Musky Leathers

 

“Maksym, is that you?” Sam waved at the tall, muscular figure in the black leathers and helmet. Being neighbors for so long, it was inevitable that he and the Ukrainian would either come to blows or strike up a friendship. Fortunately, Maksym was an undeniable, irresistible stud- so to the normally cold and standoffish Samuel might have fallen ever so slightly for the stoic young man. 

“Yes,” Maksym replied in his thick, bass-laden accent, “is new leathers for new bike. Cannot wear old, beat up white ones with shiny new black bike.” Though muffled from behind the confines of his black helmet, his commanding voice still bellowed proudly. He stared at his Instagram-model next door neighbor, with a slightly different perspective. Back home in Kyiv, people were proud, stolid, lionhearted. Their flat affect and fearlessness was a cultural expectation, and while he didn’t mind his uppity neighbor per se, it would be more accurate to describe his feelings as mild annoyance. Sure he was attractive, but Sam’s incessant need for praise and attention left little to be desired.

“Wow, those look amazing on you, I have to say.” Sam, clearly trying to woo his delectable snack, sauntered over and leaned against the garage door; crossing his ankles, he batted the big brown eyes he prized so highly. His youthful, boyish good looks and limber, built body was fodder compared to the allure of those eyes. “They do look pretty tight though. You might need to loosen them up.” The corny delivery of the pick up line was compounded by the enthusiastic interest he displayed- more so than even his typical demeanor had showed.

Maksym, still shadowed behind the visor of his helmet, could only roll his eyes. The never ending irritation with this guy was insufferable. He took a deep breath, praying to whatever deity watching over him that he’d be able to maintain his composure. There could be no failures.

“Not tight, just right. You have not worn leathers before, Sam?” The question provided a sneaky entrance at least past the front door. He’d never made it past the first threshold, and was not going to pass up any opportunity to bed this Slavic hunk.

“I haven’t. I don’t need them for driving my Lambo, but they always look so good on you… I might have to try them.” Roquefort was less cheesy than the advance. Subtlety had never been Sam’s strong suit, as his rather benign approaches had never landed any sway with Maksym. Yet that day was different: it had to be different. Finally pulling off his heavy, sweaty helmet, Maksym delivered the final blow: his own sultry gaze in direct response to Sam.

“You want to try, huh? Come, I have my old ones inside. Try before you buy, my friend.” Maksym led the star eyed dope inside his impressive home, climbing the stairs and making their way toward the master closet. Opening the door, Maksym revealed an older set of white leathers. They were scuffed and ripped, mud spatter dotted the peripherals of the legs and knees, the boots’ black scratch marks cut across the white leather like zebra stripes. Normally averse to clothes in less than less than perfect condition, Sam swallowed his pride in the vain hopes of bedding his boy next door.

“Oh wow, those look so cool!” Sam coaxed in his charlatanesque timbre. Maksym bit his tongue and walked forward to the bodysuit. Meticulously removing them from the hanger, he tossed them to Sam, flashing the same provocative stare. 

Hmm, he must be a leather daddy, thought Sam. If it means ending up in his bed, I guess I’ll play along. He picked them up off the ground beneath his feet. They creaked and squeaked as he grasped them in his hands, the smooth yet frayed texture of weathered leather tickled his palms. The unmistakable scent of age old sweat imbued into it’s very fabric had made it’s way to his nostrils. Sam was appalled, but begrudgingly began to slip his pristine brown boat shoes off his feet. He tossed his pink button up shirt and white khaki shorts aside, and began to put on the suit.

Maksym watched in feigned anticipation as Sam put his first leg into the substantially larger pants. The sound of stretching leather echoed in the claustrophobic closet. One leg, second leg. Then pulling the worn out torso to his shoulders and sliding in his arms: one, then the other. The suit hung zipped on Sam’s body like a wet blanket. Maksym’s 6′2 stature visually drowned Sam’s 5′8 frame. 

Though hoping the sight of this was enough to ignite Maksym’s passion, Sam sank ever so slightly as the lofty Ukrainian seductively pointed to the boots. The very idea of feet repulsed Sam, so the thought of him placing his own into the same dank confines as this less than hygienic lunk nearly triggered a gag. He looked down at them, clearly well used and stinking. Emitting an impotent sigh of defeat, he brashly shoved his feet into the cavernous boots. While he couldn’t deny the comfort and arousing sensation of wearing the ensemble, the heavy stench of Maksym’s entrenched manscent provided an absolute barrage on his senses. 

“How do I look? A little big I think…” Maksym brought a teasing finger to his chin, quizzically studying the little man. “Might have to take em off I think…” Sam grasped the zipper and tugged. Nothing happened. He tugged again, nothing. The zipper felt stuck and despite whatever force he delivered upon it, an unmoving resistance stood firm. “Uh, the zipper is stuck.” 

“Yes. You look perfect.” Maksym sauntered over to Sam, and smugly grabbed the zipper between his fingers. Inches away from his face, Maksym smirked maliciously. “Is exactly what I needed.” He gently tugged, and the zipper easily gave way. A burst of air escaped from the hole between the metal tracks, growing ever larger as Maksym pulled the zipper down. The familiar odor of sweat, leather, and asphalt poured from the gaping, empty hole in Sam’s briskly deflating body. Within seconds, a pile of skin, hair, and leather had accumulated atop the trashed boots.

“Instant disguise.” Maksym smirked, pulling the bodysuit up by the hair. Sam’s hollow face looked like a mask, eagerly waiting to be filled and brought back to life. “Much better use of your cute little face, cyka.” Slowly, Maksym began to slide his right arm inside of the skin suit. His bulging arm and massive hand stretched Sam’s tight skin, accommodating his girth with elastic ease. His hand stretched into Sam’s and like wearing a glove too small, it forced it’s substantial bulk into every available space, doubling their size. Maksym clenched his new fist, feeling the new grooves and crevices of his fingerprints and palms. 

He flexed his biceps, enjoying the compressed sensation of a new second skin above his well built muscles. The white leathers now fit perfectly against his bulging arms. Maksym slipped his boots off, taking his sweat-dripping size 14 feet and thrusting them into Sam’s lithe legs. He could feel the skin of the thighs expand as his gargantuan feet pushed downward. The sound of a sloppy squish and pronounced pop signaled the arrival of his feet within the boots. He wriggled his new toes, feeling his own sweat now seep from Sam’s pores into the beat up insoles. 

As he slipped the left side of his body into the bodysuit, he excitedly thought about showing up Sage in the race. Sure, Maksym Dragomirov had been disqualified and banned from the races. But, Sam Vincent sure hadn’t been tossed out. Drag racing is cut throat, figuratively and literally; Maksym was glad to have a different face he’d be able to use whenever he felt the urge to ride.

He zipped up the zipper with his smooth, silky hands. Over time, he’d harden them up and get them the dirty callouses they needed. From below the neck, it was as if he and Sam had procreated. Sam’s tan skin, Maksim’s meaty hands. Sam’s smoothness atop Maksim’s bulbous musculature. There remained only one final aspect that would entirely hide his identity. He grabbed Sam’s face behind his neck, and like a silicone mask, stretched it over his larger head. It took a moment for his head to adjust behind Sam’s face, but after smoothing out all the bubbles and stretching the skin into place, it was complete. Sam’s big brown eyes opened once again, this time something ever so off about his appearance. It was undoubtedly Sam, yet subtle things were ever so different than before. His nose wasn’t that wide before, his lips weren’t that plump, his jaw wasn’t that squared, and his brow wasn’t that low. Above all he was not 6′4, built like a warrior, and have feet the size of boats, but there he stood in all his glory.

Maksym smirked his mischievous grin, and began to work on his American accent. He had a lot of work to do before next week’s race, but make no mistake. Sage Ravenswyck would have a new competitor that day, and Maksym Dragomirov was all too excited to introduce him to Sam Vincent.