Vignette: Exposed.
- Southern Suitor
- Aug 17, 2022
- 9 min read
Humiliation | Chance Encounter | Exhibitionism
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A hot-shot freeballing tycoon gets discovered by a handsomely dressed groomsman at a wedding, edged and milked to perfection. Based on a series of conversations with a follower who always ends up busting a hole in his trousers. The suits stay intact for this one—for the most part. Enjoy.
Oh fuck. Dylan could feel it, the swell in his trousers, the gap where the fabric separated from itself. He knew he shouldn’t have stared at Rick throughout the wedding. Rick, the young hotshot groomsman, the only other guy here who knew how to tie a decent double windsor. The only other guy here who had show up in a three-piece suit, like Dylan.
Dylan’s was a blue three-piece pinstripe affair, accented with a contrasting collar and cuff shirt that rounded his mighty chest an belly, a striking backdrop of blue against his coppery red beard, answered with a burgundy tie, a broad silk blade with fine pin-dots blossoming out of his waistcoat in a luxurious silken arch, a full cone of silk fisting against his collar, nestled tight under his beard, answered with a pompous pocket square, fine sheer socks, and mahogany laceups down below, and a tan cowboy hat up above. Rick’s was more a study in grays: a gunmetal tie smooth and gleaming like satin, cinched to that perfect double windsor hourglass shape and dimpled over a dark, bold French cuff shirt striped in black, gray, and dark blue, framed with a three-piece suit in charcoal pinstripes. Best dressed of the groomsmen, and best dressed of the guests.
Dylan had been eyeing the finely-dressed groomsman up all evening. It was so rare these days for a guy to suit up with that much attention to detail. Dylan had to admit her ewas impressed: finally, someone on his sartorial level. And now, relaxing with his whiskey and cigar at the reception, Dylan realized it was happening again. He was about to split another one, another pair of suit trousers. In the middle of his cousin’s wedding reception, no less. But it wasn’t really the “oh fuck” reaction of “this priceless suit is about to get ruined and I am going to be exposed in front of everybody.” It was—something else—something more arousing. Sure, there was a twinge of alarm: he couldn’t have his cock and balls spilling out on his chair in front of everybody, after all. But part of him wanted to. Ached for it. The release of pressure, his obscene cock and balls rupturing the fine pinstripes. He spread his knees. Nobody was looking. He could feel one of the seams give way with a threatening creak, a gap in the fabric admitting a whiff of air-conditioning against his bare balls—hadn’t worn underwear with any of his suits in years, ever since the pandemic.
He was the only executive officer left at the firm who still insisted on suiting up to the nines while at home. So many weeks of cycling through his suits, zoom call after zoom call. The first time he skipped his underwear, he was running late to a meeting, and he realized it felt good, the silky suit trousers against his bare balls, his throbbing dick. So he did it again the next day, with a different suit. And the next. On zoom, nobody would notice. It got to the point where he’d rest a hand in his lap during zoom calls and quietly stroke himself to a frenzy, just loving that rich fabric cradling his bare balls. As the months passed, as his underwear languished in the drawer, he grew obsessed with it, how closely he could edge himself on a zoom call. An exhibitionist streak, the thrill of getting caught—almost getting caught, almost getting away with it.
Mmmmm, fuck. A pleasant swish of whiskey on his palette, his nostrils wreathed in the blue smoke of his cigar. Cufflinks and signet ring glittering, a bracelet on one wrist and a hefty watch on the other. He wore a pocket watch in his waistcoat, too—why settle for just one piece of bling, after all?—accentuated by a pair of fobs that rested against his firm, powerful belly. Dampened with sweat, his hairy chest filled out his fine French cuff shirt. Contrasting white collar and white cuffs, with a red and white striped body, just a hint translucent with perspiration. Hadn’t bothered with deodorant, either. Folks complemented him on his attire throughout the evening, but they wouldn’t know how far the pandemic had sent him, how he hardly wore underwear or deodorant these days. Rank and horny, inflamed on his own wealth. Wrapping his bearded lips around the cigar, he took a long, sensuous draw, swirling the velvety smoke on his palette, spreading his knees and relaxing.
Nobody bothered looking in his direction. The novelty of his fine attire had worn off on all the other reception guests. Even his white cowboy hat, which drew many comments from fellow guests—even that drew hardly a glance, now that the reception was in full swing. Yes, thought Dylan, he had this corner all to himself, admiring that one hunky groomsman from a safe distance.
And he’d earned it, he thought. A family fortune swilled through the petrochemical industry; a wardrobe to suit, fine suits lining his closet like sartorial soldiers awaiting deployment. He wasn’t about to let them go to waste, was he?
Further and further he spread his knees. A few more seams split. He glanced around. Still nobody noticed. The tablecloth screened his indiscretion. He glanced down, and could see a half-inch gap forming between the trouser seams.
He wanted it bigger. He really wanted to show off his cock and balls with his suit. Unapologetic, apotropaic, his cock and balls stark naked against this otherwise perfect ensemble of his. He pinched the broad, phallic blade of his tie, lustrous silk knotted into a double Windsor with a deep dimple, the kind of dimple he could easily lay his finger in. And often did, between zoom calls at home, the fondling of silk pitching his cock into even greater heights of horniness. He really wanted to finger his dimple, but he hesitated. If he got hard here, that hole in his crotch would unstitch itself and grow even bigger, even more obvious, inflamed by the sight of Rick in his perfect silver double-windsor. Rick seemed a little closer now than Dylan could recall.
And that thought—that horny thought that throbbed and grew in his libido-buzzed brain—went straight to his cock. One pulse was all it took, and another stitch gave way, and then another. Plumping, popping open. The half-inch gash in his suit trousers now grew to a full inch, a few more seams unravelling along the way as he spread his knees, sagging in his seat, relaxing.
“Hey Dylan.”
Snapping out of his autoerotic reverie, Dylan looked up. Rick was right next to him. And, from this close, Dylan got a fuller eyeful. Cute and cocky little fucker, thought Dylan. Shorter and slimmer than Dylan, Rick had the broad-shouldered physique of a guy who hit the gym regularly, though Dylan suspected that beneath the layers of Rick’s suit the man must have sported a cushion of fat. The kind Dylan wouldn’t mind cuddling with. Fuck, Dylan’s buzzed, lusty brain couldn’t hold back such hungry thoughts: from Dylan’s hot swirl of blond hair, his shadow of stubble, his firm chest filling out his dress shirt behind his plump, immaculately knotted silver tie and slim-fitting, sharp grey suit hugging every contour of his fit frame, the way his crotch hugged his cock, leaving nothing to Dylan’s imagination.
“Uh, hey.” Clearing his throat, Dylan sat up in his seat, adjusting a fold of his jacket to cover the spot where his crotch was splitting open. It didn’t help that he ran a finger up and down the broad blade of his tie, almost resting it in the dimple of his bloated double Windsor blossoming like a phallic flower of silk spurting forth from his collar. Trying to downplay his embarrassment, Dylan blew a puff of smoke from his cigar. “Sorry. Kinda zoned out there.”
“No problem.” Rick smiled, settling into the chair beside Dylan, nudging his fine silver tie. Reaching inside of his suit, Rick produced a cigar. “You’re the classiest guy here.” Speech slightly slurred, beery breath. “So I figured I’d ask your opinion on how to light this thing. I’ve never tried a cigar before.”
Light my cigar, thought Dylan, cock pulsating, with a swirl of open air tickling that exposed spot of his balls. Setting down his bourbon, Dylan produced a chunky sterling silver lighter from the pocket of his waistcoat, along with a cutter. “Never tried a cigar before? You ain’t lived, son.”
Rick smirked. Maybe he seemed to like that, being called “son” by the most richly dressed guy in the room. Dylan showed Rick how to trim the end of the cigar, then how to draw a breath through it while lighting it. “You’ll want to roll it a bit to make sure the flame gets an even burn. You’ll have to lean in for this part.”
Leaning forward, Rick turned the cigar, letting Dylan ignite it. And Dylan, concentrating on the cigar—and on Rick’s stubbled lips—didn’t think at all about how much his knees were spreading, or how a few more stitches of his trouser crotch came undone.
Rick coughed, gagging on the smoke. “Shit. That sure ain’t a cigarette.”
Dylan laughed, running a knuckle up and down his tie, stroking the arch of lustrous silk further out of his lapel. “Smaller breaths. Don’t inhale too much.”
Slowing down, Rick puffed, watching Dylan and imitating him as much as possible. His breaths became more measured, and he started tracing his finger up and down the edge of his tie, as well, lustrous silver silk whispering along his fingertip, while Dylan caressed his own burgundy blade. But, after a moment, Rick’s eyes darted down to Dylan’s crotch.
Gulping, Dylan tried to cross his legs to hide the spot. But as he twisted to get one of his beefy thighs on top of the other, he could feel the split in his crotch unravelling further forward. The front of his balls pressed against his trousered leg now—shit shit shit—getting worse now–a drop of nervous sweat trickling out of his rank pits, sliding into his damp dress shirt—his cock responded with a rapturous throb of pleasure.
Trying another cautious draw of the cigar, Rick glanced around. Nobody was looking, so Rick spread open his own suit jacket, displaying his bulge in the charcoal pinstripes. Dylan could see it: Rick’s cockhead starting to grow, with a blot of precum soaking through.
Stroking his silver tie, Rick lowered his voice. “You skipped your underwear too, didn’t you?”
Dylan found himself glancing around, too, icy sweat pouring out of his pits beneath the layers of his suit and shirt. Nobody at the reception would notice, would they? So Dylan uncrossed his legs, the breaching seams creaking as his trousers continued their slow split, both backwards towards his ass and forwards towards the base of his throbbing shaft. One of his balls began to squeeze out.
Rick mouthed the words “oh fuck.” His own cock began twitching in his tight suit trousers.
Swishing a little more bourbon, and puffing on his cigar once more, Dylan set his glass back on the table, resting his hand in his lap, pretending not to notice. But a shifty-eyed glance in Rick’s direction revealed all he needed to know: the groomsman was drinking in the sight of Dylan’s crotch, as Dylan’s thumb strayed less than an inch away from the ripped seam. Shifting in his seat, Rick pretended to rest a hand in his lap, when Dylan felt Rick’s hand stray into his own.
Just try to relax. Dylan leaned back in his seat, swirling the velvety smoke on his bearded lips, giving his tie another long, lustful stroke, the luminous silk whispering against his finger. He could feel Rick’s fingers reaching down into the space between Dylan’s thighs. Dylan spread his knees a bit, making room, inviting him in, until finally—
With a gasp, Dylan had to catch the cigar as he nearly dropped it from his lips.
“Oh yeah.” Rick grinned. Nudging his finger closer to that severed seam, Rick reached up with his other hand, teasing out the jut of his silver tie, whispering in his deep, gravelly voice, “That’s all you down there, isn’t it big man?”
Dylan wheezed, blue jets of smoke escaping his nostrils.
Rick began tracing his knuckle along that split seam, feeling the spot where one of Dylan’s balls was ready to spill out. “A bit too much for your suit pants to contain.”
“Please—” Dylan whimpered, trying not to draw too much attention to himself as his pits welled sweat into his jacket lining. His cock ached, the base of his shaft starting to bloat its half-erected way out of his torn trousers. “Please don’t tell—any—one—fffffuucc—oh fuck—” Panting, Dylan tried to take a draw of the cigar to calm himself. “I can’t have anyone seeing me like this.”
“Oh really?” Rick’s tone turned coy as he toyed with the dimple of his silver tie. He let the smoking cigar hang from his lips, no longer bothering to take a drag from it, as he turned his whole attention to Dylan’s crotch, where he found the edge of the unravelling seam and slipped a fingertip under. “Ooo boy. You’re really coming undone under there. Just one small tug—”
“Please, sir—” not caring anymore about how quickly he ditched his macho persona, sinking into desperation—Dylan squirmed and slouched in his seat, his knees splaying wider, sheer socked feet sweltering in his fine laceups. “Please don’t—” Dylan’s words said no, but his tone and his posture said yes. “Yes, please don’t—no, please do—I can’t—can’t even—”
“Can’t even hold it together, can ya?” Tilting his head to one side, Rick scanned Dylan’s crotch. The music and noise of the reception cloaked both men, the dimmed lighting masking their indiscretion.
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