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It had been a hellish week, but Mycroft Holmes dealt with everything like the consummate professional that he was: he smiled, charmed, cajoled and, when necessary, threatened. By Friday afternoon he had prevented three wars and averted a terrorist infiltration, but he was too angry and frustrated to be self-congratulatory.
He was on the verge of losing control.
Grabbing his mobile, he dialled a number. When the party on the other end answered, he said, “I need to see you, Master.”
There was a pause. Mycroft could hear traffic in the background. Then a deep voice replied curtly, “I’m rather busy.”
Mycroft closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead to ward off an oncoming headache. He knew that Master always came when needed: this was a merely a pre-liaison dance calculated to remind him that unlike the people in this office, Master wasn’t at his beck and call.
“Please,” he said, desperation making his voice crack.
A heavy sigh. “Very well. I shall visit you at five and NOT expect to be kept waiting. Now goodbye.”
Mycroft hung up and felt relief course through his body like warm water, soothing his taut muscles and calming his temper. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was 4:00 p.m. One more hour.
He could cope.
******
“Mr. Holmes?” Anthea appeared in the doorway. “Your brother is here to see you.”
Before Mycroft could reply, Sherlock brushed past her.
“He’s expecting me,” he said brusquely. She shook her head like a despairing governess and left, closing the office door behind her.
Now it was just the two of them. Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. Younger brother and older brother.
And right now, Master and slave.
Mycroft knew that outwardly, he was still the unflappable Ice Man: his tie was perfectly knotted, his suit lacked a single crease, and his face was expressionless. But Sherlock saw beneath it all: he always did.
“You look appalling, Mycroft,” he said after scrutinising his brother to the degree that only a Holmes can. “You should have called me sooner.”
“I know. But the Soviet First Minister-”
“I don’t have time for your excuses.”
Master was speaking now. Bowing his head, Mycroft said, “Yes, Master.”
Sherlock set down the gym bag he was carrying and nodded toward the closed door that led to a private bathroom. “Clean up and then come back out. Naked. You have five minutes.”
Mycroft got out of his chair and gave a proper bow. “Yes, Master.”
The bathroom had a shower, so the elder Holmes spent two minutes under a hot spray, two minutes giving himself a Fleet enema, and one minute doing a final once-over. Then he returned to the office. His desk was still littered with folders marked ‘Urgent’, his phone blinked with accumulated voice messages, and he knew without looking that dozens of e-mails had arrived since he last checked. But he didn’t concern himself with any of them because he wasn’t in charge here right now. Master was.
Sherlock stood by the window, peering through the curtains at the London skyline. Mycroft’s breath caught at the sight of him: the younger Holmes had removed his street attire and put on a tight black T-shirt, leather trousers, and black leather gloves that always felt like silk on Mycroft’s skin. The overall effect was pure erotic danger.
Mycroft bit back a needy whimper.
“I like the new soap you’re using,” Sherlock said as he turned around and closed the curtains. “You will wash with it every time you call for me.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good. Put these on.”
Sherlock pointed at the desk, where a matching set of leather wrist and ankle cuffs laid across the closed laptop. They were sturdy, with heavy metal rings attached. After inhaling and exhaling slowly, Mycroft applied the wrist restraints first. He took his time, soothed by the feel of thick leather closing around his skin in a tight yet comforting embrace. When he bent over to buckle on the ankle cuffs he heard Sherlock approach.
“Look at me while you do that.”
Mycroft obeyed. Sherlock’s zip was open, revealing a swelling bulge covered by crimson silk boxers. As Sherlock ran his long white fingers across it, causing a wet patch to slowly spread, he said casually, “I don’t normally wear red, as you know, but it suits this occasion. Don’t you agree?”
Mycroft nodded slowly. Surrounded by the black leather, the red boxers advertised Sherlock’s lust more obscenely. The elder Holmes swallowed and finished applying the ankle restraints. When he began to straighten, eyes still glued to his brother’s erection, Sherlock said sharply, “No. Kneel. Hands at your sides.”
“Yes, Master.”
Mycroft sank onto the soft carpet and waited. His balls ached and he yearned to touch his stiff cock, but doing so would invite punishment he wasn’t yet ready to eroticise. So he remained motionless while Sherlock took two lengths of chain out of the gym bag and, with the aid of double-ended clips, used them to secure Mycroft’s wrist cuffs to their ankle counterparts.
“Now stand,” he ordered.
The elder Holmes stood: or he tried to. Both chains were too short to let him attain his full height. Sherlock smiled.
“Problem?”
“Yes, Master.” Mycroft tugged. “The chains aren’t long enough.”
“No. No, they’re not.” Sherlock circled his brother slowly, still massaging his crotch. “Do you know why they’re like that?”
The elder Holmes lowered his eyes. “I wouldn’t presume to know your intentions, Master.”
“Very modest, but I want to you to answer the question.”
Mycroft exhaled. Despite the tension in his muscles, he now felt warm and pliant. “They keep me from overextending.”
“Just so.” Sherlock bent and fingered one of the taut chains like it was a string on his beloved violin. “You’re always reaching for the sky, Mycroft. Half the time you think you’re God, don’t you?”
“Sometimes I appear to be.” Mycroft thought of the thousands -millions- of Britons who were walking the streets now because he’d averted catastrophe. He found power intoxicating, but like all intoxicants, it overcame him sometimes.
Like now.
“And now look at you. You’re in chains. A slave.”
“Your slave, Master. Thank you.”
“Yes. Mine. To do with whatever I wish.” Sherlock reached for Mycroft’s cock. The elder Holmes froze, eager to be touched. But Sherlock merely traced around the foreskin, using only enough pressure for Mycroft to feel it and nothing more. “To gratify or deny. I’m still deciding which.”
“Yes, Master.” Bent over, the elder Holmes’ face was level with his Master’s crotch. He could smell as well as see Sherlock’s arousal, and it made him drool. Without thinking he tried to wipe his mouth, only to have his arm jerked rudely back by the taut chain.
Sherlock laughed. It was a dark and rich sound. “Aren’t we eager today? Hmm. I suppose I’ll grant you some relief. But you must work for it.”
Mycroft bit his wet lip and nodded. “Yes, Master. What would you have me do?”
Sherlock went over to Mycroft’s custom-built leather desk chair, rolled it closer to the crouching slave, and sat down. One long leg was draped over the chair arm while the other extended to the floor. The position offered an even better view of his erection, which now peeked over his crimson waistband. Mycroft wanted to take the damp elastic in his teeth and tug until the entire shaft popped free and slapped his cheek. He hoped Master would let him.
“Come over here and do whatever you think will make me feel good,” Sherlock ordered. He wiped a drop of pre-ejaculate off his cock head and licked it slowly, making his brother salivate even more. “Mouth only. And bent over as you are. No kneeling.”
Mycroft shuffled forward. His muscles were already protesting, as his fitness level left a lot to be desired these days. But he’d endured worse. Too needy for preliminaries or foreplay, Mycroft crouched and used his teeth to lower Sherlock’s waistband until the his cock and balls sprang out.
“Impatient,” Sherlock scolded gently. But his breath quickened in anticipation as his brother leaned in so close that red hair tickled his pale abdomen. “Carry on, then.”
Mycroft’s lips closed around his Master’s cock, tongue caressing the head first before swallowing the entire shaft. His throat ached from the abrupt plunge and his knees trembled as he fought to keep his balance, but he focused on his task, slurping and sucking as his mouth steadily filled with drool and pre-ejaculate. It didn't take long for him to hurt all over thanks to the awkward position, but he kept going. In a moment of bliss he wished that this could be his life from now on: no surly dignitaries or hysterical royalty to placate, no worrying about missing MI6 files or terrorist invasions. Only living to please Master, who loved him in such cruel yet perfect ways.
“Stop,” Sherlock ordered suddenly, sounding breathless. “Get up.”
Mycroft reluctantly obeyed and struggled to his feet. He may have been the British Government, but right now he looked -and felt- like a well-used fuck toy. His back was forcibly bowed, his untouched cock ached, and his cheeks and chin were wet with tears and saliva. In contrast to his wretched appearance, his face glowed with contentment.
“I’m going to fuck you.” Sherlock stood, eyes dark with excitement and lust. “Over to the sofa. Kneel. If you tip over I’ll still fuck you, but it will be more than a little painful. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten my skill with the riding crop.”
Mycroft struggled over to the black leather sofa, heartbeat quickening as he heard Sherlock’s gym bag being unzipped. He paused and started to look over his shoulder, but Sherlock snapped, “No one told you to stop. Eyes ahead. And that will be five with the crop.”
“Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master.”
When he reached the sofa, the elder Holmes sank to his knees and leaned over at the waist, face buried in the cool leather cushions. He parted his thighs, granting access to all parts of his body that Master loved to punish.
“I’m going to gag you,” Sherlock said, “because there are people outside of this office who won’t take your screams in the proper context. And you will scream, brother dear. You’re long overdue.”
Mycroft’s voice quivered. “Yes, Master.”
He opened his mouth so that Sherlock could slide a silk scarf between his lips. It was the same shade of crimson as Sherlock’s boxers. He worked his jaw and poked his tongue against the fabric until he was satisfied that the gag was tight. Then he lowered his head again, no longer trying to hide his trembling.
Mycroft felt a soft kiss on the back of his head before his brother stepped back and the punishment commenced.
The red silk muffled all screams as Sherlock striped his older brother’s buttocks and thighs with red welts. Mycroft didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that Sherlock was aroused by the sight and sound of his suffering: each cry and burst of red made the younger Holmes shudder in pleasure.
“You are so beautiful when you’re covered in sweat and bruises, Mycroft. Every time I see you at Baker Street, at a crime scene, wherever you’ve seen fit to intrude, I look for remnants of our encounters. Whenever I see a fading bruise above your shirt collar or catch the faintest limp in your walk, it makes me so hard.” He dropped to his knees and licked a stripe down Mycroft’s lower back, ending it with a teasing poke against his hole. “Time to fuck you, I think.”
Mycroft nodded eagerly, sending tears and sweat dripping onto the cushion. He was so ripe and sensitive now: even his brother’s gaze made his skin quiver.
“I’d like to hear you beg.” Still kneeling, Sherlock undid the wet gag and threw it to the floor.
Mycroft licked his lips. “Please, Master.”
“Please what?” Sherlock shuffled closer. His cock brushed across his brother’s sore buttocks, causing Mycroft to jerk and whimper.
“Fuck me, Master. Please.”
“Very well then.” A plastic bottle clicked open, followed by the slick whisper of lube being applied. “I can never see you needy for long.”
Mycroft screamed into the cushion as he was suddenly and roughly penetrated. The only preparation he’d given himself had been a quick but thorough fingering after the enema. It was enough to prevent damage, but nothing more. And that was how he wanted it: so hard and violent that none of his previous anger, worry, or frustration could break through the heady haze of pain-tinged pleasure.
Sherlock’s gloved hands grasped the chains linking his limbs and pulled them tight, forcing his arms back. Mycroft sank gratefully into the fire now consuming him, its flames fanned by his tormented muscles, cropped flesh, and the burning ache of Sherlock’s large cock piercing him deeper with each thrust. The cries he uttered into the damp leather were the raw sound of a desperate craving being brutally satisfied.
“M-master,” he stuttered, throat now sore as well, “h-help me. Please.”
By way of reply, Sherlock dropped the chains, reached between Mycroft’s thighs and began stroking his cock. The elder Holmes convulsed and started coming, his release hitting the sofa’s polished surface and dripping to the rug. When his cries became too much for his pressed lips to contain, Sherlock’s gloved fingers closed roughly across his mouth.
“Scream as loudly as you like now,” the younger man hissed in his ear.
Mycroft screamed freely, the sound muffled by silky-soft leather, and fucked his brother’s fist until the steady spurting weakened into a slow trickle. When he went limp against the sofa, Sherlock changed the angle of his thrusts and stimulated his prostate until absolutely everything was milked out, leaving him a shaky, whimpering mess. Then it was Sherlock’s turn to come, slim hips jerking and teeth bared as he emptied hard and deep into his older brother’s body.
Mycroft slumped against the sofa when Sherlock released him. His hair fell across his eyes but he was too exhausted to brush it away. The leather cushion beneath his cheek was warm and damp. Closing his eyes, he sank into the heat and silence.
“Thank you, Master,” he whispered after Sherlock removed his restraints. He shifted on his knees, and immediately felt a cooling trail of semen glide down his inner thigh. After making a mental note to ask Sherlock to plug him next time, he reached under the cushion for the packet of tissues he always kept there: the sofa was their favourite coital spot.
“Wait,” Sherlock said abruptly. After pulling up his trousers, he sank to his knees again, spread Mycroft’s bruised buttocks, and lapped up his own overflow. The warm and firm tongue swipes made Mycroft shiver in bliss.
“That feels lovely, thank you, Master.”
Sherlock released him and stood, wiping his mouth. Mycroft got up slowly, enjoying the burning and aching that accompanied all movement. The air felt cool between his arse cheeks, the skin now wet from his brother’s attentions.
“Would you like to shower?”
It was Sherlock’s indirect way of asking if he’d gotten what he needed and was ready to stop. Mycroft surveyed himself mentally and physically and nodded, smiling with real warmth for the first time that day.
“I believe I do. Thank you, Master.”
He spent five minutes under the hot spray, relishing the way the water added a pleasant sting to the welts and bruises. When he came out, fully dressed and damp hair properly combed, Mycroft didn’t make inane comments about feeling better now: Sherlock could easily see that he was. And Sherlock didn’t say, “I’ll see you soon” as he donned his Belstaff coat and picked up his gym bag, as they both knew that they’d be doing this again. They simply nodded at each other, a gesture that conveyed gratitude and a mutual admiration that they never dared to show in front of others, before Sherlock left.
Moments after the door closed behind him, the intercom on Mycroft’s desk went off. It was Anthea.
“Mr. Holmes, the American ambassador is here. Says it’s an urgent matter and seems rather agitated. Shall I serve him tea before showing him in?”
“Serve him tea” was a department euphemism for calming a combative visitor with lightly drugged refreshments. It left them coherent but compliant, and ensured that Mycroft stayed in control of the conversation. Anthea had obviously detected her employer’s earlier mood and didn’t want to risk agitating him further.
But this time Mycroft shifted his sore bottom on the chair and, braced by the soothing ache, said, “Send him in as he is. I can handle him.”
And thanks to the Master he loved as a brother, he could.