Hi folks, should you like that appetizer, might well be continued ...
Damn. Overslept again! I stumble into the bathroom, pulling the black and white striped boxer shorts over my cock which is half-erect as always in the morning and is bobbing lazily in front of me, grab the toothbrush, squeeze toothpaste onto the bristles and brush my teeth under the shower, from which warm water is gradually flowing. While I brush with one hand and squeeze shower gel out of the tube with the other, I empty my rather full bladder into the sink, spit out the toothpaste, soap myself from head to toe, rinse myself with cold water, so that my cock shrinks in offense, so that it almost disappears into my lush bush - I really need to shave again! - and meets my balls where the three of them are gossiping about me.
Quickly back to the bedroom, blindly reaching into the underwear drawer, fish out a pair of boxer briefs, jump into my jeans and pulled on a T-shirt. I forego socks.
I burn my tongue on the piping hot coffee, shove a piece of crispbread between my teeth and leave the apartment, crunching.
Only when I've got on my bike do I notice: my underpants are pinching. I must have grabbed an older pair in my haste. Grrrmph! As I pedal into town and feel the equipment between my legs more intensely with every pedal stroke, I decide - not for the first time, by the way! - to make a clean slate in my underwear drawer. Everything that has become too tight goes to the used clothing collection. From there, I imagine, my briefs are either recycled and taken apart to the threads, or they are freshly washed and sent to some clothing bank, where they are then distributed to people in need who need the size I had two years ago. I doubt that it is my genitals that have grown significantly in size and are therefore causing the discomfort below my belly button. I probably washed the underwear too hot and they finally shrunk two sizes in the dryer.
The idea of someone somewhere wearing my used underpants is something... exciting.
When I get to the office, the first thing I do is go to the bathroom, lock myself in the cubicle, pull my jeans down to my knees and tug at the hem of my briefs. No relief. I pull them up to the middle of my thighs, stretch the material, push my fist in, pull them up again, sort the balls in the middle, point the cock upwards, let the bush grow out on the sides. It's high time to trim it again. But it's definitely not the hair that's causing the feeling of tightness.
Apart from that, I don't particularly like my balls when they're completely hairless. At least not in summer. They always stick to my thighs.
I pull the jeans up again, tug on the zipper, fasten the belt in the second hole and not the third as usual, just to be on the safe side. I do a few squats.
No noticeable relief.
I walk to my place with my legs apart, sit down on the chair, slide as far as possible under the desk and fumble around between my legs again.
“If I were you, I’d rather jerk off at home.”
I turn around as if I’d been struck by lightning. André, my colleague on the other side of the desk, is standing behind me, a crooked grin on his face. He has a girlfriend, but also meets men, “because I like to fuck asses and squeeze my bottom’s balls,” as he freely admitted to me over an after-work beer. (When I asked him what a bottom was, he just looked at me in disbelief.) “My girlfriend can’t offer me that.”
“Why? Doesn’t she have an ass?” I asked him.
“Yes, but no balls. At least none that you could finger or knead. And besides, she’s not into ass fucking. My cock is just too big for her.”
“Show-off,” I say and empty my beer glass.
“Do you want to see?” André grins lasciviously. “It’s worth taking a look. That’s what everyone who has seen him says.”
“Maybe later,” I evade.
To this day, I haven’t even taken a look at his cock.
“By the way, I don’t jerk off,” I say now. “My underwear is too tight.”
“Then take them off.”
“No, better not. My jeans rub everything off.”
“If you only ever buy the special offers – no wonder.”
“They were pretty expensive,” I clarify. “But they’re scratchy nevertheless.”
“Hm. Unfortunately, I don’t have a spare pair of underwear in my desk drawer. And stupidly, I didn’t pack them this morning either. I would lend them to you.”
“Thank you, that’s so kind of you. I think I’ll use my lunch break to buy a new pair.”
“Speaking of special offers: get a pack of three,” he recommends. “They’re cheaper than buying individual items.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I say. And start up my computer.
The shop is in a small side street right around the corner from our office. I rarely walk past it because I come to the company from the other direction. If I had had more time, I would have gone to the department store. But that's a twenty-minute walk away. A period of time that I don't want to subject my squashed genitals to.
The shop window is not particularly large and is crammed with boxer shorts, boxer briefs, briefs, thongs and G-strings that are lined up on a pole in a back corner. Three underwear dummies stand in between on the left, middle and right - sawn-off thighs, sawn-off torso. T-shirts, tank tops and socks in all possible colors and patterns complete the range. I open the door and enter a not very bright room. The bell above me rings. A young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, emerges from a back room between two curtains.
“Hello. What would you like?”
“Fish’n’chips and a coke, please,” I say.
He looks at me as if I'm crazy.
“Just kidding," I clarify.
“Oh, I see,” he says.
“I need some underwear,” I continue.
“Okay.” He looks at me. “I think you've come to the right place. Unfortunately, I'm about to take my lunch break.”
“It'll be really quick,” I say.
“What would you like?” he wants to know. “If it's quick, that's fine with me. But still…” He goes to the shop door and locks it. “So that no more customers come,” he explains as he turns back to me.
He comes closer. He is wearing a light blue T-shirt that is tight on his body, jeans that are quite low-cut and show the white waistband of his boxer shorts. He has medium-length, dark hair, brown eyes and an open face.
He looks good.
“Underpants, then,” he picks up the thread again. “A specific brand?”
“Brand doesn’t matter,” I answer. “The main thing is that they’re L. Big enough, then.”
“It’s not that simple,” he replies. “L in one brand is smaller than S in another. And XL can sometimes be quite L.”
“I see,” I say. “Then recommend something to me. As I said, I’m not tied down to one brand.” “That’s good,” he says. “I’ll pick out a few pairs for you. You can go into the changing room.” “Since when can you try on underwear?” I ask, astonished.
“A service I offer my customers,” he answers. “After all, I want them to be satisfied and come back.”
“I understand,” I say.
“Changing room’s over there.” He nods toward a half-open curtain.
I push the curtain aside and step in. All three sides of the changing room are mirrored, so that I can see into infinity. I look around again at the salesperson, who is now putting together his selection from drawers and shelves that fill the walls up to the ceiling.
I close the curtain and unbuckle my jeans. I open the zipper and balance on my trouser legs.
I look at myself from all sides in my underwear. Dark blue with white stripes and a light blue waistband with no print. From behind, it stretches tightly over the crease of my ass, and at the front it bulges out. Damn tight. I press the bulge flat as best I can. The elastic on my thighs has left deep grooves and pressed a two-finger-wide pattern into my skin below my belly button and above my buttocks, as I notice when I look in the mirror.
The curtain parts. “So, I brought you something,” says the salesman and puts a few boxes and a few loose items on the bench. “By the way, my name is Mike.”
“Hello, Mike,” I say, feeling strange because I’m standing in front of him in my underwear. “I’m Mark.”
“Hello, Mark,” he says and picks up a box. “Let’s go then.”
“Us?” I ask.
“You want professional advice, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do…”
“Well, don’t make such a fuss. Or better yet, imagine you’re at the urologist. You show yourself to him in all your glory.”
“But I’m not at the urologist.”
He makes a dismissive gesture. “Urologist and underpants – both start with a U. So what’s the difference?”
He grins, and I have to grin too. “Apart from that, you want to find the right size for you, don’t you? So, down with those panties! Because if you put underpants over your underpants, we have a problem with the right size. Or do you wear two pair of briefs at the same time? L over M or something like that?”
“Rarely,” I answer, pull off my underpants and, for lack of other options, throw them under the seat, because Mike has laid out a wide selection of his offerings on it. My genitals are overjoyed to finally be freed from their rather tight fabric prison. My cock stretches happily and my balls relax downwards, swinging loosely back and forth.
Mike reaches for the first box. I have noticed that he had previously taken a long look at my cock, which suddenly gives me the feeling that it is no longer hanging down so limply. But I'm probably just imagining it.
“Here we have the classic one,” Mike announces, holding up a pair of white fine rib briefs with a longer leg and a piped fly. He puts one hand in and spreads his fingers. “They don't pinch anything. And they leave enough room for all eventualities.” To confirm his words, he now puts both hands in and pulls the old-fashioned underpants apart until the fly gapes open, through which he puts the index finger of his right hand and lets it hang down. Then he turns his hand with the finger outstretched 180 degrees upwards.
Teasingly.
“And we should put it aside again immediately,” I say. “After all, I don’t want to be confused with my grandfather.”
Mike grins. “Have you ever been in a situation where that happened?”
“Not yet. But it’s unlikely anyway, because my grandfather hasn’t been with us for seven years.”
“I’m sorry,” says Mike, putting the old-fashioned monster aside. “Actually, I would have been surprised if that was your taste. On the other hand – there are customers who like exactly that kind of thing. And some of them aren’t even particularly old. Recently a seventeen-year-old guy took five of them home with him. Of course he got a discount.”
“Interesting,” I say. “Did you help him try them on?”
“Of course. Four times.”
My gaze falls into the mirrored infinity. I almost forgot that I had stripped naked. “Do your customers always have to take off their clothes if they want to buy underwear from you?” I want to know and casually put a hand on my cock, which has stopped its upward tendency for the time being.
“Of course only if they want to.” He looks thoughtfully at my cock and the balls behind. “What else do you wear?” He points to my underwear, which is under the bench, bends down, picks it up from the floor and looks for the label. “By the way, I don’t offer that brand,” he explains with a quick look at the logo. “It comes from China. No good quality. One time in the washer and it shrinks.”
Which I can only confirm.
“That your standard equipment? Boxer briefs with half-length legs?” He waves my underwear in front of my nose.
Maybe I should invite him to my house and show him my underwear drawer, it flashes through my mind. Do underwear sellers also make house calls? An interesting question, I think.
“By and large, yes,” I answer. “Mid-length, short or a little longer under scratchy pants. I only wear boxer shorts at night in bed. Them crumpling under my jeans drives me crazy. The last time I wore briefs was when I was fourteen.”
“Whitey tighties?”
“Right.” Why am I telling him all this?
“I understand. How about this?” He pulls out a black trunk printed with white skulls. Funny. “I’m not going to a funeral any time soon,” I object.
“Not to a wedding, either?” From another box he pulls out a pair of pure white boxer briefs with “UNDERWEAR” embroidered on the elastic waistband in bright red letters. Probably a reminder for all those who tend to wear their underwear over their jeans or chinos or shorts.
“Elegant,” I comment on the piece. “Maybe for my next visit to the theatre.”
“Okay.” He carefully folds the underwear up again and pushes it back into the cellophane wrapping, which he puts in the box. “Do you want to try something different?”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Well, something like this, for example,” he says, letting a neon-colored G-string dangle in the air on his index finger. “It doesn’t show even in the tightest pants.”
“No thanks,” I say. I can't imagine how it feels to have a narrow strip of fabric in the crack of my ass, rubbing against my hole with every step, and my balls would hardly fit in the tiny thing. At least not together with my cock.
“Have you ever had a narrow strip of fabric in your ass?” he wants to know, and I look at him so astonished that he grins. Of course he can't read minds... or can he?
“No, I haven’t,” I answer.
“Then just try it. It's stretchy and adapts to all conditions.” He holds the tiny pink fabric in front of my nose.
As I take the silky thing, my cock jumps a little. Mike didn't notice - or at least he pretended not having noticed. (To be continued)
Damn. Overslept again! I stumble into the bathroom, pulling the black and white striped boxer shorts over my cock which is half-erect as always in the morning and is bobbing lazily in front of me, grab the toothbrush, squeeze toothpaste onto the bristles and brush my teeth under the shower, from which warm water is gradually flowing. While I brush with one hand and squeeze shower gel out of the tube with the other, I empty my rather full bladder into the sink, spit out the toothpaste, soap myself from head to toe, rinse myself with cold water, so that my cock shrinks in offense, so that it almost disappears into my lush bush - I really need to shave again! - and meets my balls where the three of them are gossiping about me.
Quickly back to the bedroom, blindly reaching into the underwear drawer, fish out a pair of boxer briefs, jump into my jeans and pulled on a T-shirt. I forego socks.
I burn my tongue on the piping hot coffee, shove a piece of crispbread between my teeth and leave the apartment, crunching.
Only when I've got on my bike do I notice: my underpants are pinching. I must have grabbed an older pair in my haste. Grrrmph! As I pedal into town and feel the equipment between my legs more intensely with every pedal stroke, I decide - not for the first time, by the way! - to make a clean slate in my underwear drawer. Everything that has become too tight goes to the used clothing collection. From there, I imagine, my briefs are either recycled and taken apart to the threads, or they are freshly washed and sent to some clothing bank, where they are then distributed to people in need who need the size I had two years ago. I doubt that it is my genitals that have grown significantly in size and are therefore causing the discomfort below my belly button. I probably washed the underwear too hot and they finally shrunk two sizes in the dryer.
The idea of someone somewhere wearing my used underpants is something... exciting.
When I get to the office, the first thing I do is go to the bathroom, lock myself in the cubicle, pull my jeans down to my knees and tug at the hem of my briefs. No relief. I pull them up to the middle of my thighs, stretch the material, push my fist in, pull them up again, sort the balls in the middle, point the cock upwards, let the bush grow out on the sides. It's high time to trim it again. But it's definitely not the hair that's causing the feeling of tightness.
Apart from that, I don't particularly like my balls when they're completely hairless. At least not in summer. They always stick to my thighs.
I pull the jeans up again, tug on the zipper, fasten the belt in the second hole and not the third as usual, just to be on the safe side. I do a few squats.
No noticeable relief.
I walk to my place with my legs apart, sit down on the chair, slide as far as possible under the desk and fumble around between my legs again.
“If I were you, I’d rather jerk off at home.”
I turn around as if I’d been struck by lightning. André, my colleague on the other side of the desk, is standing behind me, a crooked grin on his face. He has a girlfriend, but also meets men, “because I like to fuck asses and squeeze my bottom’s balls,” as he freely admitted to me over an after-work beer. (When I asked him what a bottom was, he just looked at me in disbelief.) “My girlfriend can’t offer me that.”
“Why? Doesn’t she have an ass?” I asked him.
“Yes, but no balls. At least none that you could finger or knead. And besides, she’s not into ass fucking. My cock is just too big for her.”
“Show-off,” I say and empty my beer glass.
“Do you want to see?” André grins lasciviously. “It’s worth taking a look. That’s what everyone who has seen him says.”
“Maybe later,” I evade.
To this day, I haven’t even taken a look at his cock.
“By the way, I don’t jerk off,” I say now. “My underwear is too tight.”
“Then take them off.”
“No, better not. My jeans rub everything off.”
“If you only ever buy the special offers – no wonder.”
“They were pretty expensive,” I clarify. “But they’re scratchy nevertheless.”
“Hm. Unfortunately, I don’t have a spare pair of underwear in my desk drawer. And stupidly, I didn’t pack them this morning either. I would lend them to you.”
“Thank you, that’s so kind of you. I think I’ll use my lunch break to buy a new pair.”
“Speaking of special offers: get a pack of three,” he recommends. “They’re cheaper than buying individual items.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I say. And start up my computer.
*
The shop is in a small side street right around the corner from our office. I rarely walk past it because I come to the company from the other direction. If I had had more time, I would have gone to the department store. But that's a twenty-minute walk away. A period of time that I don't want to subject my squashed genitals to.
The shop window is not particularly large and is crammed with boxer shorts, boxer briefs, briefs, thongs and G-strings that are lined up on a pole in a back corner. Three underwear dummies stand in between on the left, middle and right - sawn-off thighs, sawn-off torso. T-shirts, tank tops and socks in all possible colors and patterns complete the range. I open the door and enter a not very bright room. The bell above me rings. A young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, emerges from a back room between two curtains.
“Hello. What would you like?”
“Fish’n’chips and a coke, please,” I say.
He looks at me as if I'm crazy.
“Just kidding," I clarify.
“Oh, I see,” he says.
“I need some underwear,” I continue.
“Okay.” He looks at me. “I think you've come to the right place. Unfortunately, I'm about to take my lunch break.”
“It'll be really quick,” I say.
“What would you like?” he wants to know. “If it's quick, that's fine with me. But still…” He goes to the shop door and locks it. “So that no more customers come,” he explains as he turns back to me.
He comes closer. He is wearing a light blue T-shirt that is tight on his body, jeans that are quite low-cut and show the white waistband of his boxer shorts. He has medium-length, dark hair, brown eyes and an open face.
He looks good.
“Underpants, then,” he picks up the thread again. “A specific brand?”
“Brand doesn’t matter,” I answer. “The main thing is that they’re L. Big enough, then.”
“It’s not that simple,” he replies. “L in one brand is smaller than S in another. And XL can sometimes be quite L.”
“I see,” I say. “Then recommend something to me. As I said, I’m not tied down to one brand.” “That’s good,” he says. “I’ll pick out a few pairs for you. You can go into the changing room.” “Since when can you try on underwear?” I ask, astonished.
“A service I offer my customers,” he answers. “After all, I want them to be satisfied and come back.”
“I understand,” I say.
“Changing room’s over there.” He nods toward a half-open curtain.
I push the curtain aside and step in. All three sides of the changing room are mirrored, so that I can see into infinity. I look around again at the salesperson, who is now putting together his selection from drawers and shelves that fill the walls up to the ceiling.
I close the curtain and unbuckle my jeans. I open the zipper and balance on my trouser legs.
I look at myself from all sides in my underwear. Dark blue with white stripes and a light blue waistband with no print. From behind, it stretches tightly over the crease of my ass, and at the front it bulges out. Damn tight. I press the bulge flat as best I can. The elastic on my thighs has left deep grooves and pressed a two-finger-wide pattern into my skin below my belly button and above my buttocks, as I notice when I look in the mirror.
The curtain parts. “So, I brought you something,” says the salesman and puts a few boxes and a few loose items on the bench. “By the way, my name is Mike.”
“Hello, Mike,” I say, feeling strange because I’m standing in front of him in my underwear. “I’m Mark.”
“Hello, Mark,” he says and picks up a box. “Let’s go then.”
“Us?” I ask.
“You want professional advice, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do…”
“Well, don’t make such a fuss. Or better yet, imagine you’re at the urologist. You show yourself to him in all your glory.”
“But I’m not at the urologist.”
He makes a dismissive gesture. “Urologist and underpants – both start with a U. So what’s the difference?”
He grins, and I have to grin too. “Apart from that, you want to find the right size for you, don’t you? So, down with those panties! Because if you put underpants over your underpants, we have a problem with the right size. Or do you wear two pair of briefs at the same time? L over M or something like that?”
“Rarely,” I answer, pull off my underpants and, for lack of other options, throw them under the seat, because Mike has laid out a wide selection of his offerings on it. My genitals are overjoyed to finally be freed from their rather tight fabric prison. My cock stretches happily and my balls relax downwards, swinging loosely back and forth.
Mike reaches for the first box. I have noticed that he had previously taken a long look at my cock, which suddenly gives me the feeling that it is no longer hanging down so limply. But I'm probably just imagining it.
*
“Here we have the classic one,” Mike announces, holding up a pair of white fine rib briefs with a longer leg and a piped fly. He puts one hand in and spreads his fingers. “They don't pinch anything. And they leave enough room for all eventualities.” To confirm his words, he now puts both hands in and pulls the old-fashioned underpants apart until the fly gapes open, through which he puts the index finger of his right hand and lets it hang down. Then he turns his hand with the finger outstretched 180 degrees upwards.
Teasingly.
“And we should put it aside again immediately,” I say. “After all, I don’t want to be confused with my grandfather.”
Mike grins. “Have you ever been in a situation where that happened?”
“Not yet. But it’s unlikely anyway, because my grandfather hasn’t been with us for seven years.”
“I’m sorry,” says Mike, putting the old-fashioned monster aside. “Actually, I would have been surprised if that was your taste. On the other hand – there are customers who like exactly that kind of thing. And some of them aren’t even particularly old. Recently a seventeen-year-old guy took five of them home with him. Of course he got a discount.”
“Interesting,” I say. “Did you help him try them on?”
“Of course. Four times.”
My gaze falls into the mirrored infinity. I almost forgot that I had stripped naked. “Do your customers always have to take off their clothes if they want to buy underwear from you?” I want to know and casually put a hand on my cock, which has stopped its upward tendency for the time being.
“Of course only if they want to.” He looks thoughtfully at my cock and the balls behind. “What else do you wear?” He points to my underwear, which is under the bench, bends down, picks it up from the floor and looks for the label. “By the way, I don’t offer that brand,” he explains with a quick look at the logo. “It comes from China. No good quality. One time in the washer and it shrinks.”
Which I can only confirm.
“That your standard equipment? Boxer briefs with half-length legs?” He waves my underwear in front of my nose.
Maybe I should invite him to my house and show him my underwear drawer, it flashes through my mind. Do underwear sellers also make house calls? An interesting question, I think.
“By and large, yes,” I answer. “Mid-length, short or a little longer under scratchy pants. I only wear boxer shorts at night in bed. Them crumpling under my jeans drives me crazy. The last time I wore briefs was when I was fourteen.”
“Whitey tighties?”
“Right.” Why am I telling him all this?
“I understand. How about this?” He pulls out a black trunk printed with white skulls. Funny. “I’m not going to a funeral any time soon,” I object.
“Not to a wedding, either?” From another box he pulls out a pair of pure white boxer briefs with “UNDERWEAR” embroidered on the elastic waistband in bright red letters. Probably a reminder for all those who tend to wear their underwear over their jeans or chinos or shorts.
“Elegant,” I comment on the piece. “Maybe for my next visit to the theatre.”
“Okay.” He carefully folds the underwear up again and pushes it back into the cellophane wrapping, which he puts in the box. “Do you want to try something different?”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Well, something like this, for example,” he says, letting a neon-colored G-string dangle in the air on his index finger. “It doesn’t show even in the tightest pants.”
“No thanks,” I say. I can't imagine how it feels to have a narrow strip of fabric in the crack of my ass, rubbing against my hole with every step, and my balls would hardly fit in the tiny thing. At least not together with my cock.
“Have you ever had a narrow strip of fabric in your ass?” he wants to know, and I look at him so astonished that he grins. Of course he can't read minds... or can he?
“No, I haven’t,” I answer.
“Then just try it. It's stretchy and adapts to all conditions.” He holds the tiny pink fabric in front of my nose.
As I take the silky thing, my cock jumps a little. Mike didn't notice - or at least he pretended not having noticed. (To be continued)
