Bedroom Tango

They laid him face-up on the four-poster bed, wrists secured to the corners via Mycroft’s silk ties. Mouths glided over his naked skin, sometimes just breathing lightly, other times inflicting warm, wet licks on his nipples, cock, and other places where a single, orphaned touch can lead to insanity. He was on the verge of begging, but Mycroft noticed it and spared his pride by swallowing him down to the base.

“Oh, God!” he cried. The blindfold hindered his vision, but he could imagine the scene only too well: his normally immaculate older brother sprawled on the mattress, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, gripping his cock in finely manicured fingers and sucking with the same skill and finesse he applied to all his undertakings. Before the blindfold was applied, Sherlock had seen that Mycroft’s own erection was distorting his trouser silhouette, and he wondered if he would get a chance to touch, taste, and explore.

“Look at the two of you,” Irene said from somewhere to Sherlock’s left. She sounded amused. “Playing so nicely for once. Mycroft, darling, maybe this is the way to accomplish world peace.”

Mycroft paused in his ministrations. “I concur. Preventing wars by advocating incest- is there a Nobel prize category for that?”

They both laughed, and even Sherlock grinned quickly. Then Mycroft’s tongue was laving over his swollen flesh again and all coherent thought vanished. He thrust his narrow hips off the bed, ramming his impressive length down his brother’s throat, but before he could bring them back down, he felt Mycroft hook one strong arm behind his knees and pull his legs toward his chest, nearly doubling him in half. At the same time, Irene stuffed a pillow under his lower back, grasped his arse cheeks, and spread them wide.

The first glide of her tongue across his hole caused Sherlock to squeal and renew his struggles, although he definitely didn’t want to escape. Mycroft merely tightened the grip on his legs and continued to suck him without breaking stride, gleefully contributing to what was quickly turning into stimulation overload. Sherlock’s imprisoned erection spilled fluid all over his clenching belly as the Woman licked his virgin entrance slowly and lazily before dipping her tongue inside.

She’d already penetrated him before, with two fingers, but this was higher on the intensity scale. That wet, squirming muscle taunted him, opening him up and scalding nerves that were already overheated.  He let out a ragged cry as she fucked him with her mouth, lips soft and smooth against his trembling skin. 

Mycroft lifted his head at the noise. “Feels wonderful, doesn’t it, Sherlock?” he purred, hand continuing to slide up and down his brother’s cock. “She’s going to prepare you so well for me. Then I’m going to fuck you. Hard. Would you like that?”

“Is… is it going to feel like everything you’ve done to me so far?” Sherlock stammered.

Mycroft’s now-husky voice responded, “Better.”

“Then please, yes. Please.”

Irene drew back. “I think it’s your turn, big brother. Mummy would like to watch now.”

Sherlock waited with mingled lust and curiousity as Mycroft released him and shuffled down the mattress. Irene straddled the young man’s waist: he knew she was naked when her warm buttocks settled down on him and he felt slick dampness from her mound pressing into his belly. Desire didn’t soften her in the slightest: her grip on his still-raised knees was firm and the teasing, too-light pressure she applied as she stroked his cock was almost cruel.

Sherlock heard a tube click open just before a lubricated finger –thicker, blunter than Irene’s- traced teasingly around his hole. When he thrust toward it impatiently, Mycroft laughed and pressed slowly through the tight muscle ring, which had relaxed somewhat thanks to Irene’s ministrations. It slid into his body until Mycroft’s knuckles were perfectly aligned with the split of his buttocks, and paused there before gliding in and out, the squelching of lube marking its progress. When the slippery digit withdrew Sherlock whimpered in protest, but the sound turned into a cry of satisfaction when Mycroft penetrated him again, this time with two fingers.

“Oh,” he exclaimed at the added stretch. The aching burn spiked briefly into pain territory when his brother scissored those two fingers, carefully working him open, but at the first sign of tension, Irene applied the perfect amount of pressure on her upward stroke and Mycroft rotated his wrist so that Sherlock’s prostate was stimulated with each inward thrust. 

“How’s it feel, Sherlock?” the elder Holmes queried smugly. As if he didn’t already know. Unable to form words now, Sherlock thrust back against those fingers as much as his limited range of motion could permit, until he finally managed to stammer, “More.”

He felt Irene release his cock and lean forward. A tube clicked open again. “Deep breath, darling,” she ordered. When he complied, four fingers plunged into him on the exhale: Mycroft’s and hers combined. Together they probed, teased, massaged, and stretched, and for the first time Sherlock truly appreciated that his body was not just transport. It contained so many hidden triggers and pleasure points: his limited experience with masturbation had left him woefully unprepared for this.

“He’s ready,” Mycroft pronounced in rushed, uneven tones. Sherlock had never heard his brother sound so close to coming undone before.