Walk in the Park 5: Hazing.
- Southern Suitor
- May 7, 2023
- 12 min read
Mud Wrestling | Suits to Brutes | Domination | Comeuppance ◌
Disoriented and disheveled, Tony wanders the jungle in the remnants of his tuxedo, losing track of time. The island's fruits take hold of his mind. A failed ambush attempt leads to him being recaptured and brought back to camp, where Emilio has his way with him.
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.
Tony remembered what it felt like, his wedding ring, right after he and his husband had exchanged vows. Ex-husband, now. This was Tony’s wedding reception, years ago, in the marble-tiled hall of a historic hotel, with lights strung from potted palm trees that made a polite indoor, air-conditioned jungle for his guests. Their guests. Tony in his fine Brioni tuxedo, his pique shirt crisp and pristine, his satin bowtie blossoming at his neck. Jim, his then-husband, had teased him a bit about the opera pumps. “They look like ballerina shoes,” he had said, strutting around in his tuxedo and huffing his mighty chest in his tuxedo shirt. His formal ensemble was only Vitale Barberis Canonico—not that Jim knew what that meant, that language spoken by menswear wonks over their books of rich fabrics in the increasingly rare tailor shops of the world. Tony relished the way Jim looked now, his muscled body resplendent in this formal finery. He had to savor it while it lasted, because he knew that Jim would shuck all that clothing off and slip on sweatpants and a ratty tanktop the moment he could get away with it. “I’m just not a suit and tie guy,” Jim had said, even after Tony complemented him on how stunning he looked in this tuxedo.
“You look like a million bucks,” said Jim to Tony. “Even in your fancy ballet flats.”
“These opera pumps were my father’s,” replied Tony, wondering why the reception hall seemed so humid all of a sudden. “I should get you a pair.”
“I guess so. Future anniversary, maybe?” Planting a kiss on Tony’s cheek, Jim tugged his bowtie loose, undoing the top button of his collar.
“Um—loosening up a little early, I see?” Beneath the wool, satin, and cotton layers of his formal attire, Tony felt a bead of sweat slide from his armpit.
“We’ve finished the ceremony, right?” Jim wiped his forehead with his tuxedo sleeve, his arms looking much thicker, much more muscular, than Tony remembered, sleeves filled to bursting. “And didn’t we do the whole dancing bit? Time to loosen up.”
Tony noticed that there weren’t lights hanging from the fronds of the palm trees anymore: they were vines, spilling all over the floor, marble tiles looking grimy, cracked, and old, barely holding back the muddy earth underneath. “You look much handsomer when you’re fully done up.”
“What, you’ve been waiting for a glimpse of this, haven’t you?” Jim thumbed open one of his shirt studs. Even back then, Jim was always the bodybuilder, revealing that canyon of pectoral muscle through the crisp folds of his shirt, bowtie loose and sloppy—flirty, enticing—framing either side of the muscular display, beads of sweat gliding down the muscular cleft.
Brushing aside a moist leaf nearby, Tony had to admit he liked that display of chest. Even if Tony knew he’d never be a gym rat or a jock himself, he enjoyed having one as his arm candy. A trophy muscle boyfriend became a trophy muscle fiancée, and now a trophy muscle husband. He chuckled, wondering why there seemed to be fewer people in the room and more palm trees, popping up in places that made no architectural sense.
Jim slipped a hand under Tony’s lapel, chords of muscle thickening around his neck, veins threading beneath the perspiration-beaded skin. He pushed away a tree branch. “Come on, big boy. Let’s get this honeymoon started.”
“We still need to mingle a bit for the reception, right?” Tony felt something bounce against his foot, something wet and soft.
Tony knew that this was the part where Jim would have said that the guests would be alright on their own, but that’s not what happened. Instead, as Jim murmured his reply, Tony felt another squishy morsel against his toe, and that was when he realized that his opera pump was gone. He looked down and saw it, shoeless, sockless, his foot much wider and hairier than he remembered, a veiny foot belonging to a runner or a weightlifter, the wide Neanderthal foot of someone who could squat hundreds of pounds, incongruously bare beneath the hem of his tuxedo trousers.
Tony looked back up. Jim wasn’t there. Neither was the reception hall. It was all jungle now. He felt the vulnerable sole of his foot sinking into the muddy earth, silky-crisp formal trousers dipping into the moist filth of the ground. His wedding ring was gone.
Panic rose in him. Not again. Not stuck here again, not on this island. Tony turned and ran, sweat pouring down his forehead. A tree branch reached out and clawed his shirt, platinum studs scattering as his bowtie unraveled, chest heaving and burgeoning, pectoral plates of muscle bulging and grinding against each other, the platinum chain of his necklace sinking into the cleavage as the two pectoral masses heaved together, heaving his shirt apart. His legs pumped harder—satin stripes of his tuxedo trousers stretching and biting into his burgeoning thighs and bulging calves—sprinting, trying to find an end to this filthy jungle as his remaining opera pump flipped right off his foot, sheer socked hosiery shredding across his heel and toes as he splashed into mud. The filthy water lapped the cuffs of his tuxedo trousers, sloshing, now swallowing his bare feet whole as he shoved one vine after another out of his way, tuxedo trousers splitting over his thighs as his naked soles sank further, mud spattering up to the knees of his trousers. He trampled on, uncaring of the way his biceps bulged through his jacket sleeve, splitting the seam, torrents of sweat dissolving his deodorant as he lost his footing. Tripped, fell forward, face-down into the mud, his once-pristine formal shirt just dissolving in the mud, filthy mud marring the satin lapels of his jacket, drowning his pocket silk, fouling his cumberbund and trousers as he crawled, desperate to flee the jungle, crawling through the mud now barefoot in his tux—shirtless, too—somehow his shirt had disappeared, and one whole side of his tuxedo trousers had split wide open, shredding from his hip to his bare ankle, offering no protection from the mud, the mud now flooding into his tuxedo jacket as he waded further into the swamp, wallowing, the mud caking over his bare muscular chest, besmirching the satin lining of his tuxedo jacket whose entire sleeve was now torn away, his own overly muscled arm camouflaged in mud, until finally he fell face first into—
Tony blinked awake. Rain spattered across his face.
Of course, weeks ago could have been years ago. This island, with its weird fruit, had really screwed up Tony’s sense of time, he thought, brain churning and simmering in that way it always did, could never quite turn off the hum of his executive mind even in his dreams. Maybe it was his dreams where he was most sober, then? Because when he was awake, he could barely remember his life before the island, as though he’d always been on the island hunting down those weird fruits.
The rain drummed over Tony’s half-bare torso. Tony had escaped Rainsford and his Gatherer underlings in the cave, who had torn one whole side of his tuxedo open, stripping him of his formal shirt and opera pumps. On one shoulder, Tony kept shrugging on the ragged shell of his tuxedo jacket, his hulking traps downed with hair; the other side of his tuxedo jacket hung by threads, impossible to put back on. Gone was his middle-aged body from his city life: all bullish muscle now. His beefy arm tortured the seams of his remaining tuxedo jacket sleeve, stitches on the verge of coming apart with each movement. Across his bull-like neck his bedraggled bowtie dangled along with his platinum chain necklace. One grosgrain brace held up his trousers, the downpour pounding his chest and shoulders, cascading down his bare leg, while the other side of his trousers hung as a long, limp panel, split wide open. With his waistband split over one of his hips, trousers hanging halfway off his ass as he staggered along, he couldn’t even cover his cock and balls if he tried.
Barefoot in the rags of his tuxedo, he climbed a banana tree, picked a bunch, and helped himself. The island abounded with fruit trees, coconuts, oranges. And with the rain, water was in abundance too, washing the muck off his wrecked formalwear, only to wash him in muck again once he climbed back down to the jungle floor, submerged now in rising waters. Staggering along, he made his way from one tree to the next. Strange, how, not long ago, he was feasting on roasted boar dressed in his resplendent (too tight) three-piece suits, and now was reduced to foraging like a primate. He would make it back to the camp to join his fellow Hunters: Sackman, Lieutenant Showers, Omar, Emilio. Emilio, that bastard who betrayed him, tied him up in the middle of the jungle.
Another day passed, and another night. The rain didn’t let up. Staying to the hillsides, away from the flooded ravines, Tony managed to climb a tree and spend an uncomfortable night. When he awoke in the morning, he found a small tree bearing the island’s muscle-growth fruit, devouring every last morsel, blasting off a fountain of cum into the undergrowth, and staggering further on. More ordinary fruits sustained his appetite throughout the day, more bananas and coconuts. That was how it went for the days that followed: rain, foraging for both ordinary fruits and the muscle-growth fruit, stumbling through the woods, bare feet pounding through the slick forest floor, sleeping in the trees at night.
His pectorals plumped further and further out of the half of his tuxedo jacket that remained, biceps peaking with striations, growing difficult to bend, unwieldy. Each day, just as he grew desperate to taste that lust-inducing juice again, the island seemed to answer him with another tree of the strange little fruits, giving him a chance to glut his appetite, rub his meat, and muscle out more, rupturing a few more seams of his wrecked tuxedo. The satin stripes of his one remaining trouser leg hung on by threads, and all but a few stitches of his one sleeve held on, stubborn against the ever-swelling growth of his freakish arms, each sculpted sinew traced by veins. The panels of his abs began to lose definition, packing out into a dense trunk of muscle, a far cry from the lean abdominals of gym rats: the beastly physique of a powerlifter, built not for a photoshoot but for brutality. His chest had distended to such a monstrous shelf of muscle that his platinium neckchain kept getting wedged between the mountainous plates of muscle, curls of salt-and-pepper hair growing denser in that muscular canyon.
With each helping of the fruit, memories of his former life faded into haze. He knew his name was Tony, but he couldn’t recall that his full name was Tony Verecchia. Other facts began to slip from his mind: he no longer knew that he once was a hedge-fund manager from the city of East Bluff, that he once had an apartment with penthouse views of the whole park, a fabulous closet stocked with luxurious suits. A new personal assistant. What was his personal assistant’s name?
Time passed. Days? Weeks? The jungle sprawled on and on. The only beacon in Tony’s thoughts was the searing rage of revenge against Emilio. The aggressive rush of thinking about punishing that thief—it went straight to his cock, the anger, engorging him, making him snort like a bull, forcing him to stop in the undergrowth and jack himself off yet again before urging his half-naked bulk forward through the tangled brush. Day after day, browsing the forest for fruit, growing bigger and more unwieldy, letting the last vestiges of his civilized thoughts dissolve in that lust-inducing juice.
*
One day, Tony heard voices. It was the first time he’d heard anybody’s voice in quite some time. So he settled into the undergrowth, watching. The noise of the drizzling rain helped him stay concealed.
Through the leaves he picked out the muscular forms of the men whom he saw in the cave days, or weeks ago: Gatherers, trudging along with their walking sticks in the sodden rags of their suits, barefoot and shirtless. Except for one. Tony recognized Rainsford, the Gatherer who had taunted him the most. Beneath the tattered shell of his suit jacket, Rainsford wore what looked like a muddy shirt with a wing collar, French cuffs torn and dangling out of the cuffs of his jacket. And on his sheer-socked feet Rainsford wore a pair of opera pumps that Tony recognized too well.
His opera pumps, his tuxedo shirt. Tony’s nostrils flared. He could feel his pulse racing with envy, his phallic scepter rising with lust and wrath. How dare this stupid worm wear his finery?
But patience, Tony told himself. There were seven of the Gatherers. And he knew from his encounter in the cave that he was no match for all of them at once. So he would have to temper his newfound strength with guile. Following at a distance, he stalked through the undergrowth, observing where they went. The rain masked all noise, making it easier for Tony to keep his muscular bulk hidden in the thicket.
After an hour or two of observing their movements, he began to close range. At one point, Rainsford led the group to a large tree that had fallen over one of the many streams that cut through the island’s slopes, now flooded with all the days of torrential rain. On the other side of the bridge, their path clung to a rock wall that would have forced the whole group into a single file. Cautious not to fall into the swift water, they crawled across the bridge one by one, clutching their walking poles and luggage, tatters of once-bright satin lining hanging out of the shells of their suit jackets.
An opportunity. Some holdover from Tony’s business brain strategized in a new way, more like a predator. Studying the path, he let Rainsford’s party continue ahead before crawling across the log bridge himself. The rain continued to cloak any sound of his passage as he stalked behind them, watching them make their way up a hill to a grove of the muscle-inducing fruit. They picked some, feasted on some themselves. Tony’s tongue swam in drool, kingly cock pitched and drooling too, bullish balls aching with hunger and lust, dripping into the rain, just from the savory-sweet musk of it. Rage, too: how dare these lowly Gatherers partake of the fruit, when that fruit belonged to their higher-ups?
But Tony knew he didn’t have much time. Returning along the path, he made it back to the log bridge. Lifting one side of the bridge, he dislodged it from the edge of the flowing ravine, just enough so that anybody climbing on it would end up knocking one end of the fallen trunk out of its position, collapsing the bridge altogether. Climbing up a boulder nearby, he settled his half-clothed bestial form into the undergrowth, ripping a handful of vines off a tree. Now all he had to do was wait for his prey to return along their path and spring his trap. After the first few members of the party crossed, the log would fall into the ravine, Tony told himself, allowing him to spring on Rainsford, tie him up, and deprive him of the tuxedo shirt, cumberbund, opera pumps, and sheer socks that he had stolen. And then Tony would return to the camp and resume his throne as chieftain. That was how it would go.
They did not keep him waiting long. Rainsford and his fellow underlings soon returned, their suitcases filled to bursting with those juicy fruits. One of them carried two suitcases, too: one muddy and ragged, the same that he had brought with him, and the other still new, unopened. Perhaps a leftover from one of the island’s initial visitors, back when all of their suits were intact? One by one they climbed across the bridge, struggling to keep a grip on the fallen log while heaving their loads across. Tony watched as one side of the bridge buckled, then began to slide out of place. By the time Rainsford planted his foot on it, the log bridge slid down one side of the ravine, plunging into the current, forcing one of Rainsford’s underlings to scramble up the remaining side of the log to cling to safety. Rainsford was now alone on his side of the bridge.
Now, thought Tony. Strike now.
Rising from the thicket, Tony slid down the boulder, bare feet calloused and muddy from weeks of stalking the jungle barefoot in the rags of his tuxedo, his colossal bulk landing in a predatory squat.
Rainsford spun around, then dropped his luggage. Terror spread across his face. He tried to mouth Tony’s name, fruits spilling out of his discarded suitcase, washing down the slope in the rain.
Raising his fists, Tony was about to sock him in the head when he felt a strange prick along the side of his neck, like a needle. Across the ravine, one of Rainsford’s companions appeared to be blowing through his walking pole, which Tony now saw to be a long, hollow tube.
Perhaps it was Tony’s newly topheavy physique, his burgeoning pectorals and the muscular yoke of his shoulders pulling his center of gravity too far up, causing him to lose his balance on the uneven ground. His jaw, bristling with his wild beard, felt heavy, scratching against the ruined lapel of his tuxedo jacket, and his tongue felt lazy as he tried to form words. “Those . . . are my . . . shoes . . . opera pumssssszz . . .”
“You mean these, big man?” Rainsford smirked, his terror melting into triumph, holding up one of his feet, displaying the shoes he’d stolen from Tony weeks ago. “Oh, I don’t think you’re getting them back.”
With slowed synapses, Tony strained to recall how those opera pumps were once mirror-polished, elegant, in pristine condition. Now the soles frayed from the upper, the satin bows so badly caked in mud that Tony could hardly recognize them. Tony’s broad feet, accustomed now to trudging the muddy jungle floor for weeks, stumbled, finding it difficult to gain purchase on the terrain, bare soles sliding on the slick earth. A weird numbness spread from the wound, the pinprick along his neck. “I will . . .”
“You’ll be joining us back at the camp.” Rainsford laughed. “And we’ll see what Mr. Emilio has in store for you.”
By the time Tony plucked the feathered blowdart from his neck, he keeled over and blacked out.
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