Vignette: Cumrag.
- Southern Suitor
- May 28, 2024
- 8 min read
Turning the Tables | Shoes & Shirt Stolen | Marking Territory
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After enduring years of online abuse, a suited kinkster exacts revenge against a hot dapper realtor, binding & gagging him, & “borrowing” his victim’s custom shirts & Italian shoes for a “creative use.”
This piece is both revenge fantasy and commentary. COVID has destroyed what little online suit fetish scene there was. Nowadays, the leftovers consist of faceless sheer sock accounts fawning over a handful of already-wealthy suitmen who use the language of “findom” to sell their OnlyFans accounts, all while posing as “menswear influencers.” There is certainly nothing wrong with findom when it is practiced ethically among mutually consenting adults, but I cannot help but voice some concern when findom language becomes advertising for something else.
The suit community has died not only because suits themselves are dead, but because suit fetishists never were much of a community to begin with. As I’ve written previously, the leather community had the sense to establish physical spaces and offline connections that could sustain them. Instead of doing the same, suit fetishists have absorbed themselves in recreating imagery from a bygone era in which the suit & tie were once standard corporate attire. They fantasize, and fantasize, and fantasize, but never organize. And so here we are.
Am I convinced that suit fetishism is dead? Not necessarily. Guys still respond to the eroticism of suits and ties, but they do so as something worn on special occasions, or a historical uniform, but not as a present-tense standard of corporate attire. Suits will likely become an increasingly niche interest as time goes on, relegated to smaller and more obscure corners of the Internet. Am I pleased with this state of affairs? No. But I’ve had to make my peace.
I will continue to craft my suited smut because it speaks to me. I hope it speaks to you, too.
This piece is also in part autobiographical. I’ve been stung and rejected by these men in my various online dealings, and have been lured into a false sense of security. We’ve all lent our trust in irresponsible ways, just to crave connection and validation. I’m certainly guilty of that. So, although the main action of this story is a revenge fantasy, the initial arc about discovering dominance in oneself, about learning to manage our conversations in these online spaces responsibly — that part contains grains of truth. Enjoy.
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“The perfect suit boy.” That was the first thing he said to me.
I should have known it was a ploy. But at the time, it was music to my ears. Feeling down on myself, so eager to please. He was a deity among the online suitmen. He could post a picture of himself wearing anything, and a thousand sole-thirsty, faceless sock fetishists would beg him in the comments for a whiff, a taste, a lick. He could have anyone he wanted, yet he chose me.
So I accepted his chat, explained what I liked: I liked it when a guy shows off his sheer socks and shoes with the whole suited outfit, rather than just below the knees; I liked the fact that this tall, muscular hunk of a man was so bold as to show his face. He halfway listened, then responded with “Love those contrasting collar and cuff shirts, Love it, too, when a boy tugs his shirt collar.”
“You mean like this?” I responded with a video doing just as he asked.
“Fuck. Are you trying to give me a hard-on at work???”
And so it began. Daily check-ins, week by week and month by month. Daily videos of me massaging the stiff-starched points of my spread collars, or tugging the French cuffs, adjusting them to display the cufflinks beneath my suit jacket sleeves, smirking into the camera of my phone, while he'd all but howl with horniness on the other end. Always attempting to hold back, yet I could tell he was in lust for me. Or, at least, that’s what I told myself.
I would ask him to loosen his tie for me, or open his shirt, or show off his beefy, furry chest. “I prefer to stay smart and proper,” he would say. But occasionally—just enough—he would send me a picture of one whole button of his shirt open. Just enough. Just enough to tantalize. Just enough to lead me into believing that he was paying attention.
Then came the request, masked as a command: “I wanna use that shirt as a cum rag.”
“Oh, really?” I had stopped calling him “sir” at this point. Didn't want to inflate his ego. But he had me intrigued. “And how would we accomplish that?”
“Mail it to me. I'll mail it back. Then you send me a picture of you wearing it.”
I responded with the emoji of a coy smirk. Two days later, I sent him a picture of the postal service receipt. “On its way.”
“Good suitboy.”
And a week or two later, the shirt came back in the return post, anointed with the musk of his bush, blotches of yellowing cum marring the cotton. I took a steam cleaner to it to sterilize it, then put it on, took a picture, sent it back. “As requested.”
“MMmmm. Fuck. Good boy. How does it smell wearing my manly seed, boy?”
“You smell delicious,” I responded, without conviction.
.
The rankling sense drew on, the sense that he was playing me. Increasingly my requests for pictures went unanswered. So I stopped answering his requests. Weeks would go by. Then, out of the blue, he would command, cajole me. “I wanna use that shirt as a cum rag, too.”
I would respond with the smirking emoji, and leave it at that.
I should have wisened up earlier. Perhaps I was growing in my confidence and self-esteem. Every good Dom starts off as a reluctant sub, I told myself. And I told myself, too, that I should have looked past my horniness, my desperation, should have paid attention to his smugness, his disregard for his hordes of faceless sheer socked followers. I was better than them, wasn’t I? I wanted to tell myself he held me in some high regard, as though I were part of some kind of exclusive little group of suitmen who had sparked his interest. Not like the rest, the rabble of faceless sheer socked thirst-seekers with their endless profiles of disembodied socked feet, too servile and shy to show anything above the ankle.
But then came the rumors. It's a small world, the suit and sheer sock fetishists. “Oh, he's played me before,” replied one of my friends. “He'll take a keen interest in you for a month or two, and then ignore you, and expect you to come begging for scraps. He once blocked me after I told him I wasn’t going to fly across the country to be his suitboy for a weekend.”
“He has asked me to do that before,” I responded. But I thought, I was ready to ride the wave for as long as it would last, knowing full well how it would end.
*
The months drew on. Finally, I washed the shirt he had used as his cumrag. Then dried it, then sent it to the cleaners to make sure it had been cleansed of his taint.
Most of all, what drove me was the sense that I was being used. Why was I so desperate for this man’s attention? Why settle for the suitboy of some frigid self-proclaiming dom, when I could turn the tables?
So I kept him at arm’s length. He was the one who had approached me, after all. So I would let him approach me again, but on my own terms.
*
Then one day, he messaged about my travel plans. “When are you coming to visit me?”
“Visit?” I struck my usual coy tone, knowing his game by this point. His message was out of the blue. Perhaps he was bored and horny? Did he want another video of me massaging the points of my collar and letting him fantasize about blasting his load all over me? “And what would we do during this visit?”
“I'd keep you in a hotel room, use you every morning and evening. You'd be my cumdump.”
Creative, I thought. Such originality. I knew he was in Texas, so I checked my calendar, recalling that he’d boasted on one of his Instagram stories about going to some highfalutin convention for smug realtors. “I'll be in Dallas from the 27th to the 31st of March. Didn't you mention you're going to be at a conference in Dallas there, as well?”
“Yes I did. Book it,” he said. He seemed not to notice that I only showed interest because our schedules happened to coincide. “I wanna see you, suitboy.”
I rolled my eyes, checked my dates. I let a moment pass, just long enough to convince him that I was booking my hotel and room right on the spot, just for him, even though I’d already booked everything weeks ago. I responded with a “smirk” emoji. “Done.”
*
There were so many things he didn't know, the preparations that went into that trip. Of course, he had no idea my line of work—never inquired, never bothered asking. I knew he was a high-end realtor who had hosted parties during COVID. The sort of rich dumbfuck who has more suits than sense, who lords it over himself and thinks himself higher than the rest of us. It showed in his suits, too: bold chalkstripes, pinstripes, three-piece suits in loud colors, paired with even louder shirts in jarring stripes, always with a contrasting collar and cuff, always with gaudily colored sheer socks, always with Magnanni dress shoes, which he swore by as his favorite and only brand. His was the style of a man who did not take advice.
An ideal candidate for my experiments, then. Just the sort of man who needs to be taught a lesson.
So, alongside my fine suits and shoes and sheer socks — three three-piece suits in plain grey, navy, and charcoal — I packed rope. EMS safety sheers, of course, since I wouldn't want to risk loss of life or limb. No, no, I would not bruise his beautiful, muscular body. But I would bruise his ego.
I finished my little “kit of interest” with a squeeze tube meant to house a travel-sized amount of shampoo.
The day before the flight, I began filling it, the tube. I stroked hard, coaxed myself to climax, and positioned the tube over my cock, fired my load in. Capped it, went back to work, and, when I excused myself for another restroom break the next hour, took the tube with me to the stall and blasted another load into it. It only took three visits before the whole tube brimmed over.
3 ounces. TSA compliant. It overflowed, oozed into my hand, as I squeezed my shaft dry. With a smirk and a moan, I dabbed myself off, sealed the tube and tucked it into my briefcase. And, when I got home from work that day, I transferred it (still warm) into my luggage, concealed by an innocent-looking duffel bag, where it could hide with my scissors and rope.
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