The room is dark, and Greg’s world has narrowed down to the warm press of thighs against his face and the slick tang of Anthea against his tongue. He’s all but forgotten that Mycroft is watching them.
He’s not really allowed touch her when they’re like this, and his hands rest uselessly above his head, fingers occasionally biting into the headboard in lieu of Anthea’s hips, her ribs, her arse. Greg always finds he doesn’t mind, not when she’s leaning over him and pressing herself against his mouth. She rocks against him, taking what she wants.
When her hips still, Greg sucks on her clit, dips his tongue inside her. He moans into her cunt as her thighs begin to tremble.
Mycroft watches, imperious, from his perch in a nearby chair. His face is impassive, calm and indifferent, but his eyes are dark, and the fine material of his trousers is distended.
Greg moans into Anthea's cunt, loving the taste of her, the hard throb of her clit under his tongue, the twist her hands in his hair as she grinds down against his mouth. He could spend a lifetime like this, he thinks, a lifetime just letting her pin him down and use his mouth until his jaw aches and his tongue goes numb and his face is sticky and dripping with her. The thought is enough to make him groan.
It’s when Anthea comes, breathless and squirting against his tongue, that Mycroft watches Greg's cock start to twitch and leans forward in his chair to wrap long, cool fingers around its base. He squeezes tight, and Greg wails into the crux of Anthea’s hip, his eyes pinched shut.
"Remember, Gregory," he says, "you have to ask before you'll be allowed to come. And you're in no position to do so right now...it's the height of rudeness to talk with one’s mouth full." Mycroft grins, calm but feral at the sound of Greg's whimper. There’s something wild, savage in Mycroft’s eyes when he gently rests his other hand on the graceful curl of Anthea’s hip, and she collects herself, hips an undulating swell as she starts riding Greg’s face again.