Broken and Boned Surviving on Short Notice chapter 6 by deleted_user

You decide to crawl inside the underwear.

The elastic waistband of Ben's boxers looms like a cavernous overhang, stretched taut over his hips. You hesitate for a split second, the humid warmth wafting out carrying a musky tang that makes your eyes water, but desperation pushes you forward. Gripping the frayed edge with trembling fingers, you haul yourself up and over, tumbling into the dim, sweltering confines. The fabric inside is a tangled jungle of coarse hairs and damp cotton, clinging to your skin like a second layer of sweat-soaked prison. Ben shifts in his sleep, a low rumble escaping his throat, and his thigh muscle flexes beneath you, nearly flinging you deeper into the pouch.

You land against the soft, yielding mass of his ballsack, the skin there loose and wrinkled, radiating heat like a furnace. Each breath Ben takes causes the scrotum to rise and fall gently, smothering you in its weight. You push against it, trying to climb higher toward his waistband for a better vantage, but the surface is slick with overnight perspiration, your hands slipping on the salty film. A faint twitch runs through the flesh—Ben dreaming, perhaps—and the balls contract slightly, squeezing you between them like a vice. Pain shoots through your ribs as you're compressed, the coarse pubic hairs scraping your face raw.

Hours drag by in the oppressive darkness. Ben rolls onto his side, and you slide downward, wedged now against the base of his flaccid cock. The shaft rests heavy and thick against your body, its veined length pulsing faintly with his heartbeat. You pound on it with your fists, yelling into the void, but your cries are muffled by the enclosing fabric. Instead of waking him, your struggles only irritate the sensitive skin; the cock twitches again, hardening just a fraction in response to the stimulation. Pre-cum beads at the slit, a warm droplet oozing down to soak your legs, sticky and viscous, gluing you in place.

As dawn breaks, Ben stirs. He scratches absently at his crotch, massive fingers delving into the waistband and brushing over you like wrecking balls. You dodge one digit, but it grazes your arm, nearly crushing it against the hardening shaft. He yawns, oblivious, and swings his legs out of bed. The sudden motion jars you loose, sending you tumbling along the length of his cock as he stands. Gravity pulls you toward the head, where the foreskin partially retracts, exposing the glans smeared with smegma. The cheesy buildup coats your hands as you claw for purchase, the acrid stench burning your nostrils.

Ben doesn't bother showering. He tugs on a pair of loose jeans over his boxers, the denim pressing everything tighter. You scream as the fabric cinches, trapping you fully against the underside of his cock, the seam of his pants grinding into your back with every step he takes downstairs. Breakfast is a blur of vibrations: his fork clinking against a bowl, his laughter at something on his phone. Each chew sends tremors through his body, jostling you against the swelling warmth. A fart rumbles from deeper in his groin, the hot gas blasting over you, reeking of last night's pizza.

He grabs his backpack and heads out, the walk to school a gauntlet of jolts. Ben's stride is lazy, hips swaying, which rubs you relentlessly along the frenulum. The friction chafes your skin raw, the cock semi-erect from morning wood that hasn't fully subsided. Sweat builds quickly in the enclosed space, mixing with the pre-cum to form a slimy lubricant that slicks every movement. You try to wedge yourself into a fold of skin for stability, but it only buries you deeper, the balls slapping against your head with each footfall.

First period drags eternally. Ben slouches in his desk, legs spread wide under the table. The classroom hums with bored chatter, but for you, it's a pressure cooker. He fidgets, crossing and uncrossing his ankles, which shifts his package and crushes you repeatedly against the desk leg. A bead of sweat trickles down from his belly, pooling around you and drowning your mouth in salty bitterness. You gasp for air, pounding futilely on the throbbing vein beneath you. Ben adjusts himself mid-lecture, his hand palming the bulge and squishing you flat for a heart-stopping moment. Bones creak under the force, but you survive, battered and bruised.

Lunch brings no relief. He wolfs down a burger in the cafeteria, grease from his fingers transferring to his crotch when he wipes his hands on his jeans. The oily residue seeps through, coating you in a greasy film that makes every slide more torturous. Around him, friends joke and shove, but Ben's attention wanders to a girl across the table—her tight shirt hugging her curves. His cock stirs, thickening against your chest, the head flaring as blood rushes in. You feel it first as a subtle swell, then a monstrous expansion, the shaft engorging to full erection in seconds.

Panic surges through you. 'No, stop!' you shout, but it's useless. The boner tents his pants, the rigid length pinning you immobile against the unyielding cotton. Ben shifts uncomfortably, trying to hide it by crossing his legs, but the motion only grinds you harder into the pulsating flesh. The glans balloons, pre-cum surging in thick ropes that flood your face, choking you as it forces its way into your lungs. You thrash, but the cock's girth crushes your arms, snapping them like dry branches.

He excuses himself to the bathroom, hand pressing down to conceal the bulge, each step hammering you like a piston. In the stall, he doesn't relieve it—too embarrassed, perhaps—and instead tugs at the waistband, inadvertently shoving you deeper into the sweaty crevice where cock meets balls. The pressure builds unbearably as the erection throbs, veins bulging like ropes that constrict your torso. Ribs crack one by one, puncturing lungs that fill with blood and semen.

Back in class, Ben squirms, the unrelenting hard-on refusing to fade. His thigh muscles tense, squeezing the package tighter. You feel your spine bend, vertebrae grinding as the cock pulses with frustrated need. A final, massive twitch—Ben clenching to suppress a groan—and the shaft convulses, slamming down with crushing force. Your pelvis shatters, legs pulped into the scrotum's wrinkled folds. Blood sprays from your mouth, mixing with the endless drip of pre. The head flares one last time, the slit gaping as if to swallow you whole, and in that instant, the full weight of his arousal compresses you into oblivion—skull caving, body bursting under the oblivious, raging erection.

Ben winces at the odd sensation, a faint wet spot forming on his boxers, but he dismisses it as sweat. He zips up his backpack at the end of the day, the tiny red stain lost in the grime of his unwashed laundry, your tragic end reduced to just another unnoticed mess in his chaotic life...