Custom fit

by HumbleBrag

 Adam’s family grows in unexpected ways after he reconnects with a childhood friend.

Added: Aug 2022 Updated: 1 Oct 2022 10,466 words 6,418 views 5.0 stars (13 votes)

Similarly Named Stories: You might be looking for: “Costumed” by Tym Greene; or “Custom toy” by Cockatrice.


Sharing your home with a stranger is never easy. Not just because I’m an only child and didn’t have to share a lot growing up, but I’m also gay. And not hide-in-plain-sight gay. No, I’m obviously, notably gay. Have been for as long as I can remember. Which means I’ve gotten the shit beaten out of me by straight dudes for equally long. The very thought of sharing close quarters with another guy made my stomach clench. Between my slight size, delicate voice, and rather bold dress sense, if I ended up getting paired with someone even slightly homophobic it would be a nightmare.

With a single dad and no family wealth to pay for college, I was taking out loans for tuition and cutting costs in any way I could. Living at home my first year was a pretty easy call. It was an easy commute, half my classes were online lectures anyway, and I could still help my dad out around the house. It would make everything easier. At least, that was my thinking before a jocked-up muscle stud completely took over my home, school, and family.

“I figured out a way to supplement our income next year!” my dad told me excitedly over breakfast, wiping a few drops of milk from his warm brown beard.

“Oh yeah, what’s the plan?” I asked, hoping it’s not taking on any more shifts at the hospital. He’s been an emergency room nurse for the last five years, working night shifts bandaging up drunken frat boys at 3 a.m. My breakfast is his dinner, so he’s still in his scrubs from last night’s shift and he’ll likely crash right after we eat. “I can’t stand the thought of you working more than you already do, just so I can get a design degree.”

“Then you’ll love this. You remember Mikey and Nora who used to live next door?”

“Yeeeeeah…” I said slowly, the smile dropping from my face.

“So Mikey is also starting at State next month, and with dorm costs so high, we thought it would be great for him to live here next year with us. That way he’s got friends of the family to make the transition easier. We can charge them a lot less than the dorms and it’ll still make a big difference in our finances.”

“Dad! No!” I stuttered out.

“What’s the problem? You two were so close growing up. You don’t want to reconnect?”

“We were close when we were 10! He completely ditched me in middle school for his wrestling buddies and they bullied the shit out of me for years. And he just stood there! Every goddamn time!” I ranted, noisily clearing the dishes and punctuating every point with a clattering plate. “He didn’t even say goodbye when they moved away, for fuck’s sake.”

“Language!” my dad chastised, his baritone voice dropping into his authoritative octave.

“You don’t even know him!” I kept going, ignoring him. “He could be a bigot. He could hate gay people. He could be dangerous!”

“That’s the thing, he’s bisexual! Out and proud for over a year now.” This gave me pause, and my dad jumped on his chance. “People grow up. He’s 18 now just like you, and from what Nora tells me he’s a great guy. Polite, considerate. Give him a chance and I’m sure you’ll be friends again in no time. Honestly kiddo, I think this will be good for you. Get you out of your comfort zone a bit.”

“Oh yay, discomfort. How incentivizing,” I huffed, as my dad wrapped his big arms around me and pressed me into a hug. Eighteen years old, and I was still so small compared to him. He was 6’1” and 250 pounds of lightly padded muscle, fluffy in the middle and furry all over, but strong as an ox. I took after my mom’s side, slight build and a measly 5’7”, basically hairless other than a head of reddish-brown curls and a light dusting of fuzz for my pits and pubes.

“Tell you what,” he said holding me out to meet my eye, “let’s try this for the first semester and see how it goes. If you’re not feeling it, we can make arrangements for him elsewhere. This is your home, and I will never let it be unsafe for you.”

I sigh and frown at my own childishness. “Fine. Agreed,” I said, shaking his hand and offering a smile. “What’s he studying, anyway?”

“Sports medicine and physical therapy.”


“Ha. Yeah. This should be fun,” he chuckled, heading off to bed. “Night, kiddo.”

“Mornin’, dad.”

Mikey arrived mid-August, one week before freshman orientation. I had stayed behind while my dad picked him up from the greyhound station after dinner (breakfast for dad). I was anxious as shit, so I busied myself rearranging my new bedroom space. I gave up my attic sanctuary to make sure dad could sleep during the day and I moved into one of the two basement bedrooms. They were smaller, and joined together by a jack & jill bathroom my dad had been using as a private en-suite since the other bedroom was just storage before this week. That’s right, I’d be sharing a bathroom with a practical stranger.

I heard the front door open and dad’s voice as they moved through the upstairs. Sounded like they were moving kinda slowly, talking through the angles and approach of fitting something big down the basement stairs. I went out into the den and saw dad and Mikey hauling a massive trunk down the stairs. By the way my dad was straining, it was insanely heavy, but Mikey wasn’t showing any signs of exertion at all. Nope, the slab of muscle on the other end of the trunk was barely fazed by lifting. My jaw dropped as he came into view. He was huge. Towering.

“We can put it over here for now,” Dad grunted, gesturing with his head toward the back wall, “and figure out where to set up the rest later tonight.”

They lowered the trunk to the floor and I got my first real look at Mikey when he stood up. He was enormous. 6’4”, maybe 6’ 5” and proportioned somewhere between a hockey enforcer and a bodybuilder (I didn’t know the classes or whatever, but I might be doing some googling). His heavy pecs were pushing the material of his sweatshirt to its limits. Sleeves stuffed with bulging arms. His jeans might as well have been painted on his tree trunk thighs, and his bulge was full to bursting, heavy and round the way only a combination of big soft cock and huge bull balls can achieve. I shook my head to clear it and met his eye for the first time to see a cautious smile creeping in at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey,” I said, extending a hand to shake.

“Adam! It’s so good to see you!” Mikey said, grabbing my hand and pulling me into a tight hug. My face was wedged between the bottom of his pecs and I could feel his heartbeat. I tentatively patted his back, which felt like patting the flank of a horse, and internally begged my dick to stop swelling in my pants. His body was radiating heat like crazy and his fierce grip didn’t seem to be letting up any time soon.

“Air…” I managed to choke out the word from inside this muscle beast’s grasp.

“Oops! Sorry.” He released me and blushed. Seriously. Insanely cute. Who the fuck was this guy? “It’s just really great to see you.”

“Well…” my dad interrupted, smiling slyly, “I’ll just grab the rest of your stuff from the jeep.”

“No worries, Steven. I got it,” Mikey said, already bounding up the stairs. Still an unlimited supply of energy, I saw.

“So what’s this?” I asked my dad, avoiding his knowing looks. I gestured to the trunk in the corner.

“Free weights. He’s got a bench and everything to set up a pretty decent home gym down here.”

“But… I sew down here.” I gestured to my sewing table, two sewing machines, dozens of bolts of fabric, and shelves of thread & notions on the wall.

“There’s room for both,” Dad assured me, patting my shoulder.

The next week flew by in a haze. There was a lot to do before school started, and for me, a lot to get used to. My dad was over the moon having another guy around. The two of them clicked right away, constantly laughing and swapping jock stories over meals. He even joined Mikey for some workouts when his schedule allowed. As much as it stung to see him so overjoyed to have another athletic guy in the house, it was nice seeing him so happy.

I, on the other hand, was struggling. The above-mentioned workouts were intense, with the grunting and the clang of metal and the smell of sweat clinging to the air. Spicy, heady, guy sweat creeping into my nostrils and making my mind wander to its source.

It made me insanely horny without even looking up. And I did look up. A lot. I’d watch his massive, rock hard body swell larger, pencil-thick veins snaking their way through canyons of muscle to pump more power and size into every inch of him. Fuck. I was so screwed.

Mornings were the worst. We would be on a similar schedule come orientation on Monday morning, so we talked out the best ways to share the bathroom.

“I wake up crazy early, so I’ll grab first-shower, then you can shower while I’m shaving and whatnot, then we’ll head to campus together. How’s that?” Mikey proposed, unpacking a seemingly endless supply of grooming products from a box while I lean against the wall.

“Damn,” I said, looking at the impressive selection. “You really are bi.” He laughed and I blushed at my own stupid comment. “So in this plan, I’m naked in the shower while you’re standing at the sink, huh?”

“Yeah, of course,” Mikey said with a snort. In this small space he felt even bigger (or I felr even smaller) and I swore I could feel the warmth of his breath change the atmosphere. He was facing the mirror and I was staring at how the rocky expanse of his bowling-ball shoulders tapered gracefully down to the absolutely epic bubble butt bobbing in front of me and I felt the blood leave my face. I caught his eye in the mirror and he looks concerned.

“Or we can stick to robes and boxers! I know not everyone has good locker room memories. But… well…” He was talking a bit fast now, looking down and sort of moving his moisturizer around aimlessly. “I just mean, you know we’re going to see each other naked eventually, right? Like, it’s just bound to happen sharing close quarters like this.”

I found my eyes drifting back to his ass, so I was a bit surprised when he turned to face me and I was staring right at his hefty bulge. Again. It had been three days and I couldn’t stop. It might have been the best bulge I’ve ever seen, and I’m a goddamn connoisseur. In jeans he’s an ample mound that emphasized the sheer mass, the fly straining with the force. In sweats he moves and bounces playfully, showing just enough detail to make it clear he was packing a huge set of balls behind a swinging monster. The idea of seeing him in his underwear threatened to drive me insane. Shit. How long had I been staring at his dick? Shit. Way too long! I looked to the counter beside him and grab the nearest bottle of something and pretended to read the label.

“It’s not a problem, just making sure we’re on the same page,” I muttered, trying for a casual vibe.

“Great,” he said. I could hear that sly smile creeping in. “Cuz I’m already overheated.” He grabbed his shirt from the bottom hem and pulled it up and off. I heard threads tear and he swore.

“Aw, I liked this one,” he mumbled, inspecting the damage. “What I get for showing off.”

I was half listening, half tracing veins on his biceps when it dawned on me what he was saying.

“Oh, is it on the seam?” I said, taking the t-shirt from his hands. Its soft cotton was still warm from his body. “Easy mend. I’ll get to it tonight…” I had to swallow. “Well. See ya later,” I blurted, turning quickly away from him.

“Oh. Okay. See you at dinner.” He barely got this out before I’d stepped out into my bedroom and closed the bathroom door behind me.

I raised his shirt to my face and inhaled his musk, feeling my cock inflate to full attention. I walked toward my bed, shucked my pants and started to jerk off. Again. This one would make a personal-record-breaking eighth time since waking up. I was, indeed, very, very fucked.

I was 9 years old when we moved to the south end of Washington Avenue. My mother had always seemed (to me, at least) to be a happy person, so no matter how my dad explained it, I couldn’t grasp why she had left. I still don’t. Not really. She’d packed two suitcases, kissed me once on the forehead, and hadn’t looked back.

My dad worked hard to smile in the weeks that followed, always a look of pain or concern creasing his brow as he struggled to make our new life as comfortable as possible. We’d have to move, he told me, since mom had inherited our big, blue craftsman house from her father, and would be selling it. My father and I didn’t need much space, so when he found an affordable (if dated) bungalow in a working class neighborhood, he snatched it up. It had a finished basement with thick 70s shag carpet and fake-wood paneled walls, and an attic bedroom with low-sloped ceilings and tiny windows.

“This will be yours,” he told me in the attic, giving me the tour. My face lit up and I started running around the big space, planning where to put my bed and dresser, my costume trunk and my books. “The family next door has a boy about your age, too,” he continued. “Maybe you two can be friends.” I ignored this and kept planning out my room out loud.

Dad was always trying to get me to be more social. I was kind of a weird loner of a kid; I had more books and costumes than toys, and spent most of my time playing alone, acting out daring rescues and magic rituals. The other kids my age didn’t really get me, nor I them. I was neat & clean, polite, and liked to read.

I baffled other kids, and kids hate being baffled. So, most of the time, they hated me. That’s why dad felt compelled to force a friendship with the kid that lived next door. He had tried stuff like this before, dragging me to classmates’ birthday parties. But no previous experiences could have prepared me for Mikey. We’d only been in the new house for a week when he sprung the first arranged playdate on me.

“Just show him your toys. I’m sure you’ll find something in common,” he’d said in a low voice before ducking back downstairs and leaving me alone with him. Mikey was a good three inches taller than me at that age, and a lot sturdier built. He had blondish hair in an awful bowl cut, bright eyes, and a genuine smile. I was on the small side, but I found myself wondering how close in age we really were.

“Sooooo,” he started, pulling me out of my haze, “do ya have any video games?”

“Oh. Um. Yeah, there’s an N64 in the basement,” I said, trying to remember the last time I played anything on it.

“Cool. Got Mario Kart?” he said, lighting up.

“Oh. No.” I watched his smile fall and it surprised me how much I wished I had Mario Kart in that moment. “I have Smash Brothers,” I offered with a slight shrug.

“Dude! Even better!” he yelled, grabbing my hand and leading me through my own house. How the hell did this kid know where my basement was? God he was strong.

“We’re going to play Nintendo!” I yelled to my dad as we tore through the living room to the basement door. That’s what it was like being with Mikey. He had momentum and gravity. It was easy to get swept up in his excitement and before you knew it you were playing a 5 hour Smash marathon and having a legitimately good time despite yourself. After that day we were pretty much inseparable. My first real friend.

Freshman orientation arrives and I drive us to campus in Dad’s boxy crossovers that looks like a toaster and gets great mileage. I’m acutely aware of how much Mikey fills the space, and I’m not just talking about our elbows touching. His head’s on the ceiling and his knees are bumping the dash. I, on the other hand, look like I need a booster seat. His same usual scent of clean sweat and warm worn cotton fills every inch of the car and fuck he smells good. I try to be subtle about adjusting my semi, but I swear he sees it. Curiously, he soon adjusts himself as well, a pinch and tug maneuver that makes me swallow reflexively.

We arrive and park, and he stretches beside me in the parking lot, giving me a glimpse of his cobblestone abs when his ratty t-shirt lifts up.

“What’s with you and these old shirts?” I ask, trying to keep my voice more concerned than shady. “They barely fit you anymore.”

“I don’t really have a lot of clothes. Keeping up with a growing teen and all that. You know parents,” he says. I sigh. My teen years haven’t exactly been explosive on the growth front, but I certainly know how tight money can be in a single parent home.

There’s a steady stream of students heading in one direction, and we both kinda just end up flowing into traffic. Mikey pulls out a printed schedule and map from his backpack. Which is oddly adorable. I just downloaded everything onto my phone.

“Let’s see. I’m off to the life sciences building and you’re at something called Craft Works on the east side of campus for the morning. We can meet back here for lunch at 1:30?” He’s pointing to the student union on the map.

“Um. Sure. Sounds good.” His light wash jeans and faded red-tee might be plain, but the peak physical specimen underneath is anything but. Judging by the unabashed ogling, this adonis is the hottest thing to set a size-14 foot on this campus in some time. Slack jaws, drooling, whispers, and one very sweet looking girl who outright rode her bike into a tree, unable to tear her eyes off his pecs moving under his shirt. Yes, Mikey may feel like a stranger this morning, but by noon he’ll be surrounded by people.

We reach the fork in the path and I’m surprised when Mikey grabs my hand and pulls me into an abrupt hug. I remain shocked for a moment, nestled into the cleavage of his pecs, painfully aware that my left arm is pinned to his thigh mere inches from his ample basket. He holds me there like a safety blanket, and I can’t help but melt into him and relax.

“Good luck. Make friends. Text me if you need me,” he says, a slightly worried look on his face. Is he worried about me or anxious for himself? It’s hard to tell and before I can ask he turns on his heels and walks briskly toward the science buildings. I linger a moment. To watch his epic ass and powerhouse thighs move in his jeans. I am not alone in this action.

I quickly realize that most of my classes put me in the “newer” end of campus. A 70’s time capsule built when the trade school got absorbed by the university. As I walk the halls of the massive factory building they call the Craft Works I see workshops and labs for everything from ceramics to glass blowing to auto body repair. I follow the signs for Textiles & Apparel up a staircase to the third floor.

My one respite from my high school bullies was my passion for sewing. I know, what a cliche: the gay kid is into fashion. But it’s not fashion that I love specifically, but the physical act of sewing. Whether it’s by hand or on a machine, I love the action of constructing things from fabric. Plus you’d be surprised how much money you can save just by mending things that are worn or tailoring things that stopped fitting. So I saved for a solid sewing machine that could take on a few layers of tough denim at once. I set up a sewing table with dress forms and an old hutch I filled with salvage fabric and thread and notions and shit. It was my sanctuary, and I would spend hours down there working on a project, forgetting everything else sometimes.

But this, the textile shop and sewing studio at, is better than I could have dreamed. Huge, individual-paned factory windows flood the space with light. Heavy industrial sergers and sewing machines line the walls, huge tables for patterning and cutting in the center, and more fabric than my mind could handle was absolutely everywhere. I spot a supple chino in warm brown that would look amazing against Mikey’s skin tone. I could reinforce the inner thighs with an interfacing to prevent wear from his massive quads. I’ve already mended two pairs of jeans for him in just one week, and I can tell they won’t last much longer.

“All right, freshman fashionistas! Eyes on me!” The bright tenor voice breaks my reverie over the chino and I focus in on the speaker. A tall young man with dark black hair and deep brown eyes stands in the center of the large room. He’s dressed simply but impeccably in black jeans and a loose teal-and-orange-striped shirt, unbuttoned down to his sternum.

“I’m Jack Matsuda, I’m a TA for Professor Everett, and your guide for this first semester. Got questions? Come to me. For now, follow me for a tour of the facilities and then we’ll go over the syllabus as a group.” Roughly 30 people around my age are gathered around Jack, and I realize I’m one of 3 guys in the whole room, TA included.

“For some of you, these machines and tools will be completely new. For others, like this obvious ringer here,” Jack says, singling me out from the crowd, “the fabrication parts of the program will be cake. Nice bias cut on those pants, by the way. Tricky work and the drape is sublime.”

I blush furiously, but look down to hide a grin. Jack shoots me a wink and a sparkling smile that makes my stomach flutter. “My point is this: Help each other. Share skills. Talk shit out,” he says to the crowd. “You’ll need it to survive the program.”

My walk to the student union feels like floating. I’ve had a wonderful morning of exploring the Craft Work, or The Works as the upperclassmen call it. Everyone I met was super friendly after Jack’s surprise endorsement, and Jack himself spent a lot of one-on-one time showing me things. He’s got so much knowledge and he’s so kind, I find myself crushing already. You might think me desperate and horny, but to that I reply… shut up.

I’m scanning the crowd for Mikey when my bully sense starts to tingle. I pass close to a table of jockish guys who elbow each other and snicker in my direction. I hear a distinct, “What the fuck is he wearing.” In the crowded student union cafeteria, I feel epically smaller than I did a moment ago. “Hey, kid!” A blond jock with a permanent sneer says to me. My face drops and my stomach sinks. I should just go. I turn quickly and start to head back toward the entrance.

“Hey, nice blouse!” I hear called out behind me in a rough, mocking voice.

“Hey, I’m fucking talking to you!” I hear his anger ramping and move a bit quicker, weaving through bodies and using my small size to create distance. With a glance over my shoulder I confirm he’s following, a hateful hunger in his beady eyes, when smack. I walk into what feels like the flank of a horse. I look up and see Mikey’s smile, toothy and bright.

“There you are! It’s hard to spot you in this crowd,” he says jovially. “Shit. Are you all right?” he asks when he sees my expression.

“Yeah, just… overwhelmed by the crowd,” I lie. “Can we get out of here?”

“Of course. There’s a shawarma cart parked by the quad?” Mikey offers, eyes concerned and quizzical.

“Sounds good. Let’s go,” I say, glancing back to see my pursuer angrily backing into the crowd at the sight of Mikey.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting on the grass watching my behemoth of a roommate devour a takeout container of mixed chicken and lamb over rice. I pick at my gyro and try to breath in the calm. Fuck. It was such a good day until that happened. Mikey has been talking nonstop since we got outside and I deflected his questions by asking about his morning.

“And there’s a massive therapy pool!” he continues, “Like an Olympic-sized hot tub with an accessibility lift. I can’t wait to soak in there after a good workout. Guess I’m going to need a swimsuit,” Mikey muses excitedly.

I picture Mikey in a square-cut speedo with bold color blocking that emphasizes his meaty gifts in all the right ways.

“There’s a smile,” he says, “Feeling a bit better?

I nod and give him another shy smile.

“I won’t push, but whenever you want to talk about what happened back there, I’m down to listen.”

“Thanks,” I reply. Then after a moment’s thought, “I’ve been thinking about something.”

“Fire away,” Mikey mumbles around a mouthful of chicken.

“You need new clothes. I’m going to be making a lot of random garments for classes, experiments, and trial and error. And I thought… maybe you could… be my model. I could even make you a swimsuit,” I say, looking up to gauge his reaction.

“That would be amazing!” he blurts out. “Are you sure? You’ve already done so much for me. I’d keep the clothes?”

“Yeah, it’s mutually beneficial. I get a live-in model that I can work with in my own time and you get a whole new wardrobe. I might have to bring final pieces into The Works for critique once they’re done, but after that they’d be yours,” I assure him, galvanized by his excitement.

“I’m in. A hundred percent,” he says with a painfully firm handshake. “Sorry,” he adds sheepishly as I wince and rub my hand. “So how do we start?”

I swallow. This is the complicated part. “Um, well, before anything else, I have to measure you.”

Mikey smiles big. A familiar look of mischief and cockiness that makes my nuts twitch.

“Fuck yeah,” he says.

When we get home Mikey heads straight to the basement, bounding down the stairs like an excited kid.

“Hey Steven, have a good day at work!” he calls out to my dad as he bounds through the living room. Dad’s awake and dressed for work in bright green scrubs. I toss him the car keys.

“Gas tank is full. Thanks again,” I say, looking him up and down in his slightly looser scrubs, “You’re looking trim, have you lost a bit of weight?”

“Yeah. Lifting with Mikey is paying off already,” Dad says, pulling me into a hug. I can feel the muscle building under his fluff. “I’m heading to the hospital, you two have a good first day?”

“Adam, come on!” Mikey yells from downstairs before I can answer. Making dad and I snort-laugh.

“Just like old times,” Dad says, shaking his head. “You two have fun,” he says with a wink as I head downstairs.

When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I see Mikey has stripped down to a pair of olive green boxer briefs, the pouch absolutely stuffed with a firehose of a cock. The thick soft shaft pointing down down over big, full nuts. He pulls up a pair of familiar gym shorts and hefts his ample package into them, the light blue nylon almost skin tight on his massive quads and bubble butt.

“I’m just going to get a quick pump going. That way I can still grow a bit into anything you make!” Mikey says, loading his curl bar.

“Are you planning on getting bigger?” I say, trying to keep my throbbing boner under control.

“Honestly it just kind of happens. Sometimes… kinda overnight,” Mikey admits, grunting as he reaches the end of his curl reps.

“That explains a lot of the rips in your old clothes,” I say, watching him settle in for shoulder flys.

“Yeah,” he grunts between reps, “My mom hated it. She worked so hard to keep me clothed and I’d just rip right through things. She was still kinda raw from my first growth spurt when I was a kid. That was rough on her,” he says. Even through the grunts I can hear it’s a tough subject.

“What happened with your first growth spurt?”

“I just had all this energy all of a sudden, a seemingly endless supply. I felt hyper competitive and developed kind of a short fuse. Probably just from the sheer amount of testosterone pumping through my system,” Mikey says, grabbing massive kettle weights and starting lunges. “And worse of all, I didn’t know my own strength. I broke… fuck, pretty much everything I came into contact with. Then I’d get frustrated that things kept breaking and kick a hole in the wall.”

I imagine a slightly smaller Mikey with a temper and tendency to break shit. “Fuck.”

“Yes. Fuck indeed,” Mikey says resigned and regretful. “After eight shitty, destructive months of this she figured out that I just needed an outlet for the energy. And maybe some structure. She bought a full weight set from an older neighbor who used to be a professional football player. The sweet old man barely charged her anything,” Mikey smiles as he loads the bar for bench press, lovingly patting his weights. He stretches out on the bench and I marvel at his bulge in this position.

“Old dude said he was glad his old gear would be getting some use, and that hauling the stuff out of his house was pretty much payment enough. So I got a home gym and poured myself into it completely.” He’s getting more intense as he reminisces, breathing heavier and pushing the bar up faster and faster, grunting as his chest strains and expands upward with every rep.

“The bigger and stronger I got the more in control of myself I felt. I got to be the man I wanted to be, not some asshole fueled by hormones and anger.” His grunting grew louder and for my ear at least, decidedly sexual. “And it felt amazing. All this power. All this fucking muscle.”

Each push of the bench press was like a thrust of a hard cock, building in ferocity until he actually got verbal, “Fuck!” Grunt. “Yeah!” Grunt. “This!” Grunt. “Feels!” Grunt. “So!” Grunt. “Good!” Still breathing heavy he sat up, flexing, admiring his pump, running his hands across his full, heavy pecs and humongous biceps. I’m standing by my sewing table dumbstruck by the one-man muscle-worship session I’d just witnessed. Hard cock throbbing away in my jeans.

“Well. Mikey says, standing up and filling the space. Ready when you are.”

I look down at the measuring tape in my hand and gulp hard. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

“Where do you want me?” Mikey asks, still breathing heavily from his workout.

“Um. Right here is great,” I reply, indicating the spot right in front of me. He steps onto his mark and stands tall and hulking, shoulders squared, looking down his muscle cleavage at me.

“Raise your arms,” I whisper hoarsely. I wrap the measuring tape around his natural waist. “Drop your arms,” I say, this time more clearly. These actions are familiar enough to give me some confidence, but his body is radiating heat and he smells like sex and caramel and I want to lick his armpit.

“33 inches,” I say aloud, jotting the number down. I slide the measuring tape down to the waistband of his boxer briefs, pushing the gym shorts down a bit to get access to his hipline.

“We going low rise? Like Britney in 2004?” he chuckles, his voice lower than usual and profoundly close to my ear.

“I’ll need it for swimwear and underwear,” I reply with a sly smile. It’s true too. I’m doing my best to be completely on the level right now. Which mostly involves ignoring the erection hidden under my untucked shirt.

“Okay, chest is next,” I say, and realize our height difference is big enough that I’ll need to stand on a chair to do it properly. I grab a milk crate and step up, bringing me just about eye level with my massive friend. “Arms up.”

I wrap the measuring tape around his chest, “Drop em,” he does. “49½ inches,” I say, jotting. And swallowing. Mikey bounces his pecs playfully and gives me a grin.

“Daaaaamn, I knew I was close to breaking 50!” He flexes to himself cheerfully.

“Turn away from me, please,” I say, trying to focus. With his back turned I quickly adjust my painfully hard erection, giving it a squeeze as if to say, “Soon buddy. I promise.” I run the measuring tape across his shoulders and jot down an impressive span of 28 inches, which I say and write down.

“Interesting,” Mikey says, “in bodybuilding we measure shoulders differently. But that makes sense.”

“Huh. I didn’t think about that. Like you probably don’t need this one,” I say, running my measuring tape down his spine from the nape of his neck to the cleft of his perfect bubble butt.

Mikey blurts out a sound that’s halfway between and whimper and a laugh and bucks his hips forward, setting me off balance. My stomach drops like lead as the fall sensation hits me and I realize I’m going down backward. Everything is moving in slow motion for a second, and then I feel an arm like a steel girder rise up across my lower back and fling me back up as Mikey spins around and catches me. Instinct kicks in and I wrap my arms and legs around his torso, clinging for dear life. We stay like this for a moment, frozen.

“Sorry,” he says, our faces close and eyes locked. “I’m ticklish there.”

I’m suddenly very aware that my fully engorged dick is pressed against his upper abs, and throbbing with my heart beat. He looks down, then back up to me, blushing a vivid shade of scarlet that likely matches my own. I loosen my grip and slide down his body, hopping down and standing awkwardly close still.

“No worries. Great catch,” I mumble, turning to my measurement notes.

“Yes you are,” I think I hear him say quietly. “So what’s next. Biceps?” he says louder, and kind of quickly.

“Heh. You wish, meathead. For now I’ll just need sleeves and inseam,” I say, taking a breath before walking back over to him. I place the zero end of my tape at the top of his shoulder and run the length down his sleeve. Jot down the number and drop to my knees without a thought. Mikey makes a slight chuckle at this and I roll my eyes at him. Normally I have to tell people to spread their legs to shoulder width, but his natural stance is already there. Still, his thighs are so thickly muscled, it’s a squeeze to get my hands between them.

He spreads a bit more to allow me access, but I need him standing naturally and instruct him to do so. His thighs snap shut on my hand holding the tape measure in place like a vice. I swallow, and run the other end to his ankle. I jot down the number. I feel a slight but firm pressure on my wrist and look up to see his usually prominent bulge has inflated to porn star proportions. His dick’s pointed down, and probably only half hard, but the fat arc of his shaft is already straining the material of his gym shorts. I realize his massive mushroom head in poking my wrist and holy fucking fuck, it’s got to be even bigger than I imagined.

“Okay then. All done,” I croak from my dry throat. Pulling my hand free with some force and looking for a hand hold to get off the floor. Mikey offers me a hand and I take it, basically floating into standing assisted by his epic strength.

“Alrighty then,” he says, looking down, then blushing yet again and dropping his hands to his crotch like a soccer player protecting a free kick. “I… um… I’m gonna go take a shower and get this sweat off me.”

“Yes! Good good. Shower. Yeah,” I say, pretending to busy myself with the measurements I took.

He’s gone in a flash and I count to ten before flat-out running to my room. I strip fully, unleashing my cock from its tight confines and stroking my thick 7.5 inches from tip to base. I may be a tiny human, but I pack a surprisingly healthy endowment for someone of my stature. Yeah, it’s a big cock, but that beast of Mikey’s must be fucking monstrous. I fall backward onto my bed and grab my lube from the nightstand, vaguely aware of the sound of the shower running in the background. I start furiously jacking, picturing his ample meat stretching the pouch of his boxer briefs. How his massive pecs heaved under my hands as I measured them. I picture his bulge growing while I touched him and I’m over the fucking edge, blasting out five big shots of spunk that arc high and splatter down onto my bare chest and belly. Fuck, I even got some on my cheek. I sigh and laugh a bit, rolling my head back and letting my refractory period sink in.

Eventually my load starts to cool on my skin and I realize I need a towel. I pull on a fresh pair of undies and head toward the bathroom when I notice: I never closed the door. It’s halfway open, with a clear view of my bed. I step quietly toward the door and see the shower, glass door fogged, and Mikey’s massive back. He’s facing the spray, with one hand up on the wall, the other obviously jacking his monster cock. Everything freezes in my mind and I swear I can hear my own heartbeat in my jaw. I can’t see his dick, but I can tell from the long strokes that it’s utterly enormous. His back is rising and falling with his breaths. His shoulder building momentum as he fucks his hand. Suddenly his whole body tenses and he stands stock straight. His other hand shoots down to his cock and I see the first huge eruption of cum fire up and hit the shower ceiling. The next over his shoulder and behind him. He’s bucking his hips and growling. Literally growling as he orgasms.

He starts to turn and I panic, closing the door to only a crack and tip-toeing back to my bed. I use an old pair of underwear to mop up my load and sit on the mattress listening to the sounds of the shower and feeling my fresh erection throb. This is worse than I ever imagined. I have feelings for him that are far more complicated than I really realized before today.


It’s been two weeks since I measured Mikey and to my relief we’ve been too busy with classes to have any more awkward incidents. Well, awkward and hot (hotkward? New word?). I’ve been waking up early to minimize bathroom crossover time, and keeping music on during our drives to school. He’s being as Mikey as ever; beaming his bright smile and effortlessly loving life. We lunch together most days on the quad and we catch up on how classes are going. Which is great. I’m loving the Works more and more every day, and Jack has proven every bit the mentor I hoped he would be.

Mikey reports his classes are going well, and he gets asked out by both women and men on a daily basis. I’ve personally witnessed this once. A confident blond junior with athletic build and tight sundress, her hair curled and face perfectly made up. Shit, she even wore false eyelashes for the occasion. Mikey listened eagerly as she spoke and then begged off in the kindest way I’ve ever seen. Explaining that he really needed to focus on school for the time being and wouldn’t be dating anyone any time soon. I smiled reflexively as she walked off dejectedly.

Yeah, things were going well. I was even enjoying my required humanities and science coursework. My only issue so far has been my cafeteria bully from the first day. Turns out he’s in my geology lecture (my advisor said it was the easiest choice to fulfill the science requirement). It seems once that he clocked me as gay and vulnerable he was locked on target. Any time I’m near central campus I stumble into his path.

His name is Brett, I found out after another near incident when he catcalled me from across the science courtyard. He’s six feet of solid jackass, clearly the loudest of a group of guys most people avoid on instinct. Before meeting Mikey I would have called him a big and muscular, but my definition of the term big has changed. Superhero level or not, he’s still way bigger and stronger than me. He spends every lecture snickering and elbowing his buddies before coughing “faggot” in my direction or throwing trash at me the moment the professor turns her back. Fucking juvenile, I know, but he does this thing where he gets close. And quiet. So only I can hear the vile shit he’s whispering. In my experience this kind of focus will immediately turn to violence the moment he can corner me.

So I don’t give him the opportunity. I scurry across the campus like a rat anytime I’m not with Mikey. I skipped a lecture or two when I spotted him lingering by the door. Today is one of those days, and I head back to The Works to put some time in on my first project in Pattern Making 101: a pair of sturdy and supple chinos and a button front shirt for Mikey. Once fitted and measured, these basic patterns I can adjust to make him just about anything.

“Hi Adam,” Jack says, approaching my workstation and picks up a loose pattern piece with a deft, elegant hand. “This is looking promising. Big though, I assume these aren’t for you?”

“Hey. Yeah, these are for my roommate. He doesn’t have a lot of clothes that fit,” I say, showing Jack my sketches for the chinos. To my surprise he starts flipping pages, and my cheeks flush crimson as he turns page after page of Mikey-shaped garments, ranging from hip hugging pants and muscle popping shirts, to a rather revealing square-cut speedo I’ve been fantasizing over.

“Hmmm…” Jack says with a sly look in my direction, leaning his lithe body onto his elbows to meet my eye level. “Looks like you found yourself a menswear muse.”

“Heh. Yep. He’s… um… inspiring,” I say, adjusting my plumped dick in my slacks. “Actually I’m just packing up to meet him by the shawarma cart for lunch.”

“Great timing!” Jack replies with an easy smile. “I’m starving. We can talk fabric on the way,” he says, picking up his bag and slinging it over a shoulder.

“Totally,” I say. This isn’t the first time Jack expressed wanting to hang out outside The Works, and I guess he’s taking the initiative. After dodging Brett this morning I welcome the company walking across campus.

Despite his long legs Jack walks slowly, lazily kicking his feet out, hands in pockets. Orange and red leaves drift down around him as he rants about the difficulties of working with silk charmeuse. Fuck I love college. We reach the quad and I easily spot Mikey walking across the grass toward us.

“Hey hey,” Mikey says, pulling me into a tight hug that makes me blush. “This must be Jack,” he adds, extending a hand to the stunned upperclassman. Jack’s jaw is slightly open as he looks my beefy stud of a roommate up and down. Pausing notably at his ample bulge.

Jack takes the massive hand and gulps, before regaining his signature cool composure. “Ha! Did my reputation precede me? I love when it does that. You must be Adam’s muse. You’re in for a real treat, getting a personal wardrobe from this one. He’s already set up to be the star of the freshmen class.”

“See. I knew you were a genius,” Mikey says, throwing an arm around both of us and walking toward the food carts. “I need protein. Tell me everything about my roommate’s incredible genius while we eat.”

Forty-five minutes later and the three of us are laughing like mad under a tree while Mikey recounts the drunken exploits of his high school teammates.

“And then he falls off the bleachers, arms windmilling wildly as he tips over backward, catching the banner as he goes. It trailed after him like a rhythmic gymnast holding one of those ribbon wand things!” Mikey finishes through bursts of laughter.

“No!” says Jack, entranced, “The same banner his girlfriend made in spirit squad?”

“Yes! It was like a cartoon. I can still see it happening in slow motion in my mind,” Mikey sighs, closing his eyes leaning back to let the dappled light dance across his face. I glance over at Jack and see his eyes lingering on Mikey’s biceps, pecs, before darting away out of prudence or politeness.

Now that more time has passed and I’ve acclimated to Mikey being around, I’ve found myself watching other people ogle him and much as I ogle him myself. And so many people do it. Men, women, non-binary people, professors, little old ladies at the grocery store, you name it; if they’re into muscle or dick or both, they’re undressing Mikey with their eyes. And I love watching people eye fuck him. It makes me feel normal.

Another thing I’ve noticed is that he’s very aware of when it’s happening. He’ll spot a lurker, and I’ll see him assess the person. People who seem aggressive or gross he’ll avoid pretty thoroughly. But if they seem shy, or sweet, or if they’re (at least what I would call) cute, he’ll get this slight smile and I swear he’ll angle his best parts toward them. Casually avoiding eye contact while he stretches or flexes. They’ll blush and look away, and then he’ll smirk to himself and adjust his monster dick in his worn jeans. It all plays out in a few blinks, but it’s the cockiest I see him, and it drives me wild.

Jack is definitely in this second category for Mikey. And I’m literally sitting in the middle soaking up the energy between them. Even with their clear attraction to one another, I’m not feeling left out or overlooked by either of them. Mikey’s knee is even touching mine every now and again, and I know it’s intentional because he shoots me a smile with each touch. I always feel safer when Mikey’s around.

“Okay. Time’s flying. I’ve got to get to Art History,” Jack says after a lull, gathering up our lunch containers and grabbing his messenger bag. “Please tell me this can be a regular thing?” he asks both of us, and we nod enthusiastically.

We watch as my lanky mentor rises to his full height, brushes off his slim legs and pert ass, and heads off toward east campus. After about 20 paces he turns and shoots us both a wink and a devilish smile.

“He’s awesome. I can see why you like him,” Mikey says, smiling down at his big hands. “Hey, did you cut Geology today? I waited outside the lecture hall for you,” he asks, still not meeting my eyes.

“Oh. Um. Yeah, I kinda did,” I admit, blushing. Shit. My turn to look down. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll make it up.”

“Oh, totally. I’m not like… I’m not trying to scold you or anything. I just thought I’d surprise you and was confused when you weren’t in class,” he assures me quickly. “Why’d you skip it?”

“Oh, I just got caught up in what I was doing at the Works,” I lie. I’m not sure why I don’t want Mikey to know about Brett harassing me. Maybe I’m just embarrassed to be dealing with bullying as an adult. Maybe I’m still a bit butt hurt from when Mikey stayed quiet when I was being bullied as a kid. Either way I know I don’t want to tell him. Even though now that I meet his gaze and he mine, I feel like he knows I’m hiding something immediately. If he really can tell I’m lying, he doesn’t let on.

“Cool cool. Just don’t fuck up your science credit making me clothes, okay?” he says, standing up and offering me a hand. I take it and enjoy the ride as he effortlessly lifts me to standing. He throws his arm around my shoulder and pulls me tight for a moment. “Where are you headed now?”

“Library. Got my first essay assignment in English,” I say, gesturing across the quad. “You’ve got Western Civ, right?”

“Ugh. Yes. So boring,” Mikey laughs.

“Ha. Yes. And useless,” I snort back, “So meet at the car at 4?”

“No need to walk alone. I’ll come find you in the Library when I’m out. About 3 p.m.?” Mikey says with a slap on my back and a quick left toward his class, loping off quickly on long, strong legs. I swear he does that so I can’t argue. Sigh. Fine. Off to study.

Two days later I walk through Mikey’s open bedroom door. “Hey! You got a sec to try on these chinos?” I ask, standing in the bathroom door to Mikey’s bedroom. “Oops, sorry,” I stammer, realizing he’s in nothing but his boxer briefs. His one pair of notably nice boxer briefs. The designer-label ones with the tailored pouch which he’d somehow managed to shove himself into; the waistband pulled down by the weight of his ample genitals, the light blue material straining to contain his girth.

“No worries, Adam, come in,” he says, gesturing me into his room and holding up two very similar ratty band shirts, one in black and one in a faded red. “Your timing is perfect. I have a date tonight and need to pick an outfit.”

Did he say date? Holy shit. Someone got through Mikey’s dating deflection. I’m dying to ask who it was. Should I ask? Wouldn’t he have offered the info if he wanted me to know? Why wouldn’t he want me to know? Oops. I’ve been standing with my mouth open for way too long. He’s holding the shirts in front of himself one after the other, eyebrows raised in question.

“Oh! Um. Yeah, what kind of date? Cuz those shirts both say dive bar,” I reply, cringing slightly at the armpit holes on one. I immediately see the excitement drop out of his face and feel a pang in my heart. “Come on. Nothing impresses like a personal tailor. You can wear the chinos! And I’ve got some older shirts of my dad’s that might fit you pretty well, too. Let’s see…”

I head into the den to grab the chinos off my work table, and he follows in his undies. I hand the pants over, loving the warm caramel color in the light. “The cotton has some stretch, but I tailored them pretty tight,” I admit

“Sweet! This color is so rich,” Mikey gushes, his eyes sparkling. Swoon.

I turn to dig through my hand me down boxes looking for a shirt to match as he pulls the pants up his ripped thighs, grunting as he slowly, gently forces the fabric up around his ass. I pick out a black polo I had practiced some embroidery on (I meant the monogram to be a compass but it came out more like a little clock). I turn to offer it to Mikey and find he’s gotten the chinos on.

My heart jumps into my throat and my eager cock floods. I fought the rush of blood with every ounce of decency and sanity I could muster. For a moment I was successful, but seeing his body fill and stretch something I made for him brings me to full mast surprisingly fast. I tuck my turgid member under the waist of my jeans, hiding it as best I can as I walk up to (ahem) check the fit.

Standing shirtless and barefoot, afternoon sun streaming in through the high basement windows, he looks like a fucking calendar model. He twists to see the fit along his legs, lifting a foot and arching his abs, chiseled like a cobblestone road. His pecs are a shelf of power rising with each breath, his huge biceps pushing peaks as he moves. He must’ve been doing crunches for his date, because a vein as thick as my finger runs across his abs, down his adonis belt and under the waistband of his underwear. I watch as it pulses slightly in rhythm with my own cock. Fuck me. Kill me. Either way, do it soon.

“Come on, what’s the verdict?” His words snap me out of my reverie. Okay, now or never. Just get it over with. I step close and grab the waistband, tugging the pants up a quarter inch.

“Waist seems perfect,” I say, ignoring my erection hiding under my untucked shirt. “Turn for me,”

He spins, showing me his meaty ass, the perfect globes filling the material just to the point of tension without activating the stretch. I feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the scent of his skin fresh from the shower. I drop to my knees to check the hem.

“Turn to your left,” I say, watching the tug and drape of the cotton as he moves. “How do they feel? Any discomfort? Any pulling or restriction?”

“Nope! I mean, they’re tight, but the material is so soft it’s not restrictive anywhere. It’s like a second skin,” he says, moving more dramatically, lifting his knees high and walking in place. He turns to face me while I’m still kneeling. “Do I look okay?”

I snort. Is he serious? I wonder for a second if it’s a trap (old conditioning dies hard) until I see the earnest appeal on his face.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I just assumed you know you always look hot. And yes, in those pants you look what I would call ‘ridiculously hot.’” I say, standing up and blushing. “But don’t take my word for it, mirror’s over there.”

He grabs me by my shoulders and pulls me into a hug. I melt a bit as he presses my face into his pec, the soft dusting of hair tickling my cheek. Then he surprises me and leans in to lay a kiss on my cheek. He’s close enough for me to taste his breath on my tongue. It’s minty.

“You know,” he mumbles, breaking the hug and walking to the mirror, “you always smell like cinnamon.”

“It’s a styptic agent,” I say still dizzy from the adrenaline, cock still at attention under my waistband. “Stops the bleeding when I prick myself with a straight pin.”

“That’s both adorably nerdy and impressively resourceful,” Mikey says with a smirk. He picks up the polo and pulls it on, tight across his pecs, nipples hard. It’s short on him but the chinos sit at his actual waist so the garments just barely graze each other. The perfect tease.

“Oh my god. These pants feel amazing,” he says, assessing himself in the mirror head to toe. He palms his massive mound, reveling in the heft, and slaps the outside of his thighs appreciatively. He tugs the hemline of the shirt down a half inch, only to have it rise back up as he moves.

“Fuck, I do look hot,” he sighs, and then he starts flexing. Pumping his arms in and out, forcing blood into his already hot, hard flesh, swelling in the snug clothes. He sees the pump his flex has given him and I see his brain switching into workout mode. He works his way through each muscle group, forcing veins to pop up and throb across his neck and biceps, the hard peaks of flesh forcing the short sleeves to bunch around his armpits. The polo collar stretches open as his pecs inflate, getting firmer and fuller with each breath.

He’s breathing roughly now, his eyes lit up like green flames. He shakes his thighs, letting the weight of the muscle fill his pants (my pants) to the point of breaking. Even his calves stretch the cotton, bunching up and down as he bounces on the balls of his feet. He palms his crotch again, a steady stroke of his thumb from the waistband down, guiding his swelling cock into an arc over his balls as it lengthens and expands. The fat shaft pushes the brass zipper out with visible force, already huge but still flexible, still only a semi. He groans low in his throat and pulls a tight, veiny most-muscular pose, filling every inch of his torso and grunting hard with effort.

Holy fuck, how is he doing this. He’s growing bigger and harder right in front of me. No weights, just fucking force of will. I swear I can feel the room stretching around him as he radiates energy. Pop. A thread snaps somewhere around his chest. Pop. Another between his thighs. I actually hear the teeth of the zipper crunch slightly from the growing force of Mikey’s tremendous fuck-stick and I lose it. My own cock erupts, shooting a massive load under my shirt. I gasp as spurt after spurt of hot cream coats my stomach, my unit throbbing fast under the waistband of my jeans. His eyes meet mine as I exhale a whimper. He smirks that fucking smirk.

“Thanks, Adam. So much,” Mikey says, turning toward me. I want to tackle him. I want to run my hands all over his body and—“Jack’s not going to know what hit him!”

Did he say Jack? My Jack? That muscle bound douche-nozzle was going on a date with my mentor? Fuck, do I like Jack? I don’t know if I’m mad or just spun. I picture Mikey holding Jack like he just held me. At 6’ 2”, Jack is almost tall enough to meet his 6’ 5” gaze. I imagine them kissing, and feel a combination of dread and arousal wash over me. I suddenly realize I’ve still got a hands-free load cooling under my shirt.

I sigh to myself and head to the shower to rinse off, and either cry or jerk off again. Possibly both.

Similarly Named Stories: You might be looking for: “Costumed” by Tym Greene; or “Custom toy” by Cockatrice.

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