Benny's Christmas Basket by janus znaiu
Benny Leduc was suddenly gripped by the need to handle them. All of them. It was test of pure will to just sit there and watch as they tumbled around in the dryer. Kaleidoscopic shifts of color and texture, tangles of sleeves and still-damp denim pantlegs, kept obscuring the purity of the white-- the wonderful, warm and supple white. The relentless clockwise rotation was just fast enough to foil his repeated inebriated attempts to focus on passing detail-- on bleached-out waistband logos, on stress-slackened pouch seams, on small tears and threadbare areas, on the million marks of personality briefs can bear. Benny knew he'd be able to recognize a single pair of his own from among an airplane hangar full of other peoples'. Clay's too, come to that. Clay occupied the other twin bed in the cramped bedroom of the off-campus walk-up they shared.
Clay. Clay's underwear. The thought of him, and especially the thought of Clay's briefs, directed Benny's hand, not to his plumping dick as it usually did, but to his parka's inside pocket and the flask of bargain brandy Clay had presented him with not two hours before. It had been a parting gift before Clay left to spend Christmas with his family near Houston. He'd been shy about giving it to Benny. Benny had been shy about accepting it.
Benny could have gone home several days before-- he hadn't had a class in nearly a week-- but he'd been stalling. Tomorrow, Sunday, would be the day before Christmas Eve. If he waited until the late train Monday afternoon, he'd arrive home just in time for midnight mass. He had very little self-esteem to spare this year, none of the thick skin needed to sustain the labored, artificial conviviality that holidays with his elderly parents always required of him. The near-certain threat of conflict suggested he plan to arrive late and leave early. He knew from Christmases past that between eggnog toasts to his much older siblings' fecundity and their financial successes, there'd be all the usual questions-- Questions about why his grades weren't better, why he dressed like a refugee, why he had to smoke those disgusting French cigarettes, why he never shaved anymore. Tempers would flare eventually and voices would get raised. If Benny rolled a seven this year, Christmas dinner would be finished in good time and he could be in and out of there in less than twenty-four hours.
He'd cracked the brandy's seal standing at the fogged-up window, watching as Clay's car pulled away for the short drive to the municipal airport. Bidding his roommate 'so long' with a silent, unseen toast, Benny a gulped a big mouthful, enough to make him shudder as the searing liquid went down. He liked a stray shot, but he was no drinker. And if he'd been in the mood for the mindless draught-pitcher banter that went with it, he'd have joined his friends-- owners of the clothes he'd been contemplating-- in the sports bar next door to the laundromat. More than usual, Benny craved his own company just then. Sensing this, his friends left him to his required-reading assignments under the stark, buzzing florescent lamps. Before spilling into the snow-choked streets for an impromptu snowball fight, they'd offered him several fistfuls of quarters and their boistrous gratitude. That laundromat was notorious for thefts.
Benny might have been no drinker, but he pulled the flask from his pocket and took another long draught from it anyway. He realized, when he replaced the cap, that he'd already managed to scoff back nearly a third of it, well over his two drink usual. "Hoo-hoo... better slow 'er down a bit, Ben," he said out loud. He looked around him, a little self-consciously, but the only other patron in the place had left some minutes before. Satisfied that he was quite alone and that could see anyone's approach through the plate glass windows, Benny decided to play with the acoustics of the narrow, high-ceilinged room.
He began to sing in a playground voice, octaves too low to be real: "I see England, I see France," he giggled musically. "I see Benny's UNDERPANTS!" he stood, arms spread, belting out the last words in toenail-curling tremolo, like some pissed-up Ethel Merman. He strolled the length of the checkerboard linoleum in front of the bank of dryers, palming his half-hard cock, still half-singing, half-reciting the nursery rhyme, like some private mantra. "...I see Benny's underpants. And I see Mike's, and Rob's, and Slavko's, and--" he stopped short. "Oh-oh, Ben', sounds like you're starting another one of those damn monologues of yours again..." .
Benny inspected his image in the cracked mirror over the sink. "Am I?" he asked it.
"You sure are, pal!" it spat back, "And try not to sing again."
"Piss off!" Benny told it, "This is a monologue!"
He marched to the nearest dryer. He held the door open for a few seconds until the tumbling ceased, then flung it wide open and reached a rummaging hand inside. Benny intoned earnestly as he sifted through the warm, Downy-scented clothing as if he'd suddenly been posessed by the ghost of Rod Serling, "Submitted for you approval, ladies and gentlemen, the sartorial distillate of one Mike MacNeil, would-be soccer star, and full-time, all-around cutie pie. Laundry basket du jour-- a provocative pasticcio of Polo-shirt knockoffs in various unseasonable pastels, many pairs of tube socks, formerly white and bought by the dozen from a street vendor, ubiquitous K-Mart denim, novelty, beer-label boxers and... but what's this? Can there actually be some quality cotton in this revolving discount bin?" He poked around a bit more.
"YAY-yass!" Benny shouted in tent-show preacher drawl, pulling his head out of the dryer and holding up a pair of whites like he'd found the Grail itself. "Praise Gawdawmighty! Brothahs and sistahs, we have FOUND-uh the MARK-uh of St. Stanfield!" He did a quick count. Five pairs. He'd never miss one. While Benny tucked the toasty briefs into his bookbag, while he contemplated his favorite memories of Mike's ample bulge, Barry Fitzgerald cut in: "Sure, and it's thankin' you oi am, Moickel, me lad. And a Happy, HAPPY Christmas to ye too!" He started up the dryer again and moved on to the next one.
"Ah! Here is clothes of Slavko," Benny observed in a serious Balkan baritone, "Lessee vot iss well-undressed man in Zagreb wearink..." This time he didn't wait for the tumbling to stop. He held the door slightly ajar, jabbed an arm inside and snatched out a pair of air-borne whites like a frog ensnaring a hapless passing fly. The burly dark Croat's seam lines always magnetized Benny's eye when he walked around in cotton sweatpants or those tight-assed European denims he wore. He always dressed to the left, Benny noted. Not that one would miss that-- from the front, Slavko always looked like someone attempting to shoplift a flashlight. "Calvins..." Benny observed, using his own voice, " ...figures." They went into the bookbag too.
Benny hesitated a moment before the next dryer. He smiled tenderly at the tumbling clothes for a long moment and then shook himself to clear his mind, pissed that he'd allowed himself to have That Memory in a public place, pissed that his dick boned so automatically to full hardness.
Rudely snapping his attention back to the here and now of the laundromat, Benny assumed a chipper game show voice, "Now, Jay, tell us what the lovely Carol Merril's pointing at behind Door Number Three... Well, Monty, behind Door Number Three we have..." he pulled the dryer door all the way open with a flourish, dipping into a leggy half-crouch with open palms upturned to indicate the settling tangle of toasted laundry to his imaginary audience, "ROB'S stuff!"
"Rob..." That Memory again. "Good Old Rob..." Benny trailed off reflectively. Again he shook himself. But this time, vestiges of That Memory remained, mostly a sense of profound randiness firmly welded to chagrin. "Good Old-- never-had-a-girlfriend-in-my-whole-life,-but-don't-ever-hit-on-me-again-- Rob." Benny put a verbal picture together, "Opie Taylor in hornrims, all grown up and gone to college. Never a zit, never a hint of body odor, every hair always trimmed and neatly in place and so aw-shucks nice it makes you horny just to be in the same room with him. Damn."
Benny spread the arms of a random rugby jersey and pantomimed animated conversation with it, as though Rob were wearing it. He draped one of the sleeves over his shoulder, stretched the other out as though he were dancing with it and addressed the air just above the open collar, "So, tell me Rob, you're the one guy in this little cousin-fucker town that ever set off all my lights and bells-- the only one I ever even considered laying a hand on. Why'd you have to turn me down that way? Why'd you let things get so fucking far along before you did? Huh?"
He waited a couple seconds. "Oh... The silent treatment again eh? Well, it worked that night alright. Hell, it's still working. I won't be seducing any more drunken farm boys any time soon, or sober ones either." He thought briefly of Clay. "I suppose I should be grateful you didn't punch me out or tell everyone. But I guess if you told somebody, you'd have to admit you were really getting into it for a while there. You were, weren't you?"
Benny shuddered slightly, then got businesslike, "Well, now it's time to pay up, bub. My bill for services partially-rendered? Um, lessee now. I'll take one of these and... one of these." He extracted two pairs of y-fronts from the mostly-underwear load. The first were brand new and blazingly white under the tube lights; the other, a bright red pair with a white waistband and seams. They bespoke prior carelessness with Clorox-- spots of near-white adorned the front from top to bottom, looking for all the world like shot-spots from a very generous and erratic wad. Appropriately, that was the pair Rob had been wearing the night he and Benny almost made out. They joined the others in Benny's bookbag.
By the time Benny was finished folding his laundry, the others' dryers had all stopped. He ducked into the bar to tell them their stuff was dry but opted to walk the three blocks home alone, despite the deepening snow, rather than ride home together in Slavko's mini-van. It wasn't because he didn't think the van could negotiate the rising tide of white. And it wasn't that he feared being found out. He wasn't feeling the slightest bit guilty about having liberated his friends' underwear. Whether they'd notice or not didn't enter his mind again once he left the laundromat. But the apartment would seem that much cozier if he suffered a bit of cold first, he decided. He'd packed his duffel bag carefully, making sure to put all the briefs, his own and the ones he'd lifted, in the very center of the load, wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. He hoped they'd still be warm when he got them home; in fact, he was counting on it.
A reeling drunk, Amani-clad under a wide-open trenchcoat, obviously a refugee from some nearby office Christmas party, met Benny in the street and offered him the meter-high tabletop Christmas tree he'd been carrying. It still held a string of lights and its stand remained fixed to the trunk, but most of its ornaments and tinsel had long-since fallen off. On impulse, tickled by the absurdity of it, Benny accepted it with a chuckle and tucked the miniature balsam under his arm.
He cranked up the heat before he'd even closed the apartment door behind him, turning the thermostat hard to the right without looking at the numbers. Hot was how he wanted it, as hot as he could make it. He played with the radio dial, hoping to find a station playing something tropical-- something Caribbean or maybe Polynesian, to synch with his euphoric glow. No such luck. He settled on the Ronnettes' "Frosty the Snowman" in favor of the suave seasonal mewlings of Tony Bennet. "Chipmunks roasting on an open fire..." Benny mocked.
He peeled off layers until he stood in only t-shirt, socks and briefs. The sliding full-length mirror that was the closet door showed a slim, sparsely goateed boy-man in wire-rimmed glasses, aroused, but not completely boned. His expanded dickhead formed a big round ball at the base of his jockeys' pouch, looking not unlike a larger third nut, but his shaft hadn't much stiffened yet. He smiled at himself, cocked a roguish eybrow and asked, "Buy you another drink, sailor?"
He poured brandy into a tumbler and dropped three ice cubes into it. The tinkling of ice and the seamless barrage of seasonal rock'n'roll chestnuts conspired to make Benny feel a little festive in spite of himself. He eyed the the kitchen table and the incongruous miniature Christmas tree that dominated it. He sprang out of his chair with a whoop, suddenly inspired.
"Rockin' around the Christmas tree...," Benny sang in a spirited duet with Brenda Lee. He didn't much expect the lights to work but was delighted when he inserted the plug to see them sparkle to life, their red-green glow casting a surreal light on the bowl of fruit beneath the tree.
Benny unzipped the duffel bag at his feet and retrieved his cache of skivvies. He cradled the warm, yielding bundle in a crooked arm and thrust his hand into the mass of tepid cotton. His cock responded involuntarily, blood flooded the shaft, causing his glans to surge and strain at the pouch of his Jockeys. Three more pulses filled his dick to rigidity and Benny found himself bending forward slightly at the waist lest his erection snap off at the root from being forced downwards so.
He reached into his briefs at the fly and withdrew his cock, noting the wetness the inner fabric left on the backs of his knuckles as he did so. That would be from precum generated back at the laundromat, he knew. His cock bobbed out before him, waving from side to side at the horizontal, like a pulsing blind eel sniffing the air for some trouble to get into. He gave his dick a few tugs, tasted the clear drop they elicited and abruptly hilted himself in the open end of the bag of warm briefs with a grunt and a lunging forward thrust. Surrounded by softness and sudden, voluptuous warmth, Benny's cock pitched erratically in the bag. For some moments he stood there humping it with his eyes squeezed shut, giving himself over to blind pleasure until the novelty of it was all used up.
He emptied the bag of whites onto the table where they too took on diffuse washes of color from the tree's lights. Benny picked up a pair of his own, a pair of past-their-prime, nearly-whites, and impulsively hung them off a branch of the tree; then another pair, and then another, until the tree resembled its luckier, snow-laden cousins outside. Several of the briefs partially obscured the lights and they glowed, eerily translucent. Finally, the only shorts that remained on the table were the four pairs Benny had stolen from his friends.
He held Slavko's Calvins at eye level and examined the rear panel wondering how so little soft, wrinkled fabric could fill out so voluptuously as they did when they held those meaty, Formerly-Yugoslavian orbs. Benny daubed a bit of preseminal fluid from the tip of his dick with the front of the pouch and held them close to his face. He grabbed a banana from the fruit basket and thrust it inside the Calvins, arranging the end of it to line up with the wet spot. "This is what it looks like when Slavko pops a leaker," Benny said to himself. The announcer on the radio droned on about it being the worst holiday storm in living memory. "The weather outside is frightful," Benny observed tunefully, as he carefully hung Slavko's Calvins on a branch so that the precum stain gleamed in green iridescence thanks to the lightbulb he tucked inside the pouch.
Mike's sturdy, no-nonsense Stanfields caught his attention next. The fly spread open naturally, as if it were used to a package that forced it that way all the time. He'd seen Mike like that once-- the time Mike nonchalantly changed out of his soccer shorts and into a pair of sweats, field-side after a pickup game-- a tuft of black pubes and a flash of Mike's thick, flaccid log had showed through the splayed opening. If someone said, "Mike" to Benny, that was the picture that sprang to his mind, not an image of Mike's compelling grin or his usual open, unaffected expession of benign curiosity. Playfully, Benny poked his tongue into the fly and briefly rimmed the edges of the opening before simulating fellatio on his thumb inside. He chuckled to himself. The inadequacy of his thumb to replicate his recollection of Mike's cock, even flaccid, was glaring enough, but Mike's utter inaccessibility put the idea of blowing him beyond fantasty. Benny gave his bag a pull and added the Stanfields to a bare spot on the tree.
That left Rob's white jockeys and the red pair with the bleach-spotted front. The whites held no special interest for Benny. They looked virginal, probably being washed for the first time, unworn, right out of the shrink-wrap. The waistband crimped naturally to the folds it'd had when it was in the package. It figured that Opie would want to be wearing crisp new drawers when he hit Mayberry for holidays. Except for the fact that they potentially might have, but for Benny's horny larceny, held Rob's jewels someday, they felt sterile in Benny's hands. He found a bare branch to dangle them from and stepped back to admire his work, knocking over a large houseplant and sending a shower of dry potting soil across the floor behind him. He caught his wavering reflection in the mirror, his dick still suspended in front of him, as if pointing at the underwear-festooned tree. His wavering gaze was caught by Clay's table hockey game leaning against the wall. As a finishing touch, he removed one flat, sheet-metal goalie and impaled it with the tree's central spike so that it surmounted it like some crouching, stick-wielding angel in a Detroit Red Wings uniform.
Benny hit the dimmer switch to lower the lights. He hummed a few bars of "O Tannenbaum" to himself as he picked up the red jockeys and settled into the easy chair with his drink. He took a long contemplative swallow watching the lights of the Christmas tree refracting through the bottom of his glass as he tipped it. He fiddled with Rob's briefs, began to finger his glans through a single layer of cotton. He couldn't help feeling a sharp pang of regret at the sight of them wrapped around his pole; not regret that he'd stolen them, regret that he'd had occasion to rub his dick against them that other time.
Sighing profoundly, he rubbed the outside of the pouch against the underside of his exposed, throbbing cock, his fingers held stiffened inside the jockeys, simulating the hardness of Rob's cock rubbing his as it had that night nearly a year before. That Memory flooded his brain again, but this time he revelled in it, allowed it to enfold him. He recalled Rob's luxurious pelvic thrusts against him, their lustful upward counterpoint to the fierce, circular dick-to-dick tango his own grinding hips were engaged in. Rob's urgent lunges had so contradicted the "no, we can't" he kept whispering in Benny's ear between bouts of panting. He'd never even gotten a hand inside Rob's drawers that night, but Benny had rubbed up against enough Opie-dick through them to know he'd missed out on plenty.
Benny knew he'd fucked it all up by kissing him. The lust he tried to convey by it was genuine enough, but he'd done it as much to silence Rob's protests as anything else. And for a second or two it seemed like Rob even meant to go along, but his tongue suddenly went limp and the pelvic thrusts ceased. Five minutes later Benny was back in his own apartment, his head pounding, his dick hard and needy, but his ego too bruised make the effort of jacking off seem worthwhile.
To help purge himself of the discomfiture he felt over that night, Benny shot up and stood in front of the mirror again. He stripped off his t-shirt and socks and watched himself jack his dick awhile, using the seat of the red jockeys like a glove. As the tension built in his loins and his involuntary pelvic thrusts increased in tempo, Benny closed his eyes in steamy recollection and nearly lost his balance. He caught himself and lightheartedly sat Rob's red briefs atop his head, chuckling to himself at how like a floppy elf's cap they looked. Using a paperclip, he gathered the waistband to form a proper hat out of them, tucking the sprig of fake holly that had decorated the brandy Clay had given him into the fly for a festive touch. Benny struck a skinny guy's version of a body builder pose in the mirror, pronounced himself "a studly gnome" and cracked up laughing. His sticky fingers and throbbing prick reminded him of the real business at hand.
There were two small closets in the place. Clay's was the one in the bedroom. That's the one Benny headed for, kicking his jockeys off as he went. They landed with a skid amid the spill of soil, soil Benny was tracking everywhere on his bare feet. Tomorrow would be soon enough to clean up, Benny thought to himself. Clay wouldn't be back until after New Year's in any case. Benny took a mental inventory. He knew Clay hadn't done any laundry prior to leaving. That meant three pairs of Clay's briefs would be waiting for Benny in the basket on the floor of his closet. Two of them Benny had already spent some quality time with; the third pair, the ones Clay had worn the day before, waited for him. He hoped they'd still be a bit damp from Clay's spill of the previous night.
It was less than a couple months into their co-tenency the previous autumn that Benny began to take more than a passing interest in Clay's drawers. As it turned out, they both liked to treat briefs as loungewear-- post-shower, before bed and on weekend mornings, and Benny was certainly intrigued by Clay's bulge in them, but Benny had only gotten fleeting, occasional glimpses of Clay's dick, usually on the pretext of getting something from the bathroom while Clay was showering. Grateful for the clear plastic shower curtain, he'd linger, trying to seem dispassionate, whenever Clay engaged him in offhand conversation. He'd try to maintain eye contact with his roommate, but whenever it seemed appropriate, when Clay was washing his face or shampooing with closed eyes, Benny would take longer, appreciating looks at Clay's dripping form. He discovered that by wearing a baseball cap, he could tip his head forward slightly and ogle to his heart's content without Clay being able to see what Benny was actually looking at.
Not much about Clay turned Benny on; Clay's body type-- pudgy, broad-shouldered and short-- was opposite to the trim, smooth guys he'd taken to fantasizing about. He couldn't imagine himself coming on to him for sex, yet Clay's cock, and the wad it produced nightly, fascinated Benny. Clay's flaccid dick was neatly cut and well-proportioned. It hung like a bell clapper, pushed upwards slightly by big, high-slung nuts. Afterward showering, Clay would never strut about naked like some of the crasser, though more appealing, straight boys who kept similar student digs in their 8-plex. Clay never failed to emerge from the bathroom in his whites, sporting a tame, but well-packed pouch.
One morning, hung-over and needing coffee more than he wanted a shower, Clay had treated Benny to a twenty minute demonstration of what a dick in semi-repose looks like in a pair of jockeys, absent-mindedly put on backwards. Clay had even unself-consciously grabbed himself from time to time as he recounted the tale of almost (but not) scoring with a waitress the previous evening. He'd let a ball escape and left it out, causing Benny no small amount of discomfort as his eye was repeatedly drawn to it. If Clay noticed, he didn't let on. Benny knew Clay had whipped a sublimated load into those briefs the night before, had heard him doing it. He'd seen, in the half-light, through the partially closed eyes of one feigning sleep, that Clay had spread his jockeys across his belly to catch his load, as he often did.
Benny sat the plastic laundry basket next to his roommate's hastily-made bed and settled against the headboard. He poured himself another drink and breathed Clay's scent from the pillow with closed eyes and deep inhalations. He revived the memory of the only time he'd only seen Clay's dick hard in good light. That was the first night he'd awakened to the sounds of Clay masturbating on the other bed, the night he discovered that Clay used his daily jockeys as his nightly cum rag. It didn't occur to him what he was hearing; the strained, wheezing groans coming from Clay's bed sounded more an asthma attack or the sounds one might make while in the throes of a nightmare. Benny reached over to the lamp on his bedside table and suddenly his half of the room lit up. There was a rustle of sheets as Clay shifted but he made no effort to cover himself beyond half-spreading his palm along his sticky prong; his dickhead and balls were still clearly visible. He was a little red-faced and sniggering like a schoolboy. In the few seconds that followed, Benny got a good look at Clay's splendid, glistening pole. His front, from his solar plexus south, was spackled with droplets of cum; the ones furthest away from the drooling glans were small and clear, the ones closest to it, larger, amoeba-shaped and pearly-white. A final, thick string of goo draped itself over the base of Clay's thumb and dangled over his pubic patch.
"I thought you were having a bad dream," Benny had muttered, trying to sound sleepier than he was, as if to reassure Clay that he was too out of it to be hip to what he'd been up to. Clay didn't require it.
His grin broadened, not out of embarrassment, but with the residual joy of a damned good spunking. "A great dream, actually, as dreams go," Clay's jockeys lay next to his ear. He yawned a post-orgasmic yawn. "Didn't mean to wake you," he said, blithely grabbing the briefs and wiping himself up with them, lifting the topsheet a little to make sure he got the jizz off his bag too. He tossed the briefs towards the foot of his bed and rolled over, his back to Benny. "G'night,"
Benny felt his dick surge to fullness in his own jockeys as he turned the light out again, "Yeah," he said uneasily, "g'night."
But it wasn't a good night for Benny. His erection wouldn't go away and he couldn't get back to sleep. When he heard Clay snoring quietly, he slow-jacked himself as quietly as possible, trying, unsuccessfully, to beat back the after-image of what he'd witnessed. It disturbed him how much he'd been turned on by it, how intensely it called up urges he'd thought he'd put away for good.
He got up to take a leak. While he pissed he memorized the exact location of Clay's cum-soaked drawers in the shaft of light that escaped the bathroom. He clicked off the light and scooped the jockeys up on his way back to his own bed. The sudden wetness in Benny's palm, the smeared vestiges of Clay's load, boned Benny right up.
Peering warily at Clay's sleeping form, Benny peeled his own jockeys off and lay Clay's briefs over his hardness. The cool moisture made his dick pitch beneath them. He gripped his turgid shaft through the fabric and gave it several pulls. Every few strokes he could feel cool wet against his balls, making them contract at the touch. He stooped jacking and pulled the briefs on. The cool wet spots seemed everywhere at once now-- on his ass, on the fronts of his thighs, up near the waistband even, where Benny's glans was trapped by the elastic. They seemed to him a bit looser than his own, slacker at the inner crotch and far more yielding in the butt.
Reaching in a leghole to grasp his bag, he bore down on his cloth-covered bulge with the flat of his palm and thrust upward to meet it, wriggling his butt for lateral friction. He'd have preferred to take his time, let his open, precum-smeared palm and belly coax a slow load as he so often did, but his need was too great. The build-up had been too prolonged and the feelings from wearing of Clay's underwear were too intense. He scarcely had time to grasp his bone inside the briefs. The warm, enveloping touch of his own hand set him off, but instead of spilling onto his belly or the bedsheets, his ooze escaped unseen. Unseen but felt: inside Clay's jockeys jizz drooled into the fullows between the clenched fingers of Benny's jacking fist, warmed the inside of his wrist and gathered in a suspended puddle in his pubic patch. Also unseen, but sensed, was the blending of male essences. A secret bonding.
Gingerly, wincing at the cracking of his toe knuckles lest they wake Clay up, Benny had padded over to the foot of Clay's bed before reluctantly removing the sticky briefs. He dropped them at the spot they'd occupied when Clay tossed them. He made his way back to his bed, purged and strangely at peace.
The next night, sure of what he wanted now, and who he wanted it with, Benny took it into his head to seduce the less-than-sober Rob. When that proved a disaster, one that left him anxious for days that Rob might tell someone, he began to direct all his sexual energy towards Clay's underwear, wanking with them whenever Clay was out and he was home. He'd even cut classes, knowing that Clay would be at some lecture and that there was a fresh load waiting for him atop Clay's laundry. That's about how life had been for Benny for more than a year. He would lay awake, feigning sleep. He'd finger himself while Clay beat off, sometimes trying to watch, but mostly not bothering, lest his position deter Clay from masturbating. Then he'd wait for Clay to fall asleep and then tiptoe over to retrieve the cum-soaked briefs.
Lately he'd taken to putting Clay's drawers into his mouth, draping them over his face as he jacked, smelling the bleachy scent of Clay's issue, tasting the sweet and the salt of it, grunting as he messed into a second pair of his roommate's jockeys snatched from Clay's laundry basket. But he always took great care to replace Clay's underwear as near to where he found them as possible. Except for the addition of his spit and jizz, Benny wanted everything to be the same. His future happiness depended on tidying up all the loose ends.
Benny watched the huge, clustered snowflakes fall for a while. Whimsically, he wrote: "I love Clay's spooge!" in the condensation on the window, using a picture of a heart to represent "love". For once he could put the the worry of loose ends on hold and nod out after he came; and a good thing too, because he was about as drunk as he'd ever been. Cleaning up was quite beyond him. He swirled the remains of his ice around in the glass. Fearing another "accident" along the lines of his unfortunate encounter with the houseplant, Benny decided he didn't need to get more ice, and splashed the last of the brandy over it.
"Bottom of the fifth!" Benny called out like a sportscaster, "and Benjamin 'Batman' Leduc is most definitely UP!" He pantomimed hitting one out of the park, using his pecker as a bat. "The pitcher's scratching his mound," He tickled his nuts. "and were're at two balls and no strikes-- yet. Batter up, Benny-boy!"
Benny leapt from the bed with the most recent pair of Clay's jockeys in his hand. He tried to put them on, standing next to the bed, but thought the better of it when it became apparent, after two or three attempts, that he couldn't stand on one leg for more than a second without toppling over. He gave in to gravity with a great creaking of bedpsrings and pulled the briefs on lying on his back atop Clay's quilt. The clanking radiators made the tiny apartment stuffy and hot, but tht was fine with Benny. Beads of his sweat formed thin rivulets that trickled down his side and into the quilt. Another blending of essences, Benny thought to himself; the dampness and his body's heat brought Clay's scent to his nose in a heavy, palpable vapor.
It turned out Clay's drawers weren't damp after all. They felt neutral under Benny's roaming palms at first. Then the tender underside of his dick encountered the crustiness of dried spunk and it gave a fresh surge. The stark overhead light cast a shadow along the length of dick, accentuating the flare of his glans. Benny squeezed and milked his cock until he could see his precum begin to seep through the stressed cotton near the waistband.
He felt himself falling, or rather, floating aimlessly on a cloud of euphoria, and suddenly very tired. He shook some life into both his heads and tucked the elastic of Clay's briefs behind his heat-slackened balls. He spit into his palm and applied it to his upstanding bone while he spit into the other, alternating hands until he was turgid and slippery-wet. One hand made a tight circle with thumb and forefinger, clamping his dick at the base. The other formed a fist behind the ridge of his glans and Benny began the long strokes. Normally he'd have begun slowly, tried to make it last, but even as he wanked the fog began to drift back in, calling him to sleep. He tugged ever harder, ever faster, until his hips joined in. As the crescendo built, he began to jack-knife upwards, fucking empty air in a flurry of nut-rattling wanking. "Clay's cock!" he whispered to himself as he always did when the contractions began. "Clay's cock!" he gasped sporadically, panting between repetitions. Louder now, sure of his privacy, "CLAY'S COCK!" He almost shouted it when the tension hit its apogee. Then, removing his hands, he let his twitching pole direct the shots where it would, shots that sprinkled him from breast to breast to navel.
"Clay's cock..." Benny whimpered as the he smeared the remains of his load into the front of Clay's underwear. From the other room, Elvis was moaning about how it was going to be "a blue Christmas without you".
Benny's wondered at what a mess he must look. Sprawled nearly-naked on his Clay's bed, dripping goo, wearing a spunky pair of his drawers. The festive fool's cap he'd fashioned out of Rob's red jockeys still sat askew atop his head. Clay's laundry lay strewn about, the basket kicked over. A little rill of spittle drained from the corner of Benny's half-open grin. As he drifted further into oblivion he flashed on the carnage of the other room, saw it all in drunken, X-ray panavision. Framed by the open doorway-- the last thing Benny saw while his eyes were still open and focussing-- was that goofy underwear-covered Christmas tree twinkling Benny a red and green goodnight.
Groggy from the brandy and bled by the intensity of his recent orgasm, Benny decided to let the machine answer the phone when the ringing awakened him only a few minutes later. The radio was still on and its holiday din obscured the sound of the incoming message. "Fuggit," he muttered, absently smearing a blob of cum across his thigh as he settled himself, spreadeagled, atop Clay's bed. If he'd thought to pay closer attention to the message, this is what he'd have heard:
"Benny-dude! Pick up, man!" Pause. "Okay, you must still be doin' laundry. Anyway, all the flights out have been cancelled on account of all the snow. If I follow the plow into town, I oughta be home in about twenty minutes. Maybe we'll put a dent into that brandy! See ya soon..."
END
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