in the manner to which you've been accustomed
in the manner to which you've been accustomed
Saito/Arthur. In which Arthur is not a professional. NC-17.
Note: For this prompt on the kinkmeme: "Arthur shining Saito's shoes."
First, Saito makes Arthur put on his best dove gray Dunhill suit and the wine colored Carlo Franco tie Saito had to replace after he used the last one to bring Arthur off in the back of an opera house in Vienna. "You've twisted your braces," he says when Arthur's done, tapping him under the chin with his knuckle, and Arthur bristle because he hasn't, but he take off his jacket anyway, folding it on the hotel chair. But Saito makes Arthur take everything off, even his socks, before dressing back up, and when it's time for the tie, he shakes his head and knots it for Arthur, eyes flashing hungrily when his fingers accidentally graze Arthur's neck. Arthur licks his lips, tilt his head back just slightly, and just manages to say, "If I get my clothes dirty because you get off on having me on my knees--"
"Oh Arthur," Saito breathes, stroking Arthur's jaw with a bored smile that hides nothing. "It's not just about getting you on your knees," he says, and, putting a gentle hand on the top of Arthur's well-styled hair, pushes him to the ground.
Saito's wearing black shoes for the express purpose of watching Arthur squirm. "You'll get the polish on the carpet," he says, trying to keep his voice calm. The look Saito gives him is withering, because they both know he doesn't care. Arthur doesn't really care either, but it's just the idea. He shakes his head and surveys what's laid out before him. Everything-- the chamois, the tin of wax polish, the horsehair brush, an unopened bag of cotton ball-- is brand new. Saito's also managed to get a chair on a platform and a small stool to rest his feet, but they're both exactly tall enough for Arthur to be hand-level with the shoes only when he's kneeling, which just cements his opinion that the man whose fucking and fucking with him is thorough, exhaustively prepared, and completely off his rocker.
"I can't promise you I'll be able to replicate the work of a professional," Arthur murmurs as he picks up the brush.
In response, Saito lights a cigarette, and Arthur gives him a murderous look that means, if you drop ashes on me, I'll shoot you in the kneecaps the next time we're in a dream together. "I have absolute faith in your ability to satisfy," Saito tells him as he exhales. In this skyscraper office with windows from ceiling to floor and furniture so sharp and modern the lines seemed to slice right through, even Saito's cigarette smoke seems a little dangerous, a little too much like one of his unconsummated fantasies, dangling in his face as it waits for Arthur to give in.
And that's a cue, maybe, the waiting, so Arthur starts to briskly brush down the shoes. They're well polished already, and Saito doesn't walk enough for them to have accumulated any dust at all, but that, Arthur knows, isn't the point of this exercise. Arthur tries not to think about what is. He has a photographic memory, and usually he uses that to memorize everything they need to know about a mark, but now he uses it to picture Saito's cock starting to strain against his silk briefs, just barely beginning to tent the front of his mouthwateringly well-made Issey Miyakes. Arthur doesn't look up to verify. The temptation would be too great-- just the thought is already enough to make Arthur fumble while opening the tin of polish, and he can see, too, the little lift of Saito's eyebrow, the way he's turned away, just a little half twist to tap his cigarette against the metal and wood ashtray on his desk.
"I should have bought you gloves," Saito muses as Arthur slowly unlaces his shoes. "Some nice leather ones." He chuckles. "You would have thought of them, wouldn't you?"
The smell of smoke on Saito's breath is sweet and almost mellow. Arthur's been hard since he walked into the office and saw the shine of the wax polish cannister and knew what was coming, and now the polish, the tobacco, the way he can feel Saito staring at the back of his neck as he works the laces free from the grommets goes straight to his head. The part of his head that goes straight back down to his cock, anyway. It doesn't help that the last time Saito promised leather gloves, he meant to buy them for himself. And I'd finger you with them on, he'd said. With nothing on except for those gloves. Soft kidskin ones. You'd be braced against a table, and the only things you'd feel would be my fingers, fucking you slowly and carefully. You'd like that, wouldn't you?
But both of them are silent when Arthur begins to work the polish into the shoes, rubbing against Saito's feet with small circular strokes, trying desperately not to get any polish on his hands. Saito's going to make Arthur grab his own thighs later, and he won't let Arthur take his clothes either. It's more than just the suit, though. Arthur knows Saito just wants to see the marks of his fingers, scrabbling against his own knees as he tries not to touch himself. And Arthur doesn't like giving in.
When both of the shoes are covered in a thin varnish of black wax, Arthur sits back on his heels. The cottonballs have left streaks, like sketches of black clouds against the shine of the shoes. Arthur's even polished the tongue behind the laces."Well?" Saito says, and Arthur finally looks up, quickly so he can only see Saito's face.
"You're supposed to wait a few minutes. For the polish to set in."
Saito nods, satisfied. "You're right, you know," he murmurs after a pause. He grabs at the cigarette dangling from his lips, irritated, and stretches his arm behind him to extinguish it in the ashtray. "I do like seeing you on your knees."
"I should know, since I'm the one doing the kneeling," Arthur jokes, trying not to betray the hitch in his breath.
"But it's not what you think," Saito says, leaning back in his chair to look at the ceiling. Arthur swallows with some difficulty, because now Saito's body has opened up into one long, luxurious line, inviting him to touch. Arthur wants so many things, to strip back down again, straddle him on that chair, fuck the both of them to exhaustion-- or maybe just spread his legs and suck him off, and who gives a damn about the polish-- or maybe just to drape himself on Saito, mouth to mouth and chest to chest, so he can taste the smoke for himself--
"It's not that I am aroused by subordination," he continues, saying the word 'subordination' carefully, savoring it, and convincing Arthur that he probably does get off on it. "For instance, I have very normal sex with my wife."
Despite Arthur's best self-control, he asks, "What about Sonia?"
"Oh, her," Saito says with a wicked smile. "She's the one who likes to tie me up."
Arthur's oversensitized already, frustrated and embarrassed and feeling kind of stupid, and the image hits him like a punch to the stomach of his lust. He tries to keep himself from asking all the questions that come to mind. What does she tie him up with? Belts? Chains? His own ties? Did he learn this all from her? Does she make him kneel at her feet and lick her for hours? Arthur has just this vaguest fantasy of cuffing Saito to the headboard of a bed with a cock ring and a kiss, then riding Saito until he comes, leaving Saito hard and wanting and cursing and unable to bring himself off. Now he wonders if it's only something Sonia has done before, hundreds of times. He can picture Sonia's back arched back in pleasure, and Saito pulling on the restraints, begging. He can see it so clearly he almost moans, cock twitching against the restraint of his pants.
Saito's voice breaks through with measured calm. "The polish has set in by now, Mr. Arthur."
"Right," Arthur mutters. "Right, the polish."
The brush is almost weightless in his hands. He moves it in quick vigorous strokes to hide the way his hands are shaking, shifting Saito's shoes back and forth with his forcefulness, like he's making them tap to a beat neither of them can hear. He's glad Saito opted for the conventional civilian way-- no lighters, or else he's not sure he wouldn't set them both on fire. Then, the laces, which he does up European style, ladder lacing the way he always laces his own shoes. It's weird, though not difficult, to polish shoes on someone else's feet, when he's spent his whole life polishing his own shoes, usually stuck awkwardly on his hands. What's throwing him off the most is Saito's silence. It embarrasses him to admit that he's not used to Saito being nonverbal when Arthur's kneeling. It makes him feel more vulnerable than he ever imagined.
But when Arthur finally picks up the chamois, Saito says without any preamble, "It's more about your self-control."
"What is?" Arthur asks through his gritted teeth. As he moves from the front of the shoes to buff the sides, Saito shifts his feet a little closer towards him, and for a minute Arthur thinks he's done something wrong. He stutters to a stop, glancing up, but Saito has only moved further back into his chair so he can rest his elbows on his knees.
The look on Saito's face-- parted lips, eyes boring down on the top of Arthur's head, the tiniest crease between his eyebrows-- makes the heat rise to Arthur's face. He's not sure what Saito can read in his expression, but Saito smiles, leaning forward just a little more. "I don't deny that I am a possessive man," he says, his hands ghosting over Arthur's cheek, like he's memorizing the shape through the feel of the air. "I like to have and keep, and that includes other people's self-control." He touches Arthur's lips, briefly, and a groan wrenches from Arthur, something more breath than sound. Saito strokes Arthur's bottom lip, softly, too softly, making Arthur whimper in frustration, and whispers, "So when I take your self-control from you, it feels like the only time you really belong to me."
He pushes a finger past Arthur's lips, sliding past the ridges of Arthur's teeth and almost patting Arthur's tongue. And Arthur closes his eyes, taking it in deeper, until he's resting his tongue against Saito's palm, then moving back, tonguing around the ridges of Saito's fingernail. "Arthur," Saito growls in warning, but Arthur's too far gone, mouth on Saito's middle finger too, sucking noisily. Saito tries to draw his fingers back, pressing them spit-slick against Arthur's lips again, but Arthur makes a hungry, denied noise, almost biting, and then two things happen simultaneously.
The first is that Saito stands up, which means Arthur, who had previously been kneeling in front of Saito, is now kneeling in between Saito's legs, which, really, is how these things normally go.
The second is that he has fisted Arthur's tie in his hand and his cock, hard and glistening with just a hint of precum, is resting against Arthur's mouth.
"Hey," Arthur manages to choke out, "I'm not done polishing your shoes." His tongue flicks out against Saito, lingering just a little longer than he means to, and god, he almost loses himself in the taste. He wants to reach down and at least just touch himself, but Saito growls, "No," so Arthur keeps his hands where they are-- on the carpet, the chamois crushed uselessly in one of them-- while he opens his mouth to suck Saito's cock all the way down his throat.
Usually Arthur does this with more finesse, but Saito is still almost choking him with a hold on his tie, crushing the silk of it in a way that no iron will ever free. That's okay though, because Arthur knows ties mean nothing-- nothing means anything except for the frenzied way Saito shoves forward, jerking helplessly against Arthur's throat, and Arthur hums around it, swallowing once or twice just to see Saito's eyes flutter and to hear him hiss. He pulls back, letting Saito go with a wet sound, and for a moment Saito's grip is so angry it cuts out Arthur's oxygen, blacking him out. He blinks back into consciousness, harder than he's ever been in his life, and gasps, "Wait, wait," swirling the head of Saito's cock around and around on his tongue, working against the slit with a relentless focus. He mouths all the way down, meaning to take Saito's balls in his mouth and just listen to the sounds of Saito falling apart, but Saito tugs again, causing Arthur's cock to jerk helplessly, and Saito grunts, "Stop playing around."
He's so hard he could actually beg. He doesn't though, just takes Saito back in his mouth, back into his throat, as deep as he can, deeper until he almost chokes, and then he bobs back up, down and up, hollowing his cheeks with every suck, and Saito makes a sound like he's drowning, gripping Arthur's shoulder-- not his hair, Arthur notes through a haze of arousal-- and pulling him close, like Arthur's going to save him.
Arthur can't say anything. He moans around Saito anyway, though, trying to scoot forward, and that's when he feels Saito's shoe pressed against his trouser crotch. The surprise almost makes him come right there, and Saito can feel it in the way Arthur seizes up around him, tongue coming to a halt for a moment. "Keep going," he whispers, letting go of Arthur's tie and stroking him with an odd fondness down the length of Arthur's throat, two fingers disappearing under his collar to rub Arthur's neck, and that shouldn't make Arthur moan but it does. Saito's foot presses harder, right against Arthur's crotch. It's exactly everything and not at all what Arthur needs, and he goes back to fucking Saito with his mouth, which makes Saito laugh, and then makes him gasp and claw at Arthur's shoulder. Just a few more seconds, Arthur thinks, and then he'll come, and then I can just--
Which is when Saito starts moving his foot in earnest, stroking, pushing, almost stepping on Arthur's cock through the fabric of his pants, and Arthur completely loses it. It's painful how hard Saito is pressing against him with his shoe, and at one point he nudges the tip of it against the crown of Arthur's cock in a way that might at any other time inspire Arthur to pull out a gun and shoot him out of agony, but for the moment, Arthur is kneeling on the carpet of Saito's office, and it is bright and the windows are clean, and it feels exactly right, it's filthy for all the right reasons, and when Arthur tries to imagine what it'd look like, his tie crushed and Saito almost tearing at his collar to get Arthur to keep blowing him, how he's going to ruin his pants when it finally ends, he comes so hard there are tears in his eyes.
"Arthur," Saito pleads, his fingers so tight on Arthur's shoulder they could break a weaker man. Arthur barely has the energy to move his mouth, much less chuckle. Already he regrets the wet silk of his briefs, the chafe of the zipper against the sensitive head, but Saito moves insistently, and Arthur shudders, flattening his tongue against Saito's cock one last time and swallowing all the way to the hilt. It doesn't take longer than a few seconds for Saito to come, and when he does, Arthur swallows it all, triumphant through his exhaustion, luxuriating in the sound Saito makes-- a broken sob, like all his breath is being pushed out of his body and into Arthur's throat.
When Arthur opens his eyes again, Saito has sat back down on the shoe-polishing chair. Other than his still open fly, his softening cock, and the faint color on his cheeks, he looks every bit the competent businessman, almost no change from when Arthur first stepped into the office. Arthur, on the other hand, has a tie that's been jerked around beyond all recognition, a collar that is crumpled like a tissue, and traces of both come and black polish on the crotch of his pants.
"Shit," he groans, wiping futilely at the polish with the chamois, which makes it worse.
"Don't look at me," Saito tells him lazily, reaching behind him for the pack of cigarettes on the desk. "I wanted you to finish polishing my shoes first."
"Fuck you and your shoes," Arthur snaps. "This was my favorite suit. You're a real asshole."
Saito laughs, and after a while, Arthur does too. "Arthur," Saito says, and this time it's a voice filled with decadence and ruination, made dark with pleasure and satisfaction, and Arthur gives in. He kicks off his own shoes and throwing his tie onto the floor, climbs onto Saito's lap and straddles him, hauling Saito up by the lapels of his jacket, and kisses the first exhalation of cigarette smoke out of him.
Saito/Arthur. In which Arthur is not a professional. NC-17.
Note: For this prompt on the kinkmeme: "Arthur shining Saito's shoes."
First, Saito makes Arthur put on his best dove gray Dunhill suit and the wine colored Carlo Franco tie Saito had to replace after he used the last one to bring Arthur off in the back of an opera house in Vienna. "You've twisted your braces," he says when Arthur's done, tapping him under the chin with his knuckle, and Arthur bristle because he hasn't, but he take off his jacket anyway, folding it on the hotel chair. But Saito makes Arthur take everything off, even his socks, before dressing back up, and when it's time for the tie, he shakes his head and knots it for Arthur, eyes flashing hungrily when his fingers accidentally graze Arthur's neck. Arthur licks his lips, tilt his head back just slightly, and just manages to say, "If I get my clothes dirty because you get off on having me on my knees--"
"Oh Arthur," Saito breathes, stroking Arthur's jaw with a bored smile that hides nothing. "It's not just about getting you on your knees," he says, and, putting a gentle hand on the top of Arthur's well-styled hair, pushes him to the ground.
Saito's wearing black shoes for the express purpose of watching Arthur squirm. "You'll get the polish on the carpet," he says, trying to keep his voice calm. The look Saito gives him is withering, because they both know he doesn't care. Arthur doesn't really care either, but it's just the idea. He shakes his head and surveys what's laid out before him. Everything-- the chamois, the tin of wax polish, the horsehair brush, an unopened bag of cotton ball-- is brand new. Saito's also managed to get a chair on a platform and a small stool to rest his feet, but they're both exactly tall enough for Arthur to be hand-level with the shoes only when he's kneeling, which just cements his opinion that the man whose fucking and fucking with him is thorough, exhaustively prepared, and completely off his rocker.
"I can't promise you I'll be able to replicate the work of a professional," Arthur murmurs as he picks up the brush.
In response, Saito lights a cigarette, and Arthur gives him a murderous look that means, if you drop ashes on me, I'll shoot you in the kneecaps the next time we're in a dream together. "I have absolute faith in your ability to satisfy," Saito tells him as he exhales. In this skyscraper office with windows from ceiling to floor and furniture so sharp and modern the lines seemed to slice right through, even Saito's cigarette smoke seems a little dangerous, a little too much like one of his unconsummated fantasies, dangling in his face as it waits for Arthur to give in.
And that's a cue, maybe, the waiting, so Arthur starts to briskly brush down the shoes. They're well polished already, and Saito doesn't walk enough for them to have accumulated any dust at all, but that, Arthur knows, isn't the point of this exercise. Arthur tries not to think about what is. He has a photographic memory, and usually he uses that to memorize everything they need to know about a mark, but now he uses it to picture Saito's cock starting to strain against his silk briefs, just barely beginning to tent the front of his mouthwateringly well-made Issey Miyakes. Arthur doesn't look up to verify. The temptation would be too great-- just the thought is already enough to make Arthur fumble while opening the tin of polish, and he can see, too, the little lift of Saito's eyebrow, the way he's turned away, just a little half twist to tap his cigarette against the metal and wood ashtray on his desk.
"I should have bought you gloves," Saito muses as Arthur slowly unlaces his shoes. "Some nice leather ones." He chuckles. "You would have thought of them, wouldn't you?"
The smell of smoke on Saito's breath is sweet and almost mellow. Arthur's been hard since he walked into the office and saw the shine of the wax polish cannister and knew what was coming, and now the polish, the tobacco, the way he can feel Saito staring at the back of his neck as he works the laces free from the grommets goes straight to his head. The part of his head that goes straight back down to his cock, anyway. It doesn't help that the last time Saito promised leather gloves, he meant to buy them for himself. And I'd finger you with them on, he'd said. With nothing on except for those gloves. Soft kidskin ones. You'd be braced against a table, and the only things you'd feel would be my fingers, fucking you slowly and carefully. You'd like that, wouldn't you?
But both of them are silent when Arthur begins to work the polish into the shoes, rubbing against Saito's feet with small circular strokes, trying desperately not to get any polish on his hands. Saito's going to make Arthur grab his own thighs later, and he won't let Arthur take his clothes either. It's more than just the suit, though. Arthur knows Saito just wants to see the marks of his fingers, scrabbling against his own knees as he tries not to touch himself. And Arthur doesn't like giving in.
When both of the shoes are covered in a thin varnish of black wax, Arthur sits back on his heels. The cottonballs have left streaks, like sketches of black clouds against the shine of the shoes. Arthur's even polished the tongue behind the laces."Well?" Saito says, and Arthur finally looks up, quickly so he can only see Saito's face.
"You're supposed to wait a few minutes. For the polish to set in."
Saito nods, satisfied. "You're right, you know," he murmurs after a pause. He grabs at the cigarette dangling from his lips, irritated, and stretches his arm behind him to extinguish it in the ashtray. "I do like seeing you on your knees."
"I should know, since I'm the one doing the kneeling," Arthur jokes, trying not to betray the hitch in his breath.
"But it's not what you think," Saito says, leaning back in his chair to look at the ceiling. Arthur swallows with some difficulty, because now Saito's body has opened up into one long, luxurious line, inviting him to touch. Arthur wants so many things, to strip back down again, straddle him on that chair, fuck the both of them to exhaustion-- or maybe just spread his legs and suck him off, and who gives a damn about the polish-- or maybe just to drape himself on Saito, mouth to mouth and chest to chest, so he can taste the smoke for himself--
"It's not that I am aroused by subordination," he continues, saying the word 'subordination' carefully, savoring it, and convincing Arthur that he probably does get off on it. "For instance, I have very normal sex with my wife."
Despite Arthur's best self-control, he asks, "What about Sonia?"
"Oh, her," Saito says with a wicked smile. "She's the one who likes to tie me up."
Arthur's oversensitized already, frustrated and embarrassed and feeling kind of stupid, and the image hits him like a punch to the stomach of his lust. He tries to keep himself from asking all the questions that come to mind. What does she tie him up with? Belts? Chains? His own ties? Did he learn this all from her? Does she make him kneel at her feet and lick her for hours? Arthur has just this vaguest fantasy of cuffing Saito to the headboard of a bed with a cock ring and a kiss, then riding Saito until he comes, leaving Saito hard and wanting and cursing and unable to bring himself off. Now he wonders if it's only something Sonia has done before, hundreds of times. He can picture Sonia's back arched back in pleasure, and Saito pulling on the restraints, begging. He can see it so clearly he almost moans, cock twitching against the restraint of his pants.
Saito's voice breaks through with measured calm. "The polish has set in by now, Mr. Arthur."
"Right," Arthur mutters. "Right, the polish."
The brush is almost weightless in his hands. He moves it in quick vigorous strokes to hide the way his hands are shaking, shifting Saito's shoes back and forth with his forcefulness, like he's making them tap to a beat neither of them can hear. He's glad Saito opted for the conventional civilian way-- no lighters, or else he's not sure he wouldn't set them both on fire. Then, the laces, which he does up European style, ladder lacing the way he always laces his own shoes. It's weird, though not difficult, to polish shoes on someone else's feet, when he's spent his whole life polishing his own shoes, usually stuck awkwardly on his hands. What's throwing him off the most is Saito's silence. It embarrasses him to admit that he's not used to Saito being nonverbal when Arthur's kneeling. It makes him feel more vulnerable than he ever imagined.
But when Arthur finally picks up the chamois, Saito says without any preamble, "It's more about your self-control."
"What is?" Arthur asks through his gritted teeth. As he moves from the front of the shoes to buff the sides, Saito shifts his feet a little closer towards him, and for a minute Arthur thinks he's done something wrong. He stutters to a stop, glancing up, but Saito has only moved further back into his chair so he can rest his elbows on his knees.
The look on Saito's face-- parted lips, eyes boring down on the top of Arthur's head, the tiniest crease between his eyebrows-- makes the heat rise to Arthur's face. He's not sure what Saito can read in his expression, but Saito smiles, leaning forward just a little more. "I don't deny that I am a possessive man," he says, his hands ghosting over Arthur's cheek, like he's memorizing the shape through the feel of the air. "I like to have and keep, and that includes other people's self-control." He touches Arthur's lips, briefly, and a groan wrenches from Arthur, something more breath than sound. Saito strokes Arthur's bottom lip, softly, too softly, making Arthur whimper in frustration, and whispers, "So when I take your self-control from you, it feels like the only time you really belong to me."
He pushes a finger past Arthur's lips, sliding past the ridges of Arthur's teeth and almost patting Arthur's tongue. And Arthur closes his eyes, taking it in deeper, until he's resting his tongue against Saito's palm, then moving back, tonguing around the ridges of Saito's fingernail. "Arthur," Saito growls in warning, but Arthur's too far gone, mouth on Saito's middle finger too, sucking noisily. Saito tries to draw his fingers back, pressing them spit-slick against Arthur's lips again, but Arthur makes a hungry, denied noise, almost biting, and then two things happen simultaneously.
The first is that Saito stands up, which means Arthur, who had previously been kneeling in front of Saito, is now kneeling in between Saito's legs, which, really, is how these things normally go.
The second is that he has fisted Arthur's tie in his hand and his cock, hard and glistening with just a hint of precum, is resting against Arthur's mouth.
"Hey," Arthur manages to choke out, "I'm not done polishing your shoes." His tongue flicks out against Saito, lingering just a little longer than he means to, and god, he almost loses himself in the taste. He wants to reach down and at least just touch himself, but Saito growls, "No," so Arthur keeps his hands where they are-- on the carpet, the chamois crushed uselessly in one of them-- while he opens his mouth to suck Saito's cock all the way down his throat.
Usually Arthur does this with more finesse, but Saito is still almost choking him with a hold on his tie, crushing the silk of it in a way that no iron will ever free. That's okay though, because Arthur knows ties mean nothing-- nothing means anything except for the frenzied way Saito shoves forward, jerking helplessly against Arthur's throat, and Arthur hums around it, swallowing once or twice just to see Saito's eyes flutter and to hear him hiss. He pulls back, letting Saito go with a wet sound, and for a moment Saito's grip is so angry it cuts out Arthur's oxygen, blacking him out. He blinks back into consciousness, harder than he's ever been in his life, and gasps, "Wait, wait," swirling the head of Saito's cock around and around on his tongue, working against the slit with a relentless focus. He mouths all the way down, meaning to take Saito's balls in his mouth and just listen to the sounds of Saito falling apart, but Saito tugs again, causing Arthur's cock to jerk helplessly, and Saito grunts, "Stop playing around."
He's so hard he could actually beg. He doesn't though, just takes Saito back in his mouth, back into his throat, as deep as he can, deeper until he almost chokes, and then he bobs back up, down and up, hollowing his cheeks with every suck, and Saito makes a sound like he's drowning, gripping Arthur's shoulder-- not his hair, Arthur notes through a haze of arousal-- and pulling him close, like Arthur's going to save him.
Arthur can't say anything. He moans around Saito anyway, though, trying to scoot forward, and that's when he feels Saito's shoe pressed against his trouser crotch. The surprise almost makes him come right there, and Saito can feel it in the way Arthur seizes up around him, tongue coming to a halt for a moment. "Keep going," he whispers, letting go of Arthur's tie and stroking him with an odd fondness down the length of Arthur's throat, two fingers disappearing under his collar to rub Arthur's neck, and that shouldn't make Arthur moan but it does. Saito's foot presses harder, right against Arthur's crotch. It's exactly everything and not at all what Arthur needs, and he goes back to fucking Saito with his mouth, which makes Saito laugh, and then makes him gasp and claw at Arthur's shoulder. Just a few more seconds, Arthur thinks, and then he'll come, and then I can just--
Which is when Saito starts moving his foot in earnest, stroking, pushing, almost stepping on Arthur's cock through the fabric of his pants, and Arthur completely loses it. It's painful how hard Saito is pressing against him with his shoe, and at one point he nudges the tip of it against the crown of Arthur's cock in a way that might at any other time inspire Arthur to pull out a gun and shoot him out of agony, but for the moment, Arthur is kneeling on the carpet of Saito's office, and it is bright and the windows are clean, and it feels exactly right, it's filthy for all the right reasons, and when Arthur tries to imagine what it'd look like, his tie crushed and Saito almost tearing at his collar to get Arthur to keep blowing him, how he's going to ruin his pants when it finally ends, he comes so hard there are tears in his eyes.
"Arthur," Saito pleads, his fingers so tight on Arthur's shoulder they could break a weaker man. Arthur barely has the energy to move his mouth, much less chuckle. Already he regrets the wet silk of his briefs, the chafe of the zipper against the sensitive head, but Saito moves insistently, and Arthur shudders, flattening his tongue against Saito's cock one last time and swallowing all the way to the hilt. It doesn't take longer than a few seconds for Saito to come, and when he does, Arthur swallows it all, triumphant through his exhaustion, luxuriating in the sound Saito makes-- a broken sob, like all his breath is being pushed out of his body and into Arthur's throat.
When Arthur opens his eyes again, Saito has sat back down on the shoe-polishing chair. Other than his still open fly, his softening cock, and the faint color on his cheeks, he looks every bit the competent businessman, almost no change from when Arthur first stepped into the office. Arthur, on the other hand, has a tie that's been jerked around beyond all recognition, a collar that is crumpled like a tissue, and traces of both come and black polish on the crotch of his pants.
"Shit," he groans, wiping futilely at the polish with the chamois, which makes it worse.
"Don't look at me," Saito tells him lazily, reaching behind him for the pack of cigarettes on the desk. "I wanted you to finish polishing my shoes first."
"Fuck you and your shoes," Arthur snaps. "This was my favorite suit. You're a real asshole."
Saito laughs, and after a while, Arthur does too. "Arthur," Saito says, and this time it's a voice filled with decadence and ruination, made dark with pleasure and satisfaction, and Arthur gives in. He kicks off his own shoes and throwing his tie onto the floor, climbs onto Saito's lap and straddles him, hauling Saito up by the lapels of his jacket, and kisses the first exhalation of cigarette smoke out of him.