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Anthea doesn’t always agree with the way Harry lives her life, but she’s not there to judge. This…thing…that they have is based on a certain compatibility of lust; it’s not love, it’s not a partnership, they don’t even really like each other much of the time. It’s based on a mutual need for destruction; together they can tear each other apart until they both feel raw and then part feeling refreshed, cleansed of impurities as if baptized in sweat, blood, and come. They call on each other only occasionally, knowing, like addicts, that the delay will make the high that much sweeter.
Harry no longer has sweet, pretty Clara to go home to, to make love to in quiet, comfortable ways, and she’s a little bit meaner for it. Before, her visits with Anthea were just to take the edge off, to quell a yen in her stomach that Clara’s soft kisses and tender caresses could not begin to satisfy. She’s long tried to drown it in drink and she occasionally succeeds, hitting the point of drunkenness just before total oblivion when the whole world seems to dance in neon, as if the very stars are descending to earth. Now, though, alcohol rarely does more than make her maudlin and angry and so she seeks out Anthea more frequently. Their time together rarely had much give – both of them hungry, wrenching feeling out of each other with teeth and nails, getting off on causing pain. Now, though, Harry more frequently touches Anthea in a way that could almost be described as tender, as if she’s missing the ghost of her loving wife. If Anthea was Harry’s drug, Clara was her bread – nourishing and bland perhaps but necessary.
Anthea almost wishes Harry could patch things up with Clara, but given how often she climbs into the car smelling of a new woman’s scent mingled with the bitter tang of alcohol it may not be possible. Pity, Anthea had always liked the look of meek Clara, thought she probably had more to her than Harry seemed to discern. She had even had visions of being with them both, having Clara watch while she tortured pleasure out of Harry then seeing exactly what sort of depths the mild-mannered wife hid. With Clara gone, she fears Harry trying to make her everything – sweet and salty, hard and soft. Anthea can find a soft, tender lover any night of the week – with Harry, she just wants pain.
They play and fight, all sharpness and no safewords. Although Anthea’s got a closet to rival that of the best dominatrix, their trysts rarely involve more than the simplest of props – a thick length of chain, a short piece of hardwood, planed and polished, a sharp silver knife, the blade thin and precise. They generally prefer the primalness of their own natural weapons: well-manicured nails which leave deep parallel welts, teeth which mark and draw blood, hand which slap and spank, creating a flush which tingles the skin.
More and more Anthea’s been turning to anonymous bodies, bar pick-ups fucked in the backseat then dropped off, on nights like these when she just needs release. Maybe she’s drawing away from Harry, their shared history too much to sully. Though a lifetime or two ago, Anthea had found in Harry an idol and an aim, someone to worship and follow and eventually catch up to, she’s surpassed her. Harry, a bacchanal whirlwind of a woman, had taught Anthea to claim the pleasures of life; it’s too painful to watch her drowning in those pleasures. But, some nights she calls on Harry, unsure if she’s still unable to resist or if she’s in some way checking up on Harry, reminding them both that maybe what has been doesn’t need to end.
They’ve known each other for years, since long before John Watson came into Sherlock Holmes’ life. Anthea would almost think the army doctor’s appearance happy coincidence if she didn’t know Mycroft as well as she did. Anthea – Annie then – was a precocious 16-year-old fresher at uni when she found herself slammed against the wall of the loo by Harriet Watson, who was in her final year and dying to get out.
One text and Harry’s showing up at her door, stepping into the discreetly expensive foyer with a slight moue of distaste. When Anthea first moved in, Harry told her the flat was lifeless and dull and secretly Anthea agrees. Anthea’s brought out a bottle of whiskey – moderately expensive but not lavish – but they leave it for later in favor of the bedroom. While the public areas of her flat are carefully curated to exude expense and impersonal good taste, her bedroom is tailored exactly to her tastes. Clean, modern, with all the necessary conveniences; a number of handily located rings and hooks, well anchored and sturdy; a spacious and well-organized closet, with sections for her suits, lingerie, and dildos, floggers, vibrators, cuffs, and various and sundry; invisibly soundproofed walls to avoid giving the neat and nondescript neighbors any ideas.
“Remember this?” Harry pulls out a pocket knife, the silver scratched with age but with a shine that betrays a certain amount of sentimental care. Anthea remembers the day they bought it, one of the heady summer days the first year they knew each other, when their connection was actually a friendship as well, with shopping, trips to the cinema, and picnics in the park. Now, granted, these outings weren’t exactly wholesome girl’s-days-out nor romantic dates, given that more often than not at least one of them went home with decidedly less-than-paid for merchandise or a butch, sporty girl picked up playing rugby.
They had actually intended to have a meal – bread and cheese and wine – on a scratchy wool spread in the park. Lack of a corkscrew had sent them to a small hardware store around the corner, where they picked up a small, sturdy utility knife in silver, with one sharp blade, a corkscrew, and one of those useless tiny can openers. Annie had used the knife to slice up their hunk of cheese and spread a bit of marmalade on bread, then licked the sharp blade, tasting the tang of metal under the citrus sweetness. Harry had watched her with undisguised lust in her eyes, then taken Annie’s hand, still holding the knife, and guided the tip back to her lips. Slipping the sharp edge just along the softness of her lips, Harry had pressed ever so slightly harder until Annie felt a prick of pain. Harry kissed her and the coppery taste of blood mingled in their mouths. Their lunch lay abandoned as Harry’s hand slipped under Annie’s skirt and she brought her off, there in the middle of the green lawn, with a group of lads playing footie a few yards away and families walking the winding paths. Since then, the knife has passed back and forth between them, though they only use it on each other.
A flick of a thumb and snick the blade is out. Harry runs the back of the knife up Anthea’s arm, shiny metal against soft, yielding flesh. The cold metal slip-slides past her shoulder and under the strap of her blouse. With a quick jerk of her wrist, Harry severs the strap, letting it flutter down and expose Anthea’s lacy confection of a bra. The blouse is silk, terribly expensive, but it’s not like Anthea can’t buy another. Harry moves next to the buttons down the front, severing their threads in a series of neat, contained motions. She runs the tip of the knife ever so lightly down the front of Anthea’s abdomen. Anthea feels a clench of nausea as it slides over her navel, afraid despite herself of the sharp blade against the tight whorls and curves. Harry’s perfectly in control, though, and nary a scratch will appear by mistake.
She braces the knife in her mouth to slide the zip of Anthea’s skirt down; the skirt slips off her hips and pools on the floor. Harry deftly unhooks each loop of her suspenders then grasps the knife again. Stepping forward, she forces Anthea’s legs apart with her thigh, brushing their lips together as she runs the back of the knife between Anthea’s legs, earning a stifled gasp as Anthea bites her lip. Moving back, Harry slides the blade between the pale, taunt skin at Anthea’s hipbone and the delicate creamy lace of her knickers. She twists the knife, cutting through the thin lace strap then repeating the cut on the other side so Anthea is standing in just her stockings. Harry runs the tip of the knife along Anthea’s bare thigh, tracing around the lace of her stocking towards the delicate, pale skin of her inner thigh. Then, god, then she applies more pressure and drags the blade sharply down. Anthea bites her lip against the pain as blood wells up, a crimson chain of droplets splashed across her pale skin. Harry drops to her knees and drags her tongue across the wound, tasting the sharp coppery tang, grasping Anthea’s thigh to keep her from pulling away from the sting of saliva on the wound.
Harry presses on the flesh next to the wound, and Anthea’s neurons fire in pain. The blood wells up again, viscous and bright against the sharp edge of the cut in her pale flesh. Harry slides one hand between Anthea’s legs, drawing her fingers through the wetness and teasing them over her clit. At the same time, she sucks, hard, on the fresh wound on Anthea’s thigh; mouth and hand work together and the brief sensations of pleasure and pain fuse in her mind. Pulling away, Harry stands. Her lips are crimson with blood as she licks Anthea’s juices off her fingers. When they kiss, Anthea tastes all of herself on Harry’s lips – the tang of arousal with the sharp metallic bite of exhilaration.
The sting when Harry presses the flat of the blade against cut is a shadow of the initial high of feeling the sharpness drag through flesh, but they are both mindful of how many marks and scars they leave behind in each encounter. Harry drags the blade up the cut, just scraping the skin, as her other hand finds Anthea’s clit again. Anthea’s nerves are keyed up and soon she’s falling into the skewed symmetry of Harry’s movements; the slide of fingertips and the drag of steel mimicking each other, blood rushing to the surface of her body and pooling, hot and heavy as a fever, in the twin sites of sensation. As she comes she bucks her hips up, mind conscious of nothing beyond a hunger for the unyielding force pressed against her body.
Annie had tried it out – sex, that is – but found it wholly unsatisfying. Sloppy kisses and teasing, furtive fumblings with her teenage girlfriends usually ended with orgasms but protestations of heterosexual orientation on their part. Boys seemed timid and afraid of breaking her when really that’s all she wanted, to be broken. When Harry shoves her against the wall of the toilet and forces one hand up her skirt, there’s revelation in the bite at her shoulder and the bruise on her head. Later, Annie watches Harry dance around women, finding the chase of seduction a high all its own, but with her there was little more than a darkened glance, held across a grimy dance floor at a club that’s the sort of place Annie’s flatmates like to go “slumming” to. Harry had jerked her head towards the toilets and Annie had followed – not mindlessly, but curiously. Harry walked into the first stall, leaving the door open like a challenge.
There’s no preamble or negotiation; Annie’s up against the wall, the tile cold against her shoulders, head throbbing in pain from the impact, and Harry’s fingers on her clit, dancing, teasing, demanding. With her free hand she pulls the strap of Annie’s top down and moves her mouth to the exposed breast. Despite the lazy slosh of alcohol in her stomach, Annie feels alert, muscles tensed and nerves electric. She feels a pull through her body, as if a tightly wound thread is twisting in her abdomen, its drag connecting her nipples and cunt. There’s a jolt of pain as Harry bits down on one nipple and a rush of liquid heat centers on her already too-sensitive clit. Harry’s fingers flick and rub – there’s no softness in her movements, which have a hasty impatience. Annie’s grappling for purchase against the slick tiles as she feels her knees start to give out. As she comes, the other woman’s arm snakes around her waist, supporting Annie against her own body as she comes down with a shaky gasp.
Harry maneuvers her body and lets her collapse on the toilet seat. She kisses her – the only kiss they share that night – once, hard and unceremonious. With little more than a “see you round, love,” she walks out, the door slamming behind her.
When Annie next sees her – same club, same sticky floor and stench of sweat and beer, same aggressive bass line and press of bodies – it’s different. Their eyes catch and Harry’s hard, predatory glint has gone appraising, measuring Annie up. Annie buys her a drink – whiskey, straight, and she’ll say it’s just a guess but she remembers the taste of Harry’s lips – and Harry rolls the drink in her hand appreciatively. They fuck in the alley, soft flesh against hard bricks, like it’s a test and they both pass. The next time they meet they go home together and wake up dazed and bruised.
The first few months they know each other, they revel in their shared depravity, trying out and discarding new kinks, new degradations, new ways of causing pain and pleasure. There’s no exclusivity, no promises or romantic claims of ownership; Harry’s attempting to seduce every straight girl at uni, it seems, and Annie’s figuring out that her own dark good looks and mildly disinterested demeanor – which generally left men half in love and half afraid of her – seem a challenge to some of the aggressive dykes on campus. She doesn’t mind acting like the damsel at the bar and finds she can pull even the proudest dyke down a notch in bed. They generally don’t like the same types but occasionally find common prey. Curvy, dusky skinned Melanie; lithe, tattooed Amber; flame-haired, innocent Cecelia; each one picked up and taken apart with their shared hands. In these cases, they rarely touch each other, but take pride in wringing out tears and pleasure in the bodies of their conquests. (Later, Anthea will shudder at their wanton disregard for sexual heath, as they fuck their way through town, together and separately, with nary a dental dam or glove in sight. Of course, once she works for Mycroft, she can easily access the most recent STI screenings of any potential conquest and adjust her plans accordingly).
They live for the game: spotting their prey, finding its weaknesses, circling with deadly intent, then finally taking it down, pulling it apart between them. Tonight, it’s the redhead at the bar. Harry’s finding out intent; she’s always been better at the pretence of interest. Plus, these short-skirted, high-heeled girls don’t always respond to Annie; straight-girl pickups are best left to Harry’s butch directness.
Harry’s feigned some interest in the girl’s CD collection and they leave the club together. They sit too close in the cab, Annie’s hand on the girl’s thigh, Harry’s lips at her ear, telling her how fucking gorgeous they both think she is – easy flattery, nothing to scare her off. They all know she’s up for it but if you don’t dance for your delight it’s all too easy and where’s the fun in that.
The girl unlocks the door and leads Harry in, Annie kicking it closed behind them. The three are standing close together; if their intent was only hinted at before, now it is unambiguous. Harry’s fingers are at the girl’s hip and Annie’s standing just behind her, close enough that her breasts brush the girl’s shoulder blades. The girl is pliant between them, tipsy enough to be loose-limbed and smiling but alert enough that the liquor makes her bold rather than sloppy. She fists her hand into Harry’s jacket and pulls their faces close together. She whispers, harshly, “So, are you gonna fuck me, or is your friend? Or are you some sort of package deal?”
Twisting her fingers into the girl’s long red hair, Harry regains control by tugging slightly and whispering hotly in her ear. “We’re going to fuck you together. Until you can’t take any more.” The girl gasps slightly and Harry bites her, sharp and quick, just behind the ear. Annie slides her hands up under the girl’s shirt, dragging her fingernails along the curves of her ribcage as she pulls the shirt off. Annie unhooks and removes her bra, then one quick zip and her skirt falls to the floor. Harry’s mouth is on the girl’s nipple, her tongue flicking across the tip, as Annie slots her body behind the girl’s and slides one hand into the girl’s knickers. She lets out a quick gasp as Annie drags two fingers through her wetness and finds her clit. She flicks quickly but lightly, teasing soft moans out of the girl who before long is canting her hips, trying to increase the pressure. Her eyes are closed and she’s leaning her head back on Annie’s shoulder, her nipples spit-slick, hard, and flushed pink.
She lets out a sound half moan, half pleading. Harry slides her knickers down her legs and off and the girl wantonly spreads her legs wider. Stepping closer again, Harry slips one hand between her legs, grazing past Annie’s fingers to reach deeper. The girl’s cunt is wet and open; Harry’s fingers slide in easily and by unspoken signal she and Annie begin to fuck the girl in earnest. As she fingers her harder, Annie’s arm brushes against Harry’s abdomen and their eyes meet over the girl’s shoulder. Between their pressed bodies, the girl is taking quick, shallow breaths, her cunt starting to flutter around Harry’s fingers and her clit hardening. With one quick, brusque movement, Annie pinches one of the girl’s nipples while rubbing her clit hard and fast. As the girl between them stiffens and cries out, Annie and Harry’s lips crash together over her shoulder, their kiss hard and breathless.
They take the girl to her bedroom and between them she’s teased and coaxed and fucked until her muscles have gone limp. They don’t touch each other again, not with her between them. But they leave together and their release is that much sweeter when it comes.
After Harry graduates and moves to a squalid flat in London, Annie sees less of her. She shows up at Annie’s neat student apartment every few months, tipsy and proud. She works temp jobs and travels in between assignments; her stories are rarely about sights seen and museums visited but rather about sweaty clubs, deserted beaches, cold park benches, about whispers in foreign tongues and foreign tongues doing more than whispering. Even as Harry gets a stable job, moves up the corporate ladder (and Anthea, 22 and finishing up a Ph.D., finds herself approached by a very strange man with an umbrella), the stories only change in their setting – lush hotel rooms, resort spas, penthouse suites.
For years, therefore, their relationship consists of shared bottles of whiskey, fucking that’s less about sharing pleasure and more about winning some strange game of dominance, and tales of their latest conquests. They rack up women, each counting as little more than a number in the retelling. After coming home from a business trip to New York, Harry crows about achieving three continents – and international airspace, counting that obliging British Airways flight attendant. Anthea doesn’t tell Harry she’s already beat her record; her reason for being in Beijing was top secret anyway.
Blood pulses through Anthea's body, heavy with adrenaline; the pain makes her mind fire sharp and clean. Her muscles thrum with satisfaction but she’s far from fully sated. For them both it’s never just about dominating or submitting; they need to cause pain to feel it. At this point, no pulse point has gone uncharted, no bruise uncaused, no limit untested. Needs are known and met and though there’s a certain fondness between them, it’s this sexual symbiosis that fuels their arrangement.
Anthea removes a box from her bedside table, pulls out a length of chain and a smooth mahogany paddle. Wrapping the chain in a figure-8 around Harry’s wrists, Anthea closes the loops with a padlock then deftly fastens them to the hardware on one of the bedposts with Harry facing the bed. It’s just high enough that Harry needs to raise her heels a bit to reach and even with the support of the post against her body, Anthea knows that Harry will soon feel the burn in her calves. Stepping close behind her, Anthea reaches around with one hand to cup her cunt. In one movement, she bites down on Harry’s shoulder and pinches her clit, causing a sharp intake of breath.
“I can’t wait to make you hurt, to mark your body, to hear you cry out for more until you can’t take another touch. Will you beg for me?” All the while, she’s rolling Harry’s clit between her thumb and forefinger, just hard enough to keep her on the edge of pain, soft enough to keep her wanting more. Harry moans out a breathless, meaningless sound and Anthea, more sharply, says, “I said, will you beg for me, bitch?”
“I…yes. God, yes. I’ll beg you to fuck me, to hurt me, to scar and mark me. Anything you want, Anthea, god, please.”
Harry’s known her by other names, many since Annie, but she finds herself quite attached to this one. She likes the peculiar way the woman herself pronounces it – the assertive first syllable, slipping into the soft lisp of thea. It makes Harry think of myths and goddesses, and while she’s not so deluded as to think she has any idea of what Anthea does for a living, something makes her believe it’s not that far off from controller of destinies.
Harry can feel herself tumbling, burning out white-hot, lashing out in anger. It’s true she has rarely been in control of her life – rather, her life controlled her, hot, heavy desires and insatiable lusts that demanded satisfaction – but losing the sliver of domesticity promised by Clara knocked her out of orbit. After John, Annie’s the biggest constant in her life and she’s damned if she’ll go to her brother for help. So she finds herself clinging to Anthea, hating herself for it but unable to quit.
Harry’s body is tense; she holds herself away from the bedpost, unable to see Anthea, anticipating her next move anxiously. Anthea trails one finger down her spine, enjoying the way Harry stiffens. This teasing, giving no hint of when the first blow will fall, delights Anthea and keeps Harry on edge. Her fingers ghost against skin, feeling the ever-so-slight involuntary twitches of muscle. Harry is resolutely not begging; everything in Anthea’s time. There’s a wary carefulness in Harry’s posture, tenseness in the air between them. A need coils in Harry’s gut, a craving for Anthea’s dominating hand, but she’s trying to hold it back. The power, the dominance, is only sweet if it’s hard-won.
The first smack is easy, open palmed, on the full, fleshy curve of Harry’s arse. A warm-up slap, building up the fluid in the muscle, prepping. Harry holds herself stiff as Anthea spanks her, feeling her skin begin to warm. Having been on both ends of the paddle in the past, Harry knows when Anthea steps away to pick up the tool that her arse is now rosy pink, ready for a firmer hand.
Despite the warm-up, the first crack of the paddle stings. Harry swallows a gasp; even knowing what to expect, the sensation is always a shock. Anthea spanks her again, then again, in silence, the only sound in the room the smack of wood on flesh. She takes her time between each hit, pacing a few steps as if surveying her handiwork. The sharp edge of pain begins to subside and a heat of want replaces it. Harry can feel her own wetness as she squeezes her thighs together and rolls back into the next strike. She hears Anthea give a huff of satisfaction at her acquiescence. It’s just a game, and they both know they want it, but they still like to win.
“You like that, don’t you, you little slut?” Harry chokes out a noise of agreement. “That’s what I thought, not so proud now. Tell me how much you like it.”
“Fuck…makes me so hot…oh…I want…” her words were punctuated with each slap of the paddle.
“What do you want?”
“I want…I want to come. Fuck, I need to come, jesus.”
“I know, I can tell how wet you are from here. But maybe I should just leave you tied up, let you think about the right way to ask me just what you want.” The paddle came down once more on the word want.
“Oh, fuck. Please, I’m begging, please, please, god, please let me come.”
Anthea slid her hand between Harry’s leg, dragging her fingers between her lips. “So fucking wet, jesus. Well, since you asked so nicely.” She unlocks the padlock and lets Harry lower her arms and remove the chains. With a rough shove, she pushes Harry facedown over the edge of the bed. With one hand on the small of her back, holding her in place, Anthea’s voice is hoarse with arousal when she says, “there, now, touch yourself. Fuck that pretty little cunt and spread your legs so I can watch.”
Harry braces herself on one forearm and slides the other under her body. Legs spread and arse out, she can almost feel Anthea’s searching eyes as she slips two fingers between her lips, drawing her wetness up and skimming her fingers over her clit.
“You like to be watched, like eyes on you as you fuck yourself, don’t you?”
“God, fuck yes.”
“Your arse is so fucking red, marked all over. I bet it’s still stinging from the paddle. Bet you want more, though, don’t you?” Harry gasped and nodded her agreement. Anthea takes the paddle and gently, teasingly, runs the cool surface over the hot flesh of Harry’s arse.
“Fuck, Anthea, spank me. Hard, god, fuck, fuck, harder please,” the last is choked out as Anthea’s blows hit their mark. Anthea times each hit to the flick of Harry’s fingers; twin jolts rush through her body at each contact. She’s rolling her hips up to meet the blows and rubbing her clit, hard under her fingers, with a frantic urgency. She’s right on the edge, gritting her teeth together, muscles in her thighs taut, breath held. Her mind goes blank and with one final blow she’s falling, back arching as waves of orgasm hit her body.
She takes a deep, shaky breath as she comes back to awareness, then turns over on the bed. Anthea’s looking at her with a half-cocked grin that looks almost fond. She leans forward and kisses Harry once, quickly, firm and closed-mouth. There’s still no love in the gesture, but there’s care, and gratitude, and understanding. It’s a kiss shared by equals and born out of trust.
Harry sprawls across the bed, exhausted, and Anthea steps out of the room for a moment. Returning with the abandoned bottle of whiskey, she pours two glasses. They clink edges and toss the first back in one simultaneous movement, then pour a second. There’s a companionable silence as they drink, both still buzzing but with the sharp edge of urgency dulled. They have all night and for now that’s all they need.
When Anthea drives up to the phone booth on a rainy autumn evening, opening the door for a certain ex-Army doctor, she catalogs the sibling similarities in the Watsons. Same sandy, close-cropped hair, same cool, detached demeanor, and god, how many times has she heard that line about free time, delivered while Harry leaned against the counter of a shop, delicately fingering merchandise in a manner suggesting she’d much rather be fingering something else. From John Watson, it’s more hopeful and sweet, playing straight into his comforting, everyman appeal; when Harry Watson pulls, she’s sharp and teasing, less request than dare. She does feel a tiny stab of remorse when turning him down – she well knows that hair colour and a devil-may-care attitude are not all the Watsons have inadvertently shared, and despite Harry’s bravado she knows that John wasn’t always the one to be jilted, the first in line. She may not be faithful to Harry – their relationship has nothing to do with conventional fidelity – but she is loyal.