From: janus@greynet.net (janus znaiu)
Subject: Story:  Benny's Christmas Basket (M?M; masturbation; underwear)
Date: Sun, 25 Jan 1998 08:39:51 GMT

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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