Bondage Vignette 2: Dress Code Violation.
- Southern Suitor
- Sep 26
- 13 min read
Enforced Suiting | Improvised Handkerchief Gag | Humiliation & Submission.
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Eighteen months have passed. Grant’s boss Nate has established a new firm with a strict office dress code. Eager to please his boss, Grant complies, until one day . . .
Threading together a number of horny conversations I’ve had with a particularly well-attired follower over the years, I formed this story out of some mutual fantasies I spun in my DMs on Instagram. I wanted to contrive a way to bind the suited captive and subject him to constant surveillance in his struggles, then enforce even deeper degrees of submission, even after the climactic act.
As I developed each scene, I began to imagine what it might be like to have an office with a strict dress code, in a world where people would be bemused or puzzled by public displays of kink, but ultimately nonplussed by them. That’s part of the fantasy, I think: an office with something off-kilter, something kinky and askew, treated with almost-normalcy.
Need a refresher? Here’s Bondage Vignette 1.
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“Ties make excellent reins,” Nate had said to Grant. That was o ver a year ago, before he hired Grant to his firm.
“I want to wear my reins everyday,” Grant had replied. “Please, Sir. Please make me wear my reins everyday.”
*
Nate was specific about the dress code: suits and ties. “This is not a corporate casual office. We want to command our clients’ respect.”
Nate’s firm might be one of the last ones in the world to have a dress code. Suits and ties required for the men. Vaguer requirements for the women, but very specific, strict requirements for the men. Sometimes folks commented on why that might be, and Nate would always shrug and deflect: “Women tend to understand these things better. Guys need more . . . direction.”
And so it went. A few applicants balked at the protocol, so Nate made sure they never made it through the interview process. The only guys hired to the firm were ones willing to comply with the company dress code. And Grant, as one of the first hires of the company, got to feast on suited eye candy all day long.
“See?” Nate would say at company meetings, pointing out Grant’s attire. “The arching double windsor knot? Always fully suited? French cuff shirt, pocket silk? Grant always represents the ideal of our company dress code, don’t you Grant?”
“Yes, Sir,” would say, his cock twitching deep in his pinstripes beneath the conference room table.
Like a rope drawn taut. That’s what Grant’s brain felt like, the whole time he was at work in Nate’s office. The wavelength of horniness assumed the form of the woven line, the rope tightened across a graph. Like any tightwire, the slightest pluck would produce a wave, racing back and forth across the length. Grant liked it that way, tight, the snugness of his tie, the anticipation that Nate might draw those tight ropes across his wrists at any moment, or Nate’s gloved hand — always a gloved hand — would reach into Grant’s collar and adjust his tie knot. Or pluck the silk blade. The slightest touch of Nate’s hand would send that tight-drawn rope thrumming, vibrating, wavelengths of horniness humming deep in Grant’s silk-addled brain. Ticking away at his keyboard, deep in the maze of cubicles, Grant would carry out his abstract duties as a data manager, tucked away from public sight while Nate wheeled and dealed with clients.
“Oh, that’s just Grant,” Nate would remark as he toured his clients by Grant’s cubicle. “He’s our best-dressed employee.”
And Grant would smile at his screen, entering data, and nudging the sumptuous silk of his tie arching from his lapels.
So for most men it was sharp suits, yes, though Grant noticed that only he and Nate sported double windsors. For everyone else, it was four-in-hands, or fashionable double-four-in-hands. Nate’s suits were the sharpest of all, always with broad lapels, shoes polished to a mirror gleam, mighty double-windsor knots cinched to a dimpled hourglass. An hourglass of silk at Nate’s neck, ticking down the seconds to the end of the workday.
“Make sure you don’t get too tied up at work,” Nate would say at the stroke of five, his baroque baritone voice vibrating in Grant’s eardrums, resonating with that deep wavelength of horniness. Or “Hey, can I lasso you into this project?” Or “You realize this contract is a binding agreement.”
Taunts, teases, all day, every week. Grant wondered when it would finally happen, a repeat of their first meeting at the hotel, when Nate showed Grant his tie collection and ended up tying Grant to a hotel chair, jerking him to completion, and leaving him on the couch, with his bonds loosened and a change of clothes Nate had chosen for him, already setting the precedent of determining his dapper dress code in advance. It was as though Nate had made all of Grant’s decisions in advance, and the very thought of that — ceding power to Nate, letting Nate take care of things — made Grant feel protected somehow, and impossibly — insatiably — horny. He wanted Nate to make every decision for him, especially what tie to wear. He wanted to wear his silken reins all day.
*
One day, Grant found himself running late. Freshly showered, he had to skip his shaving. He thought the stubble looked good anyway, and the group of lunching ladies at the café on the way to work would always crane their necks and watch him as he strutted by, the handsomely attired suited peacock who tantalized their attention. They’d wink and ask him how often he worked out. (And he’d blush and say “only five times a week,” relishing the compliment, the attention to his hard-working physique filling out his fine suits.)
But in his haste that morning, there were other details out of place. It didn’t register to him how loose his double monkstraps felt, as he had forgotten to buckle them. But he got his double Windsor right, right? He nudged it before rushing out the door.
*
The day passed, just Grant in his cubicle. The compliments of the lunching ladies who all not-so-secretly wanted a piece of him, the rustle of his stubble against his encircling stiff collar, the looseness of his shoes — all that had faded into the background of his consciousness, absorbed as he was in his data entry.
“Grant?” Nate poked his head in.
“Yes sir?” The “sir” came naturally these days. It felt reassuring when Nate would poke his head into Grant’s cubicle for his outfit inspection at the end of the day.
Nate greeted Grant with a twisted grin. “I cannot help but notice that your tie knot today is . . . a little small. And just a smidge off center.”
“Oh? I’m — I’m sorry, sir,” muttered Grant, trying to fidget and adjust his tie in the reflection of his desktop computer. Grant squinted at the tie knot. He could have sworn that he got it right this morning, just like always. He was no amateur at knotting a double Windsor, after all. How on earth was the thick silk cone off-center? It looked ideally framed between the spread points of his collar. But Grant pinched the dimple anyway, hoping he’d be able to straighten up for his exacting boss. “I wouldn’t want to fall short of the company dress code.”
Nate’s eyes scanned Grant’s outfit further down. His frown deepened. “And you forgot to buckle your shoes, too. Are you telling me that you went around our office all day with your tie like that? With your shoes just flopping off your feet like that?”
Apologize, Grant told himself, nervous as he adjusted his knot. “I’m sorry, sir. I will make sure it doesn’t happen again sir.”
“You’re right about that.” There it was, a growl in Nate’s voice. The vibrating cord, a growl. “Follow me. You can finish that spreadsheet later.”
“Did I — did I do something wrong, sir?” Stupid question, thought Grant. Of course you fucking did something wrong. Your shoes and tie were supposed to be perfectly on point, and now you’ve disappointed Nate. Grabbing his jacket, Grant sprung from his seat and followed his boss down the hall, his loosened monkstraps threatening to tumble off his sheer socked feet with each step as he stumbled to keep up with Nate’s stride. “Sir? Is everything alright, sir?”
“That seems to be what you're good at, embarrassing yourself.” Nate’s gleaming shoes clicked across the tiles of the hallway, his heavy footfalls echoing off the motivational posters and bulletin boards with a threatening rhythm. “But not to worry. We'll play to your strengths, such as they are.”
With a gloved hand, Nate turned the latch of a door. It led to Nate’s corner office, an executive suite commanding a panoramic view of the park of the industrial campus. In front of his mirror-polished desk sat a solitary chair. Next to it, Grant noticed a bundle of nylon rope and a roll of duct tape.
Nate had planned for this. As Grant took in this sight, Nate patted the back of the seat. “Sit down.”
Grant recognized it, the way Nate’s baritone would dip to a commanding octave — a deeper wavelength of horniness that would stir Grant’s cock in his suit trousers. “Uhh, yes. Yes Sir.”
“Very good.” Again, a threatening tap of his gloved fingers on the back of the chair. “Now get in the chair.”
Shrugging on his jacket, Grant settled into the solitary seat. Nate, meanwhile, prowled in a slow circle, the pale fluorescent light glinting off the silken pinstripes of his suit. Pinching his thick double Windsor, Grant tried to calm himself a moment with a stroke of the silk blade, only to find his cock pricking even higher. He knew what was about to happen. He’d been waiting for this.
So had Nate. Picking up a bundle of rope, Nate plied the cords in his gloved hands, flexing his knuckles, his head tilting one way or another in a quizzical examination of where best to begin his filthy work. Then, with a firm nod — “Stick up your feet.”
Pavlovian, like a lever Grant put his feet up. And why did he do that, Grant wondered? Was he being punished, or rewarded? And why did Grant find it so automatic to play along? Nate gave a nod of approval, passing his gloved fingers over the polished toecap of each of Grant’s shoes. “Your shoes. Take them off. Socks, too.”
Grant felt clammy sweat develop in his pits, the chill threat of the fluorescent light glaring overhead. Obeying, Grant removed his unbuckled shoes, peeled off his sheer socks. Since he worked in the cubicle in the back of the office all the time, hardly anyone noticed the unusually thin, sheer, silky choice of hosiery. Folding the socks tidily, Grant placed both socks and shoes between his feet, incongruously bare against his crisp suit trousers. He then looked up at his boss with a gulp. “As requested, Sir.”
“Right cufflink is crooked. Pocket silk sinking too low in the breast pocket. Wrinkles along the back seam of the jacket. An unfolded trouser cuff in the back.” Draping the ropes theatrically around his neck, Nate continued to pace in a circle around the chair, his bespectacled gaze surveying Grant’s outfit from each angle, pitiless in its catalogue of each infraction, however small. The boss smirked as Grant’s bare feet came to rest on the floor. “Why, Grant, you seem so rushed in your sartorial preparations. It looks as though you can use a mini vacation. A little relaxation after a long workday.”
“Uhh, thank you, Sir?” Grant tried reaching up to his tie, but Nate held up a gloved hand.
“No, tie slut. Leave it.”
Tie slut. This was a new pet name. Grant’s cock throbbed, snaking its way through his pinstripe trousers.
“Leave it, Sir?” Grant bit his stubbled lip. “Didn’t you want me to fix it in accordance with company policy, Sir?”
“No, tie slut. Somebody’s got to make an example of you.”
A reply attempted to form itself in Grant’s throat, but all that resulted was a knot in his vocal cords. He sputtered, useless, stunned just by Nate’s words.
Kneeling before the chair, Nate took the coils of rope around Grant’s bare ankles. And so it began, each nylon braid resting next to its partner in crime as the coils knotted, looped, knotted again, each affixing Grant’s ankles and shins together in a long, obscene figure 8. Settling into place — not daring to move a muscle — Grant watched as his coworkers passed by the sight in the hall, raising eyebrows at the sight of Nate tying up an employee like this. Before long, a knot of coworkers had formed just outside of the open door, dozens of prying eyes watching. The momentary pleasure of being tied up diminished before the withering gaze of humiliation — yet Grant’s cock prodded his suit trousers all the more, helpless to pleasure himself, helpless to stop the proceedings.
Nate was nonchalant in his vile labor. Returning to his desk, he produced a second and third coil of ropes, and, before Grant had finished getting used to the first bind around his feet, his wrists were soon ensnared to the arms of the chair, cufflinks and French cuffs crushed against the twists of the rope as Grant plied the coils with each pass. Grant could feel the taut bands settle into place around his wrists — his cock constricting, swelling, untwisting in his suit trousers with each increase of pressure — as Grant felt Nate lean in over his shoulder and extract his pocket silk from his suit breast pocket. Then, plucking a rubber stress relief ball from his desk, Nate placed the rubber ball right against Nate’s waiting lips.
“Open wide.”
A murmur went over the gaggle of coworkers as Grant felt Nate’s gloved fingers shove the stress ball into his lips, his teeth finding purchase in the sour-tasting rubberized foam just as Nate secured the stress ball in place with Grant’s own pocket handkerchief. With a magician’s swiftness, Grant pulled the silk handkerchief corner to corner, securing the improvised gag with a hard knot at the base of Grant’s skull, resting just above his stiff collar. As Nate leaned in over Grant’s shoulder to test each of the knots, Grant smelled Nate’s breath and fine cologne wafting and enveloping his nostrils, intimately close as he worked the ropes.
Then, stepping around to the front, Nate gestured to the audience: “Colleagues, as you know we keep a strict dress code in this office. And, as you can see, Grant here is in violation of that dress code.”
One person raised their hand. “Uh, sir? Don’t you think this is a little extreme?”
“Hmph.” Theatrical and powerful in the tailored silhouette of his beautiful double-breasted suit, Nate seemed to huff and expand like a shadow, eclipsing Grant from his coworkers’ scrutiny for just a moment, with his grand seven-fold tie gleaming in paisleys of silver, a long rich florid tongue of silk blossoming from his cutaway collar and draping itself into the rich, broad lapels of his suit in a long, lush arch of silk. “Other companies book corporate retreats at national parks, or hold paintball tournaments as ‘teambuilding exercises.’ And this is no different, really. It’s a teambuilding exercise.”
The employee screwed their eyebrows, uncomprehending of Nate’s non-explanation. But Nate left no time for further questions.
“Grant here is going to compliment everybody’s shoes, one by one.” With his mirror-polished wholecut lace-ups, Nate kicked Grant’s shoes out of the way. “Builds company morale, you see. Then you’re free to sign out for the day, since it’s after 5:00.”
Another murmur before Nate volunteered someone. “You’re wearing some fine tassel loafers. Why don’t you go first? And Grant — remember that you’re supposed to compliment each person’s shoes as they leave for the day. Do you understand?”
Grant grimaced into his gag, before nodding.
“Let me repeat that.” Squaring his shoulders, Nate made his arching tie blossom forth, commanding and extravagant. “Grant, do you understand?”
His tongue flicking against the stress ball, and his teeth trying to keep the ball from slipping further back into his mouth, Grant nodded. “Yesth. YesthSthir.”
*
And so it went. “Thosthe ur verwy nicthe thshthoesth.” Over and over again, Grant attempting to lisp the words “nice shoes” into his gag as each of his well-attired coworkers walked by. At first, they were weirded out by the whole exercise, but after the first four or five coworkers paraded through Nate’s office, they all began to snicker at Grant’s drooling attempts to form syllables into his gag. Such a competitive office environment. And what — this was all in good fun, wasn’t it? After the tenth coworker came up, they started holding their shoes out, pointing their toes, as though to emphasize the contrast between their beautifully shod feet, and Grant’s feet bare and incongruous against the carpeted floor.
“Hey, nice shoes, Grant,” taunted one of his colleagues. Grant grumbled, trying to nudge his vulnerable ankles beneath the seat, twisting in his bonds to avoid the scrutiny of his well-heeled colleagues. When the last of them finally took her complement and left for the day, Nate stepped back in front of Grant, clapping his gloved palms, the percussion of his applause muted by the buttery-soft leather.
“There you go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“No fthSir.” Screwing his nose, Grant noticed a small, round object in Nate’s gloved fingers, about the size of a golfball. It was a webcam.
“Bluetooth,” explained Nate with a smirk. He planted it on a side table, where its lens blinked with a tiny red light. Holding up his cellphone, Nate showed Grant the pixelated image of his own face, gagged, with his full Windsor blossoming (slightly twisted) out of his collar, his wrists and bare ankles still fast against the chair. “Just to check up on you. I’m due for a video call with the district manager over in the conference room, but I’ll be back once I’m done.”
“But wvaith — iszthn’t zthisz dandg — dandgervus?”
“Dangerous? Oh, nonsense. You’re doing so well,” replied Grant with a smirk. But then the twinge in his voice, the subtle and threatening depth of pitch. “You doubt the quality of my work?”
Shaking his head — trying to keep the improvised ball gag in place — “No, no Thsir.”
“You’d better not.” Pacing around the chair, checking each of the knots in turn, Nate sauntered to the door, his sharp shoes catching the gleam of the frigid fluorescent lights. “You think I’m an amateur at this? You’ll pay for that.”
Twirling the keys, ignoring Grant’s muffled pleas, the boss strode away.
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