Fic: Control
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Mycroft/Anthea
Warnings: Graphic het sex, long-term D/s relationship.
Control
Their relationship is, perhaps, the most stable thing in either of their lives, for all that most people would see it as Mycroft abusing his power. Sherlock certainly saw it that way, leading to a lingering animosity which upset the elder Holmes more than anyone but she would ever know.
Anthea was Mycroft’s assistant for two years before anything further occurred, and if anyone bothered to ask, she would freely admit that she started it - tilting her head to expose her throat, wearing half-sleeves which exposed her vulnerable white wrists, and finding excuses to spend more time than strictly normal on her knees. Mycroft could hardly be expected to miss such cues forever, and every suspicion in his mind was spectacularly confirmed when he caught Anthea’s wrists and felt the full-body shiver run through her at his controlling grip.
So there they are, two people isolated from the rest of the world by the rigors of their jobs, but perfectly well suited to each other, so that the isolation does not bite as hard as it once did. It is a quiet, private thing, this relationship, enacted in dim-lit evening rooms and the leather-soft back seats of blacked-out cars, far from the eyes of the world.
* * * * *
The evening that John is kidnapped and Sherlock makes a play-date with a monster, Mycroft spends several hours fretting over his options whilst Anthea kneels on her cushion beside his armchair. On other nights, she might be luxuriating in the surrender of having her manicured hands bound behind her with silk cord, but tonight she is working, monitoring the unfolding situation with Moriarty, her fingers clasped around her Blackberry as though she is bound anyway. The sensation is close enough to satisfy, for a while.
Mycroft has been aware of Sherlock’s deadly game for days - he does like to keep a close eye on his younger brother, even before the explosion in the flats killed twelve people and raised the stakes significantly. Now, Anthea can tell that he has no idea what to do. Sherlock will never forgive him if he interferes, but John has already been kidnapped, and there are too many ways this midnight meeting could go horribly awry for both Sherlock and his companion. Mycroft cannot allow things to unfold without intervening, but he is at a loss to decide what form that intervention should take, and when.
Mycroft fidgets, uncharacteristically restless, his hands steepling then breaking apart, legs crossing and re-crossing, sighs breaking the quiet of their secure living space. Anthea keeps her eyes low, but she is achingly aware of his distress, feeling the stress of her Master raise her own heart-rate.
At length, Mycroft’s hand alights instinctively on Anthea’s head, stroking her dark hair over and over again, fingers parting the soft strands to brush against her scalp. Anthea leans indulgently towards the touch she craves, letting him take comfort from her body. It is his, after all, and she would not deny him in his hour of need. That she so dearly wants to give what he needs is a large part of why they work so well together.
Stroking her head calms them both a little, but it is not enough. Mycroft remains plagued by his own inability to decide. A heavy sigh, and Anthea feels an unmistakable pressure against her hair, drawing her from beside the chair to kneel in front of Mycroft. She drops her Blackberry and shuffles round on her knees, thankful for the soft green carpet.
‘I can’t think!’ Mycroft exclaims, frustration clear in his tone. He lets himself be expressive here, though he allows no emotion to show elsewhere. ‘I need your mouth, my dear.’
Anthea is happy to oblige, glad to be allowed to touch, to help him. Her whole body leans towards him without question, crowding close between his spread knees.
Mycroft unzips the trousers of his immaculate wool suit, shuffles his hips and frees himself from the constraints of trousers and whisper-thin silk undershorts. He is not even half-hard, but Anthea knows that will soon change. It is her duty and privilege to change that.
Anthea offers her hands, questioning what he wants, and Mycroft traps them under his firm thighs, denying her their use and keeping her close. Anthea feels desire roil low in her stomach at the entrapment, at the feel of warm body weight pinning her hands. She imagines that weight pinning her entire body, pressing her into a bed as he takes his pleasure from her, and her mouth falls open slightly at the want that spikes through her. There may be time for that later, but right now it is all about him.
Bending her head, she nuzzles against his bared groin, kissing the tops of his thighs, rubbing her face against the surprisingly soft curls of chestnut hair. She breathes deeply, savouring the scent of expensive soap and Mycroft’s own musk, then licks gently at his balls, mouthing at the soft white skin.
Mycroft’s cock stirs, flushing dark with blood at her ministrations. When he is almost fully hard, she licks a slow stripe up the underside of his thick cock, enjoying the texture of velvety skin and the bumps of the veins beneath. The slightly salty taste brings to mind a hundred encounters, and desire makes her clench instinctively. God, but she’s wet. She can feel herself staining her French knickers.
She reaches the head, still swelling as Mycroft becomes aroused, and sucks the glans into her mouth, working her tongue around the edges of the foreskin and delving gently into his slit, tasting the pre-cum that is just beginning to well up.
Mycroft gives a low groan, the first noise he has made, and she dares a glance up at his face. His head is tipped back against the headrest, his eyes squeezed closed, his normally calm face flushed with concentration and pleasure. His hands are clenched on the arms of the chair, holding on.
She loves that sight, loves that she gets to do that to him, and his obvious enjoyment makes her bold. She takes a breath and then slides her mouth all the way down his cock in one, taking every inch. Her jaw stretches to accommodate his girth, and she knows it will ache soon - it always does, afterwards, and she loves that reminder of what she has done. Her lips touch the base of his cock, and the hard length nestles in the back of her throat. Her gag reflex is weak, and she works through it, hollowing out her cheeks and sucking strongly.
A curse falls from Mycroft’s lips, a serious loss of control, by his standards, and her mouth quirks into a smile around him.
She draws back, lips dragging up his length, tongue swirling and teasing the sensitive underside until she is back with just the head between her lips. She licks around it, nudging into the weeping slit, lapping up the salty liquid, then leans forward and sinks down on him again, faster than before. His hips stutter up to meet her, and the hot crown of his cock sinks deep into her throat.
Mycroft groans, and his hand leaves the arm of the chair and clutches at the back of her head. He buries long fingers in her dark hair and pulls her back a little, dragging his length across her soft palate, then cants his hips and drives back in.
‘Christ!’ he gasps, and then he is doing it again, faster and rougher, holding Anthea’s head and using her mouth.
Anthea groans at the sensation, at the debauchery of it, working her tongue around him, hollowing her cheeks, breathing in short, sharp gasps whenever her throat is not too full. She is good at this, but even so she knows she will choke eventually. She cannot quite get enough air, and her chest tightens, the need for oxygen spiking her own arousal.
Mycroft is close, pre-cum flooding her throat, and she swallows quickly before she can dribble on his suit. Her swallow tightens around the head of his cock as he drives into her mouth again, and Mycroft goes rigid. His release is violent, filling her throat and mouth, and she swallows again and again, desperately, black spots in her vision as her need to breathe becomes more urgent. At last, the salty, bitter come is gone, and Mycroft’s hand is slack in her hair. She draws back enough to take some long, slow breaths, calming her racing heart and easing the ache in her chest. Her jaw aches too, but Mycroft is softening on her tongue, his erection subsiding, and he is easier to take with every passing moment. She sucks gently to clean him off, aware that he will be over-sensitive, then pulls off and rests her head against his thigh. Her hands are still trapped, and she is more than happy to lean against him and get her breath back.
Mycroft’s hand cards through her hair, languid now, all the tension gone from his body. His breath is slow and even, and when his hand stills Anthea wonders whether he has fallen asleep.
She glances up and sees him looking down at her with such love and contentment that warmth curls brightly in her chest. She smiles, feeling her swollen, reddened lips stretch, and he smiles back, sated.
He draws her up and leans down for a kiss, slow and boneless. She knows he will taste himself on her tongue, and the thought is lovely, intimate. When he breaks the kiss, the sharpness is back in his eyes, and she knows his mind is working overtime again, but he is no longer frantic with worry.
He releases her trapped hands and says, ‘Call in an extraction team, dear. They need to be at the pool before Sherlock gets there.’
Anthea nods and grabs her Blackberry. There is still desire pooled hot in her belly, her knickers are soaked, but this is more important.
As though Mycroft has read her mind - it must be obvious from her movements, to a Holmes - he says, ‘Later, my love, I promise. But first, we must save my brother from himself.’
Anthea shivers at the promise. ‘Yes, sir.’
* * * * *
It is a private matter, this give and take between them, but over time, it seeps out of the house and the car, into stolen moments in the office and in restaurants where discretion is the ultimate watchword. They never take risks when it really matters, but it becomes a new game, pushing just a little to see if anyone will notice. No one ever does, and the thrill is incredible.
Mycroft gives Anthea a silver egg, a sleek and powerful little vibrator, and has her hold it inside herself when they go to meetings. He keeps the remote for himself, and it becomes another part of the game, a test of self control for them both, and a marvellous cure for the boredom of less important meetings. Anthea hides her pleasure well, but Mycroft sees, and twisting the remote up a notch to try and wreck her control whilst fighting down his own arousal works wonders at keeping him entertained.
It is in one such meeting, on a grey and dreary day in November, that Anthea slips in a way she never has before. She is seated opposite the Mayor of London, hands clasped on the polished desk, giving absolutely no sign of the little device which pulses inside her, sending wave upon wave of excruciating pleasure through her groin.
The meeting is painfully tedious, and the Mayor has been staring at Anthea’s breasts (modestly clothed as they are in a pale blue blouse and navy suit-jacket) for the entirety of the last twenty minutes. Her irritation with him is helping her keep her mounting desire in check, but she has still re-crossed her legs twice already. Mycroft, evidently as bored as she is, has kicked up the speed of the vibrator three times, and Anthea is dangerously close to coming right there, every nerve wound to breaking point. She takes a deep breath, her only external sign of stress, and the odious little man on the other side of the table watches her chest move with evident interest.
There is a miniscule noise of disapproval from Mycroft, and Anthea glances at him for the first time since the interminable meeting began.
Beneath the carefully diplomatic mask is a tiny hint of raw anger, a tightening around the lips that only she would see. Mycroft’s eyes flash with heat and possessiveness, daring the Mayor to make a wrong move, aching to make his claim on Anthea clear.
The covetous look sends fire scorching through Anthea’s already taut body, pooling in her groin, and without warning she is coming - crashing, shuddering pleasure rips through her, every inch of her skin hot and tight and tingling. The vibrator prolongs her climax, and she loses track for what might be as much as two minutes, white noise in her ears.
She hides it well - only a mild twitch, dismissible as a shift in her chair, and a sudden flush rising in her cheeks give any indication that her whole world is shuddering on its axis.
The Mayor and his aide notice nothing, but Mycroft knows. He always knows. Another glance shows her that he is angry - furious, in fact, and she thinks perhaps she even sees traces of betrayal on his face. Her heart sinks, horrified that she has somehow hurt him, but there is nothing she can do, trapped as she is by the pretence that there is nothing happening here but a bland discussion of Congestion charges.
Mycroft darts a swift hand into his pocket, and the buzz inside her cuts off abruptly, leaving only ghostly tremors behind. Anthea feels lost without it, lost in the grim thought that her master is angry with her. She looks at her hands on the table, head bowed almost imperceptibly, and waits for the meeting to end.
It feels like the longest hour of her life. But at last, they are free, shaking hands and murmuring mindless pleasantries before they leave. Anthea calls for the car, then follows Mycroft down the grand oak stairs to meet it.
As she reaches the front door, Mycroft’s hand darts into his pocket again. At once, the vibrator kicks into life, pulsing furiously, all the way up to its highest setting in one go. Violent pleasure sears through Anthea’s already sensitised body, and her knees give, just a little. She stumbles, and Mycroft is there, supporting her under one elbow and guiding her into the waiting black car.
She collapses on the floor of the big car, shuddering on her knees as the little silver device torments her.
Mycroft murmurs an instruction to the driver and slides into the seat beside her. The door thuds shut, a muted noise which speaks of expensive engineering, and they are alone. The car moves off, but the motion is barely noticeable.
‘Mycroft -’ she says, fighting to keep her voice steady. She is huddled on the floor, curled round the frantically buzzing thing inside her.
‘You came,’ he interrupts, steely voiced. She does not dare look up, but she can imagine the hard, hurt look on his face. ‘That oily little man looked at your breasts and you enjoyed it so much that you came.’
‘No, sir!’ she protests, fighting for coherency against the throbbing inside her. He has never turned the vibrator up so high, and she can feel a second orgasm rising despite herself. ‘It wasn’t him. I swear. It was you. I saw how you hated him looking at me, and I - I couldn’t help it!’
Mycroft’s hand is suddenly on her chin, forcing her face up. He looks deep into her eyes - her pupils blown so wide with lust he can barely see her irises - and holds her there, considering.
‘You own me,’ she tells him, breathless now as a fresh orgasm coils hot in her stomach. ‘Only you. I could see it in your eyes, and I loved it.’
Mycroft considers for a moment longer, his eyes locked on hers, then nods, the anger on his face melting into satisfaction and not a little lust.
‘Come for me,’ he whispers in the quiet, and she does, relief and his voice tipping her over the edge.
‘Oh, God!’ she gasps, every muscle seizing tight, arching her back in a second orgasm that makes the first seem like a candle to a forest fire. The vibrator does not let off, and it is too much, the sensation verging into pain as it wracks her body.
‘Hurts!’ she manages. ‘Please...’ and at once the vibrator stops, leaving her gasping and spent on the floor. Even now, he is not unduly cruel. She feels as though her bones have melted, replaced with molten rubber. Her knickers are soaked, juices dripping a slow trail down her thigh.
‘Up,’ Mycroft says, and strong hands guide her boneless, trembling body to straddle his lap. He is hard - she can feel his arousal nudging at her through his trousers, and she shivers, wanting it even though she knows it would hurt right now, too much too soon.
As ever, Mycroft can read everything she is thinking in a moment. ‘You want me, don’t you? Despite it all.’
Anthea nods, not quite capable of speech, burying her head in his shoulder and quivering against him.
‘Good. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you more in my life,’ he says. ‘You’re mine, and I want to claim what is mine.’
Long fingers slide her skirt up around her waist and tug her wet knickers aside. He brushes delicately against her labia, cool hands against hot, swollen flesh wringing another gasp from her throat. He dips deeper, parting her lips, and reaches inside her, grasping the slippery silver egg carefully with finger and thumb. He draws it out and she feels suddenly empty, muscles clenching around nothing.
‘Fill me,’ she begs him, knowing she sounds wanton and not caring. She wants him inside her, filling that empty, aching space.
A moment’s adjustment sees his dark-flushed cock freed from his trousers, standing proud between his pale thighs. He wraps his hands over her hips, helping her lift up and sink slowly down on his cock.
The blunt head is wider than the egg, and she feels it stretch her, hot skin gliding against her wetness, making her moan at the contact. It is too soon, and the pleasure is tinged with pain. She rocks against him, not sure if she is seeking a position which will ease the sensation or increase it. She cannot tell what hurts from what she craves.
Mycroft’s breath catches as she shifts against him, clenching around his thickness. He lets out a groan as she bottoms out, seated fully on him, and rolls his hips forward to sink even deeper.
Anthea threads her arms around his neck, unable to do more than cling on whilst Mycroft takes what he needs. His hands dig into her hips, hard enough that she knows they will leave fingertip-bruises, and he lifts and drops her, slowly at first, speeding up erratically as the hot coils of pleasure roll through him.
Within a few minutes sweat is beading on his forehead, and his cock feels impossibly thicker inside her as his orgasm approaches. She knows he is close. On the next down-stroke Anthea tenses hard around him, gasping as the pleasure-pain sears through her, and he comes, warm wetness filling her completely.
His hips rock into her as he rides out his orgasm, breathless and undone. She clings on and kisses him, too strung out to do anything else.
‘Mine,’ he growls in her ear, when his voice returns.
‘Yours,’ she agrees softly.
She slides off him, earning another groan as Mycroft’s softening length slips free, and lands gracelessly on the seat beside him.
For a few minutes, they are silent, recovering, before Mycroft regains his iron control and tucks himself away. When next he speaks, his voice is all business, at odds with his words.
‘When we get home, I want you to get the wooden paddle and take off your skirt,’ he orders. ‘Bend over the end of the sofa and wait for me. Perhaps you’ll control yourself better in meetings if you can’t sit down comfortably.’
Anthea shivers at his matter-of-fact suggestion, already imagining the sharp pain of the paddle stinging her bottom, flushing her skin red and hot. The thought is delicious.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she says, and smiles.