Page 13 of Glitter

Chapter 13

The sun was still only a soft brush, painting the sheets and my angel’s exposed leg with gentle, golden strokes when a staccato knock tapped on his door and a loud, chipper voice called out “Rise and shine, Dusti-socks! Sun’s out. Time for little boys to be up and about!”

Two things then happened at once.

First, the door swung open, revealing a short, trim woman, with a tumble of gold curls, wearing a fluffy, pink bathrobe and poofy, pink slippers with, honest-to-goodness, bunny ears. The owner of the cheerful, feminine voice, I assumed.

And two…

My angel flat-out shrieked the word “Mom!” and then flailed with his sheets before rolling out from under them and tumbling onto the floor in a flash of pale, bare limbs.

It was almost too bad that he’d removed his stockings, when we’d taken separate trips to the bathroom, to clean up and, er, do necessary bathroom things between rounds 2 and 3. Not that I didn’t appreciate having him finally be completely naked, which I did. A lot. Something I’d fervently expressed to him while he’d been lying on top of me and rutting our hard cocks together until we both came for the third time.

But the stockings, as negligible as their ability to provide much coverage was, having them still on would’ve meant that my angel wasn’t caught as naked as the day he was born during the arrival of an unexpected guest.

Thankfully, he hadn’t taken the sheets with him. That would’ve left me laying in his bed, without a single stitch of clothing on and all of my hairy, chonky…everything right out in the open. Which would’ve been fucking awkward. And embarrassing.

Okay, fine. It was still awkward and embarrassing, even though I had the barrier of a sheet hiding my total nakedness from view. Not much I could do about that, though. So, I did the only thing I could think to do—I tentatively waved hello to the woman who was, apparently, my angel’s mother.

“Oh, hello, dear,” she replied, briefly waving back at me. “I didn’t know my little Dusti-socks had company. Not to fret, I have plenty of food made up if you’d like to join us in the big house for breakfast. We usually all have Sunday breakfast together—me, my little Dusti, and Dusti’s father, Dave. A big pile of pancakes and our happily little family of—”

“Mom! Really, that’s…” Cutting off his mother’s joyful rambling, my angel popped off the floor, standing on the far side of the bed. He’d managed to locate my discarded t-shirt and he’d pulled it on, the too-large-on-him garment adequately covering most of his nakedness. “Enough, mom,” he said, clutching one of the loose, draping folds of cotton in his hands. “Can’t you see… I have… I have… I’m not alone , Mom.”

“Yes, I see that,” she replied, cocking her head and sending her loose, blonde curls tumbling in a way that was endearingly similar to his. “I did extend an invitation to…to…your friend …to join us for breakfast. You know I’m not blind, you know. Or rude.”

It made me wonder if, underneath the pink dye, his hair was also blond. I wouldn’t have thought so, not with as dark as his eyebrows were. His neatly clipped pubes were also dark, as was the sparse scattering of hair elsewhere on his body.

Turning her attention to me, she said, “I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind me calling you Dusti’s friend. I would’ve used your name, except… someone hasn’t bothered to tell me what it is.”

Her last statement was clearly aimed at her son. The only problem was he didn’t know my name, which meant he wouldn’t be able to provide it in response to her pointed comment. Not wanting him to have to admit that, or for him to repeat, and in front of his mother , for fuck’s sake, that he didn’t care what my name was, I went ahead and supplied it for her.

“Benny. My name is Benny Michalski,” I said. Then I quickly corrected myself, recalling that I was trying to get away from that rather juvenile form of my name. “Er, Ben, that is. Ben Michalski.”

“Well, Ben ,” his mother said, emphasizing the amended version of my name. “My name is Dana. Dana Sprague. I’m this one’s mom, since he’s still being impolite and not performing any sort of introduction.”

“Mom!” he protested, sounding about twelve-years-old, which I think a lot of us tend to do when we butt heads with our parents. “I am… F uhh— ” His eyes got really big and panic flashed across his face at the profanity that almost came out of his mouth, before he recovered and finished out the word as the more innocuous-sounding appliance. “ Fridge .” His voice was still on the squeaky end as he continued his objection. “I’m practically naked here, Mom. Now is not the time!”

His mom, Dana, waved away his outrage, verbally and physically, lazily flicking her hand in the air. “Nonsense,” she said. “It’s always the time to properly meet new people.” Rotating her hand to point at him, Dana drew an imaginary line in the air, up and down the length of her son’s t-shirt-clad torso. “But don’t think I’m going to forget about this, Dusti. You and I will be discussing…whatever this is…later. Don’t think we won’t.”

The threat wasn’t very, er, threatening. At least, it didn’t sound so to me. Dana sounded too gleeful about getting to try pry details about her son’s activities out of him to really sound scary. He, however, groaned as though the prospect was one of the worst things that could ever happen in the history of the world.

“ Uuuungh . Fine. Whatever, Mom. Can you just… Could you just…go? Now?”

Unfazed by her son’s petulance, Dana smiled brightly and repeated her earlier invitation. “Now, don’t forget. Breakfast. The big house. Pancakes .” She practically sang the word. Turning to leave the same way she’d come, Dana added, “Maybe put some pants on first, though, Dusti and Ben. Wouldn’t want any syrup drips getting anywhere it shouldn’t.”

The volume of her trilling laughter fought for dominance over the loud, drawn-out sound of his—Dusti’s—groan. While I…I turned to look at my angel to see what came next.

“Sooo…” Fidgeting with the shirt he’d thrown on—my shirt—he flicked a quick look at me, then looked back down at his fingers, rolling and twisting the fabric and making it even more wrinkled than it had been. “That was my mom. Obviously.”

He seemed uncertain and nervous in a way I’d never seen him before. It was…well, it was cute. Fuck was he cute like this. I was used to me being all awkward and bumbling; it was nice to see him so similarly afflicted.

It made him seem…more human. More approachable. More achievable.

Like maybe it wasn’t so far out of the realm of possibility that somebody like him could be interested in somebody like me. That we weren’t so different after all.

I hated when others made a big deal about when I act and talk like an idiot, so I just pleasantly stated, “Yep. She seems nice.”

“Yeah, so nice,” he muttered sarcastically.

A moment of awkward, expectant silence fell between us. Then, he burst into motion, pacing back and forth across the small open area of his bedroom. Each stride, and each jerky turn to change direction and go back the other way, caused the hem of the borrowed t-shirt to flutter and flap against the tops of his thighs.

It probably wasn’t the appropriate time for me to ogle every sneaky flash, showing the narrowest sliver of the bottom curve of his ass, but fuck if I couldn’t help myself.

“Fuck, I can’t believe… Well, no, I can believe she just…she just…” Now his arms had gotten in on the action, waving and flailing in the air as he continued to pace, a rapid jumble of words spilling from his mouth. “She just…burst on in here. Ugh. Mom. And now…and now… Damn it all. Now you know just what sort of a loser I am. Because, yep. I still live with my parents. My landlords…my landlords… You know those landlords I told you about, the ones I told you to avoid at all costs?”

It took me a second to realize that his question was directed at me. Once I did, I murmured a wordless sound of acknowledgement.

He took that sound as the signal I’d meant it to be and continued his irritated outpouring. “Well, surprise,” he said. “Those landlords are my parents. Yep, my parents. After I graduated high school and it became clear that I had no interest in going to college, my parents decided that it would be financially beneficial for all of us if they built this mini-house in their backyard and rented it to me at a stupidly low rate. And not just financially beneficial…it would be convenient, too,” he added. “Because we could regularly all carpool to work, too. You see, I’m not just a loser who lives in his parents’ backyard. Nope. I’m a loser who also works for his parents. Lucky fucking me.”

He studiously avoided looking at me as he crossed his arms over his chest. This caused the shirt to bunch up unevenly in the front, showing not only the very top of one thigh, but also the tantalizing crease of where his leg met his groin as well as the bony, angular knob of his hip.

I could tell he was waiting for me to say something about the information he’d just spewed out. Probably something negative, if his tense body posture was any indication. But I didn’t care about what he’d revealed. Well…I cared. It just didn’t bother me. None of it. Why would it? So, he lived and worked with his parents. So what?

“None of that makes you a loser,” I said, keeping my voice as neutral as I could. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was patronizing him. Or unsubtly masking pity that I didn’t actually feel. “If working at a job that isn’t your dream job and living in something less than your dream house makes you a loser, then so am I. Heck, at least you have your own space,” I commented, adding, “I’m in an apartment I share with a roommate that I found through a flyer someone had posted up in the breakroom at work. He doesn’t even work there; I think he had a friend put it up for him. And in almost 2 years, I think we’ve only said about a dozen or so words to each other that weren’t about whose turn it was to take out the trash or buy toilet paper.”

His stance slowly relaxed, his arms uncrossing. My t-shirt that he’d borrowed fell back into place and while I did miss the extra bit of my angel that he’d unintentionally flashed, it was worth it if it meant he was less anxious.

“You’re not… Do you mean it?” he asked, his eyes flitting over briefly to judge for himself how truthful I was being. They then dropped back down to watch his fingers pinch and twiddle with the bottom hem of the shirt.

I’m glad he didn’t spell out exactly what he wanted to verify; I hated that he’d used the word loser in conjunction with anything that had to do with him and was relieved that he hadn’t uttered the word again.

“Of course,” I replied, shrugging as if to indicate that it should’ve been obvious. Then to make sure this subject got thoroughly dropped, I circled back around to some other bit of information his mom had dropped and that I couldn’t help immediately cataloguing. “So… ‘Dusti-socks’? What, uh… That is what your mom called you…right?”

As soon as he heard me say that nickname, he flushed a bright magenta that oddly clashed with the softer pink of his hair.

Spluttering, he managed to squeak out, “Oh, s-shit. You… You… Oh my gawd . No. Just… no . I will…I will… I will pay you with all the money I can rob from a bank…if you never—I mean ever —say, or even think of, that horrible, horrible… embarrassing name. Ever again.”

“But that is—”

He cut me off by forcefully raising one hand in the air, palm up, toward me. The other hand he used to cover as much of his, still bright pink, face as he could.

“Never again. I mean it,” he said, his voice strained and garbled with obvious embarrassment and muted by his hand. I waited patiently for him to say something else, and was rewarded when, after a long moment, he dropped his hand away from his face, stating, “Yes. You heard what you heard. It’s a long story. Stemming from when I was super little and, apparently, had the interesting habit of shucking off my clothing and running around the house in only my socks.”

His flush had been finally receding, but it resurged when my eyebrows hiked up nearly to my hairline. I felt bad about re-embarrassing him, but I couldn’t help it. The notion of a tiny version of my angel streaking through the house in only his socks was adorable.

The memory of him doing practically the same thing last night—a sexier, more adult-rated version, of course—had my dick swelling.

My morning wood had, obviously, deflated spectacularly at the unexpected company of his mother, but now it was back and contemplating whether a round 4 might be on offer.

“So, anyway… My folks’ reaction of ‘Oh, look. There goes Dusti in only his socks again’ was soon shorted by my mom to only ‘Dusti-socks.’” His short huff of laughter didn’t contain much humor in it, as he added, “More than 20 years later and she’s still calling me that. In front of everyone. Including, well…” He waved his hand my way.

I smiled at him; I was helpless to do anything else. “It’s cute,” I said. Thinking that the way he crinkled his faintly freckled nose was also cute, but that I didn’t say out loud. “So…Dusti?” I asked, wanting his confirmation. Not only that that was his name, but that he was now okay with me knowing it. Since he was the one who hadn’t wanted to swap names and he wasn’t the one who’d given out the information now.

“Yeah. Dusti. Short for Dustin, but, like, nobody calls me that.” A lazy, single shoulder shrug accompanied his words. The movement, and the quiet acceptance in his voice, indicated that denying it or fighting about the name-sharing thing wasn’t worth quibbling over. “And you’re…Benny? Ben?” His mouth pursed as though he’d tasted something sour as he spoke the shortened version of my name.

Even though I’ve been trying to get people to use that form of my name for years, after I decided that being called Benny seemed kind of juvenile for somebody who’d hit their mid-20s, it’s never really stuck. I guessed something about me just seemed more like a Benny than a Ben.

But even if it had stuck and everyone else in my life were to refer to me as Ben…I liked the way the name Benny looked and sounded on my angel’s— Dusti’s —lips.

Which was why I told him, “Benny. You can call me Benny.”

“Alright. Benny .”

His lips turned up in a small, sweet, genuine smile. Fuck, I loved those genuine smiles. The teasing, sassy, smirky, sultry ones were nice, don’t get me wrong. But fuck. Those real smiles of his. They made me want to dance, and sing, and skip, and leap tall buildings, and…basically everything I couldn’t, or shouldn’t, do, unless I wanted to risk hurting myself.

He sighed, sounding resigned, and I braced myself for what he’d say next. However, all he said was, “I guess…now that we know each other’s names, it’d be silly to pretend we didn’t or go back to not using them.”

I watched him, waiting. But again, while he didn’t seem overly happy about this evolution in our interactions, he didn’t seem upset or angry. And he wasn’t kicking me out and telling me he never wanted to see or hear from me again. So, I’d have to take his subdued acceptance as a win.

I was thrilled. Not that I minded thinking of him as my angel. But it was embarrassing that I’d accidentally called him that sappy nickname a couple of times, especially as, one of these times, he was probably going to notice and… Say something? Do something?

This was a man who clearly had only been looking for something casual. This was only the first time we’d had sex somewhere other than a public bathroom. And I’d only just now learned his name—and that wasn’t even his doing. I couldn’t imagine he’d be ecstatic that I’ve been thinking of him with such a schmoopy, sweet, adoring endearment.

So, I tried to tone down my happiness at getting to use his actual name as I said, “Okay. Whatever you want. Dusti .”

The wide flaring of his eyes as he side-eyed me said that I might not have been as successful as I would’ve liked at hiding my excitement.

“Right. Well.”

I forgot trying to hide anything as Dusti gripped the hem of my t-shirt and stripped it off over his head. But my elation that this was leading where I hoped it was, was dashed as Dusti commented, “You’re going to need that,” tossing the shirt in my direction. He moved toward the half-open door of his closet, yanking it all of the way open as he said, “We need to get dressed.”

Did I groan?

I must’ve made some sort of noise of disappointment because he added, “If you think Mom isn’t going to pop her curious, nosy self back over here if we don’t show up at the big house for pancakes within the next 5 minutes or so, you should think again. Because she will. And I’d really like for both of us to have some sort of clothing on before I subject you to her again.”

He rummaged around in his closet for a bit before snagging what looked like a short, sleeveless shirt and a pair of loose, flowy pants. Since Dusti had so generously given me back my shirt, I pulled it on then swung my legs over the side of the bed so that I could hunt down my pants and underwear. It felt odd to be putting on last night’s clothes to go have breakfast with my…Dusti’s parents, but I knew none of his clothing would fit me. We might be roughly the same height, but he was willowy and lean. And I…was neither of those things.

“And Dad.” I barely caught Dusti’s mutter, muffled by his shirt as he pulled it on. “Really should have pants on before you meet Dad.”

I’m not sure if he was referring to me or himself. I gulped as the magnitude of the situation really started to sink in. I was about to officially meet Dusti’s parents. Both of them. The morning after having had sex with their son. Three times. And that’s obviously not counting the previous times we’d had sex.

Yep. I agreed. Both. Both of us should have pants on for this.