The Singlet, Part 1

This story was the top vote-getter in the February poll, so I decided to post it as the first one this month. Part 2 will be up this weekend.

Enjoy!

Oliver Thimp really loved two things. The first was clothing design. He had been fascinated with it since he was a child, and he had begun making his own outfits on his mom’s sewing machine when he was just 8 years old. As he got older and into high school, Oliver began creating clothes for his friends as well, and eventually he went to college and earned a degree is fashion design. He had a flair for making anyone look good in what they were wearing.

Oliver’s other big love was…well, big men. He was not blessed with a large physique, standing only 5’6” and 130 waifish pounds, but he definitely liked to ogle any beefy specimens that would come his way. There was just something about big muscles on a hulking body that made Oliver go a little crazy. His mouth would get dry, the hair on his arms would stand up, and his dick would get very, very hard.

These two disparate affections merged 5 years ago when Oliver was hired as a designer for Bro Sportswear, a company that manufactured workout clothes for men. Bro had not been doing terribly well when Oliver came aboard, but thanks to his inventive ideas (and some online partnerships with the right athletes), sales had taken off recently, and it was now in the black. Some folks were starting to refer to it as the next lululemon.

The result of this new company swagger was that other firms were taking notice and made overtures about partnering up – either for individual marketing campaigns, or possibly down the road as a merger. One such company was Bro Nutrition, a similarly named (but unrelated) organization which manufactured workout supplements for men. Its founder, 35-year-old Rawson Masters, had been taking meetings with the CEO of Bro Sportswear to see if they could collaborate on some projects since they served the same customer base.

Rawson had stopped by several times in the past few weeks, and he was exactly the type of guy that Oliver Thimp loved to fantasize about. Rawson was a big man, around 6’4” and 280 pounds, with a solid body from his years as a football player in both high school and college. He had close-cropped black hair, a black mustache and beard, and a big, loud personality that matched his physique. Rawson was back in the Bro Sportswear offices again for another meeting, and he was wearing an expensive tailored suit that showed off his bulky arms, chest, and legs. His aura radiated health, fitness, and masculinity.

“Damn,” thought Oliver as Rawson walked by him toward the CEO’s office. “What I wouldn’t give to have that guy in bed with me.”

Oliver licked his lips when the big man went past and his bubble butt came into view. The massively muscled ass cheeks were plastered against the fabric of Rawson’s slacks, just aching to be fingered. Oliver began to dream about how thrilling it would be even to touch them for just a few seconds, and he didn’t stop staring until Rawson was in the CEO’s office and had closed the door behind him.

“Hey, Wimp. You done lusting over Rawson?”

“Fuck,” thought Oliver. “Braxton is such a dick.”

Braxton Willis was the VP of Sales at Bro Sportswear. He wasn’t very good at his job, and there were always rumors about him sleeping his way up the corporate ladder. What was not debated by those who had to work with him was that he was an asshole. Braxton enjoyed making fun of the way others looked, dressed, and behaved. Most of his co-workers would have loved to punch him in the face, if it weren’t for the fact that he was jacked full of muscle. Braxton wasn’t as big as Rawson Masters, but at 6’3 and 250 pounds, he was definitely the biggest and strongest guy working at Bro Sportswear. He had actually begun his career as a model before putting on too much muscle for runway gigs, which is when he switched over to the sales side of the business.

Oliver felt Braxton’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him around so they faced one another. “You there, Wimp? I asked if you were done eye-fucking our visitor?”

“Come on, Braxton,” Oliver responded with a sigh. He looked up into Braxton’s tan face, which he would have considered handsome if the man hadn’t also been so arrogant and mean. “There’s no need to be so crude. And you know my last name is Thimp, not Wimp, so please stop calling me that.”

“Eat me, Wimp. I’m calling you that because your body is pathetic. How can you design exercise clothes when you don’t even work out? It’s fuckin’ embarrassing that they let you work here with your little tiny baby body. Even if you did curls I’m guessing it would be with 2-pound dumbbells and you’d spend the whole time whining about how heavy they are.”

Oliver wanted to leave, but Braxton had him cornered next to a table in the hallway. “Look, you know…”

Braxton snorted, and then interrupted. “What I know is that you got yourself a hard-on over Rawson,” he said while punching Oliver in the groin. “And that there’s no fuckin’ way he’s ever gonna notice you, Wimp. Rawson’s a man – a real fuckin’ man – and he ain’t gonna settle for no pissant like you. Us big men only want to be with other studs – we want 100% US Prime Beef – and not stringy-ass beans.”

The designer’s erection was rapidly deflating in his pants. Any excitement he had felt at Rawson’s appearance had faded.

“Look at me, Wimp. Look at these guns,” said Braxton as he flexed his 20-inch biceps. They inflated like massive steel volleyballs inside his shirt-sleeves and threated to burst right through the strained fabric. “I got everything Rawson wants right here, and trust me, I’m the one he’s going home with tonight. He’s gonna take one look at these monsters, and the other monster I got snaking down my pants leg, and he won’t be able to resist. So just slink back to your office and stop trying to less up my plan.”

Oliver decided not to respond, and he scooted around Braxton’s sculpted right leg and then scurried off. He thought about going back to his desk and sobbing in private, but it was so close to lunch time that he left the building and went for a walk instead. He figured some fresh air might make him feel better.

After about 5 minutes, however, Oliver started to get cold. The wind had picked up and he had left the office without a coat, so he looked for somewhere he could go inside. He saw a sign for a business up the block that he had never been to before, so he picked up his pace and hurried on into to “Cory’s Consignments.”

The air was a bit musty inside, but Oliver didn’t mind. He actually loved browsing through old clothing stores, as they sometimes gave him great inspiration for his sportswear designs. He said hello to the older gentleman doing a crossword puzzle behind the counter – Oliver assumed that was Cory – and then started looking through the racks.

The store was packed with all kinds of interesting finds from bygone eras – the clothes of the 60s and 70s always felt a bit outlandish to Oliver, but he loved finding gems from the 40s and 50s that were solidly tailored and classic in style. He started making mental notes about different kinds of patterns and flourishes that he could use on some of the workout wear he was developing, and he quickly forgot about the bullying he had received from Braxton.

And then, just when he thought he had seen everything he needed to see, Oliver went to the last rack in the store and came across something unexpected – a wrestling singlet. It was dark green and, judging by its style, had to be from the late 1950s or early 1960s. The straps over the chest with narrower than current singlets, and the bottom half resembled high-cut briefs from that same era. Oliver glanced at the tag on the back of the garment, which had the words “University Strongman Club, XXXXL” printed on it, along with another word written with a marker: “Oliver.”

Oliver gasped when he saw the name written on the tag. “Wow, what a weird coincidence! I cannot believe I found a singlet owned by someone with my same name. Or I guess it could have been his last name? But either way, that’s so cool. This guy must have been way bigger than me though – I can barely fill out a small shirt or pair of pants.”

He reached down and pulled the singlet from the hanger. The material was stretchy but coarse, and Oliver couldn’t figure out what it was made from. “It certainly isn’t any fabric I’ve seen before. It feels so thick compared to the lighter stuff we use today. I wonder how it felt to wear it.”

As he began to daydream, images of the former owner started floating through Oliver’s head. He pictured the man as tall, at least 6’7” with broad shoulders, a well-fed gut, and a monstrous physique. He was lifting heavily-weighted barbells over his head – sometimes with just one hand – and barely breaking a sweat. He enjoyed being the center of attention, and the praise he got from being big and strong only fueled his desire to grow, grow, grow. He forced himself to eat even when he wasn’t hungry, sometimes devouring up to 10,000 calories per day, and all that protein went right into his bloodsteam and helped him pack on more size. The man craved muscles and power, and he worked hard to get it. It’s what led him to join the University Strongman Club, it’s what forced him to spend hours in the gym doing every conceivable exercise, and it’s what eventually made him the club’s largest member. He could outlift anyone at the college, or the city, or the state. He transformed into a hulking machine who could do what he wanted because nobody was strong enough to stop him. He was all man, all muscle, all stud…

Suddenly, Oliver stopped when he realized he had just came in his pants. The erection he had earlier in the day had come back, and his fantasies about the former owner of the singlet had been so powerful that he had given himself a wet daydream. He could felt a massive wet glob all around his groin, and he realized it must have been quite the load.

“I have no idea what just happened,” thought Oliver. “But I’m definitely taking this thing with me to see if I can do it again.”

Oliver took the singlet to the front counter, paid cash, and left as fast as his little legs could carry him.