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Hi!
This is my first story ever. I hope some guys will enjoy it. It's my first post to the forum kinda like too. So if I did something wrong with the format or tagging correctly: let me know. Other than that, maybe there are some typos or unusual phrases in there. English is my 2nd language. Sometimes my thoughts don't translate as well or I looked up the wrong translation. Last but not least: Enjoy!
Chapter I: The lifes of two different people
The first thing you'd notice about Matthew Ferraz was how he seemed allergic to anything resembling order. His crumpled band t-shirt hung off one shoulder, the hem frayed where he’d picked at it during one of his restless moods. The jeans were old, probably stolen, and splattered with motor oil from some half-assed attempt at fixing a bike he’d abandoned in the hallway of his apartment. His brown hair was a mess of waves that hadn’t seen a brush in days, and he chewed on the corner of his lip as he glared at a small subway map in his hands like it had personally insulted him.
"You’re holding it upside down," someone muttered behind him.
Matthew flipped the map with a scowl, then immediately crumpled it into his pocket instead of admitting fault. "Didn’t ask," he shot back. His voice had that rough edge it got when he hadn’t slept—which was most nights—and his fingers drummed against his thigh like he was counting down to some inevitable explosion.
The apartment was worse. Takeout containers formed a precarious tower on the coffee table, and a single fork stuck out of a tub of week-old lo mein like a surrender flag. His bed was just a mattress on the floor, sheets tangled in a way that suggested he’d spent more time kicking at them than sleeping. The only thing meticulously arranged? A lockpick set laid out on the windowsill, its tools gleaming under the flickering neon from the bodega sign across the street.
Matthew Ferraz, a disheveled 21-year-old with a sharp disdain for authority and order, wears ragged clothes and lives in a chaotic apartment. His restless, confrontational demeanor is evident as he snaps at strangers and avoids responsibility, though his lockpick set hints at a meticulous side beneath the mess.
Matthew stretched, joints popping, and scratched at the stubble along his jaw. "Fuck this," he announced to no one, then grabbed his jacket—a battered thing with pockets full of half-smoked cigarettes and loose change—before shoving open the fire escape window. The metal groaned under his weight as he climbed down, sneakers scraping against rusted rivets. He didn’t bother looking back.
Meanwhile, across the Hudson, Daron Meredith adjusted his cufflinks—silver, monogrammed—and stepped into the elevator of a nondescript high-rise in Newark. The doors slid shut with a hushed click, sealing him in mirrored walls that reflected the precise lines of his three-piece suit: charcoal wool, tailored to the millimeter, with a burgundy tie knotted just shy of constricting. He smelled of sandalwood and starched cotton, a far cry from Matthew’s musk of stale sweat and rebellion.
Daron’s fingers the button for the 14th floor. The elevator hums quietly upward, the only sound besides the rhythmic creak of his oxfords as he shifted his weight. His gaze flicked to his reflection, assessing. Not a hair out of place. Not a single thread out of line. A slim briefcase hung from his left hand, its leather so polished it gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Inside: a dossier on one Matthew Ferraz, complete with surveillance photos and a list of habits (or lack thereof). Daron’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile—as he imagined the boy’s unkempt curls forced into submission under a tight grip.
The elevator dinged. The doors parted onto a corridor lined with identical doors, all unmarked. Daron’s stride was measured, purposeful, each step echoing faintly on the industrial carpet. He paused outside Room 1412, withdrew a key—brass, weighty—and slotted it into the lock. Inside, the room was Spartan: a mahogany desk, a leather chair, a leather couch, some shelves and a single filing cabinet. On the desk sat a coil of rope, a roll of duct tape, and a freshly pressed dress shirt, its collar stiff with starch. In contrast to that, there was also a cage like cell in his office room. Daron ran his thumb along the fabric’s seam, then glanced at his watch.
"Time to collect," he murmured.
***To be continued***
Boy into (forced) formal wear and uniform & being tied up and gagged.
Across the river, Matthew kicked an empty soda can down the sidewalk, oblivious. While Matthew remains unaware of what a certain man is planning, the young man is wandering the streets aimlessly. The streets were empty, just the lights reflect in the puddles of rain from earlier that day.
A liquor store’s bell jangled as he shouldered his way in, the smell of stale coffee and cigarettes hitting him like a slap. The clerk—some kid with acne and earbuds in—barely glanced up from his phone. Perfect. Matthew’s fingers twitched toward the counter display where expensive alcohol bottles were locked behind smudged glass. For a breathless heartbeat, Matthew hesitated. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he irked the latch on the display case with his thumbnail—just enough to slide it open. The more expensive bottle of whiskey disappeared into his jacket quicker than the clerk could yawn. The burn down his throat was worth the risk. Now for the last part: Reaching the exit, Matthew just walked straight through the door.
Back on the street, he left the bottle underneath his jacket and flipped his lighter open with a satisfying snick, thumbing the wheel until a flame leapt to life. The first drag of his cigarette tasted like success. He exhaled through his nose, watching the smoke curl around his face like a shroud.
The subway ride home was a study in indifference: Matthew slouched against the window, boots propped on the seat opposite despite the glares from commuters. The lighter kept finding its way into his hands, spinning between restless fingers. By the time he hit his stop, the metal was warm from friction.
Matthew knew his skills when he impulsively shoplifted a bottle of whiskey from the liquor store, using practiced sleight of hand. then chain-smokes stolen cigarettes on the subway ride home, indifferent to the disapproving stares of fellow passengers. His restless energy manifests in fidgeting with the lighter as he rides back to his apartment. The rebellious young man with a chaotic lifestyle, wanders Newark unaware of danger while Daron Meredith—a sharply dressed kidnapper—prepares meticulously for an operation. Matthew’s impulsive behavior like shoplifting and smoking contrasts with Daron’s disciplined approach, which seems like a big contrast to their opposing dynamics.
Rain had started to sheet down in earnest by the time Matthew reached his block, turning the sidewalks into mirrored slick.
His apartment building loomed. A crumbling brick thing with a lobby that smelled of mildew and crushed dreams. The elevator had been out, probably since Reagan was president, so he took the stairs two at a time, footsteps echoing like gunshots in the narrow stairwell. His door was unlocked—no point, really, when the deadbolt had been broken since he moved in—and he kicked it shut behind him with a satisfying thud.
With his prize in the hand, Matthew sat down on his mattress on the floor with a groan. Not bothered to use a glass, the whiskey burned a second time when he swallowed, but he welcomed it. It let him forget about his surrounding, about his past life and his future. Tipping the bottle back to take another sip from the whiskey, Matthew stared to the ceiling. The ceiling had a crack that looked like a middle finger. “Appropriate.” He thought.
Meanwhile, at a certain office room, Daron Meredith’s fingers traced the edge of Matthew’s surveillance photo—a grainy shot of the boy leaning against a chain-link fence, mid-sneer. The desk lamp cast a pool of amber light over the file, illuminating handwritten notes in precise block letters: Subject exhibits defiance through physical disarray. Suggest sartorial correction as primary conditioning. A dry chuckle escaped Daron’s lips as he tapped the photo. "Oh, we’ll correct you."
He reached for the dress shirt laid out beside the file—pale blue, with a spread collar stiff enough to stand on its own. The fabric hissed between his fingers as he unfolded it, revealing the subtle monogram stitched into the cuff: M.F. Daron’s thumb lingered over the embroidery. "Soon enough, young man." The shirt joined a growing pile on the desk: a navy suit jacket with surgeon’s-sharp lapels, the matching pants and an expensive red silk tie curled like a waiting serpent.
The file yielded another photograph, this one capturing Matthew mid-laugh outside a liquor store across town, head thrown back like he owned the sidewalk. Daron’s tongue clicked against his teeth. “Such a waste.” The rough voice sounded into the office room. “The boy’s posture alone…” Daron thought again. “…slouched, asymmetrical—was an affront.” He flipped the photo over and reads. Resistant to structure. Responds poorly to direct commands. A smile ghosted across the kidnapper’s face. Resistance was just untapped potential. He’d known plenty of wild things that learned to heel. And soon enough he would strike.
***to be continued***
Boy into (forced) formal wear and uniform & being tied up and gagged.
Chapter III: Where Boys Become Product - "Weaver & Sons Acquisition Firm"
Daron Meredith further reviewed surveillance files on Matthew, noting his defiance and disheveled appearance with clinical interest. He didn’t look like a kidnapper. At forty, he carried himself with the crisp precision of a Swiss timepiece—six feet of tailored menace in an expensive suit. His hair, gunmetal gray at the temples, was ruthlessly styled into submission. His jawline could’ve chiseled marble
The kidnapping agency had started as a whisper in London’s private clubs. Wealthy men trading favors for pliable companions. Officially Weaver & Sons Acquisition Firm had existed in the gray margins of London’s elite since the 1920s. Their logo, discreetly embossed on every contract, depicted a moth pinned under glass. The symbolism wasn’t subtle. Weaver Senior had pioneered their current business model: abducting young men from poverty’s edge and refining them into luxury commodities. Usually, poor young men were easier targets since no one will miss them as much as any normal lad, who has a stable family life and a home. The agency’s catalogues circulated in private auctions, their pages filled with before-and-after spreads of once-feral boys now standing at attention in Savile Row suits. Buyers paid extra for the training manuals, which detailed each subject’s breaking points.
By the time Daron joined, it had metastasized into a transnational operation with holding facilities in London, Zurich, Monaco, and an office building overlooking Newark’s rotting skyline. Clients referred to it obliquely as behavioral recalibration , a euphemism as crisp as the suits Daron forced onto his victims. Daron dressed his acquisitions like mannequins, knotting their ties with the same care one might reserve for strangulation. His specialty was the untamable ones: runaways with switchblade smiles, trust fund brats who thought daddy’s name was armor. He broke them with dress shirts and diction drills, turning feral creatures into boys who could recite table settings in their sleep. The truly defiant ones got his personal attention. Daron’s private sessions were whispered about in the break room. Rumor was he could make a teenager forget his own name with nothing but a Windsor knot and a raised eyebrow.
The clients of the kidnapping agency? Hedge fund managers, oil barons, the occasional rich Eastern European with a taste for young men.
Their sourced boys? Feral, beautiful, expendable—from streets and shelters and dead-end jobs. The criteria were precise: aged 18-25, no immediate family, preferably with a record just dirty enough to make their disappearance plausible.
Their process? It was methodical: abduct, assess, condition. Some were sold untrained bound and gagged to collectors who enjoyed the breaking process firsthand. Others underwent months of behavioral sculpting: posture drills, speech therapy, obedience training so thorough they’d flinch at a raised eyebrow. The end product? A companion—polished, silent, and worth six figures minimum.
Their methods? Identify targets with the right ratio of defiance to desperation, extract them with minimal forensic trace, then refine them into whatever fantasy the buyer craved. Some wanted obedient butlers, their once-feral charges now fluent in silver service and silent suffering. Others paid premiums for unbroken merchandise—boys left just wild enough to make the taming feel personal. The latter category required monthly maintenance fees: tailored sedatives, reinforced restraints, the occasional tooth extraction.
All acquisitions are processed through Central Intake prior to specialization training. Revenue flowed through shell companies layered like phyllo dough—a Luxembourg holding firm here, a Singaporean trust there. The real profits came from the auctions, where particularly stubborn subjects were paraded in bespoke bondage before private bids.
Officially, Daron’s job title was Acquisition Specialist & behavioral consultant. Monday mornings meant for office workers to show up, drink some coffee, edit sheets, paper work and that’s it. For Daron it meant reviewing dossiers in a soundproofed office with bulletproof glass, sipping espresso while security feeds played mutely on the wall. Potential acquisitions, in company parlance, flashed across the screens: a bartender in Queens with a habit of breaking bottles over patrons’ heads, a bike messenger who’d allegedly bitten a cop. Each file included psych evals, debt histories, and most crucially, absence profiles—how long before someone noticed they’d vanished. Matthew’s had been laughably sparse: No immediate family. Landlord expects rent arrears. Friends transient.
In the evening Daron prepared formal attire—including a monogrammed dress shirt and tailored suit—along with restraints, anticipating Matthew’s “correction.” Studying photos of Matthew’s unrestrained behavior, Daron dismisses his resistance as mere untapped potential, confident in his ability to impose discipline.
His fingers slid a polished fountain pen from his breast pocket—another indulgence, another tell—and scribbled in the margin: Primary intervention: containment. Secondary: presentation. The nib scratched audibly against the paper, a sound that coiled through the quiet room like a promise. Daron adored problem cases. Their unraveling was so much sweeter when they fought. He could already picture Matthew’s face when he realized struggling only tightened the ropes.
***to be continued***
Boy into (forced) formal wear and uniform & being tied up and gagged.
This is already shaping up to be a great story, I can tell. I love the slow burn and setting up the pieces before Matthew finds himself ensnared by the sharp-dressed abductor!
Looking forward to what you'll come up with next!
Bondage enthusiast in his 20s, a fan of cute guys, underwear, and bondage, preferably together.
Thanks for the replies! Makes me happy that you like it.
Yes it is a sort of long "introduction" for a story like this. I personally like it when the hot stuff happens way earlier, but also wanted to try out with my own story if you are somewhat invested in the characters a bit more with their backgrounds and such before the action takes place. The first introduction parts I had in my mind for some while and for what will happen in the next 2-3 chapters I have roughly sketched in my mind too.
I hope there are not too many weird phrases and stuff due to translation errors or so in the text
So I might have some time to write some more stuff down over the weekend to continue.
Boy into (forced) formal wear and uniform & being tied up and gagged.
The laptop chimed—soft, discreet—and Daron didn’t rush. He never rushed. He flipped it open with one hand, the other still absently stroking the dress shirt’s starched placket. The glow of the screen washed over his features, turning his already sharp cheekbones into knife-edges. The subject line was efficient, as always: Ferraz Acquisition—Your Immediate Attention Required. Sent from Weaver’s personal account, which meant protocol was being circumvented. Interesting. The email itself was annoyingly terse:
Building A. Conference Room 3. 20:00. Bring your assessment.
Daron’s eyebrow twitched—barely perceptible—as he reread the email. Mister Weaver never scheduled after-hours meetings unless the subject was volatile. Or valuable. His fingers drummed once against the mahogany desk before he snapped the laptop shut with deliberate precision. The leather chair sighed as he stood, adjusting his waistcoat to sit flush against his ribs.
Daron annotates Matthew’s file, anticipating the boy’s resistance during capture and subsequent training. Upon receiving an urgent email from Weaver—an unusual breach of protocol—he prepares for an unscheduled meeting, suspecting Matthew may be either volatile or particularly valuable. His movements remain controlled as he straightens his waistcoat and heads out, intrigued by Weaver’s abrupt summons.
Matthew’s reckless and spontaneous thefts contrasted with Daron’s methodical preparations, where the latter reviews surveillance and gathers formal attire for Matthew’s impending capture. These two couldn’t be any more different in how they function and how they prepare for the things they need to do.
The elegant kidnapper moved to the armoire—a hulking, antique thing with a full-length mirror—and slid open the door with a whisper of well-oiled hinges. Inside, his wardrobe hung in regimented rows: suits separated by season, shirts by collar type, ties coiled like sleeping adders in their partitioned drawer. His fingers bypassed a grey three-piece in favor of something sharper: a midnight-blue suit cut from a wool-silk blend so dense it absorbed light. The jacket’s lapels were thin, the pockets jetted rather than flapped, no unnecessary bulk.
Daron shrugged off his current jacket with the efficiency of a man who’d done it ten thousand times, letting it drape over the chairback in a single, fluid motion. The waistcoat followed. The dress shirt beneath—a crisp white with no breast pocket—was pristine save for the faintest impression of his clavicle where the collar had rested. He unfastened the cufflinks with practiced twists and set them in their velvet-lined tray. The current necktie was removed, rolled up and put back to the others. The shirt peeled away with a sigh of starch, revealing a torso lean from twice-daily laps in the rooftop pool. His skin smelled faintly of the bergamot soap he imported from Florence. The black oxfords had to go too, as he had a different outfit for the meeting in mind.
Changing with practiced efficiency, he removes the rest of his current attire—carefully placing the trouser back on the hanger. Revealing the rest of his toned physique. His movements are deliberate, reflecting his disciplined nature even in private rituals.
The new shirt slithered from its hanger like a live thing—pale blue broadcloth with a reinforced collar that wouldn’t buckle under pressure. He slid into it with the reverence of a priest donning vestments, each button slipping home with a muted snick of mother-of-pearl against thread. The fabric whispered as he adjusted the shoulders, the French seams aligning perfectly with the slope of his deltoids. Only then did he select the tie: a seven-fold construction in raw silk, red in color. He looped it around his neck with the precision of a noose, the tapered end lashing the air before he trapped it under the wider blade. Grabbing the cufflinks again, he fastened and adjusted them with practiced precision.
Dressing was a ritual, each step calibrated to reinforce dominance over fabric, over form, over whatever unfortunate soul would soon be sweating through identical layers under his supervision. The knot cinched tight against his Adam’s apple, a double-Windsor so geometrically flawless it cast a shadow. He smoothed the dimple with his thumbnail, then reached for the suit trousers. With the brown leather belt closing, Daron’s eyes fell next on the suit jacket. The lining slithered cool against his wrists as he shrugged it on, the shoulders embracing him like a second skeleton. At last: different oxfords in the same brown tone as his belt. Et voila! A last view into the mirror, it was perfect.
Room 1412’s lock clicked shut behind him with the finality of a gavel. The corridor lights flickered as he passed—an old building’s nervous tic—but Daron’s stride never wavered. Briefcase in hand, he took the stairs down fourteen floors without breathing harder, his oxfords whispering against the concrete steps. The basement garage smelled of damp and diesel, the fluorescent tubes humming overhead like a swarm of disgruntled wasps. His car—a vintage Mercedes coupe the color of a shark’s underbelly—purred to life at the first turn of the key.
Across town, Matthew rolled onto his side, the whiskey pooling hot in his gut. The rain had worsened, hammering the fire escape like a drummer in a doom metal band. He fumbled for a cigarette, lit it with his lighter, and exhaled toward the water-stained ceiling. The smoke curled around a flickering thought: “Should’ve grabbed more whiskey.”
His childhood had been a series of unlocked doors—literally. His parents had treated parenting like a subscription service they forgot to cancel. Dinner was whatever he could microwave; bedtime was whenever he passed out. By twelve, he’d learned to pick locks. His mother’s idea of a heart-to-heart was tossing a twenty at him and muttering, “Don’t get arrested.” His father’s was a backhanded compliment about how he’d “grow out of this phase” as if rebellion was acne.
The contrast between Daron’s disciplined ways of handling things and Matthew’s aimless self-destruction underscored their opposing lives, now soon to be on a collision course.
Matthew sucked hard on the cigarette, the ember flaring like the time back in the past he’d set a classmate’s middle school gym shorts on fire. That got him a week of suspension and his father’s first genuine laugh in years. The memory tasted like ash. He flicked it out the window, watching the rain drown the glow before it hit the alley below.
Empty. That was the word for it—not lonely, not bored, just a hollowed-out kind of nothing that made his skin prickle. He’d tried filling it with smoking, stolen alcohol. But the high always faded faster than the nicotine stains on his fingers. He rolled onto his stomach, pressing his face into the mattress like he could suffocate the itch under his ribs. The springs groaned.
Netflix was a stopgap, sure, but at least it drowned out the silence. He kicked the crusty sheets aside and lunged for the stolen laptop he possessed. Balanced precariously on a stack of takeout menus. The screen flared to life with last night’s abandoned crime documentary—some true-crime shit about disappearances, irony be damned—but he swiped it away in favor of something louder, dumber, easier. A superhero flick exploded across the screen, all CGI and quips. Matthew snorted. Perfect. He wouldn’t have to think.
The whiskey bottle was still half-full and close to the couch on the ground—miraculously unbroken—and he cracked the cap with his teeth before upending it into his mouth. The burn was familiar, comforting in its brutality. Like swallowing a lit match, he thought, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The hero onscreen monologued about responsibility. Matthew flipped him off and took another swig.
His phone buzzed—probably a spam text—but he ignored it, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. The takeout tower wobbled dangerously. One of the containers tipped over, spilling congealed noodles onto his thigh. He flicked them off with a grimace. "Fuckin' perfect." The movie blurred at the edges as the whiskey hit his bloodstream, colors smearing like wet paint. He didn’t bother adjusting the volume when the dialogue warped into static.
Matthew peeled off his t-shirt—stiff with sweat—and tossed it toward the laundry pile. Which was more of a concept, not a reality. The AC hadn’t worked since last summer, and the apartment was like a sauna but still warm enough. He sprawled across the mattress and onscreen some billionaire in a suit monologued about justice. "Eat shit!" Matthew muttered, taking another sip from the bottle. The liquor burned all the way down, settling like a lit fuse in his gut. Alcohol seemingly became his sole coping mechanism amid squalor.
His eyelids dragged heavier with each blink. The laptop screen blurred into smears of color—red, blue, green—before resolving into nonsensical shapes. He fumbled for the lighter again, thumbing the wheel just to watch the flame lick at the dark. The flicker hypnotized him, swaying in time with his pulse. Click. Darkness. His breath slowed.
The whiskey bottle rolled from his limp fingers, its dregs soaking into the mattress like ink. His last thought was that the stain would probably outlast him. The superhero's final monologue reduced to white noise beneath the rain's relentless drumming.
***to be continued***
Last edited by Suitedtiedboy4 days ago, edited 1 time in total.
Boy into (forced) formal wear and uniform & being tied up and gagged.
Across town, Daron's Mercedes purred to a halt in the basement of the Newark high-rise. The parking garage was a tomb of concrete and steel, its fluorescent lights humming like dying insects overhead. He stepped out, adjusting the razor-sharp line of his jacket sleeve, and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from his tie. The elevator ride up was a study in stillness—Daron didn't fidget, didn't check his watch, didn't even blink as the numbers climbed toward the penthouse.
When the doors slid open, the scent of Cuban cigars and old money hit him like a physical presence. The penthouse was all black marble and floor-to-ceiling windows, the Hudson River glittering below like spilled ink. At the far end of the room, silhouetted against the skyline, sat Mister Weaver.
The man was impossible to pin down—mid-fifties, perhaps, with silver threading through his otherwise jet-black hair. His suit was the kind of expensive that didn’t announce itself: black wool with a half-stitched lapel, the fabric so finely woven it seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. A pocket square—silk, folded into an impossible geometric peak—was the only concession to flair. His oxfords, polished to a mirror shine, rested on the edge of a Persian rug worth more than Matthew’s entire apartment building.
Daron arrived precisely as Mister Weaver lifted a cigar to his lips—not late, not early, but with the punctuality of a man who’d calibrated his entire existence to precision. The air between them hummed with unspoken hierarchies. Weaver’s cufflinks caught the amber glow of a desk lamp as he gestured toward the leather chair opposite him. "Sit," he said, the word curling like smoke.
Weaver’s face was a study in controlled erosion—sharp cheekbones softened only by the faintest web of crow’s feet, eyes the color of wet asphalt absorbing every detail. His shirt—a white so stark it verged on surgical—was fastened with matte black onyx buttons, each one secured with the precision of a vault tumbler. The collar points were needle-sharp, pressing into the hollows beneath his jaw like brand marks. His tie, a serpentine stripe of black and gunmetal, hung perfectly straight against his sternum, not a single twist in the silk Chord despite hours of wear.
Daron sat without adjusting his posture, the oxblood leather sighing faintly under his weight. He placed the briefcase on the floor beside him with deliberate slowness, ensuring the polished surface wouldn’t scrape against the rug. Weaver exhaled cigar smoke in a slow column, watching monomers dissipate into the air between them. “Ferraz,” Daron started to say, while Mister Weaver tapping ash into a crystal tray with a nail filed to a glossy oval. “Tell me why he’s worth after-hours attention.”
Daron’s fingers steepled against his knee, his jacket sleeves pulling taut over lean muscle. “The boy is located very close to our locations. We have to be very careful with this one.” Weaver said, voice smooth as the silk lining his pockets. “I am aware that he is living close to out locations. Same town just across the river. We usually don’t snatch boys from the same towns of our locations to not guide the officials too close to us in case a missing boy is reported. From his file I gather that his defiance isn’t just rebellion—it’s a coping mechanism. Break that, and you don’t just get compliance.” His thumb traced the edge of his red necktie. “You get devotion. Something unique maybe after I am done with him.”
Weaver’s gaze sharpened. He set the cigar down with a precision that suggested he’d measured the exact angle. “His file says he picks locks for fun. That he threw a chair at his high school principal, put a schoolmate’s pants on fire.” A smirk ghosted across his lips. “Hardly unique. Besides being a difficult target.”
“The lockpicks are meticulousness masquerading as chaos,” Daron countered. He reached into his breast pocket—Weaver tensed imperceptibly—and withdrew Matthew’s surveillance photo. The edges were worn from handling. “Watch him steal.” He slid the image across the desk: Matthew image seen inside of a shop, his fingers curled around a lighter with the grace of a concert pianist. “He’s not grabbing—he’s selecting. There’s artistry beneath the filth. He knows what he is doing.”
Weaver leaned forward, his shadow swallowing the photo. The ice in his scotch clinked—once, twice—as he swirled the glass. “And the violence?”
“Theatrical.” Daron’s cufflinks caught the light as he gestured. “He doesn’t actually connect. The chair missed by three feet. The fistfights end with him taking the first punch and walking away.” His smile was a blade’s edge. “He wants the idea of being brutal. Not the reality.”
Silence pooled between them, thick as the cigar smoke. Mister Weaver’s tie pin—a discreet silver thorn—glinted when he finally spoke. “Procedures? You know we don’t use sedation. To not have any traces of it in their systems. Potential buyers want their system clean. And besides, in combination with possible drug- and alcohol abuse…risky too”
“No sedation. No knocking out.” Daron’s index finger tapped his knee—once, precise. “I want him conscious when he realizes his hands won’t obey him. When the ropes go tight.” He inhaled, staring directly at his supervisor.
Weaver’s chuckle was dry as old bones. He lifted the cigar again, the ember flaring. “You think you can make a good boy or gentleman out of THAT? Why would I approve the hassle and not just sell him as a raw, rebellious boy to our customers?”
Daron crossed his legs in one fluid motion, adjusting his cuffs. The red-colored tie settled perfectly against his sternum. “No,” he said, turning toward the elevator. “I’ll make something better out of him.”
Weaver exhaled a slow plume of smoke. “You’re growing soft, Meredith.”
Daron didn’t flinch. “I’m not. Drugs fog the reaction—dull the moment they realize they’re ours.” His thumb brushed the edge of Matthew’s photo. “Watch his eyes here.” The security footage showed Matthew mid-theft, pupils flaring as the lighter vanished into his sleeve. “That’s the rush. The game. If I dope him, I’m stealing his victory before I take his freedom.” The corner of Weaver’s mouth twitched. Daron leaned forward again. “I want him lucid when the ropes tie him up good. When he understands—viscerally—that struggling makes the knots tighter.”
Again, Weaver tapped his cigar against the crystal tray. A cylinder of ash collapsed silently. “And if he screams?”
Daron didn’t blink. “He won’t.” The lie was deliberate—they both knew Matthew would howl like a kicked dog. He reached into his briefcase, withdrawing a roll of industrial-grade duct tape, its silver surface catching the light like a blade. Followed by some clothes. “Neighbors might hear a shout, they assume a domestic. Nothing too unusual in the neighborhood he lives in. They might hear prolonged distress? I make sure they don’t.” He thumbed the tape’s edge. “This ensures compliance before the first syllable.”
Weaver examined the tape, his nostrils flaring at the chemical tang of adhesive. “If you look at it this way... ”
Daron grinned, rolling the duct tape between his palms like a magician preparing a trick. “His mouth might need stuffing before sealing. Cotton lacks poetry.” His thumb brushed the tape’s serrated edge before he puts it and the cloths back into his briefcase
Mister Weaver smirked around his cigar, exhaling smoke in a slow spiral. “Try his own socks.” The suggestion hung in the air like a blade. “Nothing teaches humility like tasting one’s filth.” His cufflink glinted as he tapped ash into the tray. “Unless you’ve gone soft.”
Daron’s grin sharpened. He unspooled a length of duct tape with a snick, the adhesive catching the light like wet steel. “Too ordinary, don’t you think? I want him choking on luxury.” From his briefcase, he withdrew a silk pocket handkerchief—eggplant purple, monogrammed. The fabric slithered through his fingers. “This cost more than his entire wardrobe. Imagine it wadded behind those pretty teeth.”
Weaver flicked cigar ash onto the Persian rug, a deliberate provocation. “To spread a message?” he sneered. “Use both.” His knuckle rapped the desk. “Silk first—let him taste what he’ll never earn. Then his own socks, still rancid from—” He gestured vaguely toward Newark’s skyline. “—whatever gutter he’s been sleeping in.”
Daron’s tie fell smoothly on his shirt again as he moved a bit on the leather chair. “Hierarchy of humiliation,” he murmured, folding the silk into a tight wad. The monogram—*D.M.* in Gothic script—would press against Matthew’s tongue like a brand.
Rain sheeted against the penthouse windows, warping the skyline into smears of neon. Weaver stubbed out his cigar, the ember dying with a hiss. “You’ll take him tonight?”
Daron glanced at his watch—saw it was 10:27 PM by now. From the agency’s surveillance team, Daron knew that Matthew’s building had no doorman, knew that he was usually home by now. “He’ll be there,” he said, sliding the silk pocket handkerchief back into his briefcase with a surgeon’s precision. “Probably drunk enough to be sluggish, sober enough to feel every second.” His fingers lingered on the briefcase, imagining the handkerchief and his sock sodden with spit.
Silence pooled between them for a moment, thick as spilled ink. Weaver’s cigar had burned down to the band—he studied the ember like it held answers, then stubbed it out. The crystal ashtray chimed softly. “One wrong move, and we’re burning a nine-year cover with him living so close to our facilities.” His thumb pressed into the chairs rest hard enough to dent the leather. “But—” The word hung like a noose. “—if you can keep him silent until transport…until you have him at your place…” His smile was a blade sliding free. “Proceed.” Weaver added and raised himself from his chair. He straightened his tie—a reflex, Daron realized, like checking a holster. “Go,” he said, turning toward the window. His reflection ghosted over the Hudson, fractured by raindrops. “Before he sobers up.”
Daron’s pulse stuttered—not from fear, but anticipation. He imagined Matthew’s first breath through the gag, the way his ribs would expand against a dress shirt. Weaver flicked the Matthew’s dossier open to a dog-eared page. His fountain pen, a Montblanc, with a nib sharp enough to draw blood. Hovered over Matthew’s dossier there. “If he so much as hiccups where someone can hear…” The pen stabbed downward, leaving an ink-black asterisk next to Matthew’s address. A death warrant in bureaucratic disguise.
Daron stood, his shadow swallowing the desk. “He won’t.” The lie tasted like Scotch and adrenaline. Matthew would scream—oh, he’d scream beautifully—but Daron had spent years perfecting keeping his victims quiet. He grabbed his briefcase “By dawn,” he murmured, “he’ll be learning that his future are ropes and gags.”
The elevator doors slid shut between them, severing Weaver’s final warning: “Don’t fuck this up.” The descent was silent but for the whisper of Daron’s tie against his shirt—a metronome counting down to Matthew’s last free breath.
***to be continued***
Boy into (forced) formal wear and uniform & being tied up and gagged.
The garage smelled of cold concrete and motor oil. Daron’s brown Oxfords clicked across the pavement towards his car. The black Mercedes with tinted windows and reinforced door hinges, waited in the underground garage like a predator in tall grass. He circled it once, fingers trailing the trunk’s seam where the lock mechanism hid beneath polished steel.
The trunk clicked open at his touch and he put down his briefcase on the concrete for a moment. Inside the trunk was a bag and after he opened it, everything laid still in order. More coiled ropes. Daron’s fingers lingered on the ropes made out of braided nylon, tested for tensile strength against thrashing limbs, before methodically looping them into compact coils. Steel-reinforced handcuffs. These weren’t police-issued ones even if they look like it. They were custom. Brushed nickel with a matte finish. The hinge was seamless, the keyhole discreetly recessed. He tested the mechanism—*snick-click*—once, twice, savoring the precision. Matthew’s wrists would bruise beautifully against them.
The ballgag’s harness gleamed under the parking garage fluorescents, its buckle engraved with Property of D.M.. Daron tested its strap against his palm, adjusting the buckle until it bit just shy of breaking skin. “Perfect.” Daron said and reached for his briefcase and then unlatched it with twin clicks. He put every object inside of the bag into his briefcase. After pushing the now empty bag to the side of the trunk Daron eye’s fall on the single D-ring bolted to the floor—anchor point for the cuffs. He tested it with a tug. Solid. Satisfied, he shut the briefcase with a click that echoed off the concrete walls. After closing the trunk and having the briefcase in hand, Daron walked up to the driver’s door. Sliding into the driver’s seat and putting down the briefcase on the passenger’s seat, he adjusted the rearview mirror next. For a heartbeat, his reflection stared back—tie knotted tight, cuffs pristine.
The Mercedes’ interior smelled of leather and oil. Daron’s jacket barely creasing as he reached into the glove compartment. The glove compartment yielded its treasures with a press of his thumb. The gloves were butter-soft calfskin, their seams stitched tight enough to muffle fingerprints. He worked them on, savoring the way the leather clung to his knuckles. Then he started the motor.
Rain speckled the windshield as he pulled onto the street. Newark’s lights smeared across the glass like wet paint. Somewhere in that blur, Matthew’s apartment waited—windows unlatched, door flimsy as the lies he told himself. “Soon”, they seemed to whisper. “Soon he’ll learn what those hands are really for.” Daron muttered to himself.
The Mercedes glided forward, its headlights slicing through the rain. Daron exhaled slowly, tasting the adrenaline sharp on his tongue. Fifteen blocks. Forty minutes. One broken boy.
The storm had left the pavement slick, reflecting neon in oily swirls. Daron killed the engine outside Matthew’s building: a crumbling walk-up sandwiched between a pawn shop and a boarded-up bodega. The dashboard clock read 1:13 AM. Late enough for drunks to be passed out, early enough that nosy neighbors wouldn’t stir at engine sounds. Perfect.
Daron checked his watch—a slim Patek Philippe with a face like frozen mercury—then tapped the crystal once. Click. The second hand didn’t stutter. Time moved forward, obedient as the boys he trained. Unlike them, it never resisted.
Through the rain-streaked window, he counted fire escapes. Third floor, fourth window from the left—Matthew’s. The sash was cracked open despite the downpour. Typical. The boy left vulnerabilities everywhere like breadcrumbs. Daron’s gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers. Tonight, he’d follow them all the way home.
A gust rattled the Mercedes’ frame as the last raindrops fell. The storm had passed. Daron inhaled—asphalt, wet brick, the faintest tang of rotting takeout from the dumpster across the street. Newark’s perfume. He adjusted his tie in the rearview. The knot pressed into his throat, a promise of things to come.
Briefcase in hand, he stepped onto the sidewalk. His Oxfords avoided the deepest puddles—not out of concern for polish, but because wet soles squeaked. Silence was a weapon. He tested the building’s front door. Locked, but the deadbolt rattled loosely in its housing. Cheap. Daron exhaled through his nose. This would be easier than folding a pocket square.
From his breast pocket, he withdrew a tension wrench and pick. The tools gleamed under the streetlight—sleek, professional. No theatrics needed here. The lock surrendered in three heartbeats. The door swung inward with a sigh, revealing stairs that smelled of cigarettes and stale beer.
Daron paused on the threshold, listening. Somewhere above, a toilet flushed. A television murmured through thin walls.
He eased up the stairs, testing each step before committing his weight. The third-floor hallway smelled how mere like microwaved noodles. A single bulb flickered at the far end, no shadows to betray him. No cameras either, just as he'd confirmed weeks prior during reconnaissance. The building's apathy was his advantage.
Daron withdrew the tension wrench again after arriving in front of the door of Matthew’s apartment. This lock was newer—a Kwikset deadbolt—but still cheap. The pick slid in without resistance. The pins yielded one by one, their surrender almost musical. The final pin set with a click as soft as a sigh.
He eased the door open just enough to see inside. The apartment was a disaster. Clothes strewn everywhere. Pizza boxes stacked like a drunken Jenga tower. The air smelled of stale beer and unwashed laundry. And there, sprawled across the mattress in nothing but boxers and a stained t-shirt, was Matthew. His brown hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed from alcohol. One arm hung off the bed, fingers brushing the half-empty whiskey bottle on the floor.
Daron stepped inside and closed the door silently behind him. The floor creaked once under his weight. Matthew stirred but didn’t wake. His breathing was deep, ragged. Drunk sleep.
Daron set the briefcase down quietly. His gloves flexed. “Time to begin. Showtime!” he thought to himself.
***to be continued***
Last edited by Suitedtiedboy3 days ago, edited 1 time in total.
Boy into (forced) formal wear and uniform & being tied up and gagged.
Matthew lay tangled in sheets that smelled of sweat and spilled liquor, one leg hitched up like he’d been mid-kick in some dream brawl. Daron catalogued the details—the sharp jut of his hipbone under threadbare cotton, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed in his sleep. Up close, beneath the grime and rebellion, there was something almost... delicate about him. The sweep of his lashes against flushed cheeks. The pink bow of his lower lip, slightly parted around a snore. Daron’s thumb brushed his own cufflink absently. With a proper shower, a tailored suit, and the right motivation, the boy could be exquisite.
The boy twitched suddenly, his fingers curling into the mattress like claws. Fighter’s instincts, Daron noted. Even dead to the world, his body remembered tension. He’d be the type to wake swinging, all elbows and teeth. Daron unbuttoned his suit jacket slowly, the whisper of wool against silk the only warning before he struck.
The mattress dipped as Daron braced one knee beside Matthew’s hip. Close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. The boy’s pulse fluttered visibly at his throat. “So young”, Daron thought. “So breakable.” He flexed his gloved fingers, calculating angles. Left hand to pin the wrist before Matthew could swing. Right to clamp over his mouth—not just to muffle, but to feel the shape of his scream against his palm. The duct tape waited in his pocket, but first, he wanted the raw, unfiltered shock of contact. The moment Matthew’s eyes flew open, wild with the realization that his life had just narrowed to the span of Daron’s grip.
Daron leaned in, his shadow swallowing Matthew’s sprawled form. The boy’s wrist was inches from his grasp—pale, wiry, the tendons standing taut even in sleep. He imagined the cold kiss of handcuffs there, the way Matthew would jerk against them like a fish on a line. But first, the gag. Weaver’s orders echoed in his mind: his own sock, then the silk. Daron’s nostrils flared at the thought. Matthew’s discarded socks were balled near the foot of the bed, ripe with the stench of unwashed rebellion. Perfect. Humiliation began in the details.
His gloved hand hovered over Matthew’s mouth, close enough to feel the humid puff of each exhale. The boy’s lips were chapped, slightly parted: easy access for the sock and silk. Daron’s other hand slid toward Matthew’s wrist, slow as a rising tide. Timing was everything. He needed the cuffs on before the boy could swing, the sock and silk handkerchief stuffed before he could scream. A symphony of restraint, each movement rehearsed a hundred times in his mind.
Matthew stirred, his breath hitching. Daron froze. The boy’s eyelids fluttered, lashes casting spiderweb shadows on his cheeks. “Not yet”, Daron whispered. He needed Matthew awake—but not too awake. Not enough to fight. Just enough to understand. His fingers twitched toward the cuffs in his pocket, the metal already warmed by his thigh. He exhaled through his nose. The game was about to begin.
The boy’s wrist lay exposed—pale, vulnerable. Daron’s fingers ghosted over it, measuring the circumference. He’d done this before, of course. Countless times. But Matthew’s pulse jumped beneath his touch like a trapped rabbit. Daron’s mouth went dry. The handcuffs would bruise that delicate skin. The thought sent a thrill down his spine.
The sock from discarded pile next to the mattress Matthew was laying on. Daron’s lips curled thinking to grab one of it soon. He could already imagine the boy’s face when he realized what was being stuffed into his mouth. The silk would come later—a mockery of refinement. But first, the sock. The stink of his own unwashed rebellion choking him.
Daron’s fingers closed around Matthew’s wrist—slow, inevitable. The boy’s skin was fever-warm. His pulse hammered against Daron’s thumb. Soon, Daron promised silently. Soon those wrists would be bound behind his back, the cuffs biting into flesh. Soon that mouth would be gagged with his own filth. But first—the strike.
Matthew’s breath hitched again. His lashes fluttered. Daron’s other hand hovered over his mouth, gloved fingers poised to clamp down. One move. One perfect, brutal move. The boy would wake to darkness and pain and the cold kiss of metal. And then—then the real work would begin.
Daron leaned in, his breath stirring Matthew’s hair. The boy smelled of sweat and cheap whiskey. Daron’s pulse jumped. Now. His fingers flexed. The moment stretched—taut as a bowstring. Then, with a sharp inhale, he struck.
Pupils blown from booze and sudden terror by the boy. “The fuck?” Daron’s left hand clamped over Matthew’s mouth before the boy could scream. The glove muffled the sound, but Daron felt the vibration against his palm—a raw, startled noise. Matthew’s eyes flew open, wide and wild. His body jerked beneath Daron’s weight. “Shh!” Daron murmured, pressing down harder. The boy’s lips were soft, damp with sleep. He tasted the salt of sweat on his glove. “Shhh! Be quiet, boy!”
Matthew bucked. His free hand—the one not pinned beneath Daron’s knee now—flailed for the whiskey bottle. Daron caught his wrist mid-swing. The boy’s bones were fragile. Birdlike. Easy to break if wanted. Daron twisted, forcing Matthew’s arm behind his back. The first cuff cold and sleek clicked around his wrist. Matthew gasped against Daron’s palm. “Mmhhmelph!! PHUPH PHOU!” The second cuff snicked shut. “Easy, boy” Daron whispered. The boy’s breath hitched. His pulse rabbited against Daron’s fingers. “Easy.” Matthew struggled, trying to move his legs more. “Charming,” he murmured with a smirk, pinning Matthew’s legs with his knees.
Matthew’s sock—rank, sweat-damp—lay crumpled at the foot of the bed. Daron reached for it, his grip never loosening on Matthew’s mouth. The boy’s eyes tracked the movement followed by desperate groans into the handgag. “Mhhhoo…!!” Realization dawned. His scream was muffled but feral—the sound of a creature caught in a trap.
Daron stuffed the sock into Matthew’s mouth. The boy gagged. His throat worked, his nostrils flared. The stench—his own stench—filled his nose. Daron smiled. “Good boy.” he murmured. The silk handkerchief came next, folded tight. He pressed it over Matthew’s lips, securing the sock in his mouth. Daron grabbed the duct-tape next. it with a strip of duct tape.
The tape hissed as Daron peeled it from the roll. Matthew’s eyes tracked the sound, pupils dilating further. Daron pressed the first round horizontally across Matthew’s mouth, smoothing it down with his thumb. Matthew bucked. Daron sighed, almost paternal. “Now, now.” he chided, as if scolding a child for sneaking cookies. The second round of tape went on top—right over the lips—sealing the edges tight. Matthew’s breath came faster, nostrils flaring. The tape gleamed under the dim light, a silver gag as polished as Daron’s cufflinks.
Daron wrapped more around Matthew’s head, overlapping the second. The adhesive caught strands of Matthew’s hair—*rip*—eliciting a muffled yelp. Daron tutted. “Should’ve brushed your hair,” he murmured. Matthew’s chest heaved. Daron paused, gloved fingers resting on Matthew’s cheekbone. “Breathe through your nose!” he instructed, firm but gentle. Like a father teaching his son to tie a tie. The fourth round went lower, cinching Matthew’s jaw shut. Daron pressed his palm flat against Matthew’s sternum—*stay down*—as he leaned in close. “Count with me,” he whispered. “One… two…” Matthew’s ribs shuddered beneath his touch. Not wanting his victim to hyperventilate or throw up during this.
The fifth round sealed Matthew’s fate—no more ragged moans, just the rhythmic snick of tape pulled taut. Daron smoothed the edges with clinical precision, thumb brushing the hollow beneath Matthew’s ear. The boy’s skin was fever-hot, damp with panic. Daron inhaled the musk of fear, sweat, and cheap whiskey. “There…” he murmured. “…much better.” Matthew’s nostrils flared. His eyes darted—*window? Door?*—but Daron’s knee pressed harder between his thighs. “No!” he chided. “Eyes on me, boy!” He tapped Matthew’s chin with one gloved finger. Tap-tap. Like a metronome.
Matthew whimpered. “Mhhmmh… mhmhhmph!!” Daron paused. “Hush,” he soothed. “Count.” He pressed another strip perpendicular to the last, crisscrossing over Matthew’s lips. The boy’s breath hitched, too fast, too shallow. Daron tutted. “Slow,” he instructed, pinching Matthew’s nose shut for three seconds. “Like this.” He released. Matthew gasped, chest heaving. The tape strained. “Good boy,” Daron murmured, patting his cheek. The praise dripped like syrup—sickly sweet, impossible to spit out. “Mhhmhphh!!” The boy’s whimper was music.
Matthew’s tongue pressed against the sock, probing its contours. The fabric—damp with saliva and sleep-sweat—clung to his palate like a second skin. His taste buds recoiled at the sour tang of unwashed cotton, the bitter musk of his own foot. He gagged. The sock shifted, bunching against his molars. God, no— He tried to scream, but the sound died in his throat. The silk pressed tighter. His jaw ached. The tape pulled at his stubble. Tears pricked his eyes. “Help!” he thought, straining his ears for sirens, footsteps, anything. But all he heard was Daron’s steady breathing and the distant hum of a refrigerator. His pulse pounded in his ears. “No no no—"
Daron surveyed Matthew’s legs—long, lean, and dangerously mobile. The boy would kick like a feral cat if given half a chance. He glanced at the briefcase, then back at Matthew’s thrashing form. Tape alone wouldn’t suffice. The stairs demanded precision. Daron’s fingers ghosted over Matthew’s calves, noting the coiled tension in his muscles. “Easy, boy,” he murmured, as if gentling a skittish colt. He reached for the coil of rope in his briefcase. The nylon hissed as he unspooled it. Matthew’s eyes tracked the movement, his breathing ragged through his nose.
Daron leaned back to admire his work. Matthew’s cheeks were flushed. His eyes gleamed with tears. The cuffs bit into his wrists. The sock bulged behind the silk. Perfect.
Daron looped the rope around Matthew’s ankles first, cinching tight enough to bite into flesh. The boy’s toes curled—useless resistance. Daron hummed, like being pleased. He crisscrossed the rope up Matthew’s calves, each pass snug against the last. The friction burns would sting later, probably a memory of tonight. Matthew bucked, his hips lifting off the mattress. Daron smirked. “A struggler, aren’t we?” he mused, securing the final knot just below Matthew’s knees. The boy’s legs were now a single, immobile unit—a bound prize ready for transport.
Daron leaned in, his tie brushing Matthew’s chest. “Time to go, boy.” he whispered. Matthew’s nostrils flared. His muffled protests vibrated against Daron’s palm … “Mmmph! Mmmph!” … as Daron pressed his leathered palm against Matthew’s gagged mouth. “You are coming with me, if you like or not.” Daron said, smoothing Matthew’s hair back from his forehead. “We go for a ride.”
And so he hooked an arm beneath his knees and another behind his back. The boy was lighter than expected. Daron adjusted his grip, savoring the heat of Matthew’s skin through the thin fabric of his boxers. The stairs awaited. So did the car. And after that—well. Matthew would learn the rest soon enough.
***to be continued***
Boy into (forced) formal wear and uniform & being tied up and gagged.
The door creaked as Daron shouldered it open, Matthew’s bound form cradled like a bride. The hallway air still smelled not the best. Somewhere, a faucet dripped. Matthew stiffened in his arms, his breath coming faster. “Mmmph!” Daron tightened his grip. “Quiet, boy.” he murmured. His brown Oxfords whispered against the linoleum. Down the hall. Past 3B with its peeling ‘Welcome’ mat. Past the flickering exit sign. Matthew’s pulse rabbited against Daron’s chest. His thighs flexed against the ropes but it was useless.
The stairwell swallowed them whole. Daron pivoted, keeping Matthew’s head from smacking the railing. The boy’s gagged whimpers echoed off concrete walls. Third floor. Down to the second floor. A door slammed somewhere above. Matthew jerked. Daron froze. The building held its breath. Then—nothing. Just the hum of distant traffic and Matthew’s panicked snorts through his nose. Daron exhaled. “Good boy.” The praise dripped like venom. Down they went. First floor. The lobby’s flickering fluorescents painted Matthew’s face in sickly yellow. His eyes darted at the mailboxes, a broken chair and then the exit. “Mmhhm!” Daron adjusted his grip, fingers digging into Matthew’s thigh. “Almost there.”
Matthew’s heels scraped against Daron’s ribs. The ropes held but Matthew’s whole body was moving in panic. His bound legs pistoned—wild, frantic. A kick connected with the fire extinguisher. The metal clanged. Daron hissed. His knee buckled. Matthew twisted. For one glorious second, his shoulder hit the lobby tiles. Then Daron’s hand fisted his hair. “Naughty, boy!” The whisper was ice. Matthew arched. His scalp burned. Daron hauled him upright, chest to chest. The boy’s breath came in ragged bursts through his nose. Daron’s tie brushed his cheek—silk on sweat. “One more sound,” Daron murmured, “and I’ll gag you with your underwear.” Matthew stilled. His eyelashes fluttered. Defeat tasted like sock cotton and duct tape.
The exit door groaned. Newark’s night air slapped them—diesel fumes, wet pavement. Matthew’s pupils shrank. His nostrils flared. Daron adjusted his grip, fingers digging into Matthew’s thigh. The Mercedes waited ten paces away. Black. Gleaming. A hearse for the living. Matthew bucked. His elbow caught Daron’s solar plexus. The man grunted. Matthew twisted. His bound feet hit asphalt. Pain shot up his shins. Daron’s arm hooked his throat. “Mmmp—!” The chokehold cut his air. Stars exploded behind his eyelids. He sagged. Daron dragged him forward. One step. Two. The car’s trunk yawned open. Matthew kicked. His toes grazed the bumper. Daron chuckled. “Try harder.”
The trunk smelled of leather polish and something metallic. Matthew’s bare shoulder hit the carpet. Cold. Scratchy. Daron flipped him onto his stomach. The boy’s wrists strained against the cuffs. His legs thrashed. Nylon rope singing against itself. Daron leaned over beside him. His breath ghosted over Matthew’s ear. “Final adjustments for your transport, boy.” He unspooled more rope. Looped it around Matthew’s ankles. Yanked. The boy’s knees bent. His heels kissed his bound wrists. The hogtie crushed his diaphragm. Matthew wheezed through his nose. Tape strained. Daron patted his flank. “Breathe shallow.” He advised the boy.
Matthew bucked. The rope bit deeper. His toes curled. His back arched. Daron wrapped another coil around his thighs. The boy’s muscles jumped. Sweat beaded on his temples. “Mmmph! Mmmph!” Daron sighed. “Stop.” He palmed Matthew’s forehead. Pushed his face into the trunk floor. His gag bulged. Daron leaned close. “Listen,” he murmured. “Road’s bumpy. Wouldn’t want you bruised or hurt.” His fingers trailed Matthew’s spine. “Almost done.”
The rope hissed through Daron’s gloves. Matthew’s knees bent more as Daron pulled. His heels pressed flush against his ass. His wrists strained. The cuffs clinked. The hogtie pulled tighter. Air fled Matthew’s lungs. His ribs screamed. Tears blurred his vision. The rope creaked. “Just the final touch, boy” he breathed. Matthew’s sweat dripped onto the trunk mat. His pulse throbbed in his temples. Daron’s fingers checked every knot—ankles, thighs, wrists—each tug stealing another inch of freedom. Matthew twisted. His elbow hit the wheel well. Pain shot up his arm. Daron chuckled. “Calm down, boy. There is no way I will set you free tonight. Struggle all you want. I make sure you can’t free yourself. Try to relax and not move too much or you will only hurt yourself.” Looking over the boy, Daron’s silk necktie brushed against Matthew’s face. A soft brush from the material. “Mmh...mhhphhh!!!!” the boy whimpers almost like asking for leniency.
The D-ring gleamed. Cold steel. Unforgiving. Daron threaded a final rope through Matthew’s wrist cuffs. The boy’s shoulders wrenched backward. His spine arched. His breath came in ragged snorts. The rope fed through the ring. Daron pulled. Matthew’s body slid. His cheek smacked the carpet. Daron tied off the rope with not only one knot. Matthew tested it. His muscles burned. The D-ring held.
Matthew kicked. The hogtie’s ropes creaked. His ankles and wrists strained. His knees bent impossibly tight. His toes curled. The rope rubbed his skin raw. Daron’s fingers brushed Matthew’s calf. The boy flinched. Daron murmured, “Relax, boy.” Impossible. Matthew’s pulse thundered. His sweat slicked the trunk floor. Daron wrapped another rope around Matthew’s upper arms. Cinched. The boy’s ribs protested. His lungs squeezed. His fingers tingled. The ropes crossed his chest like a straitjacket.
Daron threaded the final rope through the D-ring. Matthew’s body lifted. His spine arched. His hips tilted. His cheek pressed against the carpet. The rope bit. The cuffs clinked. His breath hitched. Daron tied off the knot. Tight. Matthew tested it again. His muscles burned. His shoulders screamed. The D-ring held yet again. The rope didn’t budge. His breath came in ragged snorts. His nostrils flared. His eyes watered. The tape over his mouth pulled at his stubble. His sock gag tasted sour. His own scent filled his nose—sweat, fear, humiliation.
Daron looked down at Matthew. The boy’s bound form was pitiful. His skin gleamed with sweat. His muscles trembled. His eyelashes fluttered. His pupils darted—wild, panicked. Questions burned in his eyes.
Why me? Where are we going? What are you going to do to me?
Daron exhaled. Almost—*almost*—he felt sorry. Almost. But not quite. The boy was a mess. Unrefined. Rebellious. But beneath the sweat and fear, there was potential. A diamond in the rough. Daron’s fingers brushed Matthew’s cheek with his gloved hand. The boy flinched. “Hush!” Daron murmured. “No questions now.” Matthew’s nostrils flared. His breath quickened. The tape strained. Daron patted his flank. “Later we are able to talk.”
Matthew’s chest heaved. His breath whistled through his nose. The tape held. The sock gag stayed put. Daron leaned closer, his ear hovering over Matthew’s taped mouth. “Mmhmmhmm!” Matthew’s muffled protests vibrated against the layers of silk and adhesive. Daron smirked. “Good.” he whispered. “No one will hear you I’d say.”
The trunk’s interior was a tomb of shadows. Matthew’s sweat gleamed in the dim light. His nostrils flared. Daron pressed his gloved palm flat against Matthew’s chest—testing. The boy’s ribs expanded. Collapsed. Expanded again. The rhythm was erratic, panicked, but the sound? Minimal. The sock absorbed most of the moisture, the silk muffled the rest. Even if Matthew screamed—*really* screamed—the layers would swallow it whole. Daron nodded, satisfied. “Perfect. Stay quiet my dear boy.” His fingers traced the edge of the tape, ensuring no gaps. The boy flinched. His breath hitched. The tape strained. But it held.
Daron tilted Matthew’s chin up with two fingers, examining the angles. The silk handkerchief bulged slightly—evidence of the boy’s tongue still probing for an escape. Futile. The duct tape overlapped in precise, crisscrossed bands, sealing the edges flush against his skin. No amount of jaw movement would loosen it. Daron exhaled through his nose, imagining the vibrations of Matthew’s muffled protests against his palm again. The trunk would swallow those sounds too. “Silent as a grave.” he murmured, thumb brushing the curve of Matthew’s cheekbone. The boy’s pupils dilated further. Fear sharpened compliance.
The trunk lid descended with a whisper of hydraulics. Matthew’s bound legs jerked—knees knocking against the wheel well—before Daron caught his ankle and pressed it back down. “None of that, boy” he chided, fingers tightening around the rope. The interior light flickered, painting the boy’s sweat-slicked torso in gold before darkness swallowed him whole. The latch clicked. Matthew’s muffled cry reverberated through the metal, more vibration than sound. Daron paused, glove resting on the trunk’s edge. He could almost feel the boy’s panic radiating through the steel. Like a trapped animal. Like prey. He smoothed his tie, straightened his cuffs, and moved to the driver’s door.
***to be continued***
Boy into (forced) formal wear and uniform & being tied up and gagged.
What a phenomenal kidnap! Matthew made things oh-so-easy for his captor without knowing it. Maybe the bad boy won't be so hard to tame after all. Either way, I think Daron will have fun with his new vict- eh, asset.
Bondage enthusiast in his 20s, a fan of cute guys, underwear, and bondage, preferably together.
The Mercedes purred to life. Newark’s streets blurred beyond the windshield—neon signs smearing into streaks of pink and green, potholes jolting the suspension just enough to hear Matthew’s elbows thump against the trunk floor. Daron adjusted the rearview mirror, angling it to catch the faintest movement behind him. Not that Matthew could do much. The hogtie was flawless. The ropes cinched his limbs into immobility, his spine arched just shy of painful. But the boy was trying. Daron smirked as the car hit a bump and a slight thud answered from the trunk. Followed by a strangled “Mmmph!” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Be quiet, boy!” he murmured, though of course Matthew couldn’t hear him.
Rain streaked the windshield. Daron flicked the wipers higher. The rhythmic swish-thump drowned out Matthew’s struggles—mostly. Every few minutes, a muffled scrape or whimper slipped through. Daron’s grip tightened on the wheel. He imagined the boy’s thighs chafing against the ropes, his sock gag growing soggier with spit, his wrists twisting in the cuffs until the skin beneath turned raw. The mental image sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. He adjusted the heat, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension there. The drive wasn’t long. Twenty minutes, maybe less if the tunnels were clear. But for Matthew? It would feel like eternity.
A pothole jolted the car. The trunk emitted a sharp crack—Matthew’s forehead hitting something. Daron winced. Not ideal. Buyers paid extra for unblemished merchandise. He eased off the gas, guiding the Mercedes onto a smoother side street. The boy’s breathing came faster now, audible even over the engine’s hum. Shallow, frantic. Daron sighed. He tapped the dashboard console, activating the intercom he had built in. “Breathe through your nose. Try to relax. I see to drive more carefully, boy.” he instructed, voice cool and clinical. A beat of silence. Then—*thud-thud-thud*—Matthew’s heels hammered against the trunk lid in furious protest. Daron rolled his eyes. “Stubborn…little shit!” he muttered, cutting the intercom. The boy would learn. Soon.
Matthew’s stomach lurched with every turn. The hogtie crushed his ribs. Each breath was a battle. His sock gag had soaked through, the fibers sticking to his tongue like wet cardboard. He tried to scream again. “Mhhmph… MHHMPHH!!” The sound died against the tape. His throat burned. Tears blurred his vision. Think! he ordered himself. License plate. Landmarks. Anything. But the darkness offered no clues. Just the rhythmic swish of tires on wet pavement and the occasional blare of a distant horn. His fingers twitched. The cuffs bit deeper.
Daron merged onto the freeway, acceleration pressing Matthew’s bare back against the trunk floor. The boy’s muffled yelp was barely audible over the engine’s growl. "Nmhg! Mhmhph!" Daron adjusted the rearview again. No flashing lights. No car behind him. Just endless asphalt and the occasional semi-truck roaring past. He flexed his gloved fingers on the wheel, imagining Matthew’s pulse rabbiting beneath his grip. Matthew’s legs cramped a bit. The ropes sawed into his thighs with the slightest bumps. Panic spiked. Move. Breathe. Focus. He arched his spine just an inch and instantly regretted it. Fire lanced through his shoulders. His bound wrists yanked tighter against the D-ring. A whimper escaped from his taped mouth.
Then suddenly—sirens. Faint, distant, but unmistakable. Matthew froze. His breath hitched. The sound warbled—Are they coming closer?—before fading. His pulse hammered against the ropes. An ambulance? Police?? Matthew's thoughts were going wild at the sound of the sirens. He strained his ears, desperate for another wail. Nothing but the Mercedes’ hum and the hiss of tires on wet pavement. His hope curdled into acid. The trunk reeked of sweat from the boy. His sock gag was a soggy lump now. He swallowed bile. The car slowed—why?—then accelerated again. An exit ramp? A toll booth? Matthew’s toes curled. The ropes held. Daron chuckled softly, as if privy to his thoughts.
A short time later red and blue lights strobed through the trunk’s seams. Sudden. Blinding. Cop car! Pull him over! Please! Matthew’s heart leapt. His muffled cry ripped through the tape. Here! I’m here! Daron's car slowed—too leisurely—then pulled onto the roadside. Gravel crunched under tires. The engine idled.
Daron’s voice crackled through the intercom, crisp as a boarding school headmaster’s. "Listen carefully, boy." The calmness made Matthew’s skin crawl. “You’ll hear footsteps approaching.” A pause. The sirens warbled close and stopped while the flashing red and blue lights still beamed. “When I roll down the window, you will not make a sound. Not a whimper. Not a twitch.” Daron continued after a small pause. "NOT any sound, understood boy? You will not thrash in any ways. If you so much as squeak, I’ll tell the officer you’re my delinquent nephew resisting transport to reform school." A pause. Matthew’s pulse pounded in his ears and his body stiffens a bit. "And then…" Daron continued, "I’ll gag you with your underwear for the rest of the drive afterwards."
Matthew’s breath hitched. The sock already choked him—adding his underwear would … —“N-no….” He thought and squeezed his eyes shut. But it might be his last and only chance of freedom. "Mmmnhgh!"
Daron’s voice dripped through the intercom again. “Breathe through your nose, boy. Calm down! Not a tone!” The Mercedes rocked slightly as Daron rolled down his window. Diesel fumes seeped into the trunk. Matthew strained—footsteps?—but heard only the voice of Daron’s practiced greeting. “Good evening, Officer.” He almost smiled towards the approaching cop while keeping his arms straight at the steering wheel.
***to be continued***
Boy into (forced) formal wear and uniform & being tied up and gagged.
Outside, Officer Callahan leaned down, his crisp patrol cap shadowing his faintly showing cheekbones. His uniform—navy polyester blend tailored to emphasize broad shoulders, the gold badge gleaming against a starched shirt. His name plate reading Callahan was on the other side above his chest pocket. The utility belt creaked as he shifted: handcuffs, pepper spray, a Glock snug in its holster. “Evening, sir.” His voice was smooth, edged with authority. “You know why I stopped you?”
Daron’s gloved fingers drummed the wheel and staid there. The officer’s tie—neatly knotted in a Windsor—was a black one, its dimpled knot pressing into his throat. His trousers, midnight blue with a razor crease, tucked into polished boots. Every detail screamed discipline. Daron smiled. “No idea, Officer…?”
“Callahan.” The name rolled off the blond man’s tongue like a verdict. His ice-blue eyes flicked to the trunk. Suspicion? Curiosity? Impossible to tell. His shirt—crisp navy polyester-cotton mixed with embroidered patches on the shoulders of that long-sleeved attire—stretched taut over his chest as he leaned closer. The silver tie clip in the form of handcuffs glinted. Daron noted the man’s holster—black leather—and the way his fingertips hovered near it. “License and registration please.”
Daron complied, his gloves creaking as he reached for the documents slowly and handed them over. Officer Callahan’s fingers brushed the papers—trimmed nails, no wedding band. His belt buckle gleamed under the moonlight, the NYPD emblem etched into polished brass. The radio on his shoulder crackled. Static. Then silence. The officer’s gaze lingered on Daron. “Long drive tonight?”
Daron’s suit jacket stretched taut over his shoulders as he leaned back. “Not really. Just finished some business in town.” The lie slipped out smooth as silk. The plate hinting to the cop that he was a local. Callahan’s tie bar shined in sterling silver, clipped below the knot—as he shifted his weight. Some raindrops beaded on his epaulets but not enough to suspect that it would rain more.
Matthew’s knee bumped the trunk wall. A muffled whimper escaped. “Nnmmh…!” Callahan’s eyebrow twitched—microscopic. Daron’s pulse stayed steady although he eyed the cop carefully.
“Your trunk…” The blond officer started to say. Casual. Too casual. His right gloved hand rested on his holster again. The fabric was clinging to muscular thighs. Matthew whimpered again. Louder this time. “Mmhhmph!!”
Callahan’s eyes flicked to the Mercedes’ rear. His tie twitched as he swallowed. Daron’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “Ah.” He chuckled in a smooth and rehearsed way. “That’s just the suspension. These German models creak like old floorboards when it rains.” He tapped the dashboard lightly. “Annoying, isn’t it?”
“Funny…” Officer Callahan mused, voice low. “Sounds almost… vocal.” His polished boot scuffed the asphalt as he stepped closer to the trunk. The leather squeaked. Daron’s silk tie pressed against his throat as he leaned out the window. “Old cars, Officer. Full of quirks.” Callahan’s gaze lingered on the tires a beat too long. “Unless you’d like to inspect the suspension yourself?” Daron offered smoothly.
Callahan’s knuckles brushed around the flashlight on his belt. “Odd hour for a drive home from doing business.” he murmured. His leather gloves flexed. “Odd route too. Most businesses are on the other side of the river. And according to your driver’s license…your home address isn’t this way either.” The Mercedes’ trunk shuddered as Matthew’s knee was connecting with the lid again. “Mhnhhgh!!” The officer’s head tilted.
Daron didn’t comment on the cop’s statements and adjusted his tie. “You never answered, Officer.” His voice was direct to the point. “Why the stop?” Callahan’s utility belt jingled—handcuffs, keys, the whisper of a radio. The trunk emitted a faint but stifled whimper again. Callahan’s lips twitched. Not surprise. Recognition. His fingers tapped his holster—three deliberate beats. A signal? “Maybe a broken taillight?”
Matthew whimpered again, louder this time, and the officer’s nostrils flared. “You sure nothing’s… alive back there?”
“Officer…” Daron repeated, silk tie brushing his jawline as he leaned closer, “…a broken taillight?” His voice acted surprised, but his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Both taillights glowed crimson in the dark of the night. Perfectly intact. Callahan’s polished boots shifted stance, the P.D. insignias on his shirt collars caught the light. “Yet they function flawlessly, see?” Daron pressed.
Matthew’s whimper slithered through the trunk seams—raw, desperate. "Mhhhgh.....!!" Then, with deliberate slowness, the cop unclipped his flashlight. The beam cut through the drizzle as he circled the Mercedes. Daron’s pulse stayed steady. Daron spoke again in a direct tone without any emotions in it. “My taillights are fine. You still haven’t clarified why you—”
Callahan’s flashlight landed squarely on the trunk latch. Matthew’s whimpers crescendoed—raw, ragged—as the officer’s polished boot tapped the bumper. “Now…” Callahan murmured, fingertips brushing his holster. “…it really sounds … alive in there.” He twisted the latch. The trunk sprang open with a hydraulic hiss.
Daron unbuckled his seatbelt. “Officer, I can explain—” He insisted after he got out if his car. Moving in closer, but with careful steps, towards the cop. Daron’s hand moved. Another step. The hand moved to the pocket inside of his suit jacket. One additional step. Daron hated when things were becoming a mess. Two more steps. The atmosphere was tense. Daron’s hand grabbing something inside of that jacket pocket. The last step.
***to be continued***
Boy into (forced) formal wear and uniform & being tied up and gagged.
Intense! It looks like Officer Callahan will be joining poor Matthew very soon! Though I suspect the abduction of a law enforcement officer is not going to go over well with Daron's superiors...
All these cliffhangers are killing me! Will Daron manage to subdue the hunky cop or not? If he does, Officer Callahan will regret doing his rounds alone!
Maybe we'll see how he handles things when a less conventional captive has to be processed...
Bondage enthusiast in his 20s, a fan of cute guys, underwear, and bondage, preferably together.
Last but not least: Enjoy!
