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elrhiarhodanTitle: New York, New York - It’s a Helluva Town – Part I – Riding the Uptown Bus
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey, New York City (Peter/Elizabeth this part)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Private sex acts in public settings
Word Count: ~3800 (this part)
Beta Credit: None
Summary: Kink Meme Prompt Reply: El has a kink. She loves to have dirty sex in public places and Bad!Peter is always willing to indulge her. The hire Rentboy!Neal for a frolic. Extra points for dirty talk and sex in a really refined place like The Cloisters or the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Double bonus for Peter in leather. I couldn’t manage to get Neal as a male prostitute, the story kept turning into something thatkelly_girl wrote (In Between the Lines) a while back. So, we’ve got Dom!Peter, SexFairy!El, and Sad!Neal all set to have sex...on a bus, in a museum, in the park...
__________________
“El, honey - I'm back.” Peter called up the stairs as he closed the door. There's nothing a run in like the early days of springtime in New York, and their own little corner in the outer boroughs was putting on a good show. Not that he was the type of guy who made a big deal about gardens and growing things, but Peter certainly appreciated how much more pleasant a Saturday morning run was when the trees were in bloom and he didn't have to dodge filthy puddles of melting snow. "It's going to be a warm one ... anything you'd like to do today - or do you want to stick with what we discussed last night?"
Peter started up the stairs when El came out of their bedroom, wearing the outfit he privately called "trouble".
“Let’s go to the Met this afternoon, by bus. That is, if you're not too tired.” A coy smile played at the edge of her lips, and her eyes sparkled - a combination of mischief, lust and recklessness that never failed to send Peter's blood straight to his groin. "Go shower, your clothes are out on the bed." El swished past him on the stairs, a combination of gypsy and hippie poetess in a long skirt made of some pastel colored sheer, crinkly material and an equally sheer white cotton blouse, unbuttoned to the top of her breasts – her bra-less breasts. “Go – shower, you stink! And hurry, please. I’ll take care of Satchmo.”
Peter bounded up the stairs – when El got into this mood, he couldn’t move fast enough. A quick shower, cold – because Peter didn’t think he would last without some external dampener to his lust – and then – to dress. The hand made, custom-tailored black leather pants were a gift from El for their fifth anniversary – after they discovered how embarrassing this little game could get when he wore more porous clothing. They still fit as perfectly as they did the first time he wore them – regular runs, pickup basketball and chasing Neal Caffrey kept Peter Burke in excellent physical condition. A black cotton and silk Elie Tahari tee-shirt – also tailored to fit – was a gift to himself after catching the Dutchman, and Italian loafers, as fine as anything in Neal’s inherited wardrobe, were a present from El after the last pair got ruined. These clothes were as much of a costume as the ill-fitting suits and ugly ties he wore to work. Most people failed to look past the goofy persona they created. This wardrobe was helped create what he privately (and with a little self-embarrassment) called “Bad Peter.”
Peter grabbed his phone, wallet, and keys. And his sun glasses – the only things he would normally wear during the week, leaving the badge and gun behind. The last thing he wanted was to be identified as law enforcement on these little outings.
He found his wife downstairs, practically hopping from one foot to the other in suppressed excitement. “Are you ready, El?” Peter kept his voice pitched low and steady – using a stern tone he normally reserved for dealing with probies when they made stupid mistakes. “Really ready?”
“Yes, Peter.” El’s voice was a breathless whisper, and her hands twisted together.
“Then let me see.”
El slowly raised her skirt – past her knees, past her slim, toned thighs, and over her hips. Her breathing quickened as she saw her husband’s nostrils flair in response to the sight of her waxed pussy barely covered by a pair of thong panties.
“Nice. Now turn around and bend over.” El quickly complied, and Peter gave her two quick, stinging spanks on each firm ass cheek. “Is that enough to keep you?”
“Yes, Peter. Thank you, Peter.” El turned around, dropped her skirt, and gave her husband a scorching, up-from-under look that promised both heaven and hell.
“Then let’s get going.”
The game really started on the subway ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan, with El straddling Peter’s leather clad thigh. The swaying movement of the train and the friction of the polished lambskin and the tangle of cotton skirts against her nearly bare pussy and still smarting ass were slowly driving her crazy. If the other riders in the nearly empty subway car thought it was odd for a grown woman to sit on a man’s leg when there were plenty of empty seats, they kept their thoughts and their eyes to themselves. When the train turned after pulling out of the Atlantic Avenue Station, before heading non-stop into Manhattan, Peter raised his thigh and she braced herself against it. The pressure against her clit was just too much, and El orgasmed, for the first time that day, in a near soundless whimper of pleasure.
“Did you just come, El?”
El stared at her husband, his eyes shielded by the dark, aviator-style sunglasses he preferred, the only expression visible on his face was that smirk, that shark-like grin that drove her insane.
“Did you?”
El bent forward, pressed a knee gently into her husband’s groin and whispered into his ear, “Yes, can’t you smell it?”
Peter growled in response. He slid a hand up under El’s blouse, and first cupping her breast before he started to tug at one already tumescent nipple. “Come again before we get to Penn, and I’ll give you a really special present.”
El leaned into that warm, calloused palm, letting her long dark hair fall forward – not so much to hide Peter’s hand – but to tease anyone who may be looking. Were they really seeing what was happening? The thought of strangers staring at her as she covertly took her pleasure was a sharp goad to her already drenched sex.
El came two more times before the subway finally pulled into Penn Station.
They almost had to fight their way out of Penn Station – the magnificent weather was a big attraction for the bridge and tunnel set, but Peter never let go of El’s hand. When they finally made it from subway platform to the main concourse and then to the mezzanine level, El wanted to stretch her legs a bit and made for the stairs up to 7th Avenue, but Peter grabbed her waist from behind and maneuvered her to the upside escalator.
He growled possessively into her ear, “Do you really think I’m going to let you take two steps from me, dressed like that? Besides, isn’t this better?” With a quick tug, Peter deposited El in front of him on the moving staircase, and nudged her buttocks with his erection. The ninety second-long ride to street level should have been too short for her satisfaction, but the thought of her husband’s excitement and the pressure of the surrounding crowd of day-trippers was just enough for a quick, secret pop.
A quick two-minute walk from the station exit to the bus stop on 32nd Street was enough to clear the sexual muzziness from their heads, though Peter was still sporting wood – only somewhat restrained behind the button fly of the leather pants.
“Your chariot awaits, madam.” Chin held high, El boarded the empty M4 bus and walked towards the back, taking position against a steel pole near the rear exit door. Peter paid their fares and followed. The bus idled for a few more minutes as other passengers got on – a few middle-aged tourists and a gaggle of pre-teen girls who drifted to the very back of the bus. For the first time since they left the house in Brooklyn, Peter took off his sunglasses – actually taking off the persona of “Bad Peter” and becoming her adoring husband. He gently tucked a forefinger under El’s chin – and looked her in his wife’s endless blue eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this? This is a big step – when the bus pulls out, there’s no turning back. ”
El looked right back into her husband’s eyes – no coyness, no game playing, no false shyness or pretend submission. “I want this – I need this – and I want you to have this too.”
As the bus pulled away and lumbered east down 32nd Street, Peter put his sun glasses back on, and leaned in against El, crowding her against the steel pole and kissed her, lovingly at first, then harder and more demanding. El whimpered into Peter’s mouth as the line of metal buttons covering his crotch pressed hard into her lower belly. The pole behind her slipped between the cheeks of her ass, while her husband’s hand dug almost painfully into her scalp. She came again, when Peter nipped at her lower lip and finally released her mouth.
El stood on tiptoe and tugged Peter’s head to her lips. “That’s four, and you haven’t even fucked me yet.” She nipped his ear sharply, and was rewarded with a shudder from that reverberated all along her body.
“Baby, you’ll be lucky if I don’t have to carry you off this bus.”
The uptown M4 bus was a notoriously slow ride, even on the weekends, taking almost an hour from 32nd Street to 82nd and Madison – the stop for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Peter put that time to good use, slowly grinding his cock against his wife. As the bus lumbered up Madison Avenue, stopping every other block to pick up (and occasionally discharge) passengers, Peter held onto his wife’s ass, rubbing one long, calloused finger between her cheeks, slowly feeding the layers of her skirt into her tight hole. At some point, after the bus left the 42nd Street stop, it was packed so tightly that no more people could get on.
Standing between a pair of German tourists (good camera gear, bad body odor) and an elderly woman clinging to her overstuffed shopping cart (why did they allow people to bring those things on the bus???) Peter stood solidly over El, who clung provocatively against the steel pole – hands over her head, braless breasts out-thrust, completely ignoring the leering eyes of the other passengers. At 50th Street, he flipped El around so that he pressed against her from behind, and took advantage of the pressing crowd to slowly lift her loose, flowing skirt over the lower curves of her ass cheeks and drape it over his hand. At 52nd Street, as the Germans pushed passed them to get off (probably to snap bad pictures of Rockefeller Center or St. Patrick’s), Peter reach down, popped open the buttons on his fly. Using the cover of El’s skirt, he pulled out his cock, and in a maneuver timed precisely with the jerking acceleration of the M4, Peter shoved himself in his wife’s dripping cunt.
As he pressed into her from behind, face impassive, voice low and tight, Peter whispered “Do you know how wet you are? You’re like a river, you’re a bitch in heat. I’ve made you come almost half a dozen times this morning – now, made ME come. But no one can know.”
Thrilled at the dirty words, El took a deep breath, or as deep a one as she could, pressed shoulder to groin from the front, and covered like a mare from the back with Peter’s thick cock stuffed into her. She began to rhythmically squeeze her pelvic muscles, slowly driving her husband, and herself insane.
For the next twenty-five blocks, as El milked her husband’s cock, she exercised just as much control over her facial muscles. The first time they had done this, she could barely restrain herself, and practically gave an elderly woman sitting across from her a heart attack as she humped against the pole and squealed out her climax. After a decade of marriage – a decade of playing both the tormentor and the tormented – El’s control was now nearly perfect. She could keep her normally animated face perfectly blank, but nothing could stop the flush from her hairline to her breast, or keep her nipples from furling into tight peaks.
At 72nd Street, just ten blocks from their destination, the old woman with the cart needed to get off (as did Peter, for that matter). She didn’t try to push between them, but as she dragged the wire cart off the bus, she shoved against Peter’s back, which, in turn, pushed Peter deeper and harder against El, and El harder against the steel pole she now straddled. Another unexpected jostle pressed her clit against the unyielding pole, and she came, hard – harder than any time that morning. That set Peter off, and to El’s secret delight – he completely lost control and as he came, he buried his face in her hair.
Once more using the cover of her skirt, Peter pulled out of his wife’s tight, overflowing sex, the softening head of his cock trailing semen across her ass. He tucked himself back in, and with the crowded bus now a bit less crowded, he dropped down into a seat, pulling El with him, across his lap. Her arms wound around him like ivy around an old tree.
Peter looked at his wife’s flushed face, drinking in her glowing eyes, her swollen lips, and he was humbled. Ten years, a decade of marriage – and Elizabeth still had the capacity to astonish him.
It wasn’t just these games – his desire to dominate and hers to challenge that dominance – it was the endless well of her love that defined him, brought him joy, made him strong. He threaded a hand through her sweat-dampened hair and kissed her. So involved did the two of them become in their kiss that they didn’t notice the NY transit cop standing in front of them.
“You two – aren’t you a bit old to be sucking face in public?”
Peter slowly lifted his head from El’s sweet mouth, pushed up his sun glasses and gave the man his most intimidating glare – the one that could send any one of his junior agents into hiding. “Is there a problem, officer – with me kissing my wife?”
“Uhmm, uh – no – just you know – you should get a hotel room.” The cop stammered, cowed – and saved from some wholly unexpected and barely perceived threat to his continued existence by the bus driver’s announcement that they were now at 83rd Street, the stop for the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
“You know, officer,” El drawled, “I just think we might.”
Although both El and Peter were a little weak in the knees, they were able to make it off the bus and out onto the tree-lined Madison Avenue without incident and burst into gales of uncontrollable laughter.
“Hell, El – you’re crazier than I am.” Peter finally caught his breath.
“So, where’s my present?” El twirled in the sunshine, her skirt (with quite a few damp patches) flaring out, then falling neatly around her legs..
“You mean what you just got wasn’t enough?”
“No – and you know what I want.”
“Then hold on a sec, I need to check availability.” Peter pulled out his phone, and with a few taps, he able to confirm that El’s present was still on the move, but would definitely be accessible very shortly. “Yes - your present is on it’s way. I’ll need to recheck in a bit – get the delivery point confirmed.”
El sucked in her breath – and stepped back, the reality of soon to be fulfilled desires almost too much to bear.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It was just short walk from Madison to Fifth Avenue, and the grand front entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Hundreds of people – tourists and New Yorkers alike, were seated on the enormous front steps leading up to the grand Beaux Arts building. The fountains that flanked either side of the staircase were bubbling and banners hung over the museum’s massive bronze doors snapped in the light early afternoon breeze.
Peter scanned the crowd, looking for something, and then checked his phone again. “It seems like there’s a bit of a delay. Your present is still in transit.”
“I don’t mind – let’s sit here and pretend were tourists.” El sank down onto a step and pooled her skirt between her legs. “I think I need to dry off a bit.”
Peter sat down behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, pulling her back between his thighs. To any one passing by, they looked like a pair of well dressed tourists, vaguely European, just relaxing in the sun.
“Peter, will you take it out?”
“El – ”
“Come on, please – my shirt it white, it won’t show.”
“Elizabeth Burke – I am NOT jerking myself off onto your back. Not now.”
El frowned in playful disappointment – she hadn’t really expected Peter to masturbate into her hair – but she did love teasing him. So they just sat in the sun, until Peter’s phone chimed, and he pulled her to her feet.
“Let’s go.”
El skipped up a few stairs, expecting Peter to be right behind her. When he didn’t immediately follow, she turned around and saw him standing still, staring down at the step she just vacated. “Peter?” He looked up at her, that deadly smirk even more shark-line. She held out her hand and Peter took it – yanking her back down a few steps, tight against his big, warm body.
“Honey – you left a wet spot.”
They paid their admission and affixed the little metal “M” badges on each other. El wanted to put Peter’s on through one of the button holes on his fly, but she settled for a more sedate location on the collar of his tee shirt. Peter used the opportunity to rub his knuckles against her breast before clipping the tag to one of the flounces of her blouse.
El was a bit startled when Peter started pulling her towards the massive store that dominated the museum lobby. This was not where she was expecting him to go.
“Peter?”
“El? Don’t you want your present?”
“From the gift store?
“Isn’t that where you usually get presents?”
El couldn’t believe it – they had talked and planned and discussed the ramifications. Could she have completely misunderstood Peter, or was this his way of telling her he had changed his mind?
“Gotcha!” The sunglasses were off and Peter was grinning from ear to ear. “The look upon your face… a real Kodak moment.”
“Peter Burke – you do that to me again, I’m going to …”
“Nah – no you won’t”
“So – we doing this?”
“Your present’s in the Dendur Pavilion, let’s go get it.”
End Part I
Go to New York, New York - Part II – In the Dendur Pavilion
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey, New York City (Peter/Elizabeth this part)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Private sex acts in public settings
Word Count: ~3800 (this part)
Beta Credit: None
Summary: Kink Meme Prompt Reply: El has a kink. She loves to have dirty sex in public places and Bad!Peter is always willing to indulge her. The hire Rentboy!Neal for a frolic. Extra points for dirty talk and sex in a really refined place like The Cloisters or the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Double bonus for Peter in leather. I couldn’t manage to get Neal as a male prostitute, the story kept turning into something that
kelly_girl wrote (In Between the Lines) a while back. So, we’ve got Dom!Peter, SexFairy!El, and Sad!Neal all set to have sex...on a bus, in a museum, in the park...“El, honey - I'm back.” Peter called up the stairs as he closed the door. There's nothing a run in like the early days of springtime in New York, and their own little corner in the outer boroughs was putting on a good show. Not that he was the type of guy who made a big deal about gardens and growing things, but Peter certainly appreciated how much more pleasant a Saturday morning run was when the trees were in bloom and he didn't have to dodge filthy puddles of melting snow. "It's going to be a warm one ... anything you'd like to do today - or do you want to stick with what we discussed last night?"
Peter started up the stairs when El came out of their bedroom, wearing the outfit he privately called "trouble".
“Let’s go to the Met this afternoon, by bus. That is, if you're not too tired.” A coy smile played at the edge of her lips, and her eyes sparkled - a combination of mischief, lust and recklessness that never failed to send Peter's blood straight to his groin. "Go shower, your clothes are out on the bed." El swished past him on the stairs, a combination of gypsy and hippie poetess in a long skirt made of some pastel colored sheer, crinkly material and an equally sheer white cotton blouse, unbuttoned to the top of her breasts – her bra-less breasts. “Go – shower, you stink! And hurry, please. I’ll take care of Satchmo.”
Peter bounded up the stairs – when El got into this mood, he couldn’t move fast enough. A quick shower, cold – because Peter didn’t think he would last without some external dampener to his lust – and then – to dress. The hand made, custom-tailored black leather pants were a gift from El for their fifth anniversary – after they discovered how embarrassing this little game could get when he wore more porous clothing. They still fit as perfectly as they did the first time he wore them – regular runs, pickup basketball and chasing Neal Caffrey kept Peter Burke in excellent physical condition. A black cotton and silk Elie Tahari tee-shirt – also tailored to fit – was a gift to himself after catching the Dutchman, and Italian loafers, as fine as anything in Neal’s inherited wardrobe, were a present from El after the last pair got ruined. These clothes were as much of a costume as the ill-fitting suits and ugly ties he wore to work. Most people failed to look past the goofy persona they created. This wardrobe was helped create what he privately (and with a little self-embarrassment) called “Bad Peter.”
Peter grabbed his phone, wallet, and keys. And his sun glasses – the only things he would normally wear during the week, leaving the badge and gun behind. The last thing he wanted was to be identified as law enforcement on these little outings.
He found his wife downstairs, practically hopping from one foot to the other in suppressed excitement. “Are you ready, El?” Peter kept his voice pitched low and steady – using a stern tone he normally reserved for dealing with probies when they made stupid mistakes. “Really ready?”
“Yes, Peter.” El’s voice was a breathless whisper, and her hands twisted together.
“Then let me see.”
El slowly raised her skirt – past her knees, past her slim, toned thighs, and over her hips. Her breathing quickened as she saw her husband’s nostrils flair in response to the sight of her waxed pussy barely covered by a pair of thong panties.
“Nice. Now turn around and bend over.” El quickly complied, and Peter gave her two quick, stinging spanks on each firm ass cheek. “Is that enough to keep you?”
“Yes, Peter. Thank you, Peter.” El turned around, dropped her skirt, and gave her husband a scorching, up-from-under look that promised both heaven and hell.
“Then let’s get going.”
The game really started on the subway ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan, with El straddling Peter’s leather clad thigh. The swaying movement of the train and the friction of the polished lambskin and the tangle of cotton skirts against her nearly bare pussy and still smarting ass were slowly driving her crazy. If the other riders in the nearly empty subway car thought it was odd for a grown woman to sit on a man’s leg when there were plenty of empty seats, they kept their thoughts and their eyes to themselves. When the train turned after pulling out of the Atlantic Avenue Station, before heading non-stop into Manhattan, Peter raised his thigh and she braced herself against it. The pressure against her clit was just too much, and El orgasmed, for the first time that day, in a near soundless whimper of pleasure.
“Did you just come, El?”
El stared at her husband, his eyes shielded by the dark, aviator-style sunglasses he preferred, the only expression visible on his face was that smirk, that shark-like grin that drove her insane.
“Did you?”
El bent forward, pressed a knee gently into her husband’s groin and whispered into his ear, “Yes, can’t you smell it?”
Peter growled in response. He slid a hand up under El’s blouse, and first cupping her breast before he started to tug at one already tumescent nipple. “Come again before we get to Penn, and I’ll give you a really special present.”
El leaned into that warm, calloused palm, letting her long dark hair fall forward – not so much to hide Peter’s hand – but to tease anyone who may be looking. Were they really seeing what was happening? The thought of strangers staring at her as she covertly took her pleasure was a sharp goad to her already drenched sex.
El came two more times before the subway finally pulled into Penn Station.
They almost had to fight their way out of Penn Station – the magnificent weather was a big attraction for the bridge and tunnel set, but Peter never let go of El’s hand. When they finally made it from subway platform to the main concourse and then to the mezzanine level, El wanted to stretch her legs a bit and made for the stairs up to 7th Avenue, but Peter grabbed her waist from behind and maneuvered her to the upside escalator.
He growled possessively into her ear, “Do you really think I’m going to let you take two steps from me, dressed like that? Besides, isn’t this better?” With a quick tug, Peter deposited El in front of him on the moving staircase, and nudged her buttocks with his erection. The ninety second-long ride to street level should have been too short for her satisfaction, but the thought of her husband’s excitement and the pressure of the surrounding crowd of day-trippers was just enough for a quick, secret pop.
A quick two-minute walk from the station exit to the bus stop on 32nd Street was enough to clear the sexual muzziness from their heads, though Peter was still sporting wood – only somewhat restrained behind the button fly of the leather pants.
“Your chariot awaits, madam.” Chin held high, El boarded the empty M4 bus and walked towards the back, taking position against a steel pole near the rear exit door. Peter paid their fares and followed. The bus idled for a few more minutes as other passengers got on – a few middle-aged tourists and a gaggle of pre-teen girls who drifted to the very back of the bus. For the first time since they left the house in Brooklyn, Peter took off his sunglasses – actually taking off the persona of “Bad Peter” and becoming her adoring husband. He gently tucked a forefinger under El’s chin – and looked her in his wife’s endless blue eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this? This is a big step – when the bus pulls out, there’s no turning back. ”
El looked right back into her husband’s eyes – no coyness, no game playing, no false shyness or pretend submission. “I want this – I need this – and I want you to have this too.”
As the bus pulled away and lumbered east down 32nd Street, Peter put his sun glasses back on, and leaned in against El, crowding her against the steel pole and kissed her, lovingly at first, then harder and more demanding. El whimpered into Peter’s mouth as the line of metal buttons covering his crotch pressed hard into her lower belly. The pole behind her slipped between the cheeks of her ass, while her husband’s hand dug almost painfully into her scalp. She came again, when Peter nipped at her lower lip and finally released her mouth.
El stood on tiptoe and tugged Peter’s head to her lips. “That’s four, and you haven’t even fucked me yet.” She nipped his ear sharply, and was rewarded with a shudder from that reverberated all along her body.
“Baby, you’ll be lucky if I don’t have to carry you off this bus.”
The uptown M4 bus was a notoriously slow ride, even on the weekends, taking almost an hour from 32nd Street to 82nd and Madison – the stop for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Peter put that time to good use, slowly grinding his cock against his wife. As the bus lumbered up Madison Avenue, stopping every other block to pick up (and occasionally discharge) passengers, Peter held onto his wife’s ass, rubbing one long, calloused finger between her cheeks, slowly feeding the layers of her skirt into her tight hole. At some point, after the bus left the 42nd Street stop, it was packed so tightly that no more people could get on.
Standing between a pair of German tourists (good camera gear, bad body odor) and an elderly woman clinging to her overstuffed shopping cart (why did they allow people to bring those things on the bus???) Peter stood solidly over El, who clung provocatively against the steel pole – hands over her head, braless breasts out-thrust, completely ignoring the leering eyes of the other passengers. At 50th Street, he flipped El around so that he pressed against her from behind, and took advantage of the pressing crowd to slowly lift her loose, flowing skirt over the lower curves of her ass cheeks and drape it over his hand. At 52nd Street, as the Germans pushed passed them to get off (probably to snap bad pictures of Rockefeller Center or St. Patrick’s), Peter reach down, popped open the buttons on his fly. Using the cover of El’s skirt, he pulled out his cock, and in a maneuver timed precisely with the jerking acceleration of the M4, Peter shoved himself in his wife’s dripping cunt.
As he pressed into her from behind, face impassive, voice low and tight, Peter whispered “Do you know how wet you are? You’re like a river, you’re a bitch in heat. I’ve made you come almost half a dozen times this morning – now, made ME come. But no one can know.”
Thrilled at the dirty words, El took a deep breath, or as deep a one as she could, pressed shoulder to groin from the front, and covered like a mare from the back with Peter’s thick cock stuffed into her. She began to rhythmically squeeze her pelvic muscles, slowly driving her husband, and herself insane.
For the next twenty-five blocks, as El milked her husband’s cock, she exercised just as much control over her facial muscles. The first time they had done this, she could barely restrain herself, and practically gave an elderly woman sitting across from her a heart attack as she humped against the pole and squealed out her climax. After a decade of marriage – a decade of playing both the tormentor and the tormented – El’s control was now nearly perfect. She could keep her normally animated face perfectly blank, but nothing could stop the flush from her hairline to her breast, or keep her nipples from furling into tight peaks.
At 72nd Street, just ten blocks from their destination, the old woman with the cart needed to get off (as did Peter, for that matter). She didn’t try to push between them, but as she dragged the wire cart off the bus, she shoved against Peter’s back, which, in turn, pushed Peter deeper and harder against El, and El harder against the steel pole she now straddled. Another unexpected jostle pressed her clit against the unyielding pole, and she came, hard – harder than any time that morning. That set Peter off, and to El’s secret delight – he completely lost control and as he came, he buried his face in her hair.
Once more using the cover of her skirt, Peter pulled out of his wife’s tight, overflowing sex, the softening head of his cock trailing semen across her ass. He tucked himself back in, and with the crowded bus now a bit less crowded, he dropped down into a seat, pulling El with him, across his lap. Her arms wound around him like ivy around an old tree.
Peter looked at his wife’s flushed face, drinking in her glowing eyes, her swollen lips, and he was humbled. Ten years, a decade of marriage – and Elizabeth still had the capacity to astonish him.
It wasn’t just these games – his desire to dominate and hers to challenge that dominance – it was the endless well of her love that defined him, brought him joy, made him strong. He threaded a hand through her sweat-dampened hair and kissed her. So involved did the two of them become in their kiss that they didn’t notice the NY transit cop standing in front of them.
“You two – aren’t you a bit old to be sucking face in public?”
Peter slowly lifted his head from El’s sweet mouth, pushed up his sun glasses and gave the man his most intimidating glare – the one that could send any one of his junior agents into hiding. “Is there a problem, officer – with me kissing my wife?”
“Uhmm, uh – no – just you know – you should get a hotel room.” The cop stammered, cowed – and saved from some wholly unexpected and barely perceived threat to his continued existence by the bus driver’s announcement that they were now at 83rd Street, the stop for the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
“You know, officer,” El drawled, “I just think we might.”
Although both El and Peter were a little weak in the knees, they were able to make it off the bus and out onto the tree-lined Madison Avenue without incident and burst into gales of uncontrollable laughter.
“Hell, El – you’re crazier than I am.” Peter finally caught his breath.
“So, where’s my present?” El twirled in the sunshine, her skirt (with quite a few damp patches) flaring out, then falling neatly around her legs..
“You mean what you just got wasn’t enough?”
“No – and you know what I want.”
“Then hold on a sec, I need to check availability.” Peter pulled out his phone, and with a few taps, he able to confirm that El’s present was still on the move, but would definitely be accessible very shortly. “Yes - your present is on it’s way. I’ll need to recheck in a bit – get the delivery point confirmed.”
El sucked in her breath – and stepped back, the reality of soon to be fulfilled desires almost too much to bear.
It was just short walk from Madison to Fifth Avenue, and the grand front entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Hundreds of people – tourists and New Yorkers alike, were seated on the enormous front steps leading up to the grand Beaux Arts building. The fountains that flanked either side of the staircase were bubbling and banners hung over the museum’s massive bronze doors snapped in the light early afternoon breeze.
Peter scanned the crowd, looking for something, and then checked his phone again. “It seems like there’s a bit of a delay. Your present is still in transit.”
“I don’t mind – let’s sit here and pretend were tourists.” El sank down onto a step and pooled her skirt between her legs. “I think I need to dry off a bit.”
Peter sat down behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, pulling her back between his thighs. To any one passing by, they looked like a pair of well dressed tourists, vaguely European, just relaxing in the sun.
“Peter, will you take it out?”
“El – ”
“Come on, please – my shirt it white, it won’t show.”
“Elizabeth Burke – I am NOT jerking myself off onto your back. Not now.”
El frowned in playful disappointment – she hadn’t really expected Peter to masturbate into her hair – but she did love teasing him. So they just sat in the sun, until Peter’s phone chimed, and he pulled her to her feet.
“Let’s go.”
El skipped up a few stairs, expecting Peter to be right behind her. When he didn’t immediately follow, she turned around and saw him standing still, staring down at the step she just vacated. “Peter?” He looked up at her, that deadly smirk even more shark-line. She held out her hand and Peter took it – yanking her back down a few steps, tight against his big, warm body.
“Honey – you left a wet spot.”
They paid their admission and affixed the little metal “M” badges on each other. El wanted to put Peter’s on through one of the button holes on his fly, but she settled for a more sedate location on the collar of his tee shirt. Peter used the opportunity to rub his knuckles against her breast before clipping the tag to one of the flounces of her blouse.
El was a bit startled when Peter started pulling her towards the massive store that dominated the museum lobby. This was not where she was expecting him to go.
“Peter?”
“El? Don’t you want your present?”
“From the gift store?
“Isn’t that where you usually get presents?”
El couldn’t believe it – they had talked and planned and discussed the ramifications. Could she have completely misunderstood Peter, or was this his way of telling her he had changed his mind?
“Gotcha!” The sunglasses were off and Peter was grinning from ear to ear. “The look upon your face… a real Kodak moment.”
“Peter Burke – you do that to me again, I’m going to …”
“Nah – no you won’t”
“So – we doing this?”
“Your present’s in the Dendur Pavilion, let’s go get it.”
Go to New York, New York - Part II – In the Dendur Pavilion
Tags:
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- genre: angst,
- genre: first time,
- genre: het,
- genre: marital sex,
- genre: pre-ot3,
- genre: pre-slash,
- genre: slash,
- genre: smut,
- kink: angry sex,
- kink: clothes/clothes porn,
- kink: frotting,
- kink: marital sex,
- kink: public sex,
- new york city,
- pairing: elizabeth/neal,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- type: fan fiction,
- white collar,
- written for: collarkink,
- year: 2010
