Even when semi-flaccid Mycroft's cock was above average size, and the younger Holmes regarded it warily, like one would a slumbering beast. Mycroft could see the calculations going through his head: solid mouthful = literal pain in the arse. Blinking nervously, Sherlock looked up, seeking reassurance.

Mycroft had no intention of hurting Sherlock. The time for punishment was past. He would make his excuses to his superiors, keeping Sherlock's involvement in the security breach a secret, and go after James Moriarty with all the resources he could command. Mycroft only wanted to pleasure his brother now, introduce him to desires he didn't realize he had.

He took Sherlock's face in his hands, and brushed those swollen lips with his own. Sherlock's breathing calmed and he relaxed into the kiss. When he became bold enough to try slipping his tongue into Mycroft's mouth, the elder Holmes drew back.

"I'm not going to tell you again, Sherlock. Turn around. Shoulders on the floor, back arched. Arse toward me." Then, in a gentler tone, he added, "You'll enjoy it. I promise."

Sherlock swallowed hard, but his anxiety had visibly lessened and anticipation now radiated from every pore. Moving awkwardly on his knees, he turned around and lowered his shoulders carefully to the floor, cuffed wrists joined at the small of his back. The position spread his red, bruised buttocks, revealing the tight hole that still glistened with lube from its earlier breaching. Mycroft's fingertips grazed it gently; it clenched at the feathery touch, making his cock stir back to life.

"I'm going to make you mine. Tonight. Is that what you want?"

Sherlock turned his head, cheek brushing against the carpeting. "Yes, Mycroft," he rasped. The rigid cock that swung heavily between his legs verified it.

"I believe you. Because you know you need it."

Just like I needed it when the academy was ready to expel me. Mycroft shuddered as he remembered once again his 'awakening' in the weapons instructor's office. Summoned there late at night for calling the man a moron during shooting practice, he'd been grabbed and pushed face down on a massive desk, arm twisted behind his back. "You have potential that I'm not going to let you ruin with that attitude," the instructor grunted before tearing his trousers and pants off. "You've had this coming a long time, Holmes…."

And he had. Sherlock was no different.

He picked up the lubricant and re-slicked his fingers. Irene watched greedily, drawing her legs up onto the seat and hugging her knees. "You two are inspiring together," she said. "I feel I should be paying to watch."

Mycroft just smiled. Irene Adler was as tough as she was beautiful, but men and women submitted to her stinging whips and scalding words because they craved such treatment badly enough to pay for it. People submitted to Mycroft because he understood instinctively how to arouse their desires as well as fears. In exchange for surrender, he offered sexual gratification, financial reward, the end of a bloody interrogation, whatever it took.

His younger brother had been the only exception to that rule. Until now. And it was taking every ounce of his self-control to keep from coming again at the mere realization that he, Mycroft Holmes, had brought the volatile and beautifully defiant Sherlock Holmes to his knees.

Leaning forward, Mycroft used his thumb to gently massage lube across the puckered opening. When the muscle relaxed, he pressed inside, burying his index finger in the warm, gripping passage. Sherlock panted as the digit was worked in and out, gradually loosening his entrance enough to take another finger. The younger Holmes moaned at its entry and rocked his hips, trying to fuck himself, but Mycroft dealt a slap with his other hand.

"None of that. I decide what you get, and when. Understood?"

Sherlock nodded, biting his lip. But at the same time, he shuffled his knees further apart and arched his spine with more dramatically, silent begging for deeper penetration.

Irene just smirked.

While continuing to finger-fuck his brother, Mycroft lowered his other hand, which still tingled from the slap, and fondled Sherlock's balls. They were hard and drawn up. Good. He released them and reached lower, until his fingers closed around Sherlock's leaking erection. The younger man moaned and his anal muscles contracted, squeezing down on the fingers that stroked him internally.

"Mycroft, please," he half-sobbed.

"Yes, little brother? Is there something you want from me?" As he spoke, he worked a third finger into that desperate, willing body and pressed down on the swollen knot of Sherlock's prostate.

"Ggguhhhh!" Sherlock shook all over. "Please, please…."

"Something troubling you?"

Irene started to giggle, but shut up when Mycroft flashed a warning glare.

"I… I want… oh, God."

"Are you ready for me to fuck you now? Hmmm?"

"Oh God, yes."

Mycroft took his fingers out and wiped them on a tissue. Then he unzipped and ordered Irene, "Slick me up."

She took the lube bottle from him, poured some onto her hand, and reached for his penis.

"No. Do it on your knees."

Irene hesitated. She was the one who normally gave the orders, and being on the receiving end upset her equilibrium. Mycroft understood, but he wasn't going to allow it: her survival hinged on her complete cooperation. Making a noise that sounded like a sigh and a growl combined, he seized her arm and pushed her off the chair to the floor.

"Don't make me do that again, Miss Adler."

"I'm sorry." She reached for him again, but he grasped her chin and forced her to look him in the eye.

"Sorry what?"

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes."

"Better. Carry on."

When he released her, she took him in her warm, slippery fist and stroked until the entire shaft was thickly lubricated. When he brushed her hand away and slid to the floor on his knees, she scooted back a few feet, watching hungrily.

Mycroft lowered his trousers and pants to mid-thigh and guided his cock toward Sherlock's primed hole. When the younger Holmes felt the swollen tip nudge against his sphincter, he took deep, gulping breaths and pressed his forehead against the floor. Mycroft put a steadying hand on his hip.

"Relax," he murmured. His fingers trailed along the soft curve of Sherlock's arse before he gripped his brother's narrow waist and pushed forward. Sherlock's opening resisted for a split second before relaxing and allowing him inside. Mycroft penetrated him slowly but steadily, loving the feel of the virgin hole stretching around and gripping his cock.

"You feel incredible," he whispered.

Sherlock grunted, and clenched down when Mycroft glided across his prostate. It felt so good that the older man wanted to start pounding immediately, to relieve the fiery, coiling tightness in his groin, but he wouldn't risk hurting his brother. He halted all motion until Sherlock pushed back against him, wordlessly requesting more. Thus encouraged, Mycroft pressed inward until he was buried in that sweet, tight heat to the hilt.

Mycroft cursed the fact that this silent jet was not rigged up with a CCTV surveillance system. He would have loved to watch the footage later. Closing his eyes, he imagined how he must look, still mostly dressed, taking his half-naked brother's virginity in the dimness of a darkened jumbo jet while England's foremost dominatrix knelt a few feet away.

Sherlock trembled from excitement and probably a bit of discomfort, so Mycroft undid his handcuffs and tossed them to Irene. "Touch yourself, Sherlock," he ordered. "It will make things easier."

Sherlock planted one hand on the floor and reached for his crotch with the other. He grasped his cock and tugged on it, the pre-ejaculate smoothing the way. "Mmmmm," he whispered. "Feels so good."

"And how does this feel?" Mycroft withdrew partway and slid back in again, angling the thrust so that his shaft grazed Sherlock's prostate. The younger man let out a bellow and rotated his hips.

"Do it again! Please! Harder! Fuck me!"

Smiling triumphantly at the desperate plea, Mycroft began fucking him in earnest: deep, powerful thrusts that managed to stimulate all pleasure centers at once. Sherlock gripped his own cock tightly, letting Mycroft's movements slide him in and out of his own slippery fist. In a fit of perverse mischief, the elder Holmes slid out of him entirely and rubbed the blunt, wet tip teasingly against Sherlock's eager entrance.

"I think I've had enough, little brother."

Sherlock looked back at him, dismayed. That was when Mycroft chuckled darkly, seized his hips hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, and plunged back in with such force that Sherlock's head nearly hit the wall.

That was all it took: Sherlock shuddered all over just before hot semen exploded across his fist and onto the floor. His arsehole pulsed with the force of the orgasm, milking Mycroft's cock so mercilessly that the elder Holmes abandoned all semblance of control and rode his brother until his own climax erupted.

When his post-coital shivers subsided, Mycroft pulled out slowly and slumped into a half-sitting, half-kneeling position against the seat behind him. Sherlock's empty hole continued to spasm before it finally closed, sending lube and semen dribbling down his crack. Mycroft had never seen anything so nasty yet beautiful before, and reached out to stroke those trembling buttocks.

It was Irene who broke the silence. "Well, Mr. Holmes," she said as she gazed at her phone's screen, "if I'd known that cooperating with you entailed such delicious fringe benefits…."

She turned the display toward him. Despite the small screen dimensions, he saw all too clearly that she had started filming the moment he sank into Sherlock's body, and didn't stop until the grand finale.

Mycroft lunged for her, but she was too fast. Before he was on his feet, she had vanished through the curtain that separated the cabin from the plane's door, and the portable staircase rattled with the force of her departure.

"Don't bother chasing her," Sherlock sighed as he sat up. When his sore buttocks rested against his heels, he hissed in pain and forced himself to stand. "She definitely has an escape plan in place."

"I know. God damn it."

In addition to spread-eagled princesses and hogtied politicians, Irene Adler's phone now had the Holmes brothers in action.

His mobile dinged. It was an incoming text from Irene, complete with video attachment.

I know you'd like your own copy. Til later, Mr. Holmes. IA

A moment later, a second one arrived.

Your secret is safe with me. As long as I'm safe, of course. P.S. Jim who? Bored with him now. You'll take him down without my assistance, I'm sure.

Then a third.

You handled Sherlock better than I could have. Well done.

Forceful thoughts burned through Mycroft's brain like fever cells.

That bitch!

She used Sherlock, and made a fool out of me.

God, what a woman.

"I hope you're going to apologize," Sherlock said as he hunted for his pants and trousers.


"You had a go at me for letting Irene fool me. Now it seems we have that in common."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose that's fair," Mycroft sighed as he rearranged his clothing.

Sherlock regarded him solemnly. "I don't want an apology for anything else that's happened tonight. In fact, I want to thank you. I… I feel different. Better. Calmer, but not bored. It's intriguing."

Mycroft pocketed the phone and approached his brother. "Come here," he murmured, extending his arms. Sherlock came to him without hesitation. He didn't return the embrace, but he did rest his cheek against Mycroft's shoulder.

"You know I care about you, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded. "That's why I let it be you. There wasn't a minute when I felt I was in danger. How did you know what would work for me?"

"Because it worked for me once."

A moment of silence. Then Mycroft felt his brother grin against his shoulder. "You realize that you've created a monster? If this is what you'll be doing whenever I misbehave, I might just become worse than ever."

"Then so will I, little brother." Mycroft dropped his hands to that firm, bruised arse and squeezed the sore muscles.

And Sherlock's smile widened.


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