Though I Walk Through the Valley (14/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (14/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: Sorry for the lack of Wednesday. I was having a lot of trouble working out how to upload things, but now that it's done, check out the Encyclopaedia of Life in Behind still Waters for pictures of the house!
Warnings: There be sex on the horizon!
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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Mycroft’s hand was warm in Greg’s, skin so soft it was almost dewy.
“I’m surprised you’re here.” Greg murmured as he was drawn gently in. “I thought the government kept all hours.”
“It’s only appropriate I am here to welcome you home the first time. Besides,” Mycroft’s words brushed across Greg’s lips, “you don’t have a key.”
“True.” Greg returned the phantom kiss.
Everything about the situation felt strange. He was out of work on time (paperwork was rarely inconsiderate enough to drop dead five minutes before shift’s end), he was standing in Mycroft’s lavish, but impersonal hallway rather than his own scuffed and marked one loaded with dodgy family photos from happier times, and most of all, for the first time in years, he was being met at the door and welcomed home after work.
Even before his collar was returned it had been years since he had been welcomed home, and never like this. He’d never been welcomed home by savage eyes filled with a possessive knowing gleam or long elegant fingers cradling his wrist with such restrained violence that the gentle kiss of skin was a more sincere promise than Greg could have made with a whip in his hand.
With a sigh Greg drifted down Mycroft’s neck and buried his nose in the junction of skin and shirt collar, breathing in heady intoxicating scent of his Omega, guard collapsing safe in the knowledge he was in his Dom’s territory and could hand all he was over to someone else and let go, for the first time in his life, let go and merely drift and bask in his Omega’s commanding presence. It felt like shedding an ill-fitting suit or too tight second skin. It felt like home.
They stood there, Mycroft gently holding Greg’s hand as if it were fine china, his other curled loosely around Greg’s belt, just resting as they breathed. Greg wondered whether it was just him, or was Mycroft feeling something similar, some profound reaction to having Greg there in his house and arms to stay. He liked to believe so, liked to believe that he filled the same gaping hole in Mycroft’s psyche that he filled in Greg’s, and no amount of cautioning from his rationale mind that this was a relationship of convenience and one-sided devotion built around the very real result of a mistaken one-weekend stand could stop his traitorous Submissive side unfurling, purring and winding around Mycroft’s presence like a devoted feline, or stop the soft more insidious blossoming of hope in his heart.
“So responsive.” Mycroft murmured into his ear. “Denial like yours can go two ways, you know: development of a thick shield that dulls the senses or absolute longing and hypersensitivity, drawing you down with the merest verbal suggestion.” Mycroft’s fingers traced a line up Greg’s side allowing the dull drag of his nails through the cotton of Greg’s cheap work shirt. Greg shivered and felt his muscles slump, the responsibility for gravity delegated to Mycroft. “I think we know which one applies to you.”
Greg wasn’t ashamed of the whimper pressed into Mycroft’s throat. Later, far away in the outside world, then he’d be embarrassed by how easily he became putty in Mycroft’s manicured hands, but never there, never in those moments, senses saturated with the heady mix of pheromones and Dominance.
“I should give you the tour; show you more of your new home than the bedroom and the kitchen.”
“Those are the important ones.” Greg managed to say, a breathy exhale, but smoothly with no stuttering.
His reply was a soft huffing laugh and Mycroft pulling gently back, raising their linked hands. “Indeed, and we shall be spending much time in the former.”
A kiss was pressed to his wrist, Mycroft’s dark intense eyes making a mockery of the highly civil antiquated gesture. For whatever reason, in response to Greg’s own breached defences or from pure anticipation, Mycroft was not keeping a firm leash on his Dominance and it blazed through every pore.
“The tour.” Mycroft repeated and stepped firmly away, dropping Greg’s hand as he did.
The sudden loss of contact was comparable to gravity deciding to reassert itself with a sudden wave, causing Greg to stumble just the slightest. The twist of Mycroft’s lips and crinkles that appeared around his right eye were characteristic of humour: the more mischievous amusement Mycroft usually obtained by teasing Greg in his own subtle way until Greg caught on and threw a rude word or gesture into the mix to let Mycroft know he’d been found out. So in time honoured tradition, Greg flipped Mycroft a two fingered salute, but couldn’t keep the smile off his face.
“Yeah, yeah, smart arse. Lead on.”
Mycroft drew himself up and cleared his throat. “The original structure was built in-”
“Maybe not that detailed.” Greg broke in, knowing full well that with his head still floating somewhere above his actual skull nothing would be absorbed. “There is no way,” of their own accord his eyes lustfully scanned Mycroft head to toe and his cock twitched reminding him that it had been two weeks of another sort of teasing and that that was a very nice view, “that I’ll remember any of it. In fact,” he closed the distance between them in a slow saunter, “how about we go put that superb mattress of yours through its paces and you give me the grand tour later. Promise to make it worth your while.”
“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed as Greg leant up to kiss him. “Patience.”
He broke away, leaving Greg staring at his retreating back as he disappeared past the first door with a “I believe you’re familiar with the library” and a genteel wave, continuing down the corridor.
“Patience! Two bloody weeks, that’s effing patience.” Greg growled as he hurried to catch up, wishing he could slouch after Mycroft at a leisurely pace, but feeling totally unable to do so in the expensive surround.
It was hard enough to swear without feeling as though he ought to be rapped on the knuckles with a wooden spoon. If he used that sort of language in front of Mrs Potts, he suspected he would be.
“The drawing room.” Mycroft announced, opening a pair of well-polished doors to reveal his equivalent of Greg’s well abused sitting room.
The room was dominated by two floor-to-ceiling windows on the wall opposite the door. The curtains were a heavy fabric Greg thought was called brocade in mottled dark and olive greens and glinting gold thread. The walls were a dark brown wood panelled to create a repeating checkerboard effect. The wall to Greg’s right was host to a gigantic fireplace, which once the attention was taken from the immediately impressive windows, outshone them by a mile. The deep set space was massive, easily large enough for Greg to have lain into if it’d been empty and he’d been willing to curl up slightly, or to stand in if he’d been inclined to hunch.
There was a fireplace in the library at the front of the house as well, Greg recalled, and the two must back onto each other and share a chimney or something. Unlike his memory of the front room, the fireplace in this room was intricately covered with flourishes running up the pillars of the surround in thin stripes and a full hunting scene racing across the face. Set above the fox, hounds, horses, and riders, a rearing horse and hound supported what Greg assumed was the Holmes family crest. The detail was amazing to the point the banner unfurled above the device even appeared to have stitching around the edges.
“It is magnificent.” Mycroft’s voice broke the reverie Greg had unknowingly fallen into. “It alone is why Mummy moved the drawing room from its traditional place in the front and switched it with the library during the renovations.”
“I can understand that.” Greg skirted the riotous carpet in autumn colours that had to be an antique and followed the floorboards to the fireplace.
Up close it was as tall as him and even more details leapt out of the wood from flowing manes to individual hairs on the fox’s bushy tail and the hounds’ baying throats. A frozen progression in time that looked ready to run at a moment’s notice.
“Fide-”
“-sed cuivide.” Mycroft finished for him. “The Holmes family motto.”
“What does it mean?” Greg allowed one finger to trail along the wood. It felt as silky as it looked.
“Trust, but in whom take care.”
“Naturally.” Greg let his hand fall back and turned his attention to the rest of the room.
He almost felt sorry for the painting on the other wall. It was clearly a masterful work along similar hunting themes and covering almost the entire length of the wall, but in this room it would always be overshadowed by the fireplace behind him.
“I feel like I’ve been shrunk.”
Tall windows, huge fireplace, giant painting: the room only added to the general tumbled down the rabbit hole feel first Sherlock and then Mycroft had introduced into his life. Thankfully the couches and armchairs were usual sizes, though he imagined the green and brown seats had a more posh name then couch, else Greg would really have felt disorientated.
“It has that effect.” Mycroft moved to the door. “Shall we continue?”
“Uh yeah.” Greg followed him out of the sitting, the Drawing Room, thinking that he’d never seen such an Alpha room in his life. The room was impressive, but smacked of pure Dominant patronising Alpha-ness of the worst kind.
What had Mycroft thought of Greg’s flat and worn settee on all those occasions? No wonder he’d never eaten on the couch before. Greg rather suspected he himself had chowed down on his last takeaway in front of the TV given those couches.
He wasn’t even sure Mycroft had a TV. If the Drawing Room was characteristic of the whole house, a television would be terribly out of place.
“Of course I own a television, Gregory. It’s in the media room upstairs.”
Greg started and wondered how he’d given himself away that time, but overall was just relieved that there was such a recreational staple in the house. ‘Media Room’ sounded very promising, though the thought of Mycroft Holmes’s movie collection was vaguely terrifying.
The fact that Mycroft Holmes owned a move collection and wasn’t as ignorant of pop culture as Greg had always chosen to believe was even more terrifying.
On the other hand, he’d just bet that that it was full of documentaries and the familiar foreign films they used to watch at Greg’s. Apparently they weren’t rented.
“My study.”
Mycroft opened the door wide enough to allow Greg a glimpse of a forbidding antique desk, a sleek modern computer and neatly organised files surrounded by yet more filled bookshelves before the door was pulled firmly shut again. Obviously this room was off-limits, or as off-limits as a room could be in shared accommodation.
Greg could live with that. He had very little doubt that he wouldn’t be able to get into any of it, but he also didn’t doubt that the room contained some highly sensitive documents ranging well above even the Prime Minister’s pay grade.
“You are already acquainted with the kitchen. Maybe now you’re here tea and coffee will be allowed to be reintroduced to the pantry.” There was no mistaking the bitterness in Mycroft’s voice.
“I’ll manage without.” Greg replied without thinking in an automatic capitulation to their baby’s needs.
Mycroft turned just enough to send him a potent glare.
“If I have to.” Greg amended hastily. “Which I’m sure I won’t. Not that it matters as you can’t...drink...it...anyway...so...” His voice trailed off and died under the weight of Mycroft’s angry gaze.
“You’re right.” Mycroft smiled dangerously. “We should prevent temptation, shouldn’t we? I suppose you’ll just have to make do with herbal teas the same as me while I’m reduced to this unnecessarily strict dieting and nutrition regime.”
He stalked off past the kitchen and around the bend in the corridor.
“Should have kept my mouth shut.” Greg muttered. At least he had the brains not to tell Mycroft he was acting... off.
He followed after at a casual distance, pausing to admire the side table and vase to one side and the bucolic landscape on the other. The passage seemed almost claustrophobic after the space of the entry and other rooms. There was a door part way down that Mycroft walked straight past, but unlike the other doors this one had a lock and bolt and so must, Greg realised, led outside.
He’d never had a backyard before.
“The conservatory.” Mycroft didn’t open the door, merely waved in its general direction. “Feel free to go in if you wish, but the glass windows do very little to retain a pleasant ambient temperature in winter and I haven’t been running the heating in there.”
Purely because he’d never seen a conservatory before, Greg pushed the door open and immediately translated Mycroft’s comment into “go in if you want, but it’s an icebox.” A pretty icebox, but an icebox nonetheless. He shut the door quickly and resolved to go back and spend lots of time in there in summer, but not before.
“Dining room.”
This room Mycroft did enter. It was a handsome room with stained glass windows and -
“Are those suits of horse armour?”
“Why Gregory, I thought you had elected to forgo the commentary?”
“I meant the, seriously, horse armour?”
Mycroft looked delighted at Greg’s dumbfounded reaction, the slight glow in his eye suggesting to Greg that it was genuine enjoyment.
“Family heirlooms I’m afraid. Mummy retrieved them from storage during the refurbishment.”
“They’re amazing. Um, why the dining room?”
Mycroft shrugged. “It does not do to question Mummy.”
“Do you use this a lot then?” Greg trailed his finger along the enormous table that wouldn’t have fit in his kitchen with nothing else in there.
“Mummy used to hold dinners, and I have hosted a few occasions since I took the property as my primary residence, but not often, no. Mummy prefers guests travel to the estate and make a weekend of it.”
Greg let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He had no chance of keeping up at the kind of fancy dinner party Mycroft would hold and being asked to leave so Mycroft could have people over and not be embarrassed by him... the thought alone made him cringe.
“If I am going to entertain it will be at an establishment designed for such things. It would require too much from Mrs Potts at her stage of life. You need not be worried about being inconvenienced.”
Mycroft had obviously picked up on Greg’s discomfort, and it wouldn’t have required a genius to tell Greg felt out of his depths, but in typical Holmes fashion he’d missed the real issue and all in all the reassurance felt more like a slap than a comfort, just in case Greg had needed reminding that they were from very different worlds, while standing in this house, and that no matter what their relationship became he was not and never would be part of Mycroft’s in anything more than a peripheral way, friends or no.
“Besides which, this house is private. I invite very few people here now I do not have to.” Mycroft was deliberately studying the clock on the mantle of another fireplace.
Greg’s chest felt a little warmer.
Of course very few people came here. Mycroft lived a public image, was the dark shadow behind his own reputation, the monster under the world’s bed and the knight holding the flaming torch who took it on. To everyone he was someone, with a defined role he played to perfection, whether they believed that role peripheral or had some idea of the true scope it covered. Here, in this house, was the closest Mycroft could come to releasing the masks and being himself, just being Mycroft. Of course it was his sanctuary…
…and now Greg was living in it.
How many people had been here, how few trusted to walk through that door the way Greg had now done, completely unappreciative of the fact he could? Before everything began, before his confidence was shaken, Greg would never have doubted his importance to Mycroft, and he’d never been here before that night. Once the formal dinners to establish Mycroft’s position were concluded, how many people had Mycroft been able to show around his home and share it with?
How many people had been shown to share, rather than to have power and wealth impressed upon them?
Greg moved over to the fireplace and joined Mycroft pretending to study the clock. “Victorian?”
“French.”
“Huh.” Greg imagined the fiddly gold filigree would have been a nightmare to keep dusted and gleaming. “Tell me about it?”
“Really?” There was a heavy dose of sarcasm flavouring Mycroft’s voice, sarcasm that Greg was allowed to hear.
“Yeah, it’s um, pretty.”
“The word you’re looking for is gaudy, Gregory.” The edges of Mycroft’s lips twitched. “Louis XV circa 1750. It was smuggled out of France by the Vernet family during the French Revolution.”
“They saved the clock?” Greg blinked in shock. Yes there was a lot of gold, but surely not the most portable wealth they would have owned.
“It was valuable in both a monetary and emotional sense. A gift to Pierre-François Goddard de Beauchamps from a suitor who would later become his Bound and Bonded Alpha, François de Neufuille, Duc de Villerous, who was Louis’s tutor and whom Pierre had served as Secretary.
“Despite it being the fashion at the time François never took a female mistress in addition to his Omega. They genuine cared for each other and this was the prized symbol of that - an expensive gift for a lover, even an Omega, and one not appropriate from Master to Servant, suiting the mated pair they later became more than the causal tryst they were perceived at the time to be.”
“You know a lot about it.” Greg looked over the clock with new appreciation.
“The youngest of their sons made his home in England during the revolution. The last of his descendants was my Bearer’s Bearer. The story is as much a family heirloom as the clock itself.”
“Your grandfather? You’re French?” Greg couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “The British Government is French. I always knew there was a fundamental problem with this country.”
“Only half I’m afraid.” Mycroft placed a soft hand on Greg’s back and led him out of the dining room and down the hall, now turned so they were walking back towards the front of the house from the opposite side. “Unless you have any great interest we’ll move past the Billiard’s room-”
“You have an entire room dedicated to pool?” Greg added ‘learn to play pool well enough to beat Gregson next time they were down the pub’ to his list of things to do. His efforts last time had been abysmal.
“Naturally. The room was redesigned and the table installed during the 1920’s. Mummy left it mainly as it was during the recent renovations, though a new carpet was provided when the other rooms were redone. Should you wish to partake in a game all necessary equipment is in the cupboards.”
They reached the end of the passage and Greg realised that the front door was visible through the arch to his left and that they had just done a lap of the lower floor. Hidden from view of the door, tucked neatly behind the three feet of wall from arch to front wall were a coat and umbrella stand, complete with Mycroft’s overcoat and several umbrellas. The door to his right, it transpired, led to the parlour.
As they reached the top of the stairs Greg deliberately crowded his way into Mycroft’s personal space, allowing fingers to drift over his lower back suggestively in the hope that maybe, just maybe, they could take a tour of Mycroft’s impressive bed next, but the a tinge of Dominance in Mycroft’s address made it clear the use of Greg’s name was a reprimand, so with the greatest of reluctance Greg stepped back and tried to force down his simmering arousal.
The tour of the first floor was much the same as below, only now Mycroft kept a light commentary noting interesting historical antiques or providing snippets of information about various architectural features.
This floor was apparently composed entirely of bedrooms and bathrooms. Mycroft skirted the door to his room and opened the door after it instead, which was imaginatively named the Brown Room. As Mycroft’s room was also done in shades of brown this didn’t quite make sense to Greg, but then he supposed Mycroft’s room would be the Master Bedroom and confusion would be avoided. Besides, if you were going to name it for a colour, well, the Taupe Room sounded more than slightly strange and there weren’t enough touches of sky blue to really qualify as the Blue Room.
Mycroft didn’t bother displaying the bathroom and moved across the hallway to open the door opposite. “The Blue Room.”
It did explain why the Brown Room wasn’t the Blue Room. A few light blue accents would never compete with the rich royal sapphire of this room. The wallpaper, of course wallpaper because every room he’d seen had wallpaper, was simply patterned, flourishing lines that were maybe floral, maybe just intricate swirls, in a slightly darker navy zigzagging to create large square diamonds on the wall with similar flourishing navy devices in the centre of each diamond.
The wall opposite the door they had just entered had two large windows, curtains the same shade as the wall drawn back to let the light flow in over the pale carpet. The four poster bed on the right hand wall was a rich chocolate brown with matching side tables. A dark chest ran from the left hand wall partway across one of the windows, loaded with cushions in navy, white and royal blue. There was a side table next to it with a lamp, mostly hidden by the freestanding wardrobe. More furniture, chests of drawers with an expensive looking white and blue willow patterned vase on top, a small book case and a small table that was probably meant to be a dressing table, stood on the wall opposite the windows.
There were boxes on the floor in the centre of the room.
“I thought you might like this one as yours.”
His room. This was going to be his room. Logically Greg had known that he was going to have a room, somewhere to put his things, and that given the house it was going to be fancier than anything he’d ever had before, but this! A four poster bed! He, Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard, was going to have a four poster bed. Even if he didn’t plan on ever sleeping in it, expecting his nights would be spent curled around Mycroft, it was still beyond belief.
“Is it suitable?” Mycroft trailed gentle fingers down Greg’s arm. Seeking assurance Greg liked it? Greg hoped so.
“It’s... I can’t believe it’s mine.” He turned his head to face Mycroft and couldn’t resist placing a gentle kiss on his lips.
His room. Not yet, but it would be. He’d make it his, his own sanctuary where he could retreat when he needed to like Mycroft could retreat to his study giving them both space. A place to bring Mycroft when the Alpha was on edge and not satisfied that they were safe in their Dom’s territory, needing the reassurance of having Mycroft safe in Greg’s own space, inside Mycroft’s though it may be.
“I love it.” I love you.
“I’m glad.” Mycroft pressed his own gentle kiss on the corner of Greg’s lips. “No ensuite bathroom I’m afraid, but it is right next door.”
“I’ll survive.” Greg smiled.
The idea of him, who had never had one in his life, being upset because there was no ensuite.
“In that case.” Mycroft backed away and walked back out of the room.
Greg sighed and dropped his head against the door frame. It was harder to fight down his reaction to Mycroft’s presence this time, the protective possessive element resulting from the fact that he had Mycroft in what would be Greg’s space stirring up extra and more stubborn feelings from deep inside him, but he managed and when he was composed stepped out into the corridor where Mycroft was waiting and shut the door.
The next room was the Green Room, a room quite obviously designed for an Alpha Dom, with heavy furniture and dark green walls. The solid wooden bed had an inset iron head piece to allow it’s user to attach chains, whips, handcuffs and ties, and there were several other pieces of wrought iron artwork on the walls that were most likely not purely decorative. It reminded Greg strongly of the Drawing Room both in colour and tone.
“Whose room is this?” He asked.
“Mummy decorated it, but it was my Sire’s room.”
The room fit with what Greg was discovering of Holmes Senior’s personality.
“Mummy’s room.”
Greg choked on his next breath. Up until now the design style had been ostentatious and a little heavy with all the wallpaper and antiques, but in keeping with the age and style of the house and not over the top.
This room was the definition of over the top.
The walls were covered in blue wallpaper that unlike the walls in his room had a very strong and very flourish filled gold pattern. The paper was laid in panels with white wooden stripes running between the sections. The wood had gold glint painted on the profile, and paintings and photographs in gold frames hung over almost every surface of the wall and the bed... oh the bed.
The bed itself looked to be a typical sleigh shape, but the foot and headrest were covered in padded blue crushed silk. Light blue, not the same colour as the walls. Above the bed were two sets of curtains: a floral blue pattern that seemed to fall just against the wall and behind the bed, but was mostly obscured by curtains exactly the same as the wallpaper that fell in a tent like drape from a point at the ceiling. They were held back from the bed with large brass fixings next to the bed. And the pillows! Greg didn’t even try to count the number of pillows ranging from plain white to plain blue and the floral pattern on the curtain behind. A light blue blanket was folded across the end of the bed.
If the bed was fussy, it didn’t end there. The side tables were covered in lace clothes with lamps and vases and antiques over the surface. There was a chest at the end of the bed and a stripy blue armchair next to it. At the other end of the room a horse stood framed in another large gold gilt frame above a white marble fireplace, the mantle of which had a clock and candles and photographs and god knows what else on its surface. To either side were chests of drawers with yet more antique blue and white vases. In front of the fireplace stood two armchairs of a different white and blue floral pattern, a lamp, and some fluffy monstrosity that looked like fur across the floor.
Greg hoped it only looked like fur.
There was so much stuff in the room it took time to find the ever present window as the curtains matched the wallpaper and it was lost amongst the general clutter.
It worked. It some strange way it worked, but wow!
“It’s to Mummy’s tastes.” Mycroft looked a little pained as he closed the door.
Greg could understand why. While Mycroft seemed to have a very formal and ostentatious style, he also seemed to favour simplicity.
The other end of the hallway was yet another window, it appeared the fireplace and window taxes had been things that had happened to other people, not the Holmeses, and a sweeping Victorian reclining lounge was artistically placed next to it with a potted plant, this time in green and white patterned china. The wide space tapered off next to Mycroft’s room where there was another concealed stairway that lead to the second floor.
The first room Mycroft opened the door had polished wooden floors, a piano, and a music stand. The Music Room was almost empty looking after the organised mayhem of Mummy’s room, with minimal furniture beyond window seats, an elegant chair with no arms, presumably for playing a larger instrument, and the various storage shelves and drawers for music.
The next room Mycroft gave him a small smile before opening, and much to Greg’s delight, it transpired that the aforementioned TV was real and very expensive with a full surround sound system and more remotes than Greg knew what to do with. It was easily the most modern looking room of the house and the couch, which Greg just had to try, was a delight to sink into. Mycroft eventually dragged him off it, otherwise Greg would have been content to lie there all evening channel surfing, preferably with a naked Mycroft wrapped in his arms. This couch after all was leather, and leather could be wiped clean.
The last two rooms on the front and right side of the building were discounted as storage and not opened. Instead there was the red room that Greg thought he should dislike as the red and white was very in your face, but that he found strangely handsome in a way the Green Room and Mummy’s Room hadn’t been.
The final room was Sherlock’s.
Greg hadn’t been sure what to expect of Sherlock’s room given the state of 221B and his flats before that. Something utterly plain with scientific posters on the wall, or a total cluttered mess worse than Mummy’s? It was not what opening the door revealed.
The walls were black, deep dark black with even darker ornate velvet designs embossed onto the wallpaper. The floor was covered in a lush black carpet that contrasted sharply with the skirting boards and other architravings done in a stark white. There was very little furniture in the room, but what was there was all a mixture of black and white, tables with black iron legs supporting stunning white marble tops and glowing white lamps with black shades. Displayed prominently on the wall on a startling white shelf was a selection of whips and crops, with a realistic flower display in crimson, black and green displayed dead centre in a show of decorum that only drew the eye to the paraphernalia surrounding it.
The bed was a four poster affair of wrought iron, twisted and turned in such a way that even without anyone kneeling on it, it was clear where hands and feet would be attached in all manner of intricate poses. In stunning contrast to the room, the bedspread was dark crimson, shiny black sheets turned down over the top covered in crimson and red pillows, the clear inviting, teasing counter point. Unashamed hooks adorned the walls for use restraining a Sub, and there appeared to be some discrete black bolts under various tables.
The room was traditional in every element from the antique bed to the old fashioned wall paper, but the overall effect just did not fit the house. This was a room designed for one purpose and one purpose alone.
Sex.
“He was going through a rebellious phase and thought this was the best way to make himself a nuisance.” Mycroft explained in a bland tone, obviously use to the spectacle that was his brother’s room.
Greg swallowed hard, his mind providing very detailed images as to all the positions Sherlock could have been put into in this room, all the enticing views that would have been enjoyed by his partner. Sherlock was as pale and dark as his room, and the sight of his back criss-crossed in red marks from the kiss of a lash must have been spectacular.
“It’s uh-” He didn’t know what to say. Greg wasn’t even a Dom, but the idea of Sherlock making use of this room was mind blowing. “He really only had one purpose in mind didn’t he.”
Mycroft chuckled in his ear. “It’s never been used, though you are quite correct. He designed it to make an impact and annoy our Sire, and it did achieve its aims. He’s created quite an...atmosphere.”
Oh he had, he really had, and with Mycroft pressed right up against him and his cock half-hard in his pants all Greg could think about was how he would look tied with his limbs spread by those far apart restraints, open and at Mycroft’s mercy. He would never look as good in it as Sherlock, but Mycroft hadn’t seemed to mind the view in the past.
“Do you know why I saved this room until last, Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was a deep rumble in his ear. “Because I know the effect it has on people, because I knew the effect it would have on you. Imagining it, aren’t you, what you would look like bound on the floor of this room. Trust me when I say Sherlock made sure to include some very advantageous specifications in his design, some little details that could be used to drive someone well past the edge of reason into pure bliss.”
Greg thought he whimpered. He wasn’t quite sure.
“I think we’ve seen enough of the house now, don’t you?” A teasing kiss was dropped on the back of his neck, Mycroft’s warm breath hovering over skin.
“Yeah, yeah, um, I’m, I’m good.” Greg was feeling a little light headed and more than a little hard.
“Then maybe we should go back down and refresh your memory of the Master Bedroom, hmm?” Teeth grazed the side of his neck, the slightest brush of tongue following after.
“God yes!”
He wanted to turn around and kiss Mycroft, thrust his tongue deep into his Omega’s mouth and throw him against a wall where they could rut against each other until they came in short, heaving pants, but that wouldn’t be enough, wouldn’t loosen the compressed ball of need lodged in his chest, wouldn’t scratch the deep seated itch he’d lived with his whole life until last December it’d been briefly sated and then flared back to an all-time high.
“Walk out the door.”
Greg started walking, letting the shiver of dominance run over his skin. He was slowly acclimatising to the feeling, it was no longer the shock it had been the first time Mycroft had focused it on him, but the tingling sensation never left nor did the bolt of arousal it always sent straight to the base of his spine.
“Walk down the stairs.”
The order came just as he’d reached the staircase. Obviously he wasn’t to make any move without an order, even though he knew how to get back to Mycroft’s room, so he paused at the bottom of the stairs for his next command.
“Turn.”
He turned on the spot, chin tilting upwards automatically to look at Mycroft who had not stepped down of the last stair.
“So good.” Mycroft purred, the back of a hand running gently down Greg’s face. “Continue to learn this quickly, Gregory. Walk to your right.”
Greg did as told, breaking away from the caress to follow the order. He only made it a couple of steps before he stopped, facing the wall, unsure whether he was meant to go around the corner and continue down the corridor or wait for another command.
“Forward.” Mycroft solved his dilemma. “Right.”
There were not that many stairs in the staircase, not many steps from Sherlock’s room or Mycroft’s to the stairs, but in the short distance Greg could feel himself going down, feel the way his body moved to open the door at Mycroft’s command before he even registered it in his mind.
Mycroft directed him to stand in the middle of the room, then smoothly stripped him of his jacket and belt. Greg was directed to remove his own shoes, and stood there waiting barefoot while Mycroft removed his suit jacket and walked casually over to the bedside table. He opened a variety of drawers, removing items and arranging them deliberately on the bedside table, though they were blocked from Greg’s view by Mycroft’s body.
“Remove your shirt.”
Mycroft turned around and relaxed against the wooden surface. Greg began to remove the item with as much grace and sensuality as he could manage, which he admitted wasn’t much, but the hungry gaze never left Mycroft’s face so he supposed it wasn’t that bad.
“Undo your trousers.”
Clumsy fingers moved to the button and drew the zipper down, releasing some, but not enough of the pressure on his erection. Mycroft pushed off the bedside table and stalked towards him, shod feet making no sound on the carpeted floor.
“Oh, Gregory, the things I have planned for you.” Mycroft came to a halt in front of him, shoulders back and down as he worked every last one of the centimetre difference in their height. Fingers held his jaw in a pistol grip, tilting it so Mycroft’s eyes loomed in Greg’s vision. They were dark and fierce and almost cold while blazing so hot they burned. “It transpires you are quite inspiring in all manner of ways previously unexplored.”
Greg swallowed, trying hard not to lean into Mycroft. He hadn’t been told he was allowed to touch.
“The session starts now, Gregory. Until I say otherwise you may continue to talk.” Mycroft leaned closer, still holding Greg’s jaw, until their foreheads were pressed hard against each other. “I want to hear you scream.”
Greg shivered, the liquid heat at the base of his spine beginning to move around his groin.
“Push down your trousers and pants.”
Mycroft moved back carefully removing his tie, waistcoat and belt. Shoes were undone and placed neatly to the side while Greg watched and the heat spread. With precise movements Mycroft undid the first four buttons on his shirt and rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbow, the entire time maintaining the searing eye contact.
Finally his gaze broke and he moved back towards the bedside table. Now that Mycroft was to the side Greg was better able to see the contents: a bottle of lubricant, the riding crop, a coil of rope, and old fashioned hourglass timer. He’d seen similar timers in black wood filled with glowing white sand on display in Sherlock’s room, timers that having seen the drawer they were removed from took on a less innocent meaning.
Mycroft selected the riding crop, testing it’s flex against his hand before turning around. The sight of Mycroft in a rolled up shirt and obscenely tented bespoke trousers, wearing no shoes and casually dangling a riding crop, was more provocative than any spread in any special interest magazine, no matter how skimpy the outfit or tight the leather.
“God you’re...” Greg just stared, taking in the sight, unable to describe the rush of emotion it caused. His Dom, his Omega.
Beautiful.
No.
Magnificent.
“Why thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft circled him, swinging the crop loosely in one hand. His pace stayed slow, the circle’s progress marked by his phantom presence until he once again stood in front of Greg. “I’m rather enjoying the view myself, though I think we can improve it, don’t you?”
“Anything.” Greg whispered, slightly scared to know he meant it.
They hadn’t discussed many of the finer aspects of a session, what was allowed, what wasn’t, mainly because Greg didn’t believe Mycroft would rule anything out. Mycroft didn’t seem the type of Dom to have many limits.
“We’ll start with this.” Mycroft’s hands fondled Greg’s erection, stroking him firmly in a way that had Greg gasping in seconds. “Do you remember what I said would happen tonight Gregory?”
“Yes.” He ground out.
“What did I say, Gregory?” Mycroft’s fingers flicked over the top of his head causing Greg to lock his knees or fall on the floor.
Two weeks of touches, of hand jobs and blow jobs surrounded in Mycroft’s pheromone driven scent where only Mycroft was allowed to come, and even this was sufficient to bring Greg to the edge.
“You, you said that,” it was hard to concentrate, to gather the thoughts required to answer, “that you were going to ride me.”
“Correct, Gregory, but not complete. What else did I say?” Long fingers caressed his balls.
“You said, you said you were, that, oh Jesus Christ on a bicycle.” Greg bit his lip and tried frantically to stave off the orgasm he felt approaching.
“I said,” Mycroft’s midnight voice whispered in his ear, “that I was going to ride you for an hour, and then, only then, would you be allowed to come.” Something cool pressed against Greg’s cock, wrapping snugly around his testicles. “One day,” Mycroft continued, “I’ll expect you to be able to perform without aid, but for your first time I’m willing to allow you the help.” He stepped back favoured Greg with a long sweeping gaze. “It suits you.”
“You suit me.” Greg replied brazenly. He cocked his head flirtatiously. “So when do I get the chance to wear you?”
The riding crop flicked lightly across his nipples causing them to sting. “Any more of that from you and the next one lands across the offending body part.”
“You promise?” Greg asked, riding the drunken high of arousal and giddy happiness that he was there, that this was happening.
The crop flicked across his lips, hard enough to sting without drawing blood.
“To the bed.” Mycroft whispered, not needing to raise his voice to be heard. “Kneel.”
Greg sunk to his knees, palms turned up on his knees to bare his wrists. Mycroft’s hand fisted in his hair and rolled his head side to side, baring the expanse of his neck, crop tracing over his chest.
“Undress me.” Mycroft didn’t use dominance in the command, but the lack was no less effective than the earlier loaded orders.
Greg went to stand, and the crop whipped lightning fast against his calves.
“From there.”
Reaching Greg could just reach the buttons he needed to on Mycroft’s shirt and slowly slid one after another through the little holes. Once the shirt hung open he let his hands drift tantalisingly over Mycroft’s skin, dancing over his nipples and returning to play and rub them into little peaks when he wasn’t chastised for the action. Leaning forward he placed his lips on Mycroft’s belly, gently kissing the slight roundness, scraping tongue and teeth across flesh until a light tap against his buttocks with the crop signified Mycroft was ready to move on.
It was difficult to push the shirt off Mycroft’s shoulders from where he was, but eventually the silky material slid down to catch on his forearms where the sleeves were rolled. Greg took great pleasure licking and kissing his way up each arm to slide the material down and then off, leaving Mycroft in his trousers alone. One arm reached behind Mycroft and slid under the waistband, teasing the edge of the pants Mycroft was wearing while the other undid the button and zip, lips caressing each centimetre of skin as the fly slid open to reveal it. His hands pushed the material down Mycroft’s legs, lips kissing his inner thigh, behind his knee, his calf as the final barriers of cloth fell to the floor, at which point Greg gently lifted first one foot, then the other, to free Mycroft completely.
“Beautiful.” Mycroft caressed Greg’s cheek with the crop. “Fetch the lubricant.”
Greg again went to stand and received the crop across his legs before he realised that Mycroft meant him to crawl the distance to the other end of the bed to fetch the bottle. He couldn’t stop the rush of blood to his face as he went, shuffling along on his hands and knees with his bound cock bobbing obscenely between his legs, but he didn’t try to deny the flutter of anticipation in his stomach.
Mycroft followed along behind him, settling himself on the bed as Greg reached the bottle of lube. He leant back on his elbows, legs spread wantonly before him.
“Prepare me.”
Greg moaned and went to take the cap off the bottle, only to be stopped by the crop brushing gently over his knuckles.
“Use your mouth first.”
In the past two weeks Greg had racked up a number of blowjobs, Mycroft having found a number of convenient excuses to meet with Greg in the guise of sorting things for him to move in, but he didn’t think that was what Mycroft meant now. Nonetheless, he leant forward and took a greedy suck on Mycroft’s prominent erection, before tantalisingly kissing down the shaft and tonguing over his balls. Pressing back on Mycroft’s hip and sinking further into the floor himself, gave him access to Mycroft’s perineum where he spent a pleasant few minutes licking and sucking before moving that little bit further to nose at the precious, puckered opening beyond.
Tentatively he licked around the muscle, noting the slight spasm it gave at his flickering touches. Pressing harder he began to massage the tight ring with his tongue, occasionally sweeping back over Mycroft’s perineum or gently sucking on one or the other of his balls, actions which both elicited soft gasps above him. Eventually the muscle relaxed, and Greg hesitantly pressed the tip of his tongue inside. The moan he received was worth it and he began thrusting with his tongue enthusiastically, feeling Mycroft press back against him in abortive thrusts, steadily progressing to louder whimpers and moans.
“Fingers.” Mycroft’s hand landed in Greg’s hair, pulling him back and away. “Fingers, now.”
The lubricant bottle was settled next to his leg where it could be easily accessed, so Greg wasted no time sploshing a generous amount over his fingers and moving the first to Mycroft’s hole. His mouth fastened around Mycroft’s penis causing a reflexive gasp that Greg used to hide the introduction of his finger to the first knuckle. He ran it around the wet heat, pressing against the tight walls until they yielded and he could fit another finger alongside.
Mycroft moaned again and thrust into Greg’s mouth, forcing him to pull back slightly and lap at it with his tongue instead. He scissored his fingers, moving them round and round rather than in and out to stretch and made sure to tease around Mycroft’s prostate before stroking over it in one firm move.
“Enough.” Mycroft pressed down, fucking himself on Greg’s fingers in direct opposition to his words. Greg teasingly brushed over the little nub again, drawing another little moan from Mycroft’s lips.
“Enough.”
Greg reluctantly pulled his fingers out.
“On the bed.” Mycroft rolled off the bed and waited impatiently as Greg scrambled up to take his place. “On your back.”
Greg rolled onto his back, and didn’t have to wait long before Mycroft’s slick hand was running up and down his shaft, causing his hips to thrust up off the bed in a driven need for contact.
“Relax.” Mycroft straddled him, grabbing the soft coil of rope from the bedside table. One end was tied to the bed head and then the rope was wrapped around and around Greg’s arm, over his shoulder and down the other end before being tied off, spreading Greg’s arms wide across the bed with just enough slack he could lie back with several pillows to prop up his head, but not so much he could move.
Then, in one slow motion, Mycroft sank down and seated himself fully on Greg’s shaft.
An animalistic groan worked its way out Greg’s mouth. “Fuck, fuck, oh fucking hell.”
“So profane.” Mycroft drew his fingers hard down Greg’s chest, leaving thin red lines where his nails bit into the skin. “Remember Gregory, one hour.”
Greg whimpered. Surely not, Mycroft wasn’t actually serious about that was he? In defiance of Greg’s hope, Mycroft fluidly turned over the hour glass timer and then slowly started moving.
It was the best kind of decadent hell, feeling the smooth glide of Mycroft’s body, the rhythm that started slow and controlled and built and built until ten minutes later Mycroft’s head was thrown back and he was riding Greg with abandon as Greg bucked wildly, body still craving the stimulation and driving towards release.
“Touch yourself. Mycroft, please want, I want to see.” Greg begged, unable to do more than push his hips up into the burning heat above him.
In response Mycroft lowered his hands to Greg’s chest and began to work his nipples to full hardness with soft strokes and sharp pinches even as he slammed down harder on Greg’s cock. Greg arched against him as the sensations flooded through his body, adding to the liquid pool that had grown to fill more than his belly and was making its way through his upper chest and down his arms.
Then Mycroft’s fingers moved, sliding down Greg’s body to where Mycroft’s cock was leaking over his stomach and began to stroke. Greg could feel it, feel the way Mycroft’s body was tightening around him, feel the way his leg muscles began to quiver with the strain as he pushed them faster and faster until with a deep throaty moan he came over Greg. The clamping down of Mycroft’s internal muscles on his cock would have tipped Greg over the edge, tried to, but he was still restrained by the cock ring and no matter how much he wanted to was unable to orgasm.
Eventually the spasms running through Mycroft’s body finished and he leant over to turn the hourglass on its side before pulling off to collapse on the bed next to Greg, one hand idly fondling his hair.
“Fifteen minutes. Not a bad start.”
“Why did you...?” Greg craned his head to look at the timer, horizontal now so no sand fell between the spheres.
“My dear Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice was satisfaction and chocolate. “I didn’t say an hour of sex. I said once I ride you for an hour, and there is a definite difference.”
A tender kiss was placed to the side of Greg’s mouth, sucking lightly on the area the crop had impacted making the whole area tingle as a sharp bolt of pain flared at the act.
“And Gregory,” Mycroft’s eyes were still wild, still alluded to the dark promises made by his voice, “we will do the whole hour.”
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For those of you who are interested, according to what I can find on the internet, the Holmes family motto really is "Trust, but in whom take care". Certainly seems to work for Mycroft..
Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (14/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: Sorry for the lack of Wednesday. I was having a lot of trouble working out how to upload things, but now that it's done, check out the Encyclopaedia of Life in Behind still Waters for pictures of the house!
Warnings: There be sex on the horizon!
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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Mycroft’s hand was warm in Greg’s, skin so soft it was almost dewy.
“I’m surprised you’re here.” Greg murmured as he was drawn gently in. “I thought the government kept all hours.”
“It’s only appropriate I am here to welcome you home the first time. Besides,” Mycroft’s words brushed across Greg’s lips, “you don’t have a key.”
“True.” Greg returned the phantom kiss.
Everything about the situation felt strange. He was out of work on time (paperwork was rarely inconsiderate enough to drop dead five minutes before shift’s end), he was standing in Mycroft’s lavish, but impersonal hallway rather than his own scuffed and marked one loaded with dodgy family photos from happier times, and most of all, for the first time in years, he was being met at the door and welcomed home after work.
Even before his collar was returned it had been years since he had been welcomed home, and never like this. He’d never been welcomed home by savage eyes filled with a possessive knowing gleam or long elegant fingers cradling his wrist with such restrained violence that the gentle kiss of skin was a more sincere promise than Greg could have made with a whip in his hand.
With a sigh Greg drifted down Mycroft’s neck and buried his nose in the junction of skin and shirt collar, breathing in heady intoxicating scent of his Omega, guard collapsing safe in the knowledge he was in his Dom’s territory and could hand all he was over to someone else and let go, for the first time in his life, let go and merely drift and bask in his Omega’s commanding presence. It felt like shedding an ill-fitting suit or too tight second skin. It felt like home.
They stood there, Mycroft gently holding Greg’s hand as if it were fine china, his other curled loosely around Greg’s belt, just resting as they breathed. Greg wondered whether it was just him, or was Mycroft feeling something similar, some profound reaction to having Greg there in his house and arms to stay. He liked to believe so, liked to believe that he filled the same gaping hole in Mycroft’s psyche that he filled in Greg’s, and no amount of cautioning from his rationale mind that this was a relationship of convenience and one-sided devotion built around the very real result of a mistaken one-weekend stand could stop his traitorous Submissive side unfurling, purring and winding around Mycroft’s presence like a devoted feline, or stop the soft more insidious blossoming of hope in his heart.
“So responsive.” Mycroft murmured into his ear. “Denial like yours can go two ways, you know: development of a thick shield that dulls the senses or absolute longing and hypersensitivity, drawing you down with the merest verbal suggestion.” Mycroft’s fingers traced a line up Greg’s side allowing the dull drag of his nails through the cotton of Greg’s cheap work shirt. Greg shivered and felt his muscles slump, the responsibility for gravity delegated to Mycroft. “I think we know which one applies to you.”
Greg wasn’t ashamed of the whimper pressed into Mycroft’s throat. Later, far away in the outside world, then he’d be embarrassed by how easily he became putty in Mycroft’s manicured hands, but never there, never in those moments, senses saturated with the heady mix of pheromones and Dominance.
“I should give you the tour; show you more of your new home than the bedroom and the kitchen.”
“Those are the important ones.” Greg managed to say, a breathy exhale, but smoothly with no stuttering.
His reply was a soft huffing laugh and Mycroft pulling gently back, raising their linked hands. “Indeed, and we shall be spending much time in the former.”
A kiss was pressed to his wrist, Mycroft’s dark intense eyes making a mockery of the highly civil antiquated gesture. For whatever reason, in response to Greg’s own breached defences or from pure anticipation, Mycroft was not keeping a firm leash on his Dominance and it blazed through every pore.
“The tour.” Mycroft repeated and stepped firmly away, dropping Greg’s hand as he did.
The sudden loss of contact was comparable to gravity deciding to reassert itself with a sudden wave, causing Greg to stumble just the slightest. The twist of Mycroft’s lips and crinkles that appeared around his right eye were characteristic of humour: the more mischievous amusement Mycroft usually obtained by teasing Greg in his own subtle way until Greg caught on and threw a rude word or gesture into the mix to let Mycroft know he’d been found out. So in time honoured tradition, Greg flipped Mycroft a two fingered salute, but couldn’t keep the smile off his face.
“Yeah, yeah, smart arse. Lead on.”
Mycroft drew himself up and cleared his throat. “The original structure was built in-”
“Maybe not that detailed.” Greg broke in, knowing full well that with his head still floating somewhere above his actual skull nothing would be absorbed. “There is no way,” of their own accord his eyes lustfully scanned Mycroft head to toe and his cock twitched reminding him that it had been two weeks of another sort of teasing and that that was a very nice view, “that I’ll remember any of it. In fact,” he closed the distance between them in a slow saunter, “how about we go put that superb mattress of yours through its paces and you give me the grand tour later. Promise to make it worth your while.”
“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed as Greg leant up to kiss him. “Patience.”
He broke away, leaving Greg staring at his retreating back as he disappeared past the first door with a “I believe you’re familiar with the library” and a genteel wave, continuing down the corridor.
“Patience! Two bloody weeks, that’s effing patience.” Greg growled as he hurried to catch up, wishing he could slouch after Mycroft at a leisurely pace, but feeling totally unable to do so in the expensive surround.
It was hard enough to swear without feeling as though he ought to be rapped on the knuckles with a wooden spoon. If he used that sort of language in front of Mrs Potts, he suspected he would be.
“The drawing room.” Mycroft announced, opening a pair of well-polished doors to reveal his equivalent of Greg’s well abused sitting room.
The room was dominated by two floor-to-ceiling windows on the wall opposite the door. The curtains were a heavy fabric Greg thought was called brocade in mottled dark and olive greens and glinting gold thread. The walls were a dark brown wood panelled to create a repeating checkerboard effect. The wall to Greg’s right was host to a gigantic fireplace, which once the attention was taken from the immediately impressive windows, outshone them by a mile. The deep set space was massive, easily large enough for Greg to have lain into if it’d been empty and he’d been willing to curl up slightly, or to stand in if he’d been inclined to hunch.
There was a fireplace in the library at the front of the house as well, Greg recalled, and the two must back onto each other and share a chimney or something. Unlike his memory of the front room, the fireplace in this room was intricately covered with flourishes running up the pillars of the surround in thin stripes and a full hunting scene racing across the face. Set above the fox, hounds, horses, and riders, a rearing horse and hound supported what Greg assumed was the Holmes family crest. The detail was amazing to the point the banner unfurled above the device even appeared to have stitching around the edges.
“It is magnificent.” Mycroft’s voice broke the reverie Greg had unknowingly fallen into. “It alone is why Mummy moved the drawing room from its traditional place in the front and switched it with the library during the renovations.”
“I can understand that.” Greg skirted the riotous carpet in autumn colours that had to be an antique and followed the floorboards to the fireplace.
Up close it was as tall as him and even more details leapt out of the wood from flowing manes to individual hairs on the fox’s bushy tail and the hounds’ baying throats. A frozen progression in time that looked ready to run at a moment’s notice.
“Fide-”
“-sed cuivide.” Mycroft finished for him. “The Holmes family motto.”
“What does it mean?” Greg allowed one finger to trail along the wood. It felt as silky as it looked.
“Trust, but in whom take care.”
“Naturally.” Greg let his hand fall back and turned his attention to the rest of the room.
He almost felt sorry for the painting on the other wall. It was clearly a masterful work along similar hunting themes and covering almost the entire length of the wall, but in this room it would always be overshadowed by the fireplace behind him.
“I feel like I’ve been shrunk.”
Tall windows, huge fireplace, giant painting: the room only added to the general tumbled down the rabbit hole feel first Sherlock and then Mycroft had introduced into his life. Thankfully the couches and armchairs were usual sizes, though he imagined the green and brown seats had a more posh name then couch, else Greg would really have felt disorientated.
“It has that effect.” Mycroft moved to the door. “Shall we continue?”
“Uh yeah.” Greg followed him out of the sitting, the Drawing Room, thinking that he’d never seen such an Alpha room in his life. The room was impressive, but smacked of pure Dominant patronising Alpha-ness of the worst kind.
What had Mycroft thought of Greg’s flat and worn settee on all those occasions? No wonder he’d never eaten on the couch before. Greg rather suspected he himself had chowed down on his last takeaway in front of the TV given those couches.
He wasn’t even sure Mycroft had a TV. If the Drawing Room was characteristic of the whole house, a television would be terribly out of place.
“Of course I own a television, Gregory. It’s in the media room upstairs.”
Greg started and wondered how he’d given himself away that time, but overall was just relieved that there was such a recreational staple in the house. ‘Media Room’ sounded very promising, though the thought of Mycroft Holmes’s movie collection was vaguely terrifying.
The fact that Mycroft Holmes owned a move collection and wasn’t as ignorant of pop culture as Greg had always chosen to believe was even more terrifying.
On the other hand, he’d just bet that that it was full of documentaries and the familiar foreign films they used to watch at Greg’s. Apparently they weren’t rented.
“My study.”
Mycroft opened the door wide enough to allow Greg a glimpse of a forbidding antique desk, a sleek modern computer and neatly organised files surrounded by yet more filled bookshelves before the door was pulled firmly shut again. Obviously this room was off-limits, or as off-limits as a room could be in shared accommodation.
Greg could live with that. He had very little doubt that he wouldn’t be able to get into any of it, but he also didn’t doubt that the room contained some highly sensitive documents ranging well above even the Prime Minister’s pay grade.
“You are already acquainted with the kitchen. Maybe now you’re here tea and coffee will be allowed to be reintroduced to the pantry.” There was no mistaking the bitterness in Mycroft’s voice.
“I’ll manage without.” Greg replied without thinking in an automatic capitulation to their baby’s needs.
Mycroft turned just enough to send him a potent glare.
“If I have to.” Greg amended hastily. “Which I’m sure I won’t. Not that it matters as you can’t...drink...it...anyway...so...” His voice trailed off and died under the weight of Mycroft’s angry gaze.
“You’re right.” Mycroft smiled dangerously. “We should prevent temptation, shouldn’t we? I suppose you’ll just have to make do with herbal teas the same as me while I’m reduced to this unnecessarily strict dieting and nutrition regime.”
He stalked off past the kitchen and around the bend in the corridor.
“Should have kept my mouth shut.” Greg muttered. At least he had the brains not to tell Mycroft he was acting... off.
He followed after at a casual distance, pausing to admire the side table and vase to one side and the bucolic landscape on the other. The passage seemed almost claustrophobic after the space of the entry and other rooms. There was a door part way down that Mycroft walked straight past, but unlike the other doors this one had a lock and bolt and so must, Greg realised, led outside.
He’d never had a backyard before.
“The conservatory.” Mycroft didn’t open the door, merely waved in its general direction. “Feel free to go in if you wish, but the glass windows do very little to retain a pleasant ambient temperature in winter and I haven’t been running the heating in there.”
Purely because he’d never seen a conservatory before, Greg pushed the door open and immediately translated Mycroft’s comment into “go in if you want, but it’s an icebox.” A pretty icebox, but an icebox nonetheless. He shut the door quickly and resolved to go back and spend lots of time in there in summer, but not before.
“Dining room.”
This room Mycroft did enter. It was a handsome room with stained glass windows and -
“Are those suits of horse armour?”
“Why Gregory, I thought you had elected to forgo the commentary?”
“I meant the, seriously, horse armour?”
Mycroft looked delighted at Greg’s dumbfounded reaction, the slight glow in his eye suggesting to Greg that it was genuine enjoyment.
“Family heirlooms I’m afraid. Mummy retrieved them from storage during the refurbishment.”
“They’re amazing. Um, why the dining room?”
Mycroft shrugged. “It does not do to question Mummy.”
“Do you use this a lot then?” Greg trailed his finger along the enormous table that wouldn’t have fit in his kitchen with nothing else in there.
“Mummy used to hold dinners, and I have hosted a few occasions since I took the property as my primary residence, but not often, no. Mummy prefers guests travel to the estate and make a weekend of it.”
Greg let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He had no chance of keeping up at the kind of fancy dinner party Mycroft would hold and being asked to leave so Mycroft could have people over and not be embarrassed by him... the thought alone made him cringe.
“If I am going to entertain it will be at an establishment designed for such things. It would require too much from Mrs Potts at her stage of life. You need not be worried about being inconvenienced.”
Mycroft had obviously picked up on Greg’s discomfort, and it wouldn’t have required a genius to tell Greg felt out of his depths, but in typical Holmes fashion he’d missed the real issue and all in all the reassurance felt more like a slap than a comfort, just in case Greg had needed reminding that they were from very different worlds, while standing in this house, and that no matter what their relationship became he was not and never would be part of Mycroft’s in anything more than a peripheral way, friends or no.
“Besides which, this house is private. I invite very few people here now I do not have to.” Mycroft was deliberately studying the clock on the mantle of another fireplace.
Greg’s chest felt a little warmer.
Of course very few people came here. Mycroft lived a public image, was the dark shadow behind his own reputation, the monster under the world’s bed and the knight holding the flaming torch who took it on. To everyone he was someone, with a defined role he played to perfection, whether they believed that role peripheral or had some idea of the true scope it covered. Here, in this house, was the closest Mycroft could come to releasing the masks and being himself, just being Mycroft. Of course it was his sanctuary…
…and now Greg was living in it.
How many people had been here, how few trusted to walk through that door the way Greg had now done, completely unappreciative of the fact he could? Before everything began, before his confidence was shaken, Greg would never have doubted his importance to Mycroft, and he’d never been here before that night. Once the formal dinners to establish Mycroft’s position were concluded, how many people had Mycroft been able to show around his home and share it with?
How many people had been shown to share, rather than to have power and wealth impressed upon them?
Greg moved over to the fireplace and joined Mycroft pretending to study the clock. “Victorian?”
“French.”
“Huh.” Greg imagined the fiddly gold filigree would have been a nightmare to keep dusted and gleaming. “Tell me about it?”
“Really?” There was a heavy dose of sarcasm flavouring Mycroft’s voice, sarcasm that Greg was allowed to hear.
“Yeah, it’s um, pretty.”
“The word you’re looking for is gaudy, Gregory.” The edges of Mycroft’s lips twitched. “Louis XV circa 1750. It was smuggled out of France by the Vernet family during the French Revolution.”
“They saved the clock?” Greg blinked in shock. Yes there was a lot of gold, but surely not the most portable wealth they would have owned.
“It was valuable in both a monetary and emotional sense. A gift to Pierre-François Goddard de Beauchamps from a suitor who would later become his Bound and Bonded Alpha, François de Neufuille, Duc de Villerous, who was Louis’s tutor and whom Pierre had served as Secretary.
“Despite it being the fashion at the time François never took a female mistress in addition to his Omega. They genuine cared for each other and this was the prized symbol of that - an expensive gift for a lover, even an Omega, and one not appropriate from Master to Servant, suiting the mated pair they later became more than the causal tryst they were perceived at the time to be.”
“You know a lot about it.” Greg looked over the clock with new appreciation.
“The youngest of their sons made his home in England during the revolution. The last of his descendants was my Bearer’s Bearer. The story is as much a family heirloom as the clock itself.”
“Your grandfather? You’re French?” Greg couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “The British Government is French. I always knew there was a fundamental problem with this country.”
“Only half I’m afraid.” Mycroft placed a soft hand on Greg’s back and led him out of the dining room and down the hall, now turned so they were walking back towards the front of the house from the opposite side. “Unless you have any great interest we’ll move past the Billiard’s room-”
“You have an entire room dedicated to pool?” Greg added ‘learn to play pool well enough to beat Gregson next time they were down the pub’ to his list of things to do. His efforts last time had been abysmal.
“Naturally. The room was redesigned and the table installed during the 1920’s. Mummy left it mainly as it was during the recent renovations, though a new carpet was provided when the other rooms were redone. Should you wish to partake in a game all necessary equipment is in the cupboards.”
They reached the end of the passage and Greg realised that the front door was visible through the arch to his left and that they had just done a lap of the lower floor. Hidden from view of the door, tucked neatly behind the three feet of wall from arch to front wall were a coat and umbrella stand, complete with Mycroft’s overcoat and several umbrellas. The door to his right, it transpired, led to the parlour.
As they reached the top of the stairs Greg deliberately crowded his way into Mycroft’s personal space, allowing fingers to drift over his lower back suggestively in the hope that maybe, just maybe, they could take a tour of Mycroft’s impressive bed next, but the a tinge of Dominance in Mycroft’s address made it clear the use of Greg’s name was a reprimand, so with the greatest of reluctance Greg stepped back and tried to force down his simmering arousal.
The tour of the first floor was much the same as below, only now Mycroft kept a light commentary noting interesting historical antiques or providing snippets of information about various architectural features.
This floor was apparently composed entirely of bedrooms and bathrooms. Mycroft skirted the door to his room and opened the door after it instead, which was imaginatively named the Brown Room. As Mycroft’s room was also done in shades of brown this didn’t quite make sense to Greg, but then he supposed Mycroft’s room would be the Master Bedroom and confusion would be avoided. Besides, if you were going to name it for a colour, well, the Taupe Room sounded more than slightly strange and there weren’t enough touches of sky blue to really qualify as the Blue Room.
Mycroft didn’t bother displaying the bathroom and moved across the hallway to open the door opposite. “The Blue Room.”
It did explain why the Brown Room wasn’t the Blue Room. A few light blue accents would never compete with the rich royal sapphire of this room. The wallpaper, of course wallpaper because every room he’d seen had wallpaper, was simply patterned, flourishing lines that were maybe floral, maybe just intricate swirls, in a slightly darker navy zigzagging to create large square diamonds on the wall with similar flourishing navy devices in the centre of each diamond.
The wall opposite the door they had just entered had two large windows, curtains the same shade as the wall drawn back to let the light flow in over the pale carpet. The four poster bed on the right hand wall was a rich chocolate brown with matching side tables. A dark chest ran from the left hand wall partway across one of the windows, loaded with cushions in navy, white and royal blue. There was a side table next to it with a lamp, mostly hidden by the freestanding wardrobe. More furniture, chests of drawers with an expensive looking white and blue willow patterned vase on top, a small book case and a small table that was probably meant to be a dressing table, stood on the wall opposite the windows.
There were boxes on the floor in the centre of the room.
“I thought you might like this one as yours.”
His room. This was going to be his room. Logically Greg had known that he was going to have a room, somewhere to put his things, and that given the house it was going to be fancier than anything he’d ever had before, but this! A four poster bed! He, Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard, was going to have a four poster bed. Even if he didn’t plan on ever sleeping in it, expecting his nights would be spent curled around Mycroft, it was still beyond belief.
“Is it suitable?” Mycroft trailed gentle fingers down Greg’s arm. Seeking assurance Greg liked it? Greg hoped so.
“It’s... I can’t believe it’s mine.” He turned his head to face Mycroft and couldn’t resist placing a gentle kiss on his lips.
His room. Not yet, but it would be. He’d make it his, his own sanctuary where he could retreat when he needed to like Mycroft could retreat to his study giving them both space. A place to bring Mycroft when the Alpha was on edge and not satisfied that they were safe in their Dom’s territory, needing the reassurance of having Mycroft safe in Greg’s own space, inside Mycroft’s though it may be.
“I love it.” I love you.
“I’m glad.” Mycroft pressed his own gentle kiss on the corner of Greg’s lips. “No ensuite bathroom I’m afraid, but it is right next door.”
“I’ll survive.” Greg smiled.
The idea of him, who had never had one in his life, being upset because there was no ensuite.
“In that case.” Mycroft backed away and walked back out of the room.
Greg sighed and dropped his head against the door frame. It was harder to fight down his reaction to Mycroft’s presence this time, the protective possessive element resulting from the fact that he had Mycroft in what would be Greg’s space stirring up extra and more stubborn feelings from deep inside him, but he managed and when he was composed stepped out into the corridor where Mycroft was waiting and shut the door.
The next room was the Green Room, a room quite obviously designed for an Alpha Dom, with heavy furniture and dark green walls. The solid wooden bed had an inset iron head piece to allow it’s user to attach chains, whips, handcuffs and ties, and there were several other pieces of wrought iron artwork on the walls that were most likely not purely decorative. It reminded Greg strongly of the Drawing Room both in colour and tone.
“Whose room is this?” He asked.
“Mummy decorated it, but it was my Sire’s room.”
The room fit with what Greg was discovering of Holmes Senior’s personality.
“Mummy’s room.”
Greg choked on his next breath. Up until now the design style had been ostentatious and a little heavy with all the wallpaper and antiques, but in keeping with the age and style of the house and not over the top.
This room was the definition of over the top.
The walls were covered in blue wallpaper that unlike the walls in his room had a very strong and very flourish filled gold pattern. The paper was laid in panels with white wooden stripes running between the sections. The wood had gold glint painted on the profile, and paintings and photographs in gold frames hung over almost every surface of the wall and the bed... oh the bed.
The bed itself looked to be a typical sleigh shape, but the foot and headrest were covered in padded blue crushed silk. Light blue, not the same colour as the walls. Above the bed were two sets of curtains: a floral blue pattern that seemed to fall just against the wall and behind the bed, but was mostly obscured by curtains exactly the same as the wallpaper that fell in a tent like drape from a point at the ceiling. They were held back from the bed with large brass fixings next to the bed. And the pillows! Greg didn’t even try to count the number of pillows ranging from plain white to plain blue and the floral pattern on the curtain behind. A light blue blanket was folded across the end of the bed.
If the bed was fussy, it didn’t end there. The side tables were covered in lace clothes with lamps and vases and antiques over the surface. There was a chest at the end of the bed and a stripy blue armchair next to it. At the other end of the room a horse stood framed in another large gold gilt frame above a white marble fireplace, the mantle of which had a clock and candles and photographs and god knows what else on its surface. To either side were chests of drawers with yet more antique blue and white vases. In front of the fireplace stood two armchairs of a different white and blue floral pattern, a lamp, and some fluffy monstrosity that looked like fur across the floor.
Greg hoped it only looked like fur.
There was so much stuff in the room it took time to find the ever present window as the curtains matched the wallpaper and it was lost amongst the general clutter.
It worked. It some strange way it worked, but wow!
“It’s to Mummy’s tastes.” Mycroft looked a little pained as he closed the door.
Greg could understand why. While Mycroft seemed to have a very formal and ostentatious style, he also seemed to favour simplicity.
The other end of the hallway was yet another window, it appeared the fireplace and window taxes had been things that had happened to other people, not the Holmeses, and a sweeping Victorian reclining lounge was artistically placed next to it with a potted plant, this time in green and white patterned china. The wide space tapered off next to Mycroft’s room where there was another concealed stairway that lead to the second floor.
The first room Mycroft opened the door had polished wooden floors, a piano, and a music stand. The Music Room was almost empty looking after the organised mayhem of Mummy’s room, with minimal furniture beyond window seats, an elegant chair with no arms, presumably for playing a larger instrument, and the various storage shelves and drawers for music.
The next room Mycroft gave him a small smile before opening, and much to Greg’s delight, it transpired that the aforementioned TV was real and very expensive with a full surround sound system and more remotes than Greg knew what to do with. It was easily the most modern looking room of the house and the couch, which Greg just had to try, was a delight to sink into. Mycroft eventually dragged him off it, otherwise Greg would have been content to lie there all evening channel surfing, preferably with a naked Mycroft wrapped in his arms. This couch after all was leather, and leather could be wiped clean.
The last two rooms on the front and right side of the building were discounted as storage and not opened. Instead there was the red room that Greg thought he should dislike as the red and white was very in your face, but that he found strangely handsome in a way the Green Room and Mummy’s Room hadn’t been.
The final room was Sherlock’s.
Greg hadn’t been sure what to expect of Sherlock’s room given the state of 221B and his flats before that. Something utterly plain with scientific posters on the wall, or a total cluttered mess worse than Mummy’s? It was not what opening the door revealed.
The walls were black, deep dark black with even darker ornate velvet designs embossed onto the wallpaper. The floor was covered in a lush black carpet that contrasted sharply with the skirting boards and other architravings done in a stark white. There was very little furniture in the room, but what was there was all a mixture of black and white, tables with black iron legs supporting stunning white marble tops and glowing white lamps with black shades. Displayed prominently on the wall on a startling white shelf was a selection of whips and crops, with a realistic flower display in crimson, black and green displayed dead centre in a show of decorum that only drew the eye to the paraphernalia surrounding it.
The bed was a four poster affair of wrought iron, twisted and turned in such a way that even without anyone kneeling on it, it was clear where hands and feet would be attached in all manner of intricate poses. In stunning contrast to the room, the bedspread was dark crimson, shiny black sheets turned down over the top covered in crimson and red pillows, the clear inviting, teasing counter point. Unashamed hooks adorned the walls for use restraining a Sub, and there appeared to be some discrete black bolts under various tables.
The room was traditional in every element from the antique bed to the old fashioned wall paper, but the overall effect just did not fit the house. This was a room designed for one purpose and one purpose alone.
Sex.
“He was going through a rebellious phase and thought this was the best way to make himself a nuisance.” Mycroft explained in a bland tone, obviously use to the spectacle that was his brother’s room.
Greg swallowed hard, his mind providing very detailed images as to all the positions Sherlock could have been put into in this room, all the enticing views that would have been enjoyed by his partner. Sherlock was as pale and dark as his room, and the sight of his back criss-crossed in red marks from the kiss of a lash must have been spectacular.
“It’s uh-” He didn’t know what to say. Greg wasn’t even a Dom, but the idea of Sherlock making use of this room was mind blowing. “He really only had one purpose in mind didn’t he.”
Mycroft chuckled in his ear. “It’s never been used, though you are quite correct. He designed it to make an impact and annoy our Sire, and it did achieve its aims. He’s created quite an...atmosphere.”
Oh he had, he really had, and with Mycroft pressed right up against him and his cock half-hard in his pants all Greg could think about was how he would look tied with his limbs spread by those far apart restraints, open and at Mycroft’s mercy. He would never look as good in it as Sherlock, but Mycroft hadn’t seemed to mind the view in the past.
“Do you know why I saved this room until last, Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was a deep rumble in his ear. “Because I know the effect it has on people, because I knew the effect it would have on you. Imagining it, aren’t you, what you would look like bound on the floor of this room. Trust me when I say Sherlock made sure to include some very advantageous specifications in his design, some little details that could be used to drive someone well past the edge of reason into pure bliss.”
Greg thought he whimpered. He wasn’t quite sure.
“I think we’ve seen enough of the house now, don’t you?” A teasing kiss was dropped on the back of his neck, Mycroft’s warm breath hovering over skin.
“Yeah, yeah, um, I’m, I’m good.” Greg was feeling a little light headed and more than a little hard.
“Then maybe we should go back down and refresh your memory of the Master Bedroom, hmm?” Teeth grazed the side of his neck, the slightest brush of tongue following after.
“God yes!”
He wanted to turn around and kiss Mycroft, thrust his tongue deep into his Omega’s mouth and throw him against a wall where they could rut against each other until they came in short, heaving pants, but that wouldn’t be enough, wouldn’t loosen the compressed ball of need lodged in his chest, wouldn’t scratch the deep seated itch he’d lived with his whole life until last December it’d been briefly sated and then flared back to an all-time high.
“Walk out the door.”
Greg started walking, letting the shiver of dominance run over his skin. He was slowly acclimatising to the feeling, it was no longer the shock it had been the first time Mycroft had focused it on him, but the tingling sensation never left nor did the bolt of arousal it always sent straight to the base of his spine.
“Walk down the stairs.”
The order came just as he’d reached the staircase. Obviously he wasn’t to make any move without an order, even though he knew how to get back to Mycroft’s room, so he paused at the bottom of the stairs for his next command.
“Turn.”
He turned on the spot, chin tilting upwards automatically to look at Mycroft who had not stepped down of the last stair.
“So good.” Mycroft purred, the back of a hand running gently down Greg’s face. “Continue to learn this quickly, Gregory. Walk to your right.”
Greg did as told, breaking away from the caress to follow the order. He only made it a couple of steps before he stopped, facing the wall, unsure whether he was meant to go around the corner and continue down the corridor or wait for another command.
“Forward.” Mycroft solved his dilemma. “Right.”
There were not that many stairs in the staircase, not many steps from Sherlock’s room or Mycroft’s to the stairs, but in the short distance Greg could feel himself going down, feel the way his body moved to open the door at Mycroft’s command before he even registered it in his mind.
Mycroft directed him to stand in the middle of the room, then smoothly stripped him of his jacket and belt. Greg was directed to remove his own shoes, and stood there waiting barefoot while Mycroft removed his suit jacket and walked casually over to the bedside table. He opened a variety of drawers, removing items and arranging them deliberately on the bedside table, though they were blocked from Greg’s view by Mycroft’s body.
“Remove your shirt.”
Mycroft turned around and relaxed against the wooden surface. Greg began to remove the item with as much grace and sensuality as he could manage, which he admitted wasn’t much, but the hungry gaze never left Mycroft’s face so he supposed it wasn’t that bad.
“Undo your trousers.”
Clumsy fingers moved to the button and drew the zipper down, releasing some, but not enough of the pressure on his erection. Mycroft pushed off the bedside table and stalked towards him, shod feet making no sound on the carpeted floor.
“Oh, Gregory, the things I have planned for you.” Mycroft came to a halt in front of him, shoulders back and down as he worked every last one of the centimetre difference in their height. Fingers held his jaw in a pistol grip, tilting it so Mycroft’s eyes loomed in Greg’s vision. They were dark and fierce and almost cold while blazing so hot they burned. “It transpires you are quite inspiring in all manner of ways previously unexplored.”
Greg swallowed, trying hard not to lean into Mycroft. He hadn’t been told he was allowed to touch.
“The session starts now, Gregory. Until I say otherwise you may continue to talk.” Mycroft leaned closer, still holding Greg’s jaw, until their foreheads were pressed hard against each other. “I want to hear you scream.”
Greg shivered, the liquid heat at the base of his spine beginning to move around his groin.
“Push down your trousers and pants.”
Mycroft moved back carefully removing his tie, waistcoat and belt. Shoes were undone and placed neatly to the side while Greg watched and the heat spread. With precise movements Mycroft undid the first four buttons on his shirt and rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbow, the entire time maintaining the searing eye contact.
Finally his gaze broke and he moved back towards the bedside table. Now that Mycroft was to the side Greg was better able to see the contents: a bottle of lubricant, the riding crop, a coil of rope, and old fashioned hourglass timer. He’d seen similar timers in black wood filled with glowing white sand on display in Sherlock’s room, timers that having seen the drawer they were removed from took on a less innocent meaning.
Mycroft selected the riding crop, testing it’s flex against his hand before turning around. The sight of Mycroft in a rolled up shirt and obscenely tented bespoke trousers, wearing no shoes and casually dangling a riding crop, was more provocative than any spread in any special interest magazine, no matter how skimpy the outfit or tight the leather.
“God you’re...” Greg just stared, taking in the sight, unable to describe the rush of emotion it caused. His Dom, his Omega.
Beautiful.
No.
Magnificent.
“Why thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft circled him, swinging the crop loosely in one hand. His pace stayed slow, the circle’s progress marked by his phantom presence until he once again stood in front of Greg. “I’m rather enjoying the view myself, though I think we can improve it, don’t you?”
“Anything.” Greg whispered, slightly scared to know he meant it.
They hadn’t discussed many of the finer aspects of a session, what was allowed, what wasn’t, mainly because Greg didn’t believe Mycroft would rule anything out. Mycroft didn’t seem the type of Dom to have many limits.
“We’ll start with this.” Mycroft’s hands fondled Greg’s erection, stroking him firmly in a way that had Greg gasping in seconds. “Do you remember what I said would happen tonight Gregory?”
“Yes.” He ground out.
“What did I say, Gregory?” Mycroft’s fingers flicked over the top of his head causing Greg to lock his knees or fall on the floor.
Two weeks of touches, of hand jobs and blow jobs surrounded in Mycroft’s pheromone driven scent where only Mycroft was allowed to come, and even this was sufficient to bring Greg to the edge.
“You, you said that,” it was hard to concentrate, to gather the thoughts required to answer, “that you were going to ride me.”
“Correct, Gregory, but not complete. What else did I say?” Long fingers caressed his balls.
“You said, you said you were, that, oh Jesus Christ on a bicycle.” Greg bit his lip and tried frantically to stave off the orgasm he felt approaching.
“I said,” Mycroft’s midnight voice whispered in his ear, “that I was going to ride you for an hour, and then, only then, would you be allowed to come.” Something cool pressed against Greg’s cock, wrapping snugly around his testicles. “One day,” Mycroft continued, “I’ll expect you to be able to perform without aid, but for your first time I’m willing to allow you the help.” He stepped back favoured Greg with a long sweeping gaze. “It suits you.”
“You suit me.” Greg replied brazenly. He cocked his head flirtatiously. “So when do I get the chance to wear you?”
The riding crop flicked lightly across his nipples causing them to sting. “Any more of that from you and the next one lands across the offending body part.”
“You promise?” Greg asked, riding the drunken high of arousal and giddy happiness that he was there, that this was happening.
The crop flicked across his lips, hard enough to sting without drawing blood.
“To the bed.” Mycroft whispered, not needing to raise his voice to be heard. “Kneel.”
Greg sunk to his knees, palms turned up on his knees to bare his wrists. Mycroft’s hand fisted in his hair and rolled his head side to side, baring the expanse of his neck, crop tracing over his chest.
“Undress me.” Mycroft didn’t use dominance in the command, but the lack was no less effective than the earlier loaded orders.
Greg went to stand, and the crop whipped lightning fast against his calves.
“From there.”
Reaching Greg could just reach the buttons he needed to on Mycroft’s shirt and slowly slid one after another through the little holes. Once the shirt hung open he let his hands drift tantalisingly over Mycroft’s skin, dancing over his nipples and returning to play and rub them into little peaks when he wasn’t chastised for the action. Leaning forward he placed his lips on Mycroft’s belly, gently kissing the slight roundness, scraping tongue and teeth across flesh until a light tap against his buttocks with the crop signified Mycroft was ready to move on.
It was difficult to push the shirt off Mycroft’s shoulders from where he was, but eventually the silky material slid down to catch on his forearms where the sleeves were rolled. Greg took great pleasure licking and kissing his way up each arm to slide the material down and then off, leaving Mycroft in his trousers alone. One arm reached behind Mycroft and slid under the waistband, teasing the edge of the pants Mycroft was wearing while the other undid the button and zip, lips caressing each centimetre of skin as the fly slid open to reveal it. His hands pushed the material down Mycroft’s legs, lips kissing his inner thigh, behind his knee, his calf as the final barriers of cloth fell to the floor, at which point Greg gently lifted first one foot, then the other, to free Mycroft completely.
“Beautiful.” Mycroft caressed Greg’s cheek with the crop. “Fetch the lubricant.”
Greg again went to stand and received the crop across his legs before he realised that Mycroft meant him to crawl the distance to the other end of the bed to fetch the bottle. He couldn’t stop the rush of blood to his face as he went, shuffling along on his hands and knees with his bound cock bobbing obscenely between his legs, but he didn’t try to deny the flutter of anticipation in his stomach.
Mycroft followed along behind him, settling himself on the bed as Greg reached the bottle of lube. He leant back on his elbows, legs spread wantonly before him.
“Prepare me.”
Greg moaned and went to take the cap off the bottle, only to be stopped by the crop brushing gently over his knuckles.
“Use your mouth first.”
In the past two weeks Greg had racked up a number of blowjobs, Mycroft having found a number of convenient excuses to meet with Greg in the guise of sorting things for him to move in, but he didn’t think that was what Mycroft meant now. Nonetheless, he leant forward and took a greedy suck on Mycroft’s prominent erection, before tantalisingly kissing down the shaft and tonguing over his balls. Pressing back on Mycroft’s hip and sinking further into the floor himself, gave him access to Mycroft’s perineum where he spent a pleasant few minutes licking and sucking before moving that little bit further to nose at the precious, puckered opening beyond.
Tentatively he licked around the muscle, noting the slight spasm it gave at his flickering touches. Pressing harder he began to massage the tight ring with his tongue, occasionally sweeping back over Mycroft’s perineum or gently sucking on one or the other of his balls, actions which both elicited soft gasps above him. Eventually the muscle relaxed, and Greg hesitantly pressed the tip of his tongue inside. The moan he received was worth it and he began thrusting with his tongue enthusiastically, feeling Mycroft press back against him in abortive thrusts, steadily progressing to louder whimpers and moans.
“Fingers.” Mycroft’s hand landed in Greg’s hair, pulling him back and away. “Fingers, now.”
The lubricant bottle was settled next to his leg where it could be easily accessed, so Greg wasted no time sploshing a generous amount over his fingers and moving the first to Mycroft’s hole. His mouth fastened around Mycroft’s penis causing a reflexive gasp that Greg used to hide the introduction of his finger to the first knuckle. He ran it around the wet heat, pressing against the tight walls until they yielded and he could fit another finger alongside.
Mycroft moaned again and thrust into Greg’s mouth, forcing him to pull back slightly and lap at it with his tongue instead. He scissored his fingers, moving them round and round rather than in and out to stretch and made sure to tease around Mycroft’s prostate before stroking over it in one firm move.
“Enough.” Mycroft pressed down, fucking himself on Greg’s fingers in direct opposition to his words. Greg teasingly brushed over the little nub again, drawing another little moan from Mycroft’s lips.
“Enough.”
Greg reluctantly pulled his fingers out.
“On the bed.” Mycroft rolled off the bed and waited impatiently as Greg scrambled up to take his place. “On your back.”
Greg rolled onto his back, and didn’t have to wait long before Mycroft’s slick hand was running up and down his shaft, causing his hips to thrust up off the bed in a driven need for contact.
“Relax.” Mycroft straddled him, grabbing the soft coil of rope from the bedside table. One end was tied to the bed head and then the rope was wrapped around and around Greg’s arm, over his shoulder and down the other end before being tied off, spreading Greg’s arms wide across the bed with just enough slack he could lie back with several pillows to prop up his head, but not so much he could move.
Then, in one slow motion, Mycroft sank down and seated himself fully on Greg’s shaft.
An animalistic groan worked its way out Greg’s mouth. “Fuck, fuck, oh fucking hell.”
“So profane.” Mycroft drew his fingers hard down Greg’s chest, leaving thin red lines where his nails bit into the skin. “Remember Gregory, one hour.”
Greg whimpered. Surely not, Mycroft wasn’t actually serious about that was he? In defiance of Greg’s hope, Mycroft fluidly turned over the hour glass timer and then slowly started moving.
It was the best kind of decadent hell, feeling the smooth glide of Mycroft’s body, the rhythm that started slow and controlled and built and built until ten minutes later Mycroft’s head was thrown back and he was riding Greg with abandon as Greg bucked wildly, body still craving the stimulation and driving towards release.
“Touch yourself. Mycroft, please want, I want to see.” Greg begged, unable to do more than push his hips up into the burning heat above him.
In response Mycroft lowered his hands to Greg’s chest and began to work his nipples to full hardness with soft strokes and sharp pinches even as he slammed down harder on Greg’s cock. Greg arched against him as the sensations flooded through his body, adding to the liquid pool that had grown to fill more than his belly and was making its way through his upper chest and down his arms.
Then Mycroft’s fingers moved, sliding down Greg’s body to where Mycroft’s cock was leaking over his stomach and began to stroke. Greg could feel it, feel the way Mycroft’s body was tightening around him, feel the way his leg muscles began to quiver with the strain as he pushed them faster and faster until with a deep throaty moan he came over Greg. The clamping down of Mycroft’s internal muscles on his cock would have tipped Greg over the edge, tried to, but he was still restrained by the cock ring and no matter how much he wanted to was unable to orgasm.
Eventually the spasms running through Mycroft’s body finished and he leant over to turn the hourglass on its side before pulling off to collapse on the bed next to Greg, one hand idly fondling his hair.
“Fifteen minutes. Not a bad start.”
“Why did you...?” Greg craned his head to look at the timer, horizontal now so no sand fell between the spheres.
“My dear Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice was satisfaction and chocolate. “I didn’t say an hour of sex. I said once I ride you for an hour, and there is a definite difference.”
A tender kiss was placed to the side of Greg’s mouth, sucking lightly on the area the crop had impacted making the whole area tingle as a sharp bolt of pain flared at the act.
“And Gregory,” Mycroft’s eyes were still wild, still alluded to the dark promises made by his voice, “we will do the whole hour.”
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For those of you who are interested, according to what I can find on the internet, the Holmes family motto really is "Trust, but in whom take care". Certainly seems to work for Mycroft..
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