Was this effing week ever going to end? That was the thought going through Jake's mind after the week from hell, and it was only Thursday. He couldn't wait until Friday night. His plans in their entirety were a nice dinner out with some single malt and a bottle of fine red and banging one of the many floozies he kept on his ever rotating roster of conquests. As a matter of fact, that was pretty much his agenda for every week.
Jake Taylor was a product of the millennial generation and extremely overindulgent parents. He was raised to believe that every kid was special and deserving whether they actually were or not; a trophy for every participant and a belief that they could do no wrong. As a result, he grew into an entitled spoiled brat, believing his own hype and with a king-sized chip on his shoulder. He graduated from an Ivy league college and went into wealth management, both feats accomplished with tremendous assistance from daddy. Whenever he fucked up, daddy stepped in to make it all better. He also pulled strings to get sonny-boy his ground level job. As a result, at the ripe old age of 30, Jake had a luxurious condo in a downtown high-rise, a BMW in the garage, a six figure salary, and an absolute conviction that he did it all himself.
To his credit, he was a stellar athlete, both in high school and college. He was also extremely blessed in the genetics department. It doesn't hurt when your parents are the star high school quarterback and the head cheerleader. Due to his sports background and continued commitment to working out, the handsome man sported a very impressive body. He loved to show it off, so his suits were all custom tailored in an athletic cut, an indulgence allowed by his generous salary. Contrary to popular trends, he liked his clothing fitted closely to his body; shirts trim to his waist and slacks fitted to his muscular torso, bulging thighs and meaty, full ass. He shunned the boxers of his contemporaries, preferring fitted European-style briefs which emphasized his ample package and got him bedded by almost any broad he laid eyes on. Life was good.
This week, however, was not. A few bad market predictions had led to the meltdown of more than one portfolio in his care. Endless phone calls, meetings and half-hearted assurances that everything would work out had led to a mental exhaustion unlike which he had ever experienced. He had been working 14 hours a day all week and was about over it. Missed breakfasts, lunch at the desk and dinners of late-night takeout were taking a toll on his physical and mental health. It was also doing a number on his digestion; the lack of fiber and sudden introduction of a nutritional wasteland of cuisine left him feeling bloated and very irregular. He hadn't paid much attention as other issues took priority.
It was almost 4pm when he realized that he hadn't even been to the bathroom since arriving at the office around 7:30 that morning. He had been so engrossed in work that the day had become a blur. A sudden pang of piercing fullness in his bladder had alerted him to something that needed immediate attention. Hustling down the hall to the elegant travertine-tiled washroom, he ambled up to the urinal, unzipping the charcoal dress slacks, which were expertly tailored to ride low on his waist and hug his impeccable physique, and whipped out his generous endowment, exhaling as the torrent splashed against the cold white porcelain.
He quickly realized that he has seriously misjudged his situation. As he relaxed his sphincter, the solid logjam in his ass, which had been residing without incident, suddenly and forcefully demanded exit. He was caught in a quagmire; he had to piss too bad to just pinch it off, but when he relaxed enough to get the stream going, his fudge-pack would force its way to the surface, prairie-dogging at his asshole. Worse yet, another guy had come in and was occupying the urinal two stalls down. It was a fine balancing act of relaxing to piss and pinching to keep from shitting himself. He finally finished peeing. If he had been alone, he would've just waddled to the stall with his dick hanging out, but because there was someone else in the room, he stuffed his member back into his slacks, yanking the zipper up hurriedly, fighting ever increasing pressure in his butt. He hustled to the stall, slamming and locking the door.
He turned his ass to the stool, quickly undoing his black leather belt and unfastening the expensive trousers, panting with need as he did. He grasped the zipper and pulled. Nothing happened. "What the…!" he muttered under his breath. Trying again with no result, he pulled the fly open, horrified to see the small piece of gray and white striped fabric sticking through the zipper teeth. In his haste, he had caught the tail of his shirt in the zipper, stopping its operation as surely as if it had been super-glued. "Fuck!" he uttered sharply. Fortunately for him, his bathroom companion had left the room. He yanked at the fabric just below his pockets, trying to pull them down, but his muscular build was a hindrance in this case, keeping his taut trousers in place as surely as if they were still fully fastened.
His mind raced; Franco, he thought. Franco's tailor shop was on the main floor of his office building. Re-fastening his pants and belt, he raced down the hall to the elevator, pressing the lobby button, cursing under his breath as the elevator stopped on floor after floor to let people on or off. It had to be a cruel joke. He was absolutely desperate and these morons dared to delay him in getting to Franco and much needed relief. Finally the door opened on the lobby. He stumbled out, racing towards the shop near the building entrance, cutting a loud fart into the seat of his trousers as he neared.
'Ribaldi's Fine Tailoring, serving your needs for three generations' read the sign on the glass door to Franco's shop. A third generation tailor by trade, Franco's grandfather, Luigi, and his father, Giovanni Ribaldi had started and grown the business, bringing fine Italian tailoring to the American market. Franco had learned and developed his talents at their knees, honing his craft. Not only was he one of the most renowned tailors in the city, but he used out-of-the-box thinking to grow his business ever larger. Franco Ribaldi was blessed with model good looks; in fact, he had done print and runway modeling in high school and college. He had made enough money that he could have retired fresh out of college, had he so desired. Tailoring was in his blood, however. He started an ad campaign, using himself as advertisement for his shop. All over the city, billboards and posters of his beautiful features clad in a custom tailored suit, tie undone and shirt opened, graced almost every block. His face was so well known he was a kind of celebrity, recognized everywhere he went. He was unashamedly bisexual, loving physical contact with both sexes equally. He harbored some unusual fetishes which were exclusively acted out in the gay side of his personality, however.
Mr. Ribaldi catered to the cream of the crop; celebrities, captains of industry, investment bankers and hedge fund managers. Almost all of them treated him with the utmost respect, recognizing his talent and ability. Of the few that didn't, Jake Taylor was at the top of the list. Arrogant and self-indulgent, he treated everyone around him like a piece of dog crap stuck to the bottom of his shoe,so when he looked up from the leather-topped desk at the front of the shop and saw Jake hustling towards his door, he muttered "Oh shit" under his breath. What does this fool want, he thought to himself.
Jake burst through the entrance door. "Mr. Taylor, it's a delight to…" "No time, Frankie." Jake retorted in his usual condescending way. Franco hated it when Jake called him that. "Dude, my zipper's stuck. You've got to get it undone for me, ASAP!" "Certainly, Mr. Taylor, let me put the sign up. Go back to the fitting room; I'll be right there." As big as his business was, Franco did all the work by himself. When he was with a client, a sign on the locked door read that he was with another client and would be with them as soon as possible. It was an inconvenience that his clientele put up with because of his immeasurable talent. Flipping the lock, he hung the sign and hurried back to the fitting room.
As he pushed aside the curtain, he was met by the hunky executive, fidgeting uncomfortably near the far wall. He approached the stud, kneeling down in front of him. "All right now, let's see what we've got here." He pulled the fabric over the fly open, exposing the shirt tail caught firmly in the zipper, right at the top. "I've got a bar of soap I'm going to rub over the zipper. It might take a little bit to get it undone, but it should release." He started rubbing the metal with the small bar, working it into the zipper, but was hindered by the squirming of the man standing in front of him. "Mr. Taylor, please. You need to stand still so I can work on this."
"Look!" the uncomfortable stud snapped. "I'm going to lay this out for you very clearly. If you don't get these pants down in about 90 seconds, there's going to be more than just my ass back there!" Looking up, the handsome tailor's face registered confusion. "Let me spell it out for you There's a fudge-log in my butt about the size of a tree branch, and it's playing a game of battering ram with my asshole. I can tell you this, buddy; it's winning." He paused in the middle of his sentence, pursing his lips and breathing out, trying to relax enough for the tailor to resume his work. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll hurry as fast as I can. Unfortunately, it takes as long as it takes." He resumed as the desperate man nodded rapidly, struggling to remain composed.
For about 20 seconds, he was able to work unhindered before the helpless businessman suddenly gasped, his reaction followed by a short blast as he dusted the seat of his trousers, the stench wafting into the air. "Oh, God, dude,", he whispered hoarsely, "Please hurry!" "I know sir, I'm trying," the tailor replied, ramping up his efforts. "I know buddy, I'm sorry." The desperate stud eased up on the poor man kneeling in front of him, realizing that the poor guy was doing his best.
Franco glanced up as he worked feverishly on the stuck zipper. The stud was panting like a pregnant woman, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. Suddenly, he squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced, another hot blast firing through the expensive material encasing his ass. Tears were forming at the edges of his tightly clenched eyes. After just a few more seconds, the stud jerked roughly away from the kneeling man, backing up as he spread his legs, bending them slightly at the knee. A soft "fuck" escaped his lips as he groaned, a subtle "pfft" escaping his backside, followed by a pop. The poor man's face reddened as he tensed. From his position at crotch level to the poor guy, Franco could see as the huge load hit cloth, pushing the fabric between his legs downward; the smell of shit permeating the room.
Jake was in full crisis mode, gasping and sobbing as the huge load stacked slowly into the seat of his trousers. It was so hard and his trousers so snug, he bore down forcefully, painfully; his face reddening as he contracted his abs, pushing with all his might. The lump in ass grew and grew as he pushed days' worth of crap into his overfilled slacks.
Finally it was over. He looked up, humiliated; his red puffy eyes staring at the handsome tailor. He shrugged his shoulders in absolute embarrassment, the expression on his face silently pleading "what do I do now"? Franco stood up, approaching the smelly hunk. "It's all right, Mr. Taylor. Let's get these pants unstuck now, okay"? Jake nodded weakly. Kneeling once again in front of the stinky stud, Franco went to work on the zipper, the stench of Jake's load mere inches from his face. A consummate professional, he ignored the smell, working tirelessly, finally freeing the zipper after a few short minutes. He rose again, looking his client directly in the face. "There, you're unstuck now. This space used to be a day spa, so there's a bathroom with a shower in the back. It's down that hall. You can put your clothes in the hamper to the left of the door. I'll have them dry-cleaned for you. While you clean up, I'll find some new clothing in the shop for you to change into." He grinned at the man standing in front of him, easing the tense situation. "I'll add them to your account." Jake reached out, bear-hugging the startled tailor, "Dude, I have to give you props. You went above and beyond" He turned and waddled towards the rest room.
Mr. Ribaldi found a pair of light gray pleated slacks in Jake's size, a crisp white dress shirt with French cuffs and a beautiful olive green silk tie. He knocked on the bathroom door. "Mr. Taylor, there are fresh clothes in the dressing room next door. Take your time. I'll be at the front of the shop when you're ready. "Thanks buddy," came the reply. After about 20 minutes, Jake emerged from the back looking every bit the polished professional that he was when he entered the store. "You look very nice," Franco said as the handsome stud entered the front room. "I realize that they're not as tailored as you normally like, but I can fit them for you at your convenience. I will call you when your clothes are cleaned and ready.
Dude, buddy, I can't thank you enough." Jake extended his hand to the tailor. "You saved me from one of the most embarrassing situations I've ever been in, and I"ve been nothing but an ass to you for as long as I can remember. Frankie…Franko," he corrected himself. "I promise that will never happen again. You are the most professional guy I have ever worked with. I can't thank you enough." He pumped Franco's hand firmly before leaving the store, a new man having just been born.
As it was now well past closing time, Franco locked the door behind the departing stud. He leaned on the door, breathing heavily, a smile crossing his beautiful face. Ambling back to the bathroom, he entered the still reeking room, and opened the hamper, pulling out the charcoal dress slacks. Placing the smelly fabric to his face, he inhaled the acrid stench deeply, his dick springing once again to life, straining against his own expertly tailored slacks. It was almost unreal; he had just experienced one of his biggest fetishes come to life right in his own shop. Although he was unabashedly bisexual, there was nothing that turned his crank more than a sexy guy humiliating himself, pissing or shitting his pants. It was like a porno come to life. Digging a little further, he came upon the white briefs with the red and blue waistband, still packed with a massive mound of stinking brown poop.
He sighed in ecstasy, slowly dropping his own slacks, stripping them off along with his silk boxers. He clasped the waistband of the overstuffed briefs, stepping into them and pulling them up, feeling the massive load as it pressed into his own ass. His dick leaked pre-cum as he grabbed his own suit pants, pulling them up over the fouled briefs and fastening the tab, his dick throbbing out of the fly as Jake's load stained his ass cheeks. He panted breathlessly feeling the fullness in his own backside, his charcoal trousers holding Jake's load close to his butt. He breathed out slowly, bearing down, feeling his asshole expand as he began to pump his own load into the already full briefs hugging his taut torso, his stink mingling with the stench already embedded in the European cotton hugging his behind.
He grabbed his own member, already impossibly hard and stroked it a mere few times before firing off a torrent of creamy white jizz, the spunk shooting halfway across the room, hitting the mirror and splatting across the wall. He groaned as he shot again and again, a load bigger than he had ever released before. When he finished, he panted, exhausted, completely spent. He collapsed against the wall, all energy gone from him. After a minute, as he regained his composure, he stripped out of his clothes, adding his own suit to the pile for his, admittedly discreet dry-cleaner to take care of. He then stepped into the very shower that Jake had cleansed himself in just a short while ago, washing himself clean of the stink that so encompassed his very being.