Walk in the Park 4: Hunter, Gatherer.
- Southern Suitor
- Feb 4, 2022
- 8 min read
Suits to Brutes | Sweat | Turning the Tables | Rip & Strip
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Lording it over the island, Tony feels confident that he has given himself an advantage in the island's game. But rivalries start to emerge, sparked by abuses of power that haunt Tony from the outside world. Is it possible that one of Tony's interns followed him onto the Island, and seeks to exact revenge? 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.
Years ago, before the jungle had taken hold of him, Mr. Tony Verecchia remembered one of his suited fuckboys.
Tony remembered fastening the studs of his crisp formal shirt, the fine pique fabric closing over his chest with his platinum neck chain peeking out. It was long before all this muscle had crammed his frame, so much easier back then to keep his shirt closed. His limp cock hung out.
In the mirror of his private executive washroom, he saw his latest conquest. He didn't even remember the guy's name. Someone hispanic, maybe? He was a handsome young intern who now lay doubled over on his desk, various articles of his suit and tie discarded all across Tony's office. Tony knew that his husband would be expecting him at the chapel later that day for their wedding, so he sneered down at the intern: "Get dressed, and get lost. We don't want my husband finding out about this."
The intern lay on the desk still, his panting breaths fogging its glass surface. The seat of his silk boxers had been ripped open, fine fabric soaked from the trail of cum where Tony's phallus has withrawn moments before. Tony imagined that the young intern was drunk with it, the aroma of his fine cologne, intoxicated and honored to be taking a load from a successful, dominant, superior suited man, which is of course what Tony was. Top of the pecking order. The intern slithered off the table while Tony worked his satin bowtie into a proper knot.
Those were the days, thought Tony, half asleep, back when his sex drive was in top gear. And these were the days, too, on this island, drunk with the lust-inducing effects of this weird fruit, reviving his libido with a vengeance.
Tony awoke to a pounding at his door. Rolling over on the weedy marble floor, he picked himself up—difficult to maintain his balance, with his newly muscled bulk, his dizzying pectorals and massive ball sac—and cracked open the door.
“Rise and shine, guido boy,” Sackman whispered.
Tony groaned. Without his cellphone alarm, his sleep schedule was off kilter—an urban relic of his 9-5 life, left behind days ago once he entered this island. How many days? Tony was having a harder time keeping track of it, time.
“Come on,” grunted Showers. He wore the soiled, sleeveless shell of his military dress blues. “We’ve got to hunt.”
Tony nodded, yawning. “You’ve got some coffee or something?”
“Ha, ha. Very funny. Just put on one of your dirty suits and follow us,” Sackman urged. Already sweating through his filthy suit and tie, Sackman hadn’t even bothered buttoning his shirt or zipping his fly. “This was your plan, after all. We do the hunting, and then have everybody else give us fruits and suits in exchange for meat. Remember?”
Tony nodded again. “I’ll get dressed. Give me a minute.”
“Hurry,” grunted Showers.
*
Day 4.
The time came into clarity in his mind, after he’d been up for an hour or two. Strange—the effects of the fruit—how he’d heave out one monstrous orgasm after another, then sink into a deep, timeless sleep, memories of the previous evening growing hazier, memories of his job, his schedule, his address—all growing harder to recall.
Already he'd jizzed up his Brioni tuxedo. He remembered the brand of it, at least, and the fact that it was one of many tributes from his hapless suited fucksubs over the years. It was what he wore the first night, now spattered in mud with his mud-encrusted opera pumps. On the second day, it was his three-piece navy suit, which he'd torn in half as he muscled out, engorged with the weird fruit. On the third day, there was the tan solaro wool suit from yesterday, still wearable, but just about every seam had split in the failed effort to contain his growing body, its once pristine lapels and tie now crusted with the volcanic cum stains from the previous day. He burst a few more seams of this suit as he wrestled himself back into it, and went out with Sackman, Showers, Emilio, and Omar to hunt.
At first, it struck him as a comical scene. He and his four fellow elite Hunters in the rags of their suits and ties trudged through the jungle, Sackman and Showers with their makeshift spears. But those were the rules: suits and ties at all times; anyone caught naked would be sent home. With five decent suits left to last seven weeks, Tony could afford to get this one muddy in the sweltering undergrowth, his overgrown balls pressed against the slick moss of the jungle floor as he held one end of a net that Omar and Emilio had made. Lying prone in the thicket, Tony and Omar each held ends of the net while Sackman and Showers chased down a wild boar, charging it into the clearing just in time for Tony and Omar to hoist the net up, entangling the hapless creature.
And so they took their kill back to the ruined temple where the rest of the suited executives were staying. Further sullying their sleeveless suit and uniform, Sackman and Showers would skin and butcher the beast and begin roasting it, while Tony went back to his room, stripped off his dirty tan suit, dipped his massive body in water, then changed into one of his remaining fresh suits: gray pinstripe three-piece, with a tab collar and French cuffs and a sevenfold tie that gleamed like a gem. One of his most powerful suits, this one of his own purchasing, unlike most of his others, which were financed by tributes from his interns and underlings over the years. The lapeled waistcoat buckled to contain his burgeoning pectorals, massive ball sac straining the fly of his trousers, as he attempted to move his boulder-like shoulders in as smooth and muscular a strut as he could manage. Had to make his appearance as one of the elite Hunters, in control and in charge of his attire, while everyone else—the Gatherers—came in, their attire muddy and torn, presenting their hauls of the fruit.
Seating himself at the fountain, Tony crossed his legs, showing off the mirror gleam of his laceups, and watched as they lined up: the underlings, the Gatherers, with their hauls of the strange island fruit, forming a line at the greasy fire at which Sackman and Showers turned the spit, roasting the day’s boar. Tony watched them imperiously as they deposited their suitcases full of the fruit and received their rations of meat, each one of them starving and grateful for the meal.
Sackman, halfway wearing one of his fresher suits, started shouting at one person in the line.
Currency, thought Tony, gazing out over the crowd: they had an economy going now, and, once the line petered out, Tony would strut right up and have his helping of whatever he liked: fruit, flesh, fucking. Dress like a business mogul, think like a barbarian warlord.
The squabble between Sackman and one of the suited underlings grew louder, until finally Showers—sleeveless in the ragged shell of his dress blues—seized the man and brought him in front of Tony.
“What seems to be the problem?” Tony smirked, stroking the arch of his tie, pretending his collar wasn’t biting into the swollen musculature of his neck.
“Seems we have a freeloader,” grunted Showers, shoving the man to the ground. “He says he couldn’t find any fruit.”
Uncrossing his legs, Tony stared down at the man, then nudged the man’s stubbled cheek with the toe of his mirror-shined shoe. “What is your name?”
“Rainsford,” spat the man. His trek through the jungle had reduced his navy pinstripe three-piece suit to a ragged mockery of its former self, suit and tie smeared in mud, sweaty lining fraying over his downtrodden musculature.
“That’s ‘sir,’ to you.” Planting the sole of his gleaming shoe on back of the man’s head, Tony pressed down, thrusting Rainsford’s cheek into the muddy tiles below. “Why did you come back emptyhanded?”
“Please, sir. I haven’t eaten all day.” Sputtering, Rainsford shook his head. “I tried—I tried searching everywhere, but couldn’t find any of the fruit.”
Murmurs passed up and down the line of suited gatherers, who watched as Tony stared down at Rainsford.
“None?” Tony plucked the blade of his mighty tie, still cinched and pristine against the bullish cords of his neck. “Nowhere at all on the island?”
“No. No sir.” Rainsford squirmed against the ground, but Showers kept him pinned on the tiles, his muscular bulk smothering Rainsford’s swollen physique.
Tony noticed the attention of the audience, each of whom started looking into their suitcases, making sure they had some of the fruit. “And you’re hungry, you’re telling me?”
“Yes sir. Please. Just let me eat.”
“Let you eat. Hm.” Gazing off at all the other Gatherer underlings, Tony nodded. “So I’m supposed to let you have a free lunch, is that it?”
Rainsford wheezed under Showers’ stranglehold.
“Hmm . . .” Tony stroked his whiskered chin, a drop of perspiration soaking into the iron-tight collar of his shirt. “Lieutenant Showers? Strip him of his shirt.”
“But—sir!—it’s Egyptian cotton! Rainsford whined as Showers rolled him over. “Mother of pearl buttons!”
“Good. If you want a meal, you’ve got to pay for it.”
Grasping Rainsford’s muddy pinstripe suit jacket, Showers wrestled him out of it, mudspattered sleeves rupturing over Rainsford’s biceps along the way.
“No!” Rainsford tried batting Showers away. “Not the waistcoat too—please!”
“Whining costs extra,” growled Showers as he gripped the lapeled waistcoat. He made quick work of both garments: the buttons were straining already across Rainsford’s barrel chest, and Showers, wrenching the shirt placket apart and waistcoat apart, sent fine buttons ricocheting off the tiles in all directions as he tore both garments down the center, then down the back, popping Rainsford’s grosgrain braces as he stripped Rainsford shirtless, his half bare body dripping sweat beneath the muddy rag of his tie, still knotted absurdly around his neck, glistening pecs heaving, bare and vulnerable.
“We’re going to have to make an example of you, Rainsford.” Chuckling at the whole spectacle, Tony flicked one of Rainsford’s buttons off the toe of his shoe. He rose to his feet, addressing the crowd. “Around here, everybody works for their food. You gather fruit from the island and bring it to us. And in exchange, we give you meat. It’s a simple exchange. An economic transaction.”
Rainsford curled up in the fetal position, clutching the rags of his waistcoat and shirt, which Showers shredded into smaller strips, hurling them down at the shirtless man.
“Did you think you were an exception to the rule? We all agreed to this arrangement. Sackman, Showers, Emilio, Omar, and I are Hunters. We spent all morning capturing and preparing this boar—for you—for all of you to eat. And you’re going to crawl in here and ask for a free meal, when all these hard-working men found their fair share of the fruit?”
Murmurs of assent passed down the line of suited Gatherers. Omar and Emilio strutted around the downcast man like panthers, circling and predatory. Rainsford said nothing.
“Nothing? You’ve got nothing to say for yourself?” Tony scoffed. “Omar—Emilio—strip him of his shoes too.”
“They’re Meermin!” wailed Rainsford. “Custom wholecuts—”
“Should’ve thought of that before coming here emptyhanded.” Tearing apart the laces, Omar wrenched one of Rainsford’s shoes off, while Emilio pried off the other, leaving Rainsford’s sweaty, muddy socks exposed, which Omar peeled away. In a matter of moments, Rainsford had gone from wearing a three-piece suit to now wearing only his trousers and tie, shirtless and barefoot.
“Confiscate his waistcoat, shirt, and shoes,” commanded Tony. “Those are his payment. He’ll get to eat tonight. But if you, ‘Mister’ Rainsford—if you show up here emptyhanded again, you’ll surrender even more of your clothing. And you’ll be booted off the island all the faster for it.”
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