Life of the Party
Oct. 2nd, 2012 12:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hurinhouseTitle: Life of the Party
Author: hurinhouse
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Peter/Neal, omc, ofc
Summary: Party favors for the Elite.
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction
621 words
Slick skin, shivering with apprehension and suppressed need. A thick palm runs down his sweat-soaked back, teases goose bumps onto his ass, and he flinches just slightly before getting himself back under control. Peter sighs as he watches, adjusts his pants, relieved he wore briefs when he catches the little hitches in Neal's breath across the room.
"Why the tie, Peter?"
"It'll be better this way. Don't question me."
Refined manners and exquisite jewelry, the guests mingle, roam the vast room, and touch Peter's boy at will. He's glad he chose this club. He doesn't want anyone they know looking at Neal the way these hungry sharks do tonight. The assless leather chaps pop against Neal's pale skin and Peter's seen more than one guest's pocket sporting a telltale ringed outline, the edge of a foil wrapper poking out the top. They hope for a change in the rules mid-evening; a change that Peter won't allow.
"Mr. Smith, I can't remember when we've had such a delicious model. Thank you for participating."
Peter smirks at the moniker, glad he'd insisted on anonymity. "Though this is a one-time thing, I must admit it's better than I'd imagined."
"I trust you'll get all you wanted out of this evening."
"Oh we will, whether or not he believes it right now."
Another shiver and Neal moans, slender fingers caressing his balls, swirling slowly while he undulates, an amusing counterpoint to the soft piano piece resonating throughout the room. Peter's not worried; the elastic he placed around Neal's cock and balls should prevent him from coming. The guests have specific instructions not to push it too far, though Neal will try his damndest to come out of spite.
Neal turns his head toward the crowd, blindly searching. "Peter?" His voice is starting to pick up a desperate edge and Peter has to stamp down his erection at the rasp in his lover's plea.
The ropes holding Neal's knees apart are soft and silken, as are those that hold his wrists bound just above him. The table he kneels on is draped with a satin blanket covering a thick spongy pad for Neal's comfort. But the blindfold is Peter's favorite part - Neal's tie.
Peter crosses to the table and the guests back away, affording due respect. He holds up a hand to the man currently molesting his lover, gestures for him to continue. Peter caresses Neal's cheek, runs fingers up into his hair. "Peter? Peter, please… " and Neal pulls at the ropes again, apparently forgetting that hasn't worked this past hour.
Peter kisses Neal, calms him, silently guides him to focus, if just for a moment.
"Drink, Neal." He holds his champagne flute to Neal's lips and the man swallows greedily, absently writhing to the rhythm being licked against his ass. Peter nods for an early exchange. The next in line has a lube-soaked finger ready and Neal sobs as she sinks it slowly, so slowly into him.
Two hours later, when all the guests have left and Peter has possession of the only key to the room, he pulls Neal to the edge of the table, runs a hand over the man's over-stimulated cock as he begs incoherently.
"You did so well," Peter praises, kisses every inch of this amazing pain in the ass he's able to call his own. He lowers the zipper of his tux and lines up, sliding in with a groan, worshiping the body he aches for everyday.
"How'd she do?" he asks as he maps his tongue up Neal's spine. Neal is slow to answer between gasps, between thrusts, but Peter can feel his smile when he finds his trembling voice…
"Elizabeth is the best party planner ever."
Author: hurinhouse
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Peter/Neal, omc, ofc
Summary: Party favors for the Elite.
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction
621 words
Slick skin, shivering with apprehension and suppressed need. A thick palm runs down his sweat-soaked back, teases goose bumps onto his ass, and he flinches just slightly before getting himself back under control. Peter sighs as he watches, adjusts his pants, relieved he wore briefs when he catches the little hitches in Neal's breath across the room.
"Why the tie, Peter?"
"It'll be better this way. Don't question me."
Refined manners and exquisite jewelry, the guests mingle, roam the vast room, and touch Peter's boy at will. He's glad he chose this club. He doesn't want anyone they know looking at Neal the way these hungry sharks do tonight. The assless leather chaps pop against Neal's pale skin and Peter's seen more than one guest's pocket sporting a telltale ringed outline, the edge of a foil wrapper poking out the top. They hope for a change in the rules mid-evening; a change that Peter won't allow.
"Mr. Smith, I can't remember when we've had such a delicious model. Thank you for participating."
Peter smirks at the moniker, glad he'd insisted on anonymity. "Though this is a one-time thing, I must admit it's better than I'd imagined."
"I trust you'll get all you wanted out of this evening."
"Oh we will, whether or not he believes it right now."
Another shiver and Neal moans, slender fingers caressing his balls, swirling slowly while he undulates, an amusing counterpoint to the soft piano piece resonating throughout the room. Peter's not worried; the elastic he placed around Neal's cock and balls should prevent him from coming. The guests have specific instructions not to push it too far, though Neal will try his damndest to come out of spite.
Neal turns his head toward the crowd, blindly searching. "Peter?" His voice is starting to pick up a desperate edge and Peter has to stamp down his erection at the rasp in his lover's plea.
The ropes holding Neal's knees apart are soft and silken, as are those that hold his wrists bound just above him. The table he kneels on is draped with a satin blanket covering a thick spongy pad for Neal's comfort. But the blindfold is Peter's favorite part - Neal's tie.
Peter crosses to the table and the guests back away, affording due respect. He holds up a hand to the man currently molesting his lover, gestures for him to continue. Peter caresses Neal's cheek, runs fingers up into his hair. "Peter? Peter, please… " and Neal pulls at the ropes again, apparently forgetting that hasn't worked this past hour.
Peter kisses Neal, calms him, silently guides him to focus, if just for a moment.
"Drink, Neal." He holds his champagne flute to Neal's lips and the man swallows greedily, absently writhing to the rhythm being licked against his ass. Peter nods for an early exchange. The next in line has a lube-soaked finger ready and Neal sobs as she sinks it slowly, so slowly into him.
Two hours later, when all the guests have left and Peter has possession of the only key to the room, he pulls Neal to the edge of the table, runs a hand over the man's over-stimulated cock as he begs incoherently.
"You did so well," Peter praises, kisses every inch of this amazing pain in the ass he's able to call his own. He lowers the zipper of his tux and lines up, sliding in with a groan, worshiping the body he aches for everyday.
"How'd she do?" he asks as he maps his tongue up Neal's spine. Neal is slow to answer between gasps, between thrusts, but Peter can feel his smile when he finds his trembling voice…
"Elizabeth is the best party planner ever."
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Date: 2012-10-02 11:02 pm (UTC)