12 Strikes (or, How the Governess Got Her Girl) NC-17
Title: Twelve Strikes (or, How the Governess Got Her Girl)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2060
Prompt: Mary/Irene, baking & spanking
A/N: written for the sherlockkink meme, this is the story that wouldn't stop. I was up until 2AM, nevermind the fact that I had to be awake at 7. Loosely follows my previous Mary/Irene fic Strawberries & Cream.
Mary is pushing holes in the pie crust with a fork when she hears the knock on the door. She sets the utensil down, wiping floury hands on her apron as she walks towards the door.
“Do let me in, Mary dear,” Irene cajoles when she opens the door. She’s wearing suspenders and pinstripe trousers but for some reason Mary isn’t scandalized by the male attire. She isn’t surprised in the least when the woman explains, “I’ve got the most dreadful men looking for me and they mustn’t be-” she is cut off when Mary’s arm closes around her thin wrist.
Mary is surprised at the delicateness of the bones beneath her hand, but finds an odd predatory feeling run through her once she notices the white powder marking the already pale skin. She tugs at the woman, pulling her into the coolness of the dim hallway and shutting the door. They stare at the other for a moment; Mary’s eyes glance discreetly at the tousled red hair and pink cheeks but Irene makes no pretense as her blue eyes take in the wife of Dr. Watson.
“Can I offer you a drink, Irene?” Mary almost claps a hand over her mouth at the presumption of them being on a first name basis, but stills the motion at the tinkling laugh that emerges from the obviously un-offended American.
“That’s quite alright, my dear Mary,” Irene replies. “I’d be happy to sit for a spell while you continue,” she pauses to look at Mary’s flour-dusted apron and pulled back hair. “in the kitchen.” The blonde nods and leads the way to the back of the flat, Irene’s boot heels clicking behind her.
To put it simply, Irene gets in the way.
She doesn’t sit at the small table, but begins watching Mary resume her activities while leaning against the wall. The slightly taller woman steps in front of Mary at every opportunity, blocking her way in the already tiny kitchen. She pushes pale fingers into everything, rupturing a blueberry to lick the juice from her fingers. Mary is reminded of their earlier encounter at the action and she bites her lip to hide the sudden rush of heat.
Irene winks at her when she catches Mary’s look, popping another berry into her mouth.
Without thinking, Mary reaches over with the spoon she’s holding, hitting Irene’s wrist. The blueberries in her fist drop, rolling all over the counter.
“Oh, I didn’t mean…” Mary’s mouth drops open as she catches sight of the pink mark that disappears underneath the buttoned sleeve. Irene laughs for the second time; it’s a throaty deep laugh Mary thinks is better suited for male company. Or people more experienced in these sorts of things, not her.
“I think you meant exactly that,” Irene’s eyes glitter as she sashays over to her. “You know,” her tooth bites down on her bottom lip in a coquettish way. “I think I’ve been very bad, Governess.” Her light voice is huskier, much rawer than when she was begging to be let in from the summer heat outside.
At the title, Mary thinks she can do this and her fingers tighten around the spoon handle as she raises an eyebrow. Perhaps it’s time to take charge of the situation. She brushes past the redhead, going towards the chair in the corner. Irene stands still by the stove, dark eyes watching her drag out the chair to the middle of the room. Mary sits, motioning to her lap. “You have been extraordinarily misbehaved, Miss Adler. I want you undressed and face down.” She knows her tone brooks no argument - it’s the same tone she uses with the children and it works with the young woman as well.
Irene crosses the room, skirts rustling. She stands before her, unbuttoning the sleeves of her blouse before sliding down the suspenders from her shoulders. Her hips undulate as her nimble fingers undo the small buttons, pulling at the fabric to dislodge the shirt from tailored trousers. Irene spins and bends to untie the boots, presenting her pert ass for Mary's benefit. She then stands at her full height, probably a few centimeters below Mary's own height, to lift her arms above her head to remove the shirt. Mary knows that is entirely unnecessary, but a small part of her appreciates that the action pushes out surprisingly unbound breasts. The redhead lowers her hands as the white shirt drops to the floor behind her, moving to undo the buttons of her pinstripe pants. She wears a saucy grin as she moves her hips obscenely to let the pants slither down her legs on their own. Mary watches the show, feeling that familiar heat grow as Irene stands on one leg to take off her socks. Soon after she stretches out across Mary’s lap, dampness discoloring the tiny scrap of satin that covers her bottom.
“Did you enjoy that?” Mary queries harshly. Irene turns her head to meet the blue eyes, but Mary reaches out to push her head back down. “I do believe I said ‘face down’, Miss Adler,” she reminds her. “Now tell me why you’ve earned yourself this punishment.” In contrast to the hard tone, her fingers can’t stop themselves from carding through the short curls at the base of the redhead’s skull.
“Well Governess,” Mary can just hear the American’s grin as she lists off the reasons. “I’ve been a very naughty thing lately. I find great delight in taking things that aren’t mine, I have trouble following directions,” she wiggles her bottom, and Mary realizes she isn’t completely undressed. Irene continues with “I’m constantly in trouble with the law and the Yard, I-”
“That’s enough,” Mary breaks into the speech. “For all of that you’ve got five-”
Irene interrupts a second time. “That doesn’t seem like an awful lot. Surely I’ve been worse than ju-” she is cut off when Mary raises the spoon and brings it down on the damp satin. The woman squirms, panting as Mary rubs her hand across the area to soothe it.
“You’ve earned five for the previously said misdeeds, two for interrupting and a further five if only for the fact that you are a vexing little minx, not a proper lady.” Irene remains silent at the announcement. Mary continues, “I want you to count each strike out loud, Miss Adler. Do you understand me?” Her hand tangles in the curls, pulling the head up sharply when she doesn’t answer fast enough. Mary’s other hand, wooden utensil held tight, stills the soothing pattern as Irene moans out an answer.
Mary slides the blue satin over the mounds, letting them fall to tangle in Irene’s feet. She sets aside the spoon and continues rubbing the smooth flesh before raising her hand. The first strike is lighter than the previous but Irene’s count of ‘one’ fills the small area. The second hit lands on the opposite globe, making a pink mark to match the first as Irene says ‘two’.
Three and four overlap the first two slightly, turning the creamy flesh a shade darker. The fifth is the hardest delivered so far and Irene jerks beneath the hit. Mary watches the dampness turn to outright wet, sliding down to drip on Mary’s apron-covered leg.
Irene groans out ‘six’ as Mary’s hand comes down on her upper thighs. The next three have barely any pause between. When the redhead yells out ‘ten’, Mary can hear the tears that will soon be coming. She wonders if Irene knows she is close to humping Mary’s leg and figures not.
‘CRACK’
Mary’s hand falls neatly at the joining of ass and thigh, reddening the skin further to a dusty, deep shade of pink.
“Eleven,” Irene calls, her frame trembling.
“Shh, darling,” Mary reassures. The hand tangled in disheveled red locks tug free, resuming their soothing petting motion. “You’ve got one more left and I know you’ll be the best girl. That’s what I expect from my girl, Irene. I know you won’t disappoint me.” Irene draws in a shuddering breath as Mary brings her open palm down. The American woman screams, writhing shallowly on Mary’s lap as wetness soaks through the apron with little effort.
“Twelve,” Irene sobs. Mary waits patiently through her crying spell, one hand continuing to pet her dark hair as the other rubs up and down her back in calming circles.
“You were beautiful, my girl. Doesn’t it feel nice to let go? So responsive and lovely, my darling. Oh,” Mary comforts her as the tears slow. “Shhh my dear, you were magnificent. Why don’t we retire and I can put some salve on those marks,” the blonde coaxes. Irene sniffs, pushing herself up with a wince. Her face is reddened, make-up smeared around her eyes. A few tears trail down her cheek, cutting lines through the black smudges. Mary takes her hand, stepping over the pile of discarded clothes to lead her to her dressing room.
They reach the room with little incident, Irene stopping in the doorway to blow her nose on the proffered handkerchief as Mary hunts for the small vial of lotion that will soothe the aches she’s caused. She pillows her head on one arm when she spreads out on her stomach across the couch while Mary pulls her vanity stool nearer the furniture.
“This will be a bit cold, m’dear,” she warns, dipping three fingers into the white cream. “You did so well, Irene. You were better than I thought you would be, just marvelous.” Mary keeps up the litany of praise as she works the balm into abused skin, Irene content to be silent beneath her ministrations and stare out the window at the streets of London. She wipes her hand on her apron before capping the vial. Lulled to a drowsy state, Irene murmurs when Mary bends close.
She brushes a light kiss across Irene’s forehead, fingers running through the mass of curls to take her further into sleep. When Mary is sure the other woman won’t wake for some time, she leaves the room and returns to the kitchen. A quick trip back brings Irene’s now-folded clothes to sit beside her feet atop the vanity stool and then Mary gets back to making fruit pies.
The sun is setting over the city, casting red and orange hues over the cobblestone streets below when Mary hears the door open. She pulls the apple pie from the oven, setting it atop the stove before turning around to meet blue eyes.
Neither woman makes a move until Mary breaks the silence as she unties her apron. “Are you feeling better?” She steps closer to the American. Irene nods and Mary notes that she’s redone her make-up to be flawless once again. She turns back to the stove, lifting the kettle to pour a stream of warmed tea into a cup. After adding a splash of milk and stirring in a bit of honey, Mary hands it to the other woman. “Drink all of that before you go, Miss Adler. It should help with your voice, which I’m sure is feeling quite raw by now.”
Still silent, the redhead stands in the doorway to finish the cup. Mary’s eyes watch the curve of her throat while her hands make a lattice top for the pie. She opens her mouth as she hands the cup back, but Mary’s finger covers the full pink lips. “Ah, save your voice my girl. You have to give the honey a chance to work.” Irene’s eyes flick downwards to stare at the floor but her mouth quirks upward into a sly grin. It’s Mary’s turn to laugh as she wraps a hand around the back of the other woman’s neck. She draws the thief’s face down far enough to brush another kiss across her forehead before tightening her grip. Irene’s blue eyes quickly rise to meet hers.
“I’ve kept you long enough, I’m sure. Try not to wait so long between visits.” The governess says with a gentle smile. Irene returns the grin with a wide smile of her own and Mary releases her, watching her sway down the hallway and out the door into the cooling dusk of the summer evening. She spins around to blow a saucy kiss at the blonde woman before shutting the door behind her.