Silk House Pt. 01

Author's Note: This story is all about spandex and focuses a lot on the "dressing up" portion of play, as it is the author's favorite. Just a heads up. Happy reading!

*****

There were two things I was absolute certain about myself when it came to my personal sexual pleasure. One was that I had an incurable desire to wear, see, and feel spandex. That much was known from an early age. The second, and possibly more twisted, was that I'd developed a curious sexual magnetism for envy. On a minor level, of course. I was never the athletic type in high school, and never had a chance or an excuse to buy spandex or lycra clothing for myself. But I always saw the jock types wear Under Armor proudly through the halls, in class. From a seat behind them I'd see the shiny material shimmer while they unconsciously flexed their muscles, unaware that they were wearing clothing so lucrative and sexy to me. I guess that's where it developed—the envy. Wanting what I couldn't have, at least not easily.

College was easier. Got a job, earned some money. I'd moved away from my parents, first into a dorm and then into a one-room apartment, and I bought what I could with my limited budget. A tight shirt or a pair of leggings of the workout variety. Even, once, a headless zentai suit. I wanted to venture into buying more gear, the type that crossed the line into feminine: leotards, one-piece swimsuits, a pair of pantyhose or two, but somehow, despite myself and my burgeoning homosexuality, I was too inexplicably afraid of how my fetish would develop further. So I ignored it, and on some level, I'm still ignoring it.

I'm out of college now, a new graduate with a likely-useless liberal arts degree. I'm living with four other guys in this ramshackle house on the questionable side of town because the rent's cheap, but I know I want to move away soon. I've been saving up. A new chapter of life is in my sights.

On a Tuesday afternoon just like any other, I'm downstairs in the living room. Three out my four roommates are still in school working for their last few credits, and it's just me and Toby currently at the house playing videos games. Toby was the guy who I initially moved out of the dorms with, and the guy I consider myself closest with in the house. He's straight, though, and it's about the saddest thing in the world. I tell him all the time—in a way that comes off jokey, but oh, how I wish he would take it seriously just once—that I would do anything to please him, anything, but he always just chuckles it off.

He's taller than me, a solid 5'10 and decently muscled. Sizeable pecs, rock hard biceps and a developing six pack. It only makes my crush worse as he gets bigger, but I always make sure my tongue isn't hanging out while I stare. I fear if he ever knew of my feelings, I wouldn't only would I lose his friendship, but I'd miss out on seeing him walk the house half nude, or in his boxers. It's a price I have to pay.

We're playing the new Smash Bros when there's a knock on the door. He pauses the game almost immediately and looks at me curiously. We weren't expecting anyone, and the other boys don't get home until late. Is it the landlord? A neighbor? He gets up and walks over to the door, opens it. Ah, yes, a neighbor. Mr. Doherty from next door.

"Hey Mr. Doherty! Can I help you? Were we being too loud?" Toby asks. We weren't, but I suppose it's a courtesy to ask.

"Oh, no, boys. You're quite alright. I was hoping to ask a favor of you—" he starts, and from my seat, I peak around Toby's frame to see the older man stand in the doorway. He looks at me briefly, and I think he may bite his lip, what with how his eyes lock onto mine. There may be a few things about Mr. Doherty I've yet to figure out. "I'm leaving for the night, see, for a doctor's appointment in the city, and I have three cats here that have very serious attachment issues. I was wondering—and I would pay—if one or both of you could housesit for me for the evening, to keep them company."

"Pay?" Toby asks, and then glances back to me.

"Oh, fifty dollars, to each of you," Mr. Doherty answers, and looks between both of us. "I may care too much about my cats, but I'd rather them have people around for the evening instead of wailing and waking up the whole neighborhood. Will you both do it?" he asks, and Toby now looks at me with a bemused expression on his face. I'm all raised eyebrows.

"I don't see why not," I answer.

"Great!" Toby picks up. "Then we'll do it."

"That's wonderful! I appreciate you two spry lads helping an old man out on such a nice night."

"It really is no issue. Anything for a neighbor," Toby responds. He's really laying it on thick. Maybe trying to make an extra buck.

"Well, alright. I'll be leaving in an hour. If you could come around then, I'd appreciate it." With that, Mr. Doherty bids us his farewell and Toby closes the door. He turns back to me as if we'd just pulled off the biggest scam.

After an hour, Toby and I walk out the front and across the lawn, and Mr. Doherty lets us in with haste. He's wearing a tweed suit now—city clothes, I assume. It's something of a sight, considering most times we see Mr. Doherty it's walking to his mailbox in patterned pajamas. He introduces us to his cats—only two of which are patient enough to lounge around the living with strangers—and declares that he really must be going, here's your pay, please feel free to eat what you want from the fridge.

The moment he shuts the door behind him, Toby pulls a backpack he'd prepared off his shoulder and places it on the coffee table. Pulls out a bong.

"You realize the smell is going to stick around," I warn him. Toby gives me a look and then gestures to the many adjacent windows.

"Like I said, if Mr. Doherty notices the smell, you can blame it on me. And if that doesn't work..." he trails off, and gives me a teasing once-over. We'd both noticed Mr. Doherty's lust-filled stare aimed at me, and Toby already suggested that if we're caught in trouble, I should give the old man one of my "famous blowjobs." It's a joke I can only shrug at, considering it's true.

So we smoke. A lot. Usually in a house of five guys a single round can get each person two or three hits, but with no one else to hog the bong, Toby and I go back and forth like crazy, getting exceptionally high with no one to stop us. Funny thing, weed: the more you smoke in one sitting, the less inclined you are to stop, your inhibitions muted, your responsibilities less cumbersome on the mind. We smoke through the whole of one fat nugget before finally laying the bong down to rest. Toby puts it on the table and then leans back into the couch, throws his arms behind him. His shirt is rising just there, at the bottom of his belly, and his cut abs are peeking through, the hint of a happy trail turning me on more than I'd like to admit. He sighs and gets up, suddenly feeling active, the sativa sinking in. He wanders away from the living room, into the mouth of a nearby hallway.

"Where are you going?" I ask, and he turns around to watch me, walks backward.

"You ever wonder what this guy's deal is? He hardly ever leaves his home."

I'd protest more if I weren't completely ready to follow Toby anywhere, do whatever he wanted of me. I get up and do so.

For one person, Mr. Doherty has a lot of rooms. Guest rooms, two offices, a game room, a sun room. Toby idly touches everything he passes like he's drifting around in a dream, but I take a little more precaution with my action, only picking something up whenever I'm particularly interested, making sure to place it back down just as I found it.

"You worry too much," Toby says, fondling a nearby curtain and then wrapping himself in it, the thin chiffon like a dress. We're at the foot of Doherty's bedroom door, our curiosity potentially waning, but we've saved the best room for last.

"You worry too little. Get off of that, before you tear it," I say, and touch his shoulder, gently pull him away from the wall. He laughs and leaves it behind, struts into the bedroom. From behind him, I turn on the light.

"Woah," I say.

"Woah is right."

Mr. Doherty's room is unexpectedly gaudy, a bit overtly sexual, and I may have hit the wrong switch because the lighting is deliberately dim, moody. His bed is a massive four-poster king covered in baby blue silk sheets, and a luxurious gray rug covers the floor underfoot. A huge television is mounted on the opposite wall, and the air smells like a faint, woodsy cologne. If I'm not mistaken, that's a pair of handcuffs sitting on the dresser.

"I did not expect for Mr. Doherty to live in a sex den," Toby thinks out loud, walking further into the room. He sits on the edge of the bed, leans into it with his hands against the silk, and looks around. I come up beside him, still standing, and finger at the sheets with a weird new temptation rising. The feeling is like a cousin to spandex, if a bit more luxurious. I look around too.

"His closet," I say, its double-doors slightly ajar on one side, and I cross the room to open it up. This room is just as large as the bedroom, if not bigger. Toby comes up close behind me, and I'm suddenly aware I can feel his breath on my shoulder.

"Holy shit," he remarks. All the way to the back, clothes line the walls on racks, hung carefully, organized by color. A decent assortment of cardboard boxes sit in the middle, some with words written in sharpie, others left unmarked. We both step in and are drawn to different sides, our eyes following every sleeve, every pattern. Mr. Doherty must've kept every piece of clothing he's ever bought, spanning back to his own teenage years. Some clothes among the bunch look like they're from the seventies, the eighties, but it's not all hideous vintage clothing. A decent half of the visible closet is filled with tweed suits similar to what Doherty wore just today, blazers and perfectly matching slacks. A number of matching shoes, even, correspond on the floor underneath. Holding up a pair of psychedelic bellbottoms probably not worn in a good thirty years, I feel a sudden pang of guilt. I turn around.

"We shouldn't be doing this," I say to Toby, but without fault he pulls a black feather boa off a hanger and throws it around his shoulders. Looks at me.

"Do you really think Mr. Doherty didn't want this to happen?"

"Why would he?" I ask. It's a strange question for Toby to pose.

"Because he has the hots for you. You're a spry young gay lad. He could've asked anyone to watch his cats, or no one at all. Why do you think he invited us to invade his boudoir?" he says, and then takes the boa and throws it over my shoulders, pulls it back and forth, ruffling at my neck.

"Do you even know what a boudoir is, Toby?" I ask.

"All I know is that we haven't seen the cats once, and they seem to be absolutely fine without their beloved owner to keep them company."

Toby had a point. Besides, what with my tendency to forget things easily while high, the moral repercussions aren't sticking in my brain like they usually would. We go back and forth trying on a coat or a funny pair of pants, feeling like we're in a costume shop and everything's free. Toby's looking smart in one of Doherty's darkest shoulder-padded suits and I'm checking my ass out in the aforementioned bellbottoms when Toby asks a question that really sets things in motion.

"What do you think he has in these boxes?" he asks, and I look away from the floor-length mirror by the closet door to see him kneeling down, pulling at the closest one.

"Toby, we really shouldn't be getting into those," I warn him, and he looks exasperated when he stops.

"What, are you still scared of getting caught, dude?" he asks, then lets a beat pass after I roll my eyes. "Or are you scared of what you might find inside?"

"I am not scared of Doherty's wardrobe. That's stupid."

"It's not stupid. How about I hand you one of these unlabeled boxes and you try whatever's on inside, and you can prove me wrong, yeah?" His eyebrows raise with the idea of his playful challenge.

"Really? What would I get out of it?"

"Nothing really. Honor, glory, gloating."

"I don't need any of that," I scoff.

"Okay. Well, how does fifty bucks sound? As incentive," he offers. He pulls out the fifty that Mr. Doherty handed him earlier, holds it between two fingers.

"You're really making this a bet?" I ask, and when he smiles mischievously at me, I know it's true. Neither of us are very good at turning down bets, and I know he'd call me a pussy for a long time if I don't open a damn box, so I step over to him and lean down. I take out my fifty, put it on a box in front of me. "Fine. But let's switch up the rules a little bit. You'll be playing too, or else it's no deal. If you refuse to wear the outfit, you lose, and if you decide to take it off it before, say, midnight, you still lose." He cocks his head playfully to the side and puts his bill on top of mine.

"I love a good game. But—you first."

"Fine," I answer, and look around blankly, all the boxes almost identical.

"Choose wisely," Toby teases, and I get up, looking around for a small, inconspicuous box. "You're kidding," he says when I finally pick one up that fits my criteria, but nonetheless I return to him and place it on the ground between us. I've followed the rules, so he can't complain.

"I can do this," I say encouragingly to myself, and quickly unfold the top.

I'm not at all happy with what I find. I pull out a skimpy crop top cut from a basketball jersey, which isn't so bad, but underneath is a gaudy leopard-print thong and a pair of knee-high white socks. That's it—that's the whole outfit. Toby is immediately giddy and rolling backward in hysterical laughter. Both of us consider dares and bets like life-or-death contracts, as boys tend to do, so I know there's no way out of this without losing my cash.

"Doherty wore this?" I ask incredulously, holding up the thong.

"I can't believe this. You have to put it on. Now, dude. This is your fate. Or give up."

"I am not giving you my money, dude, and maybe laugh on your own time," I cajole, but it's all in good fun. My saving grace is that I'm not, by any means, in bad shape. I'm not beefy like Toby here is, but I'm fairly toned, so I have that working for me.

"Why don't you get behind those boxes and put on your new outfit, Mrs. Doherty," Toby teases, and points behind the pile to a small, shaded space. In a huff I grab the outfit and shuffle over to the corner. To no one in particular, Toby says, "I can't believe this."

"Yeah, well, get used to it, buddy, because you're next," I warn him, and start undressing. Shirt, then shoes, then socks and pants.

"Nothing could be as bad as that. I can see myself richer already. You're such a prude, after all."

"I am not a prude!" I remark, making sure he isn't watching. I take off my underwear and look at the new clothes laid out before me.

"Come on, you're about the only guy in the house that doesn't strut next to naked. And you have more of a right to do it than half of our roommates," he rebuts. Lord knows that's true. Some men just don't understand that nobody wants to see their nipples 24/7. I start with the socks and pull them up easily. Nothing's difficult to put on, per se, it's just that the act itself is embarrassing to follow through with. Everything also looks perfectly clean, but it's the overt homosexuality that has me nervous. Maybe there's something in me that is afraid to go full femme, but right now isn't the time to have a deep moment of introspection. I brave the thong in a single pull up the legs, and it's a strange, secretly erotic feeling. They're tight, cupping my balls expertly, the fabric in the back like a string, a wedgie. If I were alone, I'd have a hard time not touching my member against the slinky material, and my hardening cock is showing that feeling off. I throw on the crop top and suddenly feel like a disco queen.

"Well, come on, show the crowd," Toby insists, and if I weren't high, if this night hadn't ended up so bizarre, maybe I'd be more apprehensive to show off my thickening cock, but I'm oddly okay. I step out from the shadow and watch Toby's eyes briefly widen at my lower half and then deliberately look up at me. What follows, obviously, is another round of hysterical laughter.

"All night, dude! You have to wear that all night!" he exclaims, pointing at my face.

"My legs are already cold," I complain lightly.

"I can't believe you actually went through with it."

"Hey! You have to go through with it too!" I say.

"I know, I know, don't worry," he responds, hands raised as if admitting submission. "I just—this is absolutely rich."

"You can't tell anyone. Not even the boys."

"Look, it's between you and me," he promises.

"So? Did you pick out a box for yourself?" I continue, trying to look as serious as possible. I'm suddenly aware that because Toby's sitting down, my cock is now at eye-level for him, so I sit down too and try to appear a bit more decent.

"Yeah, yeah, going with old reliable," he says, and taps the box he first pulled from the bunch. I nod encouragingly at him, touch the other side of the cardboard for support. With a healthy amount of giggly fanfare, he opens the four sides and we both peer inside.

"Uhhh...!" is the first thing he can think to say, meanwhile I'm speechless. There are exactly two items inside:

A sky blue, wet-look zentai with full body coverage, and a long-sleeve, shiny black leotard. My breath is caught in my throat and my already-hard cock pulses with a new anticipation, hardening to the point that it's almost uncomfortable. I wonder what would happen if I leaned back, if the head of my dick would peek out from the waistband. Toby cautiously pulls out the leotard and holds it by both shoulders, incredulous.

"I'm... I'm speechless," he says, and then there's a nervous laugh, and I realize I'm incredibly jealous of him and this opportunity. He puts down the leotard on the ground and picks up the zentai. "What even is this...? Doherty, you absolute pervert," he remarks. I'm about to say something to him—something along the lines of, we can call off the bet, or you can pick out another box, but just before I speak up, he gives an interested shrug.

"Might as well," he says.

"You're- you're going to try it on?" I manage, wanting to touch the soft, shiny material but feeling frozen in place. He laughs and stands up.

"I like my fifty dollars, thank you. Don't get your hopes up just yet. Doherty's weird fetish might be on your side tonight, but pride's on mine," he retorts, and all I can say is, "Alright, fine." I'm about to touch the leotard when he picks everything up and heads behind the boxes. I was so close. The best and worst part about this situation is he probably won't even pick up on just how erotic it feels, desensitized by his own masculine nature, and I feel defeated, jealous, and incredibly turned on.

One thing I know for certain is that he'll look sexy as hell.

"What do I put on first?" he asks absently, and I turn to look at the boxes.

"The- the blue one," I say, as if I'm venturing a guess.

"I suppose so," he responds, and what follows is the sound of shifting fabric—he's taking off Doherty's coat, the slacks—and unzipping. "It feels nice at least. And I'll be covered up, unlike you." It's only more "yeah"s from me, thinking about how I could've chosen his box. My curiosity is overtaking me now, and I quietly shift where I'm sitting on the ground, take a curious peek around the corner. Toby has his muscular backside to me, and I can just see him pulling the legs of the zentai over his pert bubble butt, jumping up and down once or twice to settle into the material. Being new to zentai, he regards the attaches sleeves and gloves with a bit of apparent confusion, but finds the armholes just after. I can hear the silky fabric travelling over his smooth skin, and when he pulls the left sleeve and glove on all the way, he flexes his hand, bends his fingers to get a feel for it. Other hand, then torso, and that's when he reaches for the zipper down his back.