
"Cute. Sweet. Spirited. Fuckable."
Molly pulled another strained breath through her nose.
"Excellent. First kiss now, please."
Will obediently moved forward.
Molly took an instinctive step back. "What are you doing?"
Will continued his short walk to her side as The Miss gestured to the room at large. "This is your first night on duty, Molly. This is not an audition, don't worry. I don't believe in casting couches. But nor will I simply put you in the parlour until I know completely what I'm offering my clients. Will is your only client tonight. His insight into what you like, what you hide, and how you'll be interpreted by other men is unrivalled by even me. And while he's blessed with the biggest cock in my stable, he's also blessed with the ability to treat sex like a trip to the dentist. He can fuck. Fuck until his partner is a blubbering puddle of jelly. But he doesn't come himself. As I say, a fucking unicorn."
Molly spared a glance at the man next to him, who did not blink at this odd praise.
The Miss sighed, "You should be honoured. A night with Will costs more than your monthly paycheque. His appointments are limited to once or twice a week, and only for those who can afford him. He won't be using his full arsenal tonight, but be aware, you're about to be 'test driven' by the best driver in town."
How sad, her first thought came unbidden. He was a human being, not a fuckbot. What must his girlfriend think of his profession? And if he was single, how would he ever explain it to someone special?
How will you explain it? Molly's brain pointed out rather meanly. She brushed it aside. If this side hustle of hers was anything, it was temporary.
She turned to the lovely, unnaturally pretty man-not-fuckbot beside her and smiled tightly. She'd expected to be turned out tonight. If this was to be her first shag on the company dime, then so be it. She could certainly have done worse.
"You need to kiss me, then," she stated rather than asked. "To see if I'm a decent snog."
"Yes."
"Wonderful."
He looked down at himself and began loosening the silky belt of his robe.
She didn't think she visibly reacted to how startled she was by his movement.
He didn't look up as he parted it. "Would you rather I keep it on for the kiss, cute Molly?"
She could hear the sarcasm in his question.
She bit her tongue and assumed he could see even that. She reached out and pushed the garment off his shoulders. "Why? Do you need to hide from me?"
It fell to the ground and she cursed her own bravado.
Miss Adler could have added another zero to the price she quoted and Molly wouldn't have been surprised. The naked man in her personal space was perfect. Smooth. Warm to the touch. A still, yet predatory intent humming under his skin. Eyes that made her feel naked far beyond wearing no clothes. And his cock…
Molly looked away.
One glance was already too much.
Cataloguing…
No, please don't.
Data collected: Nine inches long, two inches in diameter. Fully erect. Uncircumcised. Heavily veined. Dark pubic hair trimmed to one centimetre. Largest specimen in personal experience.
Goddammit!
She pressed her lips together, then let them go. She would not let them see her discomfort. She was a scientist, a student of human biology. This was not shocking. It was not shameful. It was data. Known and quantified. Nothing more.
She felt a finger tap gently under her chin. She looked up into his endless indifference.
"May I?"
"Knock yourself out." Christ, Molly. Try to sound professional.
He nodded and lowered his face to hers. She tilted up, raising on tiptoe instinctively. His lips stopped within a hair's breadth of hers. Instead of puckering up, he inhaled. She couldn't stop staring into his eyes as he addressed their audience.
"Sweet," he classified her scent. "A fruit derivative."
Then he kissed her.
It was soft. At first. A simple press of his lips to hers. Since he was the driver, she allowed him to set the tone of this first contact. His mouth was firm and full, and warm despite the chill of the room. The only soft thing about his angular face. She moved a tiny bit closer, looking for the warmth he promised in the tall shelter he created for her.
His tongue ran against her lips.
She obeyed his desire for entry and opened her mouth to him.
A dark, heady flavour invaded her mouth as they deepened the kiss. The base note was, inevitably, the singular taste of a healthy man in his prime. The top notes were guilty cigarettes sloppily buried under a mint nicotine gum.
The top notes amused her.
She cupped his jaw and pulled him closer to dig into the far more interesting taste of Will himself. She chased it from the tip of his tongue to the line of his incisors, before pulling back and dragging her teeth over his bottom lip.
He clapped his hands around her waist. Firmly. But he let himself be tasted.
When he broke the kiss, he did so slowly.
Molly didn't want to see him making his calculations, so she looked away as he pulled back up to his normal height. She noticed his inner forearm. Against the pale skin, the unmistakable pucker of a removed nicotine patch peeked at her from his under his elbow. She smiled. How much stimulation did he need?
"Something amusing?" The Miss asked.
"No, Miss."
Her gaze flicked to Will.
"Well?" Miss Adler prodded.
"She likes kissing. Loves it. A romantic. The smell of fruit is from raspberry leaf tea." Molly felt her face accessed for information again and she looked up to allow it. "She drinks three cups a day."
At that, she couldn't help but giggle into his blank expression. "That's true. But I haven't had any since lunch."
"Nevertheless. You taste delicious, like a happy memory. And you kiss well. Without restraint. I feel desired and we've barely begun."
Her smile dropped into something more startled. " …I… Thank you."
The Miss chuckled from across the room. "It's not a compliment," she chided in good humour. "I told you, he's a machine. Indexing and filing. He can tell me how other clients will feel when they kiss you, even if they couldn't put their finger on it themselves."
"It's still the kindest thing I've ever been told," Molly lowered her hands from his jaw, but kept them splayed around his throat. "Even if there's no feeling behind it."
"Yes, well," the fine lady sighed and flicked her wrist. "Continue please, Will."
Molly was unprepared when his whole body suddenly came alive, swooping down to her, pulling her up into his arms. She was lifted off the ground as he swooped back up, his nose buried firmly in her throat. He erection was folded up and poking hard into her belly. Their tepid skin immediately warmed against the other. Cold air was sucked hard across the notch of her collarbones, then blasted back in such a warm exhalation that she arched without meaning to.
"More sweet," came a mutter from under her chin.
Long, elegant fingers swept up her back, into her hair, crisscrossed her arms, and walked back down again to an unexpected grope of her ass.
"Soft," the mutter was lower, rougher. "Lotion user. Once a day. Hospital air is dry, she dislikes how it dehydrates her skin. One of her many, mini acts of defiance. Hair is fine. Deep conditioner used...once every ten days or so. She underestimates how pretty it is, hence the simple cut. Texture similar to fox fur. Very tactile."
When Molly arched again, it was for other reasons and just as involuntary a response.
Another zero was added to what she would pay for this man, if she could. Another example of what other women got to enjoy when they opened their wallets. And she's yet to even open her legs.
She'd clasped his biceps on her way up. Now, with her head tilted back and her body locked securely in his arms, she let her hands skim up, over the oak of his musculature, and into the implausibly sleek riot of curls at the back of his head. Not fox-like at all, more like chinchilla. Her nails raked gently over his scalp. Then not so gently.
His mouth pressed into her breasts.
So when he hissed, the smallest sound, against her chest, she felt it more than heard it.
Suspicion filtered through her.
After all, she'd barely touched him. And such a normal touch at that, surely all of his clients wanted to pet this cherubic mop. To be worth his price of admission, he must act as though their touch is welcome. Exciting. Unique. Tugging his curls was hardly unus-
"Harder."
She complied without thinking and pulled. A low rumble followed the hiss.
"I'm waiting."
"Sorry, Miss," he spoke at normal volume to their boss. "She's stronger than she looks. Swimming or stationary bike. Still no match for an average client in strength, but athletic under my hands." He lifted his head up to stare again. "Feisty."
"Good. Useful. Next taste test, if you please."
He swung them around so they stood next to the blinding, satiny bed. Four posters and opulent. Trussed with fat pillows and accoutrements fit for a princess. Molly felt in irrational urge to tear it apart and fuck Will in the shreds. It looks like it belonged in a snow globe. What she wanted wasn't fit for such cheeriness.
Will reached down and lifted one of her bare feet and settled it on the mattress. Opened at a ninety-degree angle, she faced him, knowing what was coming and yet shivering internally at the thought. His hand still over her foot, it traced back up, over her ankle, up her calf, slowing as he followed the smooth line of her inner thigh.
Her hands settled on his shoulders. For balance, she told herself.
"Tell me how you taste," he whispered into their five-inch separation.
"I…couldn't say," she mostly mouthed. "Like pussy."
He clicked his tongue. A sharp, reproving sound. Said pussy clenched a little.
"Fish?" his index finger edged into the seam of her hip and thigh. "Vinegar?" It ghosted over her outer labia. "Kombucha?"
Her mind whirled. Were these real choices?
"Tell me," she spoke directly to his sternum.
His finger made contact with the delicate entrance of her vagina. When she gasped, it was loud. The Miss easily heard it.
"Don't fret," she cooed across the room. "He's very gentle. When told."
True.
Wait, what?
Not with a crystal ball and a gun to her head could she explain why. But she knew. This man with cold eyes and cold words and a reputation for joyless sex on his end, had the deepest, fathomless ability to be gentle.
"I know," she answered honestly.
The shoulder under her right hand rippled.
The finger on her pussy dipped in at a very polite, unassuming level and swirled. She bit her lips again.
He withdrew it and promptly ate what she'd made him.
Watching him sucking his own finger, she saw it. The dark, accidental flare of his pupils. Blown wide. So wide. His high beams went black.
"Will, darling?"
"Fuck."
"What?" Molly whimpered, horrified. "Not good?"
"Ridiculous." He said, louder this time.
The Miss quirked in silent question. He turned heel and faced her, looking…something. Angry?
"Sweet Tarts."
"Beg pardon?"
"Your new girl," he jerked his head to the petite woman next to him. "She tastes like bloody Sweet Tarts."
"I'm unfamiliar."
"A candy for children. A cross between sweet, sour, tart, fruit, all that. I myself haven't had one in thirty years. I'd forgotten all about them, but she's managed to trigger them in a box in my childhood closet," he tapped his temple. "You," he rounded his full irritation at Molly, "are just a jolly little holiday by the sea, aren't you?"
"I…"
"You sound unhappy with her flavour, Will," prompted Miss Adler.
"What?"
"Layman's analysis." She used a sharper tone.
"I said candy, Irene. Every inch of her is an orally-fixed man's dream. All pretty breasts and tasty skin. They'll spend their whole hour just licking her out and forget to actually use their dick," he spat in exasperation, raking a hand through his hair, which immediately fell back over his forehead.
Molly dared not even move.
The Miss gave Molly a condescending look of reproof. "I told you, Molly. We don't use lubricants or artificial flavour enhancers unless the client requests them. Will cannot make accurate assessments if-"
"Don't be simple," Will interrupted her before Molly could defend herself. "Did I say cloying, synthetic sex oil? No. The only enhancer she's used is tea, which she ingested. This woman has never used a lube or douche in her life." He glared back at Molly again. "You've never needed to. What boyfriend would ever let you when you taste this fucking good?"
Molly's gazed flickered to Miss Adler. "It's true," she offered lamely. "I'm just…me."
The atmosphere was still tense when Miss Adler settled further into her chair, looking away to help it dissipate.
"Well then. I suppose we should move along. Will," she gestured vaguely to the bed.
At this, Molly would not allow vagueness. "Are we to actually have sex now?"
"Of course, dear. Will isn't finished."
"Don't we…um…need…"
"All of my employees are tested at regular intervals. All of the women are on birth control. We require condom use with clients, but not with each other." Miss Adler paused. "Do you mind having unprotected vaginal sex with this man?"
The formality of the question struck her as funny. She didn't laugh.
Instead, she looked at the bed through her lashes. "One condition. Get rid of all the pillows."
Will snorted. He didn't even ask why. He simply reached across its voluminous surface and swept them all to the floor. He straightened and gave her a solemn wink that The Miss couldn't see.
"One more thing," Molly said.
"Yessss?" Will eased the word through his teeth.
"Do you consent to have unprotected vaginal sex with me?" Part of her asked because she felt these slightly-marital, stupid words should be repeated to the man. Part of her asked because no one's consent should be taken as a given.
At that, the chill of his gaze warmed. A bit. "Yes, Molly. I would be delighted to have sex with you."
Right then, if alone, they would have had a moment.
Alas. They were not.
"Both facing me, if you please. Take her from behind, Will. Slow to begin with, I want to see her expressions. Use the mirrors as usual to gauge her for yourself."
Molly could feel the dynamics had shifted. She wasn't sure how, exactly. She imagined she was just one of a dozen that Will had 'test driven'. Surely he was considerate with all of them. Surely he did as he was told, just as he was now, going through the motions as he boss directed. But Miss Adler's voice had taken an edge. Her words were baiting, designed to demean. Was that why she's chosen one of the few positions Molly had described in her questionnaire as unsatisfying to her? She found it slightly uncomfortable. She'd certainly never achieved an orgasm from it. And no man she'd ever allowed the privilege was as big as…well.
But it didn't matter.
Only business, right?
Molly climbed onto the bed, circling to face her boss. "No problem, Miss."
She splayed her knees. She arched her back. She shook out her hair so it fell down her shoulders and back. She stared directly into the beautiful woman's face. Her soon-to-be bed partner had called her feisty and fuckable. She was going to prove worthy of the words, so help her.
Will stood for a moment, then knuckled his way behind her. She felt the mattress tent with his weight. She saw his reflection in the large mirrors on the walls and the tall dressing mirror to the side of them a few feet away. His face was clear as he walked on his knees until they nestled between hers.
She felt his erection bump gently against her ass.
His hands slid over the curve of her hips.
"Details, Will. Neither of you is here for fun."
"Yes, Miss," they answered together.
One hand left her to grab hold of his shaft. With deliberate slowness, he ran himself through her folds. She twitched under his palm.
"Pronounced labia, more flourished than most women. It will excite men with its exaggerated sexuality. In this position, it appears to beg to be filled." Will spoke in a clear, professorial voice. "Very wet. And with almost no foreplay. She's ready for me."
Molly puffed a breath at the playfulness she heard.
"Molly," he purred at her back. "Would you mind terribly if I fuck this pretty pink cunt of yours?"
Oh, oh, oh.
If only she were witty. If only she were bold. Her feistiness rose up, but her words failed her. "Please do," was all she managed.
"Excellent." He positioned himself and slid deep.
Molly gave a soft, short cry.
Will froze, his cock completely buried, balls pressed tight against her.
"Details." Another hard demand.
"Hot," Will whispered.
"Big," Molly spoke over his answer.
"Try harder, my intellectuals."
"She…" Will stopped. "She's one-point-five degrees hotter than an average person. Thirty-eight degrees at least."
"Molly, dearest, have you come to us ill tonight?"
"No," she shook her head and the shake went all the way under the hands holding her hips. "He's right. I've always run hot. Exactly thirty-eight degrees."
"She's fucking tight," he breathed out, pulling back and slowly easing back in. "Three centimeters less in circumference than any woman I've penetrated before. Christ. She's…intense."
"Intense how?"
Will moved slowly, pitching his hips, easing in and out. Air left his lips in bursts. "She chokes me on entry, I'm nearly forced out. But as I retreat, her channel creates a partial vacuum and the pressure differential is extreme compared to other instances-"
"Layman's analysis."
Another small grunt. "Her cunt is sucking me off. She barely lets me in, but then she won't let me leave."
The woman's eyes glittered at this profitable information. "Delightful. Now," she clapped twice. "Fuck her. Medium tempo."
He complied.
Molly moaned.
She saw herself in a submissive position being fucked by a stunning man in the mirrors, the smug look of lust on Miss Adler's face, and she felt the unprecedented stretch of her pussy and she just. Fucking. Moaned.
"Isn't he lovely, Molly? Aren't you happy I picked him for you?"
"Yes, Miss."
"Have you ever had anyone as big as Will?"
"No, Miss."
He sawed steadily inside of her. The hot, heavy slide of his dick made her feel wild in a way she'd never experienced, especially in this impersonal position. It didn't make sense, really. How could a well-endowed stranger feel so good when all others in their five-inch glory had felt so awkward? Her hips rolled in his hands, she shifted restlessly before dropping to her elbows, pitching herself to give him the fullest access.
"No, no!" The Miss singsonged. "Up on your hands. I want to see your face. And Will has been staring at those lovely little tits as they bounce in the mirror, haven't you, darling?"
"Yes, Miss," his agreement rumbled darkly.
"Isn't she so very pretty with your cock in her?"
"Yesssss, Miss."
"I agree. Right cheek. Pain level four. Fast tempo."
Molly watched his reflection as his hand rose and landed a slight, sharp slap across her ass.
"Ah!" she cried out.
The sting was minimal.
The effect was shocking.
He ran a soothing, apologetic palm over the spot he'd struck. It was so sweet and concerned that she tipped her head, dizzy. Then he grabbed her again, greedy and impatient, yanking her back to be impaled fast and hard. Locked into place, she moaned as her pussy accepted rougher treatment. Just as suddenly, he slackened and stroked, shy and questioning.
"Tell me you liked it," he muttered over his pumping hips. "Please, tell me. You're sucking me like a Hoover and I need to know you're not upset."
"No," she cooed. "Again. Please. Again?"
Another slap. A degree harder. To her left cheek. His heavy balls slapped sternly against her exaggerated sexuality.
She felt her body clamp down this time. "Yes!"
"Oh, gooood," The Miss purred. At some point, her hand had disappeared under her long skirt, pleasuring deep between her legs. "She enjoys it. Well done, William. You're answering all of my concerns with your usual skill."
At that, Molly felt his sure thrusts falter slightly. "Thank you, Miss."
"Describe how she feels when you slap her."
"She tightens up. She'll break me in two at this rate. So wet and tight and hot," he ran his hands appreciatively over her back. "Like I've caught a forest nymph. And my prize is to be fucked to death."
"So poetic. I think you deserve a treat, don't you? Molly, does our beautiful Will deserve a little more?"
"Anything, Miss."
"Good girl. On your knees in kneeling doggie style. Keep your ass popped out, he's not done with that, but lift so he can reach you."
Molly popped up, her arms flying behind her head and finding the back of his neck. She grabbed hold, turning her face into the column of his throat. She heard his panting, felt his pulse against her forehead, smelled that perfect, flawed scent of tobacco and mint.
"William, would you like to play with your prize?"
"Desperately, Miss."
She gave an imperious nod. Will's hands shot to Molly's breasts, cupping and moulding them, using them to pull her closer into his chest. Molly purred into his skin, writhing against him.
"Right side. Pain level six."
He slapped her right breast. Molly's cries were getting louder now, more desperate. Were these rooms sound proof?
"Good?" he murmured into her hair.
She made a high, pretty whine against his ear. "I'm going to come if you keep doing it. Is that allowed? She said this wasn't meant to be fun."
A growl vibrated against her face. "You don't come in this position. You said on your questionnaire."
Molly squirmed in his grip, releasing one hand from his neck and grabbing his ass as he pumped. He pinched her nipples into hard points, flicking them, smacking their sides. She began to shake.
"I know. But I'm so close. Will she get mad?"
His growl increased in volume. He grabbed her hair, angling her head to watch them in the mirror. He held two fingers from his other hand against her lips. She sucked them without question. They smelled of ash and tasted of salt.
He slipped them out of her lips and settled them against her clit.
"Look at us," he hissed in her ear, staring at them in the mirror. "Look at you. So sweet. So young. I fuck cunts decades older than yours. I like how yours grips me, like its starving for me and only me. Watch now. Watch how lovely you are when you come for me."
Electricity shot from her clit as he worked it, down her legs through her very toes. She jerked and shuddered against him, making strangled, soft sounds of pleasure.
It took no time.
He was the best driver in town, after all.
White light, so much brighter than this boring room, exploded behind her eyes. Molly screamed. Her audience. Her lover. The world on which she spun. It all disappeared as every last cell in her body drew in, then detonated. She did not feel her own internal muscles lock onto him and strangle his own orgasm out of him.
Will roared, shoving himself deep, shocked and enraged as his instincts won out over his directive.
The nymph in his arms squeezed his cock without mercy, forcing him to come in such thick, hot jets that it threatened to knock him out, as she had suggested at the beginning.
They bucked and stuttered against each other, stealing every last ripple of pleasure from their union, before Molly collapsed backwards, into his arms.
His embrace was reassuring. Solid against her.
Where she felt only satisfaction from his direction, she felt a wild surge of anger from across the room. They were in trouble. The test drive had turned into a demolition derby somehow. They were wrecked. Molly wasn't meant to come. Will was a living dildo, told to collect information and nothing else. And yet, here they lay in a twisted pile of debris.
Miss Adler glared at them as they gasped for air.
Fuck you. Mine.
Molly's own anger surprised her. But it didn't stop her from flipping into a full stretch onto her belly, facing Will. She spread her legs wide at their mistress, popping her ass in the air (as instructed). As Will's semen trickled down her inner thighs, she smiled up at the insensible man before her, still sprawled on his knees, hands propped back on the mattress, semi-hard, and moaning.
She took his softening cock deep in her mouth and gave him the gentlest, grateful suck. Salt and sweet and sour filled her mouth as she cleaned him off.
He flinched like she'd burned him, arching between her lips, swearing like a drunk. His eyes clenched against the overstimulation, tilted towards the ceiling.
"Fuck, your mouth," he said unaware.
When he finally fell forward, his curls nearly touched the top of her head. She released him and looked up into a face scraped raw. He looked… younger.
She flipped to her back. His forehead rested against hers. Molly, a loving soul, kissed what little she could reach from her exalting position.
It was only several seconds, but felt like excruciating minutes, before someone spoke. Her long skirt rustled as The Miss rose from her chair. Neither performer looked over. Though whether they kept their heads lowered in supplication or indifference, Molly wasn't sure.
"If you have the bad manners to come inside a woman without her permission, William, you're in charge of cleaning the mess." Miss Adler, stiff in her anger, tossed a silk handkerchief on the bed as she walked by, resolutely towards the door.
"Molly, you're on from tomorrow night. Will," she paused with her hand on the French handle. She didn't turn to look back. "Take the week off."
Then she was gone and they were alone.
The chill of the room reasserted itself. Molly shivered, staring up at two closed eyes.
"Will," she entreated in a whisper. Her hand drifted up to cup his cheek.
His hand immediately covered hers, pressing hard.
"No."
"No?"
"To Will. Or William. Or anything else I'm called under this roof. No."
"William isn't your real name then."
He lifted up. He shifted away. Instantly, Molly was worried she'd offended him. With the sex? Or the unprofessional orgasm? Or daring to kiss him when he was too stupefied to object? God, how could she be so pathetic? Petting and fussing over a colleague when the last thing he wanted was attention drawn to his misfire.
But, no.
He wasn't moving away. Just down.
He picked up the black, silk handkerchief from the sheets and settled himself between her bent legs.
Molly rose up on her elbows, watching him as he stared at her cum-soaked pussy as if it hung in the Louvre.
"Forgive me," he muttered, his voice low. "She's right. I should never have taken such a liberty." He went to wipe it away.
Molly grabbed his wrist, surprising them both. She released him quickly, but only so she could dip her finger between her folds. She brought it to her mouth and sucked it deep. He watched as the wheels scrolled behind her eyes. Scientist to scientist.
"I like how you taste, too," she said after a moment. "I wonder…"
He set the handkerchief against her dripping cunt, dabbing carefully. "Yes?"
"I wonder…how would you taste if your body chemistry wasn't fifty percent nicotine."
His eyes didn't leave his task as he swept up their mess. But they did crinkle at the edges. "It helps me think."
"So does yoga. Try something healthier than legalized cancer."
His soft smile deepened. "Yes, doctor."
The handkerchief now dangled from his long fingers, heavy and splotched with white mess.
"It's funny," he said as they looked at it between them. "I haven't seen my own ejaculate in years."
"So she was serious? You never…? Not even with your partner? Not even alone?"
"I have no partner, nor interest in one. Masturbation is not something on which I expend energy. I fuck one or two people a week to keep my landlady in Jacob's Creek and off my back. The rest of my time is spent on my real work."
"Which is?"
"Solving crimes."
Molly's hand shot out to the side of the sheet, ripping it free to shield her nudity. "You're a cop?"
He caught her hand before she could cover herself, lowering into her space until their noses almost touched. "No."
"Brothels are illegal in England. A crime."
"And I also work in one, if you'll recall. I'm not a cop, nor am I undercover or any such thing. I simply consult, helping with the more serious and violent crimes for Scotland Yard. Slap and tickle hardly counts."
Molly blinked. "Does Miss Adler know?"
"I've never told her, but I'm sure the woman has her sources. You're a trusting person, Miss Hooper, but a bit of advice. Never, ever tell Irene a thing about yourself. Work here if you must, pay your way through medical school, but keep your shield up at all times. You're a stunning fuck, and she'll charge a premium for you. But never be interesting outside of that. Believe me, you do not want Irene Adler taking an interest in you."
Slowly, Molly lowered her hand, baring herself to him again. With him leaning so close, she could smell that lovely scent on him, mixed with sex, traveling through his warmth.
"You're not Will. Who are you?"
"Sherlock. My name is Sherlock Holmes."
"And…you think I'm stunning, Sherlock Who Solves Crimes But Isn't A Cop Holmes?"
"You broke Miss Adler's living sex machine inside of ten minutes. I assure you, she's downstairs right now arranging your schedule with the most exclusive male clients."
"I'm asking about you."
"My honest opinion? You feel custom built for fucking. Your physical attributes, coupled with your naturally kind heart, will make men lose themselves." He paused, looking away. "I imagine I affect women in a similar way. Bigger than average, aloof, hard to get. Where I make them want, you will make them feel wanted. Both are ideal fantasies for us to foster."
Molly acted on impulse. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. It was barely there, a feather on the razor's edge. She placed another beneath the first. And then another.
"I don't care about fantasy," she murmured against his stillness. "You're lovely. Yes, you're beautiful and a …stunning fuck," she blushed, "…but you're something else, too. You're not aloof at all. Just…a man apart." She hid in his shoulder, embarrassed. Smiling into him, she asked, "So you've had Irene then?"
"At her request."
"And every woman in this house?"
"Correct."
"You shattered them into a thousand pieces, just like me?"
"At her request."
"But you didn't. Shatter, I mean."
"No."
"And never do?"
"Today you broke a very impressive streak of me not shattering."
Another blush. A whisper into his skin. "You shatter fantastically well."
He didn't reply.
"I suppose we should get dressed. Get out of this horrifying room. I've a paper due on Thursday."
She slipped from underneath him and stood. The mess of white satin pillows sprawled at her feet. She kicked one, hard. It sailed across the room and landed with a bounce in the corner.
He stood next to her. "Who the hell decided Eggshell was an erotic colour?"
Molly scooped up her clothes, which she'd folded neatly at the beginning of her inspection. She slipped on her panties. She grabbed her bra. Once again, a hand reached out a stilled her.
She looked up and found him starting at her breasts. Deep in thought, he clasped her sides and extended his thumbs over her pearled nipples.
She gasped, clenching her bra in her fists.
He eyes flicked up to hers. "Is it wrong that I like this?"
"No, but…ah," she blushed deep red this time, "I couldn't possibly afford you, remember? And we're not allowed any fun." She meant it as a joke. It came out horrible.
And yet, he smiled. He released her. "Of course."
He turned away and she dressed in silence. Bright pink blouse, jeans she bought on sale, flat shoes, hair back into a ponytail.
When she finally turned around, he was back in his robe and facing the window, starting off into space.
"So," she said, with no idea for follow-up.
"So," he didn't turn around.
"Will I see you? After your week off?"
"My 'week off' is code for 'time out', Miss Hooper. I'm being punished."
She huffed. "For ejaculating during sex? That's hardly fair."
He pivoted. "For liking you."
"But," she hesitated, folding her arms over her buttoned shirt. "You didn't-"
"I did more than enough. And don't concern yourself. A week in time out is mostly symbolic, she can't afford to keep me out of rotation for long. She'll cool off, then feel she's made her point." When he smiled this time, it felt plastic.
He gestured toward the door. "Come, let me get you a cab."
"You're half dressed. And I take the Tube."
"I'm covered neck to ankle and you're taking a cab tonight."
"Sherrrlock…"
"Mmmm…yes, I like that. Mmmmolly."
His voice did something tipsy and unhelpful to her lower belly.
He used her unease to gently escort her out, his hand on her lower back. "That's my nymph. Back into the forest you go."
She let herself be led down the stairs of the large, renovated Victorian. They passed the parlour where beautiful working men and women watched them with practiced disinterest as they sipped drinks and spoke in low, bored tones.
"You didn't answer me," she murmured.
He opened the front door.
"You'll not see me much, if at all. I don't work the floor. I'm called in for desperate, august heiresses and their ilk, paying Irene in diamonds since paper money offends their sense of dignity."
"You're joking."
"Perhaps. Here." He barely flicked his wrist and a cab appeared out of nowhere.
Molly planned to ask to be let out around the corner, as she wasn't about to pay for a ride across town. But the naked man in a kimono pulled cash out of the same nowhere he'd pulled the cab, and then to her shock, her address.
"Please stay until she's inside. She's quite precious to us."
He winked. He slammed the door. He was gone by the time she looked from the driver to the kerb.
S+M+S+M+S+M+S+M+S+M+S+M
He'd been right.
Two weeks went by and Molly didn't see Sherlock Who Solves Crimes during any of her shifts at Miss Adler's. She'd looked. Out of the corner of her eye, and never asked anyone about him, but looked she did. He'd also been right about their boss's enthusiasm in turning her out. Far from working the floor with the others, she'd been kept hidden. Her existence teased out in private conversations. She got wind that she was part of some bidding war for her "first time" as of the women of the Adler establishment. When she finally met her first client, there wasn't much to say. He was a businessman. Mid-forties. Not ugly, but not memorable either. He was respectful, though Molly knew that if there was one thing The Miss did not tolerate in her house, it was disrespect to her employees. Illegal trade or not, if any of her workers were touched in any way other than the agreed-upon menu, they were thrown out on their ass with a lifetime ban stamped on it.
Her "first time" with Business Guy with also forgettable. In fact, she'd barely done anything before he'd blown his load into his condom after three minutes of missionary. His starry-eyed gratitude was baffling. She accepted a fifty quid tip and didn't question beyond it.
Second Bloke was even more astonished. When he slid into her from behind, he'd actually sputtered. "Holy shit," he'd whispered, not even letting her adjust before starting to pump like a sweaty teenager. He was barely six inches long and nothing compared to...the last man to assume that position. Still, Molly made a face at the very unsexy sensation. "Are you a virgin?" he'd panted excitedly. He pistoned with no grace, like the fate of England depended on his frantic hips. "Fuck, you feel good. You like my cock, huh? Do ya? Must do with a quim this tight. Such a hot little virgin slu-"
Molly'd already had enough. She clenched her inner muscles. Second Bloke screamed like she'd shot him. He came whimpering and pumping. It made Molly think of some sad, shagging farm animal. He paid her like money was only paper and promised to come back next week like he was offering marriage. Molly barely smiled. He barely noticed, already fantasizing about their next romp.
Miss Adler began to market Molly accordingly. She wouldn't have an hourly rate. Instead, men were all but dared to take her as long as they could hold out. The moment they achieved their own orgasm, their session was up.
Molly was paid more money for less time served than she would have thought possible.
So, three times a week for about one hour of work (including dressing up and wiping down) she was making 800 pounds.
She couldn't help but notice, obviously. She was a woman of probability, after all. Sure, in her limited experience, most of her lovers had come rather quickly and begged to make it up to her in other ways. Sometimes she managed to achieve her own end during the deed. But as she began to gather a bigger sample of the population, a hypothesis was forming. Her personal combination of heat, pressure and pheromonal output made for a rather intense experience for whomever she took to bed. As Irene had noted, most men simply didn't have the wherewithal to articulate the sensation of sex with her. But now, thanks to Sherlock, she knew what she was witnessing.
But the experiment would have to be put on hold for the next five days.
At 3pm on a drizzly Tuesday afternoon, Molly had barely moved all day. Curled up on her sofa with her eighth hot water bottle, she groaned through another painful wave of cramps.
Her menstrual cycle had always been a bit of a bitch. Every third month it hit with particular venom, ripping at her delicate womb like it was trying to detach and exit her body through her vagina. For at least two days, any activities planned were completely torpedoed, unless those plans included hours of movies and eating paracetamol like Tic Tacs while dreading bathroom breaks.
Right now, The Dirty Dozen was on the telly. A favourite of her dad's. By default, a favourite of hers. A story of doomed prisoners accepting their fate and sacrificing themselves for a greater cause. Given her current state of affairs, the theme felt like a cheap shot.
She sighed. She wanted some raspberry leaf tea. But the kitchen was Siberia now, accessible only for dire emergencies like hot water bottle refills.
No tea, then. Siberia would be left to more intrepid explorers than her.
A loud knock interrupted her literal thirst trap and she groaned. She was a mess. She was wearing a tee shirt so baggy it barely touched her, and hair that looked like a tornado had styled it.
"It's open!" she shouted. Maybe the DHL guy or landlord would take pity on her and make her tea.
She heard the front door open from her cocoon on the couch, then close again with the chain sliding into place. Great, either a dear friend or a psycho killer had entered her home.
"Who is it?" she called belatedly. "I'm poor and having lady issues, so don't get any ideas!"
A dark chuckle filtered through the room, making her rejoice and recoil in recognition.
"Sherlock," she whispered.
He slid into view, squatting by the couch at her eye level. "Well remembered."
He was beautiful. Molly silently bewailed her rotten luck when this walking magazine cover, in his tailored black suit and white shirt open at the collar, smiled indulgently down at her sorry self.
"My poor lady," he cooed with mock sympathy.
"Shut up. Make me tea. Turn me into a man who never has to deal with this shit. And make me wealthy, while you're at it. This 'poor lady' thing isn't working for me."
"Ooooh," he pulled pieces of her hair away from her face. "You're the magical one, nymph. Conjure anything you like. Except being a man, if it's all the same. I rather like you as a woman."
She groaned and tried to burrow through the cushions.
"Tea," he announced as though thinking of it himself, and stood up. She heard him banging around in her kitchen as he become familiar with its layout. She heard the kettle. Smelled her beloved raspberries steeping. Felt him shuffling back into the living room, cup in hand.
"Fank you," she muffled into the cushion.
Her hot water bottle was taken and immediately replaced with another one, so hot that she made some thankful noise of relief.
"Why are you here, Sherlock? Aside from increasing the market value of my flat with your mere presence?"
"You weren't on the roster this week."
"You know what that means for women in our trade."
"You also weren't in class today."
"There's ZERO reason why you should know that."
"There's no accounting for what a uni registrar will tell you if you turn on the charm."
"Why were you turning on the charm at my uni in the first place?"
"Details. Boring. Drink your tea." He pulled the coffee table near her head and set the mug in front of her face. The scented steam warmed her nose and instantly made her feel better.
"So," he chirped in a glee that didn't suit him. "I hear you're quite the belle of the ball at Irene's. I did warn you, didn't I?"
"Ugh, don't talk about sex to the unsexist person in the world right now. I'm dying."
"You're flush with life, Molly. It's a violent process."
"I'm highly in lust with you, Sherlock, but if you mansplain my period to me, I'll strangle you with my tampon."
"Graphic. Tea, darling. It'll help." He pecked the cup with his finger.
She gave up and faced him, sitting up and making a valiant attempt at a sip. It cost her dearly.
"Christ, it hurts," she muttered into the brew.
His expression settled into something more authentic. Contrition, but not quite. "I am sorry. I remember it hurting my mother quite badly, when I was young. Of course, there was no talk of tampons or blood in those days. Merely being 'out of sorts'."
She grimaced.
He simply watched her drink. His rapt attention was such an odd thing to hold. She was hardly anything to stare at on her best day. Now, wearing a sleeved tent with no makeup and a green complexion, she couldn't imagine what he found so fascinating.
"What can I help you with, Sherlock?"
"Exactly. Though I'd prefer we ask how we can help each other."
She made a tired, exasperated sound. "I've already asked for help and you've already said you're not a magician. Utterly useless."
"True, magic is out the question, however," he pressed his hands together in prayer against his lips. "Human biology has some rather fantastic tricks up its sleeve, would you not agree?"
"Tricks?"
"Yes. Did you know, for example, that orgasms can relieve menstrual pain?"
Molly snorted into her tea. "Handsome and funny."
"I'm perfectly serious. I've researched the phenomena."
"Meaning you Googled it earlier today."
He waved his hand dismissively. "More than one source agrees. An orgasm will relax the tightness of your pelvic floor muscles. Theoretically."
"I see that this orgasm has moved into my pelvis and not a theoretical one."
"Obviously. I need to have sex with you again, Molly. If I'm able to provide pain relief while doing so, I offer it as an inducement."
"You can have sex any time you want, just ask Miss Adler for a gig. Better yet, find some nice girl to settle down with and procure a lasting source for that activity."
"Cute and funny."
"I'm perfectly serious. I'm in no shape nor mood to have sex right now. Neither can I afford you, as we've established."
He actually looked wounded. "I'm not here for money."
"You don't shag for recreation," she countered.
"It's never appealed before, no."
She hugged her water bottle harder. "But you've sought out a tangled, whingeing, bleeding mess to scratch this newfound itch?"
"This tangled, whingeing, bleeding mess is the newfound itch."
At that, she closed her eyes to his wonderfully strange beauty. "I'm not though, am I? I'm just a puzzle. You came against your will the other day, and now you're here for a rematch. Mind over penis, and all that." She opened them again, full of insight. "All my clients come quickly. It's my superpower, apparently. You hate that you're lumped in with their lack of stamina."
The wounded expression morphed into dislike.
They both looked away from each other.
After a moment, Sherlock said, "I don't quite understand. You've said you're in lust with me. You enjoyed me as much as I did you. I'm attracted to you, more than anyone I can recall in my life. And I am curious why I succumbed to a rather straight-forward sexual encounter, with a brunette mood killer in the room, no less. I…" he stopped. "…these last two weeks…"
He stopped again and stood quickly. Pacing in her tiny living room, Sherlock clamped all ten fingers into his forehead, pulling his thoughts to the front. "…You see, I've built a mind palace over many years…"
He spared a glance at her. She smiled wanly. "How many rooms?"
He slowed his step. "You're familiar with the term."
"Of course. It's a method of loci. Incredibly difficult to do for a person with average mental capacity. Usually only people with autism or photographic memories can build them with any accuracy."
He stopped short. "High-functioning sociopath, thank you very much."
"Is that another Google verdict?"
"A simple fact."
"Sure."
"I mean it."
"Fine."
"You don't believe me. Why?"
"Which direction are you facing?"
"East," no hesitation.
"What's the square root of negative one?"
"Incalculable, though I'm working on it."
"How am I feeling right now?"
"Achy. Annoyed. Amused. Indecisive."
"Are you hyper-active? Do you eat? Sleep? Watch telly? Read fiction?"
"Pft," he rolled his eyes. "Next."
"Are you creative? Talented in some way?"
"I play the violin."
"What colour is the building two doors down?"
"Grey on the left. Tan to the right."
"Hmmm." She gave him another knowing lift of her lips.
He gestured impatiently. "Diagnosis, Doctor Hooper?"
She sighed. "Honestly? Sociopathy doesn't fit the concern you feel for people. In my fifty pence opinion, you're a genius-level intellect with low latent inhibition."
His chin drew slowly, purposefully to one side as he stared at her.
She shrugged. "Thank god you're smart. LLI drives lower IQ individuals psychotic." She held out her palm. "Cash only, please."
"You think I'm incapable to ignoring incoming stimuli. That I'm forced to process all of it." He brought his hands back to prayer position. "It could still be explained by sociopathy."
"Not really. Mister I Solve Serious Crimes For A Living."
"Crimes are puzzles. I don't care about the people they affect. I want them solved."
"Climate change is a puzzle. Quantum physics is a puzzle. Diseases are puzzles. If you're such an uncaring robot, why not go cure dengue fever from the comfort of a microscope? Protect a million living people you never have to meet, instead of finding justice for the dead. I promise, they care less than you do."
"Molly, Molly, Molly," he rolled out, slipping onto the couch beside her. "Such a strange sentiment from an aspiring pathologist."
"Not really. I want to help the dead. They're not puzzles to me. They're my teachers. And I'm their voice. Or I will be, anyway."
She'd long since finished her tea. Sherlock slowly pushed the coffee table away from her so he could settle his knees against hers.
Molly could feel her features being pulled apart under his gaze. "How many rooms, Sherlock?"
"Five hundred and seventy-three."
"And I'm in one. And I shouldn't be. Because I'm one sexual encounter you've spent thirty-seven minutes with."
A strained pause. "You have your own room, actually. Only five people have rooms."
"What's in there with me?"
"Mirrors. The white cushion you kicked. A small cup with bright red tea swirling. Trees."
"Trees? In my room?"
"A forest. I didn't want you to get bored. You disappear into it sometimes." His tongue slid over his lip as he surveyed the space behind his eyes. "Clothing that doesn't suit you in a wardrobe. An articulated skeleton stands in the corner. There's… there's not much else. It's hot in here," he looked down, pink rising in his cheeks. "Thirty-eight degrees, to be precise."
"How often do you come to see me?"
The answer skittered in the halogen, but didn't make it to his mouth.
She smirked. "And what do we do? When you visit?"
More silence. But the answer, she knew, wasn't entirely sexual.
"Amazing," she murmured. "You're just…amazing."
He hesitated, then reached out. The cool pads of his fingertips brushed along her cheek. She could see it, the thoughts wrestling around in his head. Her heart went out to him. To be so brilliant, to have to live in the confines of a human skull, it must be hell.
"It's ridiculous how much I want you, Molly Hooper."
She reached up and gently pulled his hand to her mouth. She kissed it, and pulled back to admire its elegant bone structure. Her nail scraped into the rare, triangular deepening of the radial near his wrist. "An anatomical snuffbox," she identified and chuckled. "Must everything about you be an anomaly?"
There was no hesitation in him now as he cupped her face and kissed her.
He didn't push hard. He gently coaxed her lips with his, pressing and retreating, gauging her willingness. She gave it. Tender and unsure as she felt, she'd been honest about the lust thing. With the six men she'd slept with in her new job, she'd tried to summon him in their faces, their voices, their everything else. Needless to say, they failed in every comparison.
She wound her fingers into his curls and pulled him closer. She whimpered into the flavour she found there. It was earthy and complex, and…clean. Dark chocolate? She pushed deeper, looking for-
"You won't find it," he read her mind against her lips. "I haven't smoked since that day."
She smiled, kissing him more soundly in gratitude before happily sampling his mouth without the taste of cigarettes getting in the way.
"How's the yoga coming?"
"Shut up and give me more raspberries," he demanded, sipping from her lips as though she were the teacup sitting next to her.
They kissed for many minutes. Nothing too aggressive, and Molly suspected she was being gently primed. She could summon no ire over it. His lips were pillowy soft. She liked how her hands could roam over his clothed body, knowing it was for no one's benefit but theirs. They were alone, doing what they liked. Less than ideal timing, to be fair, but she was willing to admit that snogging Sherlock on a raining afternoon in her cosy living room was far from disagreeable.
"Molly," he whispered into her pulse. He'd been necking her and doing and very admirable job of it. "You're driving me mad."
"You seriously want to have period sex? Right now, on my rug?"
"I can take you to bed."
"No! I'll get blood everywhere!"
"The rug then, yes. I want to. I'll get towels," he offered helpfully.
"And you're fine with it? I mean, I don't know how often your clients are on the rag when you-"
"Oh gods, never. They'd die before they'd make such a request."
"So, how many times have you…?"
"Made love to a menstruating woman? Never."
Her eyes widened. "So…"
"You're my first," his eyes narrowed. "And I'm yours," he deduced with a wolfish smile.
"Of course you would be! It's a very personal thing you're asking for. Most men would be put off and most women would be too embarrassed."
"Are you embarrassed?"
"No, but-"
"Wonderful. I'm not put off. Quite the opposite, this will prove most interesting."
He slid to his knees and shoved the coffee table up against the wall. Almost floating back to his feet, he pivoted to the hall. "Towels, then."
He returned too soon for Molly to come up with an excuse. Bearing two pink towels and two pillows from her bed, he laid out the latter, then covered them up with the former. "There. Much more attractive than that marshmallow we debauched."
He turned on her. "Shall I lift you? Or can you stand?"
She huffed, gingerly standing up. "This is still going to be the unsexiest sex either one of us will ever have," she pouted at him.
"Nonsense. I get a witness-free session with you, and you get pain relief from me. It will be most productive."
"You should work the phone sex lines in your free time. That silver tongue of yours."
He took her hands and pulled her into the shade of his perfect suit. Halogen blue glittered at her like the dangerous substance it was. "My tongue is quite unhappy, actually. It'll have to wait before it gets any candy." He lowered to her ear, his lips touching the lobe. "I want to eat you for days, Molly Hooper."
He took advantage of her mind blanking to tug her baggy tee shirt over her head. Suddenly she was wearing nothing but bikini briefs in front of a man she'd met all of twice.
She felt exposed and so unpretty next to him.
She nestled into his shirt, her arms circling his waist under his jacket, resting her head on his sternum.
He purred his approval into the top of her head. "Affectionate," he noted, his hands tracing patterns over her slim back. "But shy," he pulled her away, shaking his head. "So lovely and in pain."
He dropped to his knees. "Breasts swollen and tender. I must confess that I am what you accuse me of, Molly. Weak. I know they hurt, but they look so damn perfect." He leaned in and kissed one.
Gently.
Molly whimpered again, bracing for pain.
But…
It didn't come.
Sherlock kept his kiss soft. He followed its curve, carefully pressing his lips and forehead into her, but with no force. Then he switched to the other. His eyes never left hers. It felt…considerate.
Without looking away, he found her hand and brought it to his mouth. He flipped it open and kissed her palm. "May I?"
His fingertips played under the elastic. Looking away, she nodded.
She felt her panties slowly pulled down and off. She stood before him again, naked for an inspection that wasn't entirely unwelcome.
"Take your clothes off," she said to the wall. "Fair's fair."
"Fair is absolutely fair," he agreed. She saw him in her periphery, shouldering out of his jacket and shirt while women everywhere suddenly felt a bit flush as his skin hit the air.
He stood, reached out and pulled her hand, resting her fingers on his belt. "I'm rubbish with buckles," he lied through his teeth. "Will you help me?"
With bad grace bordering on anger, she undid the damned thing and whipped it from the loops before shucking him out of his trousers with all the finesse of dehusking corn. He never stopped smiling to himself and he bent down to rid himself of shoes, socks and slacks before standing up in his black boxer briefs.
She scowled out him. "Why are you so hard to resist?"
He clucked his tongue without answering, leading her to the floor and arranging her so that her head and hips were cradled and comfortable on the pillows. "Ours is not to reason why," he muttered, sweetly crossing her arms over her stomach.
She had to admit, he built a comfy little spot. She felt warm. Her stomach was sore, but between the pills and the water bottles, the pain had downgraded from a pang to a throb. Sherlock skulked around her on his hands and knees, parting her legs and gazing with his laser focus on her bared pussy. She couldn't see from this angle, but she knew the white mouse tail of her tampon was peeking out. He didn't even blink as he rid himself of his underwear, staring at his destination.
"You're sure?" his deep voice caught her off guard. "I want you. But I'll not coerce you."
"Sherlock, I'm mad at myself for wanting an-almost complete stranger so much that I'm willing to douse him in blood just to fuck him again." She bit her lip, then caught a single, dark curl between index finger and thumb. "Yes. I'm sure. Very sure. I've wanted nothing else for two whole weeks."
They smiled at each other. His hand stole deep between her legs. She felt a familiar tug. Then a slow drag as he pulled her tampon out.
"Ah. My murder weapon." He held it up, half streaked in blood. Grinning as though he'd disarmed Dillinger himself.
"You'll never take me alive, copper."
"That's where you're wrong, Mmmolly." The M started deep in his throat before rumbling to his lips. He tossed it into her empty cup.
He crawled up to her level, keeping himself up, away from her sensitive flesh. Only their hips touched. Then, their lips. "I believe I'll take you now."
He slipped between her folds. She mewled into his mouth. "Go slow," she squeaked, pressing her palms into his biceps. "I was serious, you're bigger than anyone I've been with."
"As I was serious. About never experiencing anything like you," he murmured.
He kept himself shallow, pumping in small strokes, cataloguing the difference between natural lubrication and the far more slippery blood concoction now coating him.
"Is this good?" he asked.
She jerked her chin up and down twice. "Y-yes."
"Thank Christ, because you feel astonishing."
She widened her thighs around him. She pitched her hips, just a little, wanting yet fearing more. "Sherrrlock," she stuttered against the pleasing, aching stretch he caused as he eased deeper.
"There it is," he revelled in the sound of his name. "Lovely little Molly, never say Will in my arms again, hm?"
"Promise. Sherlock?"
"Yes, Molly?"
"A little more. Not hard. Just deeper."
"Gladly." He edged a bit further in.
Molly's head pitched back deep into the pillow. His thrusts stayed calm, but the slick, oily glide of his considerable width made her eyes roll back.
"Why doesn't everyone do this?" he muttered, kissing her bared throat. "Why can't everything feel this way?"
She nuzzled into his dark curls. "Mmm…messy, I suppose."
"Sod the mess. This could end wars."
She felt his balls lap against her pussy. She inhaled sharply at the realization that she'd managed to accept all of him despite everything. Damn, her body really would do anything to fuck this man.
He stilled, eyes flashing. "I'm hurting you?"
She shook her head hard. "No. I'm just…you're just…already…completely..."
"Mm, yes. And no pain. But…are you…" he bobbed his head side to side, "….enjoying…happy?"
"Yes," she assured him. "Enjoying. Happy."
With that, the uncertainty in his eyes was slowly smothered as his lids closed. A low, contented purr erupted from him as he pumped firmly between her legs, as deep as he liked.
"It's intense," Molly explained. "Like massaging a strained muscle."
"Sex with you feels like solving a triple murder on the London Eye while experiencing a mild heart attack."
"Sherlock!"
"And simultaneously eating cherry pie?"
"Honestly!" she slapped his shoulder.
"No, you're right, not pie. Rum punch. Getting giggling-drunk on rum punch."
She gave a shriek of laughter, yanking him down and kissing his stupid, pretty mouth. Oh, if only she were feeling better. The man deserved a spanking. Deserved to be tied up, knocked down and fucked until that perfect prick of his was bone dry.
His thumb poked through their kiss, was licked by both tongues, and removed to southern climes. Molly gasped as it circled her clit.
"I made you a promise," he whispered.
"I'm okay just like this," she dimpled at him. "I don't need more."
"To hell with okay. I'm Adler's Tin Man, don't you know. I'm no woman's three-star review."
"Oh god, is that what they call you?"
"Molly, focus. My control is slipping. I want your pain gone and I want to hear my name again. I didn't tell you, did I? How delicious you felt as you came apart in my arms? Watching you go blind, gasping from just a few slaps across these perky tits? I couldn't with her in the room. But you made me feel like the most powerful man alive, all sweet and hot and screaming. Do it again. Come on my cock like a good little nymph." He shivered. "Take me with you."
Molly keened, his descriptions popping off in her head like a Polaroid stuck on autofire. The images were grainy and filthy and tasty and—
"Sherlock!" she screamed. Her body seized and bowed upwards. Her short nails scored his back. Her pussy clamped down like a vicious little fist and threatened to crack him right down the middle.
Sherlock bellowed in livid joy. His orgasm snatched him up and hurled him into the void. The tiny woman beneath him was attempting to suck his mind out through his dick. He transferred it grudgingly, rutting, roaring, gnashing his teeth as it left him.
They dissolved into a fit of panting.
Finally, Sherlock made himself tip to her side, already worried that he'd gotten too rough at the end. He reached up and yanked a yellow crocheted blanket off the back of an overstuffed chair and settled over her, mindful to keep it off his bloody lower half. He propped himself on an elbow, lifting locks of her hair and smoothing them to the side.
"Molly," he nuzzled against her temple. "Are you all right?"
"Ssshh—" Molly attempted, her eyes closed, her lips rounded in an infuriatingly sexy O. "Ssshh—Ssshhut up."
"But did I hurt y—"
"I said shut up. Sssshhhh."
"Molly, I—"
"The pain is gone, Sherlock. All gone. Poof. Let me lie here and enjoy it."
He fell onto his back, as exhausted and content as a well-fed lion. "Thank god for Google then."
"Hmm."
He stared at the ceiling and waited for the inevitable avalanche of thoughts to pull him under, take him far away from this room and leave Molly alone with his body as a placeholder for when he returned.
But it didn't happen.
Thoughts came, but they didn't drag him away. They simply floated around him. He examined them from his unhurried perch, clouds cruising by with no urgency and no jealousy towards his interest in a person and not them.
So when Molly turned on her side to face him, he was instantly aware and turned as well.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked dreamily.
"Clouds. You. This new development in my life. What it will mean. When I can kiss you again without seeming pushy. When I can see you again without seeming needy. Pink towels, my belt, and a used tampon are now fixtures in your room and I'll feel randy every time I look at them. That I don't want you working for Adler. That I don't want to work for Adler. That I wonder if I love you, though I have no comparison. That we both need money, sex is lucrative, and can I bear it if you rightly decide you must continue to pay for your education. That I've been eating Sweetarts for the last nine days. That I'm no better than those imbeciles who pay for you and I'm an idiot to hope you might see more in me than you do them. That I—"
His words were cut off by a soft, insistent pair of lips that swallowed his insecurity.
"Sssshhh—"
"Shut up, Sherlock," he guessed, smiling and ruining their kiss.
"Bingo."