The Right Trousers

Part of the 'Butt Monkey' series of stories by Robert Furlong

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On Friday afternoon, after meeting a group of potential clients at their Coventry head office, I thought I'd take a walk into the city centre before the shops closed to see if I could find a new pair of trousers. I'd been wondering what I should wear when I met Debbie for the first time the following Wednesday. Should I keep it casual with maybe a rugby shirt and trainers, or show her I wanted to make an effort by wearing a smart shirt and one of my dressier jackets?

Whatever look I ultimately opted for, I was going to need a decent pair of trousers that would hang well on me. I didn't want some cheap pair like those I'd wear for work: I wanted to wear something that was both flattering and expensive-looking and which would make it seem like I cared about my appearance far more than I actually did.

As I was getting into the main shopping area, already decorated overhead with Christmas lights, I noticed an old-fashioned looking shop which quaintly called itself a 'gentlemen's outfitters'. Being an old-fashioned kind of guy myself, I decided I would pop in and see if that had anything that might prove suitable.

It was getting late in the day and the shop was eerily quiet. After I'd noticed how expensive things were (nearly a hundred pounds for a single tie!) I was approached by a beautifully-suited man with a well-coiffed beard, who asked, a tad distrustfully, if he could help me.

My reply that I was just looking around didn't satisfy him and he continued to pester me. Perhaps it had been an especially quiet day, or perhaps I looked like the sort of shady character he didn't want bringing down the tone of his shop.

I told him I wanted a pair of nicely-fitting trousers; something rather better than one of the off-the-rail pairs I might get from BHS.

"What sort of colour were you thinking of?" he asked. I estimated that he must be a few years older than me from the amount of grey hair he had.

I shrugged. "Dark blue, maybe." I had a nice red and white stripy tie in my wardrobe which would go well with dark blue. Or would a tie be too stuffy for a first date?

He looked me up and down and said he'd need to take my measurements.

"I'm a 32 waist with a medium leg," I offered, trying to be helpful.

"If you want a good fit," he said haughtily, "I'll need something rather more accurate than that."

He asked me to go through to the back room of the shop where he could measure me properly. As he did so, he locked the shop door and turned the little sign around to tell people they were now closed.

"I was just about to lock up when you came in," he said. "You're lucky you caught me." The tone of his voice indicated that he regarded my appearance considerably less fortuitously.

The back room had a large cutting table to one side of it with a few offcuts of material draped over it, some rails of clothing against the back wall, and a group of mannequins' dummies in various states of undress clustered in the corner.

"Take your coat off, if you would, Mr... er...?"

"Furlong," I told him.

He took it from me and diligently hung it on a coat hanger, disdainfully picking a few pieces of stray fluff and cat hair from the front of it, and affording it far more care and attention than it actually deserved.

After he'd hung it up, he took a tape measure from the table and asked me stand on a small stool so he could take my measurements.

He started at the front, measuring from the waistband of the trousers I was wearing down to the bottom hem of the leg and then took the circumference of my shin and thigh. All the time he was jotting numbers into a notebook with a short stubby pencil.

Given the effort he was making for me, I was beginning to feel obligated to buy a pair of trousers from him, no matter what they looked like. It would seem rudely unappreciative to leave the shop empty-handed after receiving such service.

And if a tie cost a hundred pounds here, how much was I going to have to pay for a pair of tailored trousers? Perhaps it would have been cheaper to have taken the train down to London and peruse the clothes racks at Harrods...

He went around the back of me, taking measurements from just below the back of my shoe up to the top of my leg and then further up and over the curve of my buttocks to my waist. He seemed to be making rather a meal of what he was doing and I glanced over to the side of me where there was a full-length mirror so that I could see what he was up to.

To my astonishment, I could see that he was slyly taking the odd sniff of my bum. He was pretending he was carefully taking measurements, putting his face close to the tape as if trying to get millimetre accuracy from his readings, but he was really manoeuvring himself so he could get his nose close to my backside so he could take a surreptitious whiff of it.

The dirty old sod!

I reminded myself that in his place I would probably do the same. Christ – if you were as fascinated by rimming as I was and had a job like his, it would be like being in heaven!

You'd have all these guys wandering into your shop – young blokes getting measured up for wedding outfits, graduation suits and the like – and you'd have a perfectly valid excuse to get right up close to their variously shaped bums and to see how far you could get your nose between their buttocks. Some would have arse-cracks which would be soapy-clean, others would be more forthright and considerably more interesting: the fun would be finding out who had what.

I turned back to face forwards and bent over a little to push my backside towards him slightly.

"Is that better for you?" I asked.

I saw him glance over at the mirror, as if to assure himself that I hadn't spotted what he was doing, and, believing I was oblivious to his intentions, muttered, "Yes, yes. Thank you."

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Martin," he replied. "Martin Jacobi."

He returned to measuring me from behind, asking me to open my legs slightly so he could take my inside leg measurement and then reached around the front of me to take a reading of my waist.

I was beginning to think I might have been mistaken about him sniffing me or that, if he really had been, he hadn't liked what he'd found, when suddenly I felt what was almost certainly his nose between my cheeks.

Any other guy might have thought it was a stray thumb pushing itself where it shouldn't while its owner was absorbed in reading from the tape-measure. But, even without sneaking another look through the mirror, I was fairly sure it was his nose. I could hear him quietly sniffing my arse-crack, curious to find out how I would smell back there.

It was the end of the week and I'd been wearing my trousers since Monday: they had a tendency to ride up into my cleft when I was sitting at my desk and might be getting a bit whiffy back there. My underwear – a pair of Aussiebum briefs if I wasn't mistaken – had, as always, been fresh on that morning but as it was now late afternoon, they'd also be getting a bit worse for wear.

I knew from when I'd rubbed my fingers in my crack and sniffed them in bed when masturbating that I could be tantalisingly odoriferous between my arse-cheeks, and I was sure Martin would be able to smell my scent quite easily through my clothing.

Evidently he enjoyed the frank, earthy musk because he didn't pull away. He gently moved his nose a little lower down as he fiddled with the tape measure, surreptitiously pushing it into a position where my smell would be more pungent and more powerful.

I leaned forwards a little, opening my butt-crack a little wider for him. His nose pushed into me more deeply and I could hear him sniffing appreciatively. His knees were resting on the stool between my feet and I saw him put a hand down to the front of his trousers, either to adjust his hardening excitement in his underwear or to give himself a discreet masturbatory tweak.

I was starting to stiffen myself at the feel of him nuzzling around between my buttocks. The realisation that another man was secretively smelling my bum was extremely arousing, as was the fact that he himself was getting turned on by my darkest, most private scent.

"Would it be better if I pulled these down a bit?" I asked. "The waist is pinching – it's probably messing up your measurements."

Before he had chance to reply, I undid my belt and unbuttoned my trousers, and then hitched them down to expose my underwear. My briefs were indeed Aussiebum ones and were maroon in colour. The front pouch was very roomy, which was the main reason I had bought them, but even with so copious a gusset the material was starting to stretch outwards as my cock gradually swelled in size. That was good, I thought: my arousal would be pulling the seat of them more snuggly against the paired mounds of my buttocks, giving him a more favourable view of my rear.

The tailor muttered his approval, "Yes, that is rather better for me," and reached round as if he was re-checking my waist size with his tape measure. As he was doing so, he pressed his face more deeply into the back of my briefs, inhaling deeply right between my cheeks.

I leaned forwards again and pressed my bum into him, feeling my cock steadily lengthening in response to the new and exhilarating sensation of having a man's face back there. It seemed to me that we must now both be fully aware what we were doing and what was going on between us.

Nevertheless, Martin chose to prolong the pretence.

"If you could lean forwards a little more," he requested. "I need to know how much slack you'll need in the seat."

Okay, I thought. We'll play our little game a bit longer.

I leaned further forwards, supporting myself on the table in front of me. My backside was pushing into his face and my arse-cheeks were spread apart so widely that I could feel the heat of his breath through my underwear on my hole.

"Is that okay?" I asked. "I don't want the back of them tearing when I bend down."

"That's very good," he said. "Yes... excellent."

He made like he was measuring my outstretched buttock, as if trying to work out how much give he'd need in the material at the back, and then pressed his face into me again, working himself downwards so that his nose was close to my most flavoursome spot.

I turned to look in the mirror again. There he was, leaning forwards: cheek-deep into the cleft of my tightly-fitting briefs. He was breathing quickly and deeply, snorting as he inhaled from my underwear, right from where my scent would be at its strongest and the material at its most savoury.

My cock was hardening quickly at the sight of another man's face pushing between my buttocks. It seemed I had waited for this moment for so long: and now, here it was, taking place before my eyes in this most unlikely of settings.

He pulled back, panting a little, and I turned to face forwards again.

Suddenly a thought occurred to me: I really would give him a treat! I would do for him what I would fantasize about another man doing if I was in his position.

Without straightening up, and supporting myself against the table with one arm, I reached back with the other and yanked my underwear down to expose my arse for him.

"I often go commando," I said, matter-of-factly. "It might be good to take a measurement without my underwear... just to be sure..."

"Good idea," he muttered. "Thank you..."

He pretended to measure me again, keeping well away from my naked bum, and at first I thought he must be plucking up the courage to go the whole way with me. After a good thirty seconds, though, he still hadn't taken up my implicit offer to experience me in the flesh, and I began to wonder if he was having second thoughts.

Didn't he like my naked arse? Was putting his face there a step too far for him?

"Is everything okay?" I asked. "Feel free to do what you need to..."

"Everything is fine," he replied. "Better than fine, actually."

He stood up and walked over to the table and put down the tape measure, pencil and notebook. I saw he had a well-worn wedding-ring on his left hand.

I kept bending forwards with my briefs pulled down at the back, starting to feel a little self-conscious at the somewhat flagrant position I'd adopted. Had he had enough? Didn't he like a bare bum?

"Can I just clarify," he began quietly, "that you're inviting me to have oral contact with your rear?"

I was surprised by his formality and a little disappointed that our game was now over.

"I only ask," he went on, "to avoid the potential for... well... an unpleasant misunderstanding."

"Haven't I made it clear enough," I replied, with a pointed glance back at my exposed arse, "what I might be hoping for?"

"In that case," he said with a solemn nod, "you can pull your underwear down a little further, Mr Furlong. And spread your legs a little wider."

I looked over at him and saw he was unzipping his fly. He reached in and pulled out his erection. It was about six inches long and it looked like he'd been circumcised.

"You're quite a remarkable find," he commented. "I've never had a customer like you... the only other time a man became aware of my little... er... quirk, he became... shall we say... a touch on the aggressive side."

I smiled. "I'm not so easily rattled, Martin. If my cheeks are a little red, it's probably from where your beard has been rubbing against them through my briefs."

He reached into a drawer and squirted some kind of oil onto his palm. Then he rubbed his hand up and down his cock, making it shiny and slippery.

I hitched down my briefs to the tops of my thighs, releasing my semi-hard erection and tucking the waistband under my balls. My cock was swollen enough to point forwards in mid-air and was already much longer and thicker than Martin's. My large, heavy balls hung down pendulously between my legs.

As I expected, he showed little interest in my genitals but instead wiped his hand on some tissues from a pack in the same drawer. He pulled out a few spares and tucked them loosely into his pocket, muttering something about stains on the carpet being difficult to shift, with his cock still arching upwards from his fly.

He went behind me again and ran his fingers slowly down my exposed cleft, allowing his extended middle finger to seek out the raised pucker of my hole through the tangle of hair that was sprouting from my crack.

"Since you're willing to be so obliging," he said, still running his fingers up and down between my cheeks, "I'd appreciate a moment or two to... er... enjoy your scent. It shouldn't take more than a couple of minutes and then we'll sort out your trousers."

His cold precision was bizarre under the circumstances but in a funny sort of way it appealed to me. Perhaps to him this wasn't sex: maybe he saw it that I was allowing him to indulge his 'quirk' in exchange for a discount off the price of my trousers, and so he was approaching our dealings, like his measurements, with an almost professional aloofness.

He seemed peculiarly unaware that I might also become excited by what he was doing; that the guy being rimmed would also be compelled to masturbate. He hadn't offered me any of his tissues, in spite of his concern about the carpet, and hadn't even glanced at my cock to see if I was aroused.

He ran his fingertip around the wrinkled opening I was presenting to him and then gently pressed it into the middle of the pursed ring. Once I'd yielded to him, he slid easily inside me and I relaxed my hole to hungrily consume the top of his digit. I pushed back against him, keen to take as much of his finger as he could squeeze into me, and he grabbed my hip for leverage and worked himself into my bowels right up to the knuckle.

"Does that feel pleasant?" he asked.

"Just a bit," I smiled, loving the feel of him pushing his way into me. It had felt good when I had done this to myself at home in bed; but never this good. My cock swelled to it full size, throbbing upwards against my stomach.

He pulled his finger out of me with a slurp and sniffed intently at it. After finding it to his liking, he announced crisply, "Your rear has an invigorating bouquet, Mr Furlong."

"Let's hope it tastes just as good," I remarked.

"I'm sure it will."

He knelt down and put his hands on my bare buttocks, his thumbs pointing inwards towards my crack. Prizing my cheeks open still further, I felt his beard tickling as he pushed forwards between them. He drove his nose deep into my cleft and I felt his warm, wet tongue snaking between my buttocks as he extended it towards me. He quickly found my hole, still gaping open from his finger, and flicked his tongue against it, tasting in fullness my rich, carnal flavour.

He made an approving, "Mmm..." sound and started lapping at my splayed hole in rapid, slurping gulps, like a cat noisily drinking milk.

I couldn't believe I was being rimmed – I was finally being rimmed by another guy!

After waiting so long, it seemed almost beyond belief that this was really happening.

And it felt... well... slightly odd, I had to admit. The sensation of having someone's tongue licking at my bum brought with it a certain amount of discomfort; not only from its warm clamminess as it darted around in such a private area but also from a niggling self-consciousness about presenting my most secret hole to another person's face.

Nevertheless, having a man's face back there – even one belonging to a guy as cold and unerotic as Martin – was, from a sexual perspective at least, extraordinarily exciting.

I looked back into the mirror to the side of us and marvelled at what I was seeing. Another man was licking my bum! It was finally happening!

There was my arse; and there was his face. How amazing it was for the two to be connected, and for the excitement of doing so to make this guy's cock rise upwards, hard and throbbing, from the fly of his trousers.

My own cock swelled back to full size, having had its enjoyment dampened a little by my brief misgivings. I was sure such troubling thoughts would abate as I got used to the feel of another man licking me back there and that I would soon grow less troubled to have someone's face so intimately joined to such an illicit spot.

I bent as low as I could and opened my legs widely, desperate to give him the full impact of my outspread arse against his eager face.

He removed one hand from my backside and through my legs I watched him take up a gentle rhythm on his hardened cock. He rubbed it like he was polishing it: not gripping and roughly yanking his foreskin the way I do, but deftly gliding his fingers back and forth along its circumcised shaft and using his thumb to smoothly caress its plump head. The oil made it glisten and shine as it stiffened further in response to his delicate rubbing until the head of it gleamed like a polished bead.

He pulled his face back from my backside and muttered, "You have a very strong flavour, Mr Furlong... yes... very satisfactory."

And then he plunged his face forwards again and drove his tongue deeper into my hole.

I grabbed my own cock and started wanking myself. Lacking his finesse, I pounded myself quickly and roughly, showing all the inelegant wrist-thumping of a randy teenager compared to his more genteel and sensual technique.

His tongue still felt slimy against me and I'd rather preferred the stark roughness of his finger probing inside me. His breath felt hot and sticky against my backside and being in such a hunched position was putting an uncomfortable strain on my thighs.

Discomfort aside, though, another guy was finally rimming me, and the sheer fact of that – in spite of everything else – was electrifying.

Martin snorted and panted against my bum as his tongue pushed its way more deeply into me. The dextrous movement of his fingers on his cock increased steadily in time with the quickening rhythm of his breathing, and the lapping sounds he was making, which sounded like he was drinking from me, grew louder and moister.