Walk in the Park 2: The Feast.
- Southern Suitor
- Feb 4, 2022
- 15 min read
Suits to Brutes | Feedism & Muscle Growth | Mindfuck
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Trapped in the jungle, in a strange hotel (temple?), our heroes start to learn the rules of this strange game in which they all take part. They sit down to a meal that ends with a creamy and juicy dessert. Themes: Formalwear & tuxedos, suits & ties where they don't belong, loafers & sheer socks, wet & messy, muscle growth, suit destruction, sweat, power dynamics, comeuppance.
Morning, Day 2.
Finally, Tony came to a clearing—a road. The seams of his tux creaked with every step. Mud licked the cuffs of his trousers, squelching through his sheer socks, threatening to suck his opera pumps right off his heels. But he made it.
He looked to his left, up the hill, and could see the lights of the hotel a few hundred yards away.
“Tony? Is that you?”
Tony turned and saw Bentley—or, rather, a beefcake rugger who looked like him. His pinstripe suit looked sewn onto him, sleeves squeezing his biceps, gleaming suit fabric hugging the powerful curves of his musclebound physique, shirt buttons puckering in figure 8s to reveal glimpses of his ballooning pecs, a tuft of sweat-slicked chest fur poking through. He wore his tie loose around his swollen neck, smudges of dirt marring the knees of his trousers, and his once-gleaming laceups crusted in mud.
“Fuck man,” Tony laughed. “You look totally jacked!”
“Hey Tone! You must’ve found some of the fruit too.” Bentley scanned Tony up and down, a hungry gleam in his eyes, his commando cock stiffening in his snug suit trousers. “You look amazing!”
Tony brushed his lapels, huffing his chest—only to cause one of his shirt studs to pop through its hole. “Shit—”
Bentley gasped, stubbly lips making an ooo as he groped his cock. Tony did the same—something about the aftereffects of the fruit, lessened inhibitions.
“Fuck, man.” Bentley reached into the gap of Tony’s shirt, stroking. “I . . . I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
“No questioning a good thing,” said Tony. “That’s all I can think about. Haven’t felt this horny in years.”
Bentley massaged his cock. “This place is amazing, isn’t it?”
“It is!” said a third voice.
Shocked, both men turned. Sackman, his cheeks ruddy and his bald head gleaming with sweat, jerked his thick double Windsor tie knot looser, sloppy, hanging off to one side over his unbuttoned shirt. With his pocket silk drooping out of his breast pocket, his double beasted suit jacket hanging open, and his tan tassel loafers covered in mud, he looked like a mess. A huge, perspiring, muscular mess. A linebacker. His suit jacket strained over his brawny arms like sausage casings, and the sweat-drenched tails of his shirt hung untucked alongside his—
“Shit,” said Bentley. “That looks like—”
“Like a gorilla?” Licking his hand, Sackman stroked the swollen, drooling barrel of meat that his cock had become. Even his hands and knuckles had gotten thicker and hairier, his chunky cufflinks dangling loose from his mighty wrists. The big man grinned. “Figured I might as well show him off. Grade A prime alpha meat right here. Mind helping me with this, boys?”
Boy? Tony hadn’t been called that in years—no since business school. He was sure he was older than Sackman. Adjusting his bowtie, Tony gave Sackman a smug glare.
Bentley looked impressed by the display, but he nodded down the road. “Maybe when we’re somewhere more private? I think I see other guys down the road.”
“Huh. Suit yourself.” Sackman chuckled, patting his bared erection before tucking it away. He could only get his zipper halfway up, his cock was so engorged. “Any of you seen that Omar boy? The really hunky one in the three-piece suit?”
“I’m sure you’ll fine him soon enough,” added Tony with a smirk as he followed Bentley up the hill. “Or he’ll find you. Subtlety is not your strong suit.”
Sackman laughed following suit. “You don’t need subtlety when you’ve got all this, big boy.”
*
Above the gate to the hotel was inscribed AEAEA.
“Triple A, Double E,” observed Sackman, buttoning up his sweat-drenched shirt and straightening his tie.
“Looks more like a temple than a hotel,” Bentley remarked, adjusting his tie knot as well.
The gates enclosed a courtyard of sorts, with a columned portico in front of the hotel itself. It looked like only one story, rooms sprawling out on either side. As the three men climbed the steps together, Tony noticed the other participants in this “Beast Mode” leadership scenario: all in their fine suits and ties as before, but all sweaty and disheveled, their finery in various states of dirt and mud. Even the fellow whom Tony had seen in the military dress uniform looked much worse for wear, his white hat now dirty and askew, gold braids fraying where his shoulder had split over the muscled hamhocks that his arms had now become, spit-shined shoes smeared with clay. From what Tony could discern, not all of them had found fruit in the wilderness. Some, like Sackman, looked like they’d burst their suits at any moment. Others, like Tony himself, showed growth and tone, but still maintained their careful grooming in their glove-tight finery. And others, like Bentley, struggled to keep their shirt collars closed around their bullnecks. And others looked the same as they did back in the park, but with their bespoke garments worse for wear.
The lobby, lined with marble tiles and more columns, boasted a fountain as its centerpiece, on which stood a larger than life nude sculpture: some Hercules, or Laocoon, or musclebound warrior holding a bowl with both hands, tipping it forward so that the water spilled down below. Far behind this was a broad staircase closed off by a gate that looked like it was made out of bronze spears. Opposite this bronze gate was another gate that led out into a courtyard. In rows around the fountain, throughout the lobby stood dozens and dozens of sets of luggage.
“Finally!” Pinching his grimy tie, Sackman tracked mud across the lobby in search of his luggage. “I can use a change of clothing.”
Looking around for his luggage, Bentley winked at Tony. “You stayed pretty fresh.”
“Thanks,” said Tony. Pacing along the rows of luggage, Tony sidestepped the other guys in their sweaty, muddy suits before he finally found his. A key with a Roman numeral was tied to the handle, along with another pamphlet:
The goal: Survive for seven weeks with at least one of your suits or tuxes intact. Jacket or shirt, trousers, and neckwear must be present to qualify.
The prize: A chance to taste the Golden Fruit. Our ordinary-grade fruit enhances muscle mass and libido, but only temporarily. Our exclusive Golden Fruit will make the effects permanent.
Rules:
Suits & ties, or tuxedos, must be worn at all times in public areas. Removal of clothing is only permitted inside private rooms.
In the event that clothing is removed or becomes unwearable, candidates must return to a private room and change into their next outfit immediately. Anyone who remains nude in public areas for longer than one hour will be disqualified and sent home.
Our ordinary grade fruit is available in the hotel courtyard and throughout the island. Feel free to explore the island. You might find a secret supply for yourself!
“Huh. So just keep your clothes on? Easy enough,” Tony remarked, though his authoritative boardroom voice hid some nervousness. His tuxedo shirt stud slipped through the buttonhole, the tight shirt popping open across his ample chest. He could smell his body odor and jizz wicking through his tuxedo, and, without any underwear, he knew he’d have to be careful with his six other suits for the remainder of this. Maybe this was the peak of his muscle growth? The peak of his testicular growth? God his balls felt so tender and swollen. Muscles felt tense, too. He wasn’t used to having this much beef in his arms.
What kind of a weird hotel was this anyway? All the rooms had these heavy doors reinforced with bronze. Everything was marble columns, with mosaics depicting huge, musclebound heroes. The whole thing struck Tony as a bit kitschy and antiquated. “I guess this is some kind of jungle temple theme or something? All the rooms are in Roman numerals.”
He rolled his luggage up to the heavy door with his number on it, some jumble of Xs, Ls, IVs, and a C or something like that. It was decent, with more polished marble everywhere, but with minimal furnishings: a stool, a hammock, a row of hooks on the wall that must have been for hanging clothing, a floor-length mirror, a circular bathtub fed by a bronze lion fountain as a faucet. Even the toilet looked like something out of Pompeii: a stone seat backed by a mosaic of two musclebound characters grabbing one another's dicks.
“Adults only, I guess?” He double checked the pamphlet on his luggage: Removal of clothing is only permitted inside of private rooms. At least there was somewhere to hang it out to dry, somewhere to shower and change.
Time to peel this tux off. As Tony unraveled the bowtie, he caught sight of himself in the floor-length mirror. Streaks of dirt marred his formal shirt and lapels. Mud lapped the cuffs of his velvety trousers. And he knew his opera pumps were in desperate shape, but—
“Ffffuck.” Tony noticed it. The size, the way his balls filled out his crotch, swelling through the lustrous black wool. And biceps! He had biceps now. He never remembered his sleeves hugging his arms like that. Popping the studs on his shirt—fuck, that release of his sweltering pecs—undoing the cufflinks, he began to tug his shirt studs apart. Pushing back the sweat-drenched finery revealed pectorals—fuckin beastly pectorals dusted in salt and pepper chest hair. Was this even his body? He pulled the shirt and jacket open, revealing the glistening ridge of pectoral muscle casting a shadow over his middriff.
Fuck. If he kept glancing in the mirror like this, he’d get too distracted to undress. So he turned and peeled his jacket off, then his shirt. There was so much more “arm” to move for each of them, the beefy peaks of biceps hindering his elbows as he stripped. Avoiding the mirror, he pulled off his socks and turned on the water in the bath tub. Or “basin,” he supposed. No hot water, but he didn’t need hot water in this sweltering humidity. Didn’t this place have any air conditioning? Or electricity? Or soap or shampoo?
“I have no idea how we’re supposed to clean up. Instructions said not to bring toiletries.” Tony stepped into the water, bulging ball sac so large and heavy, bigger around than his cock was long. His cock stiffened as he noticed his sculpted legs—a vein or two through his calves—and the ridges of abs. Abs! He’d never had abs, not once in his life. Four panels of muscle met at his navel, swirled with salt and pepper fur. When the water was high enough, he dipped his whole head in, letting the salt, the sweat, the cum all dissolve away.
His cock tingled the whole time, massive balls caressed by the water. He let himself soak and relax. It wasn’t like him to lose track of time like this. No agenda, no appointments. It felt . . . weird. Quiet. Yet necessary at the same time. Leaning his head back, he let himself drift off to sleep.
He had no idea for how long, but the growling of his stomach waked him up. Yawning, he stepped out. There was only one towel for him to use, so he dried off, attempted to compose his hair, and then picked out his next outfit. There had to be some kind of convocation or opening session for this leadership seminar thing. And, since his tux was out of commission, he had to make an impression. So he chose navy tropical wool, double-breasted, extra wide lapels. With difficulty he zipped his triple-pleated trousers over the still-engorged globes of his balls, hammocked now in fine wool that made him half-hard again. He closed his crisp white French cuff shirt over his ample pectorals, finishing it off with enamel cufflinks, a grenadine tie, and his wholecut laceups in a gleaming basketweave leather. Tony tugged the points of his pocket square in a fine little spread before strutting out of his room, sculpted shoulders swaggering under the snug frame of his suit jacket, swollen balls rocking in the crotch of his trousers.
*
Afternoon, Day 2.
The sun climbed in the dizzy, humid sky. Hot even indoors. Still no A/C in this place? Tony noticed a commotion as he returned to the lobby. On either side of the gate leading out to the courtyard stood two colossal shirtless men: sweaty, half-bare brawn, each clothed only in a pair of suit trousers. Sweltering in their fresh suits, everyone else stood at a distance and whispered among themselves at the strange musclemen in their midst.
“Looking sharp as always, Tony,” said a familiar voice.
Tony turned and recognized Mr. Jim Bentley, another hedge fund manager, a long-time colleague in the business. “Same to you, Jim.”
Bentley, like the other guys, had the same idea as Tony: all had bathed and changed, looking much like they did back in the park, though many with muscles filling out their suit jackets, as well as stubble that seemed a little out of place with their clean executive outfits. The fellow in the military uniform now had a fresh uniform on—must have brought a whole set of them, Tony guessed—though his ample biceps puckered the seams of his sleeves. Tony scanned the room, noticing Omar near Sackman. Both looked clean and composed again in three-piece suits, both looking enlarged with newfound muscle. Tony admired the way the pinstripes of Omar’s suit rode over his biceps, how thick and dark his stubble looked—until Tony noticed Omar eyeing up Sackman, whispering to the bigger man with a flirty wink.
Tony sighed, his dampshirt straining across his chest. Maybe he’d find someone else during his time here?
Bentley's pinstripe suit squeezed his biceps. He nodded towards the shirtless musclemen at the courtyard gate. “Hey, you think after seven weeks of this weird fruit we're going to end up looking like those guys?”
“Sure hope so.” In answer, Tony's cock twitched. This Triple A Double E company really pulled out all the stops, didn't they? The two musclemen looked like they stepped right off a bodybuilding calendar. Their sun-bronzed and glistening anatomy looked as hard as marble, their arms folded behind their backs and their chests huffed out for all to see. But their eyes looked vacant. “They look like statues.”
“I know.” Bentley adjusted his cufflinks. “They haven't moved or flinched this whole time. Won't say a word to anybod—whoa—wait—they're—”
“Marching across the lobby?” Tony stepped back, making way for them, his cock stiffening as he saw their gleaming muscles move, fluid and powerful. They crossed the lobby from one side to the other, approaching the bronze gate that led to the closed-off staircase. As soon as they unlocked it, a large figure processed down the stairs: a behemoth of a man, broader and taller than any of the others, dressed in an immaculate tuxedo and a black mantle, his face shrouded by the hood. Murmurs rippled across the lobby as this massive figure stepped across, flanked by the two musclemen who kept pace with him like bodyguards. Tony tried to peek at the figure’s face, but all he could see were the figure’s large, brown hands—bricklike fists, framed by gleaming white cuffs and gold chain cufflinks. On his enormous feet, a pair of black velvet slippers fell off his heels with each step, sockless ankles and arches showing beneath the rich drape of his tuxedo trousers.
The figure said nothing. With a purposeful stride he approached the gate that led to the courtyard in back of the complex. He unlocked it, pushed it open, and stepped through. The two musclebound men took their stations on either side of the courtyard gate, blank stares directed forward as though nothing had happened.
The room fell quiet. Tony looked around for a moment and smoothed his lapels. “Well, Bentley, I guess we're being invited out back.”
“Guess so,” replied Tony's business associate. The two approached the gate, the other suited guys following them. As soon as Tony stepped out into the steamy afternoon air, a wave of that sticky, savory-sweet musk hit him. The fruit. Loads of it. A whole orchard of it, rows and rows of trees overshadowing the courtyard, each branch laden with that fruit. And, underneath them, tables had been set with food and drink.
“Do you think the cloaked guy was the CEO of this place?” Tony speculated as he paced around, trying to swallow his drool. The aroma of the fruit tantalized his palette. “I don’t see him anywhere.”
He wasn't the only one eyeing the tree branches overhead. Sackman, dappered up in a cobalt blue three-piece suit and a billowing tie, swaggered by and licked his lips. Omar eyed up the fruit, too, following Sackman. Tony took a seat next to Bentley, hoping to distance himself from Sackman. Anybody who bragged that much about himself had to be irritating.
A few minutes passed. The hooded figure was nowhere to be seen. Bentley made some smalltalk: “So didn't you tie up the divorce proceedings last month?”
A sore subject, but Bentley followed Tony closely enough to know, so Tony nodded. “This . . . this whole leadership seminar thing seemed like a good way to cleanse of all that, you know?”
“Yeah. A change of pace. I can see why you needed it.”
Never let your stress show. Never let them see you sweat, thought Tony, as he felt a bead of perspiration slide down his back and soak into his shirt. There had to be hundreds—thousands—of those fruits hanging right overhead. If one treeful gave him that much of a rise, how much would—
“Was it just me,” Bentley began, peering up at the low-hanging branches, “or was there no soap or shampoo in your room?”
“Just a towel.” Tony brushed his knuckles against his rich tie, his shirt already damp. “The directions said we weren’t supposed to pack any toiletries.”
“Weird,” remarked Bentley. “I mean, I guess they have some proprietary products for us to try?”
“I’m sure they do. Seven weeks would be a long time to go without a decent bath.”
“No kidding.” Bentley adjusted his pocket square, pinstripes riding over his strapping arms. “I mean, it was a difficult decision, clearing my calendar for seven weeks.”
“Same here.” Tony shifted in his seat. Perspiration gathered in his pits, dampening his crisp dress shirt. “It’s a steep commitment, asking us to come out here to—I guess?—a deserted island?”
“In the middle of East Bluff Park, no less.” Bentley lowered his voice, nodding up at the fruit. “I think they must have drugged us or something. How else do you think they could’ve pulled off this sudden change of scenery?”
Tony shook his head. “Maybe so. But . . . well, you’ve tried the fruit. So you know what it does.”
“True,” replied Bentley with a smirk. “I guess if we wanted to opt out we could just . . . take off our suits.”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“You know . . .” Bentley pulled the pamphlet out of his pocket, then tapped the paper. “Says so right here: ‘Anyone who remains nude in public areas for longer than one hour will be disqualified and sent home.’ So, from a legal standpoint, we can opt out real easy. Just bare it all and do a Lady Godiva.”
Tony laughed. “I’ll be saving that pamphlet for my lawyer once I get back. I have a feeling there’s some legal strictures about that.”
“So, do you think there's a guest speaker or opening speech or something? Where do you think Mr. Mystery Hood went?” Bentley shifted in his seat, tugging his tie. For a few minutes, everyone murmured among themselves, full plates of food in front of them, and with those savory, musky fruits dangling overhead, just within reach.
Tony checked his watch. Beneath his suit jacket’s layers of silk lining and fine wool, his pits soaked through his shirt. Without deodorant, he was starting to smell a bit ripe already, and he hoped Bentley wouldn’t notice. “Give it a few more minutes, maybe?”
“Right. Seems rude to just sit down and start eating.” said Bentley, glancing up at the fruit and licking his lips.
The fruit. Just the sight of it aroused Tony, now that he knew how much it amplified his libido. The hot breeze blew down a whiff, and Tony's cock swelled, swollen balls pinned against his thigh, the fine snug fabric of his suit trousers clinging around it like shrink wrap. He became aware of his lack of underwear as his cock drooled a hot bead of precum into his thigh. He'd already jizzed up his tux before getting here, leaving him with six suits left for seven weeks. He would have to be careful throughout this steamy outdoor meal.
A distraction. If Tony just sat here, he'd start stroking. He couldn't help it, the temptation, the horniness. So Tony cleared his throat and produced a distraction. So Tony reached for his glass. “You know, I think I see someone already eating, over there.”
Bentley nodded. “Sounds about right. Dig in?”
Tony took up his fork and knife. “Looks like these Triple A guys like to keep us waiting. Bon appetit.”
Soon, everybody was eating. After a night of sweating and tromping through the woods in his tux, Tony had worked up quite an appetite. But every time he caught air of those fruits hanging overhead, his mouth watered, and his cock throbbed, wetly.
Shit, thought Tony. Sweat trickled down his sides, blots of moisture all over this once-crisp dress shirt, but his trousers were even worse. He could feel the growing moist spot soaking through where his cock drooled against his thigh. No underwear to hide this one. He wanted to just whip it out and stroke, just unzip and let it free. Fuck. He ached for release, hornier than even his college years, surrounded by all these handsome as fuck suited studs fuck fuck—
With a plop and a bounce, one of the fruits fell on the table. It was so ripe it left a smudge of juice.
Bentley stared at Tony, then stared down at the fruit. “Uhh . . . should we eat that?”
“I'm pretty sure that's corporate property.” Tony inhaled the pungent aroma of the fruit resting between his plate and Bentley's. Concentrate. An automatic response to a stimulus. Stimulate. That fruit stimulated—fuck—just fuckin concentrate. He wasn't used to having to try this hard just to avoid making a fool of himself. He'd mastered plenty of luncheons and fine dinners in his day. Why was this one so hard all of a sudden? But it was right there, the fruit, just waiting for him to make the first move. So hard to resist. So hard. Harder. Leaking. Fuck. He could feel the hot precum squeezing out in a steady stream.
Bentley stuck the fruit with his fork and popped it into his mouth.
Shit. Remembering that libidinous glow induced by the fruit—that fuckin sweet jerkoff afterward—Tony couldn't help but feel a bit envious. So he calculated a remark to save face. “How does it go? The rich get richer because the poor think every opportunity is a scam.”
Bentley's eyes rolled. He kneaded his hands in his lap, and his shirt and suit jacket let out a creak of their seams. Bentley's wet lips mouthed the words, “Fuck that's good.”
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