Chapter Text
She sent me home, that first day, desperately turned on. I would have begged for release if she’d let me - if I thought there existed even a remote possibility that I’d get it. But even then, I knew better.
“I want you to go home and masturbate,” she ordered. “Tomorrow, I want every detail.”
“Yes, Miss Adler.”
It had taken all my willpower not to rub myself against the pole in the train on the way home. My heart pounded in my chest, and the persistent throb in my groin had morphed into an almost-ache. I shifted from one position to another just to get some friction from my trousers.
I practically sprinted from the station to my flat, keys fumbling in the lock in my desperation to get inside. I slammed the door behind me and tugged at my trousers and shirt; I’d shed them both by the time I reached the bedroom. I don’t know why I waited that long - an odd sort of propriety I suppose. I could have just as easily braced myself against the wall of the living room and rubbed myself into a frenzy.
Still wearing my bra and my knee socks - the height of sexiness, I’m sure - I collapsed onto the bed and shoved my pants down around my knees. Two fingers flew to my clit and images of myself, kneeling at her feet, did me in almost immediately. I dug my feet into the mattress and arched off the bed as I came, biting my other wrist in an attempt to keep quiet as I rode out the aftershocks.
I collapsed back onto the bed, trembling a bit.
Well.
That had been enlightening.
I hadn’t had an orgasm that good in weeks. Months, actually. And without a vibrator, even.
I lay there in a dopamine haze and considered the events of the previous week. My first reaction to her presence in the morgue had bordered on panic. Now though, I saw the entire situation with stunning clarity. The sense of relief I’d felt when I dropped to my knees in front of her: I craved that far more than any sort of sexual release. I’d been able to get myself off for years, but I rarely felt this satisfied.
I drifted off into a doze, immensely glad I’d set up another appointment for the following day.
The next day at work was a special sort of hell; she’d instructed me to forgo underwear, and it made me hyper-aware of my body. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I’d been able to work alone all day, but today, of all days, it seemed like half the Met was milling around the morgue, pestering me about some case or other.
To make matters worse, Sherlock stopped by in the afternoon to find out if I had any body parts he could play with. Perform research on. Whatever.
“Molly,” he said as he breezed through the door. “Anything new for me?”
I reverted to my normal Sherlock-state: meek panic.
“Um, yes. Well, a bit. I got some new cultures back from pathology in the Jameson case. They look interesting. And I managed to, um, keep an extra slice of the brain from the one where we had to dig the bullet out of the skull.”
“Fantastic!” He paused and squinted at me. “You’re not wearing any pants,” he said, seeming mystified.
I turned bright red and hurried over to the fridge.
“You’re not, are you…” he pressed, following me. “Why? You didn’t know I was coming today.”
I whirled around, furious and hurt. “It’s not all about you, you know!”
He took a step back. “No, of course it isn’t,” he mumbled. It was more of an apology than I’d come to expect from him, but it was too little, too late.
He still wore a curious look on his face, but I wasn’t about to slake his appetite for gossip. I handed him a plastic bag with the samples. “Anything else?” I asked, stone-faced.
“No,” he replied as his eyes scanned me once again, no doubt searching for more information.
I was fairly sure even he wouldn’t figure this one out.
His eyes stopped moving. I followed his gaze to my wrist and saw the faint bruising from the bite-mark. I tugged the sleeve of my lab coat over it. Too late. Pointless.
My cheeks burned as I wondered what must be going through his mind. Most domestics didn’t end in bitten wrists. It seemed evident - to me at least - that this was either sexual, or self-inflicted, or both.
I kept my eyes on his, daring him to say something, but all I got was a faint lift of his brows.
“Right,” he said, all business. “Can’t let this warm up or it’ll go straight to mush.” And with that, he swept out of the morgue, leaving me mortified and furious.
I couldn’t shake off my utter rage with him that afternoon. How dare he? I never made comments on whether or not the entire Met thought he was sleeping with John. (They did.) My mood coloured everything, and I must admit I sawed Mr Steiner’s chest open with a rather vicious doggedness he didn’t deserve, poor man.
On the tube ride to Miss Adler’s apartment, my rage gave way to despondency. How could I let him affect me so much? It was pathetic. Tears started to form and I roughly brushed them from my eyes; I didn’t want to show up for my appointment puffy-faced and miserable. I’d been desperate to see her again since the second I’d left her townhouse the previous day, but my mood - no, Sherlock - had ruined everything. Bastard. It was obvious he’d never be interested, but why did he have to be so cruel?
I walked to her flat, almost grateful for the biting wind that would excuse the state of my eyes.
By the time I got there, my nose and ears stung from the cold. The townhouse glowed with a pleasant warmth though, and Kate took my gloves and coat while I waited in the entrance hallway. When she showed me up to the bedroom, I couldn’t tell if my face burned from the change in temperature or in anticipation of what lay ahead.
My feelings regarding the run-in with Sherlock hadn’t completely disappeared, but being here soothed them. Or perhaps it just replaced them with nervous excitement.
Kate led me up to the bedroom and instructed me to strip and then kneel until Miss Adler arrived.
I cast my eyes about the room as I waited, trying to distract myself from my situation. It would be easier to clear my mind once she was here - I could wilfully obey her orders and allow myself to be caught up in them - but my brain had far too much free reign like this. It focused on things I didn’t want to be reminded of: I was naked, kneeling on the floor of a stranger’s bedroom, and paying for the privilege. That I felt almost deliriously happy about this made my situation seem even more ill-advised.
The windows: she must have had them replaced, or it wouldn’t be so warm in here. That sofa probably cost more than all the furniture in my flat, twice over. The walls are a lovely shade of yellow. I wonder what my skin would feel like on those bedsheets.
Well, that method of distraction just backfired rather spectacularly.
I heard her ascending the stairs and felt her presence in the doorway behind me.
“Hello, Miss Hooper.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Adler.”
I stayed in position and waited until she moved in front of me to take in her appearance. She wore a black sheath dress, just as form-fitting as the previous one, with a string of pearls and matching earrings. Stunning. The black really set off the pale colour of her skin. Breath-taking. Literally.
I forced myself to breathe through my nose.
She regarded me curiously. “Are you all right, Miss Hooper?”
“Yes, Miss Adler. I’m just… glad to be here.”
“So it would seem,” she replied with satisfaction. She sat on the sofa in front of me and crossed one leg over the other.
The position afforded me a tantalising view of the tops of her stockings and the suspenders that held them in place. My breath caught in my throat and I had to swallow.
She gave me a victorious smile - nearly identical to the one Sherlock used when he’d deduced something correctly.
I made the connection and felt sick.
She must have seen it in my face, because a look of concern replaced her smile. “What is it?”
“Nothing, Miss Adler.” I wasn’t going to let my run-in with Sherlock ruin this.
“Don’t lie to me, Miss Hooper.” Her voice was surprisingly soft. She stood and retrieved a dressing gown from a wardrobe and draped it over my shoulders. “Put this on and sit here with me.”
I did as she said and nervously perched on the sofa next to her.
“I’m sorry,” I started as I hugged my arms to my chest, “it was just a bad day at work.”
“It wasn’t your work that bothered you.”
I had no idea how she figured that out.
I shook my head. “No.”
“What, then?”
I turned to look at her and gave her a cynical smile. “Well, you’ve met Sherlock.”
“Oh, God,” she muttered. “What did he say, exactly?”
“He figured out I wasn’t wearing any pants and implied that it was because of him. And he saw the bruise on my wrist.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “But I did tell him that not everything was about him,” I added, desperately, blinking back the beginnings of tears. “He even sort of apologised.” I let out a rather desperate-sounding laugh. “I don’t think he intends to be so mean; he just likes showing off how clever he is.”
“He makes you feel helpless, and you wish it didn’t bother you as much.”
I nodded.
“So what made you think of him just now? Do I make you feel helpless?”
I frowned. “No. It’s… well, yes. I suppose you do. But here, I sort of want to be. With him, there’s no choice.”
“You’re never helpless when you’re here,” she said with conviction. “You understand that, right?”
I nodded. I did. I had a safeword, and I knew that I could use it. I cursed myself for being so upset.
“I’m sorry,” I said, choking the words out. “I shouldn’t let him get to me this much.”
“I think it’s understandable. I’m more concerned that I trigger you.” She rang a bell on the side table.
Kate appeared at the door a few moments later.
“Yes, Miss Adler?”
“Bring a tray, Kate.” She looked at me. “Coffee or tea?”
“Tea, please. Milk, two sugars,” I replied. I never took sugar in my tea unless I was feeling sorry for myself. I was wasting a perfectly good session with Miss Adler because I couldn’t repress my feelings about Sherlock.
“Now, my dear, we need to discuss a few more things in light of this. Did you enjoy our session yesterday?”
“Very much, Miss Adler.”
She nodded thoughtfully before she continued. “You have excellent submissive tendencies, and you certainly took to the sensation play remarkably well. However, you have issues with Sherlock - issues that I cannot address directly. I am not a counsellor.”
“No, Miss Adler,” I replied with a sigh. Fucking Sherlock. He always managed to bugger things up somehow. I waited for her to tell me it was over; over almost before it had started.
“The way I see it, Miss Hooper, you have three options. You can, of course, discontinue your sessions with me. You may also limit our interactions to those which do not involve control.”
She stopped, and I looked at her questioningly. “Or?”
“Or, you can be extremely communicative about any negative emotions this raises, and we can work through the issue.”
“How, Miss Adler?” I didn’t want to give this up, and I didn’t want to artificially limit what she did. If I could work through things and continue…
“I believe I can re-frame ‘lack of control’ to have more positive connotations for you,” she said.
She wasn’t going to get rid of me! I sighed with relief and replied, “Yes, Miss Adler; I’d like that.”
She placed one hand gently on my arms, which I realised were still curled protectively around my chest.
“Let’s relax a little; Kate will bring us some refreshments.”
As if on cue, Kate walked in with a tea tray. As we drank tea and nibbled on chocolate biscuits, she spoke.
“When I asked you what was wrong, I presume you lied to me because you felt your concerns had no merit. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Miss Adler.”
“You must never lie to me. Answer any questions directly and truthfully, and use your safeword for any situation where you feel emotionally uncomfortable - it’s not there just for pain issues. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss Adler.”
“Good. You’re a smart woman. I don’t think I need to belabour the point. Now, are you ready to continue?”
“Yes, Miss Adler.”
“Very well. Remove the dressing gown and kneel in front of me.”