"The truth is rarely pure and never simple." - Sex Stories

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple."

... hang it on the door. As I slowly pull down the zip, the cheap, black, man made fabric of the case parts, exposing the charcoal grey, 100% merino wool suit inside. An exceptional piece of British craftsmanship. This isn't just a suit, it's the suit. Bespoke, cut by hand, from Bernard Weatherill, number 5 Savile row. It took two months and three fittings to get right and is, in every way, absolutely exquisite. You will never experience a suit like it, if you only buy off the peg. No designer label could ever create the fit, feel and finish of a creation such as this. Well over a hundred years of tradition and skills, passed down from one generation to another, have gone into its manufacture. Made by men who have devoted their lives to achieving perfection in cloth. I run my eyes over every inch of it, from collar to cuffs, looking for a flaw. I find none. Not one single stitch or thread is out of place. Step lapels, just the right width to never be fashionable, but always stylish. Real horn buttons, carefully placed. Almost completely symmetrical, save for the breast pocket on the left and the stylish, yet subtle, ticket pocket on the right. I stroke the sleeves. They have an almost silky quality, despite being wool. This is a material you can sit in for hours and when you stand up, the creases simply drop out, without leaving a single wrinkle. My fingers caress the finely woven fabric, slowly tracing the edges and seams from the gently sloping shoulders, down the full ...

... chest, sweeping into the waist and over the hips. I choose the rest of my outfit with care, nothing loud to distract from the suit. I pull a pair of boxer briefs up my muscular legs. Not silk or any fancy nonsense, just simple, white cotton jersey. They hug my arse and give support to my heavy cock and gravid bollocks. Fine black socks on my feet. Then a crisp, white poplin shirt, from Harvie & Hudson on Jermyn street. Each arm slides in effortlessly and I fasten the buttons one by one, concealing my dense, swarthy body hair. hot pictures from this moment --> goo.gl/cGbzRb I slip the trousers off the hanger, shake them out in front of me and step in. I tuck in my shirt and button up. They are snug and secure, but not tight. Just the right amount of give so I can sit comfortably and still look sleek, no unsightly bulges or bagginess. However, there is a discreet amount of ease on the left side to accommodate my manhood. No belt is necessary, these trousers don't even come with loops. I push my feet into my chestnut coloured, Foster and Son, derby shoes. Skilfully moulded, they fit like a glove. With my shoes on, the trousers are the ideal length. Standing up straight, single breaks form on each leg, just as intended. I pick a tie from the rack. Plain black silk, not too glossy. Narrow enough to be contemporary, but not so thin as to look like a waiter. I drape it over my neck, small end shorter than wider, then deftly wrap and fold the finespun textile strip into a precise half ...