Seconds And Irregulars : 7

A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

He got a bit farther than he expected. A tiny bit farther. The panties slid up, without a hitch, all the way up his calf, as far as his knee.

And there he stopped. Thoughtfully, cautiously.

He didn't want to stretch the wee thing out, after all. How could he ever explain the result? Imagine, having a pair of women's underwear with the left leg hole normal-size, and the right leg hole stretched out of all proportion. They'd be ruined. He'd have to toss the panties in a landfill and claim that the costume arrived without them.

But then he'd have to discard the bra as well, wouldn't he? They're a matched set, after all. It wouldn't make any sense for the outfit to have one but not the other.

Unless... but no. There was no such thing as a "Bottomless French Maid" costume. Maybe there should be... maybe he should search the web? But he doubted he'd ever find such a thing.

Then, too, he had to consider the strong possibility that Laura and Camille would consult the Fit-4-U website. They'd insist on checking the product description for lingerie. Ozzie shook his head. If he knew anything about women – and he knew A LOT about women – that's exactly what Laura and Camille would do. Once they get an idea in their heads, it gets stuck there, like a nail. They simply can't let it go. Yes, for sure: they'd go looking, just to satisfy their minds. Women do that sort of thing.

So he stopped right there, with the underwear dangling absurdly just below his right knee. He looked down and laughed. What made it truly absurd was the waistband: it was so tiny! He stepped his right foot through the right leg hole, which pushed the pants down around his ankles. The waist was so small, that even with his legs together, he could only raise the garment about three inches up his shins.

"Oh, guaranteed fit!" he declaimed in an overdone Shakespearean mode. "Wherefore art thou, guaranteed fit? How now, brown cow? What say you? What-ho! What?" And he burst out laughing at his pitiful attempt at wit.

Still chuckling, he sat his naked butt on the floor of his office, and decided to defy fate and pull the panties as high as they'd go, just to document the failure of the fit. After all, if he could show that they didn't fit – well, that was exactly the point, wasn't it?

He easily got the pants as high as mid-calf, and smugly thought he'd finished there.

But then – what on earth? He didn't try; he didn't stretch the waistband or pull on it at all, but suddenly he felt a little slack, and was able to slide the pants – still with ease, without the slightest effort – as far up as his knees.

"Well, there's the limit, then," he observed, but once again he was wrong.

Holding his breath and not forcing the issue... doing his best to not strain the fabric by pulling or stretching it, he found the waistband now loose enough that he (oh so gently!) was able to raise them even higher on his legs... and soon the underwear sat comfortably at mid-thigh. After blinking several times in astonishment and incomprehension, he discovered he was able to proceed... inches at a time... until he arrived just below his groin.

Gasping in disbelief, he got up on his knees. "Ohhh boy," he whispered. "Ohhh boy. Okay. This has GOT to be the limit. This HAS TO BE as far as they can possibly go."

As if he'd spoken the magic words, he felt the waistband loosen again, and he was able to pull it up another inch. Then another. Until, eyes wide in fear and amazement, he tucked his manly bits inside the panties, and found to his utter astonishment that the panties effectively covered his gear and tackle, hiding it completely from view.

"It's a... what the hell! It's a... damn! It's one hell of an optical illusion!" he breathed, nearly unable to get the words out.

He looked around him at the walls of the room, knowing already that he wouldn't find what he was looking for: a mirror. There was no mirror in the room. Why would there be? Men – real men – have little use for mirrors.

Ozzie stood to his feet, and doing so, realized he was unexpectedly able to cover the last mile, easing the panties over his butt, and pulling them all the way up in front as well. It took no effort whatsoever. For a few moments Ozzie stood stock still, wordless.

What have I done? he asked himself. Have I stretched the damn things out of all recognition? How on earth could that teeny-tiny bit of cloth come so far and cover so much?

It was crazy! Absolutely crazy!

Wildest of all: The damn panties made it look as though he had nothing between his legs! Nothing!

And his legs – the illusion somehow included his legs! Did they really look thinner, slimmer than usual? They couldn't. How could they? It would be impossible! No underwear on earth can alter the shape and size of your legs! It had to be his imagination... a what-they-call a suspension of unbelief. Without meaning to, without wanting to, he'd given in to a weird optical illusion.

He did recall Camille talking about certain clothes having a "slimming effect" – could this be what she was talking about? Naturally, Ozzie had no experience in that area. He'd never looked for, never experienced, a slimming effect in the clothes he wore. He never gave any credence (or honestly any ear) to the existence of a slimming effect, but maybe there was such a thing after all! Maybe this was it! Could Fit-4-U's trick boil down to this? It did make some kind of sense that clothes could alter a person's appearance – a person's legs in this case – it could make them appear slimmer, slenderer. But then again... could it possibly go to this extent? It was almost supernatural, as though *his* legs had been replaced with someone's else's legs, or else been re-shaped, re-formed... transformed?

Ridiculous!

Another weird, almost inexplicable detail: His legs didn't just *look* different; they felt different as well. He found, and couldn't deny, that his long lower limbs were remarkably smooth. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt... well, not just his own skin, but anyone's skin... so sleek, so soft, so... could he say... touchable without blushing?

But THAT, he concluded after a moment's thought, at least THAT he could explain (albeit incorrectly). It had to be the effect of Camille's body wash, he told himself. The one he used in the shower. Wild, just wild! He'd have to remember to never touch that body wash again – it not only made his legs smooth; it made them look downright girly! and he couldn't have that! He'd have to roll around in the dirt or something later on, just to cancel out the effect.

But these panties... He ran his hands appreciatively over his hips and thighs. These panties were the damnest things! If you looked at his crotch, the panties made him look like a girl! Just a smooth mound there, where (in reality, he knew!) hung an impressive set of man-parts, ready for action. Built for vigorous service.

And his ass! The panties had some kind of trick going on out back as well. His butt, which was usually a flat, uninspiring affair, now (if his hands were any judge) felt full and round and perky! Did the damn things give him a bubble butt?

No, of course they didn't! How could they? It was all an illusion. A trick. The appearance of a bubble butt. It had to be. What else could it be?

Ozzie struggled to explain away his experience. His skeptical mind could not brook Fit-4-U's claims. They were simply impossible. And yet, he'd managed to slip on a pair of impossibly small underwear. Women's underwear. How did it happen? How did it work? He needed to find a rational way... a rational way to explain it away.

Obviously, the garment stretched. It gave way until it fit. But... didn't that validate the very thing he meant to disprove? Even though Camille insisted there was no stretching involved. Apparently, she didn't know.

Regardless of stretching or not stretching, how could the damn things hide his manly bits? How could they puff up his derriere?

Was it some sort of mind control? Was there a hypnotic effluvium given off by the garments? If so, was he really wearing the underwear? Or was he in a trance state, wearing nothing at all, only *believing* that he'd tried on the panties?

No, no. That was too far-fetched. The fact was, the clothes stretched until they fit. And somehow were able to sculpt the body. To visually sculpt the body. To change the *appearance* of the body. It's not as though his legs and hips and balls had changed, or disappeared! That would be absurd. Absurd to even say it.

Then came a surprising realization: he'd been wearing the panties for a few minutes now, and they felt like... they fit like... like magic! he wanted to say. I could wear these all day! he exclaimed to himself. He'd never worn clothes this comfortable before! The damn things feel absolutely perfect!

But I can't be wrong! he hastened to assure himself, doubling down on his doubts.

He knew that his next logical step would be to take off the underwear and see whether it resumed its previous smaller size, or whether it was now all stretched out and worthless.

That would be the next logical step, yes.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it. The panties were so damn comfortable! He wondered whether he could get away with wearing underwear for the rest of the day – or from now on, for that matter.

Of course he couldn't! He was a man! But still... it was a thought. A consideration. Maybe Fit-4-U made men's underwear?

But NO! He couldn't give in. Fit-4-U was the enemy, the scammers. He needed to prove it.

In any case, their clothes were a little pricey.

He paused. He closed his eyes and placed his hand on his forehead. It was time to gather his thoughts. What was his current status? What were his next steps?

His current status? He was wearing a pair of women's underwear, and it fit like a dream (unfortunately!) What had he done wrong here?

He was missing something. Yes, missing something! That's what he'd done wrong here. He should have used a mirror! If he'd had a mirror handy, he could have watched the process; he could have seen what was happening, and in an instant he'd have gotten to the bottom of things.

The bottom of things, he chortled to himself. Heheh.

He needed a mirror. He could have gone into their bedroom and used Camille's full-length mirror, but he didn't think of it. The only mirror he ever used was the one above the sink in the hall bathroom. So that's where he went.

He stood at the vanity, turning his head this way and that, trying to get an good angle on his legs, on his groin, on his butt. Of course the view was hardly adequate, but it was enough to confirm what Ozzie's hands had already told him:

Smooth, slim, girly legs? check.
Perky bubble butt? check.
Smooth Mound of Venus in front? check.

It was puzzling, powerfully puzzling, the way his man-parts were effectively erased from view.

"You know," he told himself aloud, "These would be perfect for those guys who like to dress like women."

He paused, looking at his face in the mirror. Was he shorter? Wasn't his head usually higher in the mirror than this, when he shaved?

Of course not! He replied silently, brushing away the absurdity of his observation. He probably didn't remember right. "And it's probably because I'm barefoot," he reasoned; ignoring the fact that he was barefoot the last time he looked in the mirror, and the time before that, and the time before that.

Okay. The next step ought to be the bra. He could stand in front of the mirror and keep his eye on what happened, as it happened.

He fetched the bra and returned to stand before the sink.

Holding the two ends of the band, he found that the bra only went halfway around his chest. He lowered his hands and took a look at himself. He had a good chest. A manly chest. He had a decent patch of hair on hischest. Not a forest, but a discrete, manly assertion of available testosterone.

Ozzie looked down at his hands, which rested on the marble top of his bathroom vanity. He still held the bra strap in both hands, and discovered that if he laid the thing out straight, end to end, it was nearly the same width as the marble counter. Great! Now, not only did he have a mirror to aid his observations, he also had an objective measure so he could track the stretching-out!

He held the bra strap against his chest and stared in the mirror. The two flimsy breast cups dangled empty, useless.

Ozzie took a breath and felt his hands slip backward, an inch on either side of his chest. Open mouthed, he snatched it away from his body and held it against the front of the sink.

The size hadn't changed.

What?

He picked the bra up and tried to stretch it. It didn't stretch. He held it once again against the sink. Same size as before.

Okay. He pressed it against his chest, and once again felt his hands slip back an inch. Damn it! Holding it against the sink, he could see that the bra hadn't changed an iota.

What the living hell?

He was stumped.

Then he remembered how Camille sometimes put her bra on backwards: she'd hold it with the cups behind her so she could more easily do up the clasps in front. That done, she'd turn it around, bringing the cups in front, and slip her arms into the straps.

If Ozzie did the same, he'd be able to watch as the bra changed size.

And so he did. Holding the two ends of the bra strap in his hands, facing the mirror, he stared at the gap. His first two efforts had, inexplicably, apparently lengthened the bra's strap, so that the ends reached more than halfway around, despite what his improvised yardstick told him. As he watched, simply holding, not pulling, not tugging, not stretching, he could see the two ends, the two clasps, creeping toward each other. It was the weirdest thing. His mind was truly blown.

When the gap shrank to a mere six inches, he snatched it off and slapped it down with urgency against the front of the sink. It was still the same length! What on earth was going on here?

It must be snapping back when I take it off, he told himself, but as soon as he articulated the thought he knew how absurd it sounded.

I mean, because... seriously, he reasoned with himself, just brainstorming here, but... the only other possibility is that my *chest* is shrinking, but THAT can't be happening.

He started at his torso in the mirror. Did he look any different? Of course not! Why was he even asking the question?

On the other hand... he really should have used his phone to take a picture of himself, a picture of his chest. In fact, if he HAD taken a picture, he'd know right away whether he'd lost a few chest hairs in the last couple of minutes. Even if THAT is something no bra can do. It didn't pluck them off; he was sure about that. He would have felt that, had it happened.

In the end, he watched the gap between the ends of the bra strap narrow, narrow, narrow, until they met and overlapped each other, allowing him to join the clasps.

He worked it around his body, bringing the cups in front, and slipped his arms into the straps. His brain was in whirl. Ozzie was so distracted that he didn't notice the apparent movements of the bra straps as they achieved their perfect fit.

Ozzie felt beaten. He couldn't explain it. He couldn't manage to work up even the most implausible BS... he couldn't explain it away.

And he left the bathroom in a daze, missing the most remarkable transition so far, and one he would have had trouble ignoring: the skin of his chest smoothed and filled out until he had a lovely pair of soft, pillowy breasts, resting snugly in Fit-4-U's perfectly fitting bra.

He did sense a sudden movement in his underwear. It was hard to describe; it was a definite shift... as though his balls had rolled in some dramatic way. It didn't hurt; it was just weird, as though a snake took a swift slide between his legs. He shivered and shook off the feeling, although he did reach down to run his fingers over the front side of his panties. They still fit as they did before, which is to say, perfectly. He ran his fingers around the waistline, then around the leg openings. He slid both hands down his backside and shivered at the exquisite feeling. Was it possible that the underwear made his butt more sensitive? Was that even possible?

Somewhere in what he'd experienced, Ozzie assured himself, was the proof that the "guaranteed fit" was not real. He didn't know where. He didn't know how. In spite of his assurance, Ozzie's conviction lost a lot of ground today, and even in what happened yesterday. He was bothered by the memory of Laura's jacket. It didn't work the way this costume worked – at least, not so far. Camille didn't go through any visible adjustments. Laura's coat didn't move around on her body. All she did was put it on. It simply fit, and fit perfectly, without preamble. It was different. Somehow it was different from what he was experiencing here.