Vignette: Kidnapping.
- Southern Suitor
- May 20, 2024
- 15 min read
Illustrations by the kinky and talented @GotGloves.
Chloroform & Gagging | Nipple play | Domination
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Nursing a fantasy he dare not utter to anyone, a corporate honcho ends up getting more than he bargained for: gagged, tied to a chair in a warehouse, and edged to perfection.
Content warning: this fictional story uses the trope of carte blanche or blanket consent: “you consent to whatever I’m going to do to you, no matter what.” Although this trope is expedient for fantasy, for reality it’s a highly dangerous way to engage in kink play. As Jay Wiseman points out in SM 101, consent needs to be specific, explicit, and enthusiastic. Explain to your partner what you want them to do to you, and negotiate. Don’t give them a blank check.
Based on a month’s worth of conversations with a follower on Recon, this piece features certain familiar motifs from my other pieces of fiction: the mysteriously overdressed, gloved Dom accompanied by his muscular, suited henchmen; bondage in a back room; sheer socks and feet; the desire for humiliation and captivity. We all have our favorite things, after all. My goal then is to strike a balance between moving the action a bit more quickly, while still indulging in all of the details. Enjoy.
*
Max never spoke about it to anyone, his obsession with kidnapping scenes from movies. He had a whole library of screen caps saved, blurry or pixelated images he had curated ever since he could get his hands on digital media starting in the early 2000s. Telenovelas, soap operas. Before that, it was DVDs, VHS tapes. He was almost a historian of it, the image of the kidnapped man.
“It’s just a thing that excites me,” Max would say to himself. To all his friends and coworkers, he would pass himself off as some kind of a film buff. Not even his therapist knew.
It would always be a well dressed man in this scenario for him. The suit and tie were the essential ingredient, the sine qua non of visual stimuli. A banker, or lawyer, or politician—always men in power, rendered helpless by a situation that was spinning out of their control. Well attired hostages, dapper damsels in distress. Bonus points if their shoes and socks went missing. Hard for a dapper titan of industry to look the part when he was helpless, bound, and barefoot in his suit and tie. It was something he thought about with each trip to the menswear store, as he expanded his corporate wardrobe suit by suit, tie by tie, shoe by shoe.
Perhaps that was the deeper reason why Max landed a job in finance. One of the very few sectors left where a suit and tie were standard attire for the office. Gave him an excuse to suit up on the regular, even to the point of surreptitiously slipping his shoes off at the office, rubbing the socked soles of his feet together, or his ankles, and imagining what it would feel like to have them encircled in duct tape or rope. He would scope out other handsome suited gentleman on his various travels, living so often as he did out of his well-stocked suitcase, taking note of the business travelers slipping off their fine dress shoes at airports, or tugging their ties loose at hotel bars after long days of conferencing. Wheeling and dealing, making important decisions. And secretly he would wish to see what might happen behind the scenes, and would wish that they would be tied up to chairs, or beds, stuffed in broom closets, turned from important executive officers to mere erotic set dressing.
“Or to be one of them,” he thought to himself as he strode through the airport to make his way between connecting flights. “I want one of them to nab me, take me to a back room, tie me up.” The thought terrified him. Tantalized him. Fuck he wanted it, so fucking bad. He wanted to experience in real life the horny mental movie that played out behind his eyelids every time he lay in bed at night, the cerebral screen of his mental movie theatre where the evening’s cinematic feature would always be the same, always a rehearsal of the fantasy. So many visions of suited heroes tied up in one of the movies he hoarded, suited and barefoot and subject to the whims of a mighty kidnapper who held his life in his hands.
But who on Earth would understand this unspoken desire?
*
Sometimes you can spot them from a mile away, the men who want to be victims. Something about their demeanor—so subby, aren’t they? The little dears—the way they primp and preen, the way they wear their suits. A far cry from the standard corporate drone: these handsome executive peacocks would take a little bit too much pride in their appearance. These aren’t the sorts of men who wore suits because their mamas made them do it. For them, it’s an art, a broadcasting of self-esteem. A signal that he wants to be plucked from the city sidewalk, tossed into the back seat of an anonymous vehicle, stolen away to some disused setting, tied up and tortured. Oh, the desperation, the erotic ecstasy, the desire for release—for restraint—all just barely hovering beneath the surface.
Yes, that one, right over there. He’s asking for it. There are not that many men who wore suits in Birmingham.
*
There were not that many men who wore suits in Birmingham, Alabama. A bit of an obscure city for a conference, Max had to admit, but the restaurant scene was nice, and the influence of Southern Living on the city made for some occasional glimpses of dandyish Southern corporate casual, bright gingham shirts with tailored little jackets. In between conference sessions, Max booked an Uber to a Lebanese menswear shop in one of the revitalized neighborhoods on the fringe of the city, and Max browsed the shelves for possible additions to his wardrobe. He picked up a two-piece Cannali suit in rich navy, as well as a pair of Gaziano Girling wingtips. He was one of those fortunate folks who could try a suit off the back, and it would fit him just about perfectly.
“I’ll wear it right out of the store,” he boasted as he held out the sleeve of the jacket and let one of the beautifully dressed salesman snip off the tags. Just as he did so, a trio of new customers walked into the establishment.
They could only be described as a posse, the way they marched in formation behind their leader. Two of them were muscle behemoths squeezed into their fine suits: one a powerlifter built like a gorilla, sporting a double-breasted pinstripe number asserted with a magnificent orange and silver striped tie. The conical silk was knotted in a double windsor so wide it almost resembled an ascot, the broad blade of silk matching the heft of his bulky physique. The other was a tall and lean stallion of a man with the body of a warrior from an outworn age: a heroic spearman, or barbarian, his towering form tamed with a silver two-piece suit whose every stitch hugged his hourglass shape, accentuating his broad shoulders, with a rich blue tie spilling out of a tab collar shirt.
*
Yes, there he is again. I had a feeling he’d find his way to this store. Finest menswear boutique in town. One of the last ones in the whole state. In my part of the world, guys have to book trips to Atlanta, or New York, for this level of sartorial service. A beacon for this dapper damsel. A fuckin aphrodisiac. Look at him, with that sumptuous blue tie. Who wears a tab collar shirt these days? Oh no, this suitman, this would-be victim, he doesn’t settle for the fodder of department stores or outlet malls. This man wants his suitings and shirtings all custom, a cut above the dreary corporate casual crowd. Look at him, the way he’s caressing those ties. He can’t keep his hands off them. He’d be groping himself if he could, horny tycoon.
Desperate, the way he keeps eyeing up me and my two men.
*
The two lumbered behind a shorter and leaner man whose three-piece suit in tobacco linen announced that he was the wealthiest of the crew, not bound by ordinary rules of corporate taste. His stride smooth and unhurried, this shorter peacock had paired his brown suit with a shirt that had to be custom, a fine cotton in a mint green herringbone, the sort of texture that gave the luster of satin and the illusion of stripes, accented by a crisp white tab collar and glittering cufflinks. The soft lapels of his jacket draped almost to his shoulders, creating a rich frame for a chocolate tie adorned with paisley medallions in lavender and mint. Atop his head he sported a broad brimmed Panama hat cocked at an ankle, masking his sunglassed features. His driving gloves—lustrous brown calfskin, perforated, adorned with contrasting lining in plum—a curious accessory, imparting a note of mystery. His heels clicked across the gleaming marble tiles, his feet shod in chocolate brown opera pumps—an even cockier choice, custom shoes that mocked every rule of conventional menswear. This man made his own rules.
“Sir?” The well-dressed salesman touched Max’s suit sleeve, the handsome corporate pinstripe he had worn from the conference earlier that day. “Will that be all for you today, sir?”
“Uhh, yeah.” Clearing his throat, Max realized that he found himself so absorbed in studying the details of these three suited specimens—the shorter peacock of them especially, whom Max told himself was their leader,—he had forgotten that he was standing here holding a brand new suit and shoes. “I mean, no, I think I will continue to browse, if you please.”
“No worries, sir. Let me know when you are ready to settle up.”
Max’s cock twitched with every glimpse he caught of this beautifully attired trio. The heavyset suited gorilla pulled two or three suits off the rack, presenting each of them to his peacockish superior, who would lay a gloved finger on them and give a tacit nod of approval, or a brisk shaking of the head. Likewise, the tall stallion displayed before his suited Master various shoes from the wall, and, after perusing each selection, the Master pointed out three of them. As soon as these selections were made, the gorilla man lumbered off to the fitting rooms, while the tall stallion man sat on a bench and slipped off his double monk straps to try on each new shoe that his Master had selected for him.
What kind of socks were those, Max wandered to himself? Such a huge, muscular, alpha male wearing socks that were so thin that Max could see every trace of the man’s toes, every hair on top of his foot. Sheer socks, silky and decadent, a far cry from the usual socks that a corporate meathead would wear. And Max took note that this man’s Master wore socks never even more transparent, to the point of looking almost invisible against his chocolate calfskin opera pumps.
*
Oh yes. He knows I’ve spotted him. He doesn’t know I’ve been spying on him these last few days, my men tracking his movements to and from his hotel. So rare to see such a well-plumed specimen, his fine suit a target on his back, his jutting tie an invitation to be jerked and led by the silken leash. He knows it, but he doesn’t know that he knows it. Only a matter of time before he lets down his guard. He’s already helpless.
*
Shit—he’s looking at me, thought Max. The brim of the Master’s hat tilted Max’s direction, and Max shrank behind a rack of suits, where he could observe unseen.
Meanwhile, the gorilla man strutted out of the fitting rooms in a suit of tan solaro wool, double-breasted and brought lapel just like the pinstripe suit he was wearing previously. The Master stroked the lapel with his gloved fingertips and gave a quiet nod to his meaty underling. The brute smirked, and turned on a heel to return to the dressing rooms, the swish of his trouser cuffs revealing striped sheer hosiery much like what his Master was wearing, stretched to translucency over his tree trunk calves.
Fuckin weird, thought Max to himself. Yet so fuckin hot, too, the way he could just see all three mens’ feet through their hosiery beneath their crisp suits. Fuckin leaking through my suit pants—Max adjusted his trousers, positioning his hard-on right behind the rack of ties. Three men, his lust-addled brain thought. Three men, against just you. All suited to the nines. They could subdue you so easily. They could strap you to a chair. Fuck. Drooling in his pinstripe trousers, his chub leaked into his underwear. Strap you to a fuckin chair, so that that fuckin peacock stud could just fuckin have his way with you.
Take me. That’s all Max could think about. Gag me with chloroform right now and tie me up. Please. Fuck. As the Master supervised his two underlings, Max pretended to browse the shirts, and found himself possessed with the urge to purchase one. Perhaps a new tie, as well? Something about this beautiful man’s presence compelled Max to step up his suit game. Would it be possible for him to attract the notice of such a beautifully dressed Master?
The gorilla man swaggered out of the dressing rooms in his charcoal double breasted suit from before, and in the meantime the Master handed the brute a pair of beautifully soft Belgian loafers from the wall, while the tall athlete asked for the Master’s approval of a pair of gleaming tassel loafers. With a terse nod, the heavy man took a seat on the bench, unbuckled his monkstraps, and slipped his wide, sheer socked feet out of each of his gleaming shoes, and settled his feet into the Belgian loafers at the Master had on offer. Like his taller compatriot, the brute wore those silky see-through socks that made new apology for his wide, veined powerlifter feet. And the tall warrior likewise slipped his sheer socked feet into his brand new shoes and stood up, gesturing down to the break of the trouser cuff over the gleaming cordovan, to which his Master gave a nod.
After leaning down to stroke one of the gorilla man’s sheer socked feet—shameless in public like that, as though under his Master’s gaze he could get away with anything—the tall athlete slipped his sheer socked feet out of the new tassel loafers—such a fucking erotic show, seeing this man’s magnificent feet, each contour of his sculptured feet traced with the luster of silken sheer hosiery—and then let his feet settle back into his double monkstraps, got up from his bench, and approached the other side of the tie rack, where Max nervously avoided his gaze. The tall warrior perused for a moment, then chose a new tie that he presented to the Master, and the Master nodded, directing him to the register with his new tassel loafers in a box. And to his beefier henchman, the Master gave a similar mod, pointing to the register with his gloved hand. As soon as both of his servants had vacated, the magnificently attired man met Max’s gaze for just a moment, his sunglasses gleaming like a visor of anonymity, masking his eyes. Max shrank behind the back of shirts, only to find the Master taking a step towards him.
*
So coy, the way he’s trying to hide. Is he trying to hide from me, or is he trying to hide his rampant horniness? I am a connoisseur of suit bulges, and I can see his plain as day. VPL, visible penis line. He’s fucking begging for it.
*
Once again, there was a smirk beneath the brim of the Master’s hat, his eyes obscured into a blank, inscrutible expression by the tinted lenses. The elegant peacock cleared his throat: “That is a fine suit you are wearing.”
“Thhphhhhthanks.” Fuck. Such a rich, deep, buttery voice, the kind of baritone that made Max’s cock ache in his suit trousers. “I mean, uh, thank you. Thank you, Sir.”
Something about the way Max pronounced “Sir” made him imagine that it could only be capitalized like that, in address to this powerfully dressed man.
The peacock extended a gloved hand. “Frank.”
“M—Max.” Stuttering, Max attempted to firm his grip around Frank’s gloved hand, enclosed in supple lambskin. “I—uh—very much admire your style as well, Sir.”
“Thank you.” Frank surveyed Max’s new suit, which rested on the counter near the register nearby. “An excellent choice, both this pinstripe and the navy. Canali?”
“Sir yes Sir,” Max gulped, then tried to emit a nervous laugh. “Sorry. Went all military on you there.”
Frank picked up on the clue. “Are you a military man, Max?”
“Father was.” Stiffening his posture, Max tried not to think about the stiffening of his cock. “So lots of rough-housing with my brothers growing up. Needed discipline. A stiff—erm,—stern upbringing.”
“Stiff, eh?” Frank smirked, his sunglasses screening his eyes. Even though Frank stood shorter than Max by a few inches, somehow Frank’s imposing figure seemed to eclipse Max, shrinking him down to size. “Interesting word choices. Rough-housing. Stiff.”
“I—uh—nothing hotter than a dominant well-dressed man, Sir.” Shit. Fuckin idiot. Why the fuck are you coming on to this guy right in the middle of a fuckin menswear store? Shit. Max could feel his cockhead throbbing against the elastic band of his underwear, raging to free itself of its confines. But despite his mental protestations, Max heard himself blurting out more horny words: “Well, I guess a couple of well-dressed men would be even hotter.”
“And the rough-housing. That too I find intriguing.” Frank took a half step towards Max, fingering the silken arch of his tie with his gloved knuckle. “Tell me more about that.”
“We were rowdy, my brothers and I.” Shit. Fuck. Max’s cockhead had fought its way past his waistband, dotting precum through the pinstripe wool of his trousers. “I kept . . . wanting them to play cops and robbers, tie me up.”
“Is that something you’ve ever experienced in real life? being tied up?” Frank let his voice dip to an intimate octave. “Kidnapped, even? taken advantage of?”
“Fuck!” with a gasp, Max clapped a hand across his crotch, devoting every ounce of his energy to steadying his breath. The tingle of an orgasm sparked his cockhead. He could cream his suit trousers right here, right now. “I mean, uh—”
Frank dismissed Max’s stuttering with a gloved hand. “No need to explain. Not here, at least. This setting is less than ideal.” With a flourish, Frank produced a beautiful pen and a business card from his pocket. He briefly wrote down a few pieces of information.
Max’s heart thumped against his dress shirt, his blood chilling with adrenaline. If he so much as moved his fingertip along it—the visible penis line of his hard-on throbbing and leaking through his trousers, trying to snake its way out of his underwear—so much as a single stroke would have sent Max over the edge, yet he waited. Even this brief acknowledgement, this whole brief and stilted conversation felt overwhelming as Max craned his neck, trying to make out the elegant man’s handwriting on the back of the card, screened by his gloved knuckles.
With a chuckle, Frank pocketed his pen, plucked a tie from the rack, and handed the tie to Max along with his card. The tie was a rich, jewel-toned grenadine, crystalline like sapphire, striped with a smooth orange silk that gleamed like satin.
“Tell the salesman that this tie is on me. My little favor to you.”
“Phhhhthank you, Sir.” Patting his breast pocket, Max fumbled out a handful of his business cards, nearly spilling them on the tie table as he attempted to extract one from the deck, which he handed to Frank. “Uh, my cell number, Sir.”
Accepting the card, Frank continued, “My boys and I will be at the rooftop bar of this hotel this evening. I have written the address and my number. You are welcome to join, provided that you wear the tie that I’ve selected for you.”
The man’s voice resonated, deep, sonorous, the kind of voice that plunged into your eardrums and plucked your very heart strings. And that was certainly what Max felt, his stomach torturing itself into knots has he realized that this was not a request, but a command. Max’s whole evening had just been rescheduled.
“Be sure to read the card,” added Frank. “There are additional instructions on the back.”
And with that, the Master tipped the brim of his hat ever so slightly and Max’s direction, then stepped to the register to pay for his underlings’ new acquisitions, and for Max’s new tie. Collecting their new shoes, ties, and suits, the three of them left the establishment just as briskly as they had entered.
Stunned, Max fingered the tie that the Master had left him, and took note of the Master’s elegant handwriting on the back of the card. Beneath the hotel and Frank’s number, Max read the following:
Wear the tie I have selected for you, and your new suit and loafers. By showing up at the rooftop bar at 7:30 tonight, you consent to whatever might happen to you. If you decide to back out, simply let me know. But be warned.
Beneath the inscription, Frank’s thorny and elegant signature stood out like a knot of ink.
Yes, thought Max, his cock raging and leaking with anticipation in his suit trousers. He was ready to rub one out right there, in front of god and everybody, but he would wait. Had to save himself for this, this was a special occasion. Yes, it was now an appointment. There was nothing optional about it. The decision had been made for him, he decided.
*
A modicum of choice, or the illusion of it. Gives him one last chance, one route of escape. It takes guts to agree to the kind of treatment I give to well-dressed gentlemen like him. We’ll see what he’s made of.
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