Power Tie Fragments - Chapters 1 & 2 - Suit + Tie Muscle Growth Fetish Fiction.
- Southern Suitor
- May 21
- 12 min read
By SouthernSuitor, Copyright 2010-2011.
Muscle Growth | Clothing Destruction | Transformation
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A suit and tie muscle growth story I composed for MuscleGrowth dot org years and years ago. In this tale, a cocky CEO picks up a cursed (enchanted?) tie that transforms him from a pencil-necked businessman into a hulking, barbaric beast.
Every seam of his suit ends up shredded. And, worse, each guy who takes his seed ends up suffering the same fate. No actual suits were harmed in the creation of this production.
I wrote this story a while back, so not all pieces of it survive. These are the only two remaining chapters that made it through many now-defunct laptops over the years.
Some content warnings: there’s a lot of toxic masculinity in this story. I wrote this story when I was younger, and did not fully understand why that was a problem. I also made some ill-advised attempts at political satire and commentary in this piece that proved a little too prescient for comfort. In real life, toxic masculinity leads to narcissistic, manipulative, abusive, misogynist, and transphobic behaviors that harm the LGBTQIA+ community and society at large. Please engage with this story only as fantasy, not as an endorsement of this behaviors in any real situation. My later pieces of fiction have sought to explore masculinity in a more positive light—forms of masculinity based in connection and intimacy, rather than brutish domination. (Unless you're into that sort of thing. Stay safe, sane, and consensual, y'all.)
Illuminated only by a spotlight and the glow of the projector screen, Mr. Glenn Leksander pointed to his chart, ignoring how tight the sleeve of his jacket suddenly felt. “So you can see how this spike in our ratings corresponds with NPR’s firing of Juan Williams.”
Although his voice was remaining calm throughout the presentation, he could feel himself sweating in gallons. His undershirt was already wringing with perspiration, and he was sure his custom French cuff shirt would be soon to follow. The white satin lining of his waistcoat stuck slightly to the back of his shirt—but, thankfully, his elegant suit covered all.
He had no idea why he was sweating this much, or why he was this uncomfortable in his suit and tie. Perhaps he was just nervous? After all, he couldn’t see the board of directors terribly well: the boardroom was completely dark. But he did what he could to maintain his composure, ignoring the occasional remark he heard about “getting hot under the collar.”
But why did his Hickey Freeman suit feel so tight all of a sudden? He’d worn a size 38 jacket for years. The velvety tan glen plaid wool was already stretching very tight over his shoulders and chest: though he didn’t know their names, his pectorals, deltoids, and latissimi were all stretching against his suit. It was getting very difficult to move with his customary grace.
As he stepped back to the podium, the seams of his shirt and waistcoat complained with a loud creak. “In a way, National Propaganda Radio’s decision to fire Williams proved to be one of our best coups yet.”
The directors chuckled at his moniker for the news station. Perhaps he wasn’t doing as badly as he had feared.
He tried his best to concentrate on his presentation, trying to ignore the strange sensation of the collar of his sweat-drenched undershirt pulling itself down the front of his chest, all the way to his navel, becoming a deep-cut v-neck. Likewise the sleeves of his undershirt and his undershirt’s bottom hem were shrinking up his body. He was thankful that his tan glen plaid waistcoat and blue custom shirt—straining as they were to contain his pectorals—hid the halter top his undershirt seemed to be changing into, though it started feeling more like a sleeveless halter top. Or perhaps it wasn’t a halter top at all: his sleeves continued shrinking, the sides of his undershirt secretly splitting open, so that his white undershirt now felt more like a pair of straps over his shoulders than a complete undergarment. “Now that we’ve got a contract with him, Williams will add a certain credibility to our most popular news station.”
“So 2011 looks like a very promising year for us. Our party is in control of the House, and viewers are flocking to our news station in numbers we haven’t seen since the Bush years.” Glenn had a raging hard-on tenting in his trousers. Thank God for the podium in front of him: concealed by his trousers, his cock was poking through the fly of his boxers, and his boxers seemed to be contracting around his shaft, their hemlines retreating up his thighs, as though his underwear were turning into some kind of g-string beneath his suit. At the same time, the fabric of his shrinking undershirt stiffened, feeling peculiarly like leather.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that the now skimpy undergarment would provide no barrier between his welling sweat pores and the crisp Egyptian cotton of his custom shirt. He also wondered why on earth his undershirt and boxers would behave in this strange fashion.
But he was glad that his elegant three-piece suit was hiding whatever was going on underneath, especially when he felt a prickly, antsy sensation on his now thick biceps, triceps, and deltoids, as though pins and needles were vibrating against his skin at rapid speed. Maintaining his composure, he cleared his throat, the seams his suit sleeve creaking as he bent his arm. As the side of his hand brushed against his lips, he swore he could feel his stubble growing even rougher than before. “However, there are a few strategies I would like to suggest.”
One of the directors made a remark—something about losing a razor.
His voice jumped in pitch: “First . . . ” The fly of his boxers had all of a sudden tightened around his hidden cock and balls, squeezing them. He could no longer feel the waistband of his boxers; it was as though they had disappeared. In one of the back corners of his mind, he was pretty sure his cock was fully erect, tenting his glen plaid suit trousers. And, as far as he could tell, he most certainly had not decided to go commando except for a ring around his genitals. The luxurious sensation of his silk-lined trousers against his glutes, thighs, and balls was certainly not helping with his swelling erection. “Continue promoting Palin’s new book. If any other news outlet reports that it’s been ghost-written, denounce them as rumors and propaganda.”
As his swelling trapezius muscles started nudging his lapels upward, he found himself resisting the sudden urge to loosen his power tie. He couldn’t possibly do that in the middle of a presentation—had to maintain his debonair appearance at all costs—but his damp, stiff spread collar and his power tie felt suddenly so tight around his bulging neck. “Next: for every snowstorm and freeze warning that occurs on the Eastern Seaboard, air a report ‘questioning’ global warming.”
As he delivered this suggestion, somewhere deep within him he felt another strange urge: like some barbarian call from the distant past, a sudden warlike passion gripped him, and, in back of his momentarily blinking eyelids, a small part of his brain entertained the vision of some ancient orgy in a meadhall, with hirsute warriors writhing over one another’s colossal bodies. Instantly his cock jumped, growing another inch—far longer than he ever remembered it. He wanted that kind of pleasure, and, in response, he felt strands of thick, black hair bristling around his shaft and balls, brushing against the silk lining of his crisp suit trousers.
He swore he could hear one of the directors muttering some snide remark about steroids, but he pressed on:
“This one’s a tricky strategy, since most of those so-called ‘scientists’ have ‘evidence’ that global warming exists.” Beneath his sharp suit and tie, the masculine fur began spreading in both directions: down his thighs (which were swelling, straining against his trousers), down his calves (which now burst one of his sock garters open), and down to his sheer-socked feet, where the dark hairs protruded visibly against the elegant silk hosiery, bristling over the tongues of his tan Testoni tassel loafers; and likewise in a dense treasure trail up his abs (which were starting to firm up like cobblestones), across his pectorals (which were starting to stretch his dress shirt behind his tie), around his deltoids and down to his forearms (whose thickening wrists no longer fit in his monogrammed French cuffs). Beneath the sky blue fabric of his custom shirt he could even feel the barbarian hair sprouting up along his bulging trapezius muscles, wrapping itself in a carpet all along his back—his latissimi and deltoids, both as firm as marble—and even starting to stick out of his ever-tightening collar.
“But if we continue treating it like it’s something people have to ‘believe’ in—emphasize that it’s a ‘theory,’ even though we don’t use that word in its scientific sense—we’ll continue debunking it.” Unprotected by the undershirt, the thin sky blue fabric of his dress shirt soaked up his perspiration, growing translucent: tightly stretched over his growing pectorals, the shirt did practically nothing to conceal his thickening carpet of virility. Coarse black curls of chestfur coiled themselves behind the sweat-drenched Egyptian cotton, and were starting to bristle out behind his power tie as his chest stretched the buttons of his custom-tailored shirt to the breaking point.
A part of him wondered why on earth he felt so strange and so incredibly turned on, as though he could plow any man—yes, man—he wanted. He wasn’t supposed to like men. Real men marry women, after all. Didn’t want anything to do with those liberal perverts and faggots.
But he urged himself not to be distracted. Droplets of sweat were trickling down the harsh black stubble on his cheeks now. Stretched tight by his flaring latissimi, the back of his shirt clung to the lining of his waistcoat, beginning instantly to soak the white satin with his rank mansweat. His Spanish Leather cologne was already withering away, the woody, leathery notes maturing into the aroma of boot leather, and the spicy overtones growing into a tobacco-like sweetness, like fine cigars. Both scents mingled with the ripe, rank odor of his testosterone and the sweat rolling down his body, forming a unique musk that could overwhelm any deodorant. “Third: any budget report that comes along claiming that a Republican House bill will raise the budget should be dismissed as ‘opinion.’”
“People love it when those Washington eggheads get put in their place.” Another chuckle from the unseen directors, though uneasy remarks were circulating, one of which Glenn could hear pretty clearly: “Did he wear a sweater under that suit?”
Meanwhile, his cock and balls were still engorging: the tight cock ring his boxers had become squeezed, causing his sacks to swell to the size of avocados while his phallus continued to rise. Seven inches, and now eight—his monstrous dick left a long streak of precum on the silk lining, soaking all the way through the tan glen plaid wool as it snaked up the front of his trousers, threatening to peek above his waistband in full view. A steady stream of hot precum was oozing down his shaft and testes, dripping freely between his thighs.
Just relax, he told himself. He was so grateful that this podium covered up all that messy business below the waist. And why wasn’t his erection dying down? Usually when he spoke of politics he could kill any hard-on.
“And finally: we might’ve lost on Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, and we’ve still got Prop. 8 in the Supreme Court.” It was getting difficult to enunciate his words: his jaw seemed to be changing shape, growing into a rigid, powerful square jaw that made his rough stubble seem very studly. More curls of his black manfur were protruding from his tight collar as the dark hairs crept up the sides of his neck, joining with his stubble to form a continuous carpet from his chest to his lips. He didn’t know it, but he looked like a hairy northern barbarian stuffed into a three-piece suit that must have been tailored for a scrawny teenager.
“So my final suggestion . . .” As his chin broadened into a handsome cleft, his voice descended from a tenor to a baritone mid-sentence—it sounded almost as though he was losing conviction in his words. He gestured oratorically to the directors, noticing out of the corner of his eye the way his triceps, deltoids, and biceps could all be seen bulging through the tan glen plaid wool of his suit sleeve, causing the crisp fabric to wrinkle around the contours of his swelling muscles. “ . . . is this: If the Supreme Court declares Prop. 8 unconstitutional, blame it on the bias of the liberal judges.”
The directors murmured, startled by Glenn’s suddenly rumbling, deep voice. One muttered something about a “second puberty.”
“Then rake through the newsfeeds of all of our affiliate local stations.” His voice sounded ominous: he could have been rallying a shipload of horned-helmeted barbarians to sack a Medieval village. And this effect wasn’t helped by the fact that his top shirt button popped off, bouncing clear across the boardroom table, which drew even more whispers from the directors.
Uninhibited by the collar of his shirt, his neck and trapezius muscles exploded, stretching his shoulder seams audibly: the narrow end of his antique power tie slid up through the knot, the luxurious double-windsor tilting askew as his custom shirt collar spread open behind it, letting tufts of his chestfur bristle around the antique silk like some sort of obscene, virile boutonniere.
Whatever was happening to him, he couldn’t let them be distracted. He emphasized this last part by pounding his fist—now the size of a boxing glove—on the podium: “And find every last story we can about homosexual pedophiles, male-to-male rape, drug addiction at gay clubs, straight men feeling insecure—everything we can to show—”
He had no idea his fist could dent mahogany so easily. He could feel more of the pins-and-needles vibrating, this time against one of his forearms and one of his calves and ankles. If he’d looked down just then, he would see the lines of a Nordic fire snake being tattooed down his colossal calf, around his ankle, and across the top of his foot. Along with his coarse black leg hair and the hairs atop his feet, this all was quite visible beneath his navy silk socks, which were even sheerer than usual now that they were stretched to their capacity.
“—how bad it is—”
His Testoni loafers were a 9 standard, but they felt unusually tight, as though his hairy feet were ready to burst out of them at any moment. The soft calfskin leather was stretching around his toes and heels, and he wanted desperately to slip them off to air out his sweaty feet. And, much to his dismay, he felt his warm precum drizzling between his legs, streaks of it soaking into his tightening suit trousers, dripping all over the fine tan Italian leather of his Testonis.
“—that Obama—“
He was so happy to be near the end of his speech now. His three-piece suit, straining at the seams, was so heavy with perspiration: his mansweat had drenched his custom shirt, wicked its way through the satin lining of his waistcoat and elegant jacket, and was busy soaking the underarms and back of his suit jacket, blotting the tan glen plaid wool with large wet spots. His Spanish Leather cologne was practically gone now, and in its place was the heady musk of sweaty leather, ripe pits, old cigars, pure testosterone and spunk. Erotic pheromones seemed to be just wafting off him, stifling the nostrils of some of the directors—but not all.
He was also thankful that he was wearing his braces instead of a belt. His cock head was poking fully out of his trousers now, concealed only by the podium. At ten throbbing, veiny inches, its mushroom head, as large as a tennis ball, would have otherwise drooled its precum in full view. The juice oozed in a steady stream down a shaft as big around as a beer bottle. Glenn hoped that his waistcoat would be able to cover it when he was done. Now the size of mangos, his balls bulged painfully against the silk lining of his trousers, threatening to break out at any moment.
“—let the perverts win.”
As the directors broke into tepid applause, Glenn’s square, unshaven chin now broke into a smile, more of relief than of triumph. It was a good thing that the applause was just loud enough, too: all at once, the back of one of his suit’s shoulders split, revealing his straining blue custom shirt underneath; the third and fourth buttons of his shirt popped off along with the top two buttons of his waistcoat, ricocheting off the podium as the ridge along the bottom of his beastly pectorals pushed the sweaty sky-blue shirt apart, glossy black chesthair dripping on each side of his tie; and held up now by his remaining sock garter, one of his sheer silk socks split wide open, letting his thick leghair bristle through as the Nordic serpent tattoo on his calf peeked into view.
“Thank you.”
Finished with his speech, Glenn looked down at his outfit, and immediately felt a wave of humiliation break over him. He could see the edge of his broken sock garter dangling next to his Testoni loafer, and both of the elegant tan Italian shoes were soaked in streaks of precum. Pretending to gather his papers behind the podium, he desperately tried to tuck his cock behind a fold of his sweat-drenched dress shirt, collecting a few of the buttons that had popped off his garments before heading back to his seat. He held his portfolio conspicuously in front of his cock, hoping to hide the bulge of his testicles.
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