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Gregory Lestrade loved it when pretty women visited his office, so when Anderson texted him to say that a “hot bird” was on her way to see him, he grinned and straightened his jacket.
Sherlock was in France with John, investigating a theft at the Louvre. He had left three days ago, and Lestrade needed a diversion.
It’s not like Sherlock and I are an exclusive item. He’s probably sucking off every security guard who was on duty during the robbery. He’ll tell me it was a DNA collection mission, but when his arse is red enough he’ll admit the truth.
The door opened. Lestrade stood, making every effort to look charming. But when he recognized the visitor, he sighed inwardly with disappointment.
Anthea, Mycroft Holmes’ assistant, was a beautiful woman. Whenever they met, Lestrade had a hard time not staring at her figure, which would have been called ‘zaftig’ in an earlier era. She was sultry yet pleasant… and completely unavailable. The DI figured that she was Mycroft’s bed warmer, which was a good enough incentive to keep a respectful distance.
“Anthea,” he said. “Nice to see you. What can I do for Mr. Holmes?”
She took a seat opposite his desk. When she crossed her legs, he saw that she had seamed stockings on. With garters and suspenders.
The room suddenly got warmer.
“What can you do for him?” she echoed with a smirk. “Nothing. But there’s something you can do to him. Tonight.” She looked him up and down thoughtfully. “Tell me, Detective Inspector, how adventurous are you?”
“Try me,” he said.
******
Lestrade could hear the noise the moment he stepped out of the lift. Hoots. Yells. Clapping. All of it coming from Mycroft’s office at the end of the corridor. After talking with Anthea, he had a pretty good idea of what was going on, and wondered if he should watch the fun for a few minutes first, or break it up right away.
When she gave him the temporary ID and the electronic pass key that would give him access to Mycroft’s floor, Anthea had said, “He’s not expecting you, but he’ll be delighted to see you.” Then she had smiled and wiped her face to remove any residual traces of sperm. Lestrade grinned back, but he did not brush her drying juices from his cheeks and chin. Their little tryst on the sofa had left him aggressive for more.
Exactly as she must have intended.
“You’re dangerous,” she had said as she rolled the sleeves of her blouse over the finger-shaped bruises on her wrists. “And exactly what he needs tonight.”
Lestrade had only one question. “Any limits?”
She’d been on her way to the door, but the question made her turn around and beam like a fucked-out, cum-faced angel.
“You’ll know when you’ve crossed one.”
Then she left... and Lestrade got a hard-on that still made walking difficult.
By the time he reached the door to Mycroft’s office and opened it, the noise was so riotous that no one heard him arrive. The cheers and shouted obscenities allowed him to get a good look at the action before anyone could notice him.
Mycroft’s huge mahogany desk was miraculously devoid of paperwork, laptop, phone, and other items related to his eminent profession. Its only adornment was a naked, bruised, and sweaty Mycroft Holmes. He was on all fours, arching his back, silently and shamelessly begging the man behind him to fuck him harder while another burly, tattooed specimen tugged at his matted auburn hair and roughly used his mouth.
Three more men- all of them rough-looking types with military style haircuts- stood with their backs to the door, clapping and yelling.
“My turn next! Holy fuck, that’s hot!”
“Go on, Joey, he can take it harder!”
“Fuckin’ right he can! Look at him!”
The man who made the last observation pointed at Mycroft’s erection, which jutted out beneath his slightly rounded belly, and dripped pre-come onto a towel.
Lestrade stared. The elder Holmes had always been so omnipotent and forbidding: Sherlock said once that his soul wore armour. Well, if true, his soul was the only thing he was currently covering. Everything else was on filthy, glorious display.
Anthea had been right. She’d said that her boss had extreme means of relieving stress, but Lestrade had been skeptical. Now, seeing lordly, polished Mycroft Holmes acting like a bigger slut than his brother, he believed. And grew harder.
Anthea had admitted that Mycroft had watched surveillance footage of his encounters with Sherlock, and been impressed. “He wants you to use him in a similar way,” she’d said while stuffing her torn knickers in her handbag. “It would relax him so much afterward. A word of advice, Detective Inspector: give Mr. Holmes peace of mind and he’ll give you whatever you want.”
Right now, Lestrade wanted Mycroft. Badly. Taking out his police ID, he strode toward the orgy in progress and shouted, “Police! Stop this now!”
Everyone stopped what they were doing: even the shady duo spit-roasting the most powerful man in Britain froze and stared. Mycroft was on the only one who moved: he pulled his mouth away from its former task and regarded Lestrade with surprise and intrigue. His sharp blue eyes took in the DI’s fierce expression, lust-blown pupils, and expanding crotch.
Then he smiled.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he said, with only the slightest rasp in his voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Pleasure indeed.
“Tell these ponces to leave,” Lestrade ordered. “Then you’ll find out why I’m here.”
The men looked at Mycroft, who nodded and collapsed onto his side, breathing heavily. They rearranged their clothing, got their coats, and filed out, but not before one of them said to Lestrade, “Not sure how tight he’ll be for you, mate. He’s taken each of us twice already.”
Lestrade said nothing until the door closed behind them. Then he went over to the desk, where Mycroft still lay in a puddle of his own sweat and pre-come, and hissed, “Up. Elbows and knees.”
Mycroft didn’t ask why he was here, or how he knew about the evening’s festivities. He simply rolled onto his stomach and positioned himself as directed. When he shuffled his knees apart, Lestrade seized his arse cheeks and forcibly separated them. The man’s hole was red, swollen, and still twitching at its sudden emptiness.
“So… you like it rough.”
“On occasion.”
“Like this?”
The DI forced two fingers inside, not bothering with the bottle of lube on the chair atop Mycroft’s folded clothes. The elder Holmes brother caught his breath loudly and tried to pull away, but Lestrade seized his testicles and held him in place.
“That bloke lied. You’re still nice and tight. But you’ve taken other cocks tonight, so I’m not touching you with mine until you’re clean. Inside and out.”
The bag of sea salt he’d picked up at the chemist’s swung heavily in his shirt pocket, next to a condom and the cayenne essence he’d nicked from his own pantry. Without letting go of Mycroft’s arse, he glanced quickly around the office for the necessary implements. When he saw the crystal bar set with its diamond-like decanters and glasses, he smiled and stood back.
“Don’t move a fucking inch,” he ordered, slapping one white arse cheek for emphasis.
Mycroft murmured assent and lowered his forehead onto his folded arms. So unlike Sherlock, who always needed to have the attitude smacked or spanked out of him first. But silent waters ran deep. Sherlock was a wild horse who needed to be broken a little first. Mycroft could never be broken: he would only cooperate. Lestrade was all too aware that he had the power in this situation because the elder Holmes willingly gave it to him.
Lestrade went to the bar set and picked up an empty, stoppered bottle. He walked into the private bathroom adjoining the office, filled the bottle three-quarters full of warm water, and added approximately a tablespoon of the sea salt and a liberal dose of cayenne oil. Then he put the stopper in and shook the mixture, wondering what the receptacle had originally contained. Probably hundred-year-old scotch or wine that went for two hundred quid a bottle, for Mycroft’s consumption only.
Just like its current contents.
When he went back into the office, Mycroft was still in place, naturally. Making him squirm would require a special incentive, one that lit his arse on fire without a match.
“Comfortable, are we?”
“For now. But your tone suggests that it will only be temporary.”
“Far be it from me to prove you wrong. Arch your back more and hold your arse open. And if you move, I swear to Christ I’ll make you drink this afterward.”
Mycroft obeyed, seeming more intrigued than intimidated. His hole, which had been resuming its usual tightness, was pulled open again by his well-manicured fingers. Grinning evilly, Lestrade took the stopper off the bottle and poured the warm, stinging mixture slowly into that open body. Some dripped down over Mycroft’s perineum and balls and darkened the desk’s blotter, but most of the solution reached its destination. When the bottle was empty, Lestrade plugged Mycroft’s now-twitching entrance with the crystal stopper.
“There,” he declared. After laying the bottle aside and lightly patting the other man’s rear, he strolled over to the bar set and poured himself a scotch. “Think I’ll have a drink while I watch your guts go up in flames.”
Mycroft’s face was turned toward Lestrade. Although he refused to squirm or beg, his discomfort was blatantly obvious. Sweat ran down his face and collected on his back, and his muscles fluttered. So different from Sherlock, who loved pain and welcomed it with enthusiastic cries and contortions.
Lestrade cupped his own bulge and indulged in a few heavenly squeezes. Then he sat down in one of the guest chairs and leaned back, thighs open. Setting the scotch on a side table, he unzipped his trousers and took his cock out. He stroked it slowly, squeezing clear droplets out of the tip and massaging the fluid into the shaft.
Mycroft glared daggers at him. Lestrade recognized pain behind the hostility, and smirked.
“Not so high and mighty now, are you?”
“This,” the elder Holmes said through clenched teeth, “is not going to break me.”
“I figured you’d be a special case.” He glanced at his watch. “That’s why I brought help.”
As if on cue, the elevator bell rang in the hall outside. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed and his head shot up. He clearly recognized the footsteps, for he muttered something about not being surprised. “Come in, my dear,” he called out just before Anthea appeared. “I sensed your wicked hand in this.”
She wore the same tailored suit she’d had on when she visited Lestrade, which meant that- unless she’d gone somewhere to freshen up- she wasn’t wearing any knickers. The DI’s mouth watered at the memory. She had applied a new coating of makeup and straightened out her hair, although he noticed some crusted sperm remaining above her ear.
So had Mycroft, apparently. The elder Holmes looked back and forth between them, and then laughed.
“A peasant’s revolt. In today’s day and age. How quaint.”
“We’re not rebelling, sir,” Anthea said in a docile tone that didn’t match the mischievous determination in her eyes. “When you hired me, you said that my duties included anticipating your personal and professional needs and accommodating them.”
Lestrade stood and strolled back to the desk, his erection pointing the way. “And this is something personal you definitely need. Unless it’s all too much and you’d like to give in now.”
Mycroft was obviously uncomfortable. His thighs shook and his buttocks clenched with the effort of holding the burning water inside. The crystal stopper wobbled dangerously a few times, but did not fall out.
“Do your worst,” he said, albeit unsteadily.
Anthea made the first move. She walked up to the desk, her polished stilettos jabbing the rug, climbed onto its broad surface, and positioned herself on her back with her legs spread in front of her boss. When she hiked her pencil skirt up, Lestrade couldn’t help staring. Soaked dark curls framed her cunt, which had a lovely pink blush and dripped pearly moisture.
“Eat her,” the DI ordered, stroking himself as he remembered how hot, salty, and rich she had tasted. He positioned himself behind Mycroft. “I’m going to keep spanking your uptight arse until you make her come. I hope your mouth is good for more than pompous, power-mad bullshit.”
“I believe you do, Detective Inspector. But not just for her sake.”
Lestrade raised his hand and brought it down hard on the delicate area where the curve of Mycroft’s left arse cheek met his upper thigh. The elder Holmes hissed loudly as the pain tore through him and agitated the fiery mixture in his colon. He only hesitated for another second before dipping his head and extending his mouth to Anthea’s waiting cunt.
Lestrade’s cock jumped at the sounds she made. She panted when Mycroft worked his tongue around her clit, and actually screamed when he began biting gently on it. He was clearly testing her, trying to see what would make her climax as quickly as possible. Maybe they weren’t bed buddies after all, the policeman realized with regret. If he’d known, he’d have tried to get her skirt off long ago. Frustrated, he increased the force of the spanking, but Mycroft took it all stoically.
Anthea was dripping wet, and Lestrade could see a telltale trembling of her stocking-clad thighs. Mycroft’s talents clearly knew no gender barrier. His hands anchored her hips to the desk’s surface as he slid his tongue up and down her dripping folds, pausing on the upstroke to nibble on her swollen clit. She grabbed his hair and started thrashing and rocking against his mouth. Her heels gauged pieces out of the desk blotter.
“Oh, fuck, yes. Theretherethere…”
Mycroft’s arse was a study in scarlet by the time Anthea let her shaking hands collapse at her sides. Her hips convulsed lightly as the elder Holmes licked up the warm, tart aftermath of her orgasm. “Consider that your annual bonus, my dear,” he murmured against her moist flesh.
Anthea’s climax signalled an end to the spanking, but Lestrade wasn’t done. Having seen how skilled Mycroft’s tongue was, he wanted it applied to his own body. He kicked off his shoes, yanked down his trousers and pants, and climbed on the desk, positioning himself on all fours over Anthea’s supine form. His arse was inches from Mycroft’s sweating face.
“My turn now,” he declared, glaring over his shoulder as he fondled and pinched one of the lovely brunette’s still-hard nipples. “Get your tongue in there. Suck my arse, you fucking-”
His lust-ragged voice escalated into a high-pitched groan when Mycroft grasped his buttocks, pushed them apart, and touched the wet, unbelievably hot tip of his tongue to that clenching pucker.
Lestrade made a strangled sound. “Oh, fuck!!” He thrust backward. “More, damn it!”
Mycroft pushed his face in closer and shoved his strong tongue deep into Lestrade’s hole. He wriggled it in that tight musky channel, teasing seldom-stimulated nerves into a frenzy. Lestrade brought his mouth crashing on top of Anthea’s, the mind-blowing pleasure ratcheting up his aggression levels. She didn’t seem to mind: as she returned the kiss, her fingers wrapped around his erection and stroked hard, thumb applying a teasing pressure just under the head. Behind him, Mycroft flattened his tongue and took long, firm licks from Lestrade’s balls to his hole and back again.
And again.
And again.
"Fuck," Lestrade snarled against Anthea’s bruised lips as she tightened her fist and increased the speed of her wrist movement. “Oh, fuck. Yes.”
He was going to come. He could feel it. Images flooded his racing mind: he would spray all over Anthea’s silky skin, order Mycroft to lick it off, watch them swap his come in a filthy French kiss, and then-
There was a muted thud as something small but heavy fell on the rug, followed by an anguished gasp from Mycroft.
“No,” the elder Holmes choked, drawing back and turning his upper body around. “Oh, no, no, no!”
Worried that the other man was hurt somehow, Lestrade leaped off of Anthea and the desk and turned around. He immediately saw what had triggered the crisis: the crystal stopper was on the rug, and the enema water, which was surprisingly clear, now pooled between Mycroft’s legs. Peppery streams trickled off the edge and dripped onto the expensive carpet.
Mycroft looked stricken. He stared at the soaked desk, ran one hand along his arse crack, and regarded his wet yet clean fingers with disbelief. Then he closed his eyes and relaxed everywhere except in his crotch, chin and shoulders lowering and hands dropping to his sides. When he opened them again, Lestrade saw exhilaration, relief, and a lust that darkened his light blue eyes to navy. The blatant humiliation had torn down his guard entirely and finally enabled him to let go. He took deep, gulping breaths and parted his trembling lips in a smile. “Yes, yes, yes,” he whispered, as if to refute his earlier cries.
This was it, Lestrade thought. Mycroft Holmes was temporarily disarmed and his for the taking, body and mind. He yanked the lubricated condom out of his pocket, tore the foil wrap off, and rolled it on. Then he grabbed Mycroft by the shoulders, dragged him off the desk onto the floor on his hands and knees, and forced his shoulders down.
“You fucking dirty slut,” Lestrade growled. “Nothing’s too low for you, is it? Can’t even keep yourself clean?”
Mycroft groaned in pure bliss. Lestrade smacked his already-crimson arse. “I asked you a question.”
“N-no. Nothing’s too low for me.”
“That’s right. You’re a filthy whore, desperate for anyone who’ll shove their cock in your arse or pussy in your face. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes. Yes!” Mycroft dug his fingers into the carpet and shifted his hips. “Please… please fuck me.”
Anthea swung her legs over the side of the desk and watched raptly. Lestrade wondered if she’d ever seen her boss so completely abased before.
“I’m going to fuck you because everyone needs a purpose.” Lestrade grabbed Mycroft’s waist with both hands and lined himself up. “Yours is to be a hole for my sperm tonight. Nothing else. Got it?”
“Yes!”
When Lestrade plunged into him with one smooth but forceful stroke, the elder Holmes beat his fists against the carpet and howled. His insides had to be painfully sensitive after the cayenne application, but Lestrade showed him no mercy and he didn’t beg for any.
Lestrade moaned too: his willing toy was so hot and tight. “Milk me,” he ordered, slapping Mycroft lightly between his freckled shoulder blades. “Grab that cock like you want it.”
Mycroft’s muscles instantly clamped around him: the tightness was so exquisite and his orgasm so close that Lestrade’s control disintegrated. He threw his upper body onto Mycroft’s back, wrapped one arm around his pale chest, and reached for the younger man’s cock with the other hand.
“Mine!” he proclaimed in tones so sharp that they barely sounded human. As he often did with Sherlock, he latched onto Mycroft’s neck and sucked a deep bruise onto the sweaty skin, marking his prize. The elder Holmes went wild, struggling to fuck Lestrade’s fist while simultaneously taking more of his cock. It was a physical impossibility that made him curse and growl like a madman.
Lestrade didn’t hear Anthea get off the desk and approach, but he definitely felt her slicked index finger plunge into his hole, dragging over his prostate as it buried itself to the third knuckle. He pressed his cheek against Mycroft’s shoulder and bellowed as sperm exploded into the condom in such copious amounts that his cock was thoroughly drenched. Beneath him, Mycroft’s erection pulsed and shook in his hand just before long and violent spurts splattered onto the rug and against the expensive first-editions on the lower half of the bookshelf.
The two men collapsed onto the messy carpet and laid there, too exhausted to move. Now that the shouts and pleas and curses had ceased, the office was almost eerily quiet. Anthea stood up, pulled her skirt primly down over her hips, and took a remote control from its perch on the window sill.
“Telly, sir?” she queried. “You never like it completely quiet after your carnal activities.”
Lestrade made a mental note to ask Mycroft how the hell he had found her. He could use a new assistant. Maybe she had a twin. Or a clone.
“Thank you, my dear. Some chocolate biscuits too, please. Need the sugar.”
Anthea turned the telly on and went into the outer office. Lestrade was completely fucked-out, but still appreciated the sight of her arse in the tight skirt.
“She’s one of a kind,” Mycroft said, eying him shrewdly and guessing what he was thinking. “But if your Personnel Department needs a fresh infusion, I can make some recommendations.”
“I’d appreciate it. Thanks. The last girl they sent me looks like the pig from that Angry Birds game the kids are on about.”
Mycroft chuckled. “I’ll make some calls.”
The elder Holmes was slowly re-assuming his trademark poise and dignity. He’d surrendered his mind and well as his body, and the end result was an inner peace that yoga enthusiasts and spirit chasers depleted their savings to achieve. Lestrade basked in his own Nirvana, relishing the fact that he’d temporarily brought down the British government.
A cheery female presenter’s voice drifted down from the telly.
Police sources have confirmed that well-known consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was arrested at Heathrow Airport after body parts were discovered in his checked baggage. Mr. Holmes and his assistant, Dr. John Watson, had been in Paris since Monday. We are informed that he escalated the situation by warning the airport security personnel that he had important connections at Scotland Yard.
Lestrade’s post-coital glow evaporated.
“Arrogant little wanker,” the DI declared as he jumped up and dove for his clothes. “Can’t he stay out of trouble for three fucking days?”
Mycroft rose too. “Of course not. My brother has a reputation to maintain.”
Lestrade zipped up his trousers. “I’m going down there now.”
“Do you require-“
“No. He’s mine.”
Lestrade left the office so quickly that he missed Mycroft’s response. The elder Holmes lightly massaged the darkening bite on his neck and sighed, “He’s fortunate indeed then.”