Molly/Irene 1/5 TW: dubious content bordering on non-con, drugged sex
anonymous
August 26 2012, 11:34:09 UTC
Yeah, idk, posted this on the rant meme and now I'm thinking of posting it but I want to polish it. Also, should I add another scene wrapping things up, or not? Any critique welcome.
--
Being kidnapped is such a terrible bother. Irene really doesn’t know why she lets herself, sometimes. Not even if it is for a favour. Her back, legs and arms are aching - really, she’ll have to have words with dear Jim about how to properly kidnap a girl - and her hands are cuffed behind her back. She would tug at them - check the quality of the restraints, how hard it would be to get out of them - but she’s a little too groggy to do much more than retreat into her mind and plot. She does wish Jim wouldn’t use so much chloroform - she knows her eyes must be bloodshot as anything and her general appearance… well, bordering on ordinary.
She’s still breathing. That’s a plus. She arches her back, pressing into rough carpet and sighing ever so slightly. At least it’s not concrete, although she shan’t be staying here for very long so she doesn’t much care either way.
The first thing she sees is the cell. There’s no other word for it - it’s a police cell fitted out with cheap, yellow carpet and rusted iron bars. A genuine smile curls her lips. It’s a perfect example of his attention to detail and flair for the dramatic. The cell is about 6 by 8 feet - her measuring a remnant of her childhood spent in America. All she can see outside is a long, concrete corridor with several doors interspaced at uniform intervals. Directly opposite the bars in the cell is a ‘window’ that Irene knows Jim (or perhaps one of his assistants) is lurking behind. Such a voyeur.
She absorbs all this information in a few seconds, and almost immediately turns her attention to the delightfully unexpected addition to her cell. If there’s one good thing she can say about Jim, it’s his taste towards the surprising. He did so love to shock and astound people. Often by popping them in Semtex, but occasionally by doing lovely things like giving her a little present to amuse herself with.
The present is a very pretty young woman, her cupid face still slack in unconsciousness, but flickering every so often with a brief grimace as if she knows where she is. Irene is almost certain she doesn’t, but oh, it will be delightful watching her find out. She’s almost too excited at the thought of playing the part, pretending to be a sympathetic ear, but there’s no such thing as ‘too’ in her line of work.
The older woman - only by just a decade, it looks like, despite Sherlock’s rude assertions - shuffles over (and fuck the carpet burns) to the darling sleeping beauty, She leans back on her calves when she reaches the girl, tilting her head both to the side and forward to properly study the sweet thing.
And, oh, she is a sweet thing. Up close, her face is even more like a heart, rounded cheeks so fucking adorable that Irene almost wants to eat her up, and definitely wants to own her. She’s got a soft little mouth that the older woman just knows will look gorgeous rounded in a surprised ‘O.’ Her hair is a mousy kind of brown - slightly lighter than Irene’s own - and swept back from her face in a conservative pony-tail that screams virgin and they are going to have so. Much. Fun.
Irene’s tongue swipes across her own mouth in unconscious anticipation, before she bites down on her bottom lip. She takes a second to savour the mental images of red, raw marks striped across the girl’s back, pink mouth gaping open, nearly as glazed as her eyes (although she doesn’t have a colour yet, she knows, hopes, they will be brown,) barely smothered whimpers and groans and oh, please, stop.
Then she takes in a deep breath, smothering her growing excitement from the sheer anticipation and… the play begins.
Molly/Irene 2/5 TW: dubious content bordering on non-con, drugged sex
anonymous
August 26 2012, 11:36:10 UTC
“Wake up, you have to wake up!” Good, her voice is the right mixture of pleading and terror. She makes sure her eyes are suitably wide - blown with arousal as they are, she can pass it off as fear. “Please,” a little bit of a sob, for added affect; she can see the girl’s eyes fluttering, “Get up!”
It takes a little bit more than that, but with a few more pleas and butts of her head against the girl’s shoulder, her eyes eventually flutter all the way open. “Oh!” the girl gasps, as if she were a Disney princess waking from an eternal sleep. Irene can feel arousal like a tight coil in her stomach. This will be beautiful. “Oh,” she repeats, “I don’t… W-where are we?” The stammer - so unexpected, dear God - is almost her undoing. She wants her now. But her desire is slightly dimmed by the genuine look of terror in the girl’s chocolate eyes. Irene doesn’t go in for rape; she’s been around long enough to see women (some would call them whores, but they are people whatever their career) utterly destroyed by it. She’s been in a few tight spots herself. Not a lot of them, though; due to her work she usually called the shots, but there were enough idiots in the world who thought no meant yes and that they could take an all-muscle, lithe woman wielding a riding crop and pure, instinctive anger.
So she waits, keeping her dominance under wraps, and pretends to be just as scared as this poor girl.
“I don’t know,” she answers truthfully. She can guess, and be correct, but there’s no fun in that. “I was half-unconscious when they brought me in. The only thing I heard was…” She shivers and shakes her head. The girl looks even more terrified, breathing coming in short, shuddering pants. She needs to start building trust - she has a good framework already, but… “They mentioned a name. Sherlot, I think it was, or something like it.”
“Sherlock?” the girl whispers. “Why would they… I don’t know anything about him.” She’s well and truly afraid now, her eyes almost black due to her dilated pupils.
“Shhhh,” Irene soothes her, sliding in so she’s pressed upon against the girl. She’s delightfully warm against Irene’s skin, but shivering and shaking with fear, “It’ll be all right. I don’t think they’re going to do anything to us… What’s your name, pet?”
The girl doesn’t seem to notice the endearment, or, if she does, isn’t fazed by it. “M-Molly Hooper.”
“Molly,” she rolls it around her mouth, imagining pushing against the girl and whispering it into the shell of her ear along with all the filthy things Irene wants to do to her and watching as her cheeks become filled with red as she squirms... Oh, yes. Molly is an excellent gift, even if she doesn't know it. But she will. “My name's Irene, Molly; Irene Adler.”
Molly/Irene 3/5 TW: dubious content bordering on non-con, drugged sex
anonymous
August 26 2012, 11:38:36 UTC
Molly's face doesn't light up or tense with recognition; Sherlock apparently hasn't mentioned Irene to all his little friends. Pity. She will so enjoy the look on his face when he comes (because he will come, it's in his nature to, this is the whole point of her being ‘kidnapped’) and finds Irene buried in between Molly's thighs, hears the moans that she will give, sees how she will writhe and beg just before she is pushed over the edge.
Delicious.
---
Irene's not sure that she's totally correct when she says nothing will happen to them. Knowing Jim, he'll have something planned. Whether or not the something is good, well, that's the fun part, isn't it?
She spends a lot of her time talking to Molly, asking about her job, her friends, what she likes to do. Molly is starting to trust her. By the end of it, she will be eating from the palm of Irene's hand.
(For a moment, she feels a flash of remorse for this girl, who hasn't asked to be another pawn in a twisted game of chess. One of the many casualties left behind by Sherlock. Irene wonders if he even knows how much Molly is in love with him. Not for much longer she won't be, Irene resolves, culling her weak feelings. She is Irene's now, for however long it takes them to be rescued... and perhaps even after that, if she plays her cards right.)
There’s a very interesting blond man - although she prefers Jim’s redhead - who comes, scares Molly into virtually hyperventilating, and leaves food for them. Irene isn’t about to touch the food. God knows what the dear mastermind has planned for this sweet girl (and her, she thinks, feeling suddenly very uneasy) but Irene’s not going to let herself be compromised. She’s gone for days without food before; it’s not just Sherlock who thinks it inhibits thinking processes.
The restraints are a pair of handcuffs, keeping in with the theme of a cell, although she isn’t quite sure why she has them on and Molly doesn’t. If she dislocates her thumb… She’ll be out, but the play will be ruined. She can’t let that happen. Not yet.
That is her first inkling that something’s not quite right - her second is the fact that Molly’s pupils are becoming bigger and bigger, and that panting is not from fear. The tray with the sludge masquerading as stew - Irish, hah - has been half-eaten, and it occurs to Irene that Molly is really very naïve.
Which is a pity, because she has a soft spot for innocence, and now is really not the time for soft spots. Not now: not ever. She knows her weaknesses, knows that she’s not only disadvantaged by being a woman, but also by being a ‘sex worker’ and by her last shreds of humanity. She’s tried very hard to get this far. A pair of lust-glazed brown eyes and a pert pink mouth is not going to stop her.
Sex is dominance, sex is control, sex is power - and she will use her only weapon.
After all, she can’t look weak while the Spider is watching.
While anyone is watching.
Molly doesn’t lunge upon her so much as she falls limply, somehow managing to kiss and drape and shudder with fear, desire, cold. The woman’s thumb pops out of its socket a second after she bites down on the girl’s bottom lip, muffling the pained groan she wants to make. She is sliding her right hand out of the cuff when Molly shivers away from her, leaving only a faint remnant of her surprisingly sweet breath - milky tea, four sugars, cafeteria quality, tough day, kidnapped… when?
Her eyes are as big as moons. Irene thinks she would be screaming for help if she could.
Molly/Irene 4/5 TW: dubious content bordering on non-con, drugged sex
anonymous
August 26 2012, 11:40:29 UTC
(She doesn’t want this. But it’s not about what she wants, what either of them want. It’s about the play. The Game.)
She draws the terrified girl into another kiss, keeping it slow and soft.
(She doesn’t know anything. She can’t. Why are you playing into his hands?)
This will be easier if she is similarly drugged, but she can’t let herself be another puppet of Moriarty’s.
(What do you call this? Being his equal?)
She will do this on her own terms.
(You’re not even fooling yourself.)
To drive away the voices in her head, she runs her uninjured hand up Molly’s arm, ghosting over the skin, and her fingers come up to wrap around the short ponytail, dragging the girl’s head back. Molly looks like a deer, skittishly held in the headlights of a car. Irene’s not going to brake.
(You are a terrible)
Yanking on her hair draws a choked inhalation from Molly. She should really stop thinking of her as being a person. It will be easier, that way.
(How can you)
Molly gasps again when her jumper is ripped over her head, but not fully down the length of her arms. Boneless and drugged as she is, it makes the perfect binding for her hands. Her shirt is torn open - Irene can’t be bothered with gentle. She’s going to fuck her, and then the girl is going to either be rescued by Sherlock or killed. She tells herself that she doesn’t care either way.
(Why are)
Working with a dislocated thumb is hard; she pops it back into joint, biting hard into Molly’s throat instead of howling, and nearly tearing the skin. For a moment she’s a little concerned about the bruising the girl will wake up with - an echo of her job forcing her to push back and examine the bite with tender fingers - but she pushes it back down.
(Stop)
She doesn’t really need to bother pulling her trousers down too far - just to the knees is sufficient for this.
Then she makes the mistake of glancing up at her charge. Molly is lying there like some fucking limp bride and Irene can’t do this, she really can’t. She reels back, and retreats to the other side of the cell, and James fucking Moriarty can have his victory, she doesn’t want any part of this.
Molly is a sight.
Not a terribly good one, but a sight nonetheless.
She’s still staring at Irene like a bloody stunned woodland creature. Irene thinks she must be a nymph. A nymph who works in a morgue, and wears ugly cat sweaters, and smells strongly of bleach - but tastes like sugar.
Kidnapped just after she entered her flat. The deduction is dull in her mind. Everything is dull. Obviously, adds her own mental version of Sherlock, sneering at the simplicity of it all.
She should have just fucked the girl. Now she’s going to die, too: lovely, dear, sweet Jim doesn’t abide weakness in his lackeys or his ‘partners.’ Unfortunately, dying’s not really on the top of her ‘to-do’ list. Irene closes her eyes, massaging her wrist slowly and hating herself, this situation, Jim, Sherlock, and her own power complex.
Molly/Irene 5/5 TW: dubious content bordering on non-con, drugged sex
anonymous
August 26 2012, 11:42:14 UTC
“Please.”
Her eyes have been closed for what seems like an eternity, thoughts pressing hard against her skull. Prominent among them is, ‘how the fuck am I going to get out?’ and after that it’s just a slow building terror. She’s not in control. She can’t… deal with this. She’s going to go mad, and then she’s going to wind up with a bullet between her eyes.
So, she’s pretty sure she imagines the word that’s said.
Until it’s said again.
“Please, Irene.”
Her eyes open. She’s got her knees pulled up to her chest (and has been fighting the urge to rock back and forth for some time) and at her feet is Molly Hooper.
She’s already gone mad.
“Can’t you…” Molly’s eyes are still black as the night, subsumed with arousal. Clearly Irene hasn’t had her eyes shut for as long as she thinks. The girl evidently can’t finish the sentence; Irene is so utterly taken back that she can do little more than stare at the brunette at her feet, virtually begging to be… dominated. No. She won’t. She can’t. This is playing into Moriarty’s hands. This is… she’s not quite sure what it is, but it’s not good, or even remotely in the ballpark of safe, sane, consensual. Molly shudders. She does a lot of that. Then, she leans upward, trembling hands gripping at Irene’s knees, and Molly’s kissing her again. It’s a poor imitation of Irene’s previous kiss, designed to be slow and sweet, but it’s a thousand times more sincere. The girl breaks away, drawing back slightly - Irene thinks she’s going to go away completely, but she hovers right in front of the dominatrix’s face and whispers, “Please?”
No, it's not good, but it's real. Molly is real.
She wants that.
When the older woman reaches down to cup her sex, she finds the girl damp. Fingers digging slightly into the thin cotton of Molly's underwear, she swallows all the girl's panted begging in a bruising kiss.
“Yes,” she murmurs against Molly's perfect lips, “I know what you need, Miss Hooper.” The formality induces a pleasant moan; Molly hesitantly thrusts at her fingers, her hips jerking forward beautifully. “Do you like my fingers pressing against you?”
“Yes,” Molly sighs, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Yes, Ms Adler.” Irene twists at her nipple to jolt her from her daze, and, as Molly bucks and groans, she starts to feel the first stirrings of arousal again.
“Y-yes, Ms Adler.” It's a breathy exhale. Molly stares at her wonderingly, big brown eyes wide.
“Good girl.”
It only takes a minute of rubbing at her clit to make her come undone, and Irene wants to sear every expression Molly makes into her mind. Her fluttering eyes, the way her entire face tenses just before she comes, the glazed slackness of her mouth afterwards - the older woman had been right; Molly's mouth does look delectable in a perfect 'O' of surprise.
Irene props them up against a corner, draws Molly up into her lap, and holds her as the girl blinks blearily. She falls asleep soon after. Post-coital cuddling is not something the dominatrix does on principle, but it helps to keep away the aching fear.
Re: Molly/Irene 5/5 TW: dubious content bordering on non-con, drugged sexgoseawardAugust 28 2012, 09:05:28 UTC
A few things:
- A copyeditor would be helpful here--there are a few typos/mistakes here and there. I mean, not a lot of them, but look into dialogue capitalization, affect/effect, punctuation of parentheticals, etc.
- Banish the epithets! ("The older woman," for example--that's more distracting than just saying Irene again.)
- Something seems a bit odd to me about Irene's voice in this. It's from her POV, obviously, but some of her thoughts seem a little...for the benefit of an audience? Like at the beginning when she measures the room in feet, and then thinks it's a relic of her childhood in America. She probably doesn't think about her childhood every time she thinks of the dimensions of a room, right? She just eyeballs the distance and knows what it is. You do have to walk a fine line of not confusing the reader but still making it plausible, and right now I think a lot of the story is a little over-explained in that sense.
I would also say on a characterization level that I'm not sure I agree with Irene's hesitancy here, but that's a lot more subjective--if it's how your Irene would do it, then don't change it.
- I do think you need another scene--or else to start this piece in a different place. You started when Irene woke up in the cell (based on the fact that we see her catalog her surroundings), which carries with it a kind of implicit promise: we'll stay with Irene until she leaves the cell, or until it becomes clear that that won't be happening for a while. Instead it seems like rescue will happen soon but we never see it. You could change this either by adding more to this story or by tweaking the beginning so we come in the middle: Irene's been in the cell for a little while, then Molly is dumped in on her partway through, for example; or make it more clear that Irene has been awake for a while, but is waiting for Molly to awaken as well.
Re: Molly/Irene 5/5 TW: dubious content bordering on non-con, drugged sexgoseawardAugust 28 2012, 16:42:49 UTC
I mean, as a general rule, I think anything is worth polishing and publishing if it's within your ability to get it where you want it to be. :D In this case there's some work to be done, so I guess the question is--do you think you'd learn anything from making changes, or do you feel like you'd just be banging your head against a wall? And even if making changes feels a bit unproductive, do you want the feedback/kudos/whatever enough to do it anyway?
--
Being kidnapped is such a terrible bother. Irene really doesn’t know why she lets herself, sometimes. Not even if it is for a favour. Her back, legs and arms are aching - really, she’ll have to have words with dear Jim about how to properly kidnap a girl - and her hands are cuffed behind her back. She would tug at them - check the quality of the restraints, how hard it would be to get out of them - but she’s a little too groggy to do much more than retreat into her mind and plot. She does wish Jim wouldn’t use so much chloroform - she knows her eyes must be bloodshot as anything and her general appearance… well, bordering on ordinary.
She’s still breathing. That’s a plus. She arches her back, pressing into rough carpet and sighing ever so slightly. At least it’s not concrete, although she shan’t be staying here for very long so she doesn’t much care either way.
The first thing she sees is the cell. There’s no other word for it - it’s a police cell fitted out with cheap, yellow carpet and rusted iron bars. A genuine smile curls her lips. It’s a perfect example of his attention to detail and flair for the dramatic. The cell is about 6 by 8 feet - her measuring a remnant of her childhood spent in America. All she can see outside is a long, concrete corridor with several doors interspaced at uniform intervals. Directly opposite the bars in the cell is a ‘window’ that Irene knows Jim (or perhaps one of his assistants) is lurking behind. Such a voyeur.
She absorbs all this information in a few seconds, and almost immediately turns her attention to the delightfully unexpected addition to her cell. If there’s one good thing she can say about Jim, it’s his taste towards the surprising. He did so love to shock and astound people. Often by popping them in Semtex, but occasionally by doing lovely things like giving her a little present to amuse herself with.
The present is a very pretty young woman, her cupid face still slack in unconsciousness, but flickering every so often with a brief grimace as if she knows where she is. Irene is almost certain she doesn’t, but oh, it will be delightful watching her find out. She’s almost too excited at the thought of playing the part, pretending to be a sympathetic ear, but there’s no such thing as ‘too’ in her line of work.
The older woman - only by just a decade, it looks like, despite Sherlock’s rude assertions - shuffles over (and fuck the carpet burns) to the darling sleeping beauty, She leans back on her calves when she reaches the girl, tilting her head both to the side and forward to properly study the sweet thing.
And, oh, she is a sweet thing. Up close, her face is even more like a heart, rounded cheeks so fucking adorable that Irene almost wants to eat her up, and definitely wants to own her. She’s got a soft little mouth that the older woman just knows will look gorgeous rounded in a surprised ‘O.’ Her hair is a mousy kind of brown - slightly lighter than Irene’s own - and swept back from her face in a conservative pony-tail that screams virgin and they are going to have so. Much. Fun.
Irene’s tongue swipes across her own mouth in unconscious anticipation, before she bites down on her bottom lip. She takes a second to savour the mental images of red, raw marks striped across the girl’s back, pink mouth gaping open, nearly as glazed as her eyes (although she doesn’t have a colour yet, she knows, hopes, they will be brown,) barely smothered whimpers and groans and oh, please, stop.
Then she takes in a deep breath, smothering her growing excitement from the sheer anticipation and… the play begins.
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It takes a little bit more than that, but with a few more pleas and butts of her head against the girl’s shoulder, her eyes eventually flutter all the way open. “Oh!” the girl gasps, as if she were a Disney princess waking from an eternal sleep. Irene can feel arousal like a tight coil in her stomach. This will be beautiful. “Oh,” she repeats, “I don’t… W-where are we?” The stammer - so unexpected, dear God - is almost her undoing. She wants her now. But her desire is slightly dimmed by the genuine look of terror in the girl’s chocolate eyes. Irene doesn’t go in for rape; she’s been around long enough to see women (some would call them whores, but they are people whatever their career) utterly destroyed by it. She’s been in a few tight spots herself. Not a lot of them, though; due to her work she usually called the shots, but there were enough idiots in the world who thought no meant yes and that they could take an all-muscle, lithe woman wielding a riding crop and pure, instinctive anger.
So she waits, keeping her dominance under wraps, and pretends to be just as scared as this poor girl.
“I don’t know,” she answers truthfully. She can guess, and be correct, but there’s no fun in that. “I was half-unconscious when they brought me in. The only thing I heard was…” She shivers and shakes her head. The girl looks even more terrified, breathing coming in short, shuddering pants. She needs to start building trust - she has a good framework already, but… “They mentioned a name. Sherlot, I think it was, or something like it.”
“Sherlock?” the girl whispers. “Why would they… I don’t know anything about him.” She’s well and truly afraid now, her eyes almost black due to her dilated pupils.
“Shhhh,” Irene soothes her, sliding in so she’s pressed upon against the girl. She’s delightfully warm against Irene’s skin, but shivering and shaking with fear, “It’ll be all right. I don’t think they’re going to do anything to us… What’s your name, pet?”
The girl doesn’t seem to notice the endearment, or, if she does, isn’t fazed by it. “M-Molly Hooper.”
“Molly,” she rolls it around her mouth, imagining pushing against the girl and whispering it into the shell of her ear along with all the filthy things Irene wants to do to her and watching as her cheeks become filled with red as she squirms... Oh, yes. Molly is an excellent gift, even if she doesn't know it. But she will. “My name's Irene, Molly; Irene Adler.”
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Delicious.
---
Irene's not sure that she's totally correct when she says nothing will happen to them. Knowing Jim, he'll have something planned. Whether or not the something is good, well, that's the fun part, isn't it?
She spends a lot of her time talking to Molly, asking about her job, her friends, what she likes to do. Molly is starting to trust her. By the end of it, she will be eating from the palm of Irene's hand.
(For a moment, she feels a flash of remorse for this girl, who hasn't asked to be another pawn in a twisted game of chess. One of the many casualties left behind by Sherlock. Irene wonders if he even knows how much Molly is in love with him. Not for much longer she won't be, Irene resolves, culling her weak feelings. She is Irene's now, for however long it takes them to be rescued... and perhaps even after that, if she plays her cards right.)
There’s a very interesting blond man - although she prefers Jim’s redhead - who comes, scares Molly into virtually hyperventilating, and leaves food for them. Irene isn’t about to touch the food. God knows what the dear mastermind has planned for this sweet girl (and her, she thinks, feeling suddenly very uneasy) but Irene’s not going to let herself be compromised. She’s gone for days without food before; it’s not just Sherlock who thinks it inhibits thinking processes.
The restraints are a pair of handcuffs, keeping in with the theme of a cell, although she isn’t quite sure why she has them on and Molly doesn’t. If she dislocates her thumb… She’ll be out, but the play will be ruined. She can’t let that happen. Not yet.
That is her first inkling that something’s not quite right - her second is the fact that Molly’s pupils are becoming bigger and bigger, and that panting is not from fear. The tray with the sludge masquerading as stew - Irish, hah - has been half-eaten, and it occurs to Irene that Molly is really very naïve.
Which is a pity, because she has a soft spot for innocence, and now is really not the time for soft spots. Not now: not ever. She knows her weaknesses, knows that she’s not only disadvantaged by being a woman, but also by being a ‘sex worker’ and by her last shreds of humanity. She’s tried very hard to get this far. A pair of lust-glazed brown eyes and a pert pink mouth is not going to stop her.
Sex is dominance, sex is control, sex is power - and she will use her only weapon.
After all, she can’t look weak while the Spider is watching.
While anyone is watching.
Molly doesn’t lunge upon her so much as she falls limply, somehow managing to kiss and drape and shudder with fear, desire, cold. The woman’s thumb pops out of its socket a second after she bites down on the girl’s bottom lip, muffling the pained groan she wants to make. She is sliding her right hand out of the cuff when Molly shivers away from her, leaving only a faint remnant of her surprisingly sweet breath - milky tea, four sugars, cafeteria quality, tough day, kidnapped… when?
Her eyes are as big as moons. Irene thinks she would be screaming for help if she could.
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She draws the terrified girl into another kiss, keeping it slow and soft.
(She doesn’t know anything. She can’t. Why are you playing into his hands?)
This will be easier if she is similarly drugged, but she can’t let herself be another puppet of Moriarty’s.
(What do you call this? Being his equal?)
She will do this on her own terms.
(You’re not even fooling yourself.)
To drive away the voices in her head, she runs her uninjured hand up Molly’s arm, ghosting over the skin, and her fingers come up to wrap around the short ponytail, dragging the girl’s head back. Molly looks like a deer, skittishly held in the headlights of a car. Irene’s not going to brake.
(You are a terrible)
Yanking on her hair draws a choked inhalation from Molly. She should really stop thinking of her as being a person. It will be easier, that way.
(How can you)
Molly gasps again when her jumper is ripped over her head, but not fully down the length of her arms. Boneless and drugged as she is, it makes the perfect binding for her hands. Her shirt is torn open - Irene can’t be bothered with gentle. She’s going to fuck her, and then the girl is going to either be rescued by Sherlock or killed. She tells herself that she doesn’t care either way.
(Why are)
Working with a dislocated thumb is hard; she pops it back into joint, biting hard into Molly’s throat instead of howling, and nearly tearing the skin. For a moment she’s a little concerned about the bruising the girl will wake up with - an echo of her job forcing her to push back and examine the bite with tender fingers - but she pushes it back down.
(Stop)
She doesn’t really need to bother pulling her trousers down too far - just to the knees is sufficient for this.
Then she makes the mistake of glancing up at her charge. Molly is lying there like some fucking limp bride and Irene can’t do this, she really can’t. She reels back, and retreats to the other side of the cell, and James fucking Moriarty can have his victory, she doesn’t want any part of this.
Molly is a sight.
Not a terribly good one, but a sight nonetheless.
She’s still staring at Irene like a bloody stunned woodland creature. Irene thinks she must be a nymph. A nymph who works in a morgue, and wears ugly cat sweaters, and smells strongly of bleach - but tastes like sugar.
Kidnapped just after she entered her flat. The deduction is dull in her mind. Everything is dull. Obviously, adds her own mental version of Sherlock, sneering at the simplicity of it all.
She should have just fucked the girl. Now she’s going to die, too: lovely, dear, sweet Jim doesn’t abide weakness in his lackeys or his ‘partners.’ Unfortunately, dying’s not really on the top of her ‘to-do’ list. Irene closes her eyes, massaging her wrist slowly and hating herself, this situation, Jim, Sherlock, and her own power complex.
She should hate Molly.
She doesn’t.
This is weakness.
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Her eyes have been closed for what seems like an eternity, thoughts pressing hard against her skull. Prominent among them is, ‘how the fuck am I going to get out?’ and after that it’s just a slow building terror. She’s not in control. She can’t… deal with this. She’s going to go mad, and then she’s going to wind up with a bullet between her eyes.
So, she’s pretty sure she imagines the word that’s said.
Until it’s said again.
“Please, Irene.”
Her eyes open. She’s got her knees pulled up to her chest (and has been fighting the urge to rock back and forth for some time) and at her feet is Molly Hooper.
She’s already gone mad.
“Can’t you…” Molly’s eyes are still black as the night, subsumed with arousal. Clearly Irene hasn’t had her eyes shut for as long as she thinks. The girl evidently can’t finish the sentence; Irene is so utterly taken back that she can do little more than stare at the brunette at her feet, virtually begging to be… dominated. No. She won’t. She can’t. This is playing into Moriarty’s hands. This is… she’s not quite sure what it is, but it’s not good, or even remotely in the ballpark of safe, sane, consensual. Molly shudders. She does a lot of that. Then, she leans upward, trembling hands gripping at Irene’s knees, and Molly’s kissing her again. It’s a poor imitation of Irene’s previous kiss, designed to be slow and sweet, but it’s a thousand times more sincere. The girl breaks away, drawing back slightly - Irene thinks she’s going to go away completely, but she hovers right in front of the dominatrix’s face and whispers, “Please?”
No, it's not good, but it's real. Molly is real.
She wants that.
When the older woman reaches down to cup her sex, she finds the girl damp. Fingers digging slightly into the thin cotton of Molly's underwear, she swallows all the girl's panted begging in a bruising kiss.
“Yes,” she murmurs against Molly's perfect lips, “I know what you need, Miss Hooper.” The formality induces a pleasant moan; Molly hesitantly thrusts at her fingers, her hips jerking forward beautifully. “Do you like my fingers pressing against you?”
“Yes,” Molly sighs, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Yes, Ms Adler.” Irene twists at her nipple to jolt her from her daze, and, as Molly bucks and groans, she starts to feel the first stirrings of arousal again.
“Y-yes, Ms Adler.” It's a breathy exhale. Molly stares at her wonderingly, big brown eyes wide.
“Good girl.”
It only takes a minute of rubbing at her clit to make her come undone, and Irene wants to sear every expression Molly makes into her mind. Her fluttering eyes, the way her entire face tenses just before she comes, the glazed slackness of her mouth afterwards - the older woman had been right; Molly's mouth does look delectable in a perfect 'O' of surprise.
Irene props them up against a corner, draws Molly up into her lap, and holds her as the girl blinks blearily. She falls asleep soon after. Post-coital cuddling is not something the dominatrix does on principle, but it helps to keep away the aching fear.
She keeps a vigil.
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- A copyeditor would be helpful here--there are a few typos/mistakes here and there. I mean, not a lot of them, but look into dialogue capitalization, affect/effect, punctuation of parentheticals, etc.
- Banish the epithets! ("The older woman," for example--that's more distracting than just saying Irene again.)
- Something seems a bit odd to me about Irene's voice in this. It's from her POV, obviously, but some of her thoughts seem a little...for the benefit of an audience? Like at the beginning when she measures the room in feet, and then thinks it's a relic of her childhood in America. She probably doesn't think about her childhood every time she thinks of the dimensions of a room, right? She just eyeballs the distance and knows what it is. You do have to walk a fine line of not confusing the reader but still making it plausible, and right now I think a lot of the story is a little over-explained in that sense.
I would also say on a characterization level that I'm not sure I agree with Irene's hesitancy here, but that's a lot more subjective--if it's how your Irene would do it, then don't change it.
- I do think you need another scene--or else to start this piece in a different place. You started when Irene woke up in the cell (based on the fact that we see her catalog her surroundings), which carries with it a kind of implicit promise: we'll stay with Irene until she leaves the cell, or until it becomes clear that that won't be happening for a while. Instead it seems like rescue will happen soon but we never see it. You could change this either by adding more to this story or by tweaking the beginning so we come in the middle: Irene's been in the cell for a little while, then Molly is dumped in on her partway through, for example; or make it more clear that Irene has been awake for a while, but is waiting for Molly to awaken as well.
Best of luck!
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Can I ask you one thing though: do you think it's worth polishing and publishing?
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