Dangerous Games Ch. 01

JOHN'S STORY

I don't know how I got myself into this mess--I only wanted to earn some money and buy new tires for my car. Now I am trapped, being forced to do things I would never have done in a million years.

The worst part is I can't tell anyone. There is no way in the world I want ANYBODY to know what I do for Tommy, or for that matter, what I'm accused of doing for Jerry, as well.

The shame and humiliation would be too much to bear. I would have to leave town if people found out, and that would be impossible--I have very little money left after this move to Florida, and, I still need new tires.

Going back home is out of the question. Tommy has threatened he will contact my dad if I don't do what he wants, and I believe him.

My dad at the very least would disown me--maybe even cause me physical pain, or worse.

An ugly, brutal memory remains fresh in my mind and haunts me to this day:

Years ago, one morning before school, my older brother and I were playing a game of bumper pool in the basement. It was early; we were still wearing our pajamas.

My brother got to tormenting me, as older brothers are wont to do, and at one point, strictly to defend myself, I slipped my pool cue between my brother's legs and gently nudged his balls. We both laughed about it, but, unbeknownst to us, our father, who had left to go to work, had been watching us from outside thru the basement window.

Next thing we knew, we heard the backdoor of the house fly open, and our father clomping angrily down the basement stairs. He came straight to me, grabbed my pool cue and my arm; he jerked me over to a chair, sat down then pulled me across his lap and spanked my butt with the pool cue. He didn't stop spanking me until I was crying like a little girl.

Throughout the spanking he kept shouting: "NO SON OF MINE WILL EVER BE A FAGGOT!!"

At the time, I was so young I had no idea what he was angry about--I had no clue what a 'faggot' even was, but after that spanking, I decided I sure as hell wasn't going to become one!

Anyway, after high school, I wanted to get a job so I could move out of my parent's house, but they insisted I go to college. They would pay for everything.

My best friend Mike and I went to school together every day. He dropped out after three-weeks and received a sizable refund from the tuition. The following week, I dropped out too and used my refund to move into an apartment with Mike.

Both of us got minimum wage jobs, settled into a routine and lived okay for a couple years. Paying the bills drained most of our paychecks so we couldn't go out much. Luckily, he had a brother-in-law who became our beer and liquor contact so we saved money by staying at home.

When we turned twenty-one, Mike went to bartending school, and a week later, so did I. We were able to land decent jobs when we graduated. We still made minimum wage, but now we made tips, as well.

What a difference tips made! We were rolling in money, or so it seemed at the time.

Mike was good with the ladies, before we became bartenders, he'd have a girl spend the night at our place a couple times a week. Once we tended bar, it seemed like he'd have a different girl come home with him four-five times a week.

I, on the other hand, wasn't good with women. I was very shy, and didn't know what to say to them. It didn't help that I was only 5'7" and 140 pounds. While the women did say I was cute, they usually went home with the more manly guys.

Don't get me wrong--I brought home my share of pretty girls, but not nearly as many as Mike.

About a year later, I got a bug up my ass and wanted to leave my home town. Family and friends thought I was crazy; they said there was no rhyme-or-reason for my decision, but I went ahead and did it anyway.

I chose Tampa because there would be no snow, and it was warm year-round. It was near The Gulf, and it was a big city, but not too big.

I had everything planned, or so I thought. It would take three-days to drive there; I'd arrive close to noon, find an apartment that afternoon, and move-in by evening. Then I'd look for work. I figured I'd be working by the end of the week.

In hindsight, I guess I was kind of naïve.

First off, rents were higher than I thought they'd be, and they all wanted me to fill out applications which would have to be approved before they'd even accept me, and to make matters worse, they would check my credit, which was pretty much non-existent.

By 6pm on the day I'd arrived, I was tired and discouraged, and needed a place to stay. I found a motel I could pay by the week. It was expensive, but I didn't have much choice.

Secondly, the next day when I searched for work, I discovered there were very few bartending openings, and the ones there were, all wanted to hire female bartenders. It was very disheartening.

I finally found a job by the end of my second week. It was a store clerk job for a large, sporting goods chain store. Yes, minimum wage, but I had to take it--I wasn't qualified for better paying jobs.

I began to think I should have stayed in college.

When I had checked into the motel, the desk clerk was very friendly and we hit it off immediately. He even invited me to have a beer with him when he got off work that day. His name was Jerry, and I began going to 'Happy Hour' with him every day at 5pm.

The bar was less than a block from the motel which meant we could walk instead of drive. I'd had a couple problems with drinking and driving back home so I was thankful I wouldn't have to take my car. The name of the place was 'Rods.'

The first thing I noticed when we went inside was there weren't many females in the place. I remember breathing a sigh of relief. Don't get me wrong, I love women, but whenever I'd gone to bars with my best friend Mike, it became a competition with us: he'd bet he could pick-up a girl before me, and he always won that bet.

Like I said before, I'm pretty awkward and shy when it comes to the ladies, and besides, when I go to bars I'd rather relax and have a few drinks and shoot some pool.

The bar had six pool tables that were always in action. The game of choice appeared to be eight-ball, and I noticed money changing hands between the players. It seemed five dollars-a-game was the going bet.

Jerry and I sat and watched. I always needed a couple drinks in me before I felt confident enough to play. Well, to be honest, I played my best games when I have at least 3 drinks in me. I dunno, it just seems to calm my nerves and helps me concentrate better.

More and more people kept coming into the bar. Almost all of them guys and the behavior of some of them, and the way they were dressed, well, it suddenly occurred to me this wasn't a normal bar...no, this had to be a queer bar!

Don't get me wrong--I don't care what people do in the privacy of their homes, but some of these guys openly flaunted their fairy-ness--you'd think they'd be ashamed and embarrassed, but on the contrary, they acted as though being queer was the most normal thing in the world!

"First time in a gay bar?" Jerry asked me. I guessed he saw the expression on my face.

"Yes, of course," I replied while blushing a bright red.

"That surprises me," he said with a smile.

Was he questioning my manhood? I briefly thought about punching him and getting out of that place, but you know, he was my only friend in town.

When I drained my third drink, Jerry went to the bar for two more. I surveyed the pool tables. I'd been sizing-up the players, noting their strengths and weaknesses. I pulled a quarter out of my pocket, walked to table four and placed it beneath the side-rail then returned to our booth in time for Jerry to hand me another drink.

He raised his glass for a toast and said, "To new and exciting adventures!"

I clinked his glass and once again wondered what he'd meant.

To make a long story short, I played well, winning three games before I lost. I was up ten-bucks in twenty minutes!

When it was my turn again, I won five straight games! I began to think--why not shoot pool for a living? It would be a great to be a professional pool player!

Jerry and I didn't play a game that night...at least I don't think we did. After seven drinks my memory becomes a little fuzzy.

When I woke up the next morning I calculated I'd won fifteen-bucks. How is that possible? I wondered. At one-time I was ahead sixty-dollars!

Over the next week, I wanted to go to 'Rods', but Jerry insisted on drinking in the lounge at the motel. It was pretty boring, but Jerry gave me tickets for free drinks so I couldn't really complain.

Jerry had changed. He wasn't as eager to go to the bar as he had been when I first met him. Personally, I think he has a drinking problem and all the booze was finally getting to him. He couldn't handle liquor as well as me. Now, I wouldn't even see him until I was on my sixth or seventh drink.

My money was running dangerously low. I could not afford to live at the motel much longer. Jerry and I talked about other alternatives, and that was when he introduced me to Tommy.

JERRY'S STORY

The day Johnny walked up to the front desk my prick went BOING! inside my slacks--yes, he IS that pretty!

I was surprised when he gave me his driver's license and saw he was twenty-two; I had guessed him to be eighteen. He was as shy and reticent as an eighteen year-old; it was difficult to draw him into a sustained conversation.

I was filling-in for my daytime clerk who was on vacation. I'd worked later than usual that day; he would be my last check-in. I took a chance and asked if he wanted to have a beer. When he said 'yes', I could feel pre-cum leaking from my cock-slit. He was the sexiest boy I'd seen in a long, long time.

I took him to 'Rods' (I love the name of that place), and bought him a drink, Jack Daniel's & coke (he said he didn't like beer).

I steered him to a booth instead of a table; 'Rods' have these semi-circular booths that allows for more privacy than a table. When I'm working fresh meat, I don't want the boy to become too self-conscious.

It took Johnny awhile to realize he was in a gay bar, and he immediately began declaring, "You know I'm not gay, right?"--"I'm not a queer, you know!"--it caught me by surprise, and I was somewhat disappointed.

Up to that point, it never occurred to me he wasn't gay.

He was fairly soft-spoken; his delicate features and small bone structure reminded me of a girl I dated many years ago. He wasn't effeminate, that is until the liquor began to take effect.

When he'd miss a shot, he'd make an adorable facial expression and say, "Ooops--how did I miss THAT one?" And when he returned to the booth, he didn't care that I was sitting closer-and-closer to him.

One of the reasons I thought he was gay was that he never once offered to pay for a round of drinks. Usually, when two guys go to a bar they alternate paying for the drinks. Not Johnny--he expected me to pay for every round like he was my 'date.'.

After his sixth JD & coke, and with his hand on my thigh, he sweetly smiled at me and asked, "Are we having another drinky?"

That gesture confused the hell out of me but renewed my interest in him. Maybe he was some sort of closet queen who needed alcohol to be with a man?

Earlier, after our third round, I had switched from beer to plain soda water with lime; I told him it was vodka and soda. I wanted to watch his behavior, learn more about him before I gave up all hope of getting 'lucky.'

I was tired, and ready to leave, but now he suddenly had his hand on my leg. I decided to play along and see where this was going.

Number one: I was amazed at his tolerance for alcohol. I could detect subtle changes in his attitude and behavior, but he was walking and talking like a sober person. How much can this kid drink?

Number two: he seemed to be playing the role of hustlers I'd known in the past; stringing me along just to get me to buy drinks for them.

That night, I decided to find out if he was a prick-tease, or in the closet. I've had a few boys who vigorously defended their 'straightness', but eventually succumbed to their natural instincts and gave my cock a spirited workout.

Tonight, I would definitely find out which type of boy Johnny was.

The more he drank the worse he shot pool. He was getting sloppy, missing easy shots. When he lost his latest game, I noticed he didn't pay the winner.

"Johnny," I said when returned to the booth. "Did you forget something?"

His eyes were watery, with a look of someone who wasn't quite aware of his surroundings.

"Whaddya mean?" he asked.

"You didn't pay the guy who beat you...are you welching on your bet?" I asked him.

It was like I'd slapped him across his face. His eyes opened wide.

"Oh my God--no, I forgot!" he said and he hurriedly scrambled to his wobbly legs and went and paid his five-dollars to the victor.

When he returned to the booth he proudly proclaimed: "A man is only as good as his word--that's what my dad taught me, and a bet is like any other promise or commitment!"

I smiled and commended his attitude. It was then I decided it was time to shoot a game with him, except, I needed to beat the guy who Johnny lost to. As luck would have it, the guy was a friend of mine.

Actually, I knew probably half the guys in the bar. This is my favorite place to find hook-ups. Boys new to town seemed to gravitate to 'Rods.'

"Billy, can you do me a favor?" I asked my opponent.

"Sure Jerry, whatever you want!" replied my friend.

"Will you let me win? See that boy over there?" I asked, pointing at Johnny.

"Who, that little homophobic, cocky bastard?" he asked.

I laughed and said, "Yes, that's the one...I think he protests his 'straightness' a little too vigorously...I want to call him on it!"

Billy smiled and replied, "You may be right--the more he drinks, the more he shakes his little ass in our faces--I'd love it if you could give him a reality-check."

Johnny had a problem racking the balls. The alcohol definitely affected his motor skills. When he finally finished, I stood close to him.

"Johnny, instead of five-dollars, why don't we make this game more interesting?" I asked.

I saw a brief flash of awareness in his eyes.

"What do you have in mind?" he asked.

I was quick to reply. "If you win, I'll give you one week of rent absolutely free of charge--that's worth $220!"

He narrowed his eyes and asked, "And if you win?"

I was bigger and stronger than him, plus he was drunk, it was now or never.

"You'll give me a handjob every night for a week!" I said, and moved out of his range. He didn't give me the outraged, homophobic response I was expecting.

Instead, he smiled, shook his head then said, "You guys are all the same...yeah, okay--I'm gonna kick your ass anyway--why not?"

In his condition, he had trouble standing and maintaining his balance, much less making good shots. I let him hang around in the game for awhile until, after I'd deliberately missed a shot and he said, "My grandmother could have made that one!" It was time to end the game and take him back to his room.

I briefly thought: Maybe I can even get him to blow me!

He watched in wide-eyed amazement as I made four straight shots then pointed the pool cue at the corner pocket and said, "Eight-ball--right there!"

True to form, after I'd won, he didn't acknowledge or congratulate me, he said, "You were lucky!"

I couldn't wait to get him back to the motel and bring his ego down a notch.

"Can we have one more drinky?" he asked with a sly smile on his pretty face.

I bought him another JD & coke, and watched as he gulped it down in three swallows.

Good Lord, I thought, this kid's tolerance for booze is beyond belief!

I had to take the room key from him to open the door. I flipped-on the light, and sat on the edge of the queen-size bed.

He complained, "It's too bright!" and flipped the switch off. In the darkness, I felt him sit next to me on the bed.

It surprised me when I felt his hands working my belt and zipper. I thought I'd have to cajole him into paying-off on our bet.

"I'm only doing this because I honor my debts!" he said sharply.

I smiled in the darkness and thought, Uh-huh--sure! But I said out loud, "I know."

My pants were open, and he tugged at the waistbands of the pants and boxers. I lifted my hips to allow him to lower my clothing to my knees.

He surprised me by caressing my thighs. My cock was already hard, and his soft touches increased my desire.

When he finally took my cock in his hand, and slowly began stroking it, almost in a whisper, he asked, "Is this okay, or do you want me to squeeze it harder?"

I smiled and said, "A little more pressure...that's it--go slow--I'll let you know when to speed-up...oh yeah, that feels great!"

Then he did something that really surprised me: Without me saying a word, his other hand cupped my scrotum and gently rolled my balls with his fingers.

His hands were wonderful--it quickly became obvious to me he'd done this before, and probably with more than one man.

I knew I wouldn't last long. My pent-up lust was ready to burst. I began stroking the back of his neck and hair.

After a few minutes I told him, "Faster..." and his hand began working piston-like on my cock.

When I felt the churning in my balls, I decided to take a calculated risk. I gently applied pressure to the back of his head and guided him to my crotch. His face was about six-inches from my cock when he jerked upright.

"NO WAY, DUDE!" he shouted. "I'M NOT A FAGGOT--I'll do this but that's all!"

"Okay—okay," I said, "...calm down--don't get excited."

His hand moved faster and harder on my throbbing prick. Not only was Johnny quite skillful at stroking a man's cock, he seemed to be 'into it' as well. His breathing was ragged and irregular.

I lightly brushed his crotch with the palm of my hand--Oh yes, he's into it all right--his little dick was trying to burst out of his jeans.

This boy is definitely a closet-queen, I thought to myself as his soft, warm hand brought me to the brink of orgasm.

I cried out when cum rushed from my balls and up thru my cock. The bed shook as I jerked and wildly gyrated.

Johnny was a natural. I decided I'd introduce him to my friend Tommy, but I'd wait until the following week--I wanted to feel Johnny's hand on my cock every night until then.

I used my hand and scooped-up as much cum as I could. I smeared it onto Johnny's face. He seemed oblivious to my actions.

I paid special attention to his upper lip just below his nostrils. I wanted him to smell dried cum on his face the first thing when he woke up the next morning.

When Johnny came to the front desk the next day at 5pm, I gave him six drink tickets for the lounge. He was disappointed we weren't going to 'Rods.'

"Really?" he exclaimed, "...but the lounge is so boring--I want to shoot pool--I made good money there last night!"

I figured he ended up slightly ahead, but not by much.

"Johnny, I have some paperwork that has to get done today," I explained, "...why don't you go to the lounge and use these tickets...I'll join you there when I'm done and maybe we'll go shoot some pool."

"Oh...okay," he pouted and walked dejectedly to the lounge.

I don't think I mentioned this earlier, but I own the motel and bar and restaurant. That's why I could give him drink tickets.

I'm not a cheap or frugal man, but it was clear to me that going to 'Rods' and supporting Johnny's drinking habit would cost a small fortune over the next week, and if all I was going to get out of it were handjobs, well frankly, it wasn't worth it. If he drank here, I could write-off his JD to spillage or theft.

Two-hours later I joined him in the lounge. I raised my eyebrows when he said he was out of drink tickets. He seemed lucid and his eyes were still clear so I told my bartender to give him another JD.