Fill: Road to New Roissy 1/?voyeurineDecember 5 2011, 20:14:36 UTC
The greatness of a man's power is the measure of his surrender. -William Booth
Mycroft Holmes couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so apprehensive and excited at the same time.
The sleek black car hurtled through the December night, the interior so silent that the sound of rain lashing against the windows and drumming on the roof was amplified. When thunder exploded overhead, Mycroft actually jumped and clutched his umbrella handle until his knuckles whitened.
A strong hand touched him just above the knee, its fingers moving in soothing circles. “Relax,” Gregory Lestrade murmured.
“I’m trying to. It’s difficult.”
“You’re not sure what to expect. That’s all.”
Mycroft nodded and leaned back against the rich leather seat. It was true- he didn’t know for certain what awaited him, and he’d refrained from finding out purely by choice. Because he loved and trusted the man whose leather-clad leg now pressed against his own.
“I think I’m bringing you to New Roissy just in time.” Gregory slid an arm around his shoulders and drew him close. “You’re as jumpy as hell.”
“Talk to me,” Mycroft said, closing his eyes. “Tell me more about this place.”
His lover chuckled. “So now you want to know, eh?”
“Just enough to give me some hope.”
Hope that I can finally learn how to surrender control, before the migraines get worse, my blood pressure increases, and Sherlock-induced stress brings on a heart attack.
He reached for Gregory’s left hand and caressed the bronze ring adorning the pinky finger. When he’d first seen it, Mycroft thought the insignia was a coiled serpent. Now he knew it was a bullwhip intersected with a riding crop.
Days into their relationship, he’d deduced that the handsome DI belonged to a secret society. Gregory had volunteered no information about it, and Mycroft chose not to ask. The ring didn’t represent any subversive groups he was aware of, and because his razor intellect could deduce what Lestrade had eaten for lunch and what route he’d taken home, he allowed his lover the odd secret like this one. Little did he suspect that the ring- or to be precise, what it represented- would one day embody his salvation.
“It’s a place where everyone will know you’re mine, and how much I love you. You’ll be told what to do and when. You’ll learn to finally let go.”
Mycroft laughed shakily. “Would you believe that I can’t even imagine myself not being in control at all times?”
“Really? Because that’s the situation now, love. Look around you.”
Mycroft opened his eyes and took everything in. The car and its unfamiliar driver. The lonely country road, where government surveillance cameras were few and far between.
The handcuffs that secured his wrists.
At that moment the car turned left, into a hedge-lined laneway. Gravel crunched under the tires, and lights beckoned faintly at the end.
Re: Fill: Road to New Roissy 1/?voyeurineDecember 5 2011, 20:54:19 UTC
Holy hell, I'm already in love with this fill! We going to have M/L/S and a loving Mystrade with a Mycroft in desperately need to submit and lose control, I can't wait for more. :)
Re: Fill: Road to New Roissy 2a/?voyeurineDecember 6 2011, 10:34:54 UTC
Staring into the distance, Mycroft detected a three-storied stone house with a full-length porch. Each window had deep red curtains, beyond which lights glowed warmly.
“I’m going to blindfold you now,” Gregory said, reaching into his pocket. “Please kneel.”
Mycroft moved off the seat and knelt on the floor. He gazed up at Gregory, who caressed his cheek.
“One last time before the car stops. You’re sure you want to do this?”
“Yes. If you think this will help me, then yes. I trust you implicitly.”
“You understand that you may be touched, and sometimes rather intimately? And you will not be disrespectful. If something makes you uneasy, you use the signal we agreed on.”
“Yes.”
“Show me the signal again, please.”
Mycroft raised his cuffed hands and crossed the first and second fingers on the right one.
“Good.” Gregory smiled before tying a length of black silk around his head. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Mycroft sat back on his heels and dropped his hands into his lap again. Deprived of sight, his other senses magnified. Polished leather, car shampoo, and Burberry cologne flooded his nostrils, and the soft creak of leather as Gregory shifted on the seat made him shiver. He felt vulnerable but said nothing. He’d known this wasn’t going to be easy.
Lestrade must have figured it out, because warm hands clasped his shoulders. Mycroft bowed his head until his brow touched the other man’s knees, and let the dual contact soothe him.
He was also turned on, although he kept it hidden. He and Gregory had an active and adventurous sex life, but this- handcuffs, blindfolds, gentle dominance and total submission- was different. They’d always played as equals between the sheets, even when Lestrade was spanking him or pinning his wrists while fucking him into the mattress. That had all been rough stimulation, nothing more. Here, in this car, his will was being taken gently away from him. Was that a kink he didn’t know he had? How else could he explain the way the blood roared in his ears and his skin flushed as he knelt on that floor?
Re: Fill: Road to New Roissy 2b/?voyeurineDecember 6 2011, 10:36:43 UTC
The car stopped. Mycroft sat up straight and listened carefully as the driver exited the vehicle and opened the rear passenger door. Wet night air whooshed in, along with the sound of three people approaching.
A man spoke. Mycroft identified his accent as Swiss German. “Good to see you again, Greg.”
“Likewise, Hans. How did your son’s knee surgery go?”
“Very well, thank you for asking.” A pause. “So this is Mycroft?”
Mycroft bristled. He almost snapped, “It’s Mr. Holmes to you.” Gregory squeezed his shoulder and he remained silent.
“Yes. As you can imagine, this is a bit of a challenge for him.”
“It always is the first time.” Hans came closer. “Hello, Mycroft.”
He raised his chin and turned his face in the other man’s direction. “Hello,” he responded, proud of how dignified he sounded despite being blindfolded and handcuffed.
Hans chuckled. “Greg, please- come in. We’ll talk more in the study. Gerard and Paulo will get him settled. Your rooms are ready.”
Mycroft blinked in surprise. Rooms? So they weren’t going to be sleeping together?
“Certainly.” Lestrade leaned forward. “Myc, you won’t be seeing me for the rest of the night. You know what I expect from you.”
Mycroft nodded. He started to lick his dry lips, but Gregory cupped his face and kissed him. “I’ll be in the same house, remember, and thinking of you constantly. Make me- and yourself- proud.”
“I will.”
Then Lestrade was gone and two sets of strong but careful hands were assisting him out of the car. One of them pried the umbrella from his grasp and said politely, “This will be returned to you when you leave.”
Mycroft heard the snick and whoosh of another umbrella opening -his own brolly made no such noise, being a sword in disguise- and suddenly he was insulated against the downpour. His escorts led him down a gravel pathway and up three stone steps. A door creaked open, and they all stepped into the house.
Mycroft remained still while the two men put the umbrellas away and removed their wet coats. He could hear voices in an adjoining room, but had no time to focus on them before he was propelled down a series of corridors and into a room with a tiled floor. His nostrils flared: he could smell soap, dried flowers, freshly laundered fabric- a bathroom?
The hands fell away from his arms. Someone unlocked and took off his handcuffs. He massaged his wrists automatically, only to freeze when one of the men said, “Your clothes will be removed now. Please stay in place.”
Fill: Road to New Roissy 3a/?voyeurineDecember 7 2011, 12:06:19 UTC
The two men unbuttoned his suit jacket and waistcoat and slid both expensive garments off before tackling his silk shirt and fine wool trousers with the same impersonal efficiency. Gregory had once joked that undressing Mycroft was akin to a Victorian seduction. There were so many layers of clothing to remove, along with their fastenings.
The attendants worked speedily, leaving him naked in seconds. Hands propelled him forward, until his toes touched porcelain. A bathtub.
“One moment, please.”
One of them stepped away. He heard faucets creak and water gush. Mycroft was grateful: he’d sweated during the car ride. But that relief turned into shock when the other man fastened what felt like a leather collar around his neck.
If anyone but Gregory had brought him here, Mycroft would have perceived a threat. He’d have ripped off the blindfold, kicked in the assailant’s direction, and followed up with disabling blows. This bathroom would smell of blood instead of flowers, and moans of pain would drown out the piano music tinkling upstairs.
“What is this?” he asked, slowly. Dangerously.
“Mr. Lestrade’s wishes.”
So Gregory had arranged this. It was all fine. He inhaled deeply and relaxed, allowing the man to buckle leather cuffs to his wrists. Then both his hands were raised and metal hooks snapped. Steel rings in the cuffs were now attached to a larger one in the collar, keeping his arms up and semi-immobile. The bindings weren’t uncomfortable, but they did arouse long-buried memories from his days as a MI6 field agent.
Kabul, 2001. Lying on a dusty shed floor during a break in interrogation. Ropes around his neck and wrists that either choked him or tore his muscles, depending on his position….
No. This was not the same. Unlike Kabul, he could stop this if he wanted. He shifted in the leather bindings, exploring for the first time immobility without fear of pain or death.
Fill: Road to New Roissy 3b/?voyeurineDecember 7 2011, 12:08:48 UTC
“You’re not to do anything for yourself, even wash,” the man running the bath explained. “The restraints help you remember that.”
The faucets creaked again, and the water stopped. Mycroft felt a blanket of sandalwood-scented humidity waft up and caress his face.
Not do anything for himself? Impossible! He was used to running his own affairs AND those of the country. He bit his lip to refrain from protesting. His escorts noticed, for one said, “Mr. Lestrade thought you might need this, and it seems like he’s right.”
He would have asked what ‘this’ was, but his jaw was lowered and a leather bit pressed into his mouth. Mycroft let out a surprised yelp and recoiled as the gag was buckled in place.
Tangiers, 1999. Buried alive by White Cell terrorists while U.S. forces swept the surface, looking for him, the sole survivor of the mass slaughter… Leather in his mouth, absorbing the moisture he hadn’t yet sweated away….
“Mr. Lestrade advised what your safety signal was, and it will be respected if used. But you really should trust your partner.”
Mycroft’s stomach knotted with apprehension. Why was it so damn difficult to let go?
And why was he growing hard? Could he possibly want this as much as Gregory did?
A door opened. Mycroft turned his head toward the noise, listening for footsteps. He heard none, which was why he jumped when a cool hand gently grasped the back of his neck.
That hand- he knew it from somewhere. His nostrils widened as he strained to detect cologne, hand lotion, anything that might pinpoint the new arrival’s identity.
“I’ll take over from here, gentleman,” a woman said.
Re: Fill: Road to New Roissy 3b/?voyeurineDecember 7 2011, 16:37:40 UTC
Thanks for your feedback :)
I've known control freaks (for want of a better word) made that way by a traumatic past, and D/s play actually helped them to relax and let go if they were initiated into it by someone they trusted. If anyone but Lestrade had been behind it, I think Mycroft would have gone pitbull on them...
Fill: Road to New Roissy 4a/?voyeurineDecember 8 2011, 14:31:02 UTC
The hand stayed in place until departing footsteps signaled that the two of them were now alone. Then she said in dulcet tones, “Please step into the water.”
Her voice was unfamiliar, but that touch- he knew he’d felt it before. Not under adverse circumstances, or he’d remember. Intrigued and anticipating the moment when the blindfold would come off, Mycroft placed one foot into the warm depths. When he wobbled a bit, firm and familiar hands steadied him.
“You’re all right,” she said. “My assistant has got you. Sit down.”
Assistant? Someone else was in the room? When had they come in- or had they been present the entire time, silently watching? Mycroft hesitated, disoriented by the abrupt switch in perception. It wasn’t the woman he had faintly recognized: it was an unknown party who had yet to speak.
Two more hands clasped his face. They were soft and feminine. Hers, for sure. “You’re all right,” she repeated.
He exhaled slowly and nodded. Of course he was all right- would Gregory have brought him here if there was a risk of otherwise? So what if he had met one of these attendants before? In his line of work, he encountered dozens of people on a daily basis. Why did he have to over-analyze?
Because doing so kept me alive in the field for fifteen years. But I’m not at war with anyone here, except possibly myself. Must remember that.
But who is…
Stop. You’re safe. Trust Gregory.
As Mycroft sank into the steaming water, all tension fled, leaving him languid and boneless everywhere except his groin. He was now fully erect, but couldn’t summon the energy to be embarrassed. He sat quietly while two sets of hands -one hauntingly familiar- scrubbed him thoroughly, careful not to wet the collar or cuffs. Then they made him kneel and one of them ran a cloth perfunctorily about his lower belly and genitals. He bit down on the leather and shifted his hips, craving more intimate stimulation, but they just assisted him out of the tub and toweled him off.
“You must be thirsty after a hot bath,” the woman said.
The gag was removed and the rim of a drinking glass pressed against his lips. Mycroft drank greedily. The water was cool and delicious, and soothed his dry mouth. When the glass was taken away, he said, “I know your assistant from somewhere.”
“Perhaps. But you don’t know me. My name is Irene.”
Fill: Road to New Roissy 4b/?voyeurineDecember 8 2011, 21:05:01 UTC
He tried to speak, but Irene pushed the leather bit past his lips. As she buckled the gag in place, she added, “I spoke to Mr. Lestrade before coming downstairs. He sends his love.”
Those words instantly derailed Mycroft’s curiousity about her helper’s identity. Gregory was sending his love. Heart swelling, he imagined Lestrade lounging in an ornate study or library upstairs, sipping his trademark scotch and soda and cutting a commanding figure in his black turtleneck jumper and leather trousers. I love him so much. What did I have before I met him? Shadow romances. One-night stands. Before Gregory, there was nothing.
Tears pricked his eyes. He suddenly wanted Gregory to hold him right now. What was happening to his normal stoicism? One minute he was rebellious, the next aroused and submissive, and now he felt as vulnerable and anxious as a lost child. Where was that imposing persona that could scare terrorists and enemy agents into pissing themselves and giving up their secrets?
Irene apparently read his mind.
“It’s just your defenses crumbling. You’re slowly letting go. That’s good.”
Her fingernails trailed down his chest, pausing to grasp his left nipple and twist it upward. Mycroft shuddered in surprise and bliss; how had she pinpointed one of his accelerated erogenous zones so quickly? He groaned and tried to touch her, but the cuffs frustrated his effort. Chuckling, she drew him close and bit gently down on that section of his neck that always made him a captive.
Mycroft moaned and his knees shook. His cock began leaking copiously. He tried to touch it, but the wrist cuffs refused to yield.
“We’ve never met, but I know you,” she purred into his ear. “Bathing someone is a fast track to mapping their body’s erogenous zones. And in my line of work, I make it my business to know men’s bodies.” To prove her point, she slid her hand under his balls and danced her fingertips across that sensitive spot above his entrance. "You like that, don't you? No need to confirm. I know."
His knees actually gave out then and he collapsed against her. Silky hair, soft skin, and Givenchy perfume flooded his senses. A ribbed leather corset shifted against his chest as Irene caught him and lowered him to his knees.
“Perfect,” she murmured. “I was going to have you kneel anyway. You’re quite teachable, you know. Almost as much as your-.” She stopped. “Never mind, you don’t really need to know about that. Position him.”
Her assistant took Mycroft by the shoulders and lowered him until his forehead touched the thick bath mat and his arse hovered in the air. The pose was humiliating, but he didn’t care. This was what Gregory wanted, and judging from his near-painful erection, he wanted it too.
Mycroft caught his breath and froze. He heard the rustle of a plastic bag and snapping of latex gloves, followed by the click of a tube opening. Then fingers, soft and slick, stroked against his entrance until he relaxed enough to let them inside. He squeezed his eyes shut behind the blindfold, riding a wave of vulnerability and arousal. The intruding digits coated his inner walls thoroughly with lube, whereupon they withdrew, and something hard and slick pushed against his still-tight entrance.
Fill: Road to New Roissy 5a/?voyeurineDecember 9 2011, 14:58:50 UTC
Mycroft squirmed as the object (dildo, wrong shape for a butt plug) was slowly and carefully pressed into his body. When it grazed his prostate, he gave a full-body shudder and whimpered in pleasure. It feels so fucking good, so good….
Then hips nudged against his upturned buttocks and he momentarily stilled in surprise. Wriggling backwards, he detected leather fastenings across her waist and thighs. A strap-on!
Firm, leather-covered breasts flattened against his damp back and strong arms encircled his middle. “Mycroft Holmes,” she sighed into his shoulder before biting it. “Said to be the most brilliant man in England. Smarter than his brother Sherlock. I know all about you. Have you deduced yet that I’m going to fuck your arse until you wonder where I’ve been all your life?”
Mycroft wasn’t shocked that she knew his name. But Sherlock’s? Was she a friend of his younger brother’s or, worse, an enemy? Then something occurred to him: Gregory’s given her a script. Told her what to say. Of course.
“You think someone’s written me a speech, don’t you?”
What the hell?
“I read you like a newspaper, my boy. As to how I know your brother: you’ll soon find out. But right now I’m going to ride you like the whore you are. Imagine that- the great Mycroft Holmes, stuffed with cheap rubber cock and loving it- while his partner watches.”
Mycroft’s chin lifted sharply, making her laugh.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Lestrade is viewing all this on camera as we speak. Let’s give him a show, shall we?”
She drew back before slamming several inches of hard silicone into his tight passage. He grunted loudly and nearly fell onto his stomach. After taking a second to reorient himself, he spread his legs and arched his back further so that the next thrust hit his prostate.
“I know where the sweet spot is,” Irene chided. “But you couldn’t wait, could you? Fucking slut!”
Mycroft Holmes couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so apprehensive and excited at the same time.
The sleek black car hurtled through the December night, the interior so silent that the sound of rain lashing against the windows and drumming on the roof was amplified. When thunder exploded overhead, Mycroft actually jumped and clutched his umbrella handle until his knuckles whitened.
A strong hand touched him just above the knee, its fingers moving in soothing circles. “Relax,” Gregory Lestrade murmured.
“I’m trying to. It’s difficult.”
“You’re not sure what to expect. That’s all.”
Mycroft nodded and leaned back against the rich leather seat. It was true- he didn’t know for certain what awaited him, and he’d refrained from finding out purely by choice. Because he loved and trusted the man whose leather-clad leg now pressed against his own.
“I think I’m bringing you to New Roissy just in time.” Gregory slid an arm around his shoulders and drew him close. “You’re as jumpy as hell.”
“Talk to me,” Mycroft said, closing his eyes. “Tell me more about this place.”
His lover chuckled. “So now you want to know, eh?”
“Just enough to give me some hope.”
Hope that I can finally learn how to surrender control, before the migraines get worse, my blood pressure increases, and Sherlock-induced stress brings on a heart attack.
He reached for Gregory’s left hand and caressed the bronze ring adorning the pinky finger. When he’d first seen it, Mycroft thought the insignia was a coiled serpent. Now he knew it was a bullwhip intersected with a riding crop.
Days into their relationship, he’d deduced that the handsome DI belonged to a secret society. Gregory had volunteered no information about it, and Mycroft chose not to ask. The ring didn’t represent any subversive groups he was aware of, and because his razor intellect could deduce what Lestrade had eaten for lunch and what route he’d taken home, he allowed his lover the odd secret like this one. Little did he suspect that the ring- or to be precise, what it represented- would one day embody his salvation.
“It’s a place where everyone will know you’re mine, and how much I love you. You’ll be told what to do and when. You’ll learn to finally let go.”
Mycroft laughed shakily. “Would you believe that I can’t even imagine myself not being in control at all times?”
“Really? Because that’s the situation now, love. Look around you.”
Mycroft opened his eyes and took everything in. The car and its unfamiliar driver. The lonely country road, where government surveillance cameras were few and far between.
The handcuffs that secured his wrists.
At that moment the car turned left, into a hedge-lined laneway. Gravel crunched under the tires, and lights beckoned faintly at the end.
“We’re here,” Gregory said.
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“I’m going to blindfold you now,” Gregory said, reaching into his pocket. “Please kneel.”
Mycroft moved off the seat and knelt on the floor. He gazed up at Gregory, who caressed his cheek.
“One last time before the car stops. You’re sure you want to do this?”
“Yes. If you think this will help me, then yes. I trust you implicitly.”
“You understand that you may be touched, and sometimes rather intimately? And you will not be disrespectful. If something makes you uneasy, you use the signal we agreed on.”
“Yes.”
“Show me the signal again, please.”
Mycroft raised his cuffed hands and crossed the first and second fingers on the right one.
“Good.” Gregory smiled before tying a length of black silk around his head. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Mycroft sat back on his heels and dropped his hands into his lap again. Deprived of sight, his other senses magnified. Polished leather, car shampoo, and Burberry cologne flooded his nostrils, and the soft creak of leather as Gregory shifted on the seat made him shiver. He felt vulnerable but said nothing. He’d known this wasn’t going to be easy.
Lestrade must have figured it out, because warm hands clasped his shoulders. Mycroft bowed his head until his brow touched the other man’s knees, and let the dual contact soothe him.
He was also turned on, although he kept it hidden. He and Gregory had an active and adventurous sex life, but this- handcuffs, blindfolds, gentle dominance and total submission- was different. They’d always played as equals between the sheets, even when Lestrade was spanking him or pinning his wrists while fucking him into the mattress. That had all been rough stimulation, nothing more. Here, in this car, his will was being taken gently away from him. Was that a kink he didn’t know he had? How else could he explain the way the blood roared in his ears and his skin flushed as he knelt on that floor?
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A man spoke. Mycroft identified his accent as Swiss German. “Good to see you again, Greg.”
“Likewise, Hans. How did your son’s knee surgery go?”
“Very well, thank you for asking.” A pause. “So this is Mycroft?”
Mycroft bristled. He almost snapped, “It’s Mr. Holmes to you.” Gregory squeezed his shoulder and he remained silent.
“Yes. As you can imagine, this is a bit of a challenge for him.”
“It always is the first time.” Hans came closer. “Hello, Mycroft.”
He raised his chin and turned his face in the other man’s direction. “Hello,” he responded, proud of how dignified he sounded despite being blindfolded and handcuffed.
Hans chuckled. “Greg, please- come in. We’ll talk more in the study. Gerard and Paulo will get him settled. Your rooms are ready.”
Mycroft blinked in surprise. Rooms? So they weren’t going to be sleeping together?
“Certainly.” Lestrade leaned forward. “Myc, you won’t be seeing me for the rest of the night. You know what I expect from you.”
Mycroft nodded. He started to lick his dry lips, but Gregory cupped his face and kissed him. “I’ll be in the same house, remember, and thinking of you constantly. Make me- and yourself- proud.”
“I will.”
Then Lestrade was gone and two sets of strong but careful hands were assisting him out of the car. One of them pried the umbrella from his grasp and said politely, “This will be returned to you when you leave.”
Mycroft heard the snick and whoosh of another umbrella opening -his own brolly made no such noise, being a sword in disguise- and suddenly he was insulated against the downpour. His escorts led him down a gravel pathway and up three stone steps. A door creaked open, and they all stepped into the house.
Mycroft remained still while the two men put the umbrellas away and removed their wet coats. He could hear voices in an adjoining room, but had no time to focus on them before he was propelled down a series of corridors and into a room with a tiled floor. His nostrils flared: he could smell soap, dried flowers, freshly laundered fabric- a bathroom?
The hands fell away from his arms. Someone unlocked and took off his handcuffs. He massaged his wrists automatically, only to freeze when one of the men said, “Your clothes will be removed now. Please stay in place.”
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The attendants worked speedily, leaving him naked in seconds. Hands propelled him forward, until his toes touched porcelain. A bathtub.
“One moment, please.”
One of them stepped away. He heard faucets creak and water gush. Mycroft was grateful: he’d sweated during the car ride. But that relief turned into shock when the other man fastened what felt like a leather collar around his neck.
If anyone but Gregory had brought him here, Mycroft would have perceived a threat. He’d have ripped off the blindfold, kicked in the assailant’s direction, and followed up with disabling blows. This bathroom would smell of blood instead of flowers, and moans of pain would drown out the piano music tinkling upstairs.
“What is this?” he asked, slowly. Dangerously.
“Mr. Lestrade’s wishes.”
So Gregory had arranged this. It was all fine. He inhaled deeply and relaxed, allowing the man to buckle leather cuffs to his wrists. Then both his hands were raised and metal hooks snapped. Steel rings in the cuffs were now attached to a larger one in the collar, keeping his arms up and semi-immobile. The bindings weren’t uncomfortable, but they did arouse long-buried memories from his days as a MI6 field agent.
Kabul, 2001. Lying on a dusty shed floor during a break in interrogation. Ropes around his neck and wrists that either choked him or tore his muscles, depending on his position….
No. This was not the same. Unlike Kabul, he could stop this if he wanted. He shifted in the leather bindings, exploring for the first time immobility without fear of pain or death.
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The faucets creaked again, and the water stopped. Mycroft felt a blanket of sandalwood-scented humidity waft up and caress his face.
Not do anything for himself? Impossible! He was used to running his own affairs AND those of the country. He bit his lip to refrain from protesting. His escorts noticed, for one said, “Mr. Lestrade thought you might need this, and it seems like he’s right.”
He would have asked what ‘this’ was, but his jaw was lowered and a leather bit pressed into his mouth. Mycroft let out a surprised yelp and recoiled as the gag was buckled in place.
Tangiers, 1999. Buried alive by White Cell terrorists while U.S. forces swept the surface, looking for him, the sole survivor of the mass slaughter… Leather in his mouth, absorbing the moisture he hadn’t yet sweated away….
“Mr. Lestrade advised what your safety signal was, and it will be respected if used. But you really should trust your partner.”
Mycroft’s stomach knotted with apprehension. Why was it so damn difficult to let go?
And why was he growing hard? Could he possibly want this as much as Gregory did?
A door opened. Mycroft turned his head toward the noise, listening for footsteps. He heard none, which was why he jumped when a cool hand gently grasped the back of his neck.
That hand- he knew it from somewhere. His nostrils widened as he strained to detect cologne, hand lotion, anything that might pinpoint the new arrival’s identity.
“I’ll take over from here, gentleman,” a woman said.
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(The comment has been removed)
I've known control freaks (for want of a better word) made that way by a traumatic past, and D/s play actually helped them to relax and let go if they were initiated into it by someone they trusted. If anyone but Lestrade had been behind it, I think Mycroft would have gone pitbull on them...
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Her voice was unfamiliar, but that touch- he knew he’d felt it before. Not under adverse circumstances, or he’d remember. Intrigued and anticipating the moment when the blindfold would come off, Mycroft placed one foot into the warm depths. When he wobbled a bit, firm and familiar hands steadied him.
“You’re all right,” she said. “My assistant has got you. Sit down.”
Assistant? Someone else was in the room? When had they come in- or had they been present the entire time, silently watching? Mycroft hesitated, disoriented by the abrupt switch in perception. It wasn’t the woman he had faintly recognized: it was an unknown party who had yet to speak.
Two more hands clasped his face. They were soft and feminine. Hers, for sure. “You’re all right,” she repeated.
He exhaled slowly and nodded. Of course he was all right- would Gregory have brought him here if there was a risk of otherwise? So what if he had met one of these attendants before? In his line of work, he encountered dozens of people on a daily basis. Why did he have to over-analyze?
Because doing so kept me alive in the field for fifteen years. But I’m not at war with anyone here, except possibly myself. Must remember that.
But who is…
Stop. You’re safe. Trust Gregory.
As Mycroft sank into the steaming water, all tension fled, leaving him languid and boneless everywhere except his groin. He was now fully erect, but couldn’t summon the energy to be embarrassed. He sat quietly while two sets of hands -one hauntingly familiar- scrubbed him thoroughly, careful not to wet the collar or cuffs. Then they made him kneel and one of them ran a cloth perfunctorily about his lower belly and genitals. He bit down on the leather and shifted his hips, craving more intimate stimulation, but they just assisted him out of the tub and toweled him off.
“You must be thirsty after a hot bath,” the woman said.
The gag was removed and the rim of a drinking glass pressed against his lips. Mycroft drank greedily. The water was cool and delicious, and soothed his dry mouth. When the glass was taken away, he said, “I know your assistant from somewhere.”
“Perhaps. But you don’t know me. My name is Irene.”
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Those words instantly derailed Mycroft’s curiousity about her helper’s identity. Gregory was sending his love. Heart swelling, he imagined Lestrade lounging in an ornate study or library upstairs, sipping his trademark scotch and soda and cutting a commanding figure in his black turtleneck jumper and leather trousers. I love him so much. What did I have before I met him? Shadow romances. One-night stands. Before Gregory, there was nothing.
Tears pricked his eyes. He suddenly wanted Gregory to hold him right now. What was happening to his normal stoicism? One minute he was rebellious, the next aroused and submissive, and now he felt as vulnerable and anxious as a lost child. Where was that imposing persona that could scare terrorists and enemy agents into pissing themselves and giving up their secrets?
Irene apparently read his mind.
“It’s just your defenses crumbling. You’re slowly letting go. That’s good.”
Her fingernails trailed down his chest, pausing to grasp his left nipple and twist it upward. Mycroft shuddered in surprise and bliss; how had she pinpointed one of his accelerated erogenous zones so quickly? He groaned and tried to touch her, but the cuffs frustrated his effort. Chuckling, she drew him close and bit gently down on that section of his neck that always made him a captive.
Mycroft moaned and his knees shook. His cock began leaking copiously. He tried to touch it, but the wrist cuffs refused to yield.
“We’ve never met, but I know you,” she purred into his ear. “Bathing someone is a fast track to mapping their body’s erogenous zones. And in my line of work, I make it my business to know men’s bodies.” To prove her point, she slid her hand under his balls and danced her fingertips across that sensitive spot above his entrance. "You like that, don't you? No need to confirm. I know."
His knees actually gave out then and he collapsed against her. Silky hair, soft skin, and Givenchy perfume flooded his senses. A ribbed leather corset shifted against his chest as Irene caught him and lowered him to his knees.
“Perfect,” she murmured. “I was going to have you kneel anyway. You’re quite teachable, you know. Almost as much as your-.” She stopped. “Never mind, you don’t really need to know about that. Position him.”
Her assistant took Mycroft by the shoulders and lowered him until his forehead touched the thick bath mat and his arse hovered in the air. The pose was humiliating, but he didn’t care. This was what Gregory wanted, and judging from his near-painful erection, he wanted it too.
“Mr. Lestrade also sends something else,” Irene continued. “Please remain still.”
Mycroft caught his breath and froze. He heard the rustle of a plastic bag and snapping of latex gloves, followed by the click of a tube opening. Then fingers, soft and slick, stroked against his entrance until he relaxed enough to let them inside. He squeezed his eyes shut behind the blindfold, riding a wave of vulnerability and arousal. The intruding digits coated his inner walls thoroughly with lube, whereupon they withdrew, and something hard and slick pushed against his still-tight entrance.
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Then hips nudged against his upturned buttocks and he momentarily stilled in surprise. Wriggling backwards, he detected leather fastenings across her waist and thighs. A strap-on!
Firm, leather-covered breasts flattened against his damp back and strong arms encircled his middle. “Mycroft Holmes,” she sighed into his shoulder before biting it. “Said to be the most brilliant man in England. Smarter than his brother Sherlock. I know all about you. Have you deduced yet that I’m going to fuck your arse until you wonder where I’ve been all your life?”
Mycroft wasn’t shocked that she knew his name. But Sherlock’s? Was she a friend of his younger brother’s or, worse, an enemy? Then something occurred to him: Gregory’s given her a script. Told her what to say. Of course.
“You think someone’s written me a speech, don’t you?”
What the hell?
“I read you like a newspaper, my boy. As to how I know your brother: you’ll soon find out. But right now I’m going to ride you like the whore you are. Imagine that- the great Mycroft Holmes, stuffed with cheap rubber cock and loving it- while his partner watches.”
Mycroft’s chin lifted sharply, making her laugh.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Lestrade is viewing all this on camera as we speak. Let’s give him a show, shall we?”
She drew back before slamming several inches of hard silicone into his tight passage. He grunted loudly and nearly fell onto his stomach. After taking a second to reorient himself, he spread his legs and arched his back further so that the next thrust hit his prostate.
“I know where the sweet spot is,” Irene chided. “But you couldn’t wait, could you? Fucking slut!”
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