Along one side of Sally Donovan’s bedroom is a small amount of kit, chosen for discretion and adaptability in case of family or colleague visits to her small south London flat.
Currently the corner is occupied by Dr Molly Hooper who, naked and whimpering, is straddling a wooden horse made out of chairs and a sanded plank. Her hands are bound behind her and secured to the chairback at one end. Her head sways back and forth and her calves tremble with the effort of keeping herself on tiptoe. Now and then she gives up, and sinks down, and moans, and Sally imagines the harsh edge of plank bruising rich, hidden softness, and gets wet herself. She walks over to the horse again, and weighs a tender little breast in her hand before crushing it hard into Molly’s body.
Molly swallows and makes eye contact. ‘Ow.’
Too poised. That’s not what Sally’s into. Sally’s into the Molly who, after accompanying Sherlock bloody Holmes to the police social and helping him pose as a nice, normal girlfriend-toting bloke to help get case information out of some new bigwig, ended up at a corner table with her.
She’d met Dr Hooper before, all white coat and competent dissection of a case-relevant corpse, and seemingly wary of the wry comments Sally made to try to get her talking. Now, fresh from being hectored by Sherlock about how she’d just been very useful but should stop getting in the way, she sat down beside Sally, and they had an odd, quiet moment of just staring at each other. Then ten minutes of nothingy chat, then Molly downed her wine, nodded in the direction of Sherlock, who was now squabbling with Lestrade, and said, ‘I’m a total masochist.’ Pause. ‘Aren’t I.’
Not a question. Truth hidden out in the open. Sally smiled.
‘Reckon you are. And you think he’s capable of doing anything useful with that?’
‘Er. No,’ admitted Molly. They were still in limbo, in the place where the words could mean either thing.
Not a place Sally liked.
‘You mean you like to get tied up, hurt and maybe fucked,’ she said, and she was far from new to the game but still her heart beat faster because the cost of judging this stuff wrong is high. ‘You’re out of his league, in other words. So, then. Assuming you’re into women, and specifically me...’
She broke off because of Molly’s quick-spreading blush, but also because of her smile. Shock. Recognition. Desire.
In some respects they’ve moved incredibly quickly. Molly needs, and Sally found that out the first time she applied the wrist cuffs. Getting that much reaction, giving that much release... pure headspace. Yet while they’ve now played four full scenes and many more little, passing, games, Sally’s always stayed at least partly clothed. She likes the power dynamic for one thing, and for another Molly’s interest in women has been mostly theoretical until now, so going slow is sensible. Tonight, though, Sally stripped from the start, because if you can’t dom naked, well, you can’t dom.
She sees in Molly’s eyes that she’s gorgeous like this. When she leans in to lick Molly’s neck, Molly stares down at their breasts swinging together, and lets out a little oh, much breathier now. With each scene they get more quickly to the point where Molly melts, her inhibitions not vanishing but softening into something Sally can use.
‘What are you?’ she whispers, hot in Molly’s ear.
Pause ‘A... cunt.’
That word is Molly’s. Sally suspects she used to be called it a lot, probably by a man trying to pass off abuse as domliness. But she uses it with Sally now.
‘Your cunt, mistress,’ Molly murmurs.
Sally reaches for the leather collar which has been hanging off a chairback since before Molly arrived. It’s something they both view as a toy rather than a symbol, but like Molly herself, it’s coming to mean more to Sally than she expected. She remembers the night last week when she came to the morgue with a scraped wrist that was far less serious than the smeared blood suggested. ‘But you’re in pain!’ exclaimed Molly, and Sally barked with laughter, then watched, silent, as Molly patched her up. Of course; Molly is a doctor. She would do that.
With the collar in one hand, Sally traces her other forefinger down light fur until it’s buried deep in the damp brunette curls that brush against wood. Given the encouragement, Molly arches as high as she can go, clearly wanting something very particular. And Sally’s happy to give it to her – just not much and not for long. She slides a fingertip between Molly’s legs, just against the hood of her clit, and rubs, teasing her for a few seconds.
The wriggling and gasping are fine to see. But when Sally draws back, Molly collapses down again and cries out at the sudden pain. Sally, protected by an inch or two of extra height, puts a leg over the plank herself to straddle it, loops the collar around Molly’s neck, centres it, staring into Molly’s eyes which are large and brown and trusting and so sweetly fucking afraid, and places one hand on Molly’s shoulder and one forefinger through the collar ring... and rams her down and yanks her forward. She’s stretched out from her tethered wrists and crushed down on the wooden edge, and her eyes fill with tears, but she endures it while Sally smiles and murmurs, ‘Good little slave.’
Sally’s word. She decided years ago to follow her pleasure even there. Using it, she still freezes for a moment, feeling history in her bones, but the flood of desire is stronger. She is dominant and lover, offering her juice and power to Molly, who is under her protection. Sally kisses her on the forehead, sweat-tasting, pleasure-tasting... And Molly’s willingness frees Sally as well. She decides she’s going to scratch a certain itch. In spite of the small amount of height she has on Molly she’s still straining to avoid the plank, and that’s not doing anything for her. So she moves closer towards Molly and lowers about half her weight onto the sharp, sanded edges.
The pain in her lips is sparking and pungent, extra heat to the fire of hurting Molly. Sally smirks at her lover’s startled expression, says ‘You don’t get all the fun, bitch,’ kisses her, and starts to rock them together, easing Molly up from the torturing plank then slamming her back, trying to keep alert for the safeword through the surge and heave of pleasure.
It’s intense. And this scene could last longer if they slow down. So Sally halts their motion and lets go of the collar ring to slide a finger down Molly’s front again. Molly strains upwards to give access, so fast she almost destabilises the horse; Sally catches her shoulder with one hand and reaches down with the fingertips of the other to trace the outline – wet – of Molly’s cunt before pulling back.
‘Eager little slut, aren’t you?’ Sally observes when Molly has wobbled back down into her normal uncomfortable half-tiptoe position, staring with a glassy wonder that makes Sally want to chain her down on the bed and lick her out right now. Instead she trails a damp fingertip down Molly’s cheek. ‘But this isn’t all about you. Want to please your mistress?’
Molly nods. Sally deliberately doesn’t follow up with an instruction yet, just works her fingers one by one into Molly’s mouth, and Molly sucks obediently. Fine lines on her forehead are smoothing away.
‘Right. Get down and crawl,’ says Sally. ‘Or I’ll mark your pretty face so everyone can see what you’re into.'
Molly’s muddled look of obedience and alarm is comical. She pulls at her hands, bound behind her, and glances around at them. Sally laughs. ‘Do you need my help? All right. Just this once.’ And she gets off the horse and detaches Molly’s wrist cuffs from the chairback before helping her down to lie on her side on the floor.
What Molly clearly doesn’t expect is for Sally to then cuff her feet together, and finish up by loosely hogtying her. After a long moment she twitches her bound wrists and ankles and says, mostly to the carpet ‘Crawl? You – um?’
‘Yes,’ says Sally. ‘Or do I have to kick you across the room?’ She reaches in to yank the band off Molly’s ponytail. Before her lovely hair cascades across her shoulders her head is briefly dragged right up, and her gaze fixes on Sally... and there is such desire there that it briefly catches Sally by surprise. Sally’s fire, caught in Molly’s eyes. She has a flash of how she must look: towering, naked, framed by a cloud of curls. Glorious.
‘Oh. Ow,’ says Molly, almost in her daytime voice. But with that strange, sweet, determination of hers, she tries it, squirming different parts of her body to inch across the carpet. Keeping their gazes locked, Sally backs off, shoving the bed as far out of the way as it will go, which isn’t far. Molly wriggles and thrashes closer, now seeming to swim through a pool of her own hair like a mermaid half-in, half-out of the sea. She tugs at her head to free it, then lurches forward again, and again. Sally steps over her, leans on the door and slides part way down, legs spread. The sight of Molly struggling for her is like a touch to her whole body; she is skin hunger and alertness in every nerve, spiralling into the wet heat growing between her legs. She decides: she’s going to feel Molly in her cunt tonight. No more handling that side for the both of them.
‘All right, little freak?’ she says. They both know who else she calls that, but you can use a word two ways. ‘It’s time you learned why you’ve got fingers and a mouth.’
Molly stalls in her squirming progress. Sally waits for a moment... then for another... and her breath catches. Because if she’s misjudged this then now’s the time for Molly to curl back into herself and blame bad black Sally for fouling her sweet white shell. Wouldn’t be the first time that happened. Sally will survive.
As always, she survives by pressing on.
‘You’re going to fuck me,’ she explains, pushing away from the door and reaching out to untie Molly’s hands.
Still no damn answer. But Molly twitches life into her arms and raises herself carefully, shakily onto her elbows. Almost immediately she drops her gaze. ‘Mistress, I’ll do it wrong,’ she says at last.
So that’s the worry, or the one Molly admits to. She sounds nervous, half out of scene, but not all the way. Sally can deal. ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Do it wrong and I’ll punish you. Win/win situation.’
She keeps her voice harsh, but she takes Molly’s hand in a grip that is gentle. Molly nods. ‘All right,’ she says.
Half in-scene and half-out of it; an awkward line to walk. Sally would rather not do it for long. She grabs pillows from the bed and settles herself against the door. Then she gathers Molly’s hair half-way down its length and twists it around her hand – possession without true restriction, which maybe is what this whole game finally amounts to – and says: ‘All right, temporary vanilla moment: just go like this inside me.’ She crooks the fingers of her free hand. ‘Easy, unless you’re too scared to move.’
Molly isn’t, quite. She kneels over Sally with a nervous expression; then in spite of the instruction tries to thumb at Sally’s clit. ‘No, that’s what you like,’ says Sally, slapping her away. ‘Inside.’
The fingers slip in. Easy, still: she’s wet from the horse. Sally is... Sally is... mostly reminded that Molly handles corpses for a living.
‘You trying to lift me up by the pelvis? Ow!’
Molly flushes red. ‘I said I’d do it wrong. I...’
‘Aaah, yes!’ Sally interrupts. Molly’s fingers just brushed her sweet spot, then moved away. ‘That was it!’ But Molly’s wavering again.
Screw it. Sally lurches up, grabs Molly’s little breast, twists it and drags her back down. Molly’s whole body clenches in a wince of pain, including fingers... and now she’s focused, tracking Sally, looking for cues.
‘Fuck me, yes. Forget the rest.’ Sally curls her body around the movements, sets a rhythm herself, and as Molly starts to move again Sally nudges her into it. Their hands squeeze in sync, Molly’s hair cascades over them, and Sally slides down against the pillow, pulling Molly too. Molly gives and Sally takes, and the pure indulgent pleasure of it peaks as Molly, sweet nervous Molly, begins to smile with the joy of her success. Sally contracts around Molly’s hand, catching a blurred glimpse of contorted bodies in the mirror, her arm around Molly who is beached across her – and there is a flash in Molly’s eyes as she bites, hard, on Sally’s collarbone.
Pain. Gift. Smell of sweat and juices fused – and Sally uncoils into long, bright, threading seconds of bliss.
Peace. A minute goes past.
Above her Molly murmurs, half-joking, half tentative, ‘Was biting, um, right, then?’
Sally breathes out. She gives herself another moment, then searches for her voice. ‘You know it was. Don’t be smart.’ Emotions are soaking through her, unfamiliar and sweet.
Molly relaxes part-way and snuggles into Sally. ‘I tried. So I’m getting to know you, then.’
‘Likewise,’ says Sally. Post-orgasm, she feels as if she’s floating in warm ocean. She gently tugs Molly’s collar ring. ‘You like this?’
Molly nods against Sally’s skin; a rustle of hair. ‘It’s full-on. And you are too.’
‘That’s me,’ says Sally comfortably, and kisses the top of Molly’s head. ‘I’m a queer black perv, freaklet. You get tough or you get stomped on.’
‘I bet,’ replies Molly. ‘You’re very brave.’
‘No shit.’ Sally knows earnest guff when she hears it. ‘And you?’
‘I’m not brave,’ Molly says, thoughtful. ‘But somehow I’m changing.’ She glances up at Sally’s face.
‘We’re both real,’ she says.