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...
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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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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