The Formal Abduction (M/M)

[Bootmark]

Oh, wow!
I did not see that coming. I was thinking the officer was going to end up in the trunk as well.

[wataru14]

I love a good twist and I didn't see that coming! Great job!

[DeeperThanRed]

Guess you can never trust a cop, huh?

I wonder if Callahan will meet a new Matthew the next time they meet. Looks like Daron's latest target may not be so hard to train.

[Suitedtiedboy]

Thanks a lot @wataru14

Well, @DeeperThanRed , we wouldn't know for sure yet. Or how do you come to the impression that Matthew is easy to train in the end? I mean Matthew was just captured (being half drunk) and struggles so far in tight bonds.

[gag1195]

I was definitely not expecting that twist!

Though, I'm not sure this is the last we'll see of Officer Callahan. I definitely picked up on some tension between Daron and the good officer. If it were me, I know I would not appreciate the officer being sent to check up on me and my progress on the job. Definitely an insult that I suspect may come back to bite Officer Callahan in the butt...

[DeeperThanRed]

Thanks a lot @wataru14

Well, @DeeperThanRed , we wouldn't know for sure yet. Or how do you come to the impression that Matthew is easy to train in the end? I mean Matthew was just captured (being half drunk) and struggles so far in tight bonds.

Haha, call it a hunch! This part made me consider that Matthew might respond to some tough love:

terror, yes, but something else flickering beneath as his whimpers stopped

But again, that's just a prediction. I'm looking forward to seeing how his training actually turns out.

[Suitedtiedboy]

@gag1195 Yes, it seems like that no one can just do as they want within that secret kidnapping agency. Not even higher ups like Daron. In the end they all have to answer to the big boss. On the other hand...what Mister Weaver doesn't know ......
So yes, one can see the Officer being sent as a support but also as a sort of control. As most things ain't just black and white in life, maybe it might be somewhere in the middle.

@DeeperThanRed , well of course Matthew doesn't know much about the kidnapping organization yet. Hence at times it might be just wise to shut up and listen or watch for the time being. Or it is the overwhelming feeling of being kidnapped. And realizing one isn't just there for a simple one day ride-along... But Matthew isn't the type of a yes-and-amen kinda boy. At least as far as I imagine at this point.

[Suitedtiedboy]

Chapter XII: Coming Home


The Mercedes’ trunk clicked shut with finality. Matthew’s screamed hopelessly. But it faded beneath the engine’s purr as Daron slid behind the wheel. He adjusted the rearview mirror, catching one last glimpse of Officer Callahan retreating into the night before he vanished into the patrol car’s red-and-blue glare.

The dashboard clock read 00:17 AM. Ahead, the freeway stretched like a black ribbon, dotted with the occasional taillight. The vibration hummed through the chassis—a quiet, desperate rhythm. Daron smirked, and spoke over the intercom. “Patience, boy.” he snickered. “We’re almost there.”
 

The scent of wet asphalt and his own cologne mingled in the cabin. Daron flicked on the radio—classical, something with violins—and cranked it just loud enough to drown out the occasional thump from the trunk. Matthew’s struggles had weakened, reduced to sporadic jerks that rocked the Mercedes faintly. “Good. The boy was learning or tired himself out.” Daron though and his gloved fingers drummed the gearshift. He pictured Matthew’s sock gag dark with saliva. The mental image tightened his grip.

After a while streetlight gave way to unmarked roads. Trees loomed suddenly, their branches clawing at the moonlit sky. The Mercedes’ high beams sliced through the darkness, revealing a thick gate ahead. Daron slowed, rolling down his window. The humid air smelled of pine. A keypad blinked red under his fingertips. He punched in the code—*tap, tap, tap*—and the gate groaned open.
 

The building beyond was a fortress disguised as a manor. Floodlights bathed its brick facade in sterile white. Bars adorned every window, their shadows stretching like prison stripes across the manicured lawn. Security cameras swiveled silently, their red eyes tracking the Mercedes’ approach. The front doors—reinforced steel with ornate knockers—stood flanked by two men in tailored suits. Their ties were knotted impeccably, their holsters barely visible beneath their jackets. One nodded at Daron, his cufflinks catching the light: Weaver & Sons.

Daron parked, the tires crunched gravel. He stepped out, straightening his suit jacket.
 

Matthew’s muffled whimpers grew louder when Daron popped the trunk. “Mhhmhph..!” The boy was a mess—sweat-drenched, rope-bitten, his tape gag still in place. His pupils shrank in the floodlights, darting between Daron and the two suited men looming behind him. Their polished Oxfords clicked closer. One whistled. “Good looking catch there, Mister Meredith.” His silk pocket square matched his tie—burgundy with gold paisley.

Daron exhaled sharply through his nose. “He’s got a mouth on him. That’s for sure.” He seized Matthew’s bound ankles, hauling him forward until his shoulders scraped the trunk’s edge. The boy bucked, ropes creaking. The second man—broader, with a necktie knotted tight enough to choke—grabbed Matthew’s armpits. “Easy, kid. Don’t move too much or we could drop you!” he mentioned like he is carrying furnitures. Matthew screamed into his gag. “Mhhm..!!! Grrr! Nnmhgh!!!” The sound bounced off the manor’s brick facade.

They lifted Matthew like cargo. Daron led the way, his Oxfords clicking across marble floors as they entered. The foyer smelled of lemon polish and something medicinal. “To his room.” he ordered. The men adjusted their grip as Matthew writhed, sweat dripping onto the parquet as he struggled. “Feisty.” the first man noted.


Matthew’s eyes darted—mahogany paneling, a grandfather clock, a portrait of some stern-faced patriarch in a three-piece suit. The men’s Oxfords clicked in unison across the parquet. “Room’s prepped.” said the burgundy-tied one to Daron, nudging a door open with his knee. Inside, floodlights glared off steel fixtures: a restraint chair bolted to the floor at a desk, a wardrobe of pressed shirts, a mahogany valet stand with neckties arranged by hue. The other man—thick-necked—put down Matthew onto the Persian rug with a grunt. Daron removed his suit jacket, unbuttoned the shirts cuffs, then rolling them up methodically. “Leave us.” His silk tie gleamed under the track lighting. The men hesitated. The man with the burgundy tie cleared his throat. “Protocol says we—” Daron didn’t raise his voice. “Tonight’s evaluation is solo.” He flexed his fingers, the gold signet ring catching light. “Tell Weaver I’ll file my notes by morning.”

The men exchanged glances. Matthew writhed on the rug—hogtied, gagged, sweat pooling beneath his ribs. Burgundy tie adjusted his paisley pocket square. “He’ll want confirmation of—” Daron stepped closer. “You have your orders.” The silence stretched. Then, with synchronized nods, the men retreated. Their Oxfords clicked down the hallway, fading into the manor’s hum. The lock snicked shut.


Daron exhaled. He circled Matthew slowly, toeing the boy’s flank with his polished wingtip. “Listen carefully.” The trunk’s vibrations had left Matthew’s skin mottled—rope burns flowering across his thighs, his sock gag crusted with dried saliva. Daron crouched, gripping his chin. “This room is prepared for your stay.” His thumb brushed Matthew’s lower lip through the tape. “Mhmhmph!!! Nnnhgh!!”

His bound legs twitched—instinctive recoil—as Daron’s fingers trailed down his throat to his old boxershorts. The fabric would tear easily if he wanted to. Daron hummed, inspecting him like a tailor assessing fabric. “Disgraceful for a boy.” He paused and continued then. “You’ll learn what proper boy attire is. White briefs for boys. And what you had in your apartment…piles of t-shirts….?” He shook his head like lecturing a student.


Matthew bucked, ropes digging deeper into his wrists. His sock gag muffled a snarl—half defiance, half terror—as Daron knelt behind him. The kidnapper was undoing the central knot connecting Matthew’s wrists to his ankles. The sudden slack sent fresh agony through Matthew’s shoulders as blood rushed back into screaming muscles. He gasped against the gag, legs flopping apart like a broken marionette’s.


“Welcome home, boy” Daron announced, peeling the duct tape off Matthew’s mouth with a slow, deliberate tug. The boy’s lips stung—raw and swollen—but before he could scream, Daron’s gloved fingers pressed against them. “Save your voice.” he advised, thumb tracing the imprint the sock left on Matthew’s cheeks. “This…” He gestured to the room—the mahogany valet, the steel fixtures, the wardrobe brimming with pressed linens— “…is your life now. Every inch designed to sculpt you into something… presentable.” His silk tie brushed Matthew’s bare chest as he leaned closer. “You’ll thank me someday.”

Daron’s gloved fingers traced the rope burns circling Matthew’s biceps. “Ts ts ts. Such unnecessary damage. It will heal but I recommend not to struggle.” His breath warmed Matthew’s ear.  “Stand.” He hauled Matthew upright by the harness straps, ignoring his wobbling knees. The Persian rug’s intricate patterns blurred beneath Matthew’s bare feet. He swayed, wrists still bound behind him, the ropes now loose enough to allow standing but not escape.
 

Daron helped Matthew over to a wall in the room. The wall was cold against Matthew’s back. Daron adjusted his posture with precision: shoulders squared, chin lifted. Despite the boy’s weakened, muffled protests. “Mhhmmph….”

“This my boy…” Daron murmured, smoothing Matthew’s hair behind his ear, “…is your debut.” He walks to the desk where the bolted chair is to grab a prepared camera. The lens glinted under the track lighting. “Mugshot rules apply. No smiling.” His thumb brushed Matthew’s gagged lips. “Not that you could.” He smiles at the boy.



***to be continued***

[Suitedtiedboy]

Chapter XIII: Night Protocol


Matthew’s breath came in ragged bursts through his nose. The ropes around his torso held him upright against the mahogany paneling, his arms still cinched behind him in a straitjacket-like harness. Daron stepped back, framing the shot with one polished Oxford. “Arch your back.” he instructed, nudging Matthew’s hip with his shoe. The boy shuddered but obeyed for the moment. The sock gag bulged obscenely between his teeth. “…Mmhhmhmph…”

Daron adjusted the camera settings with methodical clicks. The lens caught the sweat beading along Matthew’s collarbones, the way his bound wrists twisted just enough to expose Weaver & Sons’ proprietary knotwork. “Look here.” He tapped his gold signet ring against the camera body.

Matthew flinched at the metallic tink. His eyes darted between the lens and Daron’s silk tie, knotted tight enough to leave an indentation above his Adam’s apple. The sock gag muffled his breathing into wet, uneven bursts. Daron sighed. “Every boy gets cataloged.” He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne, something ruthlessly expensive, washing over Matthew’s bare skin. “Buyers require verification of condition prior to purchase.” His gloved thumb brushed a rope burn on Matthew’s bicep. “This? Unfortunate. But salvageable.”

The camera flashed again—blinding—capturing Matthew’s bound silhouette against the mahogany paneling. Daron examined the preview screen with a connoisseur’s eye. “Front, back, profile shots. Standard.” His polished Oxford tapped the rug, nudging Matthew’s knees wider apart. “Then the specialty angles.” The lens dipped lower, framing Matthew’s rope-bitten thighs. “Buyers pay extra for… structural documentation.” Another flash. Matthew’s nostrils flared against the sock gag.
 

Daron paused mid-click, noticing the way Matthew’s eyelids drooped—exhaustion dulling the defiance in his gaze. The boy swayed slightly, his bound wrists trembling behind him. A bead of sweat dripped from his temple onto the gag. Daron exhaled through his nose, lowering the camera. “Tired?” His gloved fingers brushed Matthew’s damp forehead. The boy flinched but lacked the energy to pull away. “You’ll rest soon. I promise, boy.” That promise sounded almost gentle.

 
He slid the camera back into his breast pocket of his shirt and unhooked the harness straps with practiced efficiency. Matthew sagged forward, his knees buckling, but Daron caught him under the arms—one sharp tug upright. “Steady, boy. You will find that my aim is not to hurt you. Well, not if you are listening.” The words carried an odd note of patience. Daron knew he was a kidnapper. That he had to be rough to kidnap young lads. But he didn’t consider himself being an unreasonable monster. He knew the boy was half-drunk when he subdued him. And he knew that he struggled a lot to tire himself out since then. Besides it being now pretty late in the night.

They moved in halting steps toward the bed—Matthew hobbling barefoot across the Persian rug, Daron steering him by the shoulders. The bedframe was iron, bolted to the floor, its headboard fitted with discreet rings at each corner. Restraints dangled from them, black-colored against the navy duvet. Matthew made a noise behind his gag when he saw them—half protest, half exhausted resignation.


Daron guided him down after untying the ropes around his torso and wrists. The kidnapper kept a tight grip around the boy’s wrists in case he would try to fight again. "On your back." he ordered, pressing a palm between Matthew's shoulder blades until the boy collapsed onto the mattress. The sheets smelled faintly of starch, crisp against Matthew's sweat-damp skin. Daron caught his wrist mid-flail, pinning it to the headboard's left ring. The cuff was made out of metal, its buckle clicking shut with finality. Matthew's breath hitched—a wet, muffled sound—as Daron secured his other wrist with equal efficiency.


Then came his legs. Daron untied the ropes there too, peeling the nylon coils from Matthew's ankles. The sudden freedom made Matthew jerk instinctively, his knee lifting—only for Daron to catch it mid-air with a gloved hand. "Ah-ah." He pressed Matthew's leg flat against the mattress, fingers circling his ankle like a tailor measuring for a hem. The second cuff slid cool and unyielding around Matthew's right ankle, its chain rattling as Daron clipped it to the bedframe's lower ring. Matthew's toes curled against the duvet when Daron repeated the process with his left leg, spreading him into a taut X.

Daron straightened, surveying his work. Matthew lay crucified beneath the track lighting, his chest rising and falling too fast. The sock gag had darkened with saliva, its fibers clinging to the corners of his mouth. Daron tilted his head. "You'll stay gagged tonight." he said. "All my boys do. Prevents..." His gloved thumb brushed Matthew's lower lip, smearing a bead of spit. "...unnecessary noise at night." The admission carried the weight of routine—this wasn't negotiation, just fact.


Matthew blinked up at him, lashes damp with exhaustion. The defiance from earlier had drained away, leaving his gaze soft and tired. A strand of brown hair stuck to his forehead. Daron's breath caught. “Cute”, he thought, and the realization was inconvenient. He'd catalogued hundreds of boys—their fear, their rage—but this? The way Matthew's throat moved as he swallowed against the gag, the way his fingers twitched against the cuffs? It wasn't supposed to be endearing. Daron knew he caught a special boy with his good looks.
 

Matthew made a small noise—not a scream, not even a protest. Just a tired, questioning hum. His eyes flicked between Daron's face and his own bound wrists, pupils wide in the dim light. Daron exhaled through his nose. "I know…" he murmured, smoothing Matthew's hair back again. His glove caught on a tangle. "I'm sorry." The apology tasted strange. He never apologized.

Matthew blinked slowly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. His lips moved uselessly behind the sock gag—shaping words Daron couldn't hear. Please, probably. They always begged eventually. But something about the way Matthew's throat worked, the way his fingers curled helplessly against the cuffs, made Daron's chest tighten.

"You're exhausted." Daron murmured, brushing a thumb over Matthew's cheekbone. The skin was warm, damp with sweat. Matthew fled the touch instinctively—then froze like not being able to avoid it, as if ashamed of his own need of comfort. Daron's breath hitched. Christ, he looked good like this—spread out and helpless, the gag stretching his lips obscenely. His pulse thrummed under Daron's fingertips.


Matthew blinked up at him, lashes clumped together with sweat. His eyes—brown, wide, impossibly young—held a question. Please, they begged. Daron traced the edge of the sock gag with his gloved finger, feeling the wet heat of Matthew's breath against the fabric. "I can't." he said softly. "Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not this month, boy." His voice sounded strict. The rules were clear: new acquisitions slept gagged. Always.


Daron turned away abruptly, grabbing his suit jacket to put it on again. His polished Oxfords clicking against the hardwood as he crossed to the door. His reflection in the brass knob showed a man impeccably dressed—suit unwrinkled, tie knotted tight—but something in his chest was feeling strange. He hesitated, fingers lingering on the light switch. Matthew made another muffled noise—half whimper, half exhaustion—and Daron glanced back. The boy's fingers curled weakly against the cuffs, his chest rising and falling too fast. He looked small. Vulnerable. Cute.


Daron exhaled sharply through his nose. "Sleep." he ordered, flicking off the lights. The darkness swallowed Matthew's bound silhouette whole. The door clicked shut behind him.

*** to be continued ***

[Suitedtiedboy]

Chapter XIV: The Next Morning



Dawn seeped through the manor's east-facing windows when Daron woke—05:47 AM precisely, his internal clock as disciplined as his wardrobe. The silk sheets slipped away as he rose, his bare feet meeting the Persian rug. His bedroom smelled of sandalwood and freshly pressed linen, the air crisp from the hidden vents Daron insisted on having installed.

He padded to the walk-in closet, its mahogany doors swinging open to reveal his daily ‘uniform’: rows of tailored suits, each garment spaced exactly two inches apart. His fingers brushed past the navy ones—too casual for today—before settling on a dark blue pinstripe three-piece. The fabric whispered as he lifted it, the wool blend heavy with authority. He dressed methodically: starched white shirt first, its French cuffs followed. Daron adjusted his cuffs in the full-length mirror, his reflection a study in control.

The socks were next. He slid open the cedar drawer beneath his shoe rack, where pairs lay folded in precise thirds. He bypassed the cashmere blends—too indulgent for today—and selected thin, charcoal-gray cotton. The fabric made little noise as he rolled them over his ankles, the ribbed tops hugging his calves without constriction. They’d wick moisture better than silk during the day’s evaluations, especially if—his mouth twitched—certain boys proved… spirited.

The suit pants came next. Daron pulled them op and closed the belt holding his pants in place. The tie—a deep burgundy made out of silk—slithered through his fingers as he knotted it into a perfect half-Windsor. He smoothed the dimple with his thumbnail. Then the waistcoat, its buttons aligning perfectly over his sternum. The jacket came last, its silhouette sharp enough to cut glass.

The final touch was his signet ring, its weight familiar against his finger. Almost Ready.

Oxfords waited on the shoe rack, polished to a liquid shine. Daron lifted the left one—John Lobb, cap-toe, the leather supple from years of careful conditioning—and slid his foot inside. The sole kissed his arch perfectly; no breaking-in required. He tied the laces, each crossover symmetrical, the ends trimmed to identical lengths. The right shoe followed, its leather sighing as he flexed his toes. Standing, he tested their grip on the Persian rug. Silent. Unwavering. Like him.


Downstairs, the manor hummed with predawn activity. Daron’s footsteps echoed off the marble staircase as he descended, his hand skimming the banister’s carved mahogany. The scent of coffee and starched cotton thickened the air. Through the dining room’s double doors, a junior operative—mid-twenties, russet-haired, his navy suit slightly wrinkled at the elbows—stood at attention beside the silver service. “Morning briefing’s on the tablet, sir.” His voice cracked on the last word. “Weaver added new parameters for product 287.”


Daron plucked the tablet from the tray without glancing at the operative. The screen illuminated with Weaver’s crisp memo: Product 287 requires accelerated refinement. Buyers requesting proof of compliance by month’s end.
His thumb hovered over the attached images—Matthew’s tied form from last night, his gagged mouth, the ropes embracing his body. Daron exhaled through his nose. “Where’s the boy now?”

“Still in his bedroom, sir.” The operative shifted, his Oxfords squeaking slightly on the marble. “Still sleeping, likely. The night guards reported no movement and no noises past 0400.” His gaze flicked to Daron’s untouched coffee. “Shall I—?”


Daron silenced him with a raised finger, the steam from his cup spiraling between them. He pictured Matthew as he’d left him—sprawled in that iron bed, limbs splayed like a broken starfish, the sock gag darkened with spit. Exhaustion had won out eventually; the boy’s breathing had slowed to shallow hitches by the time Daron locked the door. Let him sleep. The thought surprised him—coaxing warmth into his coffee-stirring fingers. The spoon clinked twice against porcelain.


"Prepare breakfast." Daron said finally. The operative straightened, his navy sleeves rustling as he pulled a notepad from his breast pocket. "Soft foods only. Scrambled eggs, toast bread—no crusts—and tea with honey." The operative’s pen hesitated. "And fetch the restraint chair from ‘Evaluation Room Three’."

The junior operative’s throat bobbed. "Sir, the reinforced one? With the—"

"The one with the leather straps and adjustable headrest," Daron interrupted, after he drank from his coffee. The spoon’s silver edge caught the chandelier light as he lifted the spoon again, tapping it twice against the rim. "And ensure the tea is Earl Grey. Not that cheap Darjeeling you served last Thursday."


The operative swallowed audibly, his pen scratching against the notepad. "Understood, sir. Will you be requiring—"

"Nothing else." Daron cut in, stirring his coffee with a slow, deliberate twist of his wrist. The spoon’s clink was punctuation. "Once the chair is set up in the dining room and breakfast is served, you’re dismissed for the morning." He glanced up, catching the flicker of relief in the younger man’s eyes. "Take the rest of your team with you. I’ll handle product 287 alone."


The operative nodded sharply before retreating, his footsteps swallowed by the manor’s thick rugs. Daron exhaled through his nose, tapping the tablet awake again. The attached photo of Matthew glared back at him—eyes wide and furious above the gag, rope burns flowering on his skin like ugly tattoos. He swiped it away.


“Time to get going.” He said as the clock strikes 06:55 AM.



*** to be continued ***

[Suitedtiedboy]

Chapter XV: Dressed Like A Good Boy


Daron’s Oxfords made no sound on the manor’s thick hallway runner as he approached Matthew’s room, the silence broken only by the faint jingle of his keyring. He paused outside the door, fingertips brushing the brass knob—cold despite the estate’s climate control. The lock turned with a well-oiled click.


Morning light bled through the drapes in pale stripes, illuminating Matthew’s sprawled form. The boy hadn’t moved from where Daron had left him, still crucified in that taut X across the iron bedframe. But the evidence of struggle was everywhere: the twisted duvet snarled around his ankles, the metal cuffs rubbed at his wrists, the sock gag now crusted with dried saliva at the corners. One of the headboard rings bore fresh scratches—tiny silver crescents where Matthew’s nails had desperately clawed at the metal.


Daron stepped closer, his Oxfords were silent on the Persian rug. The scent of sweat and trapped heat thickened the air. Matthew’s breathing was shallow, his ribcage rising in stuttered hitches. A slight mark bloomed on his inner wrist where the cuff had bitten during the night’s struggle. Daron traced it with his thumb—the skin there was fever-warm, pulse fluttering like a caged bird’s. He exhaled through his nose. Predictable. Every boy fought the restraints at first.
 

He turned on his heel, his suit jacket brushed against the armchair as he dragged it closer: the one wooden chair not bolted to the ground at the desk. The chair legs scraped the hardwood once before settling beside the bed. Daron sat, crossing his legs at the ankle, his Oxfords catching the dawn light. He unbuttoned his jacket, the fabric parting to reveal his waistcoat’s impeccable drape. Silk tie, burgundy. The uniform of control.


Matthew’s eyelashes fluttered—dream-stirred, not awake. A strand of sweat-damp hair clung to his forehead. Daron watched the rise and fall of his chest. The boy’s fingers twitched in their cuffs. Daron leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and studied the mark on Matthew’s wrist. He pressed his thumb over it—not hard, just enough to feel the pulse jump beneath the skin. “Stop fighting me, boy…” he whispered silently to himself.
 

The wooden chair creaked faintly as Daron shifted his weight. Morning light pooled in the hollow of Matthew’s throat, highlighting the sweat-slicked dip between his collarbones. Daron exhaled through his nose. The boy smelled like salt and fear, the sour tang of last night’s adrenaline still seeping through his pores. He resisted the urge to smooth Matthew’s hair back—too intimate, too soon. The boy was still like a wild, caged animal. Instead, he adjusted his cufflinks. Waiting. And observing the boy.

Daron thought to himself as he watched the boy sleep. He wanted to avoid hurting the boy if not necessary. He just needed Matthew to follow his orders and commands. The man in the suit knew in his line of work, the kidnapped boys need time to adjust to their new reality. That this business is a harsh one. Can one really expect of them to accept to being kidnapped and soon being sold as a boy, a slave, a prize to a stranger buyer?

Daron had done it probably over 80 times before. Despite his rough methods in taking and extract young men from their homes, he still considered himself not to be a total monster.  He would at least see that his victims are prepared to be sold or that they discover some sort of pleasure in their new life. If that was possible for them. Of course he came across ‘lost cases’ before. On the other hand, the Weaver & Sons Acquisition Firm had special training facilities for too unruly merchandise.


Matthew’s eyelids twitched suddenly. A dream? Daron leaned closer, watching the rapid dart of his eyes beneath paper-thin lids. The boy’s breath hitched—shallow, panicked—then evened out again. Daron’s fingers hovered over the secured sock gag, considering. Let him scream? No. Discipline first. Always.


“Good morning, boy. Welcome to your new home for the time being.” The key turned in the wrist cuffs with a metallic snick. Matthew’s arm flopped limply onto the mattress, palm-up, fingers curled like a dead spider. Daron caught his wrist before it could slide off the bed. He massaged the indentation left by the cuff, thumb working in slow circles. Circulation first.


Matthew groaned behind the gag—a wet, guttural sound. His lashes fluttered, pupils contracting as they met the morning light. “Mnnmhph..!” Then awareness flooded in. His body jerked, legs twisting against their restraints, the chain of both of his ankle cuffs rattling against the iron bedframe. A muffled scream bubbled behind the sock.

Daron didn’t flinch. His fingers tightened around Matthew’s wrist, pinning it to the mattress. "Don’t make me go rough on you in the morning." he murmured, thumb pressing into the boy’s pulse point. It hammered against his finger. "The gag stays until you learn to greet me properly. You will stay gagged most of the times."
 

Matthew’s nostrils flared. “Mhhmhph!!” The sock muffled his snarl, but his eyes—wide and bloodshot—spoke volumes. Rage. Terror. Realization. A flicker of something else Daron couldn’t name. His free hand scrabbled at the sheets, fingers hooking into the fabric like claws.

Daron sighed. The boy recoiled as the bare fingers hold his one free wrist. “You’ll scar your wrists and ankles if you keep this up, boy” he says. Matthew’s breath hissing through the gag in return. “Breathe through your nose, stay calm.” he ordered, watching the boy’s chest stutter. “Then nod if you understand you’re getting cleaned up by me now.”

Matthew’s glare could’ve melted steel. He sucked in a ragged gasp through his nostrils—once, twice—before his shoulders slumped. A jerky nod followed. "Good." Daron’s fingers lingered on the boy’s wrist, tracing the cuff’s angry imprint. "You’ll be washed by me. Then we will see about proper clothes." His thumb pressed into the tender flesh beneath Matthew’s palm, feeling the flinch it earned. "No arguments. No talking. Listening to my commands." Daron’s tone was strict and didn’t allow for any different opinion.


A thin line of spit connected Matthew’s lip to the fabric. “Mhmh.. mhhmph!” His nostrils flared—once, twice—before his head tilted in reluctant acknowledgment. The movement tugged at the headboard’s remaining cuff, the chain clinking softly. Daron’s fingers trailed down to tap the boy’s gag. "This stays on until breakfast. Try to shout, and I’ll double the layers." The boy’s throat tried to work around the gag, swallowing convulsively. A drop of spit escaped the sodden fabric, tracing a shiny path down his chin. Daron caught it with his thumb, wiping it on Matthew’s nose with a grin. The kidnapper opened the second cuff and watched Matthew with care in case his arms lunge out for him. "Hands behind your back now, boy. Of course you will be secured during your shower." he continued, pulling a new pair of handcuffs from his pocket. The steel gleamed in the morning light. "Try to run, and I’ll cuff you up like you would be in Guantanamo Bay."


Matthew jerked his chin toward gag, eyes burning with silent protest. “Mnhgrr…” Daron clicked his tongue. "No. You’ll speak when I allow it. And that won’t be anytime soon. First you need to learn to listen." His fingers brushed the damp sock clinging to Matthew’s jawline. "Though I’m curious—how does your own sock taste after all these hours?" He leaned closer, inhaling the sour tang of cotton and panic. "Bet it’s sour and crusty by now, mh?" He grinned at the boy. “Mhhgggh!!!!”


He snapped the fresh cuffs open with a metallic snick. "Arms stay behind your back. Now." The boy’s wrists trembled as Daron maneuvered them, the steel biting into his wrists again. Matthew hissed through the gag when Daron ratcheted the cuffs tighter—one deliberate click past comfort. "Good boy." Daron said, his breath warming Matthew’s ear as he was leaning closely to secure his hands.


Daron then got up to release his prisoner’s legs from the cuffs of the bedframe. Matthew’s legs buckled when Daron hauled him upright next, the sudden rush of blood to his former restrained limbs sending pins and needles up his calves. Daron caught him by the elbows, his grip unyielding as Matthew swayed. "I will hold you, boy." Daron more likely informed him. He didn’t loosen his hold on the boy, even when Matthew’s knees knocked against his tailored trousers.


The bathroom tiles were frigid under Matthew’s bare feet as Daron escorted and steered his prisoner forward, the cuffs biting into his wrists with every stumble. Steam already curled from the shower stall—Daron must’ve turned it on before waking him. "Stay!" Daron commanded, and connected the boy’s handcuffs with a long chain which was locked around the shower set.


Matthew looked at Daron in shock as he suddenly pulled down his boxershorts without warning. His privates hanging down, exposed to the stranger man. “MHHMHMPH!!!” The boy grunted through his gag. But the kidnapper didn’t care. “No shame in this house boy. You will get used to it. Thought I have never seen a cock?” He chuckled slightly.

Matthew’s breath hitched as the warm mist hit his skin. Daron guided him under the spray with a hand between his shoulder blades—not shoving, but firm enough to brook no resistance.  Daron kept his distance not to get his clothes wet. The water was scalding at first, then settling into a comfortable heat that turned Matthew’s skin pink within seconds. "You’ll stay under the water for a minute and then walk at me and stay still, boy." Daron said over the drumming water, his cufflinks glinting as he reached for the shower gel.

The shower gel was lavender-scented, not looking like bought just from the super market, absurdly luxurious for a prisoner’s shower. Daron worked it between his palms until the lather foamed white, then dragged his hands down Matthew’s spine. The boy stiffened, his cuffed wrists twitching behind his back as Daron’s fingers traced each rib. "Stay still. If I get any foam or water on my clothes, you will regret it. Enjoy a warm shower for the time being." Daron spoke clearly, kneading the suds into Matthew’s shoulders and upper body. Matthew’s head drooped forward, water sluicing down his neck as Daron’s thumbs dug into the knots along his scapulae.

Steam curled around them, fogging the glass enclosure. Daron adjusted the shower head with his hand—rainfall setting. The spray needling Matthew’s flushed skin. The boy flinched when Daron’s fingers carded through his hair, working the lather into his scalp. "Close your eyes now." Daron ordered, cupping Matthew’s jaw to tilt his head back. The water rinsed pink-tinged suds down Matthew’s chest.
 

The foam slithered lower, gliding over Matthew’s ribs, his hipbones, the tight clutch of his stomach muscles as Daron’s fingers reach further down again. Matthew jerked against the spray, his knees buckling as Daron washes his privates with a practiced motion. "Stay still, boy!" Daron ordered, pressing a hand to Matthew’s cock when he lurched backward. The boy’s muffled gasp heard in the shower as Daron’s fingers mapped the crease of his thigh, newly applied shower gel slicking lower—thorough, impersonal, relentless. Matthew’s throat worked around the gag, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the sodden sock as Daron rinsed him with icy precision. “Nmmhh!!”
 

Daron twisted the faucet off without warning after he had tended also to his legs. Water sluiced from Matthew’s lashes as he swayed, the sudden silence punctuated by his ragged breathing through the gag. A towel snapped open—Egyptian cotton, monogrammed—and Daron dragged it down Matthew’s spine with the same methodical pressure he’d used with the shower gel. The fabric rasped over his ribs, his hips, the tender skin behind his knees. Matthew flinched when Daron knelt to dry his ankles, the towel’s edge catching on the rope burns. "Almost done, boy." Daron murmured, patting the insides of Matthew’s thighs with detached efficiency. The boy’s skin pebbled under the towel’s touch, his breath hitching as Daron blotted the water from his collarbones. 

Steam curled around them as Daron draped the towel over Matthew’s shoulders, tucking the edges under his chin like a child’s bib. His fingers traced the boy’s jawline—checking for stubble, perhaps, or lingering just to feel the flutter of Matthew’s pulse beneath damp skin. The sock gag had darkened with shower steam, its fibers clumping where Matthew’s teeth had gnawed it overnight.

“MHMHPHHH!!!” The boy’s breath hitched when the terrycloth grazed his nipples. But Daron didn’t pause. Every inch was dried. Matthew stiffened as the towel slid between his thighs, his knees knocking together reflexively. Daron clicked his tongue, nudging them apart with the back of his wrist. “You’ll learn modesty is irrelevant here.” he grinned, blotting the damp hollows behind Matthew’s knees. The boy shuddered when Daron’s fingers traced the tendon along his inner thigh—not lingering, just enough to make his breath stutter.

After that Daron guided him back into the captive’s room, the cuffs clinking with each unsteady step. The carpet fibers prickled Matthew’s bare feet, a contrast to the bathroom tiles’ chill. Daron’s grip on his elbow never wavered, steering him toward the wardrobe. Inside suits waited like patient reminders of how his life will change.
 

The dress shirts next to them were starched to military precision, their collars stiff enough to stand on their own. Daron ran his fingers along the seams, checking for threads out of place. He took a navy suit and a white dress shirt and hold it up against the boy. Matthew’s nostrils flared behind the gag, his damp shoulders tensing as Daron lifted the shirt. “Mhhhgh!!” Daron exhaled through his nose. He could call Weaver’s men to pin the boy down—but that would spoil the lesson.

Instead, he snapped his fingers under Matthew’s chin. “Look at me.” When the boy’s bloodshot eyes flicked up, Daron held the shirt’s cuffs apart like open jaws. “You have two choices. You cooperate, and I’ll uncuff you one wrist at a time. Or—” He tapped the leather belt folded beside the suit pants. “I strap you to the bedposts and dress you like a doll. Your screams won’t matter since I will double the layers first.” Daron watched the options click behind the boy’s eyes—fight and be humiliated, or surrender and retain some dignity. The boy’s eye’s looked at his kidnapper in dislike of the formal wear. But then reluctant but slowly the boy nodded.

 
"Smart lad." Daron uncuffed his right wrist first, immediately trapping the freed hand against Matthew’s own hipbone with a tight grip. "Left arm through the sleeve. Slowly." He guided the opening of the sleeve over Matthew’s arm like threading a needle, the starched cotton whispering against damp skin. The boy flinched when Daron buttoned the cuff around his still-bound left wrist, after making sure the cuff goes into the sleeve too. The restraint now hidden beneath impeccable French seams. “Mhhnph!”

Matthew’s breath hitched as Daron maneuvered the shirt onto his shoulders, the fabric crisp and alien against his shower-warmed skin. Daron changed to Matthew’s other arm and let him slide into the sleeve with it. Right after that Daron forcefully pulled the boy’s arms behind his back and closed the handcuffs again. “Good boy.” he smoothed the collar with both hands, thumbs brushing the hollow of Matthew’s throat. "You’ll learn to appreciate proper tailoring." he said with a smirk, fingers trailing down the placket to fasten each button. The cotton strained across Matthew’s chest—Daron had underestimated his shoulder width by half an inch. No matter; the constraint would remind him of his place. “Nmhph!!”


Matthew’s jaw clenched behind the gag as Daron’s fingers worked upward, buttoning each closure with slow, deliberate pressure. "You’ll stand still." Daron instructed, securing the second button just below Matthew’s Adam’s apple. "You’ll breathe through your nose when I tighten this collar." His knuckles brushed Matthew’s stubble as he fastened the last button.

Daron knelt without warning, his polished oxfords creaking after he had retrieved the sheer dress socks from the nightstand. Matthew stiffened when Daron grasped his ankle, the boy’s toes curling against the carpet fibers. "Sheer nylon." Daron explained, rolling the sock between his fingers like a magician revealing a trick. "Seamless toes. Custom fitted." His thumb pressed into Matthew’s arch, forcing his foot flat. "They’ll feel like second skin by tomorrow." The nylon whispered over Matthew’s toes, clinging to his damp skin as Daron worked it upward with methodical tugs. Matthew’s breath hitched when Daron smoothed the fabric over his calf, fingertips tracing the tendon behind his knee. "No wrinkles allowed here." Daron chided, pinching the excess nylon at Matthew’s thigh. "Presentation matters after all."


The kidnapper grabbed the navy suit pants next and squatted down to help the boy’s legs to slide into them. The trousers were worsted wool, tailored to a silhouette so narrow that it fitted Matthew like a second skin when Daron guided his legs in. He tugged the shirt’s hem taut, tucking it neatly into the waistband of the suit pants. "Now stay calm." Daron ordered, yanking the zipper up in one ruthless motion. “Mmhhph!” The boy was confused why he left out the underwear at this point. But the waistband of the pants dug into Matthew’s hips, the fly straining across his groin. Daron’s knuckle brushed the hollow of Matthew’s pelvis as he fastened the button. "You’ll get used to that tight fit." he mused, adjusting the belt loops with a tailor’s precision. "Then these were made to fit like they were poured onto you."

The belt he grabbed next was Italian leather. Daron threaded it through the loops. He pulled it tight—one deliberate notch past comfort—listening to Matthew’s choked inhale through the gag. “Mnnhgh.. mhg!” Daron smoothed the excess length with his fingers, his thumb lingering on the brass buckle. "Almost done, boy." he mentioned, "I let these clothes being tailored for you.I hope they feel tight. They will remind you of me constantly. Give you a good posture. And make you feel restrained even without any ropes or cuffs.” The leather creaked as he gave it a final tug, watching Matthew’s ribs expand against the starched shirt. “Mmh..mnnnn!!”

"And when I knot this tie—" He held up the red silk, its sheen catching the light. "You’ll keep your chin up like a gentleman, are we clear?”

Matthew’s nostrils flared when Daron looped the tie around his neck, the silk felt weird against his skin. Daron folded the wide end over the narrow and in the end pulled the finished knot snug against Matthew’s throat. Too tight at first—just enough to make his breath hitch—then easing back a quarter inch. "This is a Half-Windsor." Daron explained, adjusting the dimple with his thumb. " Your buyers will expect you to tie it yourself eventually. So at some point you will learn different kind of tieknots." The tail slipped through his fingers as he tightened it further, watching Matthew’s pulse flutter against the silk. "Until then, you’ll wear it twenty-four hours daily. Even to sleep."


Matthew’s reflection in the vanity mirror was a stranger—his damp hair was now combed back by Daron, the red tie knotted just shy of asphyxiation, the dress shirt’s structured shoulders squaring his slouched posture into something resembling dignity. Daron adjusted Matthew’s collar with the precision of a sculptor finishing his masterpiece. "Look at you." he breathed, fingers tilting Matthew’s chin toward the mirror. The boy’s eyes were shocked behind the defiance. "Every rebellious thought you’ve ever had dies soon." His thumb brushed Matthew’s spit-slick gag. "This is the first outfit you’ll thank me for in some weeks."

Matthew jerked his head away, the movement straining the tie’s silk against his throat. His nostrils flared as Daron smoothed the shirt, the fabric hugging his torso like a second skin. The boy’s bound wrists flexed behind his back—testing the cuffs hidden beneath tailored fabric—but the whole outfit held him as effectively as the restraints. Daron’s fingers grazed Matthew’s ribs through the dress shirt. "What a good-looking boy, look at yourself in the mirror!” he instructed, watching the boy’s chest expand against the starched cotton. "You’ll learn to appreciate the way it sculpts you."



*** to be continued ***

[gag1195]

These last few chapters! Amazing! Intense! But, uh oh, Daron is catching feelings! That's got to be a conflict of interest, especially if Matthew is already attracting interested clients...

[DeeperThanRed]

Matthew now looks the part but can Devon tame him into his perfect boy? His expectations seem a bit high and the better his new captive is trained, the more prospective customers will want him...

[Suitedtiedboy]

Yes, there might be potential conflicts of interest <.<

[Bootmark]

Certainly all kinds of drama unfolding around Devon.
The interaction with the cop.
His attraction to Matthew who obviously isn't his for long.

[Caesar73]

Just stumbled upon this Tale. Don´t mind me saying this. But I find the Characters a bit shallow. One dimensional.