Slow Learner. A Mystrade PWP
Title: Slow Learner. A Mystrade PWP
Author: ettuinarcadia/ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17+
Word Count: 1230
Summary: Lestrade learns a lesson.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Warning: PWP, BDSM, explicit sex; Nothing too alarming; fun with belts.
Note: Author freely admits this little pwp is an excerpt from my WIP, "A Negative Perfection." If you're curious, Chapter One: This Is Not A Test: http://ghislainem70.livejournal.com/45229.html#cutid1
Almost before he could close the door behind them, Mycroft was sliding off his belt, expertly and fast. Lestrade found himself with his hands bound tightly behind his back.
Before he could either catch his breath or decide how he felt about that (except mild astonishment that it didn't feel. . . wrong), Mycroft had pulled him over to the sofa and pushed him down, and worked him smoothly out of his trousers and briefs.
"What the- " he began -- not as confused as he sounded, he knew Mycroft could tell this.
He felt himself flush, a physical rushing sensation that warned him he was already in trouble, here. Probably.
There was a rustling and a thunk as he heard Mycroft discarding his own garments, not rushing, and then he was bending his tall frame over him, hovering, not touching skin.
"You know," he whispered in his ear. "You permitted him to-- touch you. Just --" he yanked a little on the belt and dragged a fingertip along the soft skin of the inner side of his wrist - "here."
Now this was pissing him off, he decided.
"You told me to. That was the plan. Remember?"
"I know. And you did well. Very well. But you still have to pay, Greg," Mycroft said reasonably.
"My-"
Whatever he might have said was muffled, though, because now Mycroft's tie was gently wedged between his lips. He remembered teasing Mycroft about this, once. In the beginning. He was sure Mycroft remembered too.
"Yes." Mycroft said. "Be quiet. My love."
Five hard, shockingly hard, fast slaps across his ass from Mycroft's bare hand and everything was burning. He twisted away but then he felt Mycroft sit gently down beside him, surprising him. He didn’t slap him again. He was listening to the sound of his protests into the gag.
“Look at that,” Mycroft said coolly. He might have been commenting on a piece of art. He felt exposed, scrutinized, and the firey tingle flying across the cheeks of his ass was spreading, flying down the skin of his thighs, between his legs, and straight to his cock. Mycroft stroked his ass gently, now, feather-light, and his cool touch had the perverse effect of making everything stingthat much more. It hurt. His fists clenched. His back arched.
“That’s what I thought,” Mycroft said, as if he had just answered a difficult question, answered it correctly. He was hard, agonizingly hard. He thought he could tell from My’s voice, smooth as always but underneath a little rough, that he was hard now too.
Mycroft’s hand, roaming, more demanding now, was traveling down lower, insinuating between his thighs. The burning heat from the slaps was fading now; but his legs parted, a mind of their own, apparently; he didn't seem to have the strength to pull them back. At Mycroft’s murmur of satisfaction he turned his face away into the cushions.
He moaned deep, once, but the gag was making this difficult, humiliating. He tried to keep it in.
“The gag is there for a reason. Don’t speak, don’t make a sound. I’m giving you this handkerchief. Hold it in your hand.” Greg felt the crisp cloth thrust between his fingers. “Good. I have one question now. Nod for yes or no.
Do you want me to do it again?”
He was running his hand over his ass again. It felt cold, bare. Needy.
There wasn’t any question at all what the answer to that was.
He closed his eyes, exhilirated, ashamed, and nodded once.
“I thought so. If you want me to stop - drop the handkerchief.”
He felt a peculiar sensation: something between dread and craving. But he wasn't prepared for the rain of sharp slaps that came down, deliberate, regular, a rythym undeniable. His arms were aching a little from being forced behind his back but the unfamiliar restriction of movement somehow magnified everything cruelly. Beautifully.
He felt pain that was not pain, singing, burning and glowing, but it was a pain was wrapped in pleasure, the longer the pain went on, the bigger it got, the pleasure always expanded to contain it. Something hidden was being revealed, something that was strong in its weakness, its need to be overmastered. He tried to stand outside himself, put some distance between himself and his body, unfamiliar sensations that his mind rebelled against but his body seemed to understand; it was a mystery.
Soon -- too soon? The blows ceased.
He could barely hear My’s ragged breathing. His head was filled with a loud humming that he realized was a ceaseless sort of moaning coming from deep down in his throat. He was squirming against the cushions. The sudden cease of the blows made his ass swell and bloom even more, and he spread his legs wide, wider still. He felt cruelly empty, he needed Mycroft to stroke him again where he had punished the tender flesh, but then when he did, with a slow, steady hand, it was unendurable.
His hands shook and he was going to drop the handkerchief now. If he didn't, he was going to lose himself altogether. He felt dizzy. But if he looked down he knew he would see his cock dripping.
“No, that’s not it,” Mycroft was saying softly. “It makes you stronger, not weaker.”
He clutched the cloth harder then as Mycroft's deliberate fingers were teasing his rim, widening him, getting him ready. He couldn’t stop grinding back up against his hand, then back against the cushions as the friction of his hands stung his slapped cheeks. He felt unpleasantly disoriented: He was a man that liked things simple and clear. So many different sensations, opposing, pulling him apart.
The swelling and warmth of his punished ass, the need to be fucked, hard, made the urge to come incinerating. Now Mycroft was holding his hips down, forcing him to stop thrusting. Warm lube was being rubbed between his cheeks, and he was panting now against the gag.
“That was for letting him touch you. You’ve done very well. Now you get your reward,” he said, and thrust into him, big and hard and tight, controlling it, rocking it, letting his hips grind slowly and hard against his still-hot ass where he’d been slapped. He tried to imagine what they looked like; he closed his eyes but he could sense Mycroft watching his every move, every expression. He almost came at the first thrust but Mycroft's hand reached around and grabbed his throbbing cock, squeezed it, and murmured against his back, “No, not yet,” and with a violent effort he returned from the very brink, to the rapturous pleasure of hanging on the very razor edge of orgasm while Mycroft fucked him perfectly, taking him down deep.
He lasted as long as he could but when he started to clench and shake, Mycroft tore off the gag and it was with this that he gasped as if he had been slapped again and came, his whole body seized by it. Mycroft stilled and gripped him tighter, thrusting hard, once more, and reached the peak. They slumped together, trembling aftershocks. He never wanted to move, feeling hot, weak and perfectly filled.
“You won’t make that mistake again,” My whispered, his lips hot against the back of his neck.
Greg smiled into the pillows. He thought that maybe this was an area where it was better to be a slow learner.
Author: ettuinarcadia/ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17+
Word Count: 1230
Summary: Lestrade learns a lesson.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Warning: PWP, BDSM, explicit sex; Nothing too alarming; fun with belts.
Note: Author freely admits this little pwp is an excerpt from my WIP, "A Negative Perfection." If you're curious, Chapter One: This Is Not A Test: http://ghislainem70.livejournal.com/45229.html#cutid1
Almost before he could close the door behind them, Mycroft was sliding off his belt, expertly and fast. Lestrade found himself with his hands bound tightly behind his back.
Before he could either catch his breath or decide how he felt about that (except mild astonishment that it didn't feel. . . wrong), Mycroft had pulled him over to the sofa and pushed him down, and worked him smoothly out of his trousers and briefs.
"What the- " he began -- not as confused as he sounded, he knew Mycroft could tell this.
He felt himself flush, a physical rushing sensation that warned him he was already in trouble, here. Probably.
There was a rustling and a thunk as he heard Mycroft discarding his own garments, not rushing, and then he was bending his tall frame over him, hovering, not touching skin.
"You know," he whispered in his ear. "You permitted him to-- touch you. Just --" he yanked a little on the belt and dragged a fingertip along the soft skin of the inner side of his wrist - "here."
Now this was pissing him off, he decided.
"You told me to. That was the plan. Remember?"
"I know. And you did well. Very well. But you still have to pay, Greg," Mycroft said reasonably.
"My-"
Whatever he might have said was muffled, though, because now Mycroft's tie was gently wedged between his lips. He remembered teasing Mycroft about this, once. In the beginning. He was sure Mycroft remembered too.
"Yes." Mycroft said. "Be quiet. My love."
Five hard, shockingly hard, fast slaps across his ass from Mycroft's bare hand and everything was burning. He twisted away but then he felt Mycroft sit gently down beside him, surprising him. He didn’t slap him again. He was listening to the sound of his protests into the gag.
“Look at that,” Mycroft said coolly. He might have been commenting on a piece of art. He felt exposed, scrutinized, and the firey tingle flying across the cheeks of his ass was spreading, flying down the skin of his thighs, between his legs, and straight to his cock. Mycroft stroked his ass gently, now, feather-light, and his cool touch had the perverse effect of making everything stingthat much more. It hurt. His fists clenched. His back arched.
“That’s what I thought,” Mycroft said, as if he had just answered a difficult question, answered it correctly. He was hard, agonizingly hard. He thought he could tell from My’s voice, smooth as always but underneath a little rough, that he was hard now too.
Mycroft’s hand, roaming, more demanding now, was traveling down lower, insinuating between his thighs. The burning heat from the slaps was fading now; but his legs parted, a mind of their own, apparently; he didn't seem to have the strength to pull them back. At Mycroft’s murmur of satisfaction he turned his face away into the cushions.
He moaned deep, once, but the gag was making this difficult, humiliating. He tried to keep it in.
“The gag is there for a reason. Don’t speak, don’t make a sound. I’m giving you this handkerchief. Hold it in your hand.” Greg felt the crisp cloth thrust between his fingers. “Good. I have one question now. Nod for yes or no.
Do you want me to do it again?”
He was running his hand over his ass again. It felt cold, bare. Needy.
There wasn’t any question at all what the answer to that was.
He closed his eyes, exhilirated, ashamed, and nodded once.
“I thought so. If you want me to stop - drop the handkerchief.”
He felt a peculiar sensation: something between dread and craving. But he wasn't prepared for the rain of sharp slaps that came down, deliberate, regular, a rythym undeniable. His arms were aching a little from being forced behind his back but the unfamiliar restriction of movement somehow magnified everything cruelly. Beautifully.
He felt pain that was not pain, singing, burning and glowing, but it was a pain was wrapped in pleasure, the longer the pain went on, the bigger it got, the pleasure always expanded to contain it. Something hidden was being revealed, something that was strong in its weakness, its need to be overmastered. He tried to stand outside himself, put some distance between himself and his body, unfamiliar sensations that his mind rebelled against but his body seemed to understand; it was a mystery.
Soon -- too soon? The blows ceased.
He could barely hear My’s ragged breathing. His head was filled with a loud humming that he realized was a ceaseless sort of moaning coming from deep down in his throat. He was squirming against the cushions. The sudden cease of the blows made his ass swell and bloom even more, and he spread his legs wide, wider still. He felt cruelly empty, he needed Mycroft to stroke him again where he had punished the tender flesh, but then when he did, with a slow, steady hand, it was unendurable.
His hands shook and he was going to drop the handkerchief now. If he didn't, he was going to lose himself altogether. He felt dizzy. But if he looked down he knew he would see his cock dripping.
“No, that’s not it,” Mycroft was saying softly. “It makes you stronger, not weaker.”
He clutched the cloth harder then as Mycroft's deliberate fingers were teasing his rim, widening him, getting him ready. He couldn’t stop grinding back up against his hand, then back against the cushions as the friction of his hands stung his slapped cheeks. He felt unpleasantly disoriented: He was a man that liked things simple and clear. So many different sensations, opposing, pulling him apart.
The swelling and warmth of his punished ass, the need to be fucked, hard, made the urge to come incinerating. Now Mycroft was holding his hips down, forcing him to stop thrusting. Warm lube was being rubbed between his cheeks, and he was panting now against the gag.
“That was for letting him touch you. You’ve done very well. Now you get your reward,” he said, and thrust into him, big and hard and tight, controlling it, rocking it, letting his hips grind slowly and hard against his still-hot ass where he’d been slapped. He tried to imagine what they looked like; he closed his eyes but he could sense Mycroft watching his every move, every expression. He almost came at the first thrust but Mycroft's hand reached around and grabbed his throbbing cock, squeezed it, and murmured against his back, “No, not yet,” and with a violent effort he returned from the very brink, to the rapturous pleasure of hanging on the very razor edge of orgasm while Mycroft fucked him perfectly, taking him down deep.
He lasted as long as he could but when he started to clench and shake, Mycroft tore off the gag and it was with this that he gasped as if he had been slapped again and came, his whole body seized by it. Mycroft stilled and gripped him tighter, thrusting hard, once more, and reached the peak. They slumped together, trembling aftershocks. He never wanted to move, feeling hot, weak and perfectly filled.
“You won’t make that mistake again,” My whispered, his lips hot against the back of his neck.
Greg smiled into the pillows. He thought that maybe this was an area where it was better to be a slow learner.