Her mum had warned her.
About, you know. Those kinds of girls.
The kinds of girls who rolled up the skirts of their uniforms so that their hems were indecently high, the kinds of girls who cursed and smoked and spat, the kinds of girls who wore thongs. (“Ridiculous things, those; how are they meant to cover your bits or support your bum, hm?”) The kinds of girls who kissed boys far too early and acquired a taste for weird sex things. The kinds of girls who hung out with the wrong crowd. The kinds of girls who were the wrong crowd.
Molly wonders, gasping down at the crisp white sheets, if she had perhaps spent too much time trying to avoid those girls, and not enough time making sure not to become one of them. Because surely, she had to be at least a little bit like them, to enjoy—
The riding crop comes whipping down again, and Molly cries out and reaches an octave that could probably make glass shatter. Before she can even suck in a breath, the woman brings it crashing down again, across both her buttocks this time, and Molly yelps as the pain ripples and spreads across her skin like wildfire. Tears gather afresh at the corner of her eyes, and before she knows it, there’s a hand in her hair, jerking her head upwards.
“I’m sorry,” says the woman pleasantly. “I didn’t catch that.”
Bollocks, thinks Molly, even as the riding crop strikes her arse again, and her hips make a movement like trying to ease into the touch and away from it at the same time. The pain is overwhelming, as is the guilty ecstasy that builds alongside it. Still, she has the presence of mind to remember that she is supposed to be counting these out, and the mental agility to further realise that she’s got no idea what number she’s supposed to be on. Seventeen? Nineteen?
The riding crop snaps again, this time on the left side of her bum, and Molly half sobs with it, almost feeling the welts rising into life on her flesh.
“I’m waiting,” the woman reminds in an almost playful cadence.
“I-I-!” Molly cries out, with a sort of anticipatory wince. When the sting of the riding crop doesn’t come, she hurries to blurt out, “Thank you, Ms. Adler!” Perhaps that would suffice.
(Silly thing to think, really.)
The hand in her hair creeps down to her chin, and the woman leans into her line of vision. She is perfect, like a carefully crafted machine, each part functional and devastating. The outfit she wears is simple, yet of a design that Molly could never hope to pull off, with the top that pushes her cleavage so high that her nipples poke out, and tiny little knickers. Her lips are still a striking red, her hair still immaculate, and Molly pants just to look at her. Definitely the wrong crowd.
“Oh, tsk, tsk.” Molly can feel her nipples tighten further as the woman’s breath washes over her face. “Looks like we’ve got a forgetful Fran on our hands, haven’t we?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Adler,” is all Molly can think to say, the last syllable dragging out on a moan when the woman drags her bright red fingernails down over Molly’s breasts. She pinches, and it hurts so good.
“‘Sorry’?” Her smile is like a knife. “As lovely as that word is on your pretty lips, I think I’ll have some others.”
Molly’s cunt throbs; there’s a little of the devil in Ms. Adler’s tone. And no matter how much her mother’s words tickle at the back of her mind, no matter how much she tells herself that this is weird and wrong, she’s not scared. The hitch of her breath is all excitement.
“‘Please Ms. Adler’, ‘more Ms. Adler’, ‘thank you Ms. Adler’,” the woman is saying, reaching back with the crop to give Molly’s bum a light smack to punctuate each phrase. “Those are the only words I want to hear coming out of your mouth. Understood?”
Molly almost blurts out a frantic ‘yes!’ but then catches herself, and nods vigorously instead. The woman smiles, almost sweetly, and she pats Molly’s cheek before standing straight again. Molly’s hands and knees are aching, but it is nothing to the burning wait as the woman paces back and forth along the edge of the bed, smacking her hand lightly with the crop, twisting it in her hands so that it rubs against the leather of her gloves. A long minute passes by; Molly’s sweat-slick hair hangs forward into her face, and her breathing sounds incredibly loud in her ears. The urge to press her legs together and put pressure on her clit is overwhelming, but she doesn’t dare, not with the woman pacing alongside the bed in dangerously high heels.
There’s a little laugh, and Molly gasps, the sound slipping out as if an invisible magnet had pulled it forward. She is in so much trouble.
The first one comes lightning quick and hard, striking right down the middle of her arse so that the tip of the crop slaps her cunt, and Molly screams sharply, arching her back. Holy god.
“Thank you, Ms. Adler!” she remembers to say, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. The sting hasn’t yet worn off when another two come in quick succession, across the very curve of her bum, where it leads into her thighs. Molly squeezes her eyes shut, legs shaking. The heat between her legs is unbearable.
“Please Ms. Adler, thank you Ms. Adler!”
A sweet, almost girlish chuckle answers her. The riding crop makes a leisurely trek around her arse, passing over the fresh wounds and the burning welts, making Molly revisit the ache in the sweetest way. Panting, she feels as it slips between her legs, nestles between her lips, poking at her clit and playing with the wetness there. In the next breath, the crop is striking her bum again, her own wetness adding to the sting. The ache blossoms, and Molly’s hips rock back, her whole body shivering as the next blow comes.
“P-please Ms. Adler, more Ms. Adler!”
Even she can hear how her words quiver. The smile in the velvety voice is tangible.
“Well, my dear… if you insist.”
The woman lays into her in earnest then, spanking her fast and hard and furious, the blows falling upon her arse and thighs and sometimes sweetsharp between her legs, and the pain is so good and so constant that it makes her head spin. Molly flinches away, but always finds herself arching back, back into the whip and the sweet sting of it. Everywhere the crop falls, it hurts, unimaginably so, but is at the same time so hot and amazing that Molly sobs openly, babbling out her lines, fingers scrabbling at the sheets.
“Thank y-you thank you thank you, oh-- more, Ms. Adler, please more!”
Her mind is already going white, but she hears as the woman moves behind her, and certainly feels it when she spreads her legs further apart. Somehow, Molly knows what’s coming before it happens, and she has time to suck in a sharp breath before the riding crop is there, beating on her clit with sharp little taps, and she doesn’t stand a chance. She comes crying, hips rocking against the pain and the pleasure, clamping her legs shut automatically when a gloved hand reaches in to rub her to her peak.
Maybe probably definitely one of those girls, she thinks as she collapses, boneless and liquid on the bed. Her hands dart between her legs to cup herself and press against her clit, riding out the sweet ache.
A few seconds is all she gets. Before Molly can catch her breath, before she can even stop tingling, she is being flipped over. She hisses when the sheets rub against her bum, but the pain only has her attention for a scant second. For there she is, Irene Adler, shaking her hair out of its high do, immaculate and perfect and gorgeous with a silver glint in her eyes.
“Good girl,” she says, caressing Molly’s cheek, wiping away tears. Leather-clad fingers tuck locks of damp hair behind her ear, and the woman’s teeth are very white when she bites down on her lower lip. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
Molly’s eyes widen, and her cunt squeezes in anticipation. Her mum’s warnings had never prepared her for this, but she’s glad of that. Some things, and some girls, you just have to experience on your own, and Molly has a lot to learn.