Date: Sat, 8 Nov 2014 15:16:53 -0800
From: abbadabbaisme@yahoo.com
Subject: So Much for Reno

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Readers: please don't forget to donate to nifty to keep this site free.

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Additional note: a faithful reader and frequent correspondent shared a
recent experience of his with me. below is the story i turned it into.

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SO MUCH FOR RENO

The bar was clearing out.

It was closing time, so I should have been hightailing it out of there,
too, but I was half-wasted, truth be told. The bartender kept giving me
freebies the whole night. Who was I to turn them down, right? Well, now I
was paying the price. Unless I sobered up by the time he finished his
cleanup, I was going to have to take a taxi back to my room. I think I was
actually getting my act together when he put another free one right in
front of me. I took one look at it and thought to myself, who am I kidding?
There's no way I'm going to be sober enough to drive tonight, even if I
don't take this last one. I consoled myself with the knowledge that at
least the cab would be cheaper than the cost of all the beers I'd
downed. What was one more, right? School was done. I'd shipped my stuff
home with a bud. It was my last night in Reno before hitching my way back
home to SoCal in the a.m. Didn't I deserve a little send-off?

When it was just the two of us, the bartender turned on some porn. He said
it was his usual thing while he cleaned. I didn't object. He had good
taste. The guys were hot. The dicks were thick. There were penetration
shots, cum blasts. The whole works. My own dick started to tent up and,
forgetting I wasn't alone, I started rubbing myself through the
fabric. When I looked down from the monitor, the bartender had stopped
wiping the counter in front of me. He suggested we play a game of
pool. Maybe that would sober me up.

Do I need to tell you he kicked my ass? He said now I had to remove my
shirt. I went with it. What the fuck, right? It was just a shirt, right? I
figured it was fun and I would just stop when I didn't want to play
anymore. I lost the next game too, along with a shoe, which I thought was
funny as hell. I ended up losing my other shoe, my socks, my belt, my
pants. I was down to my jockeys. By then I was really trying to win,
believe it or not, but I don't think I had a prayer. I leaned over the
table to line up my next shot but was really thinking more about what was
going to happen after I was down to nothing at all. Then I felt him behind
me. The fly on his jeans was right at the crack in my ass. I thought he was
feeling around for coming attractions, but I was wrong. He wasn't going to
wait for me to lose the shorts. He was going to help himself right then and
there.

That's right. I'm leaned over the table, with the cue stick in my hands,
ready to break when I feel my shorts yanked down and him line up his own
shot. Only instead of the 6 ball in the corner pocket, he was going to put
his cue stick right in my center pocket.  I had just long enough to wonder
when he was going to lube up before he made himself at home back there. I
guess he lubed up when I wasn't looking.

I arched my back but he held me down. He leaned over me, the buttons of his
shirt scraping along my spine, the warmth of the flannel a contrast to the
chill of the cement floor beneath my bare feet. His voice was right in my
ear. Between grunts, he said, "Take your shot, Patrick." It took all I had
to not rip the table's felt with the stick. Not only did I not shame
myself, for the first time all night I got a ball in on the break. His cock
still up my ass, we moved together to my next position. He pulled out of
me, his little head – which wasn't all that little – just kissing the
lips of my ass. He had one hand on my throat, the other on my hip. I stood
still, not knowing what was next. "What are you waiting for?" he asked. "Go
on, take it."

I bent over, shivering with the tingles he was sending down my skin but
somehow managing to follow orders, too. I lined up the shot. I pulled the
stick back a few times. He timed the movements of his hands with my
movement of the stick. And then as I shot the stick home at the ball toward
the hole, he shot his own stick home toward my hole. Actually, "in" my
hole, for you English majors out there. My own cock was rammed up against
the table. I let out a yell at the pain that I didn't want to go away –
and the ball went in.

I had another shot to make.

And that's how we spent the game. The two in the corner. The four in the
side. The one in the side AND the seven in the corner. I turned around when
he said that last one. I said he was nuts, there was no way I could sink
both balls in a single shot. He told me to shut the fuck up and shoot. So
that's what I did, having no prayer of actually making it. I'm an okay pool
player on a good day, but drunk? At 3:00 a.m.?

With a nine inch cock up my ass? Let's just say my concentration wasn't in
peak form. His twisting my nipples sure didn't help matters. Neither did
his biting my ear or yanking my pubic hair. Then he twisted my face around,
plunged his tongue down my throat, swirled it around, yanked it out, spit
in my eyes, twisted my head back around and said, "Now shoot it, pussy." I
wiped my eyes clean, pulled back my cue stick and feinted forward a bit. He
did the same with his cock. I knew what was coming. I both dreaded and
wanted it at the same time. I needed it. And was ashamed of myself for even
getting myself in this position. Every time I feinted, he feinted with
me. It was as if he knew every muscle of my body by then. So when I finally
did let go and hit the ball with the stick harder than ever before, I knew
he'd do the same to me, harder than ever before.

I wasn't disappointed.

Fuck, did I yell.

He was so in control, he timed his release for the eight ball. That's
right. This game – the one with his dick up my ass and my dignity on the
floor – this game I was winning. I didn't miss a single shot. He wasn't
handling my stick. He never touched it.  Not either one, to be clear: not
the stick in my hand or the one between my legs. He didn't even tell me how
to hit the ball. He just made me need to sink my shots more than I'd ever
needed to sink shots in my entire life. Because I knew what he wasn't
saying. We both knew that if I missed, he'd stop fucking me. And for all of
it – the humiliation, the degradation, the vulnerability, the pain –
I loved it and didn't want it to stop. My need – and my honesty with
myself about my need – made me shoot the best game of pool I'd ever
shot.

As the eight ball went in, I could feel his balls tighten up against my
ass. His cock throbbing inside me.  His teeth plunging into my neck. His
hand in my hair... the felt on my chest and the rim of the table digging
into my hip bones as I finally collapsed face down onto the pool table.

He slapped me on the ass.

"Nice game."

Next thing I knew I was lying in the backseat of a cab. The bartender said
something to the driver about driving me home down to San Diego. He read
out my address off my phone then tossed it and the rest of my clothes in
the trunk and slammed it closed.  The thunk of the slam made my throbbing
head split. The bartender ripped six hundred dollar bills half. He tossed
the driver one set of the halves and twisted the other halves in his
fingers in front of his face: "Get him home in nine hours and you get the
rest." I remember the driver laughing and saying something about making it
worth his while, but with his accent and me passing out, who knows what he
said. The bartender winked at me and slammed the door shut.

When I came to, I was still in the backseat of the cab only now the cab was
in my driveway. It was one o'clock in the afternoon. My parents were just
getting back from the store. My mom saw my head rise into the window of the
cab and smiled at me. "Patrick's home!" Dad waved. They put down their
groceries and approached the taxi – where I was naked and still covered
in the bartender's dry cum. Or was it the taxi driver's? Jesus...

So much for Reno.

END

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I love to hear your reaction, good or bad, so please share. It means a lot
to me. I answer all questions.

Below are a few of my other stories, all of which are listed under my name,
Abba Dabba, in the Prolific Authors section. If you enjoyed this story, you
might check out "Eighteen" or "The Convertible" or "Nice Guy" or "Special
Rest Stop." I have others as well.


http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/eighteen

http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/the-convertible

http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/nice-guy

http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/special-rest-stop


Also, visit me on tumblr where I have images which convey the tone I try to
capture in my stories.

http://dabbaabba.tumblr.com/