I bit my lip. I guess anything is better than going nude. I decided to look through the clothes for whatever seemed the most down to earth. Even if my skin was out, something like a black jockstrap at least wouldn't seem too...well, gay.
There were only two plainly colored shirts in the wardrobe — no surprise considering there were barely any shirts at all — so I grabbed one of them first, one that looked like a navy blue crop top. My face reddened. Across the front, in a looping, hot pink font, the word "SLUT" had been lovingly embroidered.
"Hell no," I muttered, and tried the other one.
At first glance it looked like a plain back T-shirt, and for a moment I felt a thrill of hope. When I looked closer, though, that vanished. It was shaped like a T-shirt, sure, but it was made entirely of black mesh, like fishnets. I gulped. Well, it was better than nothing, and probably my best option. I took it off the hanger, and gingerly pulled it on.
Fuck, it was tight. It didn't feel restrictive, since the material was stretchy enough, but as soon as it was over my shoulders it clung to every curve of my torso. The sleeves barely reached my mid-bicep, and, when I finally managed to get the fabric over my monstrous pecs (stifling a moan as it brushed across my nipples), I found that it only reached down to just above my bellybutton. Figures.
Next, I scanned the underwear. I wasn't going to touch the panties, let alone the thigh highs and fishnet stockings, but I needed something to cover my junk. Just like with the shirts, there were few options other than leather that were in a color I'd call subtle. I bit the inside of my cheek, and reluctantly settled on a black jockstrap. It was one of the few without an open crotch, although the pouch looked too small for the monster between my legs. Sighing, I pulled it on.
Fuck. The way this fit made the shirt look tame. Usually when people say clothes leave "little to the imagination" they just mean they're tight. This? Was *obscene*. As my dick stretched the fabric of the pouch, I quickly realized that it was made of the same fabric as the shirt, albeit a more tight-knit version. Nothing was spilling out, but you could easily see the shape of my cockhead, even one of the veins on the side. I also noticed for the first time that my balls were massive, even compared to my dick. Each one was the size of a navel orange, and they pressed against the fabric of the jock until it jutted out over half a foot away from my thighs. Grimacing, I looked back at the wardrobe. Nothing else looked less revealing. It would have to do.
Trying not to think about how I looked, I closed the wardrobe, and walked out of the room. Thank god there wasn't a mirror in here, I thought, the view from the top is humiliating enough. With a body like this I should feel masculine, but these clothes...I shuddered, and once again ignored the thrill of arousal I had at the thought of how I must look to other people right now.
The house was well lit, and not inexpensive looking. There were a few other doors on my floor, but, with the insistent feeling that I couldn't let Jeff down nagging in the back of my skull, I couldn't bring myself to look inside. Instead, I turned and walked down the stairs into what looked like the living room. Across the room, through an open doorway, I could smell fresh pancakes. On the opposite wall was the front door.