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Bedroom Tango	By : deklava Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2654 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, nor do I profit financially from this story.

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British Ambassador’s Ball, Buenos Aires, Argentina
As he watched them glide across the dance floor, Sherlock experienced awe, envy, and lust: all feelings that he’d long considered foreign to a sociopath, even high-functioning ones. They sent fissures through his composure and made him feel unstable, even insane.
Mycroft and Irene looked magnificent. Sherlock wasn’t the only one who thought so: heads turned as the Ice Man and the Woman moulded their bodies together in a tango that was part dance, part mating ritual. Their eyes, afire with arousal, were locked as they used touch and whisper and music to stimulate and provoke each other.
The elder Holmes brother was tall and regal in a tailored tuxedo that made his diet-diminished form appear even thinner. His slicked-back hair gleamed with expensive pomade, but the effect was dashing instead of greasy. White gloves, brilliantly polished shoes, and a confident smile completed the suave image.
Irene wore a beaded black gown that showed off her lithe figure. Her wavy dark hair was piled atop her head and held in place by two diamond-crusted combs- an anniversary gift from Mycroft. Blood-red lips pulled back over pearly teeth, making her look feral as she snaked her long legs around Mycroft’s and ground her breasts against his shirt.
The other dancers at the British ambassador’s ball slowed down, stared, and gradually moved aside, yielding the entire floor to the powerhouse couple. Their dancing ability was like their combined intelligence - without equal.
Sweat beaded Sherlock’s pale brow, thanks to the night’s humidity and the desire that heated his blood. He brushed it away and retreated behind a pillar, not wanting them to see him. He’d told Mycroft he had no intention of going to “that boring event”, but that was before the elder Holmes had emerged from his room in their shared suite dressed like a modern Valentino. When Irene showed up, looking every inch like the Dominatrix who nearly brought England to its knees, Sherlock’s response was so visceral that he couldn’t stay away.
Irene lifted one leg, hooked it around her partner’s waist, and slyly ground her pelvis against his. When Mycroft’s hands dropped to her arse and squeezed tightly, Sherlock’s own skin burned and ached. He realized that he wanted to be touched like that.
By both of them.
He couldn’t watch any more. His cock, which had been half-hard since the tango began, now prodded aggressively against the zip of his tailored trousers. Feeling a wetness spreading across his pants front, he hurried to blend in with a group of people heading for the exit.
Sherlock didn’t know that as he escaped into the sultry Argentina night, Irene’s eyes were on him.
*****
Sherlock retained his composure until the suite door clicked shut behind him. Then he sank to his knees on the thick carpet, exhaled loudly, and massaged his crotch, which was now rock hard. When his legs felt steadier, Sherlock made his way over to the sofa, sat down, and flung his head back.
“Fuck,” he groaned. How- and why- had this happened? In one night, Mycroft had gone from being a controlling brother and part-time arch enemy to a fantasy lover. And Irene- he’d always admired her rapier-sharp mind and survival instinct, and her beauty was unquestionable, but women had never been his area. Now he desperately wanted to bury his angular face in her breasts and explore her moist core with his long white fingers. Desire was so dangerous: it made him want the previously unimaginable.
“Traitor,” he hissed at the bulge in his trousers before undoing his belt, hurling it across the room, and yanking both trousers and pants down to his knees. Closing his eyes, he took himself in hand and began stroking roughly. Maybe after he got off, things would make sense once again.
As his cock slid through his tightly closed fist, Sherlock struggled to suppress his moans. Heat surged through his loins, spiking each time his thumb glided over his cockhead. Gripping himself harder at the first hint of oncoming orgasm, he lifted his arse off the sofa cushion and increased the speed of his hip movements. He wanted to come so explosively that the force would banish this new, tormented persona forever and allow his old, unflappable self to reassert itself.
Almost there.
Almost… there.
Almost….
Then hands were on him, one clamping over his mouth while another gripped the base of his cock, snuffing out his climax before it could roar into existence.
“Ah-ah, brother mine,” Mycroft’s voice purred in his ear, making him shiver.
“Poor boy.” Irene’s lips brushed against his flushed cheek. “It looks like being a virgin has gotten boring at last.”
******
Sherlock knew he should break loose, grab for his trousers, and shout at both of them for sneaking up on him, but unsatisfied lust left him trembling and needy. When Mycroft released his mouth, he whimpered, “Please.”
He turned his head and stared at his brother. The right words wouldn’t come, so he pleaded with his eyes. Mycroft read him in an instant and quickly took control.
“Sherlock,” he breathed. “You’re so beautiful, little brother. Relax- we’ve got you.”
Sherlock could have wept with relief, and nearly did. Mycroft and Irene knew what he was feeling, and how to get him through it. One was a Holmes, the other one should have been. They instinctively understood what he needed, without frustrating explanations and discussions complicating and delaying things.
All he had to do was let them.
The elder Holmes took off his gloves, laid them on the coffee table, and slid across the sofa until his hip was flush against Sherlock’s. He then leaned over until he was partly straddling his brother’s naked thigh and took Sherlock’s face in both hands. The younger man’s fingers gripped Mycroft’s suit jacket tightly as their lips collided. A warm tongue that tasted of Cognac and fine cigars coaxed Sherlock’s mouth open and swept all over the interior, making him moan and start frantically rutting against Mycroft’s leg.
Irene, who had released his cock, joined them on the sofa. Her dainty but strong hands grasped his thigh and tugged, interrupting the frottage and forcing his legs apart. Sherlock fought her intervention and tried to continue the friction, desperate because he knew that a few more seconds of intense rubbing would relieve the ache in his balls and the hardness that was now bordering on painful.
“Easy, little one,” she urged. “Not so fast.”
Sherlock growled. He WANTED fast. The warmth that started pooling in his lower belly when he watched them dance was now a raging fire, and he craved release as violently as he’d once needed cocaine. When he let go of his brother’s jacket to try shoving her away, Irene snatched his wrists with surprising strength and pinned them to the cushions.
“I know,” she cooed in a tone both sympathetic and lecherous. “You’ve been awakened, and it hurts, doesn’t it? But let us show you how wonderful sex can be.”
Sherlock whimpered in frustration. He didn’t want to be shown anything that would take more than five seconds to accomplish. He opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft grasped his chin and silenced him with a kiss that was rougher than the last one. The older man’s elbow brushed across the head of Sherlock’s aching penis, making him jerk and struggle so fiercely that he nearly dislodged both of his seducers.
His cries were loud and his limbs flailed, but he trusted them, trusted them to understand that these outer demonstrations of rebellion did not indicate withdrawn consent. His impulsive nature was desperate, confused, and excited and needed something to fight against, so they gave it to him: Mycroft forcefully positioned him with his upper body on the sofa and knees on the floor while Irene used his own tie to secure his wrists against his lower back. When he hissed at her and tried to rub his erection against the cushion edge, Mycroft’s palm descended heavily onto his upturned arse, resulting in a loud crack.
“No more of that, little brother,” he warned.
“I need to come,” Sherlock moaned. The pain from the blow spread to his crotch, stimulating already-tense nerves and sending more pre-ejaculate dripping from his swinging cock.
“And you will,” Irene assured him. “But when we let you.”
He heard the click of her handbag’s clasp opening, and tried to see what she was doing, but Mycroft’s fingers held his head in place while simultaneously caressing pressure points on his scalp. Sherlock relaxed into the touch, letting this new pleasure take the edge off his need, until he felt Irene’s hand grasping his penis at the base.
“What are you-“ he started to say, but before he could finish, a leather cock ring gripped his erection, keeping orgasm at bay. “What the hell?”
“Language!” Mycroft scolded. He smacked Sherlock’s arse again, sending more tremors through the younger man’s body. Sherlock had been spanked by his older brother in the past- after their father died, when their mother was unable to handle him- but it had never felt so good before. Craving more stimulation, he grunted, “Fuck you!”
“Really, now.” Mycroft seized his jaw and forced him to look up. Their stares met. “It appears that you’ve collected your wits somewhat.”
“No matter if he has,” Irene said. “We’ll soon have him begging for mercy. And MORE than twice.”
Sherlock was about to remind her that he’d never demand mercy from anyone, but his intended speech was promptly cancelled when a slender, lubricated finger penetrated his rear and glided across his prostate.
“Oh,” he gasped. His tight sphincter closed greedily down on the probing digit as his stomach muscles tightened and thighs shook. He’d read about the mind-blowing pleasure that this type of caress could incite, but words didn’t do it justice. There was no description for this… this….
He rubbed himself over the cushion again. It felt so good, even if the cock ring kept him from coming.
Sherlock quickly learned that neither Mycroft nor Irene expected him to reciprocate. At least not yet. The wrist bindings served a dual purpose- to prevent accidental injury during his earlier thrashing and remind him that he was in good hands, and that there was no need to direct or control. When a soft blindfold was tied over his eyes just before they assisted him off the sofa and into Mycroft’s bedroom, the feelings of surrender left him gasping.
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Bedroom Tango