Date: Wed, 3 Dec 2014 06:18:18 +0000 (UTC)
From: abbadabbaisme@yahoo.com
Subject: Lick or Treat

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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

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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/