XXXXXX
Readers: please don't forget to donate to nifty to keep this site free.
XXXXXX Ê Author's note: this is the first story i wrote inspired by a picture. the picture can be found on my tumblr page: http://dabbaabba.tumblr.com/
XXXXXX
Lick or Treat
Your friends want to dress up for Halloween and go trick-or-treating. Talk about gay. You think, geez, you're 21 years old. You're in college. What the fuck are you supposed to do, dress up in your Spiderman jammies and go door to door begging for candy? At six feet, you're taller than half the old folks who'd be handing out the shit. It was fine when you were a kid but by 12 or 13 you were over it. And say what you want, dressing up in costumes is just plain gay. You don't care what the outfit is. Football player. Cop. Cowboy. Real men don't dress up. End of story. And who wants candy anyway?
Only, just as your friends are leaving, your bud, Stan, sets your straight. "Not trick-or-treating. Liquor-treating." You've heard of this before. Liquor-treating is when you go door to door and get mini cocktails instead of candy. They're pre-selected houses, all friends. The drinks are all customized. This you can do. Only, you don't have a costume. There's no time to go to the store and buy something. You see your unmade bed and say fuck it. You grab your worn queen-sized sheet which already has a couple of small tears along the edges, cut out some holes for eyes and call yourself a ghost. If cartoon characters can do it, why can't you?
So you find yourself liquor-treating through West Hollywood with your friends. Ginger margarita. `Smore martini. Something called a Smurf. You're beginning to feel them. Not in a bad, shit-faced way. Just the buzzed, warm way.
West Hollywood. The parade may be across town but this neighborhood's totally gay, too. But you know if there's one thing good about the gays, it's that they know how to party. The decorations. The music. Fuck it, even the costumes are cool. They're still gay but even you have to admit they're well done. It's just that no real man should be caught in a getup like that. The more you think about it, the prouder you are of your simple ghost costume. It says you don't give a fuck; that you don't think about appearance at all. Like a real man. You almost said "like a real STRAIGHT man" but caught yourself. "Straight man" is redundant. All real men are straight. The rest are just faggots. You excuse yourself. You mean "gay." You think what's this world come to that you're supposed to feel bad using the word "fag" in your own head.
So there you go...
"Liquor treat." Mai tai.
"Liquor treat." Mojito.
How many have you had? You don't know. What street are you on? You don't know. You ring another bell. You say, "Liquor treat," and hold out your glass. You giggle at the silliness of it all and look back to your friends, but they're gone. You're alone. The guy who answers the door is young enough to be liquor-treating himself. He says something you figure is the name of the cocktail. The next thing you know he's whipping his dick out with one hand and pushing you to the ground with the other. As he's flicking the sheet around so one of the eye holes is over your mouth, you realize he didn't say the name of the drink. He said, "I'll take the lick." You can't see a damn thing except the white sheet. As soon as you open your mouth to object it's filled with something. Warm. Thick. A little bit wet. You reach up to pull out whatever it is but your arms are pinned down by the sheet being held down on the bottom by your knees and on the top by the guy's hand on your head. A voice says something about relaxing. Your head is pushed back and more flesh enters your mouth. You know what that flesh is but you don't want to say the word. Say the word and this whole thing somehow becomes real.
The guy holds your head as he fucks your mouth. The voice says, "Where's the lick? Huh?... Huh? Or maybe you want the treat." You know his version of a "treat" is not the same as yours but you're in no position to argue. Under the circumstances you'd prefer the lick over the treat any day. So you stick out your tongue and lick.
He pulls out of your mouth and drags it across your lips. Man, how long is this thing? "That's nice," you hear him say. His voice is low so it hits you in your chest as well as your ears. Between the words and the rhythmic way he turns your face right and left and all the cocktails, you abandon yourself to the moment and Ð maybe it's just because it's so different from the candy sweetness filling the night air Ð you even grow to like whatever that rich, thick smell is. It's not the smell of fall. It's better.
He's in your mouth again, only this time he doesn't move your head around. Instead, he holds you still. He's getting thicker. And harder. He's telling you to lick it, lick it, "Lick it, you bitch, lick it." He's leaving your mouth, but a ridge catches on the backside of your teeth. He holds right there. You feel a blast and now your mouth is awash in something warm. Your mouth is filling. Instinct kicks in and you swallow even though you're not sure you even like the taste. Salty. You lick the ridge. He jumps and laughs and pulls out of your mouth. "That's some treat," he says and shuts the door.
Dazed, drunk, dizzy, you stagger away. Where are your friends? Where are you? You turn around. Which house were you just at? You weave your way down the sidewalk and turn up the walkway to the next house and ring the bell. The door opens. You mean to ask for help but the words that come out of your mouth are, "Liquor treat," and you hold out your glass.
The man in the cowboy hat opening the door raises a pitcher of a purple beverage. "Oo, a ghost. You scared me." He laughs as he pretends to back up in fear. You laugh. He tips his pitcher toward your glass. "Here you go. Your liquor treat." But just before the liquid hits your glass he stops.
"What's this?" He touches your sheet by the hole. "Someone's got a wet spot." He rubs his fingers together. He sniffs them. He winks at you. "So it's that kind of lick or treat, is it?"
And now the pitcher's gone. You hear a zip and you're pushed down to your knees again. Again you say you're not gay, but again you can't be heard for the cock in your mouth. There's something familiar about the experience. Having been through it once before, you notice more details. The veiny tube along the bottom. The wiry hair that gets caught between your front teeth. He smells of soap. Zest, you think. You think of all the times your mother threatened to wash your mouth out with soap. Never in a million years would you have predicted this would be how your mom's threat would finally come true.
He's in and out of you. Instead of pushing your head side to side, this guy taps with his fingers, scatting the theme to that ancient "Lone Ranger" tv show. When he shoots, he shouts, "Hi-Yo, Silver! Away!"
And again you're staggering down the sidewalk.
At the next house, after you ring and say your line and hold up your glass, you see the host Ð somebody's dad Ð stare wide-eyed at your tumbler. You look at it yourself. It's filled with some white stuff. Wasn't the last house giving away something purple? Whatever. You say, "Excuse me," down the thick stuff, lick the glass clean, hold it out and ask for more. The dad looks from you to the glass and back at you. He grins. "Lick or treat. I get it." You hear that zip again. By now you know the routine. You get on your knees. You adjust the sheet. You open wide.
"Watch the teeth," you hear. You stretch open your mouth as much as possible, lips over teeth. It's a tight fit, but that doesn't discourage this guy. He's determined to get it all in there. With every quarter inch past six inches he lets out a strained grunt. There's inches to go. He grabs your chin and hair and pulls, prying your lips even further apart. Your breathing is labored. You're blowing snot on the sheet. Your tongue must be looking for a way out of the cock cavity that used to be your mouth Ð it presses against the dick, teases it where it meets your teeth. It wraps around. His grunts turn into moans. Your nose is buried in a fragrant bush that tickles. You feel him stiffen. His grunt/moan drags on and on and on until it simply peters out. But your mouth is empty. You realize he shot his entire load down your throat. And gross and wrong as the whole thing is Ð as fucking gay as it is Ð you can't help but feel cheated.
Next house. You decide you want in on the licking action yourself, so you reach under your sheet and unzip your own pants. Getting your own hard cock out of your pants is beyond you at the moment, so you just unbutton the waist. You ring the bell, hoist up your sheet and say your line. "Lick or treat." The guy answering it Ð he might even be younger than you Ð says he'll take the treat. You start to say no, that he's the one who's supposed to do the licking, not you, but the words don't come out fast enough. Instead, you're on your knees. The guy's got his gym shorts pushed down to the floor and his growing dick pushed in your mouth. He's a grabber. Your hair, your shoulders. Anything he can reach. In all the grabbing, he tugs up your sheet. Cool air hits your ass crack. "What's this? Is somebody looking for a real treat?" You say no, he's got it wrong but of course he can't hear you. He would if you spit out the dick in your mouth but that would mean missing out on the little hints of musky strawberry you're inhaling. That delicate amuse-bouche that drips on your tongue.
"Hey, Ben," the guy calls off.
You hear footsteps and another voice. A "Whoa!" Then: "Fuck, man! I love Halloween!" The strawberry cock is gone and something with foreskin takes its place. Hands are on your ass cheeks. Calloused, man hands. You try to crawl away on your knees but it only makes your pants drop more. Ben's friend pries apart your cheeks. You prepare for the worst. And then it's moist and smooth and incredible. There's breath in your crack. He's licking you back there. Shit. Why hasn't your girl ever done this for you? You squirm and twist, trying to give him better access. He gets the message and pulls your pants off for you. Your shoes? Gone. He spreads your cheeks and goes to town.
And what a town it is...
You are so mesmerized by this new sensation you forget what your mouth is doing. It's become second nature, covering your teeth, tickling with your tongue, wrapping around. Kissing the tip. Letting go of the whole thing, licking up one side and down the other. Sniffing. It's as if you've been slurping and sucking your whole life. Somehow it's the perfect activity for mouth and nose while you receive an all-encompassing pleasure back where you can't reach with your own mouth. If only you could...
He stops, Ben's friend who's younger than you are. But before you can free your mouth long enough to protest, he's back. Only bigger. Firmer. Stiffer. His hands are on your hips and it's the ride of your life. The more he pulls you back, the wider your mouth gets. He's inside you and the deeper he goes, the more you moan and scream and beg him to stop and hope he ignores you. Of course he can't hear any of this. Ben's in your mouth. And now he's letting go. He's filling you up. The way the hands of his friend behind you dig into your hips, the way he's stopped going in and out and is just holding it inside you Ð you can tell he's letting go, too. These two friends kiss above you. The sound of their lips smacking and teeth clacking and their grunts make you grind and squeeze your ass all the more.
They're done. You're dripping. And you're walking to the next house.
It's a version of the same thing only with salsa music in the background, the smell of onion in the air and something thinner but longer in your mouth. There's a tear. Is it your ass trying to make room for the anaconda making itself at home up your butt? No, it's your sheet. Already torn before you started, you hear it rip more. When it's all over Ð the yells, the slaps, the calling you a puto bitch, the overflowing of liquid out both ends of you Ð someone says the ghost's sheet is fucked up. You can see that for yourself but say fuck it and put it over your head anyway. The scrap of sheet that remains covers your head and shoulders and just reaches your stiff nipples, but it has eyeholes so who gives a fuck, right? What's it matter you don't have pants anymore? You have the kind of body people enjoy looking at. Besides, the sheet's still a costume, right? So instead of being dressed as a ghost, now you're dressed as a fag ghost. Who the fuck cares? Who can even see it's you?
You move on to the next house. You ring the bell. You say your line. "Lick or treat." Only as the pleasantly surprised homeowner says, "Sure," do you realize he didn't push you down. You dropped to your knees as soon as you rang the bell. Before he even opened the door. Hell, he didn't even unzip his own pants. You reached out and unzipped his pants for him. But what were you supposed to do? He was taking too long on his own and you couldn't wait. You have needs so you helped yourself. You didn't just unzip him; you pulled him out of his pants and shorts and pushed him in your mouth. And when you heard the revelers come up behind you and you heard a guy say, "Dude, no way!" you reached back, grabbed the first crotch you felt, unzipped it, and guided its owner behind and inside you so the two of you could become one. The three of you if you count the man in your mouth.
You finish. Maybe too fast. You have the hiccups. And a little liquid comes up with every hic. You try to swallow it, but some leaks out your mouth. You slap your costume over your head and walk on without a stagger or a misstep. Oh, you're still drunk Ð only it's not alcohol you're drunk on any more.
You're enjoying the Halloween costume thing. Really getting into it. So much so that the first man you pass on the sidewalk you pin against a tree. You help yourself to his crotch.
Where is your ghost face? How can you be a fag ghost without the ghost part? You don't let it bother you. So instead of being a fag ghost, you're just a fag. So what? A costume's a costume.
You lick or treat every man you see. Some men you lick AND treat. A couple more than once. You're sticky. Dripping from your ass, your mouth, your nostrils. One eyelid is sealed shut with the dried remnants of stuff that never made it inside you. Your cock is a third femur only pointing up and bouncing and dripping and wanting in on the action. You hear your name. You turn. It's your bud, Stan. And your girl. They want to know where you've been. How you got lost. Where your shirt is. They're on the other side of the SUV parked along the curb. You greet them, meeting them at the rear of the vehicle. They see you and stop, looking you over. You hear, "What the hell?!" from your girl.
Stan asks, "Dude, where are your pants?" Your girl wants to know what's going on. Can't they tell a costume when they see one? Duh, it's Halloween. You hold out your arms to display your totally naked self and shout, "I'm a fag!" Isn't it obvious? Are they blind? Finally, Stan says, "I can see that."
You laugh. You rub the drying semen into your chest with your left hand and pump your dick with your right and say, "Hey, wanna have sex?"
Your girl says, "You've got to be out of your mind if you think I'd Ð" and you grab Stan by his stiff member and say, "How `bout it?" To emphasize your Halloween joke, you turn around, place your backside against his front side and push. Stan takes it from there. You hear hurried footsteps recede and a crying woman say, "Asshole!" The voice sounds vaguely familiar.
Stan gets into the Halloween spirit.
It's November 1. The morning after. More accurately, the evening of the first by the time you wake up. Stan asks if you're okay. You say you're fine. He wants to make sure. He talks about the whole gay sex thing. About fucking you up the ass and how you said you dug it Ð and how lubed up you were back there. You say it was a costume. It was pretend. You're not a fag. You're a man who's learned he's enjoying dressing up in costume and playing characters. It just so happens you dressed up as a fag. It could have just as easily been a doctor or Lex Luthor. You were just committing to your costume. You don't suck dick or get fucked Ð that's stuff for fags, not men. And you're 100 percent man, not fag. And as a man, you enjoy dressing up in costume and playing characters. It just so happens the character you played liked to suck and be fucked but it's not you. It's a character. A minute passes. Stan says, "Oh." Then he bursts out laughing. You join him. Finally he gets it. He grabs his phone and sends a quick text. A few seconds pass. His phone vibrates. He says you're both invited to a party tonight. You ask if it's a costume party. Between guffaws, Stan gets out, "As a matter of fact it is." You say that's cool. You know exactly what you're going to wear. Or not. Stan laughs even louder and your dick hardens in anticipation. Fuck do you love Halloween.
END
XXXXXX
I sure hope you will share your reaction. Good or bad, I love to hear them Ð and I reply to all.
Below are a few of my other stories. These and others not included below can be found listed under my name, Abba Dabba, in the Prolific Authors section.
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/eighteen
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/the-hand/the-hand-1
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/singlets
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/college/so-much-for-reno
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/special-rest-stop
Also, visit me on tumblr where I have not only the picture which inspired this story but images which convey the tone I try to capture in all my stories.
http://dabbaabba.tumblr.com/