Very mild, loving, caring BDSM with mild wax play

In which Molly & Sherlock continue their two games

There is brief mention of rape.

For those of you just dropping in, this chapter is a continuation of the previous one in which Sherlock and Molly are trying to break Molly's record of having 8 orgasms in one day. John is at work, but has sort of figured out that the two of them have been having a day in bed, and has mostly good feelings about it . . .

The very idea is entirely ridiculous.

Personal Best II

Sherlock sat in his small chair in his room, watching Molly sleep as he thought about Number 6. He wasn't sure how it was to be achieved, and was beginning to wonder just exactly how committed he was to this rather puerile exercise. Haven't we had our fun? He thought. Isn't it time to put this silly game aside and – oh, wait a moment – Sherlock had forgotten completely about the restraints, and he slipped quietly out of the bedroom to fetch them out of the bathroom where he and John had left them during the wee hours. He picked up the collar and cuffs and held them in his hands, running his fingers over the leather and the padding, smiling, remembering, sighing. He closed his eyes reverently as he held the collar. Oh, John. Molly. He thought.

He smiled to himself at how quickly he'd abandoned the idea of abandoning the idea. It's Molly. She's – so much fun. Just like being 13, he thought again. No. Just like being 13 as told by the popular culture. At least from what little contact he had with the popular culture. His own year of being 13 had been a miserable group of perceived personal failures accompanied by an astounding group of scholarly achievements, accolades and awards. At the time, he had longed to be part of things, part of clubs and parties, to be normal. Instead, he was ostracized at every step by his contemporaries, and, naturally enough, by many of his smaller minded teachers as well. Yes, 13 was the year he'd adopted Mycroft's superior aloofness for good and all. But while his new aloofness got him into even more trouble with his peers particularly the boys, it served him well psychically. He was able to cope with his parent's constantly sending him to new doctors and psychiatrists as well as with his earlier childhood friends' mounting scorn and with his continued inability to play well with others, with being himself, in short. All because I was too clever. No, he knew that was wrong, now. It was because he didn't know how to be properly social. There were plenty of clever people, he knew, not AS clever, of course, who were brainy, brilliant, even, but who knew how to make friends. He just wasn't one of them. And yes, he was finally able to admit it to himself, there's probably something a little bit wrong with me. With my – what? Oh for god's sake. Is this the rubbish that Molly and John want me to share with them? How trite. But they want me to tell them - they want to share, not the information, not the gossip,he now understood, but the burden as well. They want to share the burden. To help. To love me. What an ass I am.

He returned from the bathroom and slipped into bed next to Molly who seemed to be coming out of a light but comfortable looking sleep of some 40 minutes. He took one of her wrists and buckled it into one of the restraints, then did the same with her other wrist.

"Wha - ?"

"Restraints, Miss Hooper. If you'll allow it? For the study? For our important scientific study?" Sherlock descended to the edge of the bed, and buckled one of her ankles into a cuff, then fastened the restraint to the bit of rope that Molly and/or John had secured to the bed somehow. When had they done this? He wondered with a smile. He saw Molly roll to her back, and offer her free ankle to him with a deliciously pointed toe. He took the foot in his hand, petting it, stroking it. Molly tried to keep up with the little game of yesteryear they were enjoying so much. She smiled, but stammered as she spoke.

"Y-yes, that would be all right, Mr. Holmes."

"Excellent, Miss Hooper. The safe word is biosphere, all right?"

Molly nodded and licked her lips as Sherlock buckled her other ankle in, and secured it. Sherlock slid up in the bed to take Molly's wrists in his hands. As he reached across her body to bring her wrists together, he ran his hand across the skin of her abdomen, trailing his fingers across her navel, then up her body to her lovely breasts.

"Your skin, Miss Hooper, is – very – smooth." Sherlock seemed mesmerized, a little drugged, as he touched her skin, and Molly wondered what he was up to.

"Th-thank you, Mr. Holmes?" Molly wavered.

"No, no," said Sherlock, "I merely state a fact, but if you wish to take it as a compliment, you're more than welcome to do so."

"Oh, that's good," Molly said under her breath, appreciating the perfection to which Sherlock was playing his part. He'd now properly vexed her. "What a prat you were," she added, sotto voce.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Hooper?" Sherlock asked, though he'd heard her comment. She looked at him and pursed her lips together. Look at him! That cold expression, a plateful of superiority covered in a stiff sauce of contempt, with a sprig of smugness for garnish.

"N-nothing, Mr. Holmes," Molly continued the game but added, "You perfect, perfect wanker."

"Hmm, you're mumbling a bit, Miss Hooper. No doubt due to the arduousness of the study. Now, your other wrist? Thank you." Sherlock clipped the wrists together How handy, this hardware, he thought. Then he brought Molly's wrists above her head, as John had done with him earlier. Now, where did he – aha, Sherlock easily located another bit of rope with a loop to which he clipped Molly's wrists, over her head. He sat back and looked at Molly, now bound on the bed. God, Molly, love, you're so lovely, he tried to say with his eyes, without giving up the game. He wasn't sure if he'd communicated with her properly, but he continued to run his gaze up and down her lovely lithe body. He appreciated the hair under her arms, and between her legs, and he stroked her there. A woman, a human being. When he was inclined to have a look, Sherlock noticed that John's laptop pornography consistently showed women who were completely shaved, making them look like dolls, show window manikins, babies. He couldn't understand the allure. Yes, he preferred women with dark hair, lots of it, visible, plentiful. Women? No, this woman. He reached a hand to Molly again, unable to resist caressing her skin some more, caressing the hair on her sex.

"Yes, very smooth – ah – skin, Miss Hooper," He repeated, running his fingers over her breasts, down her flank, to her hip, to her inner thigh. He couldn't resist, game or no game, he was a man after all, and without any plan, he knelt between her knees and pressed his face to her inner thigh, then kissed her, nipping tenderly. He breathed her scent deeply, dragging his mouth, his nose across her skin, his tongue as well, until he came to her sex, where he didn't stop. He pressed his tongue deeply into her, his face, and soon was probing her with his fingers. He smiled against her wet skin as he felt her strain against the bonds, as she moaned her approval. Yes, lovely, lovely I could run my hands over her all day, but what to do, what to do? Ah! Sherlock suddenly pulled away from Molly and rose from the bed.

"Oh!" Molly was surprised at the loss of contact which was getting very exciting for her.

"Miss Hooper, have you ever taken part in a hot wax scenario?

"A hot - ?"

"Yes, hot wax, Miss Hooper. I will drip hot wax from a candle onto your skin. It's meant to be extremely sensual. I will not drip it onto your face, or anywhere near your head, for that matter, but the rest of you will be - fair game. Would you be amenable to such an exercise? The choice is yours completely." Sherlock raised his eyebrows, waiting for Molly's reply.

"I – ah – that is -."

"Yes, take your time, Miss Hooper, but I do require a yes or no response at some point."

"Y-yes. All right. I mean – If -."

"All necessary precautions will be taken, of course, and since this will be my first time directing such a scenario, it will be brief. But I must assume, given your proclivity for this kind of thing, and the newness of the exercise, that it will stimulate you sexually, and then I can bring you to orgasm for a 6th time, again, either orally or intervaginally, depending on how my own body responds to your particular level of excitement. Yes, there are a lot of variables, aren't there? I'm fairly sure I should be writing this down. Hmm. Next time. Well, Miss Hooper?"

"I-I, that is - ." Molly bit her lower lip, only a little worried, and extremely interested. She continued to play her part of panicky pathologist. How exquisite, she thought.

"Yes, a-all right, if you think – y-you - ."

"Excellent, Miss Hooper," Sherlock said, his tone almost bored. He turned to his dresser and fetched something out of it, and returned to the bed.

"The wax will come off more easily if a little oil is first applied to the skin." Sherlock whispered in Molly's ear, and briefly brushed his lips against her cheek. He quickly returned to aloof-Sherlock.

"I will apply the oil to your body, now, if you'll allow me, Miss Hooper? For this task, I will use my bare hands, if that will be all right?"

"Y-yes, Mr. Holmes, that will be fine."

Sherlock put a liberal amount of mineral oil in his hands, and gave Molly that smug and rather faked smile of earlier days. Oh, I could just smack him! She thought. He continued to smile this awful smile as he reached for her shoulders and she turned her face away from him, as he cupped her breasts in his hands.

"Oh, Molly, was I really that bad?" He whispered under his breath when she turned her head.

"Hmph." was all Molly managed, and took the opportunity to test the restraints. Sherlock smiled, though a little regretfully, and continued to spread the oil on Molly's skin. When she felt him more intent on his labours than on her reactions, she turned back and watched him slicking the oil over her body, his hands moving up to her collar bone, then down her frame to her abdomen. He applied more oil to his hands and coated her shoulders and arms, to the restraints. He used more oil and coated her sex, delicately, smoothing one hand between her spread legs, coating the hair and skin thoroughly. He then covered her legs and inner thighs to the restraints.

"Now, then, Miss Hooper. I have never done this before, but I assure you that I will only err on the side of caution. But if you have any doubts at all, I urge you to tell me now, and we'll – think of something else – for Number 6."

"I-I have only the utmost c-confidence in your – judgment, Mr. Holmes." Please, please drip that wax on me now, Molly thought, her hips already starting to thrust and strain against her bonds.

"Very good, Miss Hooper. Then, we'll begin." Sherlock turned his back to her, and lit a candle on the dresser. It was a white taper, and she watched it catch fire from the lighter Sherlock held, and then as he dripped an experimental few drops onto his own hand. Then he dripped a few drops on his arm. Then he allowed a few drops to fall on his chest and abdomen. He noted that if he held the taper far enough away from his target, the heat of the wax was somewhat lessened.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said, half in, half out of character as he dripped the wax on himself. Each drop of wax was a tiny shock of pain followed by a soothing kind of warmth, he could imagine the pleasure it would bring if one were – oh they must do this to me, and very soon, he thought. He held his hand under the taper, and approached the bed.

"Ready, Miss Hooper?"

"Yes, yes, go ahead." Molly replied, quite out of character, excited, waiting, begging. The first drip dropped onto her abdomen and Sherlock immediately put his hand under the candle.

"All right?" he asked her, dropping the game.

"Mmm, yes. Can't tell." Molly said, her head arched back, her back as well. "More, please."

Sherlock dripped another drop, and held his hand under the taper.

"All right, love?"

"Mmm. Go on, go on," She begged. "I have the safe word if I need it."

"As you wish, Miss Hooper." Sherlock continued to drip the wax from the taper on Molly's abdomen, watching her carefully to note any distress she might have, but she showed only pleasure at each moment the wax contacted her body. Sherlock slowly dripped a trail of wax to her breasts, as Molly moaned her approval and strained against the bonds, but she was mostly arching toward the wax, trying to get maximum contact with it.

Sherlock continued to drip wax up from her abdomen, and was about to drip the first few drops on her breasts, but he stopped. He dripped a few drops of the wax on his own chest, his nipples.

"Oh, god." He breathed, and looked at Molly. Her eyes were dark, and she was straining against the ropes. The restraints were just loose enough that Molly was able to squirm and writhe into the most delicious poses on the bed, and Sherlock felt the blood in his veins rearranging itself, his cock growing hard again.

"Please, please," she was looking at him, now, begging, and he held the candle above her chest, dripping the wax. She hummed and tried to position herself in such a way as to get the next drop where she wanted it. Sherlock smiled at her efforts, knowing that he was in control of this game, and dripped a slow circling pattern of drops around her nipple, and finally on the nipple itself. Molly purred and hummed loudly, now, squirming and writhing, her hips thrusting wantonly.

Sherlock covered her breast with the wax, then dripped a trail over her collar bone and then down to her other breast, where he made more of a zig zag pattern across her breast, hitting the nipple whenever he could. Then he started a trail of slow drips down to her abdomen again. Sherlock did some swirling patterns trailing across her skin, and continued to delight in Molly's moaning and writhing. She was alternately grimacing and grinning as the wax hit her and it was clear to Sherlock that she was having the time of her life. He began to drip a pattern lower to her hips, and Molly suddenly froze, waiting, wanting to feel exactly where he was going to drip the next drop, what pattern he was going to establish. She felt a few hot splashes fall to the hollow of her hip, then down her thigh, then to her inner leg where the skin was quite tender.

"Ah!"

"Molly, are you all right?"

"Yes, it's fine, it's good – don't stop, don't stop! Let me – I may – I may make some noise -?"

"Yes, of course – are you sure?" Sherlock held his hand under the taper as he spoke.

"Oh, god, yes, go on, go on."

Molly felt liberated to make some more and louder vocalizations as Sherlock dripped the wax on her inner thighs, and down to the knee, and back up again, lazily dripping here and there, randomly, surprising her, then establishing a pattern, then going random again. Molly was wholly delighting in it when suddenly the dripping stopped. She opened her eyes to see Sherlock holding the taper upright and away from her.

"What? Aren't you going to – aren't you going to - ?"

"I thought I'd avoid – your sex – to avoid the wax getting in your hair – it might be difficult to -."

"Sherlock, please drip the wax between my legs, please do it, I have the safe word, please."

"All right." Sherlock dripped a drop on her knee and began a pattern up her leg to her sex. As he let the drops hit her sex, Molly writhed, smiling, groaning. Sometimes it seemed as though she was trying to avoid the wax, sometimes it seemed that she was trying to open her legs wider to allow the wax to hit her deeper between her folds. Exquisite, exquisite, why couldn't he get a bigger candle? Why can't he, can't he open me up a bit and get me inside? Maybe two candles? Can't he – Molly's world started to collapse in the way she recognized as the beginning of the end. Wait a moment, how did this happen?

"Oh, god!" She moaned loudly, and Sherlock noticed that she seemed to be getting frustrated, now, bucking and writhing harder against the restraints, and he recognized her pattern of movement and vocalizations as she was getting close to plateau and orgasm.

"All right, Molly, shall I - ?"

"No, don't stop -" she managed, and he saw her loose control, bucking against her restraints, and shouting, seeming to have an orgasm without being touched but for the dripping of the hot wax. He watched her body shudder and quake, then slowly relax. He blew out the candle and replaced it on the dresser. Sherlock announced the results in his aloof manner.

"Number 6, spontaneous with the stimulation of hot wax."

Sherlock slid into bed next to Molly, presumably for Number 7. Molly began to come back to herself a bit, and opened her eyes to see Sherlock's face quite close to hers.

"Time out?" Sherlock asked, very much himself, dropping the game of aloof-Sherlock.

"All right," Molly smiled, and stretched her muscles as much as she could in the restraints.

"Are the restraints all right?" Sherlock asked, running his hands over her skin, her inner thigh, her breasts.

"They're lovely."

"They certainly are. Anyone ever – tie you up before? Like this?"

"Hmm, not quite like this. Not with proper, you know, like these. This is much better. I knew it would be." Molly closed her eyes, licking her lips, and thought about the previous part of the study. "Not exactly spontaneous."

"No, but, close enough, hmm?"

"Yes."

Sherlock stretched out beside her again, stroking her skin, breaking off the wax, peeling it away and brushing it off where he could. He tried to take some off of the hair between her legs.

"Ah!"

"Sorry."

"Just leave that – I'll get it later."

"Let me break it, so you can move a little." Sherlock pressed the wax where it was breaking it up a bit, though most of it just clung to her hair and skin.

"Did it hurt? And the heat? When I was dripping it?"

"Hmm? No, no. It was beautiful, love. I could go for longer."

"You didn't seem to," he smiled up at her.

"Hmm, no."

"So, you like the restraints? Will I have to get you some of your own? Pink ones?"

"Hmmhmm. John will have us both tied to the bed. No don't get me anything pink, for god's sake."

"Interesting," said Sherlock, then, "Fascinating. Yes, he could clip us together and pour wax on us both."

"Good lord. Pour?"

"Mmm, yes, it's – it's done. Molly?"

Molly was enjoying Sherlock's hands on her, loving every moment, every inch of contact, and he noticed how she pressed herself against him when she had the opportunity.

"Yes, love?"

"When we – have lunch – I've asked you several times, albeit obliquely, about – you know."

"Yes." Molly knew. He was getting closer to something she kept quite secret, asking about family relationships, other men in her life. Her trust issues. She just wasn't ready to reveal what had happened to her.

"I think I know, of course, and you know – you know I do, don't you?"

"Yes, love. But – not yet. I'm not ready to tell, yet – John doesn't know either."

"No, I didn't think so. Well, you seem to have – readjusted – to - ."

"Shhhh." Molly hushed him and he stopped.

"Sorry, of course, I – sorry. I won't ask, then, love. We'll wait. We'll wait until – until – well. We'll wait, hmm?"

"Yes. Perhaps the Decameron. It's not to be all nice stories, or funny stories, or sexy stories, you know."

"Oh, yes." Sherlock smiled at Molly's idea of a personal Decameron for the three of them. Perhaps it was the thing to break through to a new place for them. Though things were going so well, he couldn't imagine how it could go any better.

With regard to Molly's secret, Sherlock had to assume she'd been raped by someone she'd trusted, a family member or close family friend. He was gratified to see that the experience, whatever it may have been in fact, hadn't curtailed her life experiences. She seemed to have readjusted from her ordeal to a lively sexuality and healthy outlook on life. But he knew there was some kind of damage here. Damage from something besides this bad experience, besides surviving the whole faked death affair, and not knowing where he was for so long. Damage. That's what the three of them seemed to share. A psychic damage that could be ameliorated only with the involvement of the other two. Maybe it was the fall! he thought. Maybe it is my fault. I've damaged both of them, all three of us. No. There was damage before. John, during his time in the service. Molly, this past and other experiences. And me, well me – Ahaha.

"So, shall we continue? All right for more abuse?"

"Yeah," Molly bit her lower lip, and her eyes twinkled. Sherlock paused a moment, turning away from her, then he turned back to her, arrogant and aloof again.

"Miss Hooper?" Sherlock's clinical former-Sherlock demeanour was less cool, more gentle, now. What's he up to? Molly wondered.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"May I call you - Molly?" Molly chuckled, as she and Sherlock had never called one another anything else but their first names. It was becoming very erotic, this role playing game they were doing while they were both naked, and she was still completely restrained, her wrists together over her head, and her legs spread wide across the bed, leaving nothing to the imagination. She kept up with the game.

"Well, y-yes, Mr. Holmes, if you wish."

"I do. And will you call me Sherlock, please? Molly?"

"Well, yes, if you like. Sherlock."

"Good," said Sherlock. "Because the next orgasm will be achieved intervaginally through manual stimulation, and since that will be rather intimate, well, our faces will be quite close to one another, like this, I thought we might address one another by our Christian names. Perhaps it will help to heighten your sexual stimulation, as well?"

Molly smiled at Sherlock as he tentatively stroked her face with his finger tips. It was strange what he was able to achieve, she thought, with this little game of his. It really did feel as though they had travelled back and time, and they had never been together, never gone through the trauma of Sherlock's faked death, and had never known one another in any other capacity than as scientific co-workers of sorts. It was a strange time when she found him to be so cold, so aloof, and yet there were strange moments, like this one he was recreating for her, when he seemed just a little closer, just within reach, almost.

"Oh, Miss Hoo-, I mean Molly?"

"Yes, Sherlock," Molly breathed.

"Do you remember the bag of thumbs you gave me on Tuesday, December 12th?"

Molly cast her mind back those four years and more and madly enough remembered a bag of thumbs.

"Yes, I believe I do."

"I don't think I ever thanked you properly for them. Did I?"

"Not that I recall, Mr. H – ah, Sherlock, no."

"Hmm. That is regrettable. May I do so now?"

"Of c-course you may, if you w-wish."

Sherlock leaned in close to Molly's face, but stopped just short of his lips touching hers, and whispered to her:

'Thank you.' Then he pulled away.

Molly smiled at the joke, but didn't laugh out loud. She looked into Sherlock's face, and saw no hint revealing the game he was engaged in. It was a thrilling visit back in time to the moments they had shared before they were close, not knowing how deeply they would be connected in the future.

"You're welcome, ah, Sherlock. Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly?"

"When will Number 7 begin?"

"Well, it begins right now, Molly. I've already removed a bit of the wax from your – ah, body." Sherlock pressed Molly's hips back a bit, allowing her to open her legs, and he slid his hand between her knees, and slid them up between her thighs. Then he looked at her a little apologetically.

"If you'll forgive me, Miss – uh, Molly?" Sherlock slipped his hand higher, his eyes locked on Molly's and she found she was quite thrilled to have former-Sherlock slide a single finger between her folds, and beyond, deeply entering her. She was excited already even after the strenuous morning and part of an afternoon they'd had. She felt him gently add another finger, curling them at the ends, gently exploring. He touched her face tenderly with his other hand, as if to ease any distress he might be causing her in this highly objective scientific exploration. When he spoke it was with a hushed reverence.

"There is much mystique built up around the Grafenburg or 'G' spot in women, as it is called, particularly in association with the notion of female ejaculation, Molly. Now, it is only important for our study that you achieve genuine orgasm, but for my own personal scientific curiosity, if you would allow me to ask, have you ever, Molly, to you knowledge, have you ever expelled any kind of ejaculate during orgasm?

"No, um, Sherlock. Not to my knowledge, ah!"

"Oh, interesting." Sherlock stopped searching. "This spot here?"

Molly nodded, her lips parted, her head leaning slightly back. Sherlock noticed that one of her legs was involuntarily pulling against it's restraint in a jerking motion. He smiled, and gently rubbed the spot, teasing it out a bit, leaving it for some moments, then returning to it.

"Have you – ever looked for your own – ah – Grafenberg spot, Molly?"

"Yes," Molly breathed, stunned into immobility and near speechlessness at Sherlock's touch.

"And did you – find it?" Sherlock continued to swirl his middle finger around the spot he'd found.

"Oh, yes."

"I see. But you – don't tell your sexual partners about it?" Sherlock was a little wounded that this was the first time he'd heard of this from Molly, at his direct questioning.

"I do – if – they want to know."

Sherlock froze Oh, Molly, love, he thought, I'm quite sure that's not at all fair of you. He regained his composure to pursue the role playing game.

"I see. But your husband?" Sherlock pulled his hand part of the way away from Molly's body, to allow her to concentrate on her thoughts, rather than what she may or may not be enjoying physically, though he was fairly sure she was enjoying it.

"My husband - is lovely, but – doesn't go in for hand jobs - or – ah - ." Molly arched her back, trying to regain the friction she'd had only moments before.

"Oh, Miss Hooper, Miss Hooper. I see that you have allowed yourself to be somewhat sexually neglected by – people who love you very, very much." Sherlock looked Molly in the eyes, very much his own self, though he kept up with the game verbally and vocally. Molly hung her head, a little ashamed to have said what she'd said. She knew she only had to ask. Either one of them would do anything she'd ask of them, she knew. And here, she'd neglected telling Sherlock about this for such a long time, now, and she'd never discussed it with John. But she would have talked about it, asked them for specific things when she wanted them in time. She was just so fuckingly incandescently sexually satisfied with both John and Sherlock that it didn't seem necessary to bring it up just yet. And she was very focused on and gratified by Sherlock's and John's continued physical closeness. It continued to be delicious to watch as it unfolded and grew. What more could one want?

"I – I - ." was all Molly could manage.

"If you will permit me, Molly?" Acting his role to perfection, Sherlock leaned in awkwardly to Molly, and brushed her lips with his. "I understand it can heighten sexual stimulation during coitus. And it's - meant to be quite pleasant." Sherlock didn't wait for a reply as he pressed his mouth to Molly's now, utterly and expertly dominating the kiss. Yes, it's just like he was, thought Molly, It's as if I'm kissing that Sherlock, how does he do it? Then Sherlock deepened the kiss slowly, never letting her up for air as he explored inside her with his hand, noting every tiny reaction, noting every move, every slight change in her as she became more agitated, as her heart rate rose, as her muscles began to strain against him, as her inner muscles clenched making it harder for him to move his hand, as she threw her head back and moaned, as she arched and bucked against the restraints and as she stiffened and shook and finally relaxed back against the pillows. He kissed her softly, and pulled away from her at last, and she murmured his name, her head rolling back and forth on the pillow. Sherlock mentally noted the results of Number 7 to have been achieved intervaginally through manual stimulation of the so-called Grafenburg spot with speedy and spectacular results.

John. I wonder how close he is to being prompt this evening? I'm running out of time.

To be continued!

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