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
