You help Sam on his end

"Oh. Damn," Sam grunts halfway up, stopping. You turn from the top stair to look down at him faltering midway up.

"Hey tits, you'd better take over for him," Tom grins, earning a glare. Somehow, even with him holding a dresser he still manages to give your ass an almighty swat, his fingers becoming tangled in the robe and yanking it open. Worse, your forward momentum makes it slide backwards and down to your wrists.

You're about to shrug the robe back on when Sam seems to trip, and instead of preserving your modesty you rush forward, the robe falling onto the filthy stairs.

"Got it!" you puff, your puny muscles trembling at the save. "But I don't think I can hold it."

"Maybe together we can do it," Sam volunteers heroically, and steps behind you, reaching around you to grab the dresser's edge. At the same time you can feel his crotch presses against your butt, and gulp nervously at the sensation. It feels almost like you're not wearing a thing. Having been exposed so often in the last two hours you think nothing of it and shamble slowly down the hall.

With your arms feeling more and more useless the trip seems to take forever. You'd almost think the drawers were still in the dresser, or that Sam wasn't actually lifting. Ridiculous, of course. You can plainly see his muscles straining, so obviously he's helping. He must be just as tired as you. Or, a part of you briefly and jokingly thinks, maybe he's pulling downward.

"Rest," Tom says, and before you've even lowered your end of the dresser he's leaning on it like it's the only thing holding it up. Naturally this brings the dresser crashing down, though you manage - using every ounce of strength and Sam's help - to avoid having it smash into the floor.

"Damn this is hard work," Sam says, gasping, leaning forward to rest on the dresser. His movement has the unfortunate side effect of pressing his body more firmly against your and bending you over. Being about chest-high with the top of the dresser this results in your chest pressing against the sharp edge of the dresser.

"This dresser's nice," you say conversationally, if only to try and make them look elsewhere. You've gotten used to their every waking moment being spent ogling you.

"Yeah, it's how we all met. We built it in woodshop as a project. Then we had a contest to see who'd get to keep it."

"Contest?" you prod, interested in spite of yourself.

"Sure, we said that whoever laid the most chicks and brought proof of it would win the dresser." Tom smirked.

"Phil killed us!" Bill chuckled, and the men exchanged looks that seemed to still be amazed in spite of the time that must have passed since the contest.

Confused, you say, "But Philip's gay. How could he kill you at, uh, scoring chicks."

Another glance flicks between them, this one seeming more like alarm. "Well, uh..." Bill begins, but Sam interrupts.

"Killed us with killed, the gay bastard. Not only did he point out that he didn't swing that way, but also that it was a morally reprehensible thing to do."

"Bastard," Tom mutters, but you find your chest fairly aching with pride in Philip. Another ache comes from your nipples being constantly pressed into the sharp edge of the tall dresser as Sam, behind you, leans in and out constantly.

"We decided, in our shame, to award him the dresser. He was three times the man we were." Sam declares.

"Combined," Bill adds, and you could swear he then whispers, "huge"

"More like four or five," Tom adds with clear bewilderment, muttering, "cheater."

"Uh, okay, well, maybe we should finish?" you suggest brightly. "Maybe Tom can help this time."

Bill and Sam snicker while Tom glares. "I'm helping. I'm making sure you don't hit the walls or any pedestrians."

You open your mouth to argue his logic only to be cut off by Sam tapping your shoulder. "Say Jenny, why don't you lift from the bottom while I lift from the top."

"But I'd have to bend over," you complain, hating the whine that enters yours voice.

"Oh buck up, sweet tits, it's about time you pulled your weight," Tom adds, infuriating you, before he walks behind you like he'd spotted something there.

With a sigh you widen your stance to shoulder-width and bend over, pressing a cheek to the wood as you start to lift.

"This... is... harder," you gasp, feeling your legs and back protesting with twinges.

"No no, this is terrific! It makes it feel so much easier," Sam exclaims, followed by an equally enthusiastic endorsement from Bill. It certainly doesn't feel easier to you, but you decide to take their word for it. The end of the hall can't be all that far away, can it?