A Boyfriend Shirt Tale

(Note to Readers: The characters in this story are overweight, and not conventionally attractive, so if you don't want to read their sex scenes, you might want to bail out now. Their sex is F-M vanilla with oral, and a female character also masturbates with men's shirts in a cam show. Enjoy!)

***

It was the fourth time we had sex. We were no longer stressed out. We were past all the worrying about whether we were good enough. The way we liked each other's company, back when we were only acquaintances, fully-dressed and mostly-not-touching, was now there for us as we groped our wobbly skins on wrinkled, sweaty sheets.

We were in the afterglow, joking about something or other, maybe a show we had streamed. Lois gave me her little smile, only on the left half of her mouth. I was learning to enjoy that smile, and fear it. She said, "Where's your shirt?"

"I dunno, floor?" Man, I am such an erudite so-and-so.

She ducked over the edge of the bed, giving me a really close look at her ass. I must admit, I didn't enjoy that. As if I had any right to criticize.

"If we're gonna settle for each other," she said, growling on 'settle' (already a thing that we shared), "I wanna take a shot at stuff that cute couples do."

She popped up, knee-stood on the bed, and wrapped my plaid buttondown shirt around her shoulders. "Now I've got a boyfriend shirt! That means I own you!"

For an instant I really liked the idea of Lois owning me. Pride of ownership might stop her from kicking me to the curb. Yet I still had to say, "I don't recall selling myself."

"You fell into my clutches," she said, sounding wicked-witchy. "I stripped you bare, and acquired the garment that carries the totemic significance of Robert Strimple." She put her arms into the sleeves, and the collar got close to her nose. "Woah! That's reeaaallly totemic!"

"That's how you know it's from me," I said with a smile. We had gotten over ourselves. Each was surely the only person who could be this intimate, and this relaxed, with the other. This had been the first time we took off all clothes and left on the lights.

She rubbed the open front on her low-hanging breasts. "Do you like this?" she asked, in more of a fun, teasing voice.

My breathing got heavier. "If you sexted me like that," I said, "I wouldn't last very long." This was also our first smash in which my erection and her shimmying lasted a good long time, and gave us everything we'd always wanted from sex.

She cowered a little, but still smiled. "I don't think I'm ready for that."

"We live fifteen minutes apart and work the same hours, so I don't see a need for sexting." I looked at her closely, trying to see if I had pushed her too far.

She seemed to get past that. She brought her thighs together, trapping the shirt tails between them. "This could get really nasty," she said, with approval.

I went into a mock-lament. "Do I have to start envying my shirt?"

She laughed, opened the shirt wide, and flopped down on me. "It can only give me so much satisfaction." And then we got all grabby and silly, relishing our still-new ability to do that with another person.

But in a while, she got thoughtful. "I wonder if there's porn about that."

"About what?" Sometimes, I can be pretty thick. I won't try to hide that.

"Boyfriend shirts. A hot babe gets naked, strips a hot dude, and rides him while wearing his shirt."

"I, personally, would rather see more of the hot babe."

"But what you said before," she said, looking more than thoughtful, getting interested. "Me, wearing your shirt. That would get to you. Because of our connection."

In fact, right then I started to steam up from the thought of us banging like this, with her in the shirt, and it staying unbuttoned. I wasn't sure the next erection would last enough to be good for her, but I'd cum huge. Yet I believed there would be only downsides if I were sexually selfish with Lois Magruder.

"We could do some research," I said, leering. We had exchanged only a few erotic video preferences.

"We could," she said, pushing to sit upright. "But not tonight, it's late." She got her feet to the floor, doffed the shirt, and chucked it at me. "Definitely put this in the laundry."

***

You probably don't want to picture us in detail. Is it enough to say that we're both overweight and plain-looking? Our combined mass is greater than four hundred pounds, but only by a little. We could be healthier, and probably should be. In fact, I'm motivated to self-improve now, because there's someone in my life. For the first time ever. I think we'd both benefitted, in the will-to-live department.

We also value our privacy, so in this writing I've done more than skimp on what we look like. I've given us the fake names of 'Rob Strimple' and 'Lois Magruder.' With that, I think it's safe to tell our story.

How did we link up? Pretty much by default. We hung out at a sports bar, and became acquainted by osmosis. We watched each other go through some dark moments in attempts at relationships with others. Found ourselves mutually commiserating. Also found that it helped, to have this other person to spend time with.

And so, in what we agreed was a good decision, we settled.

At that point, we didn't have grand plans. We were happy just to have the kind of sex we'd always heard and read about, but didn't think would ever be available.

Yeah, 'at that point.' Then there were other points. All because of my stupid-ass shirt.

***

The following weekend, she dropped in at my place. Sometimes we dated, sometimes we just got together for sex. (There hadn't been very many 'sometimes' yet.) We didn't do 'U up?' We'd planned this two days earlier.

We were just pulling back from the hello kiss, when Lois got out her phone and showed me an image.

"Who is she?" she said quickly. It was a head shot of someone with long green hair, and a feathered mask on most of the face.

"Who--what?" I said, alarmed. I'd never seen such a thing before. From what she'd said, and her tone of voice, I was afraid she was accusing me of something bad, like cheating on her.

"Recognize her?" she insisted, holding the phone closer to my face.

"No, I don't! Lois why, what--" I was totally freaking out.

That got through to her. "What's the matter?"

"I've never seen--" I babbled. "I have no idea who this is! Why do you think I do?"

She put her free hand in her shoulder bag and pulled out a green wig and a feathered mask. "It's me! And if you didn't know that, nobody else would. This could work!"

I was nowhere near caught up. "Why did you...what is this..."

"I want to be anonymous on the internet."

"Why?"

It dawned on her then that she had skipped some key data. "The boyfriend shirt gave me an idea. I looked around to see if there's porn about that. What I saw went in the direction of women crossdressing, which I don't think is the point. Maybe this means that men who watch porn aren't turned on by women wearing their shirts. Or maybe it means that nobody's really tried that yet, in a more interactive, webcam way."

This still didn't make much sense, but it seemed to take me off the hook. "I thought you were accusing me of cheating on you. With a masked woman in a green wig."

She looked stunned. "Wh...no! Rob, I was just excited, because it seemed like a fun surprise." She held up the handful of green strands and black feathers. "Not fun?"

As close as we had become, there were still some things we didn't know about each other. I now know that this was one of her fun moods, but on that particular day, I didn't know it. "It wasn't, not then," I said. "Sorry, I didn't catch on."

She looked away briefly, putting phone, wig, and mask in the bag, and setting the bag on the floor. Then she looked me in the eye, and closed in for a hug. "This is going to sound terrible," she said, "but it never occurred to me that you'd cheat. Not because you're a decent man who wouldn't, but that, um, you couldn't get somebody else interested."

"I don't have to be good-looking or athletic," I muttered, "to hire a pro."

She nodded. "I guess I shouldn't assume we'll always be tight, just because we've settled." She leaned up for a kiss, which she kept slow and gentle. Then: "Have I put a damper on the whole evening?"

I added strength to my hug. "Don't think so."

Her voice gained a lilt. "May I have your shirt?"

"Only if the wig and mask stay in your bag."

And then we got to fun.

We were getting better at oral, especially ramping up the partner's pleasure without going too far. She'd been willing to blow me to completion, but after that I was pretty useless. I'd licked her to orgasm, which I think provides data that any male should learn about a female lover, but she said she also likes the frenzy from edging as a prelude to penetration.

Our bodies give and receive genital pleasure best when we're in doggystyle. Anything face-to-face involves interference from our abundant abdomens. But this time she started on top, wearing my shirt. She gripped my hands, and had us interlace our fingers, like acrobats, for stability more than tenderness. I bent my knees to raise thighs, to steady us so she could rub her labia along my upturned dick.

With an elbow I tried to bring closer a box of condoms, but she said, "No. Let me try something."

She kept up the external slide, my prick against my belly, her vulva traveling from frenulum to testicles.

She huffed through an open-mouthed smile, her eyes wide. Her nipples were covered, but I saw plenty of lovely meat swaying down her centerline. Her labia got wetter and warmer. I got as stiff and thick as I ever can.

I was hugely stoked, but held back. I hadn't gotten inside her yet. I didn't think I could sustain this much longer.

That was when I felt something pebbly rubbing the duct on my cock's underside. And she whooped, several times, her finger squeeze throttling mine.

She vulture-leaned her head at mine and said, "Do it! Lemme feel it!"

Always honor a lady's requests. My unwrapped tool jetted up my belly, the shaft's spasms pushing against what I now thought must be her clitoris, having come out to play.

I think she felt it. Can't think of any other reason for her to wail like that.

When language returned to her, she said, "Damn. It even felt, a little bit, like, by me wearing this, you owned me. Toooo weirrrrd."

"I'd like to know," I said, as breath allowed, "what this has, to do, with you, and the internet." I let go of one hand, got three tissues, and started wiping my gunk away from her belly.

"It's an idea I had," she said. "I can't stop thinking about it. With the wig and the mask, I'd do a cam show, where guys send me their shirts, and I wear them, doing nasty stuff, and then send them back."

"A cam show? You?"

"I'll let this mean that you think I'm above such a thing, and not that I'm too fat and ugly."

"Wouldn't this be dangerous? The kind of people you'd have to deal with?"

"It looks like there are a lot of DIY spaces now, from content creators who have set up their own platforms." She lifted up. "I've already worked out a move."

I flattened my legs, so she could back up and knee-stand. She put a hand behind her back. Fingers reached between her legs and closed on the front shirt-tails. She shoved the fabric up into her cleft, and squeezed her labia on it.

All I could say was, "Damn!"

Her left-side smile aimed down at me. "You think guys would subscribe to this?"

I was still buzzing from an orgasm, looking at a woman in a shirt now darkened by wide tracks of nipple sweat. "You think I don't envy my shirt? It's inside you, and I never got there."

She put on an oh-poor-baby pout. "Was there something lacking in what I did for you?"

I held up the glopped tissues. "Physical evidence would say no."

"Anyway, maybe I'll get over this," she said. "The thing is, I keep looking for deal-breakers, and I haven't found any yet."

"Is this something you want to do?"

"I don't know," she said. Then she pulled the shirt tails out of her cleft, and grinned at how sodden they were.

"Are you the same woman who looked shy at the thought of sexting?"

The shy look returned, but she chuckled. "The idea of sexting had never come up before! I didn't know what to think. But then I thought about how the image could be from the neck down. And then I thought about how to hide my identity even with my head in the image."

"I should never have brought it up," I said.

"It wasn't just you. I was the one who started the shirt silliness."

I'd heard about pornstars who sell their used panties (or so they claim). It wasn't hard for me to imagine a lonely guy sending a shirt to a cam model, and getting it back after it's received various womanly fluids and aromas. That could be a much bigger turnon than some random women's garment, especially if the guy watched her on cam, rubbing his shirt on herself. I didn't think it appealed to me, personally, but maybe I was no longer desperate enough to be in the target market.

I tried to change the subject. "As for who owns whom, because of the shirt...can we just say that we're bonding, with or without a talisman?"

"Maybe," she said, I think enjoying how perplexed I was by all this. "You made my clitty very happy, but cotton-poly isn't enough for my inside. I've wanted all day to stop feeling hollow, so it's time for us to see how long it takes for you to regain heroic manliness. And I brought what I need for overnight, if necessary."

We passed the time by making out, fully naked. She's indifferent to breast play, but she likes the effect it has on me, and she has fun doing things like leaning over me and walloping my face with them. This helped hasten the arrival of the manly hero.

In doggystyle, I enjoyed the many excellent features of her girlfriend skin, while ending her hollowness, to our mutual satisfaction. Also, as I held her hips, I was gaining appreciation for her derriére.

She stayed overnight anyway.

***

A couple weeks later, we were out in public, and Lois seemed agitated. From what I could tell, it wasn't in a good way.

We were in a restaurant, waiting for our food. Quietly but calmly I asked, "Something wrong?"

She was even quieter. "Not now."

We then conversed about impersonal matters. I tried not to show how worried I was.

When the check came, she said, "Dutch?"

"I can just put it on my card."

"Then I pay for the movie."

"Okay." I hoped that this was limited to income disparity.

Which it was, but not in a way I expected.

We both enjoyed the movie, and it seemed to lighten her mood.

Back at her place, she shooed the cat (fake name: 'Toodles') off the sofa and had me sit with her there.

"Sorry to spring this on you," she said, "but I'd like to talk about our next level."

"Sure," I said, smiling. As time went on, I thought I was getting real feelings for her. But I also thought my 'feelings' might be overly swayed by her sexual availability.

She seemed to relax a bit. "I feel good with you," she said, "and safe with you. Lately, I've found myself thinking that I depend on you. That's a little scary. So I'd like to know how you feel about me."

"I'm much happier now," I told her. "Sure, sex has something to do with that. But I also want to be around you, because you've helped me feel good. About myself." I struggled, thinking this wasn't what she needed to hear. "Anyway, I like the idea of a next level. For us."

She smiled, and squeezed my hand. "I thought you'd say that, but it feels better to hear it. And we're still getting to know each other, so I don't want you to feel like I'm rushing you into a long-term commitment." The smile faded. "But now...you remember when I said I didn't think about you cheating?"

I nodded, and started to say something to deflect it, but she pushed ahead. "Now, I do think about, um, not if you'd cheat, but if I'd lose you. You have a good job. Women can get past a man's looks, his weight, and aim for security. Men? They have different priorities." She sounded bitter.

"My priorities--"

"Please let me finish," she said, with the harshest look I'd ever seen from her. "I want to do something that can get me a whole lot more money than I have now. You have to tell me if you're okay with it, or not."

All I could think to say is, "What would you do?"

She held out her phone. "Remember her?"

It showed the green wig/feathered mask pic.

"Yeah."

"Swipe right," she said.

I did. This was a head-to-thighs pic of Ms. Wig-and-Mask, hugging a man's shirt to her mostly-hidden curves.

"I got four used shirts at a thrift store," she said. "Those would get me started. When guys start sending me their shirts, I'll switch to them. If none are ever sent, I'll quit."

At least she wasn't embarking on a life of crime. Although, in some countries, it might not be legal for viewers to watch her do this.

I handed back the phone. "I'm okay with it, if you can really be safe."

She looked tentative.

I added, "And I'm still interested in us deciding on our next level."

That, I guess, was what she needed to hear. She exhaled, and eased back on the sofa. "Thanks, Rob. I was afraid I'd have to choose between you and money,"

I glanced around. Her apartment was smaller than mine, but in good condition. "Is money really a problem?" We'd never talked about this in detail.

"Rob, I'm a receptionist at a car dealership. My job could vanish tomorrow. It almost did, in the pandemic. If a boyfriend-shirt cam show brings in something, I could build up a rainy-day fund, and get ahead of paycheck to paycheck." Then a smile tried to break through. "Then my next level with you could be because we're good companions, and not because I'm desperate for financial security."

"Have you researched, uh, getting on a platform, or whatever?"

"I have. My startup cost wouldn't be too bad for a basic show."

Uh-oh, left-side smile.

"And I kinda dig the idea that a stranger might think I'm sexy enough to give me the shirt off his back." Her look sobered. "Believe me, that won't affect how I feel about you."

I was so relieved that she felt better, that I had no concern about getting jealous of some anonymous guy watching his shirt get sexed up.

"Anyway," she said, teasing fingertips up my chest, "I need to practice." She undid my top shirt button.

"Be my guest," I said, putting my arms on the back of the sofa.

"And to prove that I respect you," she said, and then licked inside my undershirt, "I'll ask you now to be my webmaster, rather than wait until you're right at the brink of orgasm."

Mr. Thick could say only, "Webmaster?"

"And videographer, and programmer, and anything else I'll need." The left-side smile looked triumphant. "If you want me to be safe, you should be the only person to do all those things."

***

What Lois called my 'good job' is in medical records management, for a chain of doctors' offices connected to a large hospital. I do have a good salary, compared with the local cost of living, plus the kind of benefits package very few employers offer these days. Despite Lois's worry, this hadn't made me a chick magnet, but as my age group moves past thirty, that might change.

I don't think of myself as a techie, but work has made it necessary for me to learn some aspects of electronic security. I took a course, then another, then a few more. I'd never be able to fight off a ransomware attack, or track down a dark-web hacker, but I can spot things that look wrong and alert somebody who's better equipped to address them. During the pandemic, I got up to speed quicker than most on running Zoom meetings. Picking up on related topics got me to where I could help spruce up social media accounts for my friends and relatives.