This was made just for you.
Please, do not wait to try it on.

You're glad you're the first one home to see the mail delivery. One of the other dozen lodgers might have stolen it, had they half the chance. That, or accused you of stealing it from someone else.
The notebook-sized box has no return address on it. It's made of black polished wood, too, and appears to have been handled with care. Hand-made by a master craftsman.
Who could have sent this to you? A secret admirer perhaps…? Could it have been that lonely old widow whose groceries you deliver around the neighbourhood? Or that young trophy wife to whom you bring fancy clothes ordered from abroad?
You never fancied yourself a ladykiller. But hey, look at you now…
Once you're alone in your tiny box of a bedroom, you have to close the box and open it again a few times - the sound of its opening and closure is deliciously satisfying.
Okay, enough fiddling with the thing. You need to see the gift!

The top layer is dark, shimmering silk. You pinch it delicately between your fingers. It feels like it could just slide out from between them, it's so soft and smooth…
You're positive now. This must be from the young lady. Perhaps her husband isn't satisfying her, and she's looking for someone young, earthy, and real…
You pull aside the first fold, then the next, imagining you're already undressing her, your fingers digging in to look for something hard, like a ring, or a pin… but it's just more fabric. A piece of something, a small garment of some kind… it feels like something a lady would wear.

Your fingers slide inside to cradle the fabric, and you lift it out gently. This isn't silk, it's another material… cotton, probably? It feels almost exactly like silk, though, very delicately woven. Satin, you reckon.
As you lift it up, a deep crimson silken pouch and two jet black straps tumble down and dangle. You realise you're pinching a thick strap of stretchy, elastic satin. The whole thing's satin, in fact… 
You're positive this isn't something a woman would wear; it's not like the lacy lingerie you've delivered to your soon-to-be paramour. 
As you examine the thing, turning it over, you feel a distinct sense you've seen something like this before.

Wait… is this a one of those 'jockey straps'? You've seen advertisements in the newspapers… including ones you've delivered on your courier routes. Supposedly, these are designed for 'protection' of a sort, for bike jockeys like you. Considering how sore you get down there after a long day of cycling on cobblestone and bumpy streets, the idea of this soft satin cradling and protecting your unmentionables sounds like heaven.
She must want you to wear this on your routes, have 'em on when you see her next… oh, this is getting better and better!

It's a good thing you're alone. You don't want any of those nosy fuckers seeing you smile like this. They'll know something's up.
You find your little round mirror, the one you use for grooming your face, and prop it up on the floor so it can look up at you.
As you wriggle out of your pants, you turn the jock over and over in your paws to get a better look at them.
There's little ribbons of red woven into the waist strap - at first, you think it's just the elastic, but the lines aren't quite straight. Nor are they sloppily done. They twist and turn in interesting little ways, like filigree on that fancy furniture you've seen at the big department stores. On the very front of it, just above the pouch, are a pair of curled lines that have little tributaries descending from them… sort of like two abstract wings.
You have to really squint to see them, though…

Is there anything else in the box? You pull out the remainder of the fabric inside it, and your hands rummage through every corner and cranny. The grain is well lacquered, painted to a smooth sheen. Is there a maker's mark or something in here? There has to be something…

Nope. Absolutely nothing at all on the bottom…

…Oh. There is something you missed. In the underside of the lid, delicately nestled into the scaffolding of it, is a little red card. It's not laminated or printed-on. This card is hand-dyed, and stained with golden ink that swoops dramatically all along the surface.

This was made just for you.
Please, do not wait to try it on.

You can't help but imagine this ink came from some thick-quilled fountain pen.. You can practically imagine your lady friend's delicate hand writing it as her husband snores ignorantly.

You've been standing around with your bits hanging out long enough. What are you waiting for?
You sit down on the thin blankets that pass for a bed, looking at yourself from the propped up mirror. Your fuzzy body's on display, legs spread wide. You crack a toothy grin at yourself, raise your eyebrows, practicing how you're going to greet your lady the next time you see her. Then you lift one leg and slide it through the huge hole. You assume the straps have to go beneath your ass cheeks.
The other leg goes through next. Already, even as you stretch and tug, you feel it trying to shrink back down. It hugs your calves, then your thighs, as you rock back and forth against the itchy blankets. You slow things down a little, letting the pouch come closer and closer to your meat basket like you're tempting your lady to it. Heh… all in due time.

When you slide it up around your hips, though…
…Wow.
It felt great in your hands, but this warm silk, the way it clings to you… it's almost like you're shrink-wrapped in it. It's tucked completely around you, the fabric going all the way to the base of your crotch and keeping everything contained in a tight package. You see the outline of your spicket in it… it's already a little bit hard, and even as you look at it you see it's throbbing a little.
Hey, it even kinda makes your cock look bigger, too. You've never worn tight undergarments - you'd always thought it was better to let it all breathe free, not keep it packed up like some pansy.
…Maybe the pansies were on to something.
You can't help but cop a feel of yourself. Your fingers slide to the base of the bulge, cupping your balls. They feel softer, warmer in your hands, than you can ever remember them feeling.
It's like you're discovering yourself for the first time again.
You look at yourself in the mirror. It's perfectly framed, just showing your stomach, your thighs, and you paw rummaging at the shimmering satin.
Your gaze goes from the real deal to the reflection. Your balls tingle and your rod twitches. But the jock never feels tighter. It just fits, perfectly. Almost like you could…
Just grip hold of your cock…
And thrust.
You close your eyes and try to picture her. Her hair un-done and splayed on the bed. Her fur matted. Her lipstick smudged. Moaning and crying out your name with each thrust.
This isn't masturbation. You're fucking the cloth. You're fucking your lady. Getting practice in…
Something coaxes your eyes open, back into the present. You're drawn to the mirror. To the reflection of your jock-wrapped cock, thrusting in, and out, towards the mirror, and away…

"What the hell's goin on in there?"
"Piss off!" You squawk. Fuck, were you making noise? Were you doing so while staring at your own spicket?! Fuck. Close your eyes again. Go back to her. Focus on the fantasy. Think about how good her cunt's gonna feel around your throbbing dick…! The silk feels warm, wet, almost like what the real thing must feel like… if you could close your eyes and just focus on her again…!

All you see is darkness. You can't stop focusing on the throbbing of your shaft, and the shimmer of the fabric…
The whole jock is hugging you now, the thick waistband pushes in and grasping your hips. Like someone's grabbed hold of your hips and is forcing you to thrust…
But you're still… in control… right?

You feel something dark creeping up your back. You feel a dark, feathered touch on your hips.
You open your eyes again, you look down at the mirror, you see the fabric is gleaming, and the wing shapes on the waistband are burning bright. You want to pull your hand away. Like it's a burning stove. But you can't. Your hand remains in its claw grip, and you keep thrusting, and thrusting, and…

You close your eyes again…
Why can't you see her, why can't you screw her, why can't you let go of your hand and cool off… save some of this energy…!
A chill rushes down your spine, and you open your eyes again. You're still thrusting. 
But night has fallen. The world is blue-grey. Save for the still glowing fabric pressing against your tired fingers…
And the gleaming violet eyes of the figure standing above you. 
A bird, jet black, with a curved beak, covered from shoulders to toes in a black cape with a red interior, shimmering just like your new outfit…
You'd heard rumours and rumblings. Some new parrot from out of town, taking lodging in a derelict old manor. Never went out, except at night. 

You'd laughed at the idea. Vampires. That was just a story to scare children who don't know the ways of the world, and need to be scared straight.

…you were a child. You didn't know. You will learn.
Even as rooted to the spot as you are, your cock still throbs. Your hips still thrust, but slower now, your body stiff like old putty. Your head is full of fog… which those gleaming purples and reds cut right through.
He leans closer to you, inspecting you. His eyes are the most beautiful, terrifying things you've ever seen - they grip your heart and your stomach, and the world twists and revolves around them.
You don't know if the expression frozen on your face is a fearful one, or an orgasmic one… but your face is paralysed in that death-mask.

"My gift becomes you, cyclist." His voice is low and hollow. His black foot-talons rest on your thigh. One of the claws caresses your cock, and your spasming throat keeps you from making a sound. Quiver quiver. Throb throb. So close to finishing, and yet… you know you'll never come again, not without this being's blessing.

"The garment you wear was made from deadstock left over my newest cape. Its enchantment has bound you to me."
The parrot's voice is a low, long drone. He speaks to you like a parent teaching an infant its first words. It's agonising. Terrifying. You feel so small. You realise how helpless you are. You're in the presence of something
"If you think this little scrap of it has such a powerful effect on you… imagine how exquisite it will feel when you are enrobed in it. Enrobed in me."
You want that. You want that so very much. You choke and plead, your throat unable to raise its voice - so no one can disturb your new Master, or save you.
"I have use for you, jockey. You will assist me in collecting what is mine from this hovel of a city."
You nod, your body drenched with fear and arousal You quiver beneath him, the satin hugging you closer.
You lean towards him. His wings widen, his cape opens… 
And you want to fall right into that oblivion, let him wrap you up, take you away, devour you…!
One
Agonising
Minute 
Passes.
Then he closes his cape, and glides away.
"Dusk has fallen. Dress, then come to me. I have many a task for you and your vehicle this night."
His movements are so slow, but his departure feels so sudden. He's there, then he glides, then he's dissolved into shadow. You stumble up to the open window, not minding the chill.

Out the window, you see the dark, shadowy shape of a vast wing. 
As you step out into the street, with your bicycle at the ready, the shadow recedes. As if beckoning you. The throbbing and squeezing between your legs leads the way. 
Even though you are cycling your way to the outskirts of the city, towards that manor on the hill… you feel as though you are flying.