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Nick doesn't know how long he's knelt beneath Knives' desk. His body is numb, large and folded into the space between pale slacks and mahogany. Knives is at the edge of his leather chair, crowding Nick's head back against the wooden desk.
He couldn't move if he wanted to, but he doesn't. His world is nothing beyond the molten velvet heat of Knives' cunt. His mouth is sealed to those folds, tongue flat between soft labia. He isn't allowed to lick in, just rest, suckle gently on the slick that lazily drizzles from deep within his Master's generous body.
Nick doesn't know what Knives is working on above him, he hardly hears the shuffling papers, too deep in the salt musk of a day's work that clings to the man's skin. The feeling of silky panties rubs against Nick's cheek, caught there in his patchy stubble and the crease of Knives' thigh. He feels and hears the muscle tighten and relax in a slow rhythm next to his face.
Another breath through the nose, a rumbling sigh, then Knives' fingers find their way to Nick's scalp and guide him with a quick tug. He presses closer, lips crushed between teeth and pubis, ground into platinum manicured pubic hair. His reward is another thick ooze of slick, which he swallows with a greedy, muffled groan if only to feel Knives' cock twitch.
Nick does know that his body is light and fuzzy warm, his knees are comfortable on his cushion and Knives is granting him a kind oblivion. He doesn't have to think or do, he just has to be, and he likes that. It's emptying and vast, and he disappears in it, cheek coming to rest against Knives' bracketing thigh. Like blinders, guardrails, they keep him safe. He can exist like this, knowing his edges, the boundaries Knives makes for him.
He knows his spit is leaking around his lips, he feels more slip away and he misses it even as it traces a hot line down his chin, cooling as it trickles along his throat. Nick thrills with it even though he's already shiny to his chest. It must have been half an hour, forty minutes maybe. How many are even in an hour? The wool descends again because Knives rolls his hips, bearing down on Nick's obedient tongue.
"Almost done," he sounds so unaffected. Flat, normal, just talking about the weather. Knives shifts above him, the sounds painting a picture of his movement in Nick's head. Something clicks on his desk, muffled through one ear. Knives' pulse is thumping in the other where he can feel it in his skull. More clicking, squishier somehow. Nick's fingers twitch, feeling thick and muzzy. They're laced loosely between his thighs, skin on skin. It feels like they've melted together with how long he's been like this. He's loathe to move them, so he doesn't.
Knives is talking to someone else.
Someone else?
The thought rips through him, dragging him to the surface with a sharp inhale through his nose, but his body doesn't otherwise react. Knives took that from him, gave him molasses instead and all he can do is try to look up through his hair. He feels Knives lean back, hand on his head replaced by a hooked leg. He's crossing his legs as if Nick isn't even there and somehow that pulls the panic right out of him like a plug. It drains him back to nearly nothing again. He isn't there.
The curled cord of Knives' desk phone swims into view, black against the pale cream of his suit jacket. "Your documents have been sent for review…. Yes, finished just now." A pause, something Nick can't hear, "Of course. Just get them back to me by Monday. Final copy will be sent by courier in the afternoon." God he's talking to a client. Talking to a client and slowly, so slowly fucking his hips into Nick's face, still squeezed tight by the calf behind his head.
He shouldn't whine, not while Knives is on the phone, but his body is pulling itself out of the calm Nirvana. It's reminding him that he's desperately hard and has been leaking a steady stream of precum for a long time. His fingers tighten, pulling free of the loose lacing. It's reminding him that his knees ache, his ankles are extended and even with the pillow, are still bearing his weight. The pain is sweet and kind, radiating up his legs to settle right behind his cock. He's pulling in and out, bobbing up and down. Not quite above the waves, not quite tugged down by the undertow again either.
Nick doesn't know when his eyes slid closed or when Knives' ocean swallowed him back up, but his focus is back on that beautiful pussy working against his mouth. His throat refuses to work this time, and he does whine when Knives' slick escapes the same way his spit does. He tries to chase it with his tongue, pressing up against the plump flesh around the fluttering opening. Instead, he catches on the back edge and Knives stills before Nick's tongue slips in.
He freezes in turn, distantly worried he made a mistake, but Knives starts up again. He tells him to keep it flat, so he does. There's a little twist to Knives' hips now, little aborted circles with impeccable control. Both hands are in his hair again, petting through it. "Almost done," he says once more, and Nick can taste how he throbs.
"Mm. I think this is a new record. An hour and twenty-eight minutes." His words are at odds with his body, leg pulling right, fingers digging in. He doesn't hiss when his glans flicks against Nick's teeth, just quietly shakes apart with two final gifts. The nails in his scalp and the thicker, more pungent slick of his cum. Nick feels a little forlorn that Knives didn't gush, but he knows somewhere that he's already enough of a mess and Knives does everything with purpose.
"Don't swallow, let me see."
Nick feels the leg unhook. Despite it all, he does whine when Knives' body unsticks from his mouth. The sound is absolutely filthy, half suction half squelch. Strings of that wonderful, messy mucous thread pearly between their pairs of swollen lips. They don't break, just hang, keeping his mouth connected to Knives' pussy. Eventually, they'll stretch and sag into dark lines on the inside of Knives' slacks. They've been coupled for so long, his body really made it thick. Nick feels a gentle pride when he can see how pink and engorged Knives is, framed by the gray silk panties on the left. His hazy head is tilted up by four fingers at his hairline and one thumb at his cheek. His tongue lolls out, painted with Knives' emissions. The fingertips travel back along his crown and pull his hair along.
"Very good."
He loves it when Knives looks at him like this. Pleased, appraising. It's almost the same way he looks at a good tool, and he forgets he's still aching because he has to look his best for his Master. He knows Knives likes him with a collar of spit and cum on his throat and chest, and his gaze digs into him like hot blades.
"Do you want to cum for me?" Knives asks, and Nick catches that first ragged edge tugging at the vowels. He nods, mouth still open while the rest of him lights up with a delayed shiver. His legs slide open just a little, cock head slapping wet against his stomach. He hasn't looked down at it, but from the tight, heavy throbbing thinks it must be purple by now.
Knives brings his hand back, dragging fingers down Nick's pliant face. His mouth stays slack jawed as Knives plays with his teeth and gums, pads of his fingers insistent. He rubs his slick into Nick's tongue, and his throat opens in a groan. Spit stings his esophagus and he coughs, but Knives keeps his hand there, keeps petting the inside of Nick's mouth like it's a cunt of his own.
"So wet and sloppy for me," Knives growls, voice a direct line to Nick's pathetic cock.
Nick drools even more, sobbing through his nose when it means he won't feel Knives' cum on his tongue anymore. It's fingertips pressing down on the back of his tongue that has him cumming, hips jolting on nothing, balls drawing pain. He's been leaking so much that hardly anything comes out beyond two sad stripes to marble his abs. Knives pantomimes fucking his open mouth, swiping cummy drool against his lips, cheeks and chin.
It's worth it for the vague curl of a smile cutting Knives' lips.