A Walk in the Park Original Version.
- Southern Suitor
- May 21
- 15 min read
Updated: May 21
A Walk in the Park (original) (suit & tie + wet & messy + muscle growth fantasy)
JFF: @SuitorWolfsOut
Copyright @SuitorWolfsOut @SouthernSuitor 2010-2011.
Suits to Brutes | Wet and Messy | Erotic Fantasy | Domination + submission | Clothing Destruction | Muscle Growth + Transformation
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One of my oldest old suit and tie kink fantasies has been the idea of a well-dressed, suited gentleman trapped in an environment where suits and ties don’t belong. A desert island. A jungle. Forced to wear nothing but his suit and tie for weeks, or months, his finery would slowly start to decay: seams ripping, mud and sweat encroaching; losing his shoes, buttons torn, until finally he is forced to shamble about in the ruined shell of his formal attire, cock and chest and feet on full display. A mockery of his formerly formal self.
I wrote this piece about ten years ago, inspired by my obsession with Indiana Jones. I loved the idea of the well-dressed archaeologist being forced to trudge through a jungle in his suit and tie, his finery getting sweaty, muddy, and torn along the way. “A Walk in the Park” is a more elaborate version of this fantasy: guys in suits and ties are trapped in a jungle and forced to toil to survive, while munching on fruit that makes them hulk out of their tailored garments. I began to incorporate #musclegrowth elements into the story: in my old fantasies, I loved the idea that the hardened life of surviving in a hostile environment would physically transform the soft, sedentary CEO into a version of Tarzan, so bulky and muscular that he would never be able to fit into his suits again. This version also becomes a full-on Lord of the Flies scenario, in which our well-attired hero realizes that he’s not the only debonair captive in this jungle—all of them devolving from suited gentlemen to mindless muscle brutes.
Some content warnings for this one: I was a less mature writer at this time, so I handled themes of rape, slavery, and toxic masculinity with a careless attitude. I leaned a little too heavily into the hierarchy, assuming that readers would understand that this was simply a fantasy, and that my portrayal of these themes was not an endorsement. However, after I posted this version to MuscleGrowth.org years ago, guys began approaching me and projecting some troubling fantasies. They genuinely believed that I wanted this kind of hierarchy in real life. So I took the story down, and began revising it. This version is the original, some scenes of which I’ve adapted into the longer, more revised version, which I’ll be reposting here in the coming months.
Enjoy
I
Mr. Tirato had gone through another intern.
At least, that's what they muttered around the watercooler that day. He was a charmer, that intern, fresh out of grad school, and Mr. Tirato liked him. In fact, Mr. Tirato had taken that intern to his very own tailor, had outfitted that intern with a brand new suit, had taken that intern out to fancy dinner, and now had laid that intern off as soon as he showed the slightest a hint of saying a word about any of it.
But Tony knew such rumors buzzed. Gifted with his Italian good looks, such a dapper man had no excuse to stay single, yet Tony made no attempts at dating anybody. Certainly that intern seemed somewhat like a date, but Tony insisted that the whole evening was purely professional, purely a polite affair. He was merely passing down his sartorial knowledge from one gentleman to another, and had to lay the intern off for financial reasons. Nothing personal. He hoped the intern would dress well in another position.
And who could deny that Tony himself knew had to dress, particularly this evening? His shoulders swayed in rhythm to his steps, and his glossy black opera pumps gleamed like mirrors, tapping smartly across the marble lobby as he strutted out of the convention center that night. The evening's awards gala was over, and, hoping to catch an early flight the next morning, he strolled through the park on the way to his hotel, still dressed in his immaculate tuxedo. His trousers broke slightly over these formal shoes, affording the onlooker a glimpse of Mr. Tirato's black silk socks at every step. A certain swagger naturally emerged from the way his jacket embraced his arms. The cufflinks, the shirt studs, the chain of his pocket watch, his fraternity ring—all in silver—gleamed, as his nearly black eyes checked the time.
He stiffened the collar of his black cashmere overcoat, his white silk scarf loosely draped around his neck. He pulled on his gloves, then pressed his hat over his coiffed hair. The withered undergrowth and the leafless trees presented a bleak scene through which the Italian executive now strolled. Mr. Tirato took a turn off one of the park’s gravel bike paths. This path customarily would take him straight to his hotel, and, familiar with its every curve by now, Mr. Tirato thought nothing more of it this night than any other night—
—which is why he was so startled when he slipped.
It was a pinecone that had fallen on the path. Not looking, he had stepped on it, and it rolled beneath him, causing him to trip forward off a bend of the path, down a small gully hidden beneath the undergrowth. With the smooth soles of his shoes sliding down the slope, he performed a half-twist as he tried to regain his balance, and then fell on his back, his cashmere coat cracking through a few twigs along the way.
When he came to his senses again, he somehow felt as though he had been lying in the dry leaves of the slope for a while now. Overhead, a breeze rustled the trees as he sat up, feeling both of his ankles to see whether he had twisted one of them during his fall. Other than a rude and embarrassing scuff on one of his shining formal pumps, his feet seemed fine. Hopefully nobody would notice that scuff when he got back to the hotel—hopefully.
Groping onto a treetrunk nearby in the darkness, he managed to get up, brushing the leaves off his lustrous trousers and overcoat. Fortunately, neither garment had suffered damage that a trip to the drycleaners could not undo; but his overcoat had quite a few smears of moist dirt clinging to its back—shameful, completely unlike him to suffer dirt on his finery. He brushed a few pine needles off his thin silk socks, and, waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he tried climbing back up the slope.
Mr. Tirato did not remember the slope being this long. Gripping one treetrunk after another, and taking the slope one step at a time, he soon began to realize that he could not have fallen this far—he had already climbed what felt like thirty feet, after all, and still could not see the bike path.
He felt uncomfortably warm. Perhaps it was merely his strenuous attempt to climb the slope—but, regardless, he noticed that his overcoat was beginning to feel quite stifling over his tuxedo jacket. But he did not remove his overcoat or scarf: this spill didn’t happen, as far as he was concerned, and he wanted to look like his usual dapper self once he reached the hotel.
Mr. Tirato took this moment to look around him: the air smelled moist and ripe. Short palms entangled the undergrowth of the slope. Every tree was in full leaf, each trunk overgrown with ferns and moss. Perhaps this part of the park had been planted differently than the rest? No matter: he would climb the slope and get back to the hotel before his flight tomorrow, looking no worse for wear.
A pang of embarrassment raced through him as he thought about how peculiar it would have seemed to an onlooker, seeing an executive immaculately clad in a three-piece tuxedo, with his trilby hat and gloves, his smart little bowtie and puffed pocket silk, trying to climb this slope with his glossy shoes buried in dirty leaves, with his silk socked heels almost slipping out of the opera pumps at every step.
Mr. Tirato could swear he was nearly reaching the top. He could see not ten feet above him the area of the slope that was rounding off and becoming more level—but, quite contrary to what he remembered during his fall, the six-foot stretch right in front of him was a nearly vertical wall of slick clay. Roots protruded from this raw escarpment, tangled with vines.
Gripping several of the roots and vines with his gloved hands, Tony tugged to see whether these would provide a firm support, before beginning his climb. Much to his disliking, he placed one of his elegantly shod feet on a foothold in the slick clay wall, forcing him to press his trousered knee against the damp grey mud as he attempted his last pull of the climb—
—and that was when the root snapped.
He slipped and landed on his back once again, the back seam of his overcoat ripping during his fall. The vines fell across his trousers, as a hail of muddy clods rained all over him.
With an angry growl, Tony hoisted himself to his feet, trying to dust off his finery. It was inexcusable, the way the vines had drooled streaks of their sap across his crisp shirt, and the way the wall had smeared the spot of mud on the knee of his trousers. And his shoes! Horrible—the patent leather all marred with scuffs!
Wrenching his overcoat off his shoulders, he saw, indeed, that much of the back seam was now split, the interfacing and shining silver satin lining both exposed and smeared with mud—no use wearing that back to the hotel. He’d keep it folded under his arm. He’d have a hell of a time explaining this indignity to the drycleaners.
"Where am I?" he muttered, glancing around with not a streetlight in sight. Trying desperately to brush the streaks of mud and dirt off his elegant tuxedo—his best tuxedo—a garment symbolizing, as so many of his did, his wealth and accomplishment—
—And what would the hotel staff think of him now? His overcoat was torn, so he couldn’t wear that to cover up his mudstained trouser knee. Would he truly suffer to be seen walking down a city sidewalk in a tux with muddy shoes? He could imagine his rivals—fellow CEOs, underlings hoping to uncloset him—smirking, if they could see him now.
But he had to get back to the hotel somehow. So, sighing, he decided that perhaps going down the slope would prove a more effective solution to his predicament than going up.
***
As soon as he took his next step onto the level ground at the bottom of the slope, his formal pump sank even deeper into the leaves, into an underlying layer of soft mud that smothered the glossy shoe completely. His stomach sank as he felt moisture seep in.
But it was either trudging through this muck, or turning back up the slope. He had to get out of this stifling, muddy jungle somehow.
“I have other pairs of formal shoes,” the Italian muttered through gritted teeth. If he polished his shoes enough, he’d be able to pass for decent as soon as he got out of here. He’d wear another pair of shoes for tomorrow’s awards dinner.
And so his formal pumps sank in and out, the suction of the mud threatening to snatch them off his heels with every step. It was not long before the dirty moisture had seeped all the way through to his toes—and he was quite sure that the velvet lining of the pumps was ruined. Still attempting to salvage his tuxedo—it would need a drycleaning, but he could manage—he turned up the hems of his trousers to spare those from dragging.
Inexplicably, the “park” stretched on for hours, and the sky was growing lighter. Morning was approaching; the temperature was starting to climb. And, to Tony’s despair, the jungle showed no end in sight.
He had managed to drain every last drop of his pocket flask along the way, but the scotch it contained only increased his thirst. By the time the sun had fully risen, he could feel the sweat welling out of his every pore; his Trumper Skye cologne was fading fast, giving away to the ripeness of his perspiring armpits. He would desperately need a shower after this.
He grew thankful when he noticed an outcropping of boulders: from these dripped a spring. Trudging through the ankle-deep muck, he held his flask up to the edge of the rock, drinking several fills. Although the spring water refreshed him, his formerly crisp shirt felt heavy against his perspiring skin.
He whisked out his pocket mirror—an article he always carried with him, in his well-known vanity—and surveyed himself. His face and hair were dripping; there was a greyish haze of his five o’clock shadow. He undid the top button of his collar and tugged his bowtie about a half an inch loose—not untying it, but letting it hang just beneath where his collar button opened, attempting to maintain some semblance of his former elegance.
How on earth had he managed not to find a single path in this tangled jungle? And why couldn’t he hear the horns and noise of the morning traffic?
His tux absorbed the increasing heat all too well as he produced his cellphone from his pocket, along with a handkerchief. Dabbing his forehead, he tried calling the hotel to inform the staff that he would be late for checkout. But his phone blinked with a blank screen indicating that he had no signal out here. Wiping the sweat off his neck with the handkerchief, refilling the flask one more time and pocketing it, he determined that he would remain as presentable as he could and, reluctantly rebuttoning his collar and straightening out his bowtie again, he got back up and pressed on.
Stubbornly he maintained his appearance throughout the day—after all, he might find that bike path at any moment—pausing every now and then to straighten his bowtie or brush himself off. Thankfully, he soon found a running stream where he could refill his flask. As the sultry day dragged on, his tuxedo jacket grew damp: the sweat slid down his neck, trickling through his chesthair beneath his soaked shirt, and running down his trousered knees. By evening, his Trumper Skye had completely faded away, leaving nothing but the odor of his now very ripe armpits.
Still no sign of civilization in sight, his brain swam with heat, feverish with hunger. He must have been abducted while he was unconscious on that slope, and, for some reason or another, must have been deposited in the middle of a jungle—with his wallet, cellphone, and all of his valuables still on him. For the life of him, no explanation could justify this turn of events. After a day’s march, he determined that he had no choice but to rest out here.
The trees proved an advantageous place. He knew it probably would not be a good idea to spend the night on the ground, thanks to the mosquitoes and whatever other predators might be about. So he approached one of these trees, and noticed a shorter tree growing near it: it looked like a citrus tree, and was loaded with a fruit that looked like clementines.
He had not eaten all day. Without a second thought, he picked, peeled, and devoured about a dozen of them, trying not to get any of their juice on his formalwear.
Satiated, he shrugged his torn cashmere waistcoat on and urged his tired muscles to climb up the treetrunk, pulling himself up into a place where several of the major tree branches split off, creating a natural hammock of sorts.
He folded his torn overcoat for a makeshift pillow behind him, loosened his bowtie, and unbuttoned his shirt, letting his hairy chest breathe for the first time in over a day, with the ends of his loosened bowtie resting near his nipples, with his slim silver chain necklace resting in between. Turning his trilby hat over his eyes, he was asleep in minutes.
***
Stretching his arms in a yawn as he woke, he wondered why his tuxedo seemed so tight all of a sudden. It was morning again, still stifling and balmy, and his open shirt was once more slick with perspiration. Collecting his hat and coat, he climbed down the tree once more, the seams of his formalwear straining against his body.
Taking out his pocket mirror, he started straighten himself up again. Perhaps if he just fastened his shirt and tied his bowtie, he’d be able to pass this whole thing off as just a walk of shame after a long night. Hopefully, nobody would notice his muddy opera pumps.
But why on earth were his shirt studs so hard to button over his chest all of a sudden? He didn’t remember his body ever feeling so firm. He was barely able to get his shirt and jacket closed, and his bowtie bit sharply into his neck when he redid it. Eating a few more of the citrus fruits, he turned back to follow the stream.
So he trudged onward for another sweltering day. Wave after wave of heat beat down on him: as each hour passed, he found himself pushing open another stud of his shirt, or untucking it, or opening his jacket, or unbuttoning his waistcoat, and finally pulling his bowtie loose—anything to relieve the exhausting heat. Of course, nothing now could alleviate the animal odor of his sweat, which wafted off his loosened clothing—especially from his open shirt, which let the ripe stink of his armpits drift through, with his silver necklace swinging against hairy pecs that were starting to cast a shadow over his abdomen. Perhaps the exertion was making him lose weight?
By the end of the day, his mudstained, sweat-drenched formalwear was reeking, untucked, unbuttoned—a mockery of his former, gentlemanly self. Seeing absolutely no sign of civilization, with an air of defeat he heaved himself up another tree—after eating a few more citrus fruits he found growing nearby.
As he climbed, he now heard the disheartening noise of a seam creaking in the shoulder of his jacket. His shoulders strained the lustrous black wool as his muscles—biceps that bulged much more than he remembered—worked to heave him up the trunk. Growling with anger—he wasn’t about to lose his tux as well as his shoes—he hoisted himself up the rest of the way—and, in response to his effort, he could hear a seam in his shoulder snap.
Too exhausted to care, collapsing on one of the tree’s larger branches, he hung his overcoat and spent another uncomfortable night.
***
A sudden drop of water spattered against his now roughly stubbled face. Trickling down his neck, past his silver neck chain, it slid along the cords of newly emerging muscles, gliding through his chesthair, between his ample pecs, and trickling through the chiseled canyons of what now were beautifully carved, hirsute abs.
Blinking awake, Mr. Tirato felt another drop land through his open formal shirt, just beneath his loosened bowtie. Looking up, he recognized the clouds in the morning sky: it was starting to rain. Groaning, he pulled the lapels of his jacket over his face, turning away from what was now a steady drizzle, attempting to eke a little wink of sleep out of the night. The drizzle escalated to a downpour, soaking through his smelly formalwear.
Soon he could sleep no more. He climbed down the tree, planting his once elegantly shod feet on the ground, which was now up to his ankles in rainwater. Another glance in his pocket mirror: his stubble was now fully visible, bristling against his open collar, with his undone bowtie dripping at the ends, his hair completely disheveled beneath his hat, his damaged jacket saturated and sagging. He buttoned his shirt and waistcoat, but left the collar open and bowtie undone. Perhaps the rain would wash the mud off his finery.
A part of him had to admit that all this tromping around in the wilderness was starting to make him look incredibly fit. His neck seemed thicker, his shoulders—or his traps, rather—higher, more powerful; his hairy pecs were as firm as a bodybuilder’s, and his furry abs likewise just as defined. He even noticed his biceps were beginning to bulge through the sleeves of his elegant—though wrinkled and now sopping wet—tuxedo jacket.
His dismay overwhelmed any sense of pride he might have in his newly athletic physique, though, when he noticed a part of its sweatstained satin lining now shamefully visible through the split shoulder of his jacket.
He shook his head. “I’ll take it to the tailor, and the drycleaner. It’ll all be fine.”
***
As the day wore on, the rain continued, and the water rose. By what Tony presumed was afternoon, he was wading through water up to his knees. With every step the mud and water threatened to suck his ruined opera pumps off his silk-socked feet: it was not long before he had to slip those off and carry them with his overcoat, scarf, and gloves. Barefoot in his tux, his hat limp and dripping, his bowtie dangling loose, and three days’ stubble, he knew he would look ridiculous in front of his rivals, if ever he were to find his way out.
Still, still no sign of civilization in sight! He knew, when the water continued to rise past his thighs: he would soon have to find higher ground. Reluctantly he took to one of the muddy slopes of the hills bordering the valley. He recalled how, a few days ago, he had suffered quite a few spills attempting to scale one of these, and found the going even harder in the downpour, as the mud washed past his bare feet.
After a few minutes, he slipped, falling flat on his face into the muddy earth. He could feel the wet filth smear all across the front of his face, all across the front of his ruined tuxedo: two or three of his shirt studs popped open, baring his now beefy pecs to the mud, the rain drumming on his back. Painfully one of the treeroots ground into his knee: it had ripped a gaping hole in the knee of his trousers.
For the rest of the slope, he had to crawl on all fours to maintain his balance, his bloodied knee poking through his ruined trousers, and the pleats of his formerly white shirt besmirched. Worse, as he crawled barefoot, one of the inseams of his formal trousers was starting to rip across thighs far thicker than they had been tailored for. Stitch by stitch, the rip grew bigger as he dragged himself to the top of the hill, where a cave opened. Groaning with relief, he staggered in, collapsing on the first patch of dry ground he felt.
He was on the point of dozing off right there, when he suddenly heard something familiar:
"Tony? Is that you?"
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