Bondage Vignette 1: Tie Collection
- Southern Suitor
- Feb 13, 2022
- 11 min read
Bondage Vignette 1: The Tie Collection.
Mindfuck | Power Play | Ties & Bondage
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A handsomely dressed job applicant at a conference gets an interview that ties him up in knots. What happens when the suit & tie—that uniform of power—becomes the uniform of submission?
It all started at a conference. Grant arrived at the hotel fully suited and had packed nothing but suits the whole time. He wanted to make the right impression. If asked, he would say it was a confidence booster. But the deeper reality was that he relished it, knowing that a loop of silk encircled his neck, asserted with a massive, tight, intricate double windsor knot. That careful knot fixed in place would let him know that he could sail through any social situation and be just fine. Security, confidence.
Horniness, too. And not just the cockiness that came with being dressed to the nines. No, for Grant it was something else. Something . . . visceral, inviting, as though he wanted to attract the attention of a certain kind of person. Someone who would know precisely what he wanted, and would seize control.
But how would he know who that person was? What signals would Grant look for? And how could he be certain that the well-dressed fellow who caught his attention also found himself drawn to the same desires mutually? Indeed, how often would the stars align? All he could do was dress the part, and hope. It was a singular luxury indeed.
The first day passed without much event. Lots of suited eye candy around, of course: each glimpse of each guy’s tie propagated that low-frequency hum of horniness constantly in the back of Grant’s mind. It came and went in waves: ebbing, whenever he would see a sloppily tied four-in-hand knot, and flowing—fucking flowing, horny as fuck—whenever he saw a properly formed double windsor. Which was rare, thanks to the dull beige noise of business casual, the monotonous sea of khaki and gray, sweatpants or baggy khakis that might as well have been sweatpants—or clumsy shoes, crumpled collars, the occasional slumpy jacket, or scrawny tie in a halfhearted knot—but there was one guy. One particularly dapper guy in grey pinstripes and a contrasting collar and cuff shirt. Instead of the staid stripes and skinny ties most guys sported, this one wore some broad-bladed work of art in purple paisley, and had formed it into a mighty, swollen cone of silk blossoming from his neck, arching from his waistcoat.
Grant had to settle his program into his lap, concealing the tent in his trousers. He was dying to meet this guy.
There was a happy hour at the hotel bar afterwards, on the top floor. Sure enough, the double windsor guy was there. Grant perched at the bar, ordered a drink, and, within a moment, the double windsor guy pulled up a chair.
“Good evening. My name’s Frank.”
“Grant,” Grant replied. He responded with a firm handshake, and noticed that Frank was wearing fine gloves in a gleaming dark brown chocolate leather, with perforations in each of the knuckles. The kind of driving gloves one might see some Italian Pitti Uomo peacock wear.
Before Grant could complement this accessory, Frank spoke up. “That’s an awfully nice tie you’ve got there.”
“Oh—uh—thank you.” Grant resisted the urge to pinch his tie knot. He wanted to, but he knew that even the slightest brush of his fingers against the silk would send him into a spiral of lust. Autoerotic, pavlovian. It didn’t help that this guy immediately zeroed in on his tie, too. That nudged him further towards that blissful abyss.
“A proper double windsor,” added Frank, running a gloved finger up and down his tie blade, embroidered texture of the purple paisley whispering against the leather. “Interview worthy.”
Grant blushed, cock twitching. He desperately wanted to stroke his tie. Could he risk it? He certainly wanted to stroke Frank’s tie, as well. Fuck. Grant had been simmering in suited libido all day. Maybe if he just—there, that’s not too much, is it?—Grant let himself trace a knuckle against the edge of his silk blade, imitating Frank. “Thanks, man. You’re looking very dapper, as well.”
The conversation went on from there. Frank was thinking of a career change. His father’s menswear store was closing, so he couldn’t work there anymore. Perhaps a consulting firm, then? Grant replied that he really wasn’t sure where he wanted to go yet. He needed some guidance, some direction.
“Well, based on your wardrobe alone, I can tell you have what it takes to try something new.” Frank produced his card, then tucked it into Grant’s breast pocket, just behind Grant’s pocket square. “I think you really look the part, you know.”
Grant inhaled it, the aroma of the soft calfskin leather gloves. Just that barest touch of this guy’s hand against the outside of his suit jacket—fuck—
“Oh—uh—hold on, where’s my card?” Snapping out of his thrum of lust, Grant patted his suit jacket. An awkward moment later, Grant finally found his business card holder. It was a small leather folio that contained about fifty cards, the sort he read about on some blog about how to network and make oneself out to be a proper professional. Extracting the fine little wallet, Grant fumbled with it and spilled the cards right down into Frank’s lap.
Frank laughed, holding his thighs together to make sure that they didn’t end up on the floor. He cupped a few of the cards in his gloved hands. “I guess that’s one way to make an impression.”
“Shit—sorry—” Grant tried collecting the cards, only to find that his knuckle brushed up against something in Frank’s trousers. Something warm, firm. Throbbing.
Picking up a few of the cards, Frank handed them back to Grant, fanning them in his gloved fingers. “Thank you for your card. Maybe you need to relax a bit? May I treat you to another drink?”
So they progressed from beer to bourbon, and the conversation flowed away from business topics. They talked about movies, and Frank mentioned James Bond. Grant had seen the latest, so they both exchanged remarks, but for some reason Frank kept referring to older James Bond films, as well. That one scene where Daniel Craig ended up tied to a chair, or Roger Moore, or Sean Connery. Always tied to chairs. Each time Frank made a reference like that, he studied Grant’s reactions.
And Grant could tell. Beneath the haze of bourbon, Grant felt himself growing calm, the fine fist of silk resting against his neck just as it should be. Surely Frank was the sort of guy who appreciated a big, fat, secure double windsor like that? Frank was wearing one himself. Grant spread his knees on his bar stool, displaying his stiffening cock: unconcealable, at full mast in his suit trousers.
“That is a mighty fine tie knot you’ve got there,” Frank reiterated, passing his gloved knuckles under his own. “Is it alright if I . . . touch it? Just to feel the silk. I love the texture of a well-woven tie like that.”
Shit. Fuck. Under any circumstances, Grant would think that question was weird. But for some reason he felt himself primed to say yes. Just fuckin—fuck—Grant gave in, nodding. “Uh, sure. I always like feeling them up, you know. Before I buy them.”
“That was one of my favorite things to do at my dad’s store.” Leaning forward, Frank traced his knuckle along the silken blade of Grant’s tie, straightening the tie bar and letting the hole in his driving glove expose his bare knuckle to the fine silk. Frank nodded with approval. “Very nice. It has a good ‘hand,’ as the menswear guys say. Of course, these days, most guys just buy their ties online, if they even put in the effort to wear a tie at all. The days of getting to feel up a table full of ties are a thing of the past, I guess.”
“I guess,” said Grant wistfully. Wistful not only for the bygone era of menswear, but—strangely—wistful that Frank had to withdraw his knuckle from Grant’s tie to take a swig of whiskey.
The conversation moved on: comic book movies, a bit of video games. Both men were Metal Gear Solid fans, and Frank mentioned his favorite scene: Revolver Ocelot interrogating Snake. Ocelot, attired in his shirt and tie and waistcoat like a nineteenth-century gunslinger, while Snake, stripped and shirtless, was rigged up to some elaborate electrocution machine, wrists and ankles clamped in place, 32-bit musculature rendered lovingly in polygons. And Grant laughed, saying that he really found that scene hot. “Wasn’t there one option in the game where you could put Snake in a tuxedo? Like some kind of skin or something you could unlock?”
“Imagine if you could change Snake’s costume in that one Revolver Ocelot scene.” Frank’s eyes flickered with—lust? for a video game character? “You know, when he’s restrained, up in that machine. Or—hell, I’d love to see him in a tux like that, tied up in a chair.”
“Yeah.” Grant nodded, nearly losing his balance on the barstool, resting one elegantly shod foot on the floor to steady himself, barely aware of his growing hard-on in his suit trousers. In an idle instant his mind raced back to high school, to all those times he’d played those games and secretly lusted for a grizzled, muscled Snake in his tuxedo. And the bondage part—that, too, awoke something in Grant’s psyche. The thought of such a virile, mighty character, rendered helpless, restrained, not only by the bonds around his wrists, but by the elegance of his eveningwear. In fact, come to think of it, Grant seemed to have a whole archive of such scenes mutually linked in his head: haplessly dapper heroes, always restrained, disparate scenes threading themselves together in a long, sumptuous length, a resonance humming behind his thoughts. Both men stroked their ties fully now, unapologetically. A wavelength, a signal that nobody in the bar would recognize. Nobody except these two men.
Finally, the bartender gave the last call. Finishing his bourbon, Frank nodded towards the rooftop elevator. “You know, I brought a bottle of bourbon with me. In my room.”
“Oh?” Grant downed the remainder of his, too, and settled his tab. “I bet you had a time getting that on the airplane.”
“I visited a package store when I got here, first thing.” Frank steepled his gloved fingers. “You never know when you might want to enjoy a private tasting with someone. Fancy a nightcap?”
“Sure,” said Grant. The word emerged from his tongue before he had thought it out fully. But through the amber haze of alcohol and horniness, it seemed like an ideal idea.
On the elevator, Frank began to run his gloved fingers up and down his tie blade, pinching the massive double windsor that blossomed at his neck, adjusting the dimple and plumping it to an elegant, peacockish hourglass shape, plucking the thick silk so that it arched further and further out of his waistcoat. “Mind if I adjust your tie, young man?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.” Grant found himself immediately piqued, aroused by that deep buttering baritone voice whose unctuous syllables lubed their way into his ears: young man, the way Frank intoned the words. They were the only two guys on the elevator, so Grant saw no harm in it. Holding his chin up, Grant let Frank give his tie the same treatment, tracing his gloved fingers along either edge of Grant’s silk blade, pinching and plumping his mighty double windsor, making sure the silk arched out of his suit jacket lapels. Keeping his jacket buttoned, Grant tried to stand up straight and not think too hard about his hard-on, which was getting harder. Fuck. So fucking hard. Was he about to get it on with this guy? Fuck, that would be fucking amazing. After months of pandemic casual, Grant was primed for some suited concourse.
Frank led Grant to his room, opened the door, produced the bottle of bourbon, and poured a night cap for Frank. They both had a seat in the pair of chairs near the hotel room desk. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” said Grant, clinking his glass before noticing that Frank’s closet door was ajar. And, through the closet door, Grant saw a flash of brilliant silk. “Shit, man, how many suits and ties did you bring?”
“Oh, those?” Frank tapped a gloved finger on his glass, getting up from his chair. “I brought five suits, and thirty ties. I just couldn’t decide.”
“Thirty ties?” Grant shifted in his seat. “That’s like—more ties than I’ve ever owned—”
“I can show them to you, if you like.” Frank approached the closet door, producing the tie rack without awaiting Grant’s response. He brandished them, the brilliant tongues of silk, each in an extravagant paisley, or bold stripe, or rich medallion. Each with a broad, densely woven silk blade. Bold, luxurious ties, the kind of ties that aren’t merely the understated accessory of a boardroom meeting. These ties demanded attention, each of their broad satiny blades as rich as a tapestry. “You’re a discerning man, after all, so I can see you appreciate fine neckwear.”
“Shit—fuc—I mean, uh, they’re beautiful. Fuck.” Why was Grant’s cock plump all a sudden? The sight of all that lustrous silk sent him into a lascivious spiral lustful luxury, longing to languish in all that lavish length. Grant’s cock drooled, pinned in its confines in his suit trousers, throbbing, especially when Frank approached him with the loaded tie rack in one hand. Grant had no idea whether it was the bourbon or the whisper of silk against Frank’s gloved fingers, but he found himself reeling as Frank plucked a tie from the rack, then looped it around Grant’s neck.
Stepping back, Frank quirked an eyebrow, sipping his bourbon. “How does that one feel, big man?”
“Fffuck—I mean, uh, it uh—it feels—” Fuck. Grant had barely met this guy, yet somehow this guy knew exactly what turned him on, how the weight of the costly neckwear hugged the outside of Grant’s collar, adding that extra layer of decadent security to the fully plumped double windsor arching out of his neck. This guy—Frank looped another tie around Grant’s neck, draping it across Grant’s lapels like a scarf—this guy, knowing exactly how to push Grant’s buttons, like a fuckin mindreader. Psycho Mantis or some shit.
Dominant. Virile. Fuck. Something had shifted in Frank’s expression. There was a gleam in his eye. He knew what he was doing, leading Grant right along, as Grant arched his neck forward a bit. An invitation for Frank to drape around his neck another tie, and another. Oh fuck. Please, more ties. Fuck. Each one, each added weight of silk, caused Grant to just start fuckin leaking into his suit trousers, cock drooling and aching for more of this ridiculous fuckin silken simulation.
Frank had piled six? Seven more ties on Grant’s neck? Fuck. Like Grant was a fuckin human tie rack or something. “Hmmm . . .” Frank nodded, smirking. “You know, each of these ties goes with your fine suit so well. Would you like to try one of them on?”
“Fuck yeah,” said Grant, not bothering to sound businesslike anymore.
Hanging a few more ties around Grant’s neck, Frank dropped the tie rack on the bed, letting the slick silk tongues coil in a colorful tangle on the mattress. He then paced around Grant, nodding. Grant heard a deep chuckle from his elegant new friend, before he felt something entrap one of his wrists.
Grant inhaled for a moment, the aroma of the hefty silk blades around his neck, before realizing what was happening. “Wait—what are you doing?”
“I didn’t specify where you’d be wearing it, young man.” Gloved hands moving in a blur, Frank tightened the sumptuous seams around Grant’s other wrist, silk biting into his cufflinks and French cuffs as Frank worked one of his ties into a clever knot. A different kind of knot.
“Ffffcc—” Realizing that both of his wrists were now lashed in silk behind the chair, Grant began to squirm, forming a protest with words. Lukewarm words of protest, tepid syllables betraying the red-hot horniness surging through his whole lust-addled brain, broken words that rang hollow the moment Grant let them roll off his tongue. But they felt like the right thing to say: some soft, limp resistance, an inverse of the rigid rock-hard horniness raging in his underwear, cock head desperate to be unleashed from its velvety wool confines. “Uh—hey, this—fffuck—isn’t really what I meant,—fffffcc—you know—”
Fuck. But it was. Fuck. What valuable and beautiful bonds, Grant thought. All the James Bond and Metal Gear Solid references throughout the night. Every hint dropped along the way. Fuck. Fuck yeah. Grant couldn’t help himself now. This was exactly what he wanted. He swayed as he twisted his wrists in the silk bond. Fine silk, put to a nefarious purpose.
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