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."
