White Collar Fic - The Scientific Method
Jan. 8th, 2011 06:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: The Scientific Method
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairing:Peter/Neal/Elizabeth, Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke
Fandom: White Collar
Spoilers/Episode Reference: None.
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Pain play, riding crops, bondage, blindfolds, sensation play, D/s.
Word Count: ~1400
Summary: Neal gets overly picky about the sex toys, Peter teaches him a lesson while El helps out.
_______________________
If Neal has to pick a favorite toy in their shared box, it would have to be the riding crop. Not only are there so many ways to play with it, it is aesthetically pleasing in ways that few of their other shared sex toys are. That’s not to say that Neal doesn’t get a lot of pleasure out of the mass-produced representational and non-representational vibrating butt plugs and dildos, but the crop is different. It is bespoke, custom, a thing that transcends its purpose and stands as a work of art.
When he tries to explain this to Peter, the man looks at him like he just grew another head. To Peter, skin is left red and stinging whether a crop is made from hackberry wood and hand cured leather by English craftsmen under Royal Patent or from fiberglass and vinyl in a factory in China. Elizabeth understands him a bit more; there is something that magnifies the excitement by perverting an object of quality rather than using something made specifically for the sex trade.
This is why Neal finds himself suspended from a sturdy hook screwed deep into the rafters of what used to be the attic in the Burke’s Brooklyn row house. Half of the third floor – the part that faces the street – is Elizabeth’s home office. The back half is their playroom. Technically, it’s not a dungeon and Neal, as an artist, appreciates the dichotomy between the light and airy space and the dark and erotic deeds performed there. It’s a rainy Saturday afternoon and a good day for a whipping.
“I guess you could say that you’re putting your ass on the line for the scientific method.” Peter snickers as he flexes the inexpensive vinyl covered crop he had gotten from a fetish catalog.
“Very funny, Peter.” Neal adjusts his position. He’s hanging with just enough play to catch his toes on the carpet – no good Dom would allow his sub to remain suspended by his shoulders.
“You’ve claim that there’s a significant difference between getting hit with the leather crop and this one.” Peter holds the vinyl crop up against his forehead as if he’s a fencer saluting with his epée.
“I didn’t say that there is just a physical difference – it’s psychological. Wouldn’t you prefer to get your ass whipped with something that was hand made, with care and craftsmanship instead of something press-molded in a factory in China?”
“You’re forgetting something Neal, I don’t get my ass whipped.” Peter smirks and leans in, giving Neal a thoroughly punishing kiss.
They break apart when Elizabeth comes up from behind Neal and pulls his head back to affix a blindfold. Neal fights against the instinctive passivity the bindings and the blindfold bring out in him…at least when he is with these two people whom he loves and trusts more than anyone else in the world.
Peter runs his fingers down Neal’s cheek, tickling his ear and then spanning his neck, his thumb resting on the slow and steady pulse at the base of his throat. “You have no idea how much it excites me to see you like this, do you? Just hanging there, waiting for me, so perfectly, so beautifully submissive.”
Neal rocks his body against Peter’s, feeling his massive erection. “Peter, I think I have some idea.” Both men chuckle and then moan when Elizabeth tucks her hands between them and starts stroking their cocks.
Peter steps back. “Let’s get this started.” He swishes the air with the crop, making figure-eight patterns.
“Wait…” Elizabeth interrupts. “What are the rules for this ‘experiment’?”
“Hmmm – an equal number of strikes using the equal amount of force with each crop. Then you tell me which one I hit you with. How does that sound?”
Neal nods. “I’m ready.”
“Not quite…” Elizabeth pours some baby oil over Neal’s buttocks, and he squirms with pleasure as her small hands massage his ass and tease his crack. “Now you’re ready.”
Elizabeth and Peter change places. Peter picks up a crop, lifts his arm and brings it down with precisely measured force high on Neal’s right buttock. And his world exploded in a red haze of pain.
Neal was expecting light and playful swats, not these blows with the full strength of Peter’s arm behind it.
He sways a bit, catching himself on the edge of the rug – the interstitial space between safety and danger. Peter doesn’t pause, doesn’t let himself catch up to the unexpected pain.
The second, third and fourth hits line up in equally measured rows along his ass. The last hit catches Neal on the sweet undercurve, where the buttock flows into the thigh, perhaps the most sensitive spot on his ass.
Now there was a moment to breathe, to find a bit of cool blueness in the red haze of physical agony. Peter runs his hand over the stripes he just made, feeling the bruises form. “You okay, Neal?”
Neal pants a bit. “Yeah…I’m good.”
Now stationed on the other side, Peter repeats the exercise, this time with the other crop. He’s careful to hit Neal with the same force and in the same pattern. The blueness burns away – leaving him without a place to hide.
“Well, can you tell me which is which?”
Neal swallows hard. His mouth is dry and his lips hurt from where he bit them. It wasn’t supposed to hurt this bad. Or feel this good
“Well?” Peter gets impatient.
“Ummm – I’m not sure.”
“So, you need a few more?”
“Yeah – I think so.”
“You think, or you know?” They’ve played this game before. Peter likes precision – in work, in play, in language. Neal has to tell him exactly what he wants.
Neal, on the other hand, has built a life based on lies, innuendo and obfuscation. Language is a tool of imprecision, one which he wields with great power and even greater effect.
But here, in this room, he’s been striped bare of the lies and the innuendo. Here, he needs to be precise, exact and specific.
“I need a few more.”
Peter is efficient. He hits Neal five more times. But this time, each strike deliberately crosses the ones made just a few minutes ago. The fire turns to a conflagration of pain, and sweat pours out of him. On that last blow, the tip of the crop caught him inside his buttocks, at the edge of his hole. A fresh wound, one that will hurt for days.
Peter didn’t bother to ask him if he was okay this time. He just moved to the other side and repeated the blows.
“Can you tell now? Neal – which is leather, which is vinyl.”
He heard Peter’s voice as if it was from a great distance away. The deep tones were lost in the rushing of his pulse, the beating of his heart.
“I … I don’t know.” He wanted to weep at his failure. Maybe he already was… the trail of tears was a blessed coolness in the suddenly too-hot room.
“Please, Peter.”
“Please, what? What do you want?”
Neal writhes, trying to find a body to lean against, to rub, to take comfort from.
“Neal?” The question in Peter’s voice demands an answer.
He doesn’t have one, but he could guess. “I think I know.”
“Again with the thinking, Neal?”
“I know, I know.”
Peter taps his burning ass with one of the crops.
“Which one?”
He takes a deep breath, or as deep as he can with his arms bound above his head and pain coursing through his body. “Leather on the right, vinyl on the left.”
Truth is, Neal has no idea. Both sides hurt equally. Maybe the left a little more than the right, but his ass feels like balloons of fire.
Elizabeth touches him for the first time since the experiment began. Her hands are, at first, a cool benediction in that sea of fire.
“Peter, I think he guessed. I don’t think he knows which one is which.”
Neal moans as she rakes her nails across his agonizing flesh.
“Neal? Is this true? Did you guess?”
He licks his lips again, trying to buy time.
“Neal? You’ve said you never lied to me. This wouldn’t be a good time to start. Did you guess or do you know?”
Neal wishes he could see Peter’s face – he desperately needs to know how disappointed Peter is.
“Neal? I don’t want to have to ask again.”
“I guessed. I have no idea which is which.”
The silence in the room is broken only by the rush of blood in his ears and his harsh breath.
“Then we’re just going to have to start again. This time on your chest.”
Neal doesn’t whimper, he doesn’t make a sound. He just waits for the pain and the love.
FIN
Written forhoosierbitch, for her Five Acts meme, where she requested hard BDSM.
Author:
elrhiarhodanRating: NC-17
Characters/Pairing:Peter/Neal/Elizabeth, Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke
Fandom: White Collar
Spoilers/Episode Reference: None.
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Pain play, riding crops, bondage, blindfolds, sensation play, D/s.
Word Count: ~1400
Summary: Neal gets overly picky about the sex toys, Peter teaches him a lesson while El helps out.
If Neal has to pick a favorite toy in their shared box, it would have to be the riding crop. Not only are there so many ways to play with it, it is aesthetically pleasing in ways that few of their other shared sex toys are. That’s not to say that Neal doesn’t get a lot of pleasure out of the mass-produced representational and non-representational vibrating butt plugs and dildos, but the crop is different. It is bespoke, custom, a thing that transcends its purpose and stands as a work of art.
When he tries to explain this to Peter, the man looks at him like he just grew another head. To Peter, skin is left red and stinging whether a crop is made from hackberry wood and hand cured leather by English craftsmen under Royal Patent or from fiberglass and vinyl in a factory in China. Elizabeth understands him a bit more; there is something that magnifies the excitement by perverting an object of quality rather than using something made specifically for the sex trade.
This is why Neal finds himself suspended from a sturdy hook screwed deep into the rafters of what used to be the attic in the Burke’s Brooklyn row house. Half of the third floor – the part that faces the street – is Elizabeth’s home office. The back half is their playroom. Technically, it’s not a dungeon and Neal, as an artist, appreciates the dichotomy between the light and airy space and the dark and erotic deeds performed there. It’s a rainy Saturday afternoon and a good day for a whipping.
“I guess you could say that you’re putting your ass on the line for the scientific method.” Peter snickers as he flexes the inexpensive vinyl covered crop he had gotten from a fetish catalog.
“Very funny, Peter.” Neal adjusts his position. He’s hanging with just enough play to catch his toes on the carpet – no good Dom would allow his sub to remain suspended by his shoulders.
“You’ve claim that there’s a significant difference between getting hit with the leather crop and this one.” Peter holds the vinyl crop up against his forehead as if he’s a fencer saluting with his epée.
“I didn’t say that there is just a physical difference – it’s psychological. Wouldn’t you prefer to get your ass whipped with something that was hand made, with care and craftsmanship instead of something press-molded in a factory in China?”
“You’re forgetting something Neal, I don’t get my ass whipped.” Peter smirks and leans in, giving Neal a thoroughly punishing kiss.
They break apart when Elizabeth comes up from behind Neal and pulls his head back to affix a blindfold. Neal fights against the instinctive passivity the bindings and the blindfold bring out in him…at least when he is with these two people whom he loves and trusts more than anyone else in the world.
Peter runs his fingers down Neal’s cheek, tickling his ear and then spanning his neck, his thumb resting on the slow and steady pulse at the base of his throat. “You have no idea how much it excites me to see you like this, do you? Just hanging there, waiting for me, so perfectly, so beautifully submissive.”
Neal rocks his body against Peter’s, feeling his massive erection. “Peter, I think I have some idea.” Both men chuckle and then moan when Elizabeth tucks her hands between them and starts stroking their cocks.
Peter steps back. “Let’s get this started.” He swishes the air with the crop, making figure-eight patterns.
“Wait…” Elizabeth interrupts. “What are the rules for this ‘experiment’?”
“Hmmm – an equal number of strikes using the equal amount of force with each crop. Then you tell me which one I hit you with. How does that sound?”
Neal nods. “I’m ready.”
“Not quite…” Elizabeth pours some baby oil over Neal’s buttocks, and he squirms with pleasure as her small hands massage his ass and tease his crack. “Now you’re ready.”
Elizabeth and Peter change places. Peter picks up a crop, lifts his arm and brings it down with precisely measured force high on Neal’s right buttock. And his world exploded in a red haze of pain.
Neal was expecting light and playful swats, not these blows with the full strength of Peter’s arm behind it.
He sways a bit, catching himself on the edge of the rug – the interstitial space between safety and danger. Peter doesn’t pause, doesn’t let himself catch up to the unexpected pain.
The second, third and fourth hits line up in equally measured rows along his ass. The last hit catches Neal on the sweet undercurve, where the buttock flows into the thigh, perhaps the most sensitive spot on his ass.
Now there was a moment to breathe, to find a bit of cool blueness in the red haze of physical agony. Peter runs his hand over the stripes he just made, feeling the bruises form. “You okay, Neal?”
Neal pants a bit. “Yeah…I’m good.”
Now stationed on the other side, Peter repeats the exercise, this time with the other crop. He’s careful to hit Neal with the same force and in the same pattern. The blueness burns away – leaving him without a place to hide.
“Well, can you tell me which is which?”
Neal swallows hard. His mouth is dry and his lips hurt from where he bit them. It wasn’t supposed to hurt this bad. Or feel this good
“Well?” Peter gets impatient.
“Ummm – I’m not sure.”
“So, you need a few more?”
“Yeah – I think so.”
“You think, or you know?” They’ve played this game before. Peter likes precision – in work, in play, in language. Neal has to tell him exactly what he wants.
Neal, on the other hand, has built a life based on lies, innuendo and obfuscation. Language is a tool of imprecision, one which he wields with great power and even greater effect.
But here, in this room, he’s been striped bare of the lies and the innuendo. Here, he needs to be precise, exact and specific.
“I need a few more.”
Peter is efficient. He hits Neal five more times. But this time, each strike deliberately crosses the ones made just a few minutes ago. The fire turns to a conflagration of pain, and sweat pours out of him. On that last blow, the tip of the crop caught him inside his buttocks, at the edge of his hole. A fresh wound, one that will hurt for days.
Peter didn’t bother to ask him if he was okay this time. He just moved to the other side and repeated the blows.
“Can you tell now? Neal – which is leather, which is vinyl.”
He heard Peter’s voice as if it was from a great distance away. The deep tones were lost in the rushing of his pulse, the beating of his heart.
“I … I don’t know.” He wanted to weep at his failure. Maybe he already was… the trail of tears was a blessed coolness in the suddenly too-hot room.
“Please, Peter.”
“Please, what? What do you want?”
Neal writhes, trying to find a body to lean against, to rub, to take comfort from.
“Neal?” The question in Peter’s voice demands an answer.
He doesn’t have one, but he could guess. “I think I know.”
“Again with the thinking, Neal?”
“I know, I know.”
Peter taps his burning ass with one of the crops.
“Which one?”
He takes a deep breath, or as deep as he can with his arms bound above his head and pain coursing through his body. “Leather on the right, vinyl on the left.”
Truth is, Neal has no idea. Both sides hurt equally. Maybe the left a little more than the right, but his ass feels like balloons of fire.
Elizabeth touches him for the first time since the experiment began. Her hands are, at first, a cool benediction in that sea of fire.
“Peter, I think he guessed. I don’t think he knows which one is which.”
Neal moans as she rakes her nails across his agonizing flesh.
“Neal? Is this true? Did you guess?”
He licks his lips again, trying to buy time.
“Neal? You’ve said you never lied to me. This wouldn’t be a good time to start. Did you guess or do you know?”
Neal wishes he could see Peter’s face – he desperately needs to know how disappointed Peter is.
“Neal? I don’t want to have to ask again.”
“I guessed. I have no idea which is which.”
The silence in the room is broken only by the rush of blood in his ears and his harsh breath.
“Then we’re just going to have to start again. This time on your chest.”
Neal doesn’t whimper, he doesn’t make a sound. He just waits for the pain and the love.
Written for
hoosierbitch, for her Five Acts meme, where she requested hard BDSM.
