Fic: Private Party (Brucie/Alvin, adult, PORNDAY!)
Title:Private Party
Fandom: DC Comics
Pairing:Bruce Wayne, Billionaire Playboy / Alvin Draper (Tim Drake)
Warnings: Identity porn, underage, power differential, roleplay
Summary: For batstalker, a sequel to Public Transports. Brucie has a type. Alvin learns to love champagne.
Words: 5177
Rating: NC-17, baby
By the time they get to Bristol, the sun is going down and the train is almost empty. Alvin's not sure where they're going, but he follows Matches anyway, snakeskin wallet burning a hole in his pocket. When they get out to the front of the station, there are a few cabs around, but Matches puts a hand on Alvin's neck and steers him down the line to - fuck, there's a limousine at the end of the curb. Who the fuck takes a limo to the train station, Alvin wants to know, and then he apparently gets his answer when Matches knocks on the windshield and then continues on to open the back door.
"Hop in, kid," he says. "And give me back my wallet."
Alvin scowls and reaches into his pocket. He slips a few bills out, then hands the wallet to Matches, who peeks inside it with a smirk and then puts it away in his jacket pocket. "Where are we going?" he asks as he climbs into the car.
"You're going to see a friend of mine," Matches says. He steps back and tries to shut the door, but Alvin just manages to get his shoe into it before he gets trapped.
"The fuck?" he demands as he tries to push the door back open, but Matches is a lot stronger than him.
"Calm down, sweetheart," Matches says through the gap. "He'll treat you nice. Look, he's rich, he's harmless, and you're just his type. I'm doing you a favor, hookin' you up."
"Out of the goodness of your heart?" Alvin snarls. He throws all his weight against the door, but it doesn't budge a inch.
Matches just laughs. "Alright, sweets... I get a nice piece, too, for delivery. You be a good boy, now." He shoves hard on the door, and Alvin yelps in pain and yanks his foot back just in time for the door to slam shut. Immediately he throws himself across the seat to open the far door, but it's locked. The windows roll down, though, so Alvin holds the button down and prepares himself for a dive onto the asphalt.
The window only gets about about halfway down, though, before it starts going back up, and when he hits the button again, nothing happens. As soon as it's closed, the tint of the glass changes, going from smokey to nearly opaque. The engine starts, and Alvin throws himself forward to hammer at the partition separating him from the driver. "Hey!" he hollers, "hey let me go! I didn't sign on for this!" When there's no response, Alvin lets out a stream of curses and slams his fists against the hard plastic.
"Do sit down, please," a cultured voice says, and Alvin stops shouting to whip his head around, looking for the source. The car pulls away from the curb, and a little door pops open on Alvin's right, near the seat. He's a little impressed, in spite of himself, because apparently this car comes with a fridge. "I would appreciate it if you would buckle your seatbelt."
The voice is English, or something like it, and coming from little speakers on either side of the seat. "Fuck you, let me out!" Alvin snarls into the nearest one. "I'm gonna call the cops!" He hasn't got a cell phone, but this creep doesn't know it, right?
"I'm afraid you won't be able to get a connection," the voice says, calm, almost bored, "as I have now engaged the cellular scrambler for the passenger cabin." Scrambler? Like in a spy flick? Alvin looks around helplessly. "Now please sit down and fasten your seatbelt. I assure you, no harm will come to you."
"And why the fuck should I trust you?"
There's no answer. Alvin sits down on the seat and pulls the fridge door the rest of the way open. There's a row of green glass bottles with French on the labels and something clear inside, and then another row of imported beers, and, to one side, two whole bottles of what he figures is champagne. Alvin pulls one out and looks at it. He's never had champagne before, and he has no clue how to open it, but if he's going to be stuck in here, he might as well. He pulls the foil off the top - that part is easy enough - and stares at the wire contraption stretched over the cork.
Okay, he's never seen this part on tv, but it seems pretty simple. He untwists the wires and pulls the thing off, and then tries to yank the cork out. Nothing happens, so he traps the bottle between his legs and grabs the cork in one hand and the neck in the other, twisting and pulling until the thing comes flying out with a loud pop and bounces off of the ceiling. Cold, foamy wine goes everywhere, soaking his lap and splashing the leather seat. Alvin yelps and shouts a curse when the cold liquid hits him.
He looks around, but he doesn't see any napkins or anything, so he takes off his shirt and uses the relatively dry back of it to mop at his crotch. The champagne forms fizzy beads and pools on the leather seat, and Alvin brushes them to the floor with the back of his hand, as best he can, then wipes his hands on his shirt. He's wet and sticky and he smells like high-class booze, his clothes are wrecked...but he does still have more than half a bottle. He takes a tentative sip, rolling the bubbles around in his mouth before he swallows.
Okay, he probably should have gone for the beer, and not just because he knows how to open a crown cap on a seat belt. Still, it's not *bad*, exactly, and he kind of likes the bubbles. When they get wherever they're going, he can use the bottle like a club if he has to. It looks thick enough.
He's just raised the bottle to his lips for a deeper swallow when the limo comes to a stop. The tint on the windows is so dark that Alvin can barely see out, so he's still trying to decide which way to bolt when the door opens and some guy slides into the seat next to him, shutting the door before Alvin can climb over him or shove him out of the way. Alvin hears the lock engage again and grips the bottle hard by the neck as the car starts to move.
The man has dark hair and broad shoulders and a vaguely familiar face. He turns and looks Alvin up and down slowly, glancing between his bare chest and the bottle in his hand with a slightly lopsided smile. It's the smile that does it, and Alvin suddenly realizes where he's seen the man before - all over the fucking *tabloids*, because he is in a limousine with *Bruce* fucking *Wayne*.
"What a welcome!" Wayne says, blithely, and reaches out to snag the champagne bottle from Alvin's loose fingertips. He tosses back a long swallow, and then holds the bottle out to the side as he shifts in his seat until he and Alvin are face to face. "Got a little thirsty? Looks good on you." He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs at Alvin's chest. Alvin reaches to grab his hand, but somehow he misses as Wayne runs the cloth quickly over his stomach and down to press against his crotch. Alvin's pants are still a mess from the train, but Wayne either doesn't notice or doesn't mind. He manages to evade Alvin's second grab, but not the third, and blinks in apparent confusion when his hand his hauled up and away. "Aren't you the new boy?"
The question, combined with the inappropriate touching, finally manages to break through Alvin's stunned stupor. "What the hell are you talking about?" he snarls, scooting backward across the seat.
Wayne frowns and tilts his head like a puzzled dog. "You're half-naked in my limo, covered in champagne."
Alvin feels himself blushing, but there isn't anything he can do about it. "I was kidnapped!" he shouts.
"Easy, Tiger," Wayne says, as if absolutely nothing is wrong. He leans back against the door in an easy slouch and props one leg up on the seat, knee bent, before taking a long hit off the bottle in his hand. Alvin can't help noticing how the pose pulls the man's tailored suit-slacks tight across his crotch. "Are we playing a game? Shouldn't we get to know each other first?"
"It's not a game," Alvin says, scowling. "This bastard from the train tricked me into getting into the car, and then he took off."
"Oh, well, maybe it's a misunderstanding," Wayne says blithely between sips of champagne. "You really are *just* my type, though. Are you *sure* you're not the new boy?"
"Fuck no!" Alvin snaps.
Wayne lets his arm rest on his thigh, the bottle dangling from his hand to brush against his crotch in a light stroke, leaving beads of condensation to soak into the expensive fabric. Jesus, he's a big boy, and getting hard, too. Alvin swallows and tears his gaze away to look up and meet Wayne's eyes, which are slightly narrowed and sparkling with mischief. "Do you want to be?" he asks. Alvin just stares at him until he shrugs. "I'll give you a ride home, at least." He leans over and hits a button. "Where do you want to go, Sport?"
Alvin's eyes dart around the back of the limo, taking in the dark, polished wood, the silvery chrome, the buttery leather. The carpet under his feet is soaked from the champagne he spilled, maybe ruined, and Wayne hasn't even batted an eye. The suit the man is wearing probably costs more than Alvin sees in a month, and he's all slouched, wrinkling it like it's a two-dollar T-shirt from W-Mart. He doesn't even need all that evidence, though, because this is *Bruce* fucking *Wayne*, and everyone, *everyone*, knows he's made out of money.
"How much?" Alvin asks. Wayne hits the button again and turns back to him, looking blandly puzzled, so Alvin swallows and asks again. "What do I get? I mean, the 'new boy', what's he get?"
"Whatever he wants," Wayne says, like he he doesn't quite understand the question, or maybe just why Alvin is asking it. His confusion is so obvious that Alvin has to stop and take a breath, staring back at him warily. "I've always tried to do right by all my boys. Do you like cars? Tommy liked cars. Or was that Jason? Dick's always liked motorcycles better, and he wanted me to put in a gym. And a movie theater."
Alvin...blinks. It's like they're not even talking the same *language*. Is Wayne talking about...about those kids he *adopted*, or whatever? Alvin needs a minute to process, try and figure out just what's on the table, so he reaches over and snags the bottle of champagne from Wayne's weak grip, and downs the last few swallows in the bottle.
"Do you like it?" Wayne asks as he drinks. "My valet says it's swill, but it's four thousand dollars a bottle, so I guess it has to be good, haha."
Alvin chokes. He loses most of the last mouthful, which runs down his chin, leaving a trail of tingling bubbles on his neck and pattering onto his chest.
"I can't tell the difference," Wayne continues. "Actually I really like the pink kind, but Alfred refuses to buy it and throws it out when I get someone else to." He's not even looking at Alvin, having turned to open the little fridge again and pull out the second bottle. "Always keep a spare, haha," he says, and rips the foil off, turning back with that broad, lopsided grin, his teeth white and perfect.
"How much for just once?" Alvin asks. "For right now?"
Wayne pauses with his hand over the cork, and sets the bottle aside. "Just the once? Gee, I don't know. You sure you don't want to come stay with me for a while?"
God, fuck no, Alvin thinks. If he had to spend that much time listening to this dolt, he'd shoot himself in the face. Alvin may be an opportunist, but he balks at the idea of being *kept*, like some kid of pet. "Call it a ... a trial run. Try each other out," he says. When Wayne just looks at him skeptically, he props one foot up in a mimic of Wayne's posture and presses the toe of his sneaker lightly against the man's balls.
Something dark and strange flashes through the man's eyes, then vanishes under a sunny smile. "I'm *horrible* at negotiations," he says with one of his awful, stilted laughs. "Just ask my CFO."
"Twenty grand," Alvin says, boldly, because if Wayne balks, he can always say he's kidding. He figures he ought to be worth at least as much as a bottle of champagne, though, which will make this whole day worth it - even the sleaze on the train.
"Okay," Wayne says, and reaches into his jacket. He props his checkbook against his knee and starts scribbling away, and Alvin has to catch his breath because *fuck*. Seriously? Just like that?
He should have said thirty.
"Oh," Wayne says, suddenly, looking up. Alvin lets his breath out, sure the man has come to his senses, but he just says, "did you tell me your name? I'm awful with names. Kind of important to get it right on the check, haha, right Tiger?"
"Alvin. Draper," he says. It goes against all his instincts to give his name out in a situation like this one, but it's not like they're going to let him cash this check at the drug store with the cheap fake ID he uses to get into bars. He watches with his tongue between his teeth as Wayne finishes writing and rips the slip out of the little leather book.
"I don't think I introduced myself either," Wayne says like he isn't one of the richest, most famous men in the country.
He hands the check to Alvin, who looks it over quickly and folds it in half before shoving it in his pocket, and snorting. "I know who you are."
Wayne puts a hand to his chest like he's clutching his *pearls*, a gesture completely at odds with the weight of the Wayne Family Jewels against Alvin's foot. "Ahaha, we've met before, haven't we? I'm really just as bad with faces as I am with names."
If Alvin leans forward and lets his hair fall into his face, Wayne won't see him rolling his eyes. "Do you want a blow job or not?"
Wayne spreads his legs wider in a surprising display of flexibility. "Does anyone *ever* say no to that question? Because- ahaha," he says as Alvin slides off the seat to his knees and reaches for his belt. "You're just an eager little beaver, aren't you?"
Eager to get this over with and get *out* of here, before Wayne comes to his senses about the check. He supposes the guy could just stop payment, after Alvin leaves, but he doesn't seem like he'd actually *remember* to, even if that's what he's intending. Alvin's fingers work on autopilot, getting the man's belt open and fly down, but in his head all he's seeing is dollar signs. Twenty *grand*. That's his rent for the next *two years*, more if he plays it right. He's going to have to open a bank account just to *cash* that check - no bank is just going to hand Alvin all that money and let him walk out the door, but that's okay, because the back of the toilet isn't a good enough hiding place for *that* kind of dough. And maybe - well, he's not going to let Wayne shut him up in some mausoleum of a house, but maybe Wayne might want a repeat performance sometime, if Alvin pulls out all the stops. He tugs Wayne's slacks open and pulls his drawers down and, Jesus.
Jesus.
Wayne's not hung like a horse, he's hung like a motherfucking *bull*. His cock springs up toward Alvin's chin and bobs in the air, hard already, and staring back at him like a snake. "Goddamn, what do they feed you motherfuckers?"
"Ahaha," Wayne says. "It's down to good breeding and clean living, I guess." He shifts his hips until he can get his pants down around his thighs, and turns until he's slouched against the back of the seat, his knees spread around Alvin, his heavy pink balls sliding against the smooth leather seat with every breath he takes.
"Clean living," Alvin says, amused in spite of himself. "Getting blown by strangers in the back of your limo." He wraps his hand around Wayne's cock, jacking it a few times to get a feel for it. His thumb and fingers don't quite meet, even when he squeezes.
"We're not *strangers*, Albert," Wayne says, chidingly. Alvin would correct him, but he's busy, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath before opening his mouth as wide as he can manage and still keep his teeth covered. He bends his head, kneeling up, and goes down until he can't anymore, working his tongue and getting everything as wet as he can. Wayne tastes clean, thick and heavy on Alvin's tongue and very, very male. There's no way Alvin's going to be able to swallow him down, so he tightens his lips and pulls back, and then strokes the shaft with his hand while he licks it up and down, nuzzling down to his balls to suck gently, cupping them in one hand and letting Wayne's cock rub against his cheek.
When Alvin looks up, Wayne is struggling to loosen his tie and get his collar open. He runs his fingers through his own hair before letting his head fall back against this seat, his eyes closing in pleasure, and rocking up rub his balls against Alvin's chin. One of those big hands cups the back of Alvin's skull and tugs him closer, and the other strokes up Alvin's arm and across his bare back, wandering and stroking. Alvin's actually getting kind of hard, even though he got off on the train maybe half-an-hour ago. He reaches down to adjust himself, and then wraps his hand tight around the shaft of Wayne's cock and takes the head into his mouth as he jerks him off, sucking and licking, swallowing around his mouthful. Wayne's doing a pretty good job of not thrusting too hard, just moving his hips enough to slide his cock through Alvin's fist and nudge the head against Alvin's palate.
Wayne moans loudly and extravagantly, tossing his head against the seat, and Alvin takes that as a cue, pulling back enough to take a deep breath and then driving down as fast as he can, as deep as he can, until he has to move his hand out of the way. He squeezes and strokes down near the base as he sucks, swallows, fights the need to gag. He bobs his head quickly - there's no way he can get it all the way down, so he tries to make up for that with motion and suction, the tight press of his lips. Wayne's fingers tighten in his hair and he'd guided down, pushed just a little further than is really comfortable, but he just swallows again, because Wayne is coming. He's not quite fast enough, though - he chokes a little and pulls back with a gasp, taking the last few spurts on his chin and all the way down to his chest.
Alvin is still trying to catch his breath when Wayne leans forward and presses his lips and then his tongue to Alvin's cheek. He tries to turn his head and warn him off of kissing, but it's too late, and he's got a tongue in his mouth. Well, for twenty grand, Alvin can deal with it, he guesses. He gets his teeth licked, and his palate, his tongue tickled and sucked, and then Wayne pulls back and licks a broad swipe over his chin, cleaning up the mess he'd made.
When Wayne pulls him up by the belt-loops and lays him back onto the seat, Alvin figures he's going to get fucked as soon as the man is ready again. He's never taken it up the ass before, for money or for fun, but when Alvin shifts against the leather, he feels the check crinkle in his pocket, and he doesn't say a word when Wayne shifts to kneel over his thighs, bending low to lick Alvin's throat. "You really are *terribly* attractive."
"Uh, thanks," Alvin says, because he's not sure what else he ought to say. He lays there while Wayne undoes his jeans and pulls them down, arching his back and bending his knees just enough to help, and then Wayne is sitting up on his knees over Alvin's lap with the unopened bottle of champagne. He puts his palm over the top and twists in a smooth motion that ends with a pop and a fine spray of fizz, like smoke, that hits Alvin's stomach and makes him shiver. So that's how you do it, apparently. He watches Wayne drink out of the bottle, looking down at Alvin speculatively the whole time, like he can't quite decide what to do with him.
The longer the silence goes on, the more nervous and antsy Alvin gets. He watches Wayne watch him, watches him take another sip, and then he rolls his eyes and looks up at the ceiling. If the man can't get it up again, he ought to just let Alvin go. The waiting is really worse than anything Wayne is likely to do to him.
Or so he thinks, right up until he feels an ice-cold splash against his chest. Alvin shrieks and jumps, scooting backward on the bench seat and looking up wildly to where Wayne is still kneeling, his face stupid with surprise. "Did you just *spill champagne on me*?" Alvin demands, propping himself on his elbows.
"Don't be *silly*, Alden," Wayne says, and leans down to lick a chilly trail from his chest, his tongue startlingly hot after the cold and fizz. Alvin lets his head fall back with a soft gasp. He could really do without the - Cold! He gasps as Wayne tips the bottle again, pouring a thin, slow stream of wine into the hollow above his collarbone and sucking it from his skin as it spills over down his sternum. It's really a kind of obscenely noisy, *slurpy* process, like sounding a lot like the world's best blowjob, and if that hot mouth weren't starting to feel so *good*, Alvin would tell the man to just sit up and drink his booze like a regular guy. Instead, he moans when Wayne licks the hollow clean and then sits back to take a swig from the bottle. He's just about to lay down again when Wayne bends forward and parts his lips around Alvin's nipple, teasing it with his tongue even as the cool, bubbling wine chilled and tickled his skin. Some of it spills from Wayne's lips as he opens his mouth wider, and he's quick to lap it up, humming happily all the while.
Wayne repeats the treatment on the other side of Alvin's chest, and then licks away the sticky trail that runs down Alvin's abs to his belly button. He pauses there, circling with his tongue, and then sits up suddenly, pushing Alvin down against the seat to lie flat, then scooting back and off the seat to kneel on the floor, bringing his eyes to the level of Alvin's shaking belly.
"Don't move," he says, "or you'll spill it." He touches the mouth of the bottle to Alvin's stomach and tips it gently, letting out just a few drops of cold champagne at a time and pausing whenever Alvin shivers to lick up wine he shakes loose. Finally he seems to be satisfied with the level of liquid filling Alvin's navel and the concave curve of his stomach. Alvin holds his breath, but Wayne seems to prefer contemplation to action, just this once. "I was at a party, last week... Greg Duval's son is getting married, and he commissioned these champagne glasses for the bride and groom, for the wedding. White gold stems, with little diamonds. Fifteen thousand dollar champagne glasses. I only remember the number because he wouldn't stop talking about it. I remember telling him, champagne must taste *fabulous* out of a fifteen thousand dollar glass." Alvin holds as still as he can as Wayne leans across his stomach and carefully sips the cold champagne. Once he's licked Alvin's navel clean, he sits up and laughs. "I guess I'm one up on old Duval, now, haha."
Alvin laughs, too. He's pretty sure he's had too much to drink, or maybe the bubbles have just gone to his head. Whatever the reason, he's feeling slightly giddy, and the ticklish brush of Wayne's tongue isn't helping. He reaches down and bats at the man's head, trying to push him away from the places on his belly that make him squirm, and Wayne apparently thinks he's hinting, because he slides backward just enough to take the head of Alvin's cock between his lips.
The feel is exquisite, hot and wet and slick. Wayne swallows around him and takes him down to the root, cupping his balls in one hand while he works his tongue and bobs his head, up until he's just licking the crown, and then down again, fast, lips pressed tight, cheeks hollowed. Alvin can't help moaning, his hands scrabbling over Wayne's hair. He finally catches a good handful of Wayne's jacket and just tries to hold on.
He's just starting to feel the really good ache build up in his balls when Wayne abruptly lets them go and pulls up off of him with a wet pop. Alvin wails in frustration, but Wayne only stays away long enough to take a long draw off the bottle before getting back to it. Alvin's about to start cursing him, right up until those thin lips part slowly around the head of his cock again, and he realizes with a yelp that Wayne didn't actually *swallow* the champagne. It's cold, compared to the warmth of his lips, almost shockingly so, and Alvin squirms and bucks, trying to get away from the contact for a few seconds until the liquid warms up just enough not to make him want to cry. Wayne's tongue feels scaldingly hot, in contrast to the chilly rivulets running down from the corners of his mouth. Somehow Wayne manages to get most of the way down with wine still in his mouth, and he lingers there for a few long moments, even as Alvin gasps and shudders with every bursting bubble.
And then he swallows. He spills most of the champagne, but it's warm enough now from his mouth that it just feels fizzy and good when it drips down to Alvin's balls. He sucks and squeezes, taking Alvin fast and deep, and, while his mouth is cool at first from the wine, it warms up rapidly, until it feels even hotter than it had before. Alvin grabs him by the ear and shoulder and thrusts up into that wet heat, unable to help himself. There's a scrape of teeth, and Wayne looks up at him with a *dangerous* sort of glint in his eye, and then Alvin's orgasm is on him, shaking him and leaving him suddenly weak and heavy.
He shuts his eyes and tries to calm his breathing, but it takes a long time. Jesus, that was intense. It's becoming apparent how Wayne manages to talk those boys of his into *staying* kept. For a moment, Alvin is almost tempted.
"Still in there, slugger?" Wayne asks, and leans over to rap once on the front of Alvin's head. Alvin swats his hand away and sits up. He feels sticky all over, and he makes a face. "Oh don't be like that," Wayne chides. "It's a good trick, isn't it? There was this girl at this party...Missy? Or Mindy? Misty? M-something, anyway, I think, and she could do that underwater in a hot tub. It takes a lot of practice, but, haha, I'm the dedicated type." The wink he follows that statement with is so exaggerated it belongs in a commerical.
The car comes to a stop. Alvin blinks and looks around, but he still can't see out of the windows. He fishes around for his pants. "Are you done with me?" he asks, because for twenty grand, he figured he'd have to do a lot more.
"You wanted a trial run, right? I thought you were just aces, Tiger. Maybe you need a little bit of practice, but I can recognize potential."
Alvin squwaks and whips his head around to look at him, but he can't tell if Wayne is smiling because he's joking or because he's just too stupid to realize he's being insulting. Alvin turns his back on the man as he pulls his pants back on, careful to make sure he's still got the check folded neatly in his pocket. "Well," he says as he tries to wriggle his damp shirt over his sticky body. "I'm not sure. I'm going to have to think about it." He reaches over and tries the door handle, which opens easily at his touch.
"Well, call my office and - wait, you'd better not, eh ha ha? You can call my cell, anytime, cupcake. My number's..." he pauses. "Oh, I can never remember it. Never call myself, do I? Alfred, what's my phone number?" he called, but Alvin climbed out and shut the door behind himself before the mystery could be solved.
Somehow, they're right back at the curb outside the train station. Alvin stares at the line of people forming near the turnstyle, and then looks down at his clothes. It's not like Gotham Transit has a dress code - he's seen people on the train with no shoes, no shirt, and on a few memorable occasions, no pants - but a quick glance at his reflection in the dark window of the limo confirms his worst fears. Alvin's hair is standing all at angles. His shirt and pants are splattered and stained, his skin is sticky, his lips are swollen, and his throat is bruised. He's going to get a lot of funny looks.
Fuck it, he thinks. He's got that check in his pocket. He's got a wad of bills from the guy on the train. He's got Wayne's *watch*.
Alvin laughs and goes to hail a cab.
Fandom: DC Comics
Pairing:Bruce Wayne, Billionaire Playboy / Alvin Draper (Tim Drake)
Warnings: Identity porn, underage, power differential, roleplay
Summary: For batstalker, a sequel to Public Transports. Brucie has a type. Alvin learns to love champagne.
Words: 5177
Rating: NC-17, baby
By the time they get to Bristol, the sun is going down and the train is almost empty. Alvin's not sure where they're going, but he follows Matches anyway, snakeskin wallet burning a hole in his pocket. When they get out to the front of the station, there are a few cabs around, but Matches puts a hand on Alvin's neck and steers him down the line to - fuck, there's a limousine at the end of the curb. Who the fuck takes a limo to the train station, Alvin wants to know, and then he apparently gets his answer when Matches knocks on the windshield and then continues on to open the back door.
"Hop in, kid," he says. "And give me back my wallet."
Alvin scowls and reaches into his pocket. He slips a few bills out, then hands the wallet to Matches, who peeks inside it with a smirk and then puts it away in his jacket pocket. "Where are we going?" he asks as he climbs into the car.
"You're going to see a friend of mine," Matches says. He steps back and tries to shut the door, but Alvin just manages to get his shoe into it before he gets trapped.
"The fuck?" he demands as he tries to push the door back open, but Matches is a lot stronger than him.
"Calm down, sweetheart," Matches says through the gap. "He'll treat you nice. Look, he's rich, he's harmless, and you're just his type. I'm doing you a favor, hookin' you up."
"Out of the goodness of your heart?" Alvin snarls. He throws all his weight against the door, but it doesn't budge a inch.
Matches just laughs. "Alright, sweets... I get a nice piece, too, for delivery. You be a good boy, now." He shoves hard on the door, and Alvin yelps in pain and yanks his foot back just in time for the door to slam shut. Immediately he throws himself across the seat to open the far door, but it's locked. The windows roll down, though, so Alvin holds the button down and prepares himself for a dive onto the asphalt.
The window only gets about about halfway down, though, before it starts going back up, and when he hits the button again, nothing happens. As soon as it's closed, the tint of the glass changes, going from smokey to nearly opaque. The engine starts, and Alvin throws himself forward to hammer at the partition separating him from the driver. "Hey!" he hollers, "hey let me go! I didn't sign on for this!" When there's no response, Alvin lets out a stream of curses and slams his fists against the hard plastic.
"Do sit down, please," a cultured voice says, and Alvin stops shouting to whip his head around, looking for the source. The car pulls away from the curb, and a little door pops open on Alvin's right, near the seat. He's a little impressed, in spite of himself, because apparently this car comes with a fridge. "I would appreciate it if you would buckle your seatbelt."
The voice is English, or something like it, and coming from little speakers on either side of the seat. "Fuck you, let me out!" Alvin snarls into the nearest one. "I'm gonna call the cops!" He hasn't got a cell phone, but this creep doesn't know it, right?
"I'm afraid you won't be able to get a connection," the voice says, calm, almost bored, "as I have now engaged the cellular scrambler for the passenger cabin." Scrambler? Like in a spy flick? Alvin looks around helplessly. "Now please sit down and fasten your seatbelt. I assure you, no harm will come to you."
"And why the fuck should I trust you?"
There's no answer. Alvin sits down on the seat and pulls the fridge door the rest of the way open. There's a row of green glass bottles with French on the labels and something clear inside, and then another row of imported beers, and, to one side, two whole bottles of what he figures is champagne. Alvin pulls one out and looks at it. He's never had champagne before, and he has no clue how to open it, but if he's going to be stuck in here, he might as well. He pulls the foil off the top - that part is easy enough - and stares at the wire contraption stretched over the cork.
Okay, he's never seen this part on tv, but it seems pretty simple. He untwists the wires and pulls the thing off, and then tries to yank the cork out. Nothing happens, so he traps the bottle between his legs and grabs the cork in one hand and the neck in the other, twisting and pulling until the thing comes flying out with a loud pop and bounces off of the ceiling. Cold, foamy wine goes everywhere, soaking his lap and splashing the leather seat. Alvin yelps and shouts a curse when the cold liquid hits him.
He looks around, but he doesn't see any napkins or anything, so he takes off his shirt and uses the relatively dry back of it to mop at his crotch. The champagne forms fizzy beads and pools on the leather seat, and Alvin brushes them to the floor with the back of his hand, as best he can, then wipes his hands on his shirt. He's wet and sticky and he smells like high-class booze, his clothes are wrecked...but he does still have more than half a bottle. He takes a tentative sip, rolling the bubbles around in his mouth before he swallows.
Okay, he probably should have gone for the beer, and not just because he knows how to open a crown cap on a seat belt. Still, it's not *bad*, exactly, and he kind of likes the bubbles. When they get wherever they're going, he can use the bottle like a club if he has to. It looks thick enough.
He's just raised the bottle to his lips for a deeper swallow when the limo comes to a stop. The tint on the windows is so dark that Alvin can barely see out, so he's still trying to decide which way to bolt when the door opens and some guy slides into the seat next to him, shutting the door before Alvin can climb over him or shove him out of the way. Alvin hears the lock engage again and grips the bottle hard by the neck as the car starts to move.
The man has dark hair and broad shoulders and a vaguely familiar face. He turns and looks Alvin up and down slowly, glancing between his bare chest and the bottle in his hand with a slightly lopsided smile. It's the smile that does it, and Alvin suddenly realizes where he's seen the man before - all over the fucking *tabloids*, because he is in a limousine with *Bruce* fucking *Wayne*.
"What a welcome!" Wayne says, blithely, and reaches out to snag the champagne bottle from Alvin's loose fingertips. He tosses back a long swallow, and then holds the bottle out to the side as he shifts in his seat until he and Alvin are face to face. "Got a little thirsty? Looks good on you." He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs at Alvin's chest. Alvin reaches to grab his hand, but somehow he misses as Wayne runs the cloth quickly over his stomach and down to press against his crotch. Alvin's pants are still a mess from the train, but Wayne either doesn't notice or doesn't mind. He manages to evade Alvin's second grab, but not the third, and blinks in apparent confusion when his hand his hauled up and away. "Aren't you the new boy?"
The question, combined with the inappropriate touching, finally manages to break through Alvin's stunned stupor. "What the hell are you talking about?" he snarls, scooting backward across the seat.
Wayne frowns and tilts his head like a puzzled dog. "You're half-naked in my limo, covered in champagne."
Alvin feels himself blushing, but there isn't anything he can do about it. "I was kidnapped!" he shouts.
"Easy, Tiger," Wayne says, as if absolutely nothing is wrong. He leans back against the door in an easy slouch and props one leg up on the seat, knee bent, before taking a long hit off the bottle in his hand. Alvin can't help noticing how the pose pulls the man's tailored suit-slacks tight across his crotch. "Are we playing a game? Shouldn't we get to know each other first?"
"It's not a game," Alvin says, scowling. "This bastard from the train tricked me into getting into the car, and then he took off."
"Oh, well, maybe it's a misunderstanding," Wayne says blithely between sips of champagne. "You really are *just* my type, though. Are you *sure* you're not the new boy?"
"Fuck no!" Alvin snaps.
Wayne lets his arm rest on his thigh, the bottle dangling from his hand to brush against his crotch in a light stroke, leaving beads of condensation to soak into the expensive fabric. Jesus, he's a big boy, and getting hard, too. Alvin swallows and tears his gaze away to look up and meet Wayne's eyes, which are slightly narrowed and sparkling with mischief. "Do you want to be?" he asks. Alvin just stares at him until he shrugs. "I'll give you a ride home, at least." He leans over and hits a button. "Where do you want to go, Sport?"
Alvin's eyes dart around the back of the limo, taking in the dark, polished wood, the silvery chrome, the buttery leather. The carpet under his feet is soaked from the champagne he spilled, maybe ruined, and Wayne hasn't even batted an eye. The suit the man is wearing probably costs more than Alvin sees in a month, and he's all slouched, wrinkling it like it's a two-dollar T-shirt from W-Mart. He doesn't even need all that evidence, though, because this is *Bruce* fucking *Wayne*, and everyone, *everyone*, knows he's made out of money.
"How much?" Alvin asks. Wayne hits the button again and turns back to him, looking blandly puzzled, so Alvin swallows and asks again. "What do I get? I mean, the 'new boy', what's he get?"
"Whatever he wants," Wayne says, like he he doesn't quite understand the question, or maybe just why Alvin is asking it. His confusion is so obvious that Alvin has to stop and take a breath, staring back at him warily. "I've always tried to do right by all my boys. Do you like cars? Tommy liked cars. Or was that Jason? Dick's always liked motorcycles better, and he wanted me to put in a gym. And a movie theater."
Alvin...blinks. It's like they're not even talking the same *language*. Is Wayne talking about...about those kids he *adopted*, or whatever? Alvin needs a minute to process, try and figure out just what's on the table, so he reaches over and snags the bottle of champagne from Wayne's weak grip, and downs the last few swallows in the bottle.
"Do you like it?" Wayne asks as he drinks. "My valet says it's swill, but it's four thousand dollars a bottle, so I guess it has to be good, haha."
Alvin chokes. He loses most of the last mouthful, which runs down his chin, leaving a trail of tingling bubbles on his neck and pattering onto his chest.
"I can't tell the difference," Wayne continues. "Actually I really like the pink kind, but Alfred refuses to buy it and throws it out when I get someone else to." He's not even looking at Alvin, having turned to open the little fridge again and pull out the second bottle. "Always keep a spare, haha," he says, and rips the foil off, turning back with that broad, lopsided grin, his teeth white and perfect.
"How much for just once?" Alvin asks. "For right now?"
Wayne pauses with his hand over the cork, and sets the bottle aside. "Just the once? Gee, I don't know. You sure you don't want to come stay with me for a while?"
God, fuck no, Alvin thinks. If he had to spend that much time listening to this dolt, he'd shoot himself in the face. Alvin may be an opportunist, but he balks at the idea of being *kept*, like some kid of pet. "Call it a ... a trial run. Try each other out," he says. When Wayne just looks at him skeptically, he props one foot up in a mimic of Wayne's posture and presses the toe of his sneaker lightly against the man's balls.
Something dark and strange flashes through the man's eyes, then vanishes under a sunny smile. "I'm *horrible* at negotiations," he says with one of his awful, stilted laughs. "Just ask my CFO."
"Twenty grand," Alvin says, boldly, because if Wayne balks, he can always say he's kidding. He figures he ought to be worth at least as much as a bottle of champagne, though, which will make this whole day worth it - even the sleaze on the train.
"Okay," Wayne says, and reaches into his jacket. He props his checkbook against his knee and starts scribbling away, and Alvin has to catch his breath because *fuck*. Seriously? Just like that?
He should have said thirty.
"Oh," Wayne says, suddenly, looking up. Alvin lets his breath out, sure the man has come to his senses, but he just says, "did you tell me your name? I'm awful with names. Kind of important to get it right on the check, haha, right Tiger?"
"Alvin. Draper," he says. It goes against all his instincts to give his name out in a situation like this one, but it's not like they're going to let him cash this check at the drug store with the cheap fake ID he uses to get into bars. He watches with his tongue between his teeth as Wayne finishes writing and rips the slip out of the little leather book.
"I don't think I introduced myself either," Wayne says like he isn't one of the richest, most famous men in the country.
He hands the check to Alvin, who looks it over quickly and folds it in half before shoving it in his pocket, and snorting. "I know who you are."
Wayne puts a hand to his chest like he's clutching his *pearls*, a gesture completely at odds with the weight of the Wayne Family Jewels against Alvin's foot. "Ahaha, we've met before, haven't we? I'm really just as bad with faces as I am with names."
If Alvin leans forward and lets his hair fall into his face, Wayne won't see him rolling his eyes. "Do you want a blow job or not?"
Wayne spreads his legs wider in a surprising display of flexibility. "Does anyone *ever* say no to that question? Because- ahaha," he says as Alvin slides off the seat to his knees and reaches for his belt. "You're just an eager little beaver, aren't you?"
Eager to get this over with and get *out* of here, before Wayne comes to his senses about the check. He supposes the guy could just stop payment, after Alvin leaves, but he doesn't seem like he'd actually *remember* to, even if that's what he's intending. Alvin's fingers work on autopilot, getting the man's belt open and fly down, but in his head all he's seeing is dollar signs. Twenty *grand*. That's his rent for the next *two years*, more if he plays it right. He's going to have to open a bank account just to *cash* that check - no bank is just going to hand Alvin all that money and let him walk out the door, but that's okay, because the back of the toilet isn't a good enough hiding place for *that* kind of dough. And maybe - well, he's not going to let Wayne shut him up in some mausoleum of a house, but maybe Wayne might want a repeat performance sometime, if Alvin pulls out all the stops. He tugs Wayne's slacks open and pulls his drawers down and, Jesus.
Jesus.
Wayne's not hung like a horse, he's hung like a motherfucking *bull*. His cock springs up toward Alvin's chin and bobs in the air, hard already, and staring back at him like a snake. "Goddamn, what do they feed you motherfuckers?"
"Ahaha," Wayne says. "It's down to good breeding and clean living, I guess." He shifts his hips until he can get his pants down around his thighs, and turns until he's slouched against the back of the seat, his knees spread around Alvin, his heavy pink balls sliding against the smooth leather seat with every breath he takes.
"Clean living," Alvin says, amused in spite of himself. "Getting blown by strangers in the back of your limo." He wraps his hand around Wayne's cock, jacking it a few times to get a feel for it. His thumb and fingers don't quite meet, even when he squeezes.
"We're not *strangers*, Albert," Wayne says, chidingly. Alvin would correct him, but he's busy, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath before opening his mouth as wide as he can manage and still keep his teeth covered. He bends his head, kneeling up, and goes down until he can't anymore, working his tongue and getting everything as wet as he can. Wayne tastes clean, thick and heavy on Alvin's tongue and very, very male. There's no way Alvin's going to be able to swallow him down, so he tightens his lips and pulls back, and then strokes the shaft with his hand while he licks it up and down, nuzzling down to his balls to suck gently, cupping them in one hand and letting Wayne's cock rub against his cheek.
When Alvin looks up, Wayne is struggling to loosen his tie and get his collar open. He runs his fingers through his own hair before letting his head fall back against this seat, his eyes closing in pleasure, and rocking up rub his balls against Alvin's chin. One of those big hands cups the back of Alvin's skull and tugs him closer, and the other strokes up Alvin's arm and across his bare back, wandering and stroking. Alvin's actually getting kind of hard, even though he got off on the train maybe half-an-hour ago. He reaches down to adjust himself, and then wraps his hand tight around the shaft of Wayne's cock and takes the head into his mouth as he jerks him off, sucking and licking, swallowing around his mouthful. Wayne's doing a pretty good job of not thrusting too hard, just moving his hips enough to slide his cock through Alvin's fist and nudge the head against Alvin's palate.
Wayne moans loudly and extravagantly, tossing his head against the seat, and Alvin takes that as a cue, pulling back enough to take a deep breath and then driving down as fast as he can, as deep as he can, until he has to move his hand out of the way. He squeezes and strokes down near the base as he sucks, swallows, fights the need to gag. He bobs his head quickly - there's no way he can get it all the way down, so he tries to make up for that with motion and suction, the tight press of his lips. Wayne's fingers tighten in his hair and he'd guided down, pushed just a little further than is really comfortable, but he just swallows again, because Wayne is coming. He's not quite fast enough, though - he chokes a little and pulls back with a gasp, taking the last few spurts on his chin and all the way down to his chest.
Alvin is still trying to catch his breath when Wayne leans forward and presses his lips and then his tongue to Alvin's cheek. He tries to turn his head and warn him off of kissing, but it's too late, and he's got a tongue in his mouth. Well, for twenty grand, Alvin can deal with it, he guesses. He gets his teeth licked, and his palate, his tongue tickled and sucked, and then Wayne pulls back and licks a broad swipe over his chin, cleaning up the mess he'd made.
When Wayne pulls him up by the belt-loops and lays him back onto the seat, Alvin figures he's going to get fucked as soon as the man is ready again. He's never taken it up the ass before, for money or for fun, but when Alvin shifts against the leather, he feels the check crinkle in his pocket, and he doesn't say a word when Wayne shifts to kneel over his thighs, bending low to lick Alvin's throat. "You really are *terribly* attractive."
"Uh, thanks," Alvin says, because he's not sure what else he ought to say. He lays there while Wayne undoes his jeans and pulls them down, arching his back and bending his knees just enough to help, and then Wayne is sitting up on his knees over Alvin's lap with the unopened bottle of champagne. He puts his palm over the top and twists in a smooth motion that ends with a pop and a fine spray of fizz, like smoke, that hits Alvin's stomach and makes him shiver. So that's how you do it, apparently. He watches Wayne drink out of the bottle, looking down at Alvin speculatively the whole time, like he can't quite decide what to do with him.
The longer the silence goes on, the more nervous and antsy Alvin gets. He watches Wayne watch him, watches him take another sip, and then he rolls his eyes and looks up at the ceiling. If the man can't get it up again, he ought to just let Alvin go. The waiting is really worse than anything Wayne is likely to do to him.
Or so he thinks, right up until he feels an ice-cold splash against his chest. Alvin shrieks and jumps, scooting backward on the bench seat and looking up wildly to where Wayne is still kneeling, his face stupid with surprise. "Did you just *spill champagne on me*?" Alvin demands, propping himself on his elbows.
"Don't be *silly*, Alden," Wayne says, and leans down to lick a chilly trail from his chest, his tongue startlingly hot after the cold and fizz. Alvin lets his head fall back with a soft gasp. He could really do without the - Cold! He gasps as Wayne tips the bottle again, pouring a thin, slow stream of wine into the hollow above his collarbone and sucking it from his skin as it spills over down his sternum. It's really a kind of obscenely noisy, *slurpy* process, like sounding a lot like the world's best blowjob, and if that hot mouth weren't starting to feel so *good*, Alvin would tell the man to just sit up and drink his booze like a regular guy. Instead, he moans when Wayne licks the hollow clean and then sits back to take a swig from the bottle. He's just about to lay down again when Wayne bends forward and parts his lips around Alvin's nipple, teasing it with his tongue even as the cool, bubbling wine chilled and tickled his skin. Some of it spills from Wayne's lips as he opens his mouth wider, and he's quick to lap it up, humming happily all the while.
Wayne repeats the treatment on the other side of Alvin's chest, and then licks away the sticky trail that runs down Alvin's abs to his belly button. He pauses there, circling with his tongue, and then sits up suddenly, pushing Alvin down against the seat to lie flat, then scooting back and off the seat to kneel on the floor, bringing his eyes to the level of Alvin's shaking belly.
"Don't move," he says, "or you'll spill it." He touches the mouth of the bottle to Alvin's stomach and tips it gently, letting out just a few drops of cold champagne at a time and pausing whenever Alvin shivers to lick up wine he shakes loose. Finally he seems to be satisfied with the level of liquid filling Alvin's navel and the concave curve of his stomach. Alvin holds his breath, but Wayne seems to prefer contemplation to action, just this once. "I was at a party, last week... Greg Duval's son is getting married, and he commissioned these champagne glasses for the bride and groom, for the wedding. White gold stems, with little diamonds. Fifteen thousand dollar champagne glasses. I only remember the number because he wouldn't stop talking about it. I remember telling him, champagne must taste *fabulous* out of a fifteen thousand dollar glass." Alvin holds as still as he can as Wayne leans across his stomach and carefully sips the cold champagne. Once he's licked Alvin's navel clean, he sits up and laughs. "I guess I'm one up on old Duval, now, haha."
Alvin laughs, too. He's pretty sure he's had too much to drink, or maybe the bubbles have just gone to his head. Whatever the reason, he's feeling slightly giddy, and the ticklish brush of Wayne's tongue isn't helping. He reaches down and bats at the man's head, trying to push him away from the places on his belly that make him squirm, and Wayne apparently thinks he's hinting, because he slides backward just enough to take the head of Alvin's cock between his lips.
The feel is exquisite, hot and wet and slick. Wayne swallows around him and takes him down to the root, cupping his balls in one hand while he works his tongue and bobs his head, up until he's just licking the crown, and then down again, fast, lips pressed tight, cheeks hollowed. Alvin can't help moaning, his hands scrabbling over Wayne's hair. He finally catches a good handful of Wayne's jacket and just tries to hold on.
He's just starting to feel the really good ache build up in his balls when Wayne abruptly lets them go and pulls up off of him with a wet pop. Alvin wails in frustration, but Wayne only stays away long enough to take a long draw off the bottle before getting back to it. Alvin's about to start cursing him, right up until those thin lips part slowly around the head of his cock again, and he realizes with a yelp that Wayne didn't actually *swallow* the champagne. It's cold, compared to the warmth of his lips, almost shockingly so, and Alvin squirms and bucks, trying to get away from the contact for a few seconds until the liquid warms up just enough not to make him want to cry. Wayne's tongue feels scaldingly hot, in contrast to the chilly rivulets running down from the corners of his mouth. Somehow Wayne manages to get most of the way down with wine still in his mouth, and he lingers there for a few long moments, even as Alvin gasps and shudders with every bursting bubble.
And then he swallows. He spills most of the champagne, but it's warm enough now from his mouth that it just feels fizzy and good when it drips down to Alvin's balls. He sucks and squeezes, taking Alvin fast and deep, and, while his mouth is cool at first from the wine, it warms up rapidly, until it feels even hotter than it had before. Alvin grabs him by the ear and shoulder and thrusts up into that wet heat, unable to help himself. There's a scrape of teeth, and Wayne looks up at him with a *dangerous* sort of glint in his eye, and then Alvin's orgasm is on him, shaking him and leaving him suddenly weak and heavy.
He shuts his eyes and tries to calm his breathing, but it takes a long time. Jesus, that was intense. It's becoming apparent how Wayne manages to talk those boys of his into *staying* kept. For a moment, Alvin is almost tempted.
"Still in there, slugger?" Wayne asks, and leans over to rap once on the front of Alvin's head. Alvin swats his hand away and sits up. He feels sticky all over, and he makes a face. "Oh don't be like that," Wayne chides. "It's a good trick, isn't it? There was this girl at this party...Missy? Or Mindy? Misty? M-something, anyway, I think, and she could do that underwater in a hot tub. It takes a lot of practice, but, haha, I'm the dedicated type." The wink he follows that statement with is so exaggerated it belongs in a commerical.
The car comes to a stop. Alvin blinks and looks around, but he still can't see out of the windows. He fishes around for his pants. "Are you done with me?" he asks, because for twenty grand, he figured he'd have to do a lot more.
"You wanted a trial run, right? I thought you were just aces, Tiger. Maybe you need a little bit of practice, but I can recognize potential."
Alvin squwaks and whips his head around to look at him, but he can't tell if Wayne is smiling because he's joking or because he's just too stupid to realize he's being insulting. Alvin turns his back on the man as he pulls his pants back on, careful to make sure he's still got the check folded neatly in his pocket. "Well," he says as he tries to wriggle his damp shirt over his sticky body. "I'm not sure. I'm going to have to think about it." He reaches over and tries the door handle, which opens easily at his touch.
"Well, call my office and - wait, you'd better not, eh ha ha? You can call my cell, anytime, cupcake. My number's..." he pauses. "Oh, I can never remember it. Never call myself, do I? Alfred, what's my phone number?" he called, but Alvin climbed out and shut the door behind himself before the mystery could be solved.
Somehow, they're right back at the curb outside the train station. Alvin stares at the line of people forming near the turnstyle, and then looks down at his clothes. It's not like Gotham Transit has a dress code - he's seen people on the train with no shoes, no shirt, and on a few memorable occasions, no pants - but a quick glance at his reflection in the dark window of the limo confirms his worst fears. Alvin's hair is standing all at angles. His shirt and pants are splattered and stained, his skin is sticky, his lips are swollen, and his throat is bruised. He's going to get a lot of funny looks.
Fuck it, he thinks. He's got that check in his pocket. He's got a wad of bills from the guy on the train. He's got Wayne's *watch*.
Alvin laughs and goes to hail a cab.