Mycroft Holmes was conflicted--very conflicted, even--yet he had chosen to wash his hands in the scullery. He knew what he would see, and still he had gone.
There was a clear line of sight from the scullery window to the carriage house manger, and in that manger his still-laughing brother was about to have his cock sucked by John Watson, Viscount Granthorpe. His eyes skittered over Sherlock’s ribs, now clearly visible, and focused on the curve of John’s arse and the strength of his thighs, both boldly outlined in the soft leather trousers. He would not have thought such rough stuff would be so revealing… but then John Watson remained every inch a nobleman, no matter what he was wearing.
As John unlaced the thong that held the front of his breeches together, Mycroft could see that this particular nobleman had many inches. Gratifying to know, he supposed, as he trained his focus on John’s cock rather than Sherlock’s, that his estimates had been quite correct. Sherlock might lack experience, but he clearly preferred a larger gauge, and this John could supply. Well, Mycroft thought to himself, he had actually supplied it, which kept Sherlock out of his hair and off the streets, and paid off a favour to John in the bargain. A neat piece of work, really, though he had not expected either the--literally--shit gifts or the fornication in mangers.
Mycroft glanced back out. John’s arse was on spectacular display as he rubbed against Sherlock, the ripple of muscle under the leather mesmerizing and deeply suggestive. Mycroft watched the last gasp as John met his crisis, then turned from the window and went to his office to write a brief note. He, too, had favours he could call in, and the thread of desire in his belly meant it was time.
The note was received in Bow Street with a nod of recognition, followed, as it was unfolded, by a gape and a smile. Bow Street Runner Gregory Lestrade was used to Mycroft’s freaks by now, and really, this one promised some fun. Greg crumpled up the note and tossed it into the fire as he left.
* * *
The Lestrade who knocked on the door of Mycroft Holmes' study was quite different from the Lestrade that had left Bow Street some forty minutes before. Instead of a neat uniform, he was clad in faded leather breeches and a long loose linen shirt. A soft cloth hat and heavy boots completed the ensemble.
"May I help you?" Mycroft growled.
"I got a note that a stablehand was needed at this address, a direct request from Baronet Clytheroe."
“And yet you didn’t go to the back door?”
“There was no answer, m’lord.” Lestrade lounged against the doorjamb, face insolent & arms crossed, “But I’ll be on my way if you don’t need me.”
“I might do. Let me see you.”
“By all means,” Lestrade stepped forward and spread his arms wide. “Look your fill.”
Mycroft did. If possible, Lestrade filled his trousers better than John had; his narrow hips and strong legs making a perfect frame for the bulge at his flies.
“Like what you see?”
“Insolent. Is that why you were dismissed from your last place?”
Lestrade’s eyes took on a mischievous gleam.
“Not quite. The butler caught me sucking the second footman’s cock.”
“An invert as well, then. And probably a bad lot besides.”
“I’ve been called that, yes, but I’m very good at what I do.”
“I’m a very demanding master.”
“I’m sure. How can I prove myself to you?”
“Come here, and let me see your hands.”
“Oh, it’s my hands you want to see?”
“Among other things.”
“It’s not your horses you want me seeing to, is it? Too scared to go down to the docks, then?” Lestrade grinned.
“You’re aware that’s quite untrue.” Mycroft stood, as if to forestall Lestrade, who was already halfway across the room.
“I am, but I like to see you prim up your aristocratic mouth before you suck my cock with it.” Lestrade said, leaning now into Mycroft’s body. Mycroft held himself steady, but with difficulty; his composure was further shaken when Lestrade reached out and cupped his prick, already hot and heavy in the irreproachable buckskins.
“Very nice,” Lestrade breathed, the heat of his mouth beckoning against Mycroft’s neck.
“Taking liberties, are you?” Mycroft said, as he bent to kiss him. Their lips met with a dangerous softness, and Lestrade’s own body shook at the teasing caress.
“Always,” Lestrade said. He kissed Mycroft more firmly, seizing his hips so their cocks aligned. Mycroft tugged the shirt from the trousers, running his fingers over the soft smooth skin at Lestrade’s waist. Lestrade nipped Mycroft’s lower lip, then pulled back and began to rock his hips, watching Mycroft’s eyes dilate as their cocks rubbed together.
“Like that, eh? It’s a special riding technique.”
Mycroft’s mouth twitched, but he allowed the caress to continue, slow and deliberate, until they were both breathing harshly. Then he stilled Lestrade’s hips and pulled the worn shirt over his head.
“That does remind me,” he said, caressing the well-formed chest and shoulders. “How is your seat?”
“I would say, my lord, that it is quite fine, though perhaps you wish to check it for yourself.”
“Indeed. I would hate to buy a pig in a poke.” Mycroft’s face did not even twitch as he said this, but Lestrade guffawed silently against Mycroft’s still-clad shoulder.
“Is it the pig you want, or the poke?” he asked, when he could breathe again, but he only received a sharp pinch on his arse for his trouble.
“Unlace your trousers.”
“Don’t you want to?”
“I want you to. Slowly.”
Lestrade obeyed, pulling the leather thong loose from each hole with tantalizing slowness, and it was not until his pubic thatch was visible and the trousers slipping from his hips that Mycroft moved swiftly to his knees. He buried his face in the leather and inhaled, then pushed Lestrade’s hands away and eased the garment gently down.
“Well,” he said, as Lestrade’s thick cock sprang free, “You do have some things to recommend you.”
“That’s not my seat...Christ!”
Mycroft had taken it into his mouth already, sucking firmly and with skill. Lestrade shivered, but the gentle torment did not abate until every hard inch had been covered in kisses.
“Now,” Mycroft’s voice was low with desire, “turn around.” Lestrade obeyed dreamily, kicking away the trousers and letting himself be arranged on the settee.
“It’s certainly a fine seat to look at, but of course I must put it through its paces.”
“Do,” was all that Lestrade could say.
The quiet roll of a drawer followed his plea, and he knew that Mycroft held a little pot of tallow in his hand. He arched his back for what came next, he knew--and jumped in surprise at the swish of a whip across his arse. He groaned as sparks of pleasurable pain shot through him, again and again.
All too soon Mycroft replaced the whip with fingers, pinching the reddened skin here and there, sometimes caressing the soft swell of bollocks visible under Lestrade’s spread legs. When he was satisfied, he stopped, and brought his hand back, fingers slick with tallow.
“What can you take?” he asked, and Lestrade had to catch his breath before answering, chokily, “Whatever you give me.”
Never one to back down from a challenge, Mycroft’s breaching of his arsehole was a little rougher than his usual polished, tender preparation. The pleasurable edge of pain returned, and Lestrade welcomed it, opening himself as well he could to Mycroft’s elegant fingers.
“Let’s try something faster, shall we?” Mycroft said, as he unbuttoned his flies and set his cock to the charge.
“Please, yes,” Lestrade begged, rutting against the smooth damask of the settee. Mycroft was soon fully seated and sparing him nothing, driving a relentless, exquisite rhythm. Only a faint tremble of his thighs showed just how far gone he was, though Lestrade had barely touched him.
In fact, Mycroft was nearly overcome; Lestrade’s submission, although nothing new, took on a fresh piquancy when combined with the role of stablehand. The clothes as well had done their part--especially the leather, falling to expose Lestrade’s beautiful arse. That, and the subsequent quiver of his body as he was whipped and mounted had been a great deal more affecting than he had expected.
“Lovely,” Mycroft pushed the words, out, though they were only a whisper now, “Beautiful pace.”
The words drove Lestrade over the edge; the spasms of his body drew Mycroft to crisis as well. His murmured “love, love” joined with Lestrade’s low groan, and they rode the wave of pleasure to its conclusion.
When their breath had come back to them, Mycroft withdrew, and sat beside Lestrade. Careless of his fine trousers, he drew him down onto his knee and kissed the flushed cheeks and plumped lips.
“‘S a bloody cliché,” Lestrade murmured into his mouth, “On your knee like a bleeding chambermaid.”
“My dear,” Mycroft laughed, “That could be next.”