Trapped in a Small Space

Their parents have teamed up on another gay-ass group vacation that reminds Kyle all too much of Aspen; the elevator door is almost closed when he hears huffing, and then it creaks open again to reveal a pajama-clad Cartman, carrying his mom's purse.

Kyle snickers. "You want to tell us something, Cartman?"

"Shut up, dicklick," Cartman fires back. He steps into the elevator and starts to press the "Lobby" button that is already lit, but Mrs. Cartman's bag slides heavily down his arm, and he nudges "3" instead. "Damn it," he mutters, and then starts depressing all of the levels.

"You asshole!" Kyle barks. "We're on the 12th floor! It's going to take forever to get all the way down, now!" He's told himself that he's going to get through this spring break without wishing violence on anyone, but it's only the first night, and he's already losing his resolve. He stands as far away from Cartman as he can, arms folded, glaring at the reflective paneling in front of him.

Cartman rolls his eyes; he's never been good at being cold-shouldered. "Fi~ine," he says melodramatically, "I'll undo it." He re-presses all the buttons, to no avail.

"That's not going to help," Kyle retorts, still staring straight ahead.

Cartman begins hitting the buttons at random, and then holding them down, first selectively, and then in pairs and threes. "Damn it, come on!" he yells, and leans his whole body weight on the panel.

"Uh, Cartman ..." Kyle's voice is suddenly tinged with concern. The elevator lurches, shudders, and then stops. The doors do not open.

"What? What is that?" Cartman is deadpan.

"We're locked in. You happy now?" Kyle says bitterly. He stamps his foot, realizing the futility of it but frustrated all the same. "God, you always do this!"

"That's funny, I don't recall being stuck in an elevator with you before," Cartman frowns.

"You know what I mean." Kyle makes an unfriendly gesture. "You always have to make a bad situation worse!"

Cartman's interest has been piqued. "What exactly were you doing before I got here?"

"Nothing," Kyle squirms, but Cartman is way too perceptive for that. Knowing that sharing a small space with Cartman could get much, much worse, Kyle sighs: "I forgot my ergonomic pillow at home. I have a really hard time sleeping without one."

Cartman blinks. "You are such a Jew," he remarks.

"Piss off," Kyle snarls, albeit half-heartedly. He studies the console a bit, and then hits the red "emergency" button. "Everyone's probably gone to bed," he murmurs, and tries not to panic. He wishes he'd thought to bring his inhaler.

Cartman slides down the wall into a splayed sitting position and yawns. "Don't get your panties in a twist," he tells Kyle lightly. "They have to get us out, or your dad will sue this crappy hotel for everything it's worth."

Kyle bites his lip. "You know," he says slowly, "That's the first time one of your stereotypes hasn't made me want to punch you in the balls." Cartman doesn't respond. Kyle leans against the wall opposite and releases a long breath. "I guess this isn't the worst thing in the world," he admits reluctantly.

Cartman lets out a loud fart.

"Ugh, I spoke too soon." Kyle tugs his flannel pajama shirt up over his nose. "I hate you so much, Cartman."

Two hours later, Kyle is curled on his side in the elevator shaft, uncomfortably trying to nap. The initial crick in his neck is still there, and Cartman is hogging most of the floor space, his head lolling back, snoring sloppily. "Fat ass," Kyle mumbles.

A few minutes pass. Kyle hears Cartman murmur something. "What was that?" he asks - no answer. Lucky bastard has probably managed to fall asleep. Kyle tries anew to doze off, but the noise persists. "Cartman?" he calls, rousing his sore muscles into a sitting position. "Cartman, what is it?"

The other boy's response is to shift slightly; his hand is rather precariously poised on his lap, but Kyle tries not to notice. "Mmmkyyy ..." Cartman seems to moan, his hand inching ever closer to his private area. Then, it's readily apparent who he's dreaming of: "Ky~yle ..."

"Cartman, wake up!" Kyle is fully disturbed now, and awake himself, but Cartman pays him no mind. Suddenly, he's palming his crotch, legs spread unabashedly, and Kyle has to scoot against the far wall to avoid touching his ankle. He realizes Cartman never told him what he was doing with his mom's purse. Suddenly, Kyle realizes that his train of thought may help to free them; gingerly, he tries to wrest the bag out of Cartman's grip, which is now fully concentrated on pulling his pud - over him, apparently. "M-more, Kyle ... yeesssss ..." Cartman moans.

Kyle sighs disgustedly and gives up on trying to be gentle. He's naturally polite, but realizes that there is no reason for him to be trying to make Cartman's public masturbation session any more comfortable for him; that in fact, that's sort of why he's in this situation to begin with. "Cartman!" he yells, and grips the bag for all it's worth, giving a hard tug. Eventually, Cartman gives, and Kyle paws eagerly through Mrs. Cartman's purse.

"Ha, yes!" he breathes, tugging out the small phone. He flips it open, wonders if the number for the hotel is in the "recently dialed numbers" section ... and realizes that the phone is dead. Of course, he thinks glumly, shoving it back into the front compartment of the purse. Of course it's dead. Something or someone seems set to make this the worst night of his life - why would there be any obvious reprieve from it? As if on cue, Cartman lets out an extra loud moan, his chubby fingers still fisting his own cock.

Angrily, Kyle depresses the "emergency" button for the umpteenth time, not expecting anything to happen. The tinny voice on the other end of the speaker makes him jump. "Sir, we understand that you're under distress. We are working hard to resolve the situation. The fire department has been called."

"It has?" Kyle blinks, hope welling in his chest anew. He pauses. "How did you know I was a 'Sir'?"

"Sir, we have video surveillance of you entering the elevator." Now the voice sounds kind of bored. Kyle thanks it anyway, and resumes trying to rouse Cartman, vaguely embarrassed on his behalf at the prospect of being caught in such a literally compromising position. "Come on, fat boy, get up. Wake up, Cartman. We're being rescued right now!" Kyle kicks his tubby side for good measure. Cartman's face is red and sweaty, his too-small pajama top strained. Nonetheless, working himself into such a fervor seems to have finally done the trick - with a couple of gutteral moans, Cartman begins to come. Yelping in disgust, Kyle presses himself into the corner furthest away, waiting for the other boy to quit making an ass of himself.

The force of the orgasm seems to propel Cartman into consciousness. "Wha -?" he mumbles as he shoots into a sitting position. He blinks, seeming to take stock of the situation. "Oh, Kyle," he says with a lazy yawn. "You're a Jew."

"You're disgusting!" Kyle cries. "You just jacked it all over the elevator."

Cartman examines the area as he tucks himself back into his poorly-fitting pajamas. "Yeah, that's pretty sweet," he crows.

"No, it fucking isn't," Kyle shudders. "It smells in here, and you, it ... you're just a fat ass," he finishes vaguely. He isn't sure he's ready to deal with the idea that Cartman was jacking it to him. He isn't sure he will ever be ready.

When the elevator doors are pried open at long last, Kyle scrambles out, grateful for the fresh air. He turns to thank the firefighters who have jimmied them free, but Cartman beats him to the punch: "Thank you so much, officers. By the way, my friend Kyle has sleep apnea and relieved himself all over the elevator during our captivity. Please don't look down on him too much - he's embarrassed enough as it is." With that, Cartman toddles off, his mom's purse under his arm, visions of late-night 24-hour diner food at the Denny's across the street his sole purpose.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Kyle intones flatly to no one in particular.