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When he picks the shoe off the ground in the foyer of DMC, Vergil has been gone for three consecutive days. Solo mission, you know how it goes; though often enough, he slips in brief conjugal visits, appearing and disappearing with a slash of his beloved katana, back to business after the seed has simmered down and their tangle is starting to be recognizable as sentimental cuddling, not just mere post-coital lethargy. Nothing this time around. Dante is already climbing the walls with his blue balls, feeling the familiar makings of a proverbial rut incoming. He isn't an animal in spite of his genetic heritage and doesn't get actual beastly heats no matter what he tells Vergil in hopes of scoring with him, but that doesn't mean he does not enter periods of particular heightened horniness whenever his favorite source of sexual release is absent or disinterested; left on his own devices to masturbate every passing hour, he reaches overdrive with his elevated libido sooner or later, refractory periods and mandatory cool-downs be damned. Today, he's been holding himself back, climaxing only twice by the noon, and the impulse to discharge semen is creeping up on him again, an uninvited guest in his lonesome quarters.
(It's, of course, him coping with Vergil's truancy the only way he knows how. Preoccupation, distraction, making light of the emotions involved lest he drown in their ocean. It doesn't bear mentioning.)
The shoe, though. It's a beautiful entity, from what he can see of it. Midnight black, slippery-silken, high and mighty. Dante knocks his knuckle against the luscious slip of leather running down the length of the odd loafer. The bastard wears gaiters in the modern era. How precious. Somehow, he makes the old-fashioned accessory look sexy, don't ask Dante why. The piece of is likewise of sturdy make, exuding quality and craftmanship; exuding a particular fragrance, as well. Wax, lacquer, whatever you want to call it, and Vergil's personal signature, the minty, salty, sharp innate perfume laced into the ornaments dotted around the shaft of the galosh. Dante counts – six straps and buckles down the side, one keeping the garment attached to the shoe. The number of luck, harmony and man's imperfection. If the shoe fits…
The points of Vergil's boots are shiny from having been polished to consummate perfection very recently. He remembers: anticipating being up to his neck in demonic entrails while running his mysterious errands, Vergil took the chance of donning a secondary outfit for his trip and conditioning his leather before fucking off, treating his greatcoat and zippy vest with a moisturizer as well, laying them on the backs of the chairs in the main boudoir as if to forcibly make himself be present even in absentia. Dante has been scenting the clothes every time he strolls past them, getting turned on by the familiar but now enhanced redolence, seating himself on the plush velvet lap and jacking his dick with his face buried in the armpit, a shameful orgasm shaking him to the bone: three days, three days and he's been reduced to this?
Yeah. Guilty as charged, the criminal mind acknowledges its wicked schemes and admires its acquired target slyly. The shoe sits on his palm completely oblivious to its sordid fate. It's a shapely thing underneath its casing; Dante trails the curve of the calf and shin with his thirsty eyes, palpating it through the thick legging while thinking about his twin's lower limbs. He's done the same while Vergil rests his long extended legs on his lap near the tent in his pants, massaged his muscular shanks and rolled his protruding ankles on his palm like he would his testes, and the similarity between the memory and the present excites him, drives him to his groin, where his free hand fumbles with the clinking buckle of his belt, then the buttons of his trousers, to grant him relief. He pops the fastenings one by one, trembling from contained tension; when he whisks his hardened cock out, it springs free with a grotesque bob of its tip. Mm-hm.
It isn't difficult to proceed from there. He wets the cap of the stolen shoe with his covetous tongue to make it nice and slick to thrust against; the bold, dark taste of leather fills his mouth and clings instantly to his palate like a film of oil or a web of sperm. He swirls, the flat of the appendage dispersing his spit around the toe box until it's evenly coated in the clear saliva. There's no slit on top for him to tease, and while the tapered shape broadly reminds him of a glans, the only sounds he manages to extricate from the object are those he himself generates by lapping it up; it doesn't sigh for him, gasp and groan, moan and mumble, wholly indifferent to the treatment it's receiving apart from warming up slightly under the hot organ, unable to retain the heat for long. The peak isn't conical enough for him to dream about slotting it inside himself with any success, either. Alas.
Slipping down his slinky pants until his ass is exposed to the tepid air in the room, he grips his peen by the stem, nearly hearing how his blood rushes to the zone from his less important extremities at the contact and the promises braided therein. He makes a vocalization as though in the company of someone he wanted to impress with his virility. Bump, he inclines the boot's counter against his frenulum, then the vamp. This is foreplay. This maddens him with lust; that's a first, to directly or indirectly harbor it towards a stationary object, regardless of the argument that the shoe might as well be regarded as an extension of his sibling's magnificent body. Its ghost looking over his shoulder with a forbidding aura to it, Dante rubs his dick against the ridge of the welt, grunting mildly from the stimulus. The outsole provides a pleasant feedback on his manhood that borders on pain when he angles it just right; this, at least, he's well-versed in thanks to the times Vergil has punished him with a shoe-clad footjob, stepping on him and his package in all his arrogant hauteur, ice made into a person. Doing it independently puts a novel spin on a classic; can't say he prefers it, he likes his supervision and snide commentary. But it isn't bad. Different. He lets his dick make out with the sole until it has grown raw and sore and swollen, ticklish, at which point he halts, weighing his options.
In the end, he tries the heel for a change. The more angular design digs into the brim of his glans when he slides it across the edge, though the strap softens and cushions the blow somewhat. He could undo it and let himself feel out the area in full, but it'd feel wrong: the thought makes him laugh, his voice high in his throat. None of this should feel right, yet here he is, on his knees on the floor, rousing himself to full sensual hardness with something insentient and insensate. Goodness, he's messed up in the head beyond repair. Just imagine what Vergil will do to him when he finds out what he's been up to…
He needs more. Some innocent fun is alright, but there's a deeper urge he must sate. Checking out the clever clog as though it were a potential partner he was measuring out in a watering hole or whatever, his estimating eye lands on the tunnel-like shaft covered by the chamois shawl. Maybe? Its mouth is wide, to fit Vergil's well-developed feet and calves, but he probably could scrunch it up to produce a vice of sorts on his peen, a sheathe, a leather sleeve. Sounds like it's worth giving a spin to. He flips the slipper around in his hand, aiming the top at his thrumming cock; it's easy to insert himself into its rugged tunnel, just a flick of the wrist and he's upended the object over his crotch. Just like that. One hand on the sole, keeping things balanced, he takes hold of the side, skimming it with his fingertips as if it were his lover's loin he was caressing, crumples his fist up around the channel until he feels the pelt kissing his girth. God.
Trying not to crush the material so roughly he ends up ruining it, he humps the boot jerkily, hips sliding off the ground, going through different angles to see which one gives him the best thrills. If he aligns his cock just so, he discovers, his width brushes against the lip of the maw and his bellend pushes up against the interior trim of the shoe, generating a decent amount of friction he enjoys carnally. But it's a loose clamp, flirty and sportive at best, not at all like Vergil's gullet whenever he goes down on him, stiff, wet and compact, not gripping onto his erection like his own naked palm either. Is there a more sophisticated method to this he's not aware of? He'd be willing to try anything today.
As he fornicates with the footwear, mounting it harder and faster, grumbling in desperation, his upper hand chances upon the lowest flap of the sock. There's an idea; could it be that he fits underneath it? Seems possible, at least if he slackens and relaxes the band a little. He toys with it by skimming his nail on the border while giving off a few more thrusts into the void inside the shoe, then pulls out, jacking his nude dick for good measure before letting it stand freely against his stomach and shirt, which he can't be bothered to get rid of even when he really ought to. He's generating laundry as is already; his penis leaves behind a lewd damp spot on the inner lining of his makeshift paramour, shit. Kind of shaped like a heart, he notices as he peers into the not-so-narrow passageway. Dabbled seminal fluid. Vergil will have a cow if he tumbles onto it. Hopefully it'll vanish as it dries out. Ehh; Dante is obscene between his thighs, pulsating in beats, spoiling for the touch of another. Clean-up is a matter for his future self to deal with.
He examines his improvised bed mate in his battle-calloused hands, turning it around until he can have a good look at the contraption holding the whole ensemble together. The strap connecting the boot's sole to the rest of the gaiter is just loose enough for him to be able to inch three thick fingers inside its clutch. Sliding the digits down, he treats the leather strip like he might any other hot orifice he's preparing for sex, fingering it like his own hole, with vulgar gentleness and smutty heed as he stretches its elasticity as far as it can go, savoring the taut sensation around his digits. His face is blushed; the red feels warm and heady on his pinched features, a focused look rising on them while he tugs at the band, wishing it was Vergil doing this to him, wishing his brother was watching, commenting on his technique, commanding him to bang the inanimate object as a twisted form of power play before maybe having him, body and soul. Take it, he'd say, his audible contempt kindling a keen fire in Dante's veins.
On that note, the veins on his length are aching with rhythmic hunger. He looks down, seeing everything, each tiny detail an emblem of his depravity. The dick doesn't usually see this much action during sex. Always the one to spread his cheeks for his brother's cock, he privately considers it a decorative element and basks in the exhilarating humiliation in the fact; Vergil surely doesn't mean it like that and he's open to reaching around to get him off manually while ramming into his prostate, but he also keeps enough of a respectable distance not to have access to every fleeting thought floating in his sidekick's head, so he can revel in the shame relatively safely without worrying about being found out and getting lectured. I am not an instrument with which you can debase yourself, and so on and so forth. Well, Vergil isn't here to instruct or stop him, so the plan is a go. Time to fuck the thing.
His thumb lifting the leather loop up to create a crack, he penetrates the fastener's clasp with a grunt; finally, something nice and tight. His sleek head slips past the clincher without much trouble and his broadening shaft is sure to follow. Encouraged and aroused by the feeling, he gets greedy, shoving himself in the rest of the way until the buckle adorns the root of his penis, clenching around it akin to a frozen muscle. His ruddy erection throbs at the ribald sight; his glans has been tinted a bright purple and the teal of the gaiter highlights the color further, reminding him of the bruises the two of them suck into each other in the heat of the moment when Vergil has slidden inside him where he belongs and he has curled his thighs around his waist, locking them into position. He feeds off on the vision, guiding his member out of the ringlet only to cram himself back in. Hums absently, entirely at the mercy of his cock now.
Hmh. The underside of the strap feels a little rougher than the smooth top, the grain of the leather less refined down there. It gives off an interesting sensation; Dante dives into it experimentally, from his base to the peak and back again, the strip catching on his crown a little but not enough to actually slow him down in any meaningful way. Not quite coarse, but for sure textured, a bit gritty against his intimate skin. He rebuffs any and all disparaging retorts about him having a pencil dick; the size and shape come in handy now, giving him the ability to efficiently service himself with the garment. Its actual owner would have to retort to screwing the mouth like he tried to, previously, due to his insane girth and massive volume that wouldn't allow him to fit any of the straps around himself even at their roomiest setting. Dante would like to see him at it, nonetheless. The frustration. The flush on his cheeks, his gleaming black pupils, the sweat running down his proud forehead in trails. He'd buck into the throat of the shaft expertly, rolling his flat nates, rolling his pelvic gird to meet the motions he'd set off with his hands: holding the shoe like a neck, he'd shove himself inside its cuff with practiced ease and without hesitation. He would make the process seem more elegant than it has any right of being, moreover, less of a desperate measure, something to taunt Dante with as he jerks off in a corner, voyeur to his pleasure: I am making love to this piece of clothing rather than you.
Oh. Dante shivers from head to toe and grits his teeth together, zeroed in on his dirty fantasies. There's lots of filth in his reality too, though, and he indulges in the way his naked cockhead peaks from the confines of his prepuce as the strap bunches it up for him, shiny, dripping, vibrating. He feels good. He feels like he's trespassing, naughty and lawless – it's almost more rewarding to picture the retribution Vergil might exact upon him for copulating with his gear than it is to masturbate his dick with the binding tie, his cheeks puffed out and his breath finally getting stuck in his heaving gorge, respiration turning into labored panting. Not that the copulating isn't doing something for him, it is. There is a bend to the instep that allows him a bumpless ride, just enough flexibility for the shoe to facilitate the intercourse. Shrugging his shoulders to release some kinked-up tension, he tosses off, steadily jacking the boot against his abdomen. It squeaks now, angry or stunned to its core by the indignity it has been made to face. Sorry; he's too wanton to get suitably apologetic.
Dante gets it on. Solo? Paired up? Is it a twosome between them? Wonder what it tells about his psyche that he's reflecting upon the technicalities of his union with his brother's worn footwear. It's not as awkward as he expected, a little uncomfortable but that's a sacrifice he's happy to make for a roll in the hay. This is good. He wants to fuck the thing properly, so a more fertile pose is in order, however. With care, Dante lays the boot down on the ground and gets up on his arms, spreading his spidery palms on the hardwood flooring to hoist himself up with his thrusts. His dick stays connected with the shoe all the while, the springy rod bending along with the motions, leaking strings of precum on the hide as he moves and irritates the sensitive tissue further. Showtime; he lines himself up with the aperture, begins to work his pelvis, taking close notes from Vergil's playbook. This is how he moves when he drives into his ass and drives him out of his mind. Confident, dominant, desire-seeking. Mostly consistent like a clock but with some irregularity in the pace to keep his victim forever on his toes. A pervert or not, he starts to feel a familiar tingle building up behind his balls, which push up against the restraint and the heel, squishing up almost harshly enough to hurt at times. Perfect.
Groaning out some horny nonsense about how good the shoe feels, he starts to thrash wildly, wholly indifferent to the concept of snapping the strap with his hasty motions, pistoning his hip, really putting his back into it, shagging his ad-hoc crevasse six ways to Sunday. The floor creaks under him and the leathery noose extracts sloppy, fleshy sounds from their mating; Dante's foreskin glides on his shaft to in turn bare and cover up his head in flashes of pink and violet. Lube would be grand, but he's plenty moist naturally, kicking up a sweat to go with the copious amounts of pre-ejaculate that he drools and dribbles out. Vergil, ah, Vergil. Come home, please. Save him from himself. He swears he can smell the scent of his sweat wafting in the space, and he stirs in his shackles, embarrassingly attracted to their leathery embrace. Erotic target mislocated or something. His nipple has stiffened on its own: when he yanks his shirt upwards and kneads its peaky nub one-handedly, the burdened arm straining beneath him, a bolt of electricity shoots all the way through his stalk. Holy shit. Shifting and swaying around and invisible axis, he reels and plunges to and fro, back and forward, out and in till something gives and he's shouting, shooting his wad in the next second.
The climax takes him by surprise with its intensity; it's been a while, five days exactly, since he has felt anything like it without having had his gland touched. His stomach clenches around itself and his flanks stutter but keep going, gyrating, grinding – his field of vision whitens out, flickers of burnt orange swimming at the nooks – he hangs his skull, inhaling and exhaling like a flogged horse, feeling about as tender to boot. Ha. It takes him a minute to stop moving and longer still with regard to him seeing the ravages his joyride has left on his collaborator. Droplets of his come embellish the buckles and their leather strips, reminiscent of glossy opals. The frigorific seed pools around the loop when he pulls his cock out of its hold, milking the last dredges of the stuff out of his prepuce with a shaky hand. The strap honestly reminds him of a well-used, well-behaved hole, damp and twisting with the humidity, gaping like any invaded cavity in the low sallow light of the office's lamps and glimmering with the sheen of the cum. Talk about doing a number on the poor static thing.
Post-nut clarity sweeps over him like a bomber fleet as he eyes his handiwork. Damn; he went on about not being a brute a while ago there, but this sure as hell counts as evidence towards utter barbarity. He did, in fact, just have relations with a boot that doesn't even belong to him, and now the regret's washing up on his saner shores. Cursed dick-made decisions. His romance with the object of his passion draws to an abrupt close as he tenses and lets go of it. With a clunk, the shoe falls on the planks, already cold; Dante's listless carrion joins it with another big thump, collapsing under its own sinful weight. He crawls canting his neck until he's within reach of the boot and can begin to wipe its oozy, slimy surface clean with his tongue and mouth. The taste and consistency have him gagging, grossing him out. As luck would have it, Vergil doesn't choose this specific moment to teleport behind his back when he very well could, spared from seeing him as he is, a pathetic base creature looking for love in the wrong places – once he's done, parched palate feeling like a blunt rasp, he's alone in the lobby again, left solitary and unchecked. Well, he's dusty and stale, suppose he's in for a bath next. Let's see if he can get it up in the shower.
All in all, it's a long week till Vergil returns.