For Ella. 3
Greg was lying on the bed, handcuffed to the frame, naked, and his body was weeping with joy. That gorgeous umbrella he had bought for Mycroft for Christmas just four months prior (the black one with the hand-carved wooden handle with the inset of a raven by a well-known British Columbian woodcarver and the soft-as-silk polyester that cost him well over 500 quid) was mere centimeters from touching his bare skin, and if he twitched his leg ever so slightly, he could barely brush against the canopy (held back with a matching tie with the monogrammed initials MH adorning it).
Mycroft was leaning over him, abusing his mouth, still fully dressed and clearly intending to stay that way. He lifted up from Greg's mouth and ran the tip of the umbrella down his torso, watching in delight as Greg's skin popped gooseflesh in its wake. He carefully skirted the area begging for his attention and instead drew the warmed metal tip down the inside of Greg's thigh, while his free hand was smoothing Greg's wonderfully soft hair down, eating up his every moan as if they were delicious slices of cake.
One-handedly, he flipped the umbrella the other was and was now grasping it by its lovely and shiny metal tip, and the wooden carvings on the handle were caressing Greg's thigh now, the soft bite of wooden corners catching on soft downy skin. He gasped as it slowly rubbed against his sac, making the skin tighten up into itself.
God, it was wrong to be turned on by an umbrella, but damn it all if he was going to deny it.
The handle, skilled by his masterful husband, snaked up his body, and tapped him once on the chin, provoking the intended response of drawing it into his mouth. It earned him a pleasant groan from the wielder, watching that phallic reminder sliding in and out of Greg's mouth, using it as a replacement for Mycroft's tongue, who wrenched it away, and crushed his mouth there, jealous of the intimacy the umbrella had gained with Greg.
Instead, he drug it, slippery with saliva, down Greg's body once again, to trace softly at his hip, grazing lightly over his sac and prick, and the further down to line up against Greg's soft cleft, which was more than willing to accept it. He shifts his grip, grasping it by the middle of the canopy now, pushes gently, the wood slipping past the ring of muscle, and lets Greg adjust.
He's gorgeous like this, Mycroft thinks vaguely, mouth currently plundering Greg's, pushing the handle in further, the carved wood corners catching on the sensitive skin. He can tell because every time he pushes it in further, Greg's breathing hitches, and finally, when he can't stand it anymore, he wrenches his mouth away, and lets out a veritable howl at the sensation of something so hard and unyielding inside him. It brings him so close to the edge, and he hasn't even started moving it yet, just fully seated inside of him.
He draws it out, skin catching the corners again, and Greg's body doesn't want to give it up. Slowly, he slides it back home again, repeats the motion (this time faster), until he is veritable fucking his husband with the handle of his very nice, very expensive, umbrella, that was a gift from said husband. The gift he bought with the intention of it someday coming to this – tied naked to their bed, being buggered with an umbrella. The sight very nearly takes his breath away, and the noises, oh the noises Greg is making are just amazing. It is nigh impossible to not be turned on, abusing Greg, and Greg's own body abusing a helpless umbrella. Mycroft has never wished he were an inanimate object (other than cake) before, and he surely wishes he were that umbrella right this second, sliding roughly in and out of his gorgeous husband's body, catching occasionally on that beautiful muscle, and before long, Greg is shouting to the rooftops, screaming Mycroft's name, singing praises for the umbrella, and just a few more rough twitches inside him, and he comes full-force, no hands needed, some dripping onto that lovely handle.
He slips it from Greg's body quickly, before the discomfort has time to set in, and inspects for damage to his husband. None is noted, and so inspects the umbrella. The carving is soft and moist, but none the worse for wear. He quickly undoes the handcuffs, inspecting for bruising. Just a bit raw, no bruises will form, and crawls up the bed, umbrella in one hand, laying it down loving next to Greg's body, a place of honor. Greg's come back to his senses now, rolling to face Mycroft.
"That was bloody amazing," he whispers, voice gravelly from the shouting he's just finished. He strokes a hand down the umbrella, then up Mycroft's arm. Mycroft's own arousal is forgotten, retreated for the time being (will return in 2 hours, 23 minutes), and hums in approval of Greg's comment.
"You certainly sounded like you enjoyed," he murmurs back, hand soft in Greg's hair. "Is your kink successfully satisfied, then?"
"Oh yes. I must say, more than successfully satisfied. We will definitely have to do this again," Greg replies, face soft with a smile.
The next day, Mycroft's umbrella doesn't leave his side. In fact, he never uses another umbrella again - until Greg buys him a new one for his birthday – and this one it already worn in. But that is a story for another time.