Walk in the Park 3: The Food Chain.
- Southern Suitor
- Feb 4, 2022
- 16 min read
Suits to Brutes | Sweat | Domination
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Shaking off the emotional aftermath of his divorce, Tony and his fellow suited companions are forced to hunt for food. A hierarchy begins to form in this strange new society: one civilization unravels & gives way to another. Content warning: The suited muscle execs go full Lord of the Flies in this part. Bondage, slavery, domination, dubious consent. Read at your own risk.
“Do you even lift?” Jim, Tony’s ex-husband, thumped his fist on the table. “I’ve been trying to hook you up with a trainer for years, and you keep giving me excuses—too busy at work, got too many meetings, don’t have the time, don’t have the energy.”
“What, and outgrow my wardrobe?” Tony fucking hated it how Jim never wore anything better than tanktops and gym shorts. Here was Tony, decked out in a custom French cuff shirt, grosgrain braces, a pair of trousers from his Loro Piana suit. Hell, Tony even ditched his tie and took off his shoes—wasn’t this casual enough? But noooo. Jim always whined about how he could never dress to Tony’s level, despite all those trips to Tony’s tailor over the years. Tony could never get Jim to wear something with buttons on it. “I mean, I can afford more Brioni and Ambrosi, of course, but it would be a hassle, ordering a new wardrobe just because I lifted a few weights.”
“Yeah, but what about what’s underneath, hm?” Jim shoveled another mouthful from his plate, slouching in his grimy stringer tank, thick and veiny feet sprawled wide on the carpet. “You know, the part that I get to look at before bed each day?”
Tony scoffed. What the fuck do you care, thought Tony. Tony knew that this was a dream, a recent memory. In the back of his mind, he knew that this was after they’d both outed each other’s affairs: Tony caught Jim smelling like another guy’s jizz, with the wrappers of condoms and lube in his gym bag from when he’d been screwing one of his “lifting bros.” And Jim had intercepted one of the packages that Tony’s subs was sending him: a pair of Rubinacci loafers, with a splotch of cum on the insteps of each fine shoe. Tony had to admit, he was impressed by Jim’s diligence. Jim had taken the shipping receipt, tracked the number, and found out that this was one of five such “tributes” Tony had extracted from this sub. Jim had no idea that findom was a thing, how Tony had been exacting these sartorial tributes from his interns for years. Took Jim long enough to catch on—to notice that Tony’s habit for fine Italian suits and shoes was bankrolled through his illicit liaisons.
But it wasn’t blackmail, Tony reminded himself. None of that was blackmail. It was all part of an “arrangement,” a kink. Domination of his suited subs, right down to their bank accounts. Control.
Wasn’t the first sub of his either. Hell, he even remembered fucking one of his interns the morning of their wedding, years ago. The infidelity already started before rings and vows were exchanged.
“What, you’re not going to say anything?” Jim snorted like a bull, rubbing his beefy bare feet together. “I’ve told you plenty of times, if you just went to the gym three times a week—”
“My income is what’s keeping this loft of ours afloat,” snapped Tony back, ignoring the remark about fitness. “You know that? I work long hours every week. I don’t have fucking time to give up my hours to go to the gym with you. Do you think I can compromise my time—my money—for your—your—”
“What, Tone?” Jim stabbed at his plate, sneering, his nipple slipping out of his stringer tank. “Say it. I’ve heard it coming all along.”
“Your dumbass vanity project.” Tony didn’t remember rubbing his wedding band like that, but in the back of his sleeping mind he was aware of how strange it felt to wear his wedding band, and how strange it felt to get to take it off after the divorce later on. “I mean, seriously? Who makes a career as a bodybuilder? Hm? Grow up and get a real job.”
Jim banged the table again. “Why is it you get to do what you want to do, and you get to scold me for doing the same, hm?”
Tony noticed the way Jim’s bare muscles trembled, veins popping with rage. Sometimes their arguments ended in sex. Angry sex, with Tony ramming his husband, remaining mostly clothed—ignoring his husband’s complaints that he never removed a stitch of clothing, even for sex. Dominance, power, invulnerability: that was what Tony’s suits meant to him. Tony letting his French cuffed, cufflinked hands roam across his husband’s bare trophy body. But there was something different about it this time. Jim’s muscles seemed . . . bigger. Shinier. Sweatier.
“Because what you want isn’t practical,” Tony spat back. “It’s not a real career, Jim. Yeah, sure, that was all fine when we were dating, how hot it was you were going to the gym and all, but—nowadays—it’s not working. Not at all. And I’m tired of footing the bills for all that gross-ass protein powder of yours.”
Two heavy bangs, one for each elbow, as Jim rested his head in his hands, raking his fingers through his hair, drops of sweat gliding between his nearly-bare pectorals.
Tony remembered this part of the dream, this part of the memory. Or how it was supposed to go, at least. This was when Jim would start crying—blubbering, like a big baby—and tell Tony in broken words that he wanted a divorce. This was it. This was the argument that broke—
But instead, Jim looked up. His plate was full of slices of fruit. That weird fruit. Inflating like balloons, Jim’s pectorals started stretching out of his tanktop, a rupture in the thin, perspiration-soaked fabric. Jim no longer looked like Jim. Jim looked like . . . like . . .
Tony sprung up from the table, toppling his dinner plate to the floor. Jim looked like Tony, Tony’s face, on Jim’s body, only Jim’s body inflated, neck swelling into traps, pectorals decimating his tanktop—
With horror, Tony looked down at his feet, bare on the carpet beneath his trouser cuffs. His cock pitched an obscene, drooling tent in his trousers, and his balls—swollen, bull balls, bulging and filling out his trousers—between Tony’s bare feet, his dinner plate lay face-down on the carpet, spattered with those fruits all over. One of them rested against his toe.
Except Tony’s feet were bigger, hairier, veins tracing up through his sinews. His distended ball sac tore a hole in his trousers, breaching the teeth of his zipper—too much testosterone-soaked bulk to contain—boulder-thighs ripping through his trousers, shirt buttons giving up the ghost against the tectonic plates of his pectorals forested in curls of chest fur that weren’t there a moment ago—burgeoning out so far that he almost couldn’t see his cock flopping out of his shredding trousers, and, as he lifted up his hands to look down at them, the way his palms seemed so harsh and calloused as though from years of pumping iron, as his shirt sleeves tore themselves to shreds over his vein-threaded, sinewy, powerful arms—
Morning, Day 3.
Arms that Tony now had. Tony gasped, waking up, staring at his arms. No alarm urging him awake—no meeting to rush off to, no fragrance of coffee waiting from his automatic espresso maker in the kitchen. No noise but crickets, birds.
It took him a few breaths to collect himself. He was back on that island. That weird-ass leadership simulation island or whatever. He could feel his stark-naked body resting against the damp marble floor. He saw his suits hanging in a corner. Five suits left. Five suits for seven weeks. And this was only the thirdd day.
Already he’d jizzed up his Brioni tuxedo from the first night, now spattered in mud and musty sweat with his mud-encrusted opera pumps on the floor. Beneath them yesterday’s three-piece navy suit—the half of it that still remained—lay in a heap of sweaty tatters. Yet that’s what the rules said he was supposed to do: last for a whole seven weeks, with at least one outfit intact. His colleague Bentley was already sent away yesterday. (And how did they do that? It wasn’t like a reality show or anything. He just . . . disappeared, in the night.)
Tony got up. His stomach growled, empty. He stumbled off to the bath basin.
*
Tony admired it, the mountainous curve of his biceps, through the cum-spattered surface of the mirror, his stomach full of hunger.
Tony didn’t notice the crack in the mirror. He didn’t notice how tiles had fallen out of the walls of the bathroom, how tarnished that bath basin was, how the ceiling of his room sagged in one corner. In the haze of horniness, Tony didn’t notice that this weird marble temple on this jungle island in the middle of who-knew-where was showing its indeterminate age. He vaguely thought that it looked new yesterday.
Tony dug his nose into his pit to drink in the ripeness of his musk. Fuck. Still hard. He’d jacked off a dozen times this morning after attempting to rinse yesterday’s sweat and musk off, the aftereffects of all that weird fruit driving him to horniness again and again. No matter where he looked, he could see the beetling shelf of his pectorals just out of the corner of his vision. And that mirror didn’t help, either, as he admired the sculpture of his new grown body.
The muscular power of it, neweound possibilities of control.
Another grumble from his stomach. Empty, craving nutrients to feed this new body of his. His watch said it was nearly noon. Had he really slept over 12 hours? He had no idea. Time got a bit hazy after last night’s feast on the fruits. He would’ve been awake at 5, but his phone had died. And there was no electricity in this weird hotel, no A/C, so he sweated naked on the floor throughout the night. Maybe there would be another feast laid out for him in the courtyard? Or he could just snack on more of those weird fruits instead. His cock pulsed at that thought.
He groped his overgrown balls with one hand, unable to resist the urge to stroke as he wrestled his shirt over his beefy arm with the other. Getting dressed was a struggle, still raging with libido. Didn’t help that this tan solaro wool suit was tailored to a smaller version of his body, a fine Italian piece financed by one of his subs years ago. Some cocky young intern who needed to be put in his place, who needed to be shown a thing or two about how a grown-ass man dresses.
His French cuff shirt strained to contain his beefy arm. Tony managed to get his bottom three buttons fastened over the column of muscle that was his abs. His sheer OTC dress socks stretched over his muscular feet and calves well enough, translucent hosiery highlighting every curve of calf and ankle, the wide toes and broad ball and high arch of his sculptural foot showing through the silky seethrough sock. But shimmying into his suit trousers proved to be a delicate balance. If he bent forward too much, his shirt would rupture over his mountainous deltoid. Yet if he forced his trousers up his rock-hard thighs the seams would give. And this was to say nothing of tucking in his shirt around his protruding scrotum. But he had to look sharp, in control, even in this jungle. So he moved carefully, smoothing the tails of his shirt, tucking them in around his bulging ball sac, commando since he had not packed underwear.
Perspiring, he stepped into his buttery soft Italian loafers—Rubinacci, the same ones his last sub had tributed to him just before the divorce proceedings—strapped on his button-down grosgrain braces, and fastened his cufflinks. Even those small expenditures of effort made him slick with sweat: the hairy ridge of his pecs had already soaked through his shirt, pits wicking through the fine fabric. No undershirt, no underwear, no deodorant, but in a full suit and tie the whole time. That was the dress code: nothing would provide a barrier between his welling sweat pores and the crisp cotton of his custom shirt.
Holding his breath, he fastened the fourth button—so far, so good—then the third—buckling, but holding firm—then the second—fabric puckering in an obscene figure 8, failing to conceal the hairy pectoral canyon underneath—and then finally that top button—fuck—he twisted and wrestled it into place, felt like a fuckin chokehold around his neck, cords swollen so thick with muscle.
Okay, thought Tony, empty stomach growling once again. Just breathe. But not too much. As he inhaled, the shirt fabric tensed around his nipples—no concealing them—and exhaled, he fished his hefty sevenfold tie out of the bag and started working it into a fine double windsor around his neck, a long cone of silk protruding outward, the broad silk blade almost concealing that spot where his shirt buttons puckered in their effort to contain his muscular bust. Fine crisp cotton, now damp with his unhindered musk, clung to every contour of his bull-like physique: pecs, abs, traps, biceps—even hints of vein popping through.
“Painted on,” remarked Tony, reaching for his suit jacket. As he shrugged it on, the seams of his shirt and jacket complained with a creak.
*
As Tony walked the halls, he started to see it: floor tiles that had gone missing. Cracks in the marble. A few patches of moss and mildew.
Every seam of his tributed wool suit tensed, especially around his bolderous thighs, his testes packing the fabric like soccer balls in a gym bag. He had to move carefully. He noticed one of the bronze-reinforced doors of someone else’s room caved in, as though someone had taken a wrecking ball to it. Pausing, peeking inside, he saw vines, vegetation, a collapsed ceiling, as though the room had been abandoned for years.
More of the muscled-up guys passed Tony by, struggling to stay in their suits. The fellow in the military dress blues looked like a wrestler sewn into yet another copy of the same formal uniform he’d worn the previous day. The hamhock musculature of his biceps packed his sleeves to the breaking point, and the slouching way he held his shoulders, the haze of stubble all over his jaw, the rude slant at which he wore his tie—none of that would’ve passed inspection, and he seemed not to mind, judging by his smirk and the cocky tilt of his uniform hat. So Tony went along, since all the halls of the temple converged on a lobby of sorts. Along the way, he saw more rooms with their doors smashed, bombed in, choked in vines. Abandonment.
“They didn’t have what it takes,” grunted a deep voice nearby. “Every one of them who disappeared last night, that’s what’s left of the rooms they stayed in.”
Tony turned and noticed Richard Sackman, wearing a double-breasted suit in gray chalkstripes, with a fat tie double-windsored—but Tony could tell Sackman had his top button open beneath the conical silk knot, his shirt unable to fit over his gorilla-like physique. Between the flaps of his fine jacket, Tony noticed the still-drooling head of Sackman’s beercan dick.
“Geez,” said Tony. “Couldn’t you at least zip up?”
Sackman pounded together his hairy fists, pulsing his sausagey arms in his suit sleeves. “What, and cover up all this grade-A—”
“Grade-A alpha meat, yeah, we know.” Tony scoffed, remembering how Sackman bragged about it yesterday.
“You know you want it.” Sackman rubbed his chin. He looked like he hadn’t seen a razor in weeks. “You can whine about manners and be proper all you like, but you know you want me to mark you as my territory, guido boy.”
Tony shook his head. “Guido . . . boy? Really?”
“What, it’s because you’re Italian, isn’t it?” Sackman stepped a little too close, his hanging cock only inches away from anointing Tony’s trouser. “And you wear that silver chain necklace thingie.”
“Leave me alone.” Tony quickened his stride towards the main lobby, or plaza, or whatever the right term would be for this weird hotel-temple-place. “I have to figure out how to get through the next seven weeks of this place.”
“What, you might as well make it enjoyable!” Sackman slapped his cock, his tie swinging like a silken phallus of its own. “You’ll be ripping out of those fancy suits of yours before the week is out, guido boy.”
But Tony was already out of earshot. Other suited guys gathered in the main area, near the bronze fountain of the Herculean statue pouring water into the basin. There were two gates off this area. One led into the orchard, and the other led to a wide staircase whose end no one could see, barred by a bronze gate. Each gate stood guarded by a pair of musclebound sentinels: shirtless in suit trousers, arms crossed over their oil-slicked pectorals.
“Was that Sackman guy bothering you?”
“Hm?” Tony turned, glancing at a beautifully attired fellow next to him.
“That Sackman guy. He’s been bragging about his . . . endowment ever since he got here.” The fellow was a gentleman in a three-piece gray suit with a tie in a rich blue grenadine, matching sheer socks, and a pair of double monkstrap slip-ons. Maybe yesterday he had looked like a refined, elegantly composed dandy in his suit and tie. Today, though he looked sweat-slicked, unshaven, neck thick and sinewy with muscle that shoved his double four-in-hand knot askew, biceps ballooning in his suit sleeves, chest buckling out of his waistcoat and skintight dress shirt, swollen pectorals straining the buttons.
Tony couldn’t help but wonder . . . did this guy look familiar? Something about his face—a former coworker, maybe? But it had to have been years ago.
Tony stiffened his posture, secretly taking pride in being able to squeeze his muscular body into his tailored finery—this trophy suit of his from one of his sexual conquests—and remain composed, even though he felt his own tie and collar bite into the base of his bullneck. “I think he might have let all that weird fruit get to his head. My name’s Tony, by the way.”
“Emilio. And thanks for the complements on the suit—this is one of my Loro Piana ones. Love those shoes, by the way—you seem like the kind of man who pays close attention to shoes. Weren’t you wearing a tux and opera pumps a night or two ago?”
“Thanks. Yes, I was.” With a smirk, Tony noticed the way that Emilio’s suit sleeve stretched over the man’s peak of bicep muscle. This guy introduced himself as though they’d never met, so the flash of recognition from a moment ago dimmed. Maybe Tony was misremembering. “So—assuming that you got slipped a piece of the fruit back when—where were you when this whole weird leadership scenario or whatever started?”
“Oh me? I was having a lunch out with my other coworkers. I’m a regional manager at a bank. I remembered one of my colleagues had to get up to take a call, and the other excused herself to go to the restroom. That was when a waiter brought out . . . well, you know. A slice of the fruit. On a small plate.”
Tony mulled over the details. For some reason, he kept thinking about the day of his wedding with his ex husband years ago—something about this Emilio guy reminded him of that day. “Huh. I was at a charity gala. I work in hedgefunds. Same thing happened to me: waiter, small plate.”
“More than a coincidence, then.” Emilio attempted in vain to straighten his tie, trying to cover the spots where his puckering shirt buttons revealed glimpses of the canyon between his full pectorals under the taut fabric. “I guess this Triple A Double E company has its marketing scheme down to a science. I mean, it’s pretty impressive that they managed to get us from East Bluff Park to an island without us even noticing it. Maybe it was while we were asleep or something?”
“I don’t know.” Tony secretly liked that, how Emilio struggled to remain contained in his Loro Piana suit and tie, while Tony was holding up better maintaining his attire. Again, something in the man’s boyish features rustled Tony’s dominant tendencies—the fresh face of someone just making it into his business, ready to be ploughed by a more mature, more experienced man. And that dominance seemed all the more tantalizing, as Tony imagined this handsome young man submitting to him, despite the might of his wrestler’s physique stuffed into his suit and tie.
Tony then caught sight of Omar, the bearded hunk he remembered immediately taking a shining to back when this whole weird “leadership simulation” began. Omar wore a rich brown glen plaid three-piece suit with a contrasting collar & cuff French cuff shirt, all paired with a brilliant shantung tie and patent-shined Belgian tassel loafers on his muscular, sockless feet. But the suit, shirt, tie, and even shoes were all squeezed over a hirsute, stallion physique, the v-shape of his lats bulking up the sides of the suit jacket, emphasized by the waistcoat, his tie knot slipping loose to accommodate his powerful neck. Before his eyes focused too much on the distant prize of that handsome boy turned muscleman, Tony returned his attention to Emilio. “I think a lot of us are going to lawyer up when this is all done. There’s no electricity in this joint, no toiletries. And the room service is nonexistent.”
“No kidding,” remarked Emilio. “I had my personal assistant call up their website—back before I left, that is—but it looked nothing like this. I smell a false advertising suit.”
Yet you’re still here, Tony silently added. Same reason they were all still here: a chance to make their muscular new bodies permanent. A chance to cheat their ages. Omar, though, looked young enough that maybe age wasn’t his chief motivation. Maybe for him it was infinite horniness? Fuck, Tony certainly felt that, bull balls aching in his snug suit trousers. Tony noticed Omar exiting the gate that led out to the courtyard area, which was where they had dinner laid out for them the night before. Beneath the sweating layers of his suit and tie, Tony’s stomach growled again: more muscle required more food.
Tony pinched his tie, trying not to gag on the cinched collar. “Speaking of lack of amenities—maybe we should head out? See whether they’ve set breakfast for us?”
“Yes, let’s do that.” Emilio winked. “Gotta see if they’ve got more of that amazing fruit on offer.”
So Tony and Emilio followed Omar and the others out of the gate that led to the orchard. As he went from the humid interior to the steamy courtyard, Tony fully expected to find an endless supply of—
“The fruit?” Omar looked around, stunned. “It’s gone.”
“Gone?” Sackman barged ahead, shoving aside a few other guys.
Sure enough, every tree had been smashed, every plate and table shattered to smithereens. Weeds overgrew the remnants of the chairs, as though the whole place had been abandoned for years. Pressing his temples, Tony recollected. Before he crashed in his room last night, they had a huge feast out here. The orchard overhung a number of tables, all set for a fine company luncheon, with the lust-inducing fruit hanging just within reach. Tony recalled how everybody tried to partake of the meal, tried to remain composed and civilized, until somebody ate the first fruit. And then everybody helped themselves—
“Stripped bare,” Omar remarked, nudging one of the fragments of plates aside with his elegant shoe. Even the tablecloths looked grimy, eaten with holes, as though they’d been rotting along with everything else.
Sackman picked up a smashed branch, where some of the fruit pulp still clung to the end. “Gone? Who did this?”
Omar bit his bearded lip, looking around. “We did.”
“And where’s our breakfast?” Stepping up beside Sackman, the fellow in the skintight military dress blues kicked a snapped table leg. His polished name badge read “Lt. Showers.” He paced in a circle around one of the ruined tables. “Doesn’t this hotel have staff or anything?”
Omar glanced around, noticing Tony. Tony, though, put the pieces together a moment quicker: “It’s on purpose.”
“On purpose?” Emilio examined the bent blade of a tarnished knife: a remnant of the silverware trampled into the weedy earth. “What do you mean?”
“Leadership simulation, remember?” Tony nodded, and noticed several other guys listening to him. “That’s our first test. We’ve got to figure out how to feed ourselves.”
Omar smirked—even sexier, thought Tony, beneath that full beard of his—nodding, Omar raised his voice. “Tony’s right. We need to split up and search the island. There’s got to be food around here somewhere.”
But Tony dreaded it. Back into the jungle, in his fresh suit, a trophy from his tribute. And his just-polished Rubinacci loafers—the thought of all that mud swallowing the gleaming leather of his custom shoes, smearing the polish, lapping the cuffs of his trousers—an invasion, his fine corporate uniform carefully curated through years of tailoring encroached by the raw, muddy, sweaty, sweltering wild. His stomach sank.
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