Perhaps Molly read an advert in a magazine and decides to get a full body painting done for John. She asks for Sherlock to accompany her.
(I do not own BBC Sherlock, or any of that there)
Full Body Paint – Meet the Artist
Sherlock slammed into the morgue, irritated to be there on such routine matter in his opinion. He wouldn't be here at all but for Lestrade's hounding him to rule out one of Molly's charges, one Paidrica Bachman age 79 as a possible second victim of a possible serial murder spree. Sherlock could tell by the shoes, dentistry and skin tone of the man, the possible serial killer they held in custody, that he didn't have it in him, but he dutifully went down to the morgue in any case.
"Bachman, it's for Lestrade. I believe you know all about it," Sherlock fairly barked at Molly. She tried to make eye contact, but Sherlock was having none of it today, burying his face in his phone. Just like old times, thought Molly.
Molly shrugged off his rudeness and rolled out Mrs. Bachman for him to view. He barely took a look at her and was about to blow back out of the morgue when Molly stopped him very simply.
"Hey, there."
He froze and then turned to her, his demeanour completely changed. His lips were pursed in an attitude of disappointed self awareness and he looked to her for forgiveness, hanging his head in an admission of guilt.
"No, no, don't apologize, you're busy, I totally understand." Molly smiled, and continued.
"I wouldn't have even stopped you, but I need your help with something."
"What is it, Molly, love?" Sherlock got in her personal space without touching her and made eye contact. She loved it when he did that, it was his brand of kiss when they were in a public place.
"It's for Thursday afternoon. I need you to – accompany me. Somewhere. And – I think you might actually like it."
"Hmm? Interesting. Molly what is it?"
"It's kind of a surprise. And you mustn't tell John."
"What?" This was different. "What secrets are we keeping from John, Molly?"
"You'll see. It's a kind of a surprise."
"What kind? Is it his birthday?"
"No. That wouldn't be a surprise." Molly smiled into Sherlock's somewhat confused face.
"That's – perfectly true. Interesting. What's going on?"
"It's a surprise for you, too, but, I really must have someone with me, I think. Because, well, I don't think John would – approve."
"Ahh. Naughty Molly, you have my full attention. What do you want me to do?"
Molly had been pretty sure that telling Sherlock about John's probably disapproval of her surprise would hook the detective, and she was right. She tried to keep her smugness in victory to a small smile.
"Just pick me up here after my shift at one pm on Thursday. Don't be late, and be ready for it to go for at least three hours, maybe more. Then we come home and show John."
"Wait, is this a tattoo, Molly, or a piercing? Because then you wouldn't have my approval, either. You'd be stuck with an almost certainly silly, if not to say inexpert image in your skin for life, and though a piercing will heal over, they can heal in odd ways, it's really nothing you want to do."
"Oh, thanks, Dad. No, it's not a tattoo or a piercing. It's much more intimate, and not at all permanent, but you are on the right track."
Sherlock was taken aback at being called 'Dad,' and had to pause before getting back into the game with this new side of Molly he'd encountered.
"Hmm, I believe that's what's known as 'sass.' It suits you. All right. Thursday at one I'll come here for you, but I'll see you both tonight, won't I?"
"Yes, of course, we'll be round at the usual time. 'Til then."
A lab tech came in the door, and Molly and Sherlock were prevented from the brief kiss they would have shared had they been alone. Instead Sherlock leaned to Molly's ear and whispered.
"Body painting, hmm, Molly? Full body? That is daring. I look forward." And he was gone with a flick of the hem of his coat.
)))))))
On Thursday at one on the dot, Sherlock and Molly hailed a cab outside Bart's and Molly gave an alarming sounding address in Hackney. The cab deposited them in a dire section in front of a house that seemed to be the twin of every other house in the street. The pair made their way through the gate, and up the steps where Molly rang. A small woman in paint spattered clothing answered and after Molly shouted 'painting!' and the woman shouted 'painting?' back at her several times back and forth, they were conducted to the front room of the house, and directed to sit. There was a sofa and a chair a fairly well stained carpet of pale blue and two daubs of various landscapes of farmland. The woman started shouting something in Punjabi, Sherlock noted, as she walked to the back of the house where the kitchen would be.
"I wonder where they do it?" Molly asked.
Sherlock was quiet, getting impatient with interest. But they'd only waited a moment when a small man in his thirties, about the same height as the small elderly woman, entered the room. He was similarly attired in paint spattered clothing with paint in his hair and on his face as well.
"Car out here, car, now, ok?" The man gestured frantically at the door.
"Car? But where to? Why didn't you give me the address in the first place?"
"No painting here. Painting in studio. We go studio now, ok?"
"I don't know, now a car somewhere totally unknown. Maybe –" Molly looked to Sherlock for guidance.
"It's completely up to you, Molly, but I think it's harmless enough. They might not want their customers put out with an out of the way address. They are quite spattered with paint. If you had been alone, it would be a different matter, naturally. For myself, my interest is still quite – engaged. What do you think?"
He was leaving it up to her. Letting her get them into this mess or give it up. Well, she thought there was no way she'd give him the satisfaction of giving up. She looked at the small paint spattered man.
"What's your name, friend?"
"Name is Harrylikeharrypotter." He said the name and his explanation so quickly it sounded like one word.
"You come now, ok? Artist waiting."
Harrylikeharrypotter looked at his client's faces, and looked at his clothes.
"Yes, I am artist, but not your artist. Your artist at studio waiting now."
"Ok, Harry like Harry Potter, let's go," Molly stood and decisively followed their guide, and Sherlock followed her.
Sherlock and Molly were conducted to a Ford Fiesta of an earlier rather than a later year, and Molly climbed into the back. Sherlock leaned in close to her and whispered.
"I'm getting in front just to – you know keep an eye on things, ok?"
Molly nodded, and Sherlock quickly reached to brush her cheek with his fingers in reassurance then strode around the car to sit in front with Harrylikeharrypotter and they were off.
It was about a thirty minute drive to an industrial looking area before Molly directed a question to Sherlock.
"Do you know where we are?"
Sherlock gave her a smile that seemed to say 'Have you forgotten with whom you are speaking?' But Harrylikeharrypotter addressed her question aloud.
"Oh, yes, Miss. I know where we are and where we go and how to get back again! Almost there, now, you wait and see."
"Ok. Good. Thank you Harry, that's good."
It was soon afterward that Harrylikeharrypotter pulled up to a quite abandoned looking warehouse and parked. The three got out and their guide directed them to an actual hole in the wall through which they walked, stepping over bricks and mortar. Molly looked at Sherlock who grinned broadly, and then shrugged his shoulders. Well, at least someone is enjoying this, thought Molly.
Harrylikeharrypotter led them to a bare metal staircase, and they all three marched up the stairs to a second floor. Their driver opened a door, and led them into a large room that could only be described as an artist's studio, and which seemed to be heated, Molly thought with much relief.
Easels, tarps, large door-and-saw-horse tables crammed with pots of paint and brushes, and other tools were littered throughout the place. It had clearly been in use for a long time. And the canvases dotting the walls went from enormous to smaller all of wildlife, and tropical trees, tropical flowers, plants and animals. There seemed to be quite a few exotic animals like the big cats, giraffes and zebras. Even the plant life depictions seemed to speak of a fondness for pattern. There was a playfulness to the way the artist had dealt with the pattern, Sherlock thought, that was not at all usual and spoke to an intelligence and a sense of humor.
Harrylikeharrypotter shouted something to the room at large in Punjabi, then he waved his arms and addressed Sherlock and Molly as he hurriedly left the room.
"Drive you back later. Go now for privacy, ok! Bye-bye! For privacy! Later! Later.!" And he was gone.
Sherlock and Molly looked again into the large room, and noticed another rather small person, rise up out of what seemed to be a pile of rags and turn to them. He was dressed almost identically to Harrylikeharrypotter and the woman who had answered the door at the house. He approached them with a smile and open palms.
"Painting today! No English! Much Paint! Paint! Paint! Paint?" He pointed at Sherlock who smiled and said something in Punjabi, pointing to Molly. This prompted the man to spew out a long speech which he accompanied with wildly different facial expressions and hand gestures. There were clearly several questions involved to which Sherlock was either not able to respond, or didn't have the time to respond, the painter was speaking so quickly. Molly had no idea what was going on, but thank god for Sherlock who seemed to have somewhat of a grasp of the situation. He seemed to be able to convince the man to slow his speech down, and between the two of them they were able to get to the first step. After a couple false starts, Sherlock and the painter seemed to come to an understanding, and they repeated to one another a phrase in Punjabi, and then in English.
"Pick paint!" the painter said to Molly, and Sherlock explained.
"There are some pictures for you to look at, Molly," Sherlock took Molly's hand and led her as they followed behind the painter who led them to a table with some large notebooks.
"What are you looking for, love? Animals?"
"I thought a big cat. Spots, you know?"
Sherlock smiled and said something to the painter who handed a book to him.
Molly and Sherlock opened the book to photographs of women and men completely nude with the patterns of the big cats painted on them, a couple with zebra patterns and one with giraffe spots.
"I like this one and this one," Molly picked two cats, one, a leopard she particularly liked.
"I like this one the best. What do you think?"
"It's good. Probably the best one, I agree." Sherlock licked his lips thinking about the next steps.
"Good! Good! Paint! Paint! Paint!" He gestured to another area of the studio, and Sherlock and Molly followed him to where a large tarp was laid out on the floor. It was spattered all over with dried paint patterns and didn't look like it had been laundered either recently or at all.
The painter gestured to Molly, and then to the tarp, waving his hands over the surface of the tarp. Molly looked to Sherlock.
"Time to get painted, Molly. He wants you to take off your clothes and lie down, face down. He's going to paint your back first.
"Yes, paint! Paint! Paint!" The painter looked from Molly to Sherlock and back again, perhaps perceiving hesitation on Molly's part.
"Wife privacy? Wife privacy?" The painter asked her, his face confused but attentive.
"Only painter," the painter said, gesturing to himself, "No bad, only good!"
"No, no, it's fine," said Molly, and she began to disrobe, putting her things on a chair. Sherlock watched her take off her clothes. What daring, he thought. What on earth made her think of this? And how delightful of her to include him in her mad errand. No, Sherlock was fairly sure that when John heard of all this he would certainly not approve in the least. But then it will be too late. Sherlock smiled. He watched as she hesitated over her pants, but she finally whisked them off, and stepped onto the tarp. She knelt on it, and then looked to her friend.
"This way?" she asked, and Sherlock said something to the painter in his language and was rewarded with excited speech and vigorous nodding.
"Yes, that's fine, now lie down and apparently you can put your head to one side he's doing your back only first. And you must put your arms out in a sort of spread eagle position. Yes, he likes that. Oh, and he wants you to spread your legs as well, Molly. Yes, like that. Oh, god, Molly, you are so lovely."
Molly smiled in Sherlock's direction, but he wandered out of her line of view.
"Don't worry, I'm here," he said, realizing she couldn't see him. He exchanged a few words with the painter, and Molly found Sherlock sitting on the tarp next to her head.
"He says I can sit near you and talk to you," said Sherlock, and he put his hand on her neck and rubbed her gently.
"He's getting some items from the table, getting ready. All right?"
"Mmm, yes. Thank god for you, what would I have done without you?"
"Well, I hope you would have had the sense to leave the house when Harrylikeharrypotter offered to drive you somewhere."
"Mmm, yes, I think I certainly would have."
"What will you wear afterward? You've brought something?"
"Yes, in my bag, it's very loose."
The painter returned to the tarp, shouting amiably, apparently explaining something.
"He says there's a base coat, and I have to get up, all right. I'll stay where you can see me." Sherlock got up from where he was sitting.
The painter applied a basecoat to Molly's back with a kind of spray can. It was a speedy operation, and she could feel the skin on her back and the backs of her arms and legs begin to tighten as the paint dried. Then she felt the painter apply the first brush strokes as he quickly applied the first color of the spots to her neck and shoulders.
He worked quickly, humming something to himself, and Sherlock and he exchanged several sentences. Sherlock would explain things from time to time, but mostly the conversation was only between Sherlock and the artist. Molly was fine with that, her head was abuzz with the sensations of lying naked on a filthy tarp, with a man she didn't know, nor could she communicate with as he painted spots on her body. It seemed to go incredibly quickly, she thought, he'd finished the first color of the spots, and was now going in with the second color. With each layer of paint she felt the skin on her body relax and then tighten again as the paint dried.
Eventually the artist finished her except for her backside. There was a pause in the work as he conferred with Sherlock and after a couple exchanges, Sherlock addressed Molly.
"How's it going, Molly, love? Still with us?"
"Oh, yes, but what goes on, something wrong with my bum?"
"Haha, no, here's the thing. He wants to – He needs to paint inside, that is, ah - between your cheeks, yes? And he's asking me to, um, hold you open, while he does that. Will that be all right?"
"What?" She said, but then she quickly pushed aside her hesitation. "Fine, that's fine, Sherlock, go ahead," and she clenched her jaw, and squeezed her eyes shut, but Sherlock saw her and knelt to her face.
"Hey, it's all right," He stroked her face with his finger tips, and leaned in kissing her ear and cheek.
"I know, I'm fine, go ahead, Sherlock, honestly."
"Ok." Sherlock retreated to the universe that existed behind her. Molly felt a hand stroke her backside one, two three times, then gently, with two hands, Sherlock pulled her cheeks apart and held her open and exposed.
Molly felt her face flush hot and furiously red as the artist applied the basecoat and her skin began to tighten. The painter said a few things to Sherlock, and Sherlock responded as he worked, the same as before. Finally, the base coat was dry enough for the painter to go in with the first color of the spots, and as he had before, he worked quickly, using the same strokes, she could tell, that he had used on the rest of her back. At last, the second color of the spots had been applied, but was surely still wet, and Sherlock was still holding her cheeks apart, and her face was still flaming despite the drafty studio.
"Oh, I see. Molly, he's showing me a hair dryer, and I think he means that if we dry you there, it will dry faster, and I can, we can – you know, I can let go. Will that be all right?"
Molly swallowed hard. Anything to get this part over with.
"Yes, yes, do it," was all Molly could manage. She heard Sherlock direct a few words at the painter, and the whir of a hair dryer was heard, and then the warm air was directed right between her cheeks, tightening her newly painted skin there degree by degree. Molly squeezed her eyes tightly closed at the shame of it and the pleasure of it coursed through her.
She felt Sherlock dab a finger, then two at the newly painted area.
"All done," he said, and gently let go of her. "Doing ok?"
"Yes, I'm fine." Molly swallowed. "Thank you," she added.
Oh god she is delightful she is so beautiful just looking at her like this is going to kill me I want to say something to her something that will make her wet but I mustn't because she'll only be embarrassed when our friend has to paint the front of her with her sex dripping wet, but she's probably already wet surely I don't know if I can wait until tonight this is just too much –
The artist painted the rest of Molly's back side, now and soon her back was completely finished and Sherlock and the artist conferred again.
"Molly it looks just incredible, just brilliant. It's better than the picture. He's letting you dry a little then we're – oh, we're moving to a standing position? Just relax a moment, all right?" Sherlock and the painter exchanged phrases and walked a little way away from her down the length of the studio.
Molly tried to relax as she lay there. This had to be the absolutely most erotic thing that had ever happened to her. But she was worried about the next step in the process. It was one thing to lie here and have her back painted, with her head turned, pretending the artist wasn't there, but how would she cope with her humiliation when she had to turn over and face him, as he painted her breasts, and between her legs, she wondered? Well, she would have to manage, no sense in leaving it half done.
And then Sherlock returned to her.
"Ok, Molly, um, a little unusual, but I see the elegance of the solution. In a moment you'll stand up, and walk down the room a bit to where there's a sort of frame where you can stretch your arms out. You can't lie on your back because the paint needs a chance to cure up a bit. You'll be standing in a spread eagle position while he paints your front. There are loops for you to rest your arms in. You won't have to hold them up. But you will have to stay standing. Might be a little athletic, and I suppose there will be an extra degree or two of you know, exposure to deal with. That's what I can glean from what I see, and what he's telling me, ok?"
"Ok. Tell me when."
She heard the two men exchange a couple of words.
"Now is fine, he says. Ok, slowly, and I'm right here. Your hair is perfect for this, by the way, nice tight bun. And you are magnificently beautiful, if I didn't mention any time lately."
Molly got up, and Sherlock held her hand as she rose and stretched a little. She looked at the backs of her arms, the only part of the painting she could see and marvelled at the beauty of it. The spots were carefully sized for the part of the body that they enhanced, and she was sure that the artist had paid careful attention to other parts of her body in the same way.
Molly let Sherlock lead her to a wooden frame where Sherlock demonstrated how she was to stand. He pushed his hands into some rope loops, and spread his legs. The artist nodded his approval vigorously, speaking enthusiastically, pointing at Sherlock, then pointing and gesturing at Molly.
Sherlock and Molly smiled at one another as Sherlock, fully clothed, took this spread eagle position. He seemed to do it with a little more alacrity and enthusiasm than was required and his smile as he looked at her seemed to communicate something. Too, he lingered in the position longer than was necessary, and Molly quietly filed away this information for future reference when planning evenings for the three of them. She would have to have a chat with John. Well, she thought, it only makes sense that he'd like to be restrained in bed. We'll have to work something out. Molly licked her lips at him as he slowly, almost reluctantly shrugged his way out of the loops, making way for her.
"You have to maintain the position because as it was while you were lying down, if he's not painting a particular spot, that spot is probably drying."
"All right," said Molly, "Now?"
"Yes, Molly, here," Sherlock took one of her wrists and looped it in one of the holds, and as he did so whispered into her ear.
"You are so beautiful, I don't know how I'm going to keep from taking you in the cab on the way back, or here for that matter, or in the car with Harrylikeharrypotter, you are driving me so mad."
Sherlock placed her other wrist in the opposite loop hold, and whispered in her other ear.
"By the way, if it's any consolation, I know you're a little exposed, but I've had a full and painful erection since you lay down on that filthy tarp with such abandon about an hour ago." Sherlock stepped away to look at her. Molly thought he looked a little faint, and his breath was certainly shortened and quickened while he gazed at her. His trousers certainly looked quite uncomfortable.
Molly tried to remain loose as the artist approached her, talking away in his language, speaking to her as if she knew what the fuck he was saying to her at all.
"He says to try to relax and enjoy the view. Also he says that he is a good artist and a good man. No bad. Only good." Sherlock smiled.
Molly took a deep breath as the artist turned away to get something. She realized that she was completely spread eagled in front of a plate glass window only on the second floor of an abandoned warehouse. The window looked out onto what was left of a car park where there were three or four cars actually parked at the moment, one of which belonged to Harrylikeharrypotter. And there he was, their friend and guide, looking up at the window with the aide of a pair of binoculars.
Molly laughed a little and Sherlock stepped over to the window to see what she was looking at.
"Mmm. That's not the rules." Sherlock stepped in front of Molly to shield her, and when the artist came back, Sherlock directed his attention to the car park.
The artist went wild spewing all kinds of what must have been invective with force and venom, and then suddenly ran around a couple of tables of paint and was gone from the room, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone. The moment he was gone, Sherlock turned to her, grasping her wrists in the rope loops, and kissed her mouth deeply, bending her head back with the strength of his own as he let his tongue plunge deeply into her mouth, exploring her teeth, stroking her tongue. She answered his kiss with as much strength as she could muster, careful not to put any of the painting in jeopardy.
"You should see the work he's done on you, it's breathtaking, your arse is breathtaking. I think I will have to have it someday very soon, Molly I swear I will."
"Whenever you like, darling, it's yours. Oh. look." Sherlock turned around to the window and into the car park. Molly and her friend watched the artist confront Harrylikeharrypotter. He snatched the binoculars from him, but continued to admonish him. Hang dog and defeated, their driver got back into his car, and shut the door. After a few more arm flailings and hurled invectives at the driver's side of the car, the artist left the car park, and walked toward the building again.
Sherlock gripped Molly again as before and stole another almost brutal kiss from her, then released her wrists, stepping away with a moan.
"Now I'm dripping wet." Molly hissed.
"Well," said Sherlock, "I'm sure you are. I also have a bit of a problem. Sorry. Um – Molly I have to-."
The artist re-entered with a long spiel in Punjabi, and Sherlock waved his hand dismissively as though no great harm had been done. But the artist went on at some length and Sherlock had to wait for a bit before he could ask a question. When the painter understood Sherlock's needs, he gesticulated in detail and with much gusto toward the door with many flourishes of his paint brush. Sherlock nodded, then approached Molly.
"Look, I'm sorry, but I must to go to the loo-."
"What? You're leaving me alone with him?" Molly pulled her arms out of the loops and crossed her arms across her stomach.
"Molly, he's harmless, and he's just proven he's ready to fight for your honor, yes? I swear to god it won't take long. I would do it right here, but it wouldn't be quite seemly, would it?"
"It sounded like the loo was a long way away."
Sherlock closed the short distance between them and spoke extremely urgently to her.
"I'm not going to the fucking loo, I'm going two steps around the corner at the end of the hall and using my handkerchief. Scream and I'll hear you, all right? Please? I don't want anything to happen spontaneously - I'm not at all – ah – effective this way."
"All right, all right." Molly watched him as he fairly trotted out of the studio into the hall way. She turned her attention to the other man in the room. The artist had his head down, working with his brushes, and preparing a new can of spray paint for the front of her. He worked carefully but he also had a broad smile on his face. Had he intuited Sherlock's problem? Molly surmised that he had. She continued to regard him as he turned from the work table and approached Molly. He picked up a little stool from it's position before another easel with another canvas on it, and stood before his current canvas.
This was the moment she had dreaded, eye contact, but she lifted her face to meet his gaze, and looked in his eyes as gently and with as little fear as she could manage. The painter's eyes were filled with an intelligence, gentleness and humour she hadn't registered before she'd laid down on the tarp some two hours ago. She saw that he had been quite an attractive man in his youth, and registered his sexuality and his very obvious sexual appreciation of her at once. The female body is a traitor, she thought. She could feel herself getting wet again, she could feel her nipples hardening and tightening, she felt the familiar flip flop in her lower abdomen all in response to this man before her.
The artist stepped within touching distance of her and smiled wickedly into her face.
"Very bootifool vooman," He pronounced carefully and then slowly looked her up and down, taking in ever bit of her slowly. Then, without so much as a brush stroke, he stepped away, and sat on the stool.
"Paint! Paint! Paint!" He clapped his hands. He smiled at her. "No English! Much Paint!" The artist looked toward the door of the studio, and shrugged. He clearly was waiting for Sherlock to come back before he recommenced painting her, she thought with great relief. And here he was, Sherlock Holmes, striding into the studio looking much less irritated.
"Good! Paint! Much paint!" And the artist started on Molly's basecoat.
Once Sherlock was in the room, the artist abandoned any further eye contact with Molly. He didn't seem at all guilty, however or furtive about having looked at her or having spoken to her while Sherlock was out of the room. Rather, he was now completely engaged in his work, an occupation which he seemed to heartily enjoy and which he executed with precision.
As the painter applied the basecoat to her breasts, He asked Sherlock to hold her breasts up while he painted and air dried her underneath. This was a little embarrassing, Molly thought, surely my breasts are only slightly pendulous. But Sherlock soothed her even through his wicked smile. When the painter got to her sex, there was an exchange between the two men.
"Molly," Sherlock explained, "Can you open your legs wider – for the artist?"
Molly complied, stretching her legs apart as far as she could, and the artist voiced his approval. He was sitting on his low stool, gazing up at her sex with a very analytical expression, however, as she stood with her arms and legs completely spread. She was deeply mortified and felt her face flush with heat again.
"Wha- what's the problem?" She managed to ask .
The two men conferred in Punjabi. Sherlock nodded seriously, and the artist put down his spray can and walked to another work table. Sherlock followed him when the artist beckoned him, and handed him something. Then the artist left the studio.
Sherlock came back to her, grinning and holding loo roll.
"It seems as though you're too wet to paint, my darling, lovely girl."
Sherlock kissed her on the mouth briefly and more gently this time.
"Here, take your hands out of the – yes, here take this and dry yourself a bit, hmm? I would do it for you, but that would lead to another trip to the loo."
Molly complied, bending her knees, turning a little away from Sherlock as she pressed the apparently clean paper between her lips, wiping herself there. There was a lot of moisture and she used several pieces of paper. Finally she bunched it all up, and wrapped the lot into another clean sheet, wadded it up and placed the wad of paper on the floor. She looked at Sherlock. He took her in and it took every bit of will power not to gather her in his arms.
"I want to have you right here, right here on the floor, or- against this wall, oh for god's sake, look what you've reduced me to!" Sherlock rubbed his face with the palms of his hands.
It was strange to realize the power she had over this man at this moment in time. And even the painter, though she suspected she had much less hold over him. And let's not forget Harrylikeharrypotter and his binoculars. And it was all sex. She had denied these things all her young life, at uni, at her first jobs, and was only now beginning to understand the powers that any woman had in this regard.
"Honestly, Molly, after Harrylikeharrypotter takes us back to Hackney, and we're in a cab, I can't be responsible for what I do."
"You'll have to be, Sherlock. You're my protector. No touching. Until later."
"Oh god. Yes of course," Sherlock was still looking at her, but he seemed to be very befuddled.
"Just try to breathe normally. Can you find a more comfortable position? Is there a chair for you?"
Sherlock smiled and shrugged. And then the artist was back in the room. Molly replaced her wrists into the rope loops. The artist resumed his position on the stool, looking up into the apex of her legs, and then smiled, and nodded.
"Good, good! Paint! Paint! Paint!"
He aimed the paint spray apparatus up at her sex from below and gently sprayed the paint onto her skin. It went on cool, and then her body heat warmed it. He sprayed the paint up through her hair along her cleft and then outward, covering the whole area. Then he went back deep between her legs, and sprayed all the little areas that were missed, assuring an even coat, until he was satisfied. She felt the paint begin to dry, tightening her, tightening her, and she could feel herself getting wet all over again. She said nothing.
The artist set to work on her spots. He did her legs and arms first, then her front. He was completely professional and never lingered on her breasts or her sex, but paid careful attention to what he was doing at all times. The first color of the spots were finished, and then he went back to put the second color in. Then he sprayed a layer of white down her middle from the middle of her chest to below her navel, her white under belly. She liked it, it added dimension, and when it was finished with it, and the artist walked away again for some tool or other, Molly rolled her shoulders, and worked her spine a little, working out the tension she'd developed from standing still for so long.
"You're beginning to look the part. More and more. Molly, honestly words fail me."
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and opened them. His erection wasn't yet fully hard, but it was coming on again. What will I do this time? he wondered. Have another desperate wank in the hallway? How humiliating. Propriety forbids. Almost finished,surely. He would wait.
The artist brought a group of small brushes, and a small dish of paint with him to stand close to Molly. He pulled the little stool close to her and stood on it. Without making eye contact, the artist looked at her face. How does he do that? She wondered. The woman in the picture she had selected had had very little paint on her face, just a suggestion of dots, and a light cat-like effect on the nose and mouth. Not much longer, now, she supposed, and she was right.
The painter seemed to wave his paintbrush over her face like a magic wand and was done.
"Finish! Finish! Finish! Good! Picture? Take photo, please?"
Molly was a little alarmed, but Sherlock waved her off, as he talked to the painter. The painter nodded vigorously as Sherlock gestured to his face and spoke one or to Punjabi phrases. He walked off to another part of the studio, and Sherlock approached Molly.
"You are magnificent," Sherlock said, cradling the back of her head, the only part of her he couldn't spoil the paint job of. "He's got a mask you can wear. Will that be all right for just a couple of photographs? And there's a full length mirror in the same area he keeps the photo props and camera, come on." He took her hand, and they followed the artist.
Separated from the rest of the studio by an enormous central support structure was a room that seemed almost a normal sitting room. There was a sofa, and a couple of chairs. And here was a full length mirror. Molly dropped Sherlock's hand and approached it.
"Oh my god," she breathed as she took in the painter's work. She turned around, trying to get a view of the back of her. She tried a couple poses, avoiding the clichéd hissing cat with raised claw. She raised her arms above her head. She crouched. She made to sit down, but stopped herself, worrying about the paint.
"Can I sit? I just want to be able to-."
"Of course, let me ask," and now the artist was in the room, too, saying something in his language as he struggled with the camera. Sherlock got involved with discussion about the camera, and Molly was alone at the glass.
It was astonishing to her the transformation she'd achieved. It was also astonishing where the eye travelled with this paint job. While she was by no means transformed into any kind of cat, the eye did not travel to her breasts or the sex automatically as they would if she were merely naked and unpainted. The spots and her face were what commanded attention. The sex was almost completely obscured by the spots the artist had painted on it and near it. The same could be said of her breasts. Sherlock returned to her side with the camera.
"Ok. You can sit, but be careful not to rub against anything excessively." Sherlock smiled and shook his head, perhaps trying to clear it, Molly thought.
"The front still needs to cure up a bit, so you need to avoid too much bending and so forth. When you're ready to put on clothes, he has some material to give you to place between your skin and the fabric. When it's all dried and cured, in an hour or so, it should last a couple of days with excellent care. But if there's ah – any activity, it's a different matter. Now, a couple poses, hmm? Here you can put this on, is this sufficient?"
Sherlock handed Molly a mask that obscured her face adequately, and then was ready to have a bit of fun with the camera, but the artist had to take the camera away from him after a couple shots. Apparently a paucity of Polaroid film was at issue.
"Well," said Sherlock, "Perhaps we'll take some pictures when we get you home. Ready? Let's see what you brought to wear."
The pathologist, detective and painter walked back to the area of the studio where Molly had left her bag. She pulled out a billowing hooded cloak of thick dark cotton, which would only rest on her shoulders and not bind her anywhere else.
"Molly will you be warm enough?" Sherlock smiled.
"Hmm. One day in my life."
"No, at least two. John must experience this to believe it."
The artist came up to Molly with some sheets of what seemed to be waxed paper, and placed one on her shoulder. She saw that they were connected with string, and she was able to don the paper as she might wear a shrug. Sherlock set the cloak on her shoulders and tied it in place.
"Molly, it's - when you walk, it will open, and -."
"And my spots will show." Molly touched Sherlock's cheek, turned to the artist, extending her hand. "Thank you very much you've done a beautiful, beautiful job. It's very beautiful." She made sure she repeated the word several times, knowing that it was one of the words he knew. He didn't repeat his lecherous look of earlier, but took her hand, and she permitted him to kiss it. Molly took out her wallet.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, though she knew the general amount and had the cash with her.
The artist shook his head, saying something and gesturing to Sherlock.
"I paid him, Molly."
"You? But when?"
"When you were naked, face down on that filthy tarp."
"Here, let me pay you back."
Sherlock laughed, and gathered her in his arms.
"You must be joking. Molly, stop it. It's done, and I've loved every minute. Thank you so much for bringing me." Sherlock exchanged a couple phrases with the artist, and shook his hand, and he and Molly were off.
Harrylikeharrypotter opened the back door for Molly, who got in, and Sherlock got into the front again. Their driver was much subdued compared to his state when he'd driven them to the studio, and the drive seemed to take ages. When they returned to Hackney, he did them the courtesy of dropping them at the tube station, nearer to the high street, where they were more easily able to catch a cab and Sherlock flagged one down almost immediately.
"Shall we take the tube, Sherlock?"
"Molly, for Christ's sake. No, absolutely not. Get in."
In the back of the cab, Sherlock took Molly's face in his hands, and gently tested the paint there.
"It's largely non-toxic with some trace elements of lead in the reds, but for the amount of time you'll have it on, there's only very limited danger from the exposure. What I'm concerned about is the lack of oxygen. Are you having any symptoms? Any dizziness, diaphoresis, nausea?"
Molly looked at him and licked her lips. She said nothing. Sherlock reached his hand inside her cloak to where her painted naked body ached for his touch.
"It seems to be dry. Let me see."
Without speaking, Molly opened her cloak exposing herself completely. She lay back on the seat, wondering if the cabbie were a prude, but there was only silence from the front of the car. She bent a knee up, and let her knee drop, opening herself up to Sherlock's view. She took Sherlock's hand and guided him to touch her stomach, which he did, gingerly, pressing, checking the paint for cracks, or rub marks.
"I must say he did an impressive job. You found a real artist, darling."
Molly rocked her hips a little, encouraging him to touch her some more, and he did, stroking her thigh. He found that the paint had a velvety quality to it, and that if he stroked her skin, the paint didn't seem to suffer, and also felt quite velvety. He found himself absently stroking the inside of her thigh, going higher and higher. He gently ran his finger tips over her sex, lightly, lightly circling her hair, tracing patterns back and forth around the whole area, gently pulling her dark curls now coloured with spots, as Molly rocked her hips. But he was too wary of damaging the paint in anyway before John could see her, and he held back from exploring any further. When he withdrew his hand, Molly let out a gruff vocalization of disappointment and disgust.
"You'll have to be patient and wait for John, love. It won't be long. Oh, Molly, if I can wait, you must wait, too."
Molly gruffed again, and drew the cloak around her. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and chuckled.
"Not talking? Getting into character?. You are – Molly you are simply magnificent. Are you cold, darling? Let me hold you, hmm?" Sherlock held out an arm to her, but she only glared at him, then directed her gaze out the window. Molly heard Sherlock chuckle to himself, and sigh heavily, probably in some kind of sexual frustration and she smiled. Then she looked out the window and could see herself and her paint job. She looked into her own eyes and tried to effect an alert, but innocent cat like regard. She knew Sherlock was watching her as she did this, but she didn't care. She practiced her cat looks in the reflection of the window as the cab sped toward Baker Street and John at last.
There you have it, part the first. Part II is done, I'm just revising and editing it. I don't know if there will be a Part III. Possibly not.
I would love to hear from you, if you like what you've read.
Let me know if you have any ideas of how you'd like things to go next!
I can't promise anything, but I'd love to hear.
Thanks so much, reviewers, favers and followers!
I wouldn't be doing this any more if it hadn't been for you!