Vignette: Best Dressed in the Room, part 2.

The after party. Picture from @Tom_Miler on Instagram.

Seduction | Formal Fuck | Dominance & Submission

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Reeling with lust, Aaron and Andres head up to the hotel room for a tuxed tumble.

Read the previous part.

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Leaving the reception hall, Aaron and Andres passed through the lobby. Andres caught a glimpse of himself in one of the decorative mirrors lining the wall, and began doing up the studs of his shirt. Throughout his conversation with Aaron at the bar, he’d been unbuttoning, loosening, offering the younger man teases of his hairy chest. But now he wanted to adopt the look of somebody ready to take control of the situation. Had to give his young conquest some incentive, after all, working for the grand reveal.

As Andres set to work re-tying his bowtie, one of the other guests from the reception stepped into the elevator with them. The guest took a look at Andres, who was nearly restored to the fullness of the elegance his attire exhibited at the beginning of the evening, and then Aaron, whose mostly open shirt hung wide across his chest, loosened bowtie flopping on his lapels. Dress and undress, contrasting states. "You both look nice," the guest said.

"Thanks. It's . . . a bit of an after party look," said Aaron, tugging his shirt to cover one of his nipples. His last shirt stud had come open half an hour ago, leaving only three buttons to fasten the bottom of his formal shirt where his belly stretched his cumberbund. "I think it's good to relax a little."

The elevator ride passed quietly. With a smirk, Andres re-fastened his bowtie, cinching the butterfly knot, wresting his collar shut over his neck. Adjusting his bowtie so that the points accentuated the tips of his wing collar, he let forth a relaxed sigh, spreading his luxurious lapels as he leaned against the wall of the elevator, Andres crossed his ankles, letting one of his opera pumps settle off his heel, sheer socked arch fully on display.

Aaron meanwhile tucked his hands in his pockets, raging crotch filling his trousers, his cock twitching in the gleaming fabric, shirt still buckling wide open across his firm barrel chest. Andres gave a knowing nod as he noticed Aaron's eyes darting in on the detail, the flirtation of Andres’ opera pump sliding off his sheer socked foot, every hair of his foot showing through the fine hosiery. This formally dressed young stud was hungry for it, the anticipation building with each passing floor. He'd been biding his time, waiting for satisfaction.

"Both of you look very dapper and elegant," repeated the wedding guest, stifling a yawn. In his inebriation, he had forgotten that he already complemented both men on their fine attire. "Well, this is my floor. I'm stepping off."

"Have a good evening," Andres said, rolling his opera pump with his sheer socked toes.

The guest left Andres and Aaron alone in the elevator. As soon as the doors clicked shut—

—Aaron halfway shouted "Fuck!" as Andres tackled him against the corner of the elevator. Burying his whiskered face into Aaron's, he tongue-fucked the younger man, hairy hands roaming all across Aaron's half-exposed chest, gleaming cufflinks teasing one of Aaron's nipples along with the edge of his satin bowtie. Grunting into Andres' deep-throated kiss, Aaron ground his cock against Andres', each one tenting in their tux trousers, raging for more.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open. The two men pried themselves apart, Andres chuckling as he staggered down the hall towards his room, gripping Aaron by the lapels, dominant and powerful in his fully done tux, while Aaron looked slutty, horny, already half unwrapped.

"Sir must be hungry this evening," remarked Aaron. Like an eager young lad, Aaron followed, emitting a growl of pleasure.

"Very hungry," responded Andres, his sheer socked foot skipping out of his opera pump. Unhanding Aaron, he collected his discarded shoe, then ran his card through the lock of his room. Out of the corner of his eye, Andres noticed Aaron groping himself through his tuxedo trousers, eyes glued on Andres’ one exposed sheer socked foot.

"Get in here," rumbled Andres, unbridled lust thrumming in his every vein, one sheer socked foot padding across the threshold while his other nearly lost that remaining opera pump too. "I want to have my way with you."

"Sir yes sir." Aaron entered. The young man made it only two steps into Andres' hotel suite before Andres shut the door behind, and pointed to a spot on the floor.

“You. There.” Andres’ voice deepened, tone threatening. “Kneeling. Now.”

“Sir yes sir,” affirmed Aaron as he sank to his knees on the carpet. Andres’ suite consisted of two rooms: a living-room-cum-office and a bedroom, with a small hallway communicating between the two past a luxurious bathroom. One of the high-end executive suites. After months of quarantine, Andres had splurged.

Settling into the couch, Andres propped one opera pumped, sheer socked foot on the coffee table, dropping his other opera pump to the floor beside his foot, silk-clad sole sinking into the fine carpet. He gave his young consort an imperious nod, pointing down at his other socked, unshod foot on the floor. “Put on my shoe.”

Fondling Andres’ foot in both hands, Aaron purred, slipping Andres’ decadent, velvet-cushioned opera pump back onto his foot, gazing up at the older man for approval. His master for the evening.

“Polish it,” commanded Andres with a gruff nod. “And unzip your trousers, boy. You’ve been eyeing up my shoes and feet all evening. Now you get to worship them. I want to see you get hard.”

“Sir yes sir,” confirmed Aaron as he wrestled his throbbing club out of his tuxedo trousers, bulbous head pulsing red as he bathed the gleaming patent toe of Andres’ opera pump with his tongue.

Nodding, groping and stroking his own erection in his tuxedo trousers, Andres slouched into his seat, masking his arousal with a smug veneer as he watched his handsome young subordinate work over his gleaming shoe, the tent in his trousers growing steeper with each passing moment. Finally, with a flippant smirk, Andres flexed his foot, letting the opera pump slip off his toe, before pressing his silk-clad sole directly into Aaron’s chest. Thirsting for it, Aaron took turns lavishing his tongue on Andres’ opera pump and his sheer socked toes, while Andres stroked Aaron’s bared nipples with his heel, slouching further in his seat, not even bothering to maintain a dignified posture.

Satisfied after a few minutes of this treatment, Andres planted both of his feet on the floor, then rose from his seat, gripping Aaron by his lapels and guiding the younger man back to his feet. He first planted a wet kiss on Aaron’s lips, drinking in a noseful of Aaron’s cologne, before leading the young man down the hallway to the bedroom. Aaron followed, still holding Andres’ opera pump. The moment the two men entered the bedroom area of the hotel suite, Andres licked his bearded lips. “I’ve been wanting to jump you all evening.”

“Fuck,” moaned Aaron, but that was the only word he got out. Andres tackled Aaron against the wall—a repeat of what he did in the elevator. Aaron relented against the lustful aggression, pinned next to the bedside table as Andres rummaged Aaron’s mostly-open shirt buttons, whiskered lips plastering kisses down Aaron’s thick shoulders.

Wrestling Aaron against the wall, Andres let his hands roam all over Aaron’s chest, running his fingers beneath his open formal shirt. Thrusting his proud pole—still contained in his straining zipper—against Aaron, Andres shoved his hands beneath Aaron's cumberbund, feverishly undoing his remaining buttons before ravaging the young man's trousers, fishing out his eager, drooling phallus. Grunting in the effort, one of Andres’ shirt studs popped open, revealing an expanse of hirsute trunk bristling through the crisp formal shirt.

“Fuck, Sir,” breathed Aaron as Andres stroked Aaron’s cock with one hand, and groped Aaron’s powerful, rotund belly with the other, unravelling the layers of Aaron’s tuxedo while still keeping them barely on his body. An evening's worth of musk leaped to Andres’ nose from Aaron’s pits, where his deodorant had been dissolving for hours in his sweat beneath his formal layers. Pawing Aaron's shirt buttons, Andres' furry paws made quick work of what was left of his formal shirt, spreading it further open, letting the black satin bowtie rest on his barrel chest, where a glaze of sweat began to develop, slicking the fine swirl of fur around Aaron’s navel, a hairy contrast to his firm and smooth chest rising and falling as Aaron grunted into Andres’ fierce kiss—an affirmation, a plea. He needed this kind of passionate play, this kind of dominance, giving shape to his ecstasy.

The sweaty curve of Aaron’s half bare chest caught the lamplight, his belly hanging through the flaps of his open shirt, and his trousers straining against his phallus fully erect, drooling into Andres’ cufflinked hand as the older, bearded man stroked and stroked, not letting go, shoving the younger man past the nightstand, upsetting the lamp and alarm clock as he shoved Aaron down onto the bed. Up into the air went Aaron’s feet, still marinating in their shining patent laceups, which Andres began to untie, prying one shoe off and then the other, burying his nose into each of Aaron’s sheer socked feet.

Yes. Sweat. Leather. Sweaty hosiery. An aphrodisiac. Andres grew mad with lust, his nostrils drinking in Aaron’s musky taint, the rankness of raw libido beneath the formal layers. Andres knew he had to slow down: constrained in the confines of his own tuxedo trousers, his throbbing phallus ached with pleasure, ready to spurt cream at the slightest provocation. Letting go of Aaron’s feet, he fell on top of the younger man, plowing his tongue into Aaron’s waiting lips, grunting into another deep-throated kiss. Aaron arched his belly upwards, his bare cock poking into Andres’ cumberbund, as the two men let their bodies grind together.

Breaking off the kiss, Andres wiped his sweaty whiskers on the back of his tuxedo sleeve. “It’s so fucking horny, how well dressed you are, young man.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m so glad you take your dress seriously, too.” Coy and horny, Aaron relaxed on the bedsheets, cock bobbing and drooling, his briefs slung under his balls, cumberbund stretched across his belly, shirt untucked and spread wide open, but otherwise still clad in his tuxedo, just as Andres wanted him to be.

Andres' bearded jaw jutted forth in a macho smirk as he thrust his hand into Aaron's snug briefs, groping his balls. "Makes it all the raunchier, knowing you’ve been stuffing all that meat down your trousers all evening."

“The wool rubbing on my ass feels amazing,” moaned Aaron, tossing his head back. “And I can feel it on my cock, too, even through my underwear. Fuck. I’d wear this formalwear all the time if I could get away with it.”

“I’ve been hungry for it too,” grunted Andres, thrusting and grinding his still zipped-up cock against Aaron’s bare shaft. Straddling the younger man, Andres let his remaining opera pump slip off his heel, tumbling down the ball of his sheer socked foot, the velvet-lined shoe barely holding onto his toes. “Suited concourse. Tuxed concourse. Fuck. Fucking stupid athleisure everywhere. Give me a man who knows how to dress like a grownup.”

“Yes,” sighed Aaron, his body writhing with pleasure beneath Andres’ grasp. “Yes please, Sir. I want more of this. Fuck. I want every evening to end like this.”

“Fuck yeah,” grunted Andres. Wrapping his fingers around Aaron’s cock, Andres squeezed, causing the young man to spurt an extra thick gout of precum over Aaron's wandering hand as he moaned in response. Cufflinked hands roaming more aggressively now, Andres made Aaron’s body—his formalwear—his property, shoving the young man’s jacket open, unstringing Aaron’s silk formal braces from his shoulders, prying apart his shirt, revealing more and more of his chest and torso. Stripping one of Aaron’s sleeves off, then the other, Andres could smell Aaron’s musky pits, the young man’s deodorant dissolving in his sweat, pent up beneath those stiff formal layers all evening.

Wearing only half his tuxedo jacket now, Aaron shucked his trousers further down his thighs, one of his braces flapping on the bed, useless now in its task of holding his trousers up. Out came his glutes, his sheer socked feet disappearing in one of his trouser legs as his pieces of formalwear began to slide away from his sweaty contours.

“I plan on having your ass on this rug, like we talked about, boy.” Andres traced his tongue all the way up and down Aaron’s belly, his pectorals. Snaking up his torso, feeling red hot against Aaron's belly. “My cock is going to be pumping in and out of you, and you're gonna be screaming so loud the whole hotel will know how well and truly I'm fucking you," Andres growled, his pectorals swelling, breaths escalating, heaving his open shirt.

“Fuck. Sir yes sir.” Aaron's trousers slouched below his knees now, over half of his thighs bared to view, ass vulnerable and waiting, cock and balls barely covered by the lopsided elastic of his briefs, one of his half bare calves displaying the buckle where his sock garter joined his sheer sock as he writhed on the bed beneath Andres’ commanding presence. “I fucking need it. Please, Sir.”

Andres wrestled it out of his breast pocket, the condom. Of course Andres came prepared. He had a feeling he’d ended up with some sleazy tuxed action as a result of this wedding. A deft rip of the wrapper, the relinquishing of his zipper—Aaron’s eyes hungrily fixed on the sight of it, Andres’ hefty scepter released from his tuxedo trousers—with difficulty Andres stretched the rubber over his girth, while Aaron kicked off one leg of his trousers, lifting his legs around Andres’ hips, spreading himself wide, ready for it.

Andres spat in his hand, not caring about his attire, his crisp cuffs and fine brocade evening jacket. He could think of no better use for his formalwear than fucking. A uniform for fucking. This was what he wore it for, to become a fucking machine, a fucking animal, an animal for fucking. He lubed himself up, then let his tip protrude. A slow glide at first, assisted by the condom—Aaron’s lips parting upon that first sensation, then deeper.

Draping Aaron’s legs over his shoulder—one half of Aaron’s trousers still draped around one calf, the other bare, with his sock garter and sheer socked foot hanging in the air—Andres’ hips began to make small circles, going gently at first, before thrusting harder. Firmer. Faster. Punctuating each thrust with a grunt.

Another thrust escalated into a growl. Another thrust, and Andres fell on Aaron, grinding his whole body into the younger man in an intense kiss. Andres purred like a tiger as Aaron peppered him with kisses. The furry whiskered kisses, the dominance and power of his tuxedo—Andres found himself luxuriating in it, the delayed satisfaction of the evening, as he thrust and thrust and thrust some more.

Aaron moaned into Andres’ lips, groping his own balls, massaging his own cock, arching his back and spreading his cheeks in a silent plea for more.

Andres pumped further, filling the condom faster with his precum, feeling Aaron’s body press into him, sharing the younger man’s sweaty heat, exchanging kiss after furry, sloppy kiss, sending both his lust and Aaron’s into overdrive. The two men moaned and rumbled together, ravaging each other, their frames convulsing with pleasure, both cocks swelling—one inside, one out—Aaron oozing precum all over his bared belly as Andres growled, thrusting his phallus further in. In the bestial effort another of Andres’ shirt studs lost the battle, allowing an expanse of Andres’ hirsute pectorals to mingle their sweat freely all over Aaron’s chest as he humped with ferocious abandon.

A pang, a peak of pleasure. Andres withdrew for a moment and looked down, and he could see it, his precum oozing in his rubber-clad cockhead. He was close now, his precum oozing white. Muttering a “fuck” to himself, he thrust himself back to the hilt: losing his grip, unable to hold on, getting carried away, growls and groans are stifled only by his whiskered lips—

Aaron squirmed, begging for more, uncaring as one of his sock garters snapped across his beefy calf. He was likewise uncaring of the fact that his own balls were starting to churn out sperm, too: Andres could see it in his eyes, locking the younger man’s pupils in an intense gaze. Whatever part of him was holding back only did so to protract the pleasure; but the rest surrendered, surrendered, just like every button—every thread of his formal attire—

Andres’ bearded jaw fell open as his moans escalated to roars, the pleasure so intense that his whole body pulsed with it, pressing the jizz, into that condom—into Aaron’s body—oozing back out, drizzling down his balls and smearing into his tuxedo trousers, smearing all over his crotch. Sweat beaded all over Andres' half bare torso: pulse after pulse, Aaron released his jets straight into Andres’ disheveled formal shirt, spatters of cum shooting across his bare chest, dripping from the studs of Andres’ shirt, gobs of it clinging to the older man’s beard. Together both men wrenched their bodies for a full minute, Andres overflowing his condom with his pent-up load, while Aaron blasted his between them—grunt and blast, growl and roar, spurt after spurt—until finally calm descended, both of their bodies growing limp, crumpling with the relief of afterglow.

“Aw fuck.” Pulling out, Andres turned over and let himself rest on the bed, heaving. He still felt himself overfilling that condom, oozing into his tuxedo trousers. A load like he hadn’t had in years, monumental, pale globs of it drizzling down his trousers. “Ffffuck, fuck I needed that.”

“Suited concourse,” panted Aaron. “Yes. Fuck yes.”

“More of that, please.” Peeling off his condom, Andres rubbed his still-red shaft, letting his seed stain his crisp cuff, his tuxedo jacket. “We’ve got to meet up again. We’ve got to do that again. Please.”

“Sir yes Sir.” Aaron chuckled, reaching over to tug apart Andres’ formal shirt, passing his hand along Andres’ hairy pectorals. “I want you to fuck me in every one of your suits. And in every one of mine.”

“How many did you say you have? I have about thirty suits, plus four tuxes.” Wrenching apart his bowtie and collar button, Andres spread his shirt open for Aaron to explore.

“I only have a dozen,” moaned Aaron. “That makes for . . . quite a few combinations.”

“Then we’ll book another trip.” Andres clasped Aaron’s hand. “Fuck. I swear a suited fuck is the best one.”

“I hear you.” Some of Aaron’s had splatted onto Andres’ discarded opera pump, which still lay beside the two, embedded in the twisted sheets. “I’d have it no other way, Sir.”

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