Mutually assured seduction (2/5)
BBC Sherlock
Rating: 18 (explicit femslash, threesome, role play, strap-ons, swearing)
Summary: Molly's tied to a chair in Irene's house, wearing nothing but her knickers, and discussing Sherlock. It's all part of somebody's cunning plan.
Part 1
Molly slowly stumbles her way through a long account of the last three years. The times when she thinks Sherlock might possibly be interested in her and the times she knows for certain he's not. She knows she's being pathetic and silly, but Irene is listening attentively and her grey eyes are full of sympathy.
"The thing is," Molly says at last, "it's not that I expect Sherlock to pay me attention, because I'm not very important and lots of people don't bother about me. But it's just that sometimes he seems to notice the tiniest thing about me, as if I matter and the next he couldn't care less, it's like I'm not there in the room. So I never know where I am with him."
"That sounds very cruel," Irene replies softly.
"I suppose he is a bit cruel. Or maybe he's just...maybe he can't help it."
"Oh, I think he knows how to behave. He just chooses not to unless it suits him."
"What should I do about him?" It bursts out of Molly suddenly, because Irene knows about sex, she must know what to do. She can tell her how to stop being a hopeless little mouse around Sherlock.
"I think you should forget him," Irene says, standing up, and then she walks towards Molly and gazes down at her with an intent smile. "I think you should find somebody else."
Molly's heart is beating far too fast and she shifts uncomfortably in her chair, because she's has men look at her like that occasionally, but never a woman, and she doesn't want...
The door crashes open behind them and Irene's head whips round. Then her hands lift into the air, and she says:
"Good evening. It's Anthea, isn't it?"
Molly strains to see round the side of the chair, and there Anthea is, in a long-sleeved black jumpsuit that makes her look like an impossibly glamorous cat burglar. Except she's got a gun in her hands, and getting shot is not at all glamorous, as any number of corpses in the morgue have taught Molly. She cowers in the chair, trying to make herself even smaller.
Irene, of course, looks unruffled, even with a gun pointed at her. She puts her hands behind her head and waits as Anthea approaches.
"Hold on, Molly," Anthea says cheerily, flashing her head-girl smile, and then she turns back to Irene. "Your camera phone, please."
Irene smiles lazily. "Did no-one tell you? I sent it to Sherlock."
"But you've retrieved it, haven't you? It's not at 221B any more."
"So it was on your orders that those thugs went there?" Irene asks and Anthea's normal smile - the one that makes you think she's laughing at some secret joke - disappears.
"No, of course not," she replies. "Mr Holmes was furious when he heard. But since the phone's not in Baker Street-"
"You really can't trust the CIA to get anything right, can you?" Irene says, and Molly wonders what on earth she's talking about. "Maybe Mycroft needs to ask his brother for help nicely next time." She pauses and then goes on. "But I presume you've had time to search most of this house already. Do you want to finish the job?" She moves nearer to Anthea, her hands innocently pressed behind her head still. "Can I suggest you check me first?"
Anthea puts away the gun. "Sure." Her hands start a pat-down search of Irene. Or at least Molly thinks that's what she's doing. Though it seems a bit thorough, she thinks, as she watches the slow way in which Anthea's hands trace Irene's contours. Molly waits, breathless, but strangely excited now, for something more to happen. For Irene to try and fight back, to play some trick. But Irene just stands there smirking, and it's Anthea who looks to have lost her cool slightly by the time she's finished.
"Do you want to check the room as well?" Irene asks, but Anthea ignores her, coming to bend over Molly.
"You've been so brave, Molly," she says, as her strong fingers are undoing the cords. Molly's shaking now - delayed reaction, she supposes - and once Anthea's untied her, she's wobbly getting to her feet. Anthea puts her arms round her, helping her up, and Molly clings on, her head against Anthea's warm, safe shoulder.
"You enjoying this, aren't you?" Irene says and Molly's just about to say something when she realises the comment isn't directed at her. That it's not just her breath that is coming too fast, as Anthea's fingers soothingly stroke her bare back.
"Didn't Anthea tell you," Irene says, and even though Molly has her eyes closed, she can hear the smile on her face, "that she and I share similar tastes in women?"
The hands on Molly's back go still, but Molly can feel Anthea's heart still thumping where their bodies are pressed together. She doesn't know what to do, because she obviously shouldn't be hugging Anthea while half-naked if Anthea is a lesbian, in case it gives her the wrong idea. But on the other hand, this feels so good...
"It's OK, Molly." Anthea's voice is soothing. "I'll find you some clothes and then take you back home."
"Do you have to run away so soon?" Irene enquires, like the most polite hostess ever. "Molly's paid for this evening, after all. Well at least someone has. It seems a shame to waste it. Especially when I've got the champagne chilling."
"What are you suggesting?" Anthea says, and her voice is almost back to its normal languor.
"A truce for this evening. You've always wanted a chance to see if you can turn me, haven't you, Anthea? Now might be a good time to try."
"Yeah, it might be fun. But I'll need to take care of Molly first. Give you time to prepare things."
"Oh, I was thinking that Molly should stay too. She hasn't really had much of an evening so far. I think we need to cheer her up."
"I don't want to be tied up again!" Molly blurts out, and that's not what she supposed to say, is it? She's supposed to say she doesn't want any of this at all. And she almost certainly doesn't. It's just...
It's just that Irene Adler is behind her now, her fingers running gently along the top edge of Molly's briefs. And Irene's tongue is tracing patterns on the nape of Molly's neck, and somehow that means that Molly is pressing in tighter against Anthea. The warmth of Anthea's taut stomach, the soft curve of her breasts, are so good against Molly's bare skin and she can feel herself becoming wet, as her hips start to rock almost automatically. If only Irene's fingers would travel just a few inches further down...
Her brain belatedly catches up with her body. She is dressed in nothing but her knickers, and she is rubbing herself off against another woman, and this is all absolutely wrong. Her eyes open and she stares up helplessly at Anthea - she could drown in those eyes - and croaks:
"I, I, no..."
Anthea gazes down at her and Molly doesn't know how she understands, but she does. Anthea smiles, and gives her a tiny squeeze and then announces cheerfully:
"I think Molly probably needs a drink, Irene, and I certainly do. Would you like champagne, Molly? Or I'm sure Irene has soft drinks."
"Champagne," Molly says, because she's fed up with orange juice. And suddenly the other women are both stepping away from her, as if they've exchanged some signal.
"I'll find something for Molly to wear," Anthea announces, and she and Irene walk out of the drawing room, almost as if this is some ordinary party. Molly stands there dizzily, trying to work out what's happening. What she thinks she's doing.
She turns to find the Mollys in the mirror all gazing back at her, rows of flat-chested, thin-lipped women. They know what's going on; they can see her hair going everywhere, and her eyes wide and the flush on her skin. They can spot the signs of a woman who's turned on by the thought of a lover, who is longing for his - her - touch on her skin even now. They know about the shiver in Molly's stomach, the subtle flexing of tense limbs, trying unsuccessfully to dissipate the warmth that's building in her groin.
It's not like that, she says, shaking her head at her mirror images. It was just the heat of the moment, literally. Anthea hugging her felt...nice, but it's not...it doesn't mean anything. But the other Mollys look sternly back at her, telling her not to lie. They know that whatever she may say, what she really wants to do right now is put the heel of her hand down against the crotch of her briefs, press her fingers through the fabric to touch the eager flesh below and imagine...imagine...
The drawing room door opens again and Irene walks in, champagne flutes in one hand, bottle in the other.
"You look as if you need a hand, Molly," she says coolly, and Molly blushes, as her fingers go hastily up to fiddle with her hair. Not any other part of her, not at all.
"I'm fine," she gabbles and Irene put down the bottle and glasses on the coffee table and smiles at Molly. The smile of a woman who's already three moves ahead in the game and who loves to play it.
"You like champagne?" she says, and when Molly nods, Irene adds: "But how would you have known if you'd never dared try it for the first time?"
There's no answer to that. Molly feels her breath speed up, because there is literally nothing that Irene might not decide to do to her. With her.
"Don't worry," Irene says. "I wouldn't start without Anthea. She's very protective of you." She smiles again. "You know this evening would have been so different if I'd just been a little stricter, Molly. So where is the tracking device? Should I have given you a more intimate search?"
Molly's brain almost short-circuits over the way Irene says intimate and it takes her a moment to work out the rest of the sentence. "You thought I might have a tracking device in my clothes? That was why you had me take them off?"
"No," Irene's smile is even sweeter now. "That's why your belongings went for a tour round London in Jane's car. I had you take your clothes off because I wanted to see exactly what was under that ridiculous dress of yours."
Molly wonders for a moment if it's actually possible to burst into flames from blushing, and then a cool voice says:
"There wasn't a tracking device."
Anthea to her rescue, of course, appearing in the doorway with an armful of clothes.
"Then how...?" Irene asks, and she's suddenly alert, wary.
"They don't switch the congestion charge cameras off at six p.m., you know, just the charging mechanism. It's perfectly possible to spot the cars that go into central London and out again at any particular time. If only you were content with public transport, Irene, you'd be so much harder to find."
Anthea smiles serenely at Irene and puts the clothes carefully down on the sofa. "I think these'll fit you, Molly."
A grey top of some satiny material, cropped black trousers, black ballet pumps. As Molly puts them on, she's acutely conscious of Anthea keeping her eyes firmly above Molly's neck. The clothes fit and they probably make Irene look like Audrey Hepburn; Molly's sure they make her look like some pathetic waif.
There's a sharp pop behind her and for a split-second she panics about guns, before she realises it's Irene opening the champagne. She pours it out expertly, hands a glass each to Molly and Anthea, and then raises hers.
"Here's to us. Who's like us?"
Damn few and they're all dead. Molly's mind finishes the quote, as they chink glasses. She takes a sip and she can feel the bubbles fizz gloriously on her tongue; she has to drink slowly, not get light-headed.
Irene, however, tilts back her head and pours the champagne into her mouth in one quick movement. Her tongue flicks round her scarlet lips, and she throws the glass to crash into the fireplace. While Molly's still staring in distraction - who's going to clear that mess up? - Irene steps forward rapidly, and her hand is reaching for Anthea's face...
For a moment - caught in horror - Molly thinks Irene is attacking Anthea. Then she realises that Irene's mouth is against Anthea's neck, and unless Irene's really a vampire, Anthea's probably quite safe.
More than safe, in fact. Even though Irene is now relentlessly mouthing at a spot just above her clavicle, Anthea simply hooks one long arm round Irene's waist, and holds out the other arm, her champagne flute perfectly steady.
"Could you take this please, Molly? I don't think we want any more glasses broken," she says, and as Molly takes it, their fingers touch for a moment. And then Molly's standing there, a glass in each hand, watching Anthea and Irene fondling one another.
She can hardly not watch. Because, of course, Irene has somehow managed to position herself so that she and Anthea are reflected in the mirrors. A row of Irenes reaching up to plant kisses on the ivory skin of infinite Antheas. And even if Molly did close her eyes, she would still hear the sighs that are starting to come from the Antheas now, as the Irenes' hands shift over the taller women's bodies, drawing them in, teasing them, enflaming...
Molly doesn't close her eyes. She drains her glass and watches the show that Irene is putting on for her. Then she brings Anthea's glass to her lips and drinks that down too for luck. She puts the glasses back down on the table with trembling fingers, and Irene's satin top slides smoothly over her sensitive nipples. When she turns back again, she sees two pairs of grey eyes examining her.
"Anthea's still got her phone," Irene says, and she looks as calm as when Molly first saw her walking downstairs an hour - a lifetime - ago. "She can phone for a car, if you like, and take you back to your own little home and your own empty bed. Or you can stay here with Anthea. She's turned on by you, you know. Right now she's wishing she could pull her trousers down, finger herself through her crimson knickers and imagine her hands are yours. Do you like that idea, Molly? That you've got someone at your mercy? That when Anthea kisses me, she's thinking about you, that she'll come tonight calling your name? Do you want to go home now or do you want to stay and see that?"
"My name?" Molly almost squeaks, because surely it's not...surely it's Irene that Anthea wants, not her?
"Oh yeah," Anthea says, and beneath the normal cheeriness there's something desperate that takes Molly's breath away. Irene has a hard, clear look on her face now; maybe she's got X-ray vision, because Molly suddenly feels naked again.
"But that's not enough for you, is it Molly?" Irene breathes, moving slowly towards her. "You want to do bad things tonight, don't you, dirty things? All the things that nice girls like you don't do. Nice girls don't sleep with other women, do they? And they certainly don't have threesomes. It's only bad girls who do that, bad girls who scream and say "more" and don't care what happens as long as they get what they want. Do you want that, Molly? Do you want to know just how bad you can be, how good it feels being bad?"
Molly nods and Irene reaches out her hand towards Molly's breast, and Molly knows that when Irene touches her she will be turned to stone. But she can't do anything, because The Woman has hypnotised her. Then Anthea's hand reaches out and fastens round Irene's wrist.
"I think in the bedroom would be better," Anthea says casually, "and we should play nicely; we don't want to upset Molly." Irene turns to stare at her, and there's a subtle change in Anthea's posture. She stands up just a trifle straighter and her fingers flex and Molly suddenly wonders if Anthea's well-toned body comes solely from regular trips to the gym, or if she also does several hours of martial arts daily.
Irene's obviously had the same thought. Her free hand goes up, and Anthea wonders if she's going to put it back behind her head again, if she thinks Anthea might be planning to shoot her. But instead, Irene ducks her head down, as her hand pulls at hairpins. She's literally letting her hair down, and when she looks up again, it's as if she's become a different person. The cheekbones may be the same, but with her messy brown curls, and an easy, uncalculated smile. Irene Adler is for the moment just one of the girls. Anthea smiles an approving smile and lets go of her wrist.
"Bedroom it is," Irene says. "Follow me." She walks out of the room without a backwards glance, and Anthea smiles a reassuring smile at Molly and takes her hand.
"Don't worry," she says. "It'll be fine."
Part 3
Rating: 18 (explicit femslash, threesome, role play, strap-ons, swearing)
Summary: Molly's tied to a chair in Irene's house, wearing nothing but her knickers, and discussing Sherlock. It's all part of somebody's cunning plan.
Part 1
Molly slowly stumbles her way through a long account of the last three years. The times when she thinks Sherlock might possibly be interested in her and the times she knows for certain he's not. She knows she's being pathetic and silly, but Irene is listening attentively and her grey eyes are full of sympathy.
"The thing is," Molly says at last, "it's not that I expect Sherlock to pay me attention, because I'm not very important and lots of people don't bother about me. But it's just that sometimes he seems to notice the tiniest thing about me, as if I matter and the next he couldn't care less, it's like I'm not there in the room. So I never know where I am with him."
"That sounds very cruel," Irene replies softly.
"I suppose he is a bit cruel. Or maybe he's just...maybe he can't help it."
"Oh, I think he knows how to behave. He just chooses not to unless it suits him."
"What should I do about him?" It bursts out of Molly suddenly, because Irene knows about sex, she must know what to do. She can tell her how to stop being a hopeless little mouse around Sherlock.
"I think you should forget him," Irene says, standing up, and then she walks towards Molly and gazes down at her with an intent smile. "I think you should find somebody else."
Molly's heart is beating far too fast and she shifts uncomfortably in her chair, because she's has men look at her like that occasionally, but never a woman, and she doesn't want...
The door crashes open behind them and Irene's head whips round. Then her hands lift into the air, and she says:
"Good evening. It's Anthea, isn't it?"
Molly strains to see round the side of the chair, and there Anthea is, in a long-sleeved black jumpsuit that makes her look like an impossibly glamorous cat burglar. Except she's got a gun in her hands, and getting shot is not at all glamorous, as any number of corpses in the morgue have taught Molly. She cowers in the chair, trying to make herself even smaller.
Irene, of course, looks unruffled, even with a gun pointed at her. She puts her hands behind her head and waits as Anthea approaches.
"Hold on, Molly," Anthea says cheerily, flashing her head-girl smile, and then she turns back to Irene. "Your camera phone, please."
Irene smiles lazily. "Did no-one tell you? I sent it to Sherlock."
"But you've retrieved it, haven't you? It's not at 221B any more."
"So it was on your orders that those thugs went there?" Irene asks and Anthea's normal smile - the one that makes you think she's laughing at some secret joke - disappears.
"No, of course not," she replies. "Mr Holmes was furious when he heard. But since the phone's not in Baker Street-"
"You really can't trust the CIA to get anything right, can you?" Irene says, and Molly wonders what on earth she's talking about. "Maybe Mycroft needs to ask his brother for help nicely next time." She pauses and then goes on. "But I presume you've had time to search most of this house already. Do you want to finish the job?" She moves nearer to Anthea, her hands innocently pressed behind her head still. "Can I suggest you check me first?"
Anthea puts away the gun. "Sure." Her hands start a pat-down search of Irene. Or at least Molly thinks that's what she's doing. Though it seems a bit thorough, she thinks, as she watches the slow way in which Anthea's hands trace Irene's contours. Molly waits, breathless, but strangely excited now, for something more to happen. For Irene to try and fight back, to play some trick. But Irene just stands there smirking, and it's Anthea who looks to have lost her cool slightly by the time she's finished.
"Do you want to check the room as well?" Irene asks, but Anthea ignores her, coming to bend over Molly.
"You've been so brave, Molly," she says, as her strong fingers are undoing the cords. Molly's shaking now - delayed reaction, she supposes - and once Anthea's untied her, she's wobbly getting to her feet. Anthea puts her arms round her, helping her up, and Molly clings on, her head against Anthea's warm, safe shoulder.
"You enjoying this, aren't you?" Irene says and Molly's just about to say something when she realises the comment isn't directed at her. That it's not just her breath that is coming too fast, as Anthea's fingers soothingly stroke her bare back.
"Didn't Anthea tell you," Irene says, and even though Molly has her eyes closed, she can hear the smile on her face, "that she and I share similar tastes in women?"
The hands on Molly's back go still, but Molly can feel Anthea's heart still thumping where their bodies are pressed together. She doesn't know what to do, because she obviously shouldn't be hugging Anthea while half-naked if Anthea is a lesbian, in case it gives her the wrong idea. But on the other hand, this feels so good...
"It's OK, Molly." Anthea's voice is soothing. "I'll find you some clothes and then take you back home."
"Do you have to run away so soon?" Irene enquires, like the most polite hostess ever. "Molly's paid for this evening, after all. Well at least someone has. It seems a shame to waste it. Especially when I've got the champagne chilling."
"What are you suggesting?" Anthea says, and her voice is almost back to its normal languor.
"A truce for this evening. You've always wanted a chance to see if you can turn me, haven't you, Anthea? Now might be a good time to try."
"Yeah, it might be fun. But I'll need to take care of Molly first. Give you time to prepare things."
"Oh, I was thinking that Molly should stay too. She hasn't really had much of an evening so far. I think we need to cheer her up."
"I don't want to be tied up again!" Molly blurts out, and that's not what she supposed to say, is it? She's supposed to say she doesn't want any of this at all. And she almost certainly doesn't. It's just...
It's just that Irene Adler is behind her now, her fingers running gently along the top edge of Molly's briefs. And Irene's tongue is tracing patterns on the nape of Molly's neck, and somehow that means that Molly is pressing in tighter against Anthea. The warmth of Anthea's taut stomach, the soft curve of her breasts, are so good against Molly's bare skin and she can feel herself becoming wet, as her hips start to rock almost automatically. If only Irene's fingers would travel just a few inches further down...
Her brain belatedly catches up with her body. She is dressed in nothing but her knickers, and she is rubbing herself off against another woman, and this is all absolutely wrong. Her eyes open and she stares up helplessly at Anthea - she could drown in those eyes - and croaks:
"I, I, no..."
Anthea gazes down at her and Molly doesn't know how she understands, but she does. Anthea smiles, and gives her a tiny squeeze and then announces cheerfully:
"I think Molly probably needs a drink, Irene, and I certainly do. Would you like champagne, Molly? Or I'm sure Irene has soft drinks."
"Champagne," Molly says, because she's fed up with orange juice. And suddenly the other women are both stepping away from her, as if they've exchanged some signal.
"I'll find something for Molly to wear," Anthea announces, and she and Irene walk out of the drawing room, almost as if this is some ordinary party. Molly stands there dizzily, trying to work out what's happening. What she thinks she's doing.
She turns to find the Mollys in the mirror all gazing back at her, rows of flat-chested, thin-lipped women. They know what's going on; they can see her hair going everywhere, and her eyes wide and the flush on her skin. They can spot the signs of a woman who's turned on by the thought of a lover, who is longing for his - her - touch on her skin even now. They know about the shiver in Molly's stomach, the subtle flexing of tense limbs, trying unsuccessfully to dissipate the warmth that's building in her groin.
It's not like that, she says, shaking her head at her mirror images. It was just the heat of the moment, literally. Anthea hugging her felt...nice, but it's not...it doesn't mean anything. But the other Mollys look sternly back at her, telling her not to lie. They know that whatever she may say, what she really wants to do right now is put the heel of her hand down against the crotch of her briefs, press her fingers through the fabric to touch the eager flesh below and imagine...imagine...
The drawing room door opens again and Irene walks in, champagne flutes in one hand, bottle in the other.
"You look as if you need a hand, Molly," she says coolly, and Molly blushes, as her fingers go hastily up to fiddle with her hair. Not any other part of her, not at all.
"I'm fine," she gabbles and Irene put down the bottle and glasses on the coffee table and smiles at Molly. The smile of a woman who's already three moves ahead in the game and who loves to play it.
"You like champagne?" she says, and when Molly nods, Irene adds: "But how would you have known if you'd never dared try it for the first time?"
There's no answer to that. Molly feels her breath speed up, because there is literally nothing that Irene might not decide to do to her. With her.
"Don't worry," Irene says. "I wouldn't start without Anthea. She's very protective of you." She smiles again. "You know this evening would have been so different if I'd just been a little stricter, Molly. So where is the tracking device? Should I have given you a more intimate search?"
Molly's brain almost short-circuits over the way Irene says intimate and it takes her a moment to work out the rest of the sentence. "You thought I might have a tracking device in my clothes? That was why you had me take them off?"
"No," Irene's smile is even sweeter now. "That's why your belongings went for a tour round London in Jane's car. I had you take your clothes off because I wanted to see exactly what was under that ridiculous dress of yours."
Molly wonders for a moment if it's actually possible to burst into flames from blushing, and then a cool voice says:
"There wasn't a tracking device."
Anthea to her rescue, of course, appearing in the doorway with an armful of clothes.
"Then how...?" Irene asks, and she's suddenly alert, wary.
"They don't switch the congestion charge cameras off at six p.m., you know, just the charging mechanism. It's perfectly possible to spot the cars that go into central London and out again at any particular time. If only you were content with public transport, Irene, you'd be so much harder to find."
Anthea smiles serenely at Irene and puts the clothes carefully down on the sofa. "I think these'll fit you, Molly."
A grey top of some satiny material, cropped black trousers, black ballet pumps. As Molly puts them on, she's acutely conscious of Anthea keeping her eyes firmly above Molly's neck. The clothes fit and they probably make Irene look like Audrey Hepburn; Molly's sure they make her look like some pathetic waif.
There's a sharp pop behind her and for a split-second she panics about guns, before she realises it's Irene opening the champagne. She pours it out expertly, hands a glass each to Molly and Anthea, and then raises hers.
"Here's to us. Who's like us?"
Damn few and they're all dead. Molly's mind finishes the quote, as they chink glasses. She takes a sip and she can feel the bubbles fizz gloriously on her tongue; she has to drink slowly, not get light-headed.
Irene, however, tilts back her head and pours the champagne into her mouth in one quick movement. Her tongue flicks round her scarlet lips, and she throws the glass to crash into the fireplace. While Molly's still staring in distraction - who's going to clear that mess up? - Irene steps forward rapidly, and her hand is reaching for Anthea's face...
For a moment - caught in horror - Molly thinks Irene is attacking Anthea. Then she realises that Irene's mouth is against Anthea's neck, and unless Irene's really a vampire, Anthea's probably quite safe.
More than safe, in fact. Even though Irene is now relentlessly mouthing at a spot just above her clavicle, Anthea simply hooks one long arm round Irene's waist, and holds out the other arm, her champagne flute perfectly steady.
"Could you take this please, Molly? I don't think we want any more glasses broken," she says, and as Molly takes it, their fingers touch for a moment. And then Molly's standing there, a glass in each hand, watching Anthea and Irene fondling one another.
She can hardly not watch. Because, of course, Irene has somehow managed to position herself so that she and Anthea are reflected in the mirrors. A row of Irenes reaching up to plant kisses on the ivory skin of infinite Antheas. And even if Molly did close her eyes, she would still hear the sighs that are starting to come from the Antheas now, as the Irenes' hands shift over the taller women's bodies, drawing them in, teasing them, enflaming...
Molly doesn't close her eyes. She drains her glass and watches the show that Irene is putting on for her. Then she brings Anthea's glass to her lips and drinks that down too for luck. She puts the glasses back down on the table with trembling fingers, and Irene's satin top slides smoothly over her sensitive nipples. When she turns back again, she sees two pairs of grey eyes examining her.
"Anthea's still got her phone," Irene says, and she looks as calm as when Molly first saw her walking downstairs an hour - a lifetime - ago. "She can phone for a car, if you like, and take you back to your own little home and your own empty bed. Or you can stay here with Anthea. She's turned on by you, you know. Right now she's wishing she could pull her trousers down, finger herself through her crimson knickers and imagine her hands are yours. Do you like that idea, Molly? That you've got someone at your mercy? That when Anthea kisses me, she's thinking about you, that she'll come tonight calling your name? Do you want to go home now or do you want to stay and see that?"
"My name?" Molly almost squeaks, because surely it's not...surely it's Irene that Anthea wants, not her?
"Oh yeah," Anthea says, and beneath the normal cheeriness there's something desperate that takes Molly's breath away. Irene has a hard, clear look on her face now; maybe she's got X-ray vision, because Molly suddenly feels naked again.
"But that's not enough for you, is it Molly?" Irene breathes, moving slowly towards her. "You want to do bad things tonight, don't you, dirty things? All the things that nice girls like you don't do. Nice girls don't sleep with other women, do they? And they certainly don't have threesomes. It's only bad girls who do that, bad girls who scream and say "more" and don't care what happens as long as they get what they want. Do you want that, Molly? Do you want to know just how bad you can be, how good it feels being bad?"
Molly nods and Irene reaches out her hand towards Molly's breast, and Molly knows that when Irene touches her she will be turned to stone. But she can't do anything, because The Woman has hypnotised her. Then Anthea's hand reaches out and fastens round Irene's wrist.
"I think in the bedroom would be better," Anthea says casually, "and we should play nicely; we don't want to upset Molly." Irene turns to stare at her, and there's a subtle change in Anthea's posture. She stands up just a trifle straighter and her fingers flex and Molly suddenly wonders if Anthea's well-toned body comes solely from regular trips to the gym, or if she also does several hours of martial arts daily.
Irene's obviously had the same thought. Her free hand goes up, and Anthea wonders if she's going to put it back behind her head again, if she thinks Anthea might be planning to shoot her. But instead, Irene ducks her head down, as her hand pulls at hairpins. She's literally letting her hair down, and when she looks up again, it's as if she's become a different person. The cheekbones may be the same, but with her messy brown curls, and an easy, uncalculated smile. Irene Adler is for the moment just one of the girls. Anthea smiles an approving smile and lets go of her wrist.
"Bedroom it is," Irene says. "Follow me." She walks out of the room without a backwards glance, and Anthea smiles a reassuring smile at Molly and takes her hand.
"Don't worry," she says. "It'll be fine."
Part 3