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She concentrated on every aspect, every single sense, not just the pain and pleasure descending through her veins and sending her earth into a chaotic spiral, crashing inside her stomach like tidal waves.
She concentrated on the sound that the cool leather made when it came into glorious contact with bare skin, the sinful sound of it rushing through the air before falling onto her and undoing me, as I am bound by slowly fraying lace. The sound of Irene cooing, the sound of lips brushing her fresh, lovely wounds.
The way that Irene simply looked, the way her dark curls became slightly dishevelled during a session, the way her pupils would enlarge to the point where the only colour visible was dark arousal. The way Irene stood, with excellent posture, with poise and grace and dignity, despite complete exposure. Today, those incredible lips were today painted a lustful red-burgundy, which drove her absolutely wild; your lips are like wine and I want to be drunk.
It did not take her long to get drunk, to get high on the intense, immense pleasure that provided her with such a fill of desire that it was frightening, so scary, but yet she felt no fear: she could not feel fear with Irene, Irene would keep her safe, protect her... because Irene was the only thing that put an end to shy, morgue mouse Molly and awoke a greater, more beautiful being: the Miss Hooper that would not allow Sherlock to hurt her, would not allow any one hurt her, bar Irene, because that riding crop is your wand and youunleash some undeniably perfect magic.
I am bound by lace and I want you to undo me.
That was what Irene did, undo people, bring them to a sobbing, uncontrollable mess at her knees, begging for mercy they did not really want. She did not treat Molly how she treated her other clients, and Molly understood this, and bathed in this. She had seen the exquisite customers that begged for punishment, and yet Irene had chosen Molly: Molly did not question this, she just accepted it, yet there were always thoughts desperate for acknowledgement in the back of her brain, that Molly didn't deserve Irene's special treatment, that you are the River Thames and I am the Cast Iron Shore; so incompatibly unlike one another yet of the exact same liquid composure.
Irene never entirely undid Molly, never let her weep as it all overtook her; she simply spent their precious time together undoing Molly, unravelling her, savouring the taste of control on her lips like wine, the pair getting drunk on the hellish deliverance. Molly was never fully undone, she was simply just lost on a cloud of pleasure, ribbons and strings tied into firm knots of joy, of love.
Molly looked gorgeous, stunning as she writhed about, controlled and owned by the whip, by Irene, which made it all the more incredible.
Molly let out a cry of intense pleasure, and Irene knew she was close, close to falling over the edge, close to disappearing into her intense masses of pleasure, but Irene wouldn't let her, yet, because Irene wanted to be close to the edge too. If only Molly knew the effect she so easily had on the dominatrix...every pebble discarded into the Thames caused a ripple effect but you are a bomb exploding into this river.
Somewhere, in amongst the excruciatingly pleasurable way the two were touching each other, exploring one another, they lost all sense of dominance and submission and slowly just became one, each as controlling and controlled as the other, and this was now where Molly was not a client and where the lines between just sex and love blurred simply to become a blend of Molly and Irene, and now Molly was floating, flying, and Irene was beside her, and the two were both completely, one hundred per cent drunk.