George is busy with spy stuff - you know, top secret, regarding the safety and security of Queen and country stuff, but Peter begs him anyway. He's waiting in George's office, peering through the blinds, at a guess probably trying to figure out how many people are around and if he can get away with this.
"Peter," George says, and if he sounds tired it's because he is and he really does have things to do and he knows his young companion far too well. Peter drops his fingers from the blinds and they snap shut with a clack. "I have calls to make."
As anxious as he is daring, Peter looks like a little boy, a son trying to look like he isn't planning to snatch from the cupboards as soon as his back is turned. But no, George thinks as he's shutting the door behind him, I don't treat you like a son at all.
"It doesn't have to take long," Peter blurts, wringing his hands. George eyes him warily. "I don't even have to come. I just want to feel you." George raises his eyebrows and Peter, for a split second, looks ashamed.
George has no plans to turn him away. He considers himself a man of control, a man with remarkable strength for self-restraint, but he lacks when it comes to Peter. He's too desperate, too genuinely needing and wanting, eager to please and be pleased. He can't bring himself to say no and see the look of disappointment. But George is busy and he wants Peter to be aware of that. He pulls his chair from the desk and sits, informing Peter, "We come here to work. Not for games. Not for your needs."
"I don't care about mine," Peter protests sharply, and George raises just the one eyebrow this time. He can make Peter regret saying that, regret being so hasty to pass himself off.
Peter steps closer, shoes scuffing on the floor, and falls to his knees in front of him, one hand lying flat on the top of his shoe. Peter's long fingers creep and touch his ankles whilst his other hand comes up to rest on his knee. "I just want," Peter starts, eyes flickering, "I want you, daddy."
George holds his breath, looking down at the younger man. His lids are heavy already, fluttering, and his breathing laboured, and this is what George means: Peter just wants everything so badly. George wonders how he ever hid his lifestyle from the rest of their co-workers before. Maybe it's just because he knows Peter so well, but he seems like an open book of the things he lusts for.
George really does consider himself a man of self-control who weighs the risks and benefits of things. But risk and benefit don't come into the things he feels and thinks about Peter, so he nods and he says, with the smallest wave of his hand, "Quickly then."
Peter lights up. He looks truly wicked when he gets his way, the picture of sin in the making - but he looks happy about it, and truthfully, George does like seeing the man smile. He knows he has been dragged through hell one way or another, likely more than once.
His fingers curl around George's ankle and hold as Peter presses his lips to his knee and then stands, stooping over George. Their noses brush; George's glasses get in the way but they kiss all the same, and Peter's hand drops to touch him through layers of fabric. George is half-hard already, and Peter's fingers grasp and squeeze, and Peter confesses, "For a moment I thought you were going to turn me away."
As if I could, George thinks, but the words can't make it to his throat and out his mouth. Instead he touches the arms of his chair, inhaling deeply as Peter undoes George's trousers, pushing fabric around until he can pull out his cock - he responds to the sight with a happy, content sigh, and wraps his long fingers around it, humming as he strokes them up and down the length.
He reaches and undoes Peter's trousers, nudging them down and sliding a hand across his backside, pressing a finger between his cheeks only to find his hole already slick and opened. George casts his eyes upwards, seeing Peter's face go pink, and he says quietly, "Peter?"
"I couldn't wait," Peter mutters, "I didn't want to have to wait."
"I thought you liked it when - "
"I do," Peter interrupts, breathless. "But this was more important. I need you to fuck me." George raises his eyebrows again, and moves his hand away before bringing it down as hard as he can against Peter's rump. Peter inhales sharply, swallowing audibly, knees shaking, and George smiles.
"Turn around, then," he instructs, and Peter does as he's told. There's a glowing red mark on his skin, an imprint in the shape of his hand, and George touches it lightly before he curls a hand around Peter's hip. "Down."
Peter's needy, but he's good at obeying when he has to. When he knows that it'll get him what he wants. He sits down gently almost into George's lap, and George guides the head of his cock to Peter's entrance and pushes inside, pulling the younger man down against him.
"Oh," Peter gasps, sinking down on George's cock and against his lap, breathing heavily. "Daddy," he murmurs, and George can see his hand heading towards his own cock to stroke it.
"No," George says sharply, and Peter freezes. "Put your hands on the arms of the chair, Peter. You're going to do this yourself, Peter, and I don't want you to come. If you come, I'll be very disappointed in you." He sees Peter's fingers twitch, and then firmly rest on the arms, his knuckles turning white as he spread his legs, finding a comfortable position.
"Good boy," George tells him, and Peter gives out a long, shuddering gasp as he moves, working his hips to fuck himself on George's cock. George's mouth tightens into a line with the effort of not making a sound, of not yet giving his boy the satisfaction of it. He doesn't want to make this easy for Peter, not by a long stretch. He wants to wind him up now and then, in darkness and privacy, punish him in all the ways he asks, with a firm hand.
"George," Peter whines, and he can feel the tremble of the younger man's thighs, but ignores it, simply touches Peter's hip with a hand and inhales deeply. Peter's always so tight and warm, and George wants all of him.
True to his word, Peter's not making it about himself. He whimpers shamelessly, and too loud, so George hushes him and Peter whispers an apologetic "Daddy" back at him, rocking back and forth, bearing down on George's cock with a sharp groan.
George's self restraint almost fails him - almost. He jerks his hips up, pressing his hand against Peter's belly and allows himself to sigh, a low, quiet noise, because that is all he will allow himself. Anything more, anything louder... it's too easy to forget and stray into dangerous territory.
"You'll be at my house this evening," George says, searching for words and the right tone of voice even though he's half-breathless, his head hazy with arousal, "And you will cook us food, and dust and make my bed, and then..."
He pauses to swallow, to catch his breath, and Peter moans softly and says, "And then, daddy...?"
"And then maybe I'll give you everything," George finishes, twitching his hips, and then with another grind back of Peter's hips he's coming inside him, with an intense low burn in his gut, unable to stop himself from crying out as he fills Peter.
Peter inhales sharply and begs, quickly, "Please, please let me come."
"No," George says firmly. Being firm with Peter is the only way he'll learn. And he knows that Peter gets off on it, really, on George's instruction and order. Still, he can see just how hard Peter is, and how badly he wants it; he's tempted to give in, but he doesn't.
He pats Peter's hip, urging him up and away.
"Tonight," he promises.