Managing the Manager

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An image from an old video from a well-known pornographic website.

Suit vs. Leather | Submission | Striptease

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​I based this one off conversations with a follower who relishes the idea of starting off fully suited, then being stripped in public down to his boxers, socks, sock garters, and undershirt. For this follower, it was the juxtaposition of being in underwear, yet still technically being clothed—just barely—in public. Usually I'm in the "no undershirts, no underwear" crowd. I enjoy seeing a guy's chest, neck, and shoulders slowly revealed beneath his dress shirt. But here the undershirts and underwear take centerstage.

Other elements added themselves along the way: bondage, suits & ties in grungy settings where they don't belong, power play, submission, stripping, and finally destroying the corporate uniform altogether. A rite of passage, and transformation. Enjoy.

In control, thought Richard, as he fastened the mother-of-pearl buttons of his dress shirt over his undershirt. Finally in control, now that the divorce was done. He was in control of his own home now, just as he was in control at his job. He shrugged on one of his best suits, one of many: he was one of the only guys at work who still showed up in a suit and tie every day, casual Friday be damned. His attire said “control,” executive, a decision-maker. A regional bank manager. That was what he liked, being in control.

He looped the fine scarlet tie around his neck, knotting it into a double windsor. Sevenfold silk, one of his power ties, this was the one he wore two weeks ago for that interview, when he was up for promotion. Of course, he found out last week that the position went to some young, cocky hot shot fresh out of his MBA program, the sort of guy who could barely tie a decent four-in-hand. Didn’t anybody teach these MBA kids how to dress the part?

But no matter. In control, still in control—that was what he kept telling himself. Still important and relevant, still making decisions that mattered. He was embarking on a new stage in his life. Now that he was single again, he could make it to the gym four days a week instead of his usual three. Hell, he might bump it up to five or six. That’s what his personal trainer kept telling him: train more, gain more. He would soon have to get his wardrobe altered to fit his new physique. He was a new man.

Except at work, at his same old desk. Things didn’t feel new here. No promotion. Same regional manager office as before, same coffee, same accounting, same corporate scripts recited to clients by the hour. Credit lines and refinancing, certificates of deposit and savings accounts. For years, this routine felt comforting, knowing that on his non-gym days he’d be the one to get home first and do the meal prepping for his wife.

It was the routine that did it, the divorce. The daily grind left them no time for one another. Neither of them met the needs of the other. And now, in the months since the legal proceedings had concluded—in the weeks since being passed over for that promotion—a new routine took place. After work each day, he’d trace a path between the bank and the gym, change out of his suit and into his gym clothes, work out, head home and hit the hay early for a new start. Not much time for Netflix or mindless things.

Not much time for art, either. That was what he told himself when he noticed a new gallery opening on one of the blocks between the bank and the gym, a gallery right next to a sleazy-looking bar where guys in black leather gear always hung out. Richard passed by the gallery one day, and saw someone installing paintings in the front window. His gleaming burgundy laceups clicked the pavement a little more slowly. He found himself slowing down, his head swiveling to get a closer view of the painting in the window: it showed a bare, muscular chest with what looked like a black leather belt strapped over one musclebound shoulder. And the fellow who positioned the painting in the display seemed every bit as well-built as the painting’s subject: a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested bulldog of a fellow in jeans and a snug, white undershirt.

The man turned to look at Richard through the window. His deep v-neck undershirt revealed a dusting of silvery chest fur beneath a black leather collar. Busy in his task, the man tipped his black leather cap, winked, and returned back to his gallery.

*

Another month passed. Richard had to keep quiet about the stupid young hot-shot who would send him poorly-worded emails in a passive-aggressive tone, the kinds of questions that a person asked when they didn’t want to admit that they had no idea what they were doing. Richard’s visits to the gym had grown more frequent, where the freeweights would take the brunt of his frustrations, and he always made a point of passing by that gallery, whose paintings began to multiply. More suggestive images of musclebound men, always in straps of black leather. Richard began to imagine that these were the sorts of guys who frequented that bar next door. He also began to imagine that, beneath their epauleted leather jackets and buckled biking boots, those guys might have looked like the brawny figures in these paintings.

Richard, too, reflected on the way his body was starting to look, thanks to his more aggressive gym program. Biceps filling out the sleeves of his undershirt, firm, rectangular pectorals bulging beneath the clingy white fabric. He had to admit he found it really hot how his own nipples tented the white shirt, and even showed through his dress shirt once he slipped that on. His muscles were growing enough that even his suit couldn’t quite conceal his physique. Maybe he should get this suit tailored?

Or maybe not. Not yet. He wanted that stupid hotshot to see these biceps through his suit jacket. The iridescent mother-of-pearl buttons of his fine shirt found their way shut, high quality just like his v-neck undershirt. Cool white cotton over cool white cotton, a fortress over his body, double-layered. The third layer was his suit: navy pinstripes, two piece, feeling just a tad snug over his sculpted shoulders. Beneath the luxurious lining of the jacket, his custom French cuff shirt felt crisp beneath the hefty, double-windsored silk blade of his red tie, his weighty cufflinks, his grosgrain braces and gleaming oxblood laceups, his crisp white pocket square and conservative socks. Everything about his attire said he was a decision-maker, in control: even his silver hair, coiffed in a disciplined sidepart, and the carefully-mown stubble of his beard. Every detail of his outfit in place. He didn’t mention his sock garters or his polka-dotted boxers, of course. Nobody was going to see those today.

The bank just didn’t measure up to the executive image Richard wanted to project, though. The dumbass hot-shot continued asking Richard questions that his fancy MBA should have answered. And all the while, Richard found his brain wandering back to that gallery, with its burly owner, next to that bar with the leather-clad men who would eye him up and down each time he strode by in his fine suits.

Second by second, minute-by-minute, the afternoon dwindled down to 5:00. Richard packed his suitcase and gym bag, and began his favorite part of the day. Stress relief. Yes, stress relief, thought Richard, as he counted the blocks down to that halfway point. Perhaps it was inspiration, those paintings of musclebound, leather-clad men which he now looked forward to seeing in the gallery windows. Today, the canvases exhibited their familiar specimens of maleness, each muscular curve rendered in a prismatic swish of paint that suggested sweat.

Music pulsed from the bar next door. As Richard strolled by—a little more slowly today than usual—one of the leathermen out front caught his eye: the guy who was setting up the gallery a month or two ago. A bulldog of a fellow. Broad shouldered, barrel chested, medium height, thick build. A full mane of whiskers bristled above the deep v-neck of what looked like a white undershirt, filled with a beer gut. Over this he wore beneath a black leather jacket with a pair of cigars stuffed in the breast pocket, along with jeans, gloves, boots, and one of those leather caps that a lot of the other guys were sporting here. Sharp cowboy boots gleamed from beneath the cuffs of his jeans.

The man noticed Richard, winked, and tipped his cap with his gloved hand.

Richard took a few more steps, then stopped. He thought about how he’d done six gym days in a row already. Maybe he should reward himself with a drink? Richard eyed the bar. Trails of cigar smoke swirled from the door. Classic rock rattled the windowpanes. But the mixture of guys—both younger guys and older—perhaps he wouldn’t stick out so much? He was certainly the only guy wearing a suit and tie here. But what the hell, thought Richard. What were they going to do, throw him out? It wasn’t like this place had a dress code or something. Yet his nerves twinged with embarrassment as his polished lace-up oxfords carried him past the threshold, and into the leathery-thick air of the bar.

Trying not to bump into anyone with his gym bag or briefcase, Richard wove his way up to the bar. The bartender pulled up a glass and began filling it with water.

“What can I get you, Dapper Dan?”

Richard glanced at the taps, making a quick decision. “That’s the seasonal stout, isn’t it? I’ll have one of those.”

“Sure thing,” nodded the bartender.

As Richard waited, he surveyed his surroundings. Maybe there was a dress code in this place after all: everybody was in leather and denim, some combination. And it always seemed like the older guys, too, who wore those black leather caps with their gleaming bills, just like the rugged bulldog guy who had caught his attention to begin with. Richard took in the full shoulders of that guy, his barrel chest, his broad back that looked fit for riding. For some reason, this guy had both back pockets of his jeans stuffed with a gray bandana on his left side, and a gray swatch in a different material—flannel? It looked like a square from a suit catalog.

But Richard didn’t have much time to scrutinize the man’s rear. After a moment, the bulldog fellow noticed that Richard was noticing him. Turning on a heel of his cowboy boot, the man sauntered up to Richard at the bar, boots clunking on the floor.

“You’re looking mighty debonair there, fella.” Leaning on the bar, the leathered bulldog-man gestured to Richard’s attire with a gloved hand. “That suit is impeccable. Fits you perfectly. Is that Brooks Brothers?”

“Huh. Why yes, it is.” answered Richard, taking an initial sip of his stout.. “How’d you guess?”

“I used to work for a corporate consulting firm. Back before I retired, and opened up an art studio in the neighborhood. Back then, it was all Gordon Gekko all the time.”

Why was Richard thirsting to imagine this thick, bearded man filling out a suit? In his fine wool trousers, buried beneath his boxers, Richard’s cock twitched to life. A certain gleam in this man’s eye seemed to be saying more than words could convey.

“But where are my manners? My name’s Mike.” He extended his hand, black leather gleaming around his knuckles.

With a nod, Richard shook Mike’s hand. Through the man’s glove, Mike had a firm handshake, the kind Richard would expect from a boardroom, a merger. Merging. Coming together, two corporate bodies. “Richard. Good to meet you.”

“Mind if I join you? You seem a little out of place here.”

“I—uh—I was just going to stay here for a drink.” Richard resisted the urge to tug at his collar, where his tie bit into his neck like a leash. Instead, he knotted his knuckles around his pint glass. “I don’t plan on sticking around for very long.”

“Of course,” said Mike. His voice seemed silken, dignified, the voice of an executive at a corporate function—a far remove from a denimed, leathered guy swigging a beer at a dumpy bar like this. “I just wanted to chat for a little bit. Don’t want to keep you longer here than you would like.”

And so the conversation moved on. Ordering a bourbon for himself and one for Richard, Mike went on about how he always appreciated a guy in a suit, and how he once got a custom Brioni three-piece suit. He pulled out his phone and showed Richard: sure enough, the tailored corporate armor fit his stocky build like a glove. (And for some reason he wore gloves and fine boots with that suit, too, much like the ones he was wearing now.) (Why did Richard find himself intrigued by those gloves?) Richard mentioned that he thought once or twice about getting gloves like that, but it never gets cold enough down here for them.

“Oh no,” remarked Mike, flexing his knuckles in the lustrous leather. “Never does. That’s why I wear them more for the aesthetic. Calfskin, luxury. Kind of like the Italian suited guys would wear, riding their Vespas. I guess I was born on the wrong side of the Atlantic. Mind if I feel the fabric of that suit of yours? It looks amazing, like I said.”

“Uh, sure.” Richard responded with a bashful chuckle. “Why not?”

Taking a sip of his bourbon, Mike leaned forward, stroking the lapel of Richard’s suit, nodding. He planted one of his boots on the rung of Richard’s bar stool, a small assertion into Richard’s space, rugged leather contrasting with the fine cordovan Richard wore. “Nice, man. Super 120s?”

“I think so,” nodded Richard. Why did he really want Mike to rest his hand there? And why wasn’t Mike withdrawing his hand yet? Richard’s laceups nudged Mike’s boot. “Part of their 1818 line, I think.”

“Really nice,” said Mike, rubbing the lapel, passing his knuckle further down, lingering. Wool rustled against fine leather. He made eye contact with Richard.

Why was Richard’s cock thrumming? Why was he drinking in the scent of this guy? Leather and denim, a splash of musky cologne, maybe a hint of cigar. Richard’s cock stirred, shaft growing firm in his boxers.

“That’s an awfully fancy watch you’ve got there,” said Mike, pivoting the conversation. He leaned back, spreading his knees, revealing a spot where his jeans left nothing to the imagination.

“Thank you,” crisply responded Richard, his own cock tensing in response.

“But you know, it is after hours,” added Mike. “You’ve got nowhere to be right now, right?”

“I mean, uh,” Richard stumbled over a few words. His gym bag looked ridiculous on the floor next to his briefcase. Wasn’t he going to have to get back home early to make it to work tomorrow? Or maybe he could wait. He didn’t have to get home right away. He found himself fidgeting with his watch, cufflinks clinking the polished surface of the bar. “All I have for tonight was dinner, you know. Planned at home.”

“You can eat out for a night.” Mike patted the cigars in the pocket of his leather vest. “They’ve got great sandwiches here. Live a little.”

“Yes sir—I mean—” Why did Richard catch himself wanting to call this man “sir?” Maybe it was just politeness. “That, uh, that sounds like a great idea.”

Unfastening the watch from his wrist—a black leather band, of course—Mike slapped his watch on the countertop, face down. “There we go. See? We’ve got nowhere else to be right now.”

“Huh. You know?” Richard unbuckled his watch, its heavy sterling silver links gleaming in the smoky light. He placed his watch on the bar beside Mike’s. “That sounds like a good idea.”

With a grand laugh, Mike gestured wide. “There you go. Already feeling more at home here, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I guess so,” remarked Richard, surprised despite himself.

They ate. Richard asked about Mike’s gallery, and Mike showed him a few pictures on his phone. “I take a lot of inspiration from Tom of Finland,” said Mike. “Tom of—who?” “Oh, son, you’re in for a treat.” A quick search on Mike’s phone revealed pictures that made Richard’s eyes boggle behind his glasses. They were—fascinating, beautiful—at first, some of the same pictures that Richard recognized from the front window of Mike’s gallery: ambient details, close-up studies of the musculature and anatomy. But then Mike progressed to some of the ones that must have been in back of the gallery, away from public view. Utterly filthy—mustachioed, square-jawed men. Most in leather, just like Mike. As the peep show progressed, more and more of Mike’s paintings featured a leatherman with—curious, hmm—guys in suits. Always at least one guy in a suit, in each of Mike’s paintings, though sometimes these guys wore only the remnants of suits, torn in places, with the suitman bound to a chair, trousers and boxers torn wide, cock at full mast.

Gritty. Smutty. Yet Richard couldn’t look away. “Can I take a closer look at those?”

“Of course,” said Mike. “I think I can send them to you using this air drop thingie. Hold on.”

He transferred the pictures—and, soon enough, the two men had exchanged numbers—and Richard finished his meal, thumbing through Mike’s gallery. Even from the screen of his phone, every image struck a nerve in Richard. And all those nerves, hard-wired, led directly to Richard’s—

“Those are some really nice cufflinks you’ve got there,” said Mike, planting his boot between Richard’s elegantly shod feet once more. “Enamel?”

“Why yes.”

“Mind if I take a closer look?” Mike’s knuckles creaked in the leather of his gloves.

Maybe it was the pleasant buzz of whiskey and beer, but Richard shrugged. “Sure,” he said, continuing to scroll through the pictures Mike sent him. “Why not?”

Handling Richard’s French cuffs with care, Mike took a close look, nodded. “Really nice.”

Another set of pictures came through, loading on Richard’s phone. This one was a series, starting with the leatherman and the suitman. Each painting featured the men in the same posture: in the first, both were fully clothed. In the second, the leatherman held the suitman’s tie, and the suitman’s collar was open. In the third, the suitman’s shirt was ripped wide open, revealing his snug white undershirt, with the leatherman smirking nearby, binding the suitman’s wrists with his stolen tie.

Mike’s gloved fingers worked fast, undoing one of Richard’s cufflinks, then the other, slipping each fine piece through the four holes of Richard’s cuffs. “The enamel is really detailed. Love the design. I’m a very visual person, as you can see,” explained Mike as he laid each of Richard’s cufflinks there on the countertop.

But Richard gave no response. It was all he could do to keep his jaw from falling on the floor, as the fourth picture revealed the suitman with his wrists bound, and the fifth—shirt and jacket hanging from him in tatters, with one sleeve of his undershirt missing, like perverse paper dolls, each painting stripping an article from its suited subject. The sixth showed the v-neck undershirt ripped deeper, trousers torn along the inner thigh, revealing the businessman’s full cock head protruding through. The firm, warm spot in Richard’s boxers now grew—moist, slick, cock pulsing, begging—as Richard tugged his collar. Only then did it register that his shirt cuffs were both undone, loose French cuffs sliding around his wrists.

“You’re looking a bit more relaxed now,” observed Mike, resting a gloved hand in his lap, where a mighty bulge tugged his jeans. “And that’s an awfully nice tie bar you’ve got there.”

“Thank you,” stammered Richard, closing his phone, running a finger around his collar. “Those paintings were—um—excellent. You’re very talented.”

“Thanks, bud,” said Mike, unclasping Richard’s tie bar, admiring it—without asking this time—in his gloved fingers before setting it next to Richard’s cufflinks. “You really do know how to dress, young man.”

Young man. Something about the way Mike intoned those words made Richard’s cock drool and throb. Desperate. Wasn’t this just what Richard needed? Why did Richard suddenly feel like he needed it? But Richard had never asked for any of this. Yet he found himself desperate to hear Mike say those words again. “Thank you sir.”

A smirk developed under Mike’s beard, as his gloved knuckles returned to Richard’s lapel, brushing the fine wool up and down. “You know, maybe you should relax a little more. Mind if I help you off with that jacket?”

“Yes sir,” came Richard’s response, his tongue relaxing against his lips, lubed with the pleasant buzz of alcohol. Not drunk, not quite, but just enough so that everything seemed like a good idea. This bar—gritty as it was—this bar was a good idea, thought Richard, as he leaned forward, letting Mike step behind his chair and lay his gloved hands on Richard’s jacket. Relaxing, thought Richard, the way Mike’s gloved palms rested on his chest, massaging the lapels, before each of Mike’s leathered fingers folded around the lapels and began to peel the jacket off, slowly, much more slowly than necessary. Something about it—maybe it was catching a closer whiff of Mike’s scent, now that Mike almost had his arms circled around the banker—something about it felt very, very relaxing indeed.

“Relax,” intoned Mike, slipping the jacket off one of Richard’s shoulders. A deep, butterly voice. A lubricating voice, easing the way. “You’ve been waiting to relax, haven’t you?”

“Sir yes sir,” responded Richard. He had no idea why he wanted to say that in a military tone like that, but somehow it sounded right. Leather was kind of like a military uniform, wasn’t it? And there were some other leathermen starting to gather around the bar, watching, sipping their drinks, emitting rings of fragrant cigar smoke into the air, letting tendrils of the aromatic smoke roll off their tongues. Circling like sleek sharks.

Richard’s jacket came off, and, as Mike folded the garment and laid it on the bar, Richard became aware that his French cuffs flapped useless around his wrists, unbound by cufflinks. So he started to roll one of his sleeves.

“Damn, son, braces too?” Mike laughed. “You really are one of those Gordon Gekko kind of boys. You look great. I love the grosgrain.” Mike passed his gloved thumb under Richard’s braces, up and down, soft leather against textured silk. “Maybe you should relax some more.”

“Yeah,” slurred Richard, leaning back in his chair as he felt Mike’s gloves squeeze his shoulders, then relax, then squeeze again. Each contraction gathered tension, and each release released, relaxed, reverberated straight down to Richard’s cock, which now protruded firm and throbbing, pitching a pinstripe tent in his trousers, with no suit jacket to hide the flagrant bulge.

“Let someone else take control for a little while,” added Mike.

Richard nodded. “I . . . I like being in control.”

“Yes, don’t we all?” chuckled Mike. “But, like I said, it’s just for a little bit.”

“Just . . . just for a little bit,” murmured Richard.

Mike massaged Richard’s shoulders, twanging one of Richard’s braces right against his shirt. “You want me to take matters into my own hands, don’t you boy?”

“Sir yes sir,” whispered Richard, before even thinking about what that might mean. But whatever it was, he wanted it. He wanted to imagine that he looked like—no, it couldn’t be?—maybe like one of the subjects in Mike’s paintings?

“Yes sir, please,” whispered Richard again, closing his eyes. As he leaned back, he felt his glasses tilt on his nose, but made no bother to adjust them. All he wanted was to feel Mike’s whiskered lips right against his neck, just like that. “I—I don’t know what’s gotten into me, sir.”

“You sound like you have a very stressful job, young man,” replied Mike, deepening his massage. “Maybe you should relax every now and then, take a load off.”

“Maybe not get so tied up at the office,” remarked one of the leathermen onlookers.

Another leatherman chimed in: “Yeah. Maybe get tied up at the bar instead?”

Richard could picture it, burned into his retina: one of Mike’s paintings, his memory fixated on the suitman with his wrists bound. “Yeah, me getting tied up,” mumbled Richard. “Tying me up. Tie me up.”

“What’s that?” Mike rummaged beneath Richard’s braces, gloved fingers starting to grip Richard’s shirt. “You want me to have my way with you, is that it?”

“Yes. Yes sir. Whatever you want, sir.” It was so easy, the way the words slipped out. He controlled that, didn’t he? Those words? But something about the words terrified him. Scared him shitless. What the fuck was he thinking? Tie me up? Why was he saying that? Yet why did it feel so right, so fucking right? Fuck. The word “fuck” reverberated through Richard’s psyche. Fuck. Fuck me. Tie me up and fuck me. His cock ached in response to his thoughts. “I—I want to look like one of your paintings, sir.”

A pause. Whiskers tickling Richard’s ear, Mike let his voice dip into a lustful rumble. “With your fancy suit ripped up and everything?”

Richard nodded, opening his eyes. Control. losing control. His glasses were canted at an unfocused angle. “Yes. Yes sir. Fuck. Please. I need it. Fuck. Fuck.”

Richard felt something warm and wet against his earlobe, felt Mike’s hot breath against his neck as Mike traced his tongue along, then licked his lips. “Fuck yeah. I love the way you say ‘fuck,’ boy. Fuckboy. You’ll be the fuckboy of this whole bar, right men?”

A cheer from the dozen or so leatherman who had gathered around. Some of them had their jeans unzipped already. One of them reached behind the bar and produced a length of rope, creaking it between his gloved hands as he handed it to Mike.

“Bankerboy,” purred Mike, grabbing Richard’s wrists and plying the rope around his forearms. “You’re going to be this evening’s after dinner entertainment, fuckboy.”

“Aw fffff—” Richard arched his hips forward, where, horny and raging, his cock shoved itself against his pinstripe trousers. But all he could do was sputter the letter “ffffff” as another length of cloth came around his face, this one smelling of stale beer, mildewy and sleazy. A dish towel repurposed as a gag, which he felt one of the other leathermen knotting behind the back of his head, while Mike finished entwining Richard’s arms in the rough rope, both elbows slung over the back of the chair. His legs hung free to struggle, but doing so would have tipped over the barstool on which Richard now found himself perched and bound. And his feet didn’t enjoy their freedom long, as he felt another leatherman’s hands undo his shoe laces, tugging the loops out of their eyelets one by one, and wrapping the laces around one of the barstool legs, securing his ankle there. The sweaty leather tongue of his shoe relaxed against the top of his socked foot while that third leatherman set to work unlacing and binding his other foot, where his socks had been marinating in his damp sweat under his desk all day.

Fuck—wasn’t he a regional manager at his bank branch office just a few hours ago, working at his desk, perfectly in control? How the fuck did he end up like this—just like this—just like he wanted. He wanted this? Why, how, how had he not known? Fuck. Why did he want Mike to wrench his wrists tighter like that? Why did he feel this secret thrill of being the only suitman in a bar of leather studs, all horny, waiting to watch him get—stripped, ripped, his corporate finery peeled away stitch by expensive stitch—fuck, the tantalizing images flooded his brain, his eyes darting about frantically above his gag as he made some muffled plea—a plea for more, a plea for release—release not from these physical bonds, but a release from whatever held him back inside his head—whatever strange new, terrifying, exciting, lustful thing it was that he noticed in Mike’s paintings just a few moments ago. Awakening. Through the slanted angle of his glasses, half his field of vision out of focus, Richard could make out Mike producing a long, gleaming shape from behind the bar. As Mike's hand passed through the rectangle of Mike's lenses, it came into focus: a pair of scissors.

"You know, as nice as those braces are, I imagine they're just a pain to wear on your shoulders. So much tension." Mike's leathered knuckles creaked as he held the handles in one hand, and slapped the shut blades in his other palm, smirking at the threatening smack of metal on leather. "What do you say I make you a bit more comfortable, hm? Would that work for you, bankerboy?"

Incapable of speech now, Richard muffled out some noise that sounded like a question, then, when he felt the cold metal blade resting against the fine herringbone cotton of his custom shirt, his tone escalated to a squeal. An exclamation point, incredulity. Terror? Pleasure? He wasn't even sure anymore.

"Attaboy." Mike slid the blades right between one strap of Richard's braces, and, with a deft squeeze, snapped one brace—a release of tension, the band of silk no longer so tight around his chest and shoulder—and then severed the other brace, strips of fine silk tumbling useless into his lap. Mike nodded, satisfied with his work, as he squeezed Richard's shoulders—so fucking amazing, this man's gloved hands massaging his shoulders—coupled with that amazing release—amazing? amazing? what the fuck? These braces were over $150. Fuck! Did Richard just let this stranger fucking destroy—fuck!—Richard's breaths quickened at the delayed realization, as he sputtered more muffled protests into the boozy folds of his bar towel gag. Yet despite his words his cock revealed exactly how he felt, pinned down against his thigh, snaking its way just past the hem of his boxers, his bare cock head drooling against his pinstripe trousers—his cock gave it all away, how, under the strangeness and terror of not being in control, the heaving of his breaths revealed his excitement.

"Mmm, yes. That's much better, isn't it?" Mike set the scissors on the bar, right alongside Richards watch, cufflinks, and tie bar. Shoving the severed remains of Richard's braces off his shoulders, Mike passed his gloved hands from Richard's shoulders to his chest, pushing and massaging, grabbing more and more aggressive handfuls of the fine shirt fabric with each pass, starting to untuck Richard’s shirt from his trousers, growling, the heavy warm weight of his palms pressing against Richard's still-clothed pectorals. "Now, we're just getting started, bankerboy. You said this is what you wanted, but I think you might be a first-timer at this. A . . . virgin."

A few chuckles from the leathermen gathered around. Richard sputtered some indignant response, but his cock still remained full and stiff.

"Yeah, I can see you like that. Being talked down to. Being put in your place." Passing his gloved hand down to Richard's thigh, Mike squeezed—Richard squirmed, arching his hips up, thrashing his ankles against the chair, squealing and moaning—pleasure and ecstacy—fear giving away for just a moment, to give him a glimpse of what strange new pleasures awaited him—as Mike massaged Richard's cock through his pinstripe trousers, Richard's socked heel slipped out of his unlaced shoe. It dimly dawned on Richard that thrusting his hips like that made his clothed cock rub against Mike's gloved fingers all the more, friction, tingling. That, too, was a glimpse of things to come.

With a smirk, Mike continued: "You've signed up for a wild ride, bankerboy. But all you have to do is trust me. It'll all be okay. My men here aren't going to hurt you, right?"

A cheer of affirmation from the crowd.

"You hear that?" said Mike. Richard squirmed some more, tossing his head back with abandon, one side of his glasses falling off his ear. Mike planted a guiding hand on the back of Richard's head, tilting him back upright, perching his glasses just on the end of his nose. "It'll all be okay."

Mike stared into Richard's eyes, his pupils sharp and focused through the rectangular lenses. Richard steadied his breath, his cock still throbbing and begging for release. A tense pause, a nonverbal communication between the two men. It was all going to be okay. But it was going to be a wild ride. One of Richard's shoes clattered to the floor next to Mike’s boot, leaving his socked sole tantalizing, bare, vulnerable, the remaining shoe hanging barely on the ball of his socked foot, gleaming with polish. One last gasp of sartorial dignity, amidst all of this sleaze and filth. Richard drew a deep breath, trying to calm himself, then nodded.

"Good boy. Though, I think, 'Richard' is a bit too dignified, too stuffy for this kind of setting. Don't you think?" Mike nodded, planting his firm, massaging hands back on Richard's shoulders. Some intuition—a suppressed instinct? hidden all along in the executive, managerial psyche he wielded behind his desk day after day?—something told Richard that Mike was about to make a decision for him, and Richard had an inkling that he was going to like it. "Yeah, I think so. For the rest of tonight, you're Dick. Or just boy. Or fuckboy."

"More like fucktoy," piped up one of the leathermen. More chuckles to that remark. Richard attempted to articulate some response, but all he got was the beery, spit-soaked musk of the rag around his lips. Down below, Dick's cock began to leak a visible wet spot into his pinstripe trousers.

"Yeah. That's it. Dick the fuckboy." Mike picked up the scissors from the countertop. "For now, just relax. Enjoy the ride, fuckboy." Passing one blade of the scissors under Dick's tie, Mike fondled the phallic silk with his gloved thumb, admiring the fine red shantung for what looked like one last time.

Dick's eyes grew wide. This tie—this tie was a gift from his former boss—his mentor in the business, a sign of his first step in his professional path—

"Relax, and enjoy the ride." Mike squeezed the handles of the scissors. With a delicious slice, the metal blades of the scissors bit through all seven folds of the silk blade of the tie, one blade failing against the other, as the scissors crushed every thread along the way, then, with a certain "snip" of finality, the two metal blades met in the end.

Mike barked out a triumphant laugh, plucking up the severed tie, dangling it from his gloved hands like an absurd trophy. "What better way to relax, right?"

The cheer from the leathermen now escalated to a roar. In the corner of Dick's vision, just above the shoulders of the bartender—who slid a pint over to Mike with an affirming wink—Dick noticed a mirror above the bar, where the fine silk of his tie had been reduced to a stub, a frayed tassel beneath his finely dimpled knot against his neck. Feeling the cold metal of the scissors against his neck—Dick squealed a muffled protest—the blades closed again, just against his shirt collar—severing the band of silk, causing the knot to fall askew down the mother-of-pearl buttons that fastened the front of his shirt.

"There we go," mused Mike, as he rested the closed scissors on his bearded chin. A pensive posture, the way an artist would linger over a painting, contemplating the next stroke to place on the canvas. "Much better, don't you think?"

"I say he loses his shirt next," growled the bartender. "Fuckboy looks like he works out, after all."

"True," answered Mike, taking a slug of his beer. Setting the scissors on the bar, he placed his leathered palms on each side of Dick's chest. "Our fuckboy must be hitting the gym hard, after that hard 9 to 5 job of his."

The musk of it, the aroma of leather tingling in Dick's nostrils—he moaned through his gag, thrashing his hips against his seat—as though offering his cock to his captor—

Mike tightened his grip, knuckles gathering the silky white shirt fabric, folds of Dick's shirt untucking from his trousers. But Mike paused there, letting the tension linger.

Dick met Mike's eyes, heart pounding at his chest, where one of Dick's shirt buttons buckled, drawn taught against the bottom of the v of his undershirt. Again, the reassurance from Mike: it's all going to be okay.

Mike crumpled another fold of Dick's shirt in his gloved fingers. His eyebrows rose suggestively as though to say, ready? Down below, that button complained.

Fuck. This pause. Why didn't Mike just do it already? Fuck. Fucccck. Dick thrashed a moment longer, before growing still. Fuck. He wanted it so badly. But the fear of it washed through his veins like ice. Fuck. Being stripped of his fine custom shirt here in front of these leathermen pervs—in front of everybody—fffff—why was his cock raging, begging for it, when every neuron in his brain told him this was a terrible idea, ruining this $200 shirt just for—

Gulping in his gag, Dick nodded. He grunted something that sounded like a plea.

Beefy arms tensing in his leather jacket, Mike broke into an aggressive smirk beneath his mustache. One tug was all it took—the third button gave first—the threatening pop of stitches giving lose—giving up—fffffuccc—Dick's cock leaked like a faucet into his suit trousers down below as he felt it—the second and fourth shirt buttons flying loose, fabric ripping from the fine Egyptian cotton placket as the fifth button ricocheted off the bar—shirt tails slipping out—as the sixth button gave up the ghost.

"Mmmmmmph!" squealed Dick, tossing his head back in pleasureful abandon, emitting a desperate moan. "Mmmmmmmmm!"

Releasing Dick's shirt for a moment, Mike thumbed some of the spots where the buttons had been, before slipping his gloved fingers around Mike's collar, where his severed tie still hung at a ridiculous angle—before giving his collar a final tug, wrenching it apart. Spreading Dick's shirt open—no buttons left to keep it shut, no opportunity to look decent anymore—Mike let his gloved palms roam over Dick's undershirt, passing a knuckle just under the v-neck. "Damn, boy. Someone's been doing his pushups."

Dick whimpered, hips thrusting in and out of his seat, trying desperately to rub his cock against his tight, ever-dampening trousers, trying to pleasure himself without the aid of his hands, still imprisoned in rope. Glancing in the mirror, Dick saw himself, his undershirt vulnerable to Mike's caresses, pectorals heaving through the thin, fine fabric, nipples tensing through.

"Mmm, yes," Mike nodded, still cool and collected—though a certain tremble in his breath suggested that his libido was rising, the rush of ripping Mike's fine dress shirt apart finally getting the better of him. Wrestling his black leather jacket off, Mike tossed the heavy leather garment on the counter alongside Mike's discarded suit jacket. With his undershirt accentuated by the black leather gloves, Mike left very little of his bulldog physique to Dick's imagination. The thin white undershirt stretched over Mike's pectorals and belly, burly arms swelling the sleeves.

Mike paused to swig his beer, then returned his attention to his prey. Hungrily Mike's eyes roamed over Dick's chest. "Yes, you've been waiting for someone to rip your fancy shirt off like that, haven't you fuckboy?"

Nodding, Dick emitted a whimper, still shoving his cock back and forth in his boxers, his shaft tingling with pleasure, just knowing how near Mike was, as Mike leaned in.

"I think we could do better than that," mused Mike, picking up the scissors once more. A deft snip here, followed by a snip there: two slits, one in each shoulder seam of the dress shirt.

Emitting another muffled plea, Dick squirmed in his bonds, ropes digging into his wrists. He once more grew aware of his undone French cuffs, and realized that he wouldn't be feeling them on his arms for much longer.

Planting the scissors back on the countertop, Mike made quick work of one of Dick's sleeves, then the other: poking a finger into the slit, all he had to do was force the fabric apart, ripping it from shoulder to French cuff, tearing each sleeve away, and tossing the severed fabric out to the leathermen audience, where many of them clutched the fine rags and fondled their now bare cocks.

Dick didn't have much time or breath to whimper his protests, losing himself in ecstacy as Mike leaned in and ripped the shoulders of his dress shirt, snatching away the final panels of fabric, leaving Dick now just in his undershirt, his pinstripe trousers, and dress socks. Moaning in pleasure, Dick continued to grind his cock back and forth in his still zipped-up crotch, as his remaining lace-up clattered to the floor next to Richard's boot.

Squealing once again, Dick writhed on his chair, chest heaving in his undershirt, as he realized that he was now less clothed than his captor: Mike in his jeans and undershirt, his cap and boots, and Dick in his trousers and undershirt, his socked soles vulnerable. Spreading his knees, Dick sputtered in his beery gag once more.

"Oh, I've only just begun, fuckboy." Mike's mustache curled in a cruel grin, boots creasing as he squatted before Dick's ankles. His gloved hands executed the motions more swiftly now, escalated to greater discipline by his arousal bulging in his snug jeans. Another snip of the scissors severed the inseam of one of Dick's pinstripe cuffs, followed by the other. Relaxing his knees, Dick moaned, realizing with both dread and pleasure what was going to happen next, heavy blades sinking through the rich material. No trip to the tailors could repair this damage—gathering a fold of the gabardine in each of his gloved fingers, Mike then made cuts in his trousers, one above each of his thighs, almost to Dick's pockets. Then, burly arms pulsing with strength in his undershirt, Mike tore apart the inseams of Dick's trousers, one leg and then the other, loud rips of fine seams giving up the ghost, luxurious corporate wool unzipping over Dick's firm, muscular legs, where his fine dress socks accentuated the contours of his ankles and feet.

"Hey, he's wearing those weird elastic things," observed the bartender. "The things that keep his socks up."

"Sock garters," corrected Mike, caressing one of Richard's meaty, hairy calves, passing his leather-clad palms up and down Dick's legs, thumbing and plucking each of Dick's sock garters before continuing to sever Dick's pinstripe trousers further up, ripping the fabric past his knee, then reaching the two cuts beneath each of Dick's pockets. The artist began a new rip beneath each of these, navy pinstripe wool fraying beneath his knuckles as he tore, and tore—Dick whimpering and squirming with each motion, each severed seam—Mike making his way around each of Richard's thighs, until one last snip of the scissors separated the legs of Dick's trousers from the seat, reducing his pinstripe suit to a pair of ragged shorts. A mockery of his corporate uniform, trousers now shorter than his boxers, thighs and legs and sock garters on full display.

"Shorter than daisy dukes," growled Mike, tossing the torn pinstripe pieces to his audience. Stepping around the chair—Dick moaning and thrusting his hips forward still—Mike plucked off a few more hanging threads, the ragged hem of Dick's trousers failing to cover the hem of his boxers, where Dick's cock head, red and swollen and leaking, poked into view. "I like those cute little polka dot boxers of yours, too, fuckboy. Bet you didn't think anybody would be seeing those when you put them on this morning, eh?"

Dick's cheeks burned with embarrassment. Dick couldn't hide it if he tried, his arousal, his plump cock throbbing with pleasure, plain for everyone to see, dabs of precum blotting through his polka dot boxers. Yet he wanted desperately for—yes—wanted so bad to feel Mike's gloved fingers—fuck—Dick squealed as Mike fondled the tip of his cockhead, no suiting left to protect it—Dick shoved his drooling head into Mike's fingers, sputtering in his gag, glasses slanting off the side of his nose. Mike, meanwhile, massaged Dick's firm, beefy pectorals through his v-neck undershirt for a moment, then worked his hands up to Dick's undershirt sleeves, nice and snug over his firm biceps and triceps.

"Quite the little gymrat," remarked Mike before taking up the scissors and snipping the shoulder seams on each side. "Let's show off all those bicep curls, shall we?"

"MMMMmmMMMpppphhhff!" Dick shoved his hips forward so badly that his full cockhead popped out, pinned against his nearly bare thigh by the hem of his ever tightening polka dot boxers, a few tufts of his bush hair bristling out of the still-buttoned fly of his boxers, his pinstripe trousers useless to conceal it.

"Still overdressed," mused Mike, as he thrust his gloved fingers into each new hole. The stretchier texture of Dick's undershirt made a satisfying and elastic ripping noise as Mike tore away one of Dick's undershirt sleeves, and then the other, the ruptured fabric splitting down the side of Dick's torso, one arm's muscular length revealed up to his shoulder, and the other revealed even more, past his hairy underarm, one furry nipple peeking out of the frayed cotton. The fine contours of Dick's muscles tensed, a vein or two pulsing as he struggled in his bonds, moaning at the sensation of air tickling his exposed underarms.

"Mmm. Your deodorant's wearing off, fuckboy." Lifting each of Dick's arms, Mike took a sniff of the banker-fuckboy's pits. "And you smell fuckin delicious."

Dick nodded, as though to say "thank you," spreading his knees further apart. Taking up the invitation, Mike slipped one of his scissor blades under the waistband of the rag that was left of Dick's suit trousers, where Dick's severed grosgrain braces still flopped ridiculously against his mostly bare thighs. Another firm snip, and Mike tore the remaining trousers away, Dick arching his hips upwards to allow Mike to peel the pinstripe rag out from under his seat, leaving his polka dotted boxers in plain view.

Taking another swig of his beer, Mike set his scissors on the counter, nodding. "I won't even need scissors for this part." With a growl, he leaned on Mike, gloved fingers taking each side of Mike's v-neck undershirt. Before Dick could respond—not that he had any doubt now, what was going to happen next—in an instant Mike reduced the undershirt to a pair of shreds, ripping apart the v-neck down, down, further down. Dusted with fine salt-and-pepper fur, Dick's pectorals swelled with a sharp intake of breath, his chest fur making a "t" down the canyon between his pectorals, along the bottom ridge across each nipple, and further down to a swirl around his navel, where the sides of his undershirt now hung like a slutty, torn tanktop: a once dignified undergarment now reduced to trash.

And Dick, moaning with pleasure—Dick loved it. The grunts of affirmation from the crowd of leathermen—fuck, maybe he needed to spend even more time at the gym?—beneath his panic, Dick felt a sense of pride, as Mike spread his gloved fingers over Dick's half shirtless torso, exploring his prey's firm body, gripping one side of Dick's shirt and ripping it from his shoulder. The white cotton gave way like tissue paper, one side now tumbling down to Dick's elbow, hairy pectorals rising and falling with his tense breaths, biceps bulging as he tested the bonds around his wrists once more.

"Hah!" barked the bartender, nodding. "This is one of your best pieces of work yet, Mike."

"Thank you," said Mike, finishing his beer. Caressing each of Dick's bare, hairy nipples, Mike noticed how his victim writhed with pleasure at the sensation of his gloved knuckles so close to a vulnerable area. "I ought to take a picture. Make a painting, just out of our little fuckboy here."

"I know, seriously,” remarked the bartender. “Dick the Fuckboy looks like he's a nipple fiend, too. I mean, look at how he's reacting, just to your hands like that? Maybe you could use these?" offered the bartender, as he pulled a small, chained implement from under the counter.

Dick mumbled some terrified question. It looked like a pair of alligator clips, with a fine metal chain strung between them. Somehow—were those for what he thought they would be for? Wasn't there a pair of those in one of Mike's paintings?

"I like the way you think," growled Mike as he collected the pair of clamps, pinching them in his gloved hands, nodding greedily at Dick.

Emitting an apprehensive squeal, Dick twisted in his seat, cock shaft now half bare in his boxers, socked feet thrasing in his bonds down below. But once more Dick knew that Mike was going to make a decision for him, as he felt the metal clamps touch each of his nipples. Then—before he could prepare himself—powerless to stop it—Dick felt the metal clamps pinch.

"MMMMMMMMFFFFFPPPPH!" Wailing, Dick's stubbled jaw dropped, his gag slipping further into his lips. Like they were hard-wired to his cock, electric with pleasure, his nipples twinged with pain at first, then his nerves urged and begged for it, the stimulus, aching in tempo with his pulse, his mighty rod down below leaping with excitement, shoving itself further and further out of the bottom hem of his polka-dot boxers. Thrashing his hips back and forth, rocking his chair, Dick opened his mouth so wide that there was no mistaking what word he tried to form. "FFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUHHHHHHH!"

"Fuck yeah!" barked Mike, teasing the chain between the nipple clamps. "Now we're talking. Looks like somebody's finally letting go, huh?"

Letting go. Yes. Not so in control anymore, was he? Pleading, moaning, Dick tossed his head back, glasses falling clear off his nose, clattering to the floor, bare and vulnerable pectorals rising and falling, cock shoving out of his boxers, desperate, offering itself to Mike's gloved fingers. Please, Dick tried to say through his gag, "Phhhhhhllleeeeeeez . . ."

"What's that?" Mike smirked. "Oh. Fuckboy's asking me nicely. Asking me to release him, is that right fuckboy?"

"Mmmph," responded Dick with a nod, triceps bulging as he twisted his arms in his bonds behind the tottering barstool.

"Well, I don’t think I’m quite done with you yet," replied Mike, setting his gloved knuckles on Dick's thigh—so close, so fucking close to Dick's desperate, drooling shaft—closing his fingers around the polka dotted hem of Dick's boxers, Mike chuckled, then tore Mike's underwear open. The thin cotton gave no resistance, splitting from hem to waistband, the button-fly popping open to reveal Dick's hairy balls spilling out of their sweltering confines, cock bobbing free, rearing up proud. Dick slapped his shaft into Mike's gloved fingers, and Mike, offering relief, gave his prey a nice long stroke—Mike moaning, letting his cock drool and leak into the buttery soft leather of Mike's gloved hands, the erotic comfort of Mike's leather-clad palm cupping his now bare balls as the sides of his boxers fell away from his crotch.

"Mmmm, yes. Such a big boy," mused Mike. The tremble in his voice suggested that, despite his tough act, he was impressed—excited to finally see what Dick had been packing beneath that suit and tie from the moment he set foot in this sleazy bar. "I think there’s only one place to go from here.”

Dick muffled a question, still reeling from the shock of his clamped nipples.

“Change of scenery, boss?” asked the bartender with a smirk.

“Yes, I think so,” replied Mike, fondling Dick’s dick like a prize. “Let’s take him out back and finish him off.”

“Sounds good,” grunted one of the leathermen.

All at once, Dick felt more gloved hands grip the barstool to which he was bound, tilting it back and hefting it above their shoulders. He watched the grimy ceiling tiles pass by before a door opened, revealing open sky, with absurd Christmas lights strung across what must have been a back deck or patio for this bar. As they set the chair back on the ground, Dick saw a metal trashcan, which Mike approached, holding the bundled rags of what had once been Dick’s suit and tie: frayed pinstripe panels, a severed French cuff, one or two stubborn mother-of-pearl buttons clinging to the torn placket, the red silk of his severed tie blade lolling like a wet tongue.

“You always like this part, don’t you, Mike?” asked one of the leathermen as he emptied a bottle of cheap rum into the trashcan.

“You know,” pronounced Mike ceremoniously, turning to Dick, I haven’t been able to do this to a suited guy in years. There just aren’t that many guys who dress as well as our fuckboy here.” Amidst a murmur of chuckles, Mike nodded to one of his fellow leathermen, who struck a match and flung it into the trashcan.

Dick’s eyes grew wide. The curiosity and dread piqued his drooling cock to an even greater height.

“I propose that we declare our fuckboy Dick an honorary member of our little club.” Addressing the leather-clad crowd with a mock-parliamentary air, Mike held the severed tie up in one gloved hand. “All in favor?”

A chorus of grunts and cheers from the onlookers. Dick twisted his wrists, bound behind his back in the rough fibers of rope. His heart pounded against his chest, pectorals bare and vulnerable between the rags of his undershirt, where the chain still dangled between his nipples, still twinging with pain and pleasure, pleasure and pain.

Mike smirked. “All opposed?”

No response.

“Well, then, Dick the Fuckboy,” Mike turned his attention to his prey. “Consider this your little rite of passage.”

“Mmmmmpppffff?” Dick flexed his socked feet, pulling against the tight loops of his shoelaces, which bound his ankles against the rungs of the barstool. A final surrender, thought Dick. In control? In control, no more. In the trashcan, the rum-fueled flame climbed high.

Mike flung the tie in first, the red silk vanishing in the smoke. Gone, thought Dick: that silk adornment that made him feel so powerful this morning, now burning with the trash. The leathermen cheered as Mike plucked out a rag that had once been Dick’s pinstripe trousers, and fed those in as well. One by one, piece by piece, Mike tossed the precum-smeared remnants of Dick’s suit and tie into the burning trashcan. Dick gurgled and murmured into his gag: protesting at first, then moaning, confused and excited and elated, having no idea why his cock leaped and drooled as he witnessed the burning of each once-fine article. Somewhere in his mind, Dick felt the dominoes tumbling, something falling away. All those moments that he wanted to make decisions and be in charge, all those gestures that me made before the mirror in order to ensure that his executive attire communicated control, power, masculinity—somehow, none of that felt like it mattered anymore. Something else was taking its place, as the flames made quick work of his corporate armor: release, freedom. Hell, he couldn’t even move his hands to stroke his raging manhood, but somehow that surrender felt good, too. A new form of mastery, submission, knowing when to let go.

As Dick spiraled into ecstasy, one of the leathermen brought his briefcase, shoes, and gym bag. “Hey, Mike, boss? You want us to throw these in, too?”

“Oh, you mean there’s more to burn?” Mike tossed Dick’s shirt collar and severed tie knot in last, gesturing grandly with his gloved hands. He inspected the remaining articles, unzipping Dick’s gym bag. “Let’s toss the gym clothes in, too. But leave the briefcase and shoes. We wouldn’t burn a good piece of leather around here, now would we?”

The leatherman laughed. “Good point. Looks like he brought a change of clothes in here, though.”

“We’ll see about that.” Rummaging through the bag, Mike tossed Dick’s sneakers, gym shorts, workout socks, hoodie, and gym shirt into the fire. The only items left in the gym bag was a pair of boxers and the thin white a-shirt that would have served as an undershirt for Dick’s gym shirt: the boxers with their button fly and fine, striped broadcloth, and the a-shirt almost a size too small, sure to highlight every contour of Dick’s jockish torso. Mike smirked. “You know, I say we keep the boxers. And that little white a-shirt, too. Give him something to wear on the way home.”

The leatherman nodded. “I think we’ve got some spare sweatpants or something behind the bar.”

“Naw,” said Mike, taking a nice long sniff of the fresh boxers. “Just these. Dick’s our fuckboy, and we think he should show off all his hard, hard work at the gym.”

With a laugh, the leatherman deposited the now-empty gym bag and briefcase at the foot of the stool. Mike dropped Dick’s laceless laceups next to them.

Whimpering into his drool-soaked gag, Dick whined something that sounded like a question. Mike approached him. Obedient, understanding the unspoken command exuded by this powerful man in front of him, Dick arched his hips forward, wheezing and moaning as he smelled the burning wool, the last remnants of his suit dying in the trashcan. But somehow that seemed unimportant to Dick right now. Instead, he wanted to feel Mike’s gloved fingers again.

“Attaboy,” Mike purred, cupping Dick’s cock in his leather-clad fingers with one hand, while releasing the nipple clamp with the other. “I think we’ve put you through enough for one evening, don’t you?”

Release, sweet release. The pain eased from his nipples as Mike undid the clamps. Dick rolled his eyes back, and the whole setting seemed to dissolve all around him. Dick’s stubbled jaw grew slack in his gag. He could hear grunts and hoots from the leathermen, but somehow only one sensation mattered: frotting his cock back and forth in Mike’s gloved palm, begging the leatherman to finish him off.

Wrenching open the button-fly of his jeans, Mike pulled down his jockstrap and let his cock fall into his palm, a weighty scepter. Power and control all belonged to him now. Hiking one leg up the chair, Mike let the tip of his cock touch Dick’s. Dick squealed at the sensation. Stroking himself, and then stroking Dick’s shaft, Mike closed in, planting a gloved hand on the back of Dick’s head, raking his gloved fingers through Dick’s silver hair, messing up the banker’s tidy sidepart. Tugging the gag out of Dick’s mouth, Mike let the gag settle around Dick’s neck, then thrust his tongue deep into Dick’s stubbled lips.

The whole time, Dick let it happen. He felt his whole body relax, and tense, and relax again, hips thrusting as he crossed his cock with Mike’s, moaning as the leatherman tongue-fucked him, rubbed his meat, thumbed his nipples, exploring one erogenous zone of Dick’s near-naked body after another, yet refusing to let go of the kiss the whole time. Dick grunted and drooled against Mike’s beery tongue. Desperate for each stroke, Dick reached his hips forward, just to feel another inch of Mike’s rock hard, throbbing, beercan dick, a pang of pleasure finally radiating from his cockhead.

Dick broke off the kiss. “Aw fuck.” He realized that was the first word he’d spoken since Mike and his lackeys tied him to this chair.

“That’s it, fuckboy,” growled Mike, tracing his gloved knuckle up and down Dick’s shaft. “I can feel those big balls of yours churning. Let it all out.”

Even without the gag, Dick couldn’t have formed words if he wanted to. All he could do was slur out a long, protracted “FFFFFFUUUUUCCCC—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” urged Mike, stroking Dick more furiously now. Just the feeling of Mike’s gloved fingers on his drooling shaft—fffffffuuuuuuuccc—a bead of precum bubbled out of his cockhead as he gave himself that. “You’re getting close. You’re getting—”

That stroke of leather—that glorious stroke—fuck—feels so fucking good—like Dick hadn’t cum in weeks—fuck—how was Dick so fucking horny all over again—with a moan he arched and thrust his muscular abs in and out—he felt Mike massaging each of his tender, sore nipples.

“Mmmmm. Fuck yeah. Come on, fuckboy.”

Dick’s whole brain was flooded with lust, with the sensation of Mike thumbing his leaking beercan dick against Dick’s shaft, or Mike alternating with tweaking each of Dick’s exposed nipples with the other, the fine calfskin leather gloves heightening the sensation—fuuuuuccck—feels so fuckin amazing—Dick dug his socked arches into the rungs of the barstool, flailing his head around and moaning: “Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK FUCK!”

It became a cheer echoed by the leathermen who had whipped their own cocks out by now. Dick tossed his head back, groaning as he felt Mike tease his ultra-sensitive nips, until finally his precum issued in a milky stream.

“There it is!” roared Mike, wrestling his own phallus with even greater fury. “Come on!”

Dick hurled the first rope of cum over his chest. The second, a jet of it spattering across the v-neck of Mike’s snug undershirt. Spurt after spurt, leaping out—until Dick couldn’t even tell whether it was his cum or Mike’s—Mike’s growls and roars escalating as he erupted—as the leathermen around them erupted—volcanic—ecstatic, letting go—

“Fuck,” panted Dick at last, spurts of cum all over his firm pectorals now glistening with sweat. “Fucking. Fucking amazing. Fuck.”

“Fuck yeah, fuckboy,” repeated Mike, licking Dick’s cheek, before punctuating the whole encounter with a softer kiss.

*

Dick had no idea what time it was. He woke up on a futon in a strange room. His cock ached, dried cum up and down his thighs, abs, chest. But he knew he had a good time.

Sitting up in the cot, Dick realized he was still in his torn boxers, the rags of what once was his undershirt, and his navy blue dress socks and red sock garters from the previous night. His empty gym bag, briefcase, and shoes sat in a pile next to him, along with his watch, wallet, tie bar, cufflinks, house keys, and glasses. Those only remnants of his suit and tie.

Atop the pile, Dick saw a card in a dark blue envelope. Equipping his glasses, Dick opened it and read:

Hey man. Sorry about your suit. I hope this helps you get a replacement. (But I think you really enjoyed it.)

Those hot nips of yours might feel a bit “drafty” on the way home in that skimpy a-shirt. You might feel “drafts” in other places with those cute little stripey boxers of yours, too..

Here’s my card. Feel free to hit me up whenever you like. Last night was a blast!

—Mike.

Inside the envelope, Dick found a card for Mike’s gallery, as well as a gift card for Brooks Brothers. Inspecting his wallet and all of his effects, Dick found that everything was in place. True to his word, Mike didn’t let anyone mess with Dick’s things.

It didn’t take long for Mike to get dressed. His unlaced shoes slipped on like bedroom slippers, loose leather tongues flopping over his stale dress socks. His one fresh pair of boxers was white, with a beaded pinstripe pattern. And his workout shirt, an a-shirt, stretched to near translucency over his chest. Ordinarily on his way home from the gym he would’ve covered his physique with his gym shirt and a hoodie, but he didn’t have that option today: yet another decision that Mike had made for him. (Why did he get so hard in his striped boxers, thinking about Mike making decisions like that for him?) The room was a back room of Mike’s gallery, so Dick let himself out the front door, which locked behind him.

He felt embarrassed at first, walking down the sidewalk with his briefcase and gym bag, his boxers and socks and garters, his obscenely snug undershirt, which did nothing to conceal his nipples or pits, stretched like shrink wrap over his cum-smeared muscles, clinging to every panel of his abs and navel. An onlooker would have mistaken him for a model from a vintage underwear ad, sock garters and a-shirt plain for all to see. Indeed, a few folks eyed him up as he walked by. But, really, what else could he do? So he strode as confidently as he could. He’d worked hard for pecs and abs like this, so he might as well show them off, make his state of undress look deliberate somehow. He had to make sure his half-erect cock stayed put, though, drooling a spot of precum into the fine striped broadcloth, the button fly tenting over. His cockhead kept wanting to slip past the gleaming white buttons, and he was already pushing indecent exposure.

Within an hour, Dick made it back to his apartment. Shutting the door behind him, he grew instantly hard again as he caught a glimpse in the mirror of his snug a-shirt clinging to every toned contour of his muscular body, and how he’d just walked home like that. Clothed, yet naked: just barely wearing enough to get by in public. Fuck. He’d walked into that bar in his finest suit and tie, and he walked out of it looking like this. Unbuttoning his boxers, he pulled out his phone, took a quick picture of his closet, and texted Mike back:

I have about 40 suits left. I want you to do that to me again in each and every one of them. Holy fuck. All of it.

Dick hit “send” before even thinking about it. And Dick didn’t even have time to shuck off his boxers before Mike responded:

Anytime, fuckboy. Anytime.