Molly was buzzing. From the tip-top of her head, bouncing down her breasts and belly and legs and into the toes curling in Sherlock's hands, her body was buzzing. Maybe that wasn't the right word for it, there wasn't really a sound. It was like electricity skimming over her but in a gentle, warming way. Still lying on the carpet, she stretched her arms up and backward, enjoying the pull on her well-used muscles, before tucking her hands behind her head again. She felt a tickling sensation high on the instep of her right foot. It was Sherlock's lip brushing over her skin there.
"Was it your father who used to take you camping?"
"Yes, how did you know he used to take me camping? He loved the outdoors and hiking."
"The scar right here. Obviously caused by a camping stove burn, an old model though so I doubt it was recent. Scar's quite faded, too, barely visible, and you were much smaller when it happened. Could have been made by something else with a similarly long burner, but so low to the ground? A camping stove. You kicked it over on accident when you were a child on a trip with your dad. That's a bit of a cheat- from what you've said of your mum over the years, I knew she'd never take you camping and you have little family." Sherlock kissed her faded scar once more, tracing the line lightly with his tongue. He looked up. "Did I get anything wrong?"
"It wasn't an accident. I was angry. I don't even remember what it was. Something silly. I kicked the bloody stove and tried to storm into the woods. Except I walked into a tree because it was dark and my foot was hurting because the edge of the stove had burnt through my sock." Molly's body shook with giggles. "I can't even storm off properly without being scarred for life. Came home limping with a giant egg on my forehead." She pulled herself up on her elbows to look at Sherlock, who listened intently while holding her foot and stroking the instep absentmindedly.
"Gosh, I must sound like a clod. I promise I'm not the most graceless cow to walk the earth." Molly paused for a moment, and then asked, "Are you done inspecting me, Sherlock? I don't mind it, but I've got to have a pee."
"Oh, yes, right, door's there on the left," he said with a gesture.
Molly popped up from the floor, still flooded with her sexual high. She practically skipped over to the door. Sherlock appreciated the view of her bum naturally moving from side to side as she walked. He climbed up into his usual chair, letting his long legs stretch out.
He rated the evening a resounding success, despite it not going 100% according to plan. There were no significant deviations, and Sherlock had learned to be more flexible in his years as a consulting detective. He wondered if he would be a mellower dom now that he was in his thirties. Interesting thought to consider.
Molly Hooper looked into the mirror over the sink and studied herself. She had the same features she'd always had; she hadn't overnight morphed into an alluring mysterious-goddess type. She couldn't rearrange what she saw to come up with a reason for Sherlock Holmes suddenly wanting to make love to her. Or make whatever she ought to call the activities they'd engaged in on the chair and carpet. But there was something in her eyes that was different. She felt calmer, more centered, completely in her body.
Molly turned around and peered over her shoulder into the mirror. Her back was dark pink, burned from rubbing against fabric, but she loved the hurt. It was a small price for the indescribable pleasure of feeling Sherlock crushing her to the carpet and pumping into her. Molly tried to not care about things like a man's endowment, but she would be lying if she said she didn't appreciate Sherlock's substantial thickness. Average in length, but oh he could rub her in all the right places on the inside. She was a little sore, but it was the best kind of tenderness. She felt marked. Branded.
She didn't understand why she was here, nude in Sherlock's loo, and she didn't know how quickly he would get sick of her, but Molly was determined to make the most of whatever time she had with this gorgeous dominant man who stimulated her from head to toe. She felt studied and challenged and very, very lucky.
Sherlock looked like sin itself, stretched out in his chair naked, hands steepled in thought. All long arms and legs, and firm chest and gorgeous cock and those cheekbones, oh those cheekbones moving under his skin as he smiled at Molly's return. She never thought he would smile so warmly at her without asking anything from her, but there it was. She ran over to the chair and stole a kiss from Sherlock before he could refuse.
He hauled Molly onto his lap, and kissed the breath out of her and made her forget who initiated the contact. The activities were catching up with Molly, and her burst of energy was fading away. She rested her head on his chest, as he stroked from her head down to the small of her back. He repeated the long caress until he felt Molly's breathing slow and become regular, as she fell asleep in his lap.
After ten minutes, Sherlock carefully stood and carried Molly to his bedroom. His bed wasn't very wide, but there would be plenty of room for Molly to sleep, because Sherlock was wide awake. He laid her down in on plain bedding, with a thin blanket drawn over her, and she murmured something incoherent before curling into a ball and resuming her steady breathing.
Sherlock picked his laptop off his bedside table and returned to the living area. His mind was racing with the stimulus of the evening. He needed to break down the experience, analyze the data, catalogue the parts and assign them to rooms in his mind. If he went to sleep, bits would disappear before he had time to examine them.
Molly awoke with the sun shining in her eyes. Someone had neglected to close the curtains. She was disoriented; this wasn't her blanket, everything smelled wrong. Well, not wrong, but different. The evening came back with a rush, and Molly buried herself under the blanket for a moment to process it. Then she sat bolt upright in the bed, realizing she was in his bedroom.
Handsome brown furniture. A portrait of Edgar Allan Poe. A periodic table of elements on the wall. Well, that was normal enough. Molly had a periodic table posted in her flat as well, but hers was a colorful laminated option purchased from a hip geek website, with significant scientists' portraits across the top. She stood up gingerly, still aware of soreness between her legs. It really had been a long time since she'd had a lover. Hard getting back on the horse. Erm, so to speak.
She heard voices out in the main sitting area. Sherlock's distinct tones and another that sounded like…John? Oh hell. Where are my clothes?
Molly wrapped herself with the blanket, and peeked out the door. She saw no one but Sherlock, sitting on the sofa with a sheet wound around his lower body, while holding a laptop. He was talking to John via the webcam. She exhaled a very deep breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and a sigh flowed out with it. John didn't know about her, there wouldn't be an awkward scene.
"Oh! Molly, you're awake!" Sherlock piped up from the sofa. "Fix tea while you're up. Plenty in the cupboard." And he resumed his discussion with John on the webcam; something about a murder in Scotland that looked like the work of pagan cultists.
She heard John's distant voice again from the laptop. "Sherlock, did you say Molly? Why is Molly there? Sherlock, why am I here? This D.I. here right now says you called them last night and told them it was the mother covering up an accident with made-up ritual symbols. Why the hell didn't you tell me? Wait, why is Molly waking up in our flat?"
"She's here because we had sex last night and she stayed over. Don't ask stupid questions, John. Really must be going. Cheers. Later." Sherlock disconnected, closed the laptop, and tossed it carelessly onto the cushions. He stood up and stalked into the kitchen, letting the sheet fall to the ground as he moved.
Not going to pretend nothing happened then, I guess, Molly thought. Shock was putting it mildly.
"Did you just tell your flatmate that we shagged last night?"
"Yes. Problem?"
"Sherlock, people don't just do that. I mean, some people do, but it's rude. It's private."
"Why- do you have regrets? That you haven't put your clothes on immediately suggests to me that you do not, and that in fact, you would like to have sex again. Deducing people's feelings is more difficult than reading their actions. Larger margin of error." Sherlock's showed no remorse, only faint puzzlement. "If we are going to having sex, I don't see any purpose if keeping it from John. I can't send him to Glasgow every time I want to tie you up and use your lovely body, Molly." He slipped his arms around Molly's waist, pulled her tight against him and kissed her before she could protest anymore.
Molly was still pink with embarrassment, but her anger had already faded before his kisses overwhelmed her. He had told John about them because he wanted to do it again. Another thought occurred to her.
"Sherlock, did you keep him in Scotland a day longer so we could be alone here?"
"No, of course not, don't be ridiculous." His wonderfully mobile face wrinkled up in an expression of annoyance at having to confirm the obvious.
Molly stammered and said, "Oh, right, sorry, that was stup-"
"I sent him to Scotland to begin with so we could be alone here. Solved the case two days ago. It was a 5, but I told John it was an 8." Sherlock's explanation was nearly lost as his lips pressed against the nape of her neck between words.
"Oh sure, that makes sense," Molly murmured, though it didn't make sense at all to her. Honestly, it didn't matter when Sherlock Holmes was naked and sucking on her neck.
When someone began knocking on the door, she could have killed them.
"Yoohoo, helloooo, Sherlock," she heard an older woman call through the door. "Signed for a package for you, dear."
"LEAVE IT, MRS. HUDSON!" Sherlock barked at the door.
"Fine, fine, no need to shout, not deaf yet," the woman muttered as her voice faded along with the sound of footsteps down the stairs.
Sherlock hurried over to the door, and reached out to snatch the parcel from the floor gleefully.
"Oooh I love packages," Molly said, enjoying the sight of nude Sherlock moving comfortably around the flat. He opened the parcel quickly, and grinned wickedly.
"Something for your new experiment, eh, project, is it?" Molly asked, wanting to see what was in the box. She wasn't sure how forward she could be yet with Sherlock. He was clearly, happily, in charge but she didn't know precisely what he expected of her. She erred on the side of caution and stayed still.
Sherlock stared down at the box a moment, and then looked up.
"You're not due at St. Bart's for a few more hours."
"Yes, I have some time if you want to…if you want." Molly blushed and smiled, knowing she probably looked a bit goofy.
Reaching into the box, Sherlock said tensely, "Drop the blanket. Hold onto the counter."
"Sorry? You mean, just go…" Molly let go of the thin blanket, and pointed vaguely at the kitchen counter, unsure of herself.
"Turn around, face the counter, place your hands on the surface and lean forward. Legs apart."
Molly felt the flush grow from her face down to her chest. She felt the darker connection growing again, the need to follow.
She obeyed.
She heard Sherlock come close behind her, and felt something cool and soft slide down her spine and down the curve of her arse, and then slipping between her thighs. A nudge and then a tap on her inner thighs.
"Wider."
She looked down and saw a small black triangle of leather peeping between her legs. She felt faint and unbearably excited.
"I thought a new toy was in order. A gift for us. Now…wider." His hand punctuated the order with a smack of his bare hand on her bottom. Not very hard but enough for the blood to rush there, and for Molly to feel wetness forming. She opened more for him. As her legs moved further apart, she instinctively leaned forward more until her bum was lifted more toward Sherlock.
He stepped back to appreciate the developing scene. Molly responded well to guidance, he'd known that for years. The question now was would she love the reality of submitting to the crop?
The first strike of the crop's tongue hit lightly in the middle of her right bum cheek. Molly jumped slightly in surprise before resettling quickly. Sherlock tapped her bottom a few more times in quick succession, stopping to rub her skin. Pinkness formed on the skin but no bruising would form.
Molly was relieved that Sherlock hadn't hit very hard. She knew he had a lot of strength in his lean arms, she'd seen that displayed many times in his rougher body tests in the morgue. But he was restraining himself, controlling the force he was capable of. She thought she could take more, much more, of the crop, but she felt safe with him, knowing his great intelligence extended to his sexual play.
Sensing that Molly was starting to relax, Sherlock challenged her with more precise blows of the crop of her left bum cheek now, causing her to arch and moan now from the growing sensations. He alternated between the cheeks of her arse, stopping periodically to rub the skin briskly, and occasionally to slap the skin, bringing several pleased "oh!"s from Molly.
He cropped and rubbed and smacked her bottom thoroughly until he could see the moisture between her legs absolutely shining and Molly's thighs were shaking with the effort of staying in one place when he was short-circuiting her brain with his hands.
She's bloody beautiful, Sherlock thought. He bit his lip to keep himself from going down on his knees to sample the wet folds himself. Would she be as hot there now as the skin of her arse was? No, he couldn't be on his knees when she was finding her way to subspace. But oh, it was tempting.
Sherlock performed one more round of crisp blows of the crop until Molly's bottom was entirely deep pink. No accidental marks on the sides of her hips; he was glad to see he hadn't lost his touch.
Molly was breathing deeply, steadily; face down close to the countertop. She gave herself gladly over to his hands and his will. She didn't think, she just responded. It was such a relief. She was free. When the crop stopped, and she felt his hands skimming over her behind with finality, Molly almost cried. She wasn't entirely certain why.
The crop was laid on the counter by her arms. Molly felt herself turned around and pulled into Sherlock's arms. A few tears did come then, as he massaged her arms, back, and bottom.
"I don't know why I'm crying," Molly said with a laugh. "I'm happy, I'm not sad at all." She was shaking and as she often did during intense moments, Molly began to giggle.
"Thank you, Sherlock. It was…it was you," she finished helplessly, not sure where the sentence was going.
He kissed her forehead and her cheek. "No, Molly Hooper, it was you." He took her mouth, and held her tight so she was almost breathless.
He pulled away and stepped back. "You're going to be quite tender. I held back, you shouldn't bruise and the redness shouldn't last more than a few hours. Your skin is so fair though…Well, we'll see," he finished in his usual clipped voice. He smiled, and took Molly's hand and led her to lie down the sofa.
"Rest for a while before you go. What you're feeling…I recall subs being very emotional after playing, but I can't claim to appreciate all of the actual feelings. Hormones, endorphins, that sort of thing. You understand the body as well as I do."
"Yes," she said dreamily. Her body was still coming down from the high. Her hammering heart began to slow and she relished the gentler warmth now living in her limbs.
Sherlock sat on the floor cross-legged like a kid, by where her head rested on the sofa. Funny to see his long legs bent and tangled. He looks like a giant sexy grasshopper, Molly thought and burst into laughter.
He raised his eyebrows. She smiled, and shrugged.
"It's not always going to be sex I want, Molly," he said. "But it will always be something. Do you understand?" His changeable eyes were focused intensely on hers.
"I think I do," she said.
"Good. Because I don't."
With that, he scooped the laptop off the cushion, and sat back down on the floor by Molly. Sherlock opened the computer up, and began typing madly, his neck and shoulders tense. As his fingers flew over the keyboard, Molly's hand found its way to his unruly curls and stroked him absent-mindedly. After a few minutes, Sherlock's shoulders began to relax and his typing slowed, though he never pulled his eyes from the screen.
There will be a few more chapters to this story. So stay tuned to see how Molly and Sherlock will proceed now that she has a very demanding and often inconsiderate genius for a dom.
Thank you for all the wonderful reviews and alerting!