Silk House Pt. 01

He's struggling with it, his frame just barely too tall to grab it.

"Uh... hey, I don't think I can..." he starts, but I'm already speaking up.

"Do you need help?" I offer, and there's a brief pause as he thinks it over.

"Yeah, actually. Can you help me with this zipper?" he asks, and as he turns around to walks back towards me, I hastily return to where I sat a moment before, trying to appear innocent. The first look of him in the suit nearly makes me blow my load right then, the light sheen of the tight suit travelling across his chest, down his body, the firm material stretched thin around his masculine frame. I stifle a staggered exhale, trying to appear normal. He turns his back to me and pulls the top of the suit's shoulders together, and I grab the zipper in one hand, hold the fabric above it with my second. It feels soft, silky, smooth, tight, and as I pull it up to the back of his neck, I can see with oncoming shock that it fits him exceptionally. More than exceptional—it's a bizarrely perfect fit, and I realize that even if I'd chosen his box, I wouldn't be able to wear the suit nearly as well. "Thanks," he says. "Time to go all in."

With that, he turns to me again and pulls the hood over his face, adjusts the top zipper down to meet the other one. He's completely encased in smooth, silky blue lycra, and all the small wrinkles that would usually pop up while I wore my own suits are curiously absent on him. It's like a second skin, and the zippers on the back are so thin it's like they don't exist. He jumps to life at remembering that his outfit's not quite finished yet and goes to the corner of the room, picks up the leotard, and returns to me. While it's obvious I can clearly see his firm muscles and the outline of his cock underneath the zentai, he somehow feels comfortable and covered up enough to finish the dressing process right in front of me.

He unzips the leotard and steps one leg, then both legs into the corresponding holes. He pulls it up in one swoop and the fabric clings wonderfully to his legs, then tightly contours his crotch into a sensual French cut. They frame his hips and butt perfectly in a way that leans very feminine, the back not entirely unlike my own thong, and the sleeves are a breeze for him to don. I help him with the zipper once more, after which he turns to face me. He's looking into the palms of his blue hands, regarding his finished outfit.

"I feel like—" he starts, but cuts himself off, laughs about it.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. I'm thinking about that gimp from, uh, Pulp Fiction. I feel a bit like him."

"I think there's a big difference between you and him," I say, wanting to compliment him but also feeling too anxious, trying to bite my tongue. All the parts of my yet-to-be-explored sexuality and fetishistic discovery is being played out on his body with overwhelming allure. I'm stunned.

"Is this supposed to be... kinky?" he asks, and while I can't see his eyes, his facial features still show through somewhat. All I can think about is how the two layers must be rubbing up against one another, how those sensations must be a new and exciting feeling for him. The leotard specifically—I can imagine the feeling of it compressing around his crotch, his waist, can imagine how the material must be insistently cupping his balls and cradling them. The way it grips, holds him tight, almost constricting his torso. I heavily swallow my breath.

"Maybe," I respond absently, staring at the sheen of the suit around his chest, around his legs, observing how the materials around his hands compliments the shifting musculature. If I could see his face, I imagine he'd be raising his eyebrows and lightly scoffing off the rising sexual tension. "You look absolutely ridiculous," I lie, realizing that I've yet to laugh at the situation like any normal person would. The tone's a bit more serious than five minutes ago, I notice, but his stupid smile appears through the mask at his cheeks and he playfully shoves my shoulder.

"Until midnight?" he asks, and I nod.

"Until midnight."

We don't stick return to the living room, that area too vulnerable for outside gazing, what with all the windows. Toby says he can see through the mask just fine, so he quickly pops into the living room and grabs his stuff, returns to the bedroom where I sit on the silk sheets. He jumps on after me, and there's a bit less friction than he probably realized, because he slides right into me. My bare legs collide and rub against his smoothly-encased blue ones, and it takes a decent amount of fidgeting for him to untangle his body from mine. I take the bong out of his hands.

"You sure you can smoke through that hood?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Hell yeah," he responds, then gestures for me to hand it back over now that he's settled onto the bed, independent from me. I do so, giving him the lighter just after. There's a bit of slack in the hood which he takes advantage of to shape his lips, and with a fresh new bowl, he lights up the bong and wraps his mouth around the apparatus, inhales. Much to my surprise, it's a success, and where he would usually let out a smooth, long cloud of an exhale, the smoke filters through the material in an unimpressive fat cloud. I laugh and we go back and forth like that. After we kill another large bowl, he places the bong on the side table, backpack on the ground, and grabs the remote for the television.

It's killing me, wondering what he's going through, how he's reacting to the two layers against the silken sheets. He leans back against the silk pillows, one arm behind his head, and channel surfs without comment. I can see his cock is growing, and maybe he doesn't notice, but truth's too ambiguous because his face is covered. I wonder if he's noticing my bad attempt at a passing glance in his direction, but I try to ignore my doubts. The channel lands on a half-finished horror flick and he throws the remote to the side table.

We're quiet as the night goes on, and we watch distractedly. I can see him shifting more where he's laying, knowing that the sensations crossing his skin are new and must feel fantastic. More than once he'll move around and try to make it appear as if he's uncomfortable, but like instinct, I can tell he's becoming drawn to the sensation of spandex. He grunts, idly leaves his hand over his crotch as if by accident, and briefly grips it. It's a raging hardon now, his hand "casually" passing back and forth between his belly and his legs, taking as long as he can to pleasure himself without making it obvious. I've stopped trying to hide my own raging boner, let it sit there, entertained, riveted by Toby's new and possibly ashamed discoveries.

As the movie progresses, it's evident neither of us are really watching, and he truly gives up the casual act when he lets out an unexpected moan. He's grabbed his cock now and his head falls back against the mattress, the pillows pushed out of the way. Instead of simply jerking off, he starts rubbing the palms of his hands up and down the length of his shaft, taking advantage of the smooth feeling.

"Dude—" he says. "You don't mind, right—" he asks, except it's not really a question, and when he strokes his cock again, he moans even louder, lets out a shocked, euphoric inhale. I want to feel what he's feeling, helpless, struggling against the wonderful confines of his clothes, drowning in sensations. He lets go of his cock and rubs the back of his arms against the sheets, bends his knees, unbends them, trying to cover every inch of his body in good feeling. More shuttered inhales, shocking, euphoric exhales. Unconsciously, I grab my own cock over my thong, start stroking away.

"No, oh, I don't mind at all," I stutter, and he groans in the back of his throat, clutching at his sides and then aggressively turning himself over on his stomach, using his grip on the sheets to slide his pelvis back and forth in slippery smooth pleasure. From my perspective, his cock looks like it might burst from the material, grinding insistently, deeply, hungrily into the mattress.

"I can't—I can't stop, it's so..." he manages, but drifts off.

"I know," I say, watching as his insistent frottage grows more intense. He lets go of the sheet and glides his arms and legs across the bed, like a humping butterfly stroke. Then, when that's not enough, he tucks his arms underneath him and puts both hands on his grinding cock, helping himself out by rubbing back and forth. This is a means of exploration for him now, and after a bit, he slowly slides his hands over the inside of his thighs, then travel around and grabs the bubbled cheeks of his own ass, squeezes. His hands travel upward and frame the smallest part of his waist, then continues inward and rubs away at his belly, his pecs, the top of his shoulders.

"You wouldn't—you wouldn't tell anyone, would you?" he asks between heavy breaths, his voice electric. I shake my head no. I turn on my side to face him, and with one outstretched arm I glide my hand over his back, getting a taste for what he's feeling. I can tell why he's in such a state—the quality of the spandex is stellar. My hand travels down and meets his ass, something I've only dreamed of touching, and he manages to free one of his own hands so he can cover my own, holding it there. "That feels good. Touch me more... now."

I do. I get up from my spot and face him so that his body's laying horizontal to me, then slide both of my hands up the long part of his back, down his thighs. He moans at my touch and shudders when it feels especially good, so I take the hint and move my hands to his most erogenous zones. His shoulders, his ass, his legs, the bottoms of his feet. I get daring enough to follow the curve of his ass and hook my hand around to his front, cupping his crotch pressed into the sheets. I keep my hand there and let him grind desperately into it.

"I just need... I just need..." he says after a while, but I don't think he knows how to finish the sentence.

But I know what he wants, even if he doesn't know it himself yet. I betray my immediate desires and unglue my hands from his body. "Stay there," I say, as if he would do anything else, stuck in this web of soft shiny stuff, and I get off the bed, rush to the closet to find some new gear for him to don. Boxes, I think to myself, I need to open more boxes. I step over to the intimidating pile and open the first one I see in front of me, the second one as well, but they're both unfortunately full of civilian clothes. The third, however, is a remarkable success, with a new black zentai and a gray speed suit folded right in the middle, slick and shiny and waiting to be worn. I grab both items and meet Toby back in the bedroom.

"Roll over," I ask him with a new, unexpectedly stern voice, and he does so without question, opting to grab his cock in place of grinding, not letting a moment of his pleasure go to waste. The rest of his body's settled down for the moment, and that's good news, considering I'll be handling him for a few minutes.

I know how these suits work, so I unzip the back of the black zentai, adjust the material and prepare to encase his feet. His head looks down at me for a moment to see what I'm doing, and he gasps, raises his legs for me without question. I skillfully pull the lower half of the suit over his body, sliding it up his calves and then his thighs, my arms shaking only slightly from anticipation.

"Raise your hips," I add, and when he does so, I force the crotch of the suit over his pelvis and reassess my progress. For good measure, I pull the new suit upward from the waist for a tighter fit. He doesn't moan but whimpers at the adjustment, and lifts his hands in the air in front of him, it's obvious he remembers what's next. I quickly slip the sleeves onto him and lean over his body, finagle it onto his shoulders. He flips onto his belly again with ease—he's so slippery—and I force the zipper up his back.

I pause for a moment where I am, though. I had to practically sit on top of him to get the suit on easily, so now that he's rolled over, my stiff cock is conveniently situated in the round of his ass, snug. So for a moment, I let my own desires overtake me, procrastinating on the suit and instead letting my cock slide up and down between the valley of Toby's cheeks, all while he lays there, stuck in his own little world. But I remind myself that I'm serving him tonight, even if this was my fantasy in the first place.

While I have a special attraction specifically for the donning of a zentai, the head is my favorite part to do, I think, because it removes identity even further from his face, his features blurring underneath the added fabric. I reach around and take the hood, force it over his face and the top of his head. He breathes in deep, shocked again, and I finish up the zipper.

Three layers; Toby's wearing three layers of spandex on silk sheets. I place my hands on the lower half of his back and find myself still in that advantageous, dominant position. Toby's moving on his own, using the same method of sliding himself up and down on the mattress for pleasure. I'm propped above him by my knees, offering just enough space between us to let him slide through my legs. Trapped in my slinky thong, my cock is wedging itself deeper and deeper between his ass cheeks, the two materials slick enough to let it pass back and forth without issue. I put my hands right above his ass, in the lower dimples of his back, and lean even further into him. I can't keep myself from moaning, and he responds in kind, but I realize I'm not done yet.

Get your head on straight! I think to myself. This is everything I ever wanted to wear and do but tenfold, and while I'm jealous of him to an overwhelming degree, I have a determination to make Toby's first encounter with spandex an unparalleled experience. Hopefully, if things go well enough, he'll let me do again.

"This is the last one. Turn over one last time," I instruct, picking up my leg and dropping to his side so he has room. The speed suit, something I wish I owned but tragically don't, is tighter than anything else he has on yet, and better quality than everything I own in my personal stores. It isn't, however, footed or gloved, but rather has stitched straps that wrap around the heel and the thumb, so dressing him is a bit easier. I start with his legs again, pull it over his feet and calves, as well as his thighs.

The crotch is so pleasing, seeing his cock further press against his belly, watching the material wrap around his hips and compressing it all together. The zipper is on the chest of the suit, so he has to finagle the upper half himself, putting it on like a coat, sliding into the gripping sleeves for another bout of sensations. But the hood remains my duty, and I pull it over the back of his head with satisfaction. The front is an open face, and his zips himself to the top of the neck, completing the look.

I get off of him, now done with the transformation. It's a sight to behold, and he completely forgets about me, four layers deep. There are no folds, no creases, no fabric crevices, only his muscular body encased in four layers of spandex. He throws himself back on the bed and starts making silk angels. Moaning, writhing, touching himself. The material is like new skin, everything I ever wanted, but I've come to learn I'm happy to rely on my imagination.

"Get on here," he breathes, and I follow eagerly, throwing myself over him. Our bodies are sliding eagerly against one another, our cocks demanding full contact. I slide my body inches downward, then wrap my hands underneath him, holding Toby by his ass. I use him as I wish: as a toy, as a submissive spandex thing for me to play with, something that is effortlessly, unceasingly horny among all this sensation.

But I know what he's thinking even still, because when it comes to the fascination of layers, there is no stopping. I get up again without warning him, and while he's struggling around in the middle of the bed, rolling over and over again, I simply watch with voyeuristic fascination. I can't handle my own vices anymore—I strip myself of the socks and the crop top. I pull down the thong as well, grabbing my own cock with pleasure, stroking away. But I can only play with my dick for so long without feeling a potential climax rising, so I deliberately halt.

"Dude, you're—I'm—" he tries. It's so funny how he remains speechless.

"You want more, don't you?" I figure.

"I can... have more...?"

"Probably. Although where you're going... you'll likely be a mummy before long," I admit, and he groans as per usual, his hands greedily running over his thighs, up his stomach, his chest, even feeling his face. He has no identity in the moment, existing more as a sensual body in need of pleasure. "I'll see what I can find." As I leave, I know Toby's obviously not going to be getting off the bed any time soon, experiencing what appears to be an unending climax, desperately holding off from cumming so he can play around more.

Doherty's boxes are definitely for this kind of sexual play, so I feel confident that I'll find something new. I'm looking for a specific item, something I never owned but I figure would conveniently maintain Toby's sexual high. I open one box and then another, finding more spandex but regrettably passing it by. On the fourth box, after passing up leotards and pantyhose and swimsuits galore, I find what I'm looking for. It's the only thing I grab before I head back into the bedroom.

"What's that?" he asks, and I raise it up in the air for him to see. It's a sleepslack in Doherty's signature sky blue, made of soft, but especially firm material, very shiny, very silky.

"A sleepsack," is all I explain. "Put your feet together. Arms at your sides."

"But—" he starts, but complies anyway. I wrestle with the suit myself for a second, identifying the front, the back, the zipper on the side. I undo the latter and adjust it to where the bottom would fit perfectly onto Toby's feet. "It doesn't look like the other stuff," he remarks.

"Trust me, I think you'll love it," I say, and pull the whole of it over his calves, his knees, up his thighs. Then the material complains, his wide hips and bubble butt barely too big for the suit, but that's when I know it's the perfect size. The ritual of Toby raising up his pelvis from the bed is expected now, and I push the sleepsack over his crotch and his butt. He drops to the mattress again and I grab his cock, stroke it a few times for good measure, laughing at how he attempts to grind further into my grip. "Hands at your sides," I reassert, and he does so. The arms to the suit are a bit tricky—they'll force his limbs to stick to his side without any means of moving them, indeed like the mummy that we talked about. When I cover just his hands with the material, he gasps when he realizes what's happening.

"Sit up?" I ask, and after a little bit of hopping about the bed to adjust, I manage to pull the upper half of the suit over his shoulders, the blue material gripping and stretching against his torso. The head is a bit more shapely than the rest of the cocoon, and pulling it on remains a familiar process. In one swoop I cover his head, the features of his face replaced by a smooth out into a plain blue oval. The suit, while especially tight, is easy to zip up on the right side of his body, and now that he's completely decked out, I guide him to lay back down against the flat of the bed. He's completely helpless, stuck here in the same euphoric state that he started in but only more intense, unable to refuse it. Maybe he wants to ask me what he's meant to do, what with how his hands are useless and stuck to his sides, but he remains silent.