“God,” Mary sighs, nips Molly’s neck as they lie on their sides, “that was—shit. I left marks”—Mary traces from Molly’s jaw to her shoulder, lifts the duvet, looks down—“Bollocks. Everywhere. You look well and truly fucked.”
“Aren’t I?” Molly wiggles her arse against Mary’s bush, grins when Mary pinches her nipple, leans to feel Mary’s breasts and belly at her back. Mary’s arm is over her ribs, Mary’s leg over her thighs, Mary’s breath steady on her nape.
Molly doesn’t know what it is to want someone, sexually—she likes someone or she doesn’t; she’ll fuck them or she won’t—but she does know what it is to love and fuck and feel safe with and take pain from—for—someone.
Molly brings Mary’s hand to her mouth. Kisses each finger. She can smell herself on Mary’s skin.
“I like it,” says Molly. “When you leave marks.”
Mary kisses just behind Molly’s ear. “Good. I like hurting you.”
A full-body tingle: ask her. “I want,” Molly says, pushes herself to speak, “I want you to pick a tattoo for me and, um, and watch me. When I get it.”
Mary squeezes her. “It hurts.”
Mary would know. There’s a crimson rose in the crease beneath her left hip.
“I’ll make an appointment.”
Molly’s legs are spread, honeysuckle design sprawled high inside her left thigh. The room’s fluorescent-bright (morgue-bright, Molly thinks, stifles a giggle) and reeks of antiseptic. The gun drones and stops and drones and stops and every time the low buzz begins Molly braces herself, squeezes Mary’s hand, tries not to flinch.
Can’t help but flinch, after the first hour.
“I’m so proud of you,” Mary murmurs in her ear as Molly grimaces at an agonising bit of colour; the needle drags through, lingers in, the already tender skin near her groin. “I knew you could handle a placement this painful, if I asked you to.”
Molly meets Mary’s eyes with a look she hopes telegraphs her thoughts—“Handle?” I’d come from it, if you’d let me—and smirks when Mary blinks, blushes.
There is pain and pain and time means nothing and there are tears in Molly’s eyes, praise steady in her ears, when the gun stops and doesn’t start and something cold is sprayed on her open wound, a cleansing, a dressing taped over what hurts.
“I’m taking you home,” says Mary, when Molly shivers wraps her own scarf around Molly’s neck, “and I'm looking after you until that dressing comes off.”
Molly leans into Mary’s embrace. “Fine, but don’t go easy on me. I won’t break.”
In the bedroom Mary sits on the bed and Molly goes to her knees, kisses beneath Mary’s dress, nuzzles between labia to nip at Mary’s clit between fast, wide licks.
“You’re gorgeous like this,” Mary groans, cups her hands behind Molly’s head, tugs hard at Molly’s hair. “Absolutely”—Mary uses Molly, without hesitation or apology, perfect—“gorgeous.”
Molly hums, pleased. Isn’t aroused. Not yet. Will be, when it’s her turn.
Mary swears and her clit leaps against Molly’s tongue and Molly dries her face on the sheets, obeys Mary’s “Come up here,” kisses Mary slow and open-mouthed until Mary smiles, strips them both bare, gently strokes Molly’s arms legs sides until Molly feels safe and hazy and Mary says, “Turn over.”
Mary’s everywhere: pinning Molly’s wrists above her head, biting the back of her neck, weighing her down, parting her legs.
“Please,” Molly gasps, clit throbbing, all of her wet and swollen and wanting, “like this,” and Mary’s teeth are in her shoulder, fingers in her cunt, nipples hard against her skin, and her tattoo aches and it’s what Mary wanted and she begs Mary to stroke her clit but Mary makes her wait, and wait, and oh she comes in Mary’s hand and breathes and breathes.
Mary removes her dressing, washes her wound, sleeps sound at her back.