tofi's trail

Dusty is too drunk to have the energy to move, bleary-eyed and just about ready to sleep where he is, when a guy comes up behind. The man doesn't even bother holding him down when he presses against him; he is far too drunk to find the strength to even push away from the bar disk. The guy behind him presses closer despite Dustys slurred protests, graps at his hips. Nails dig in where Dustys rumpled shirt has ridden up. A heavy breath reeking of booze leaves a sickly-sweet, vaguely puke-laden smell in Dustys nose.

The dude ruts against Dustys limp form, slumped against the bar. As he does, he gropes at Dustys clothes, fumbles with buttons impatiently.

There is the pinging sound of one single button hitting Dustys half-empty glass of whiskey.

"Cut it out," Dusty tries, but his tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth, making the words come out sounding weird and dulled of any meaning. The dude runs his own tongue against the shell of Dustys ear, and Dusty cringes in disgust.

His shirt has been completely pulled out of his trousers, Dusty can tell from the rough texture rubbing against his back that it's been tugged up to his shoulderblades. Dusty whines, when suddenly fingers find one of his nipple and they twist and pull. "Nooo," Dusty whimpers, but his protest is drowned out by the music in the bar.

The man keeps roughly playing with Dustys nipple,making it ache and burn. Then there is a stripe of wet warmth on Dustys lower back. It takes him a few moments to realize that the man has freed his cock from his trousers, that it rubs like some sort of large snail against Dustys skin.

Dusty feels like he might be close to throwing up. Sure, he likes cock, probably more than the average guy even, but not like this, while he is close to black-out drunk with a body too heavy to move.

The cock rubs up and down, close to Dustys spine, and Dustys protest are almost nothing but strange sounds made wet by his own drool. Dustys fingernails scrape against the lacquered wood of the bar when he feels the press between his cheeks. Dusty hadn't even noticed the man pulling his trousers down.

There is a slow and steady increase in pressure against his ass hole. Dusty groans and tries with so much more desperation to move, but his body keeps disobeying, weighting him down against the bar top.

"Oh, yeah," The man behind Dusty groaned. He was grunting like a heavily overweight pig, breath heavy and sticky hot against Dustys neck. "So tight, so fucking good tight," he groaned, as if he was saying anything important. "s'cha good tight virgin ass y' offered up."

It was stupid, and it was bizarre. But Dusty couldn't help but let out a short laugh. "Virgin?" he somehow managed, almost sober-sounding. "Y'don got a clue."

It really was a stupid thing to say, though Dusty was pretty surprised that he got the words out with so little slurring, and that the guy actually listened.

Because he did hear what Dusty said, judging by the way he mutters in Dustys ear.

The man shifts his grip, both hands on Dustys chest. Nipples squeezed between sausage fingers, one achingly sensitive.

Dusty is filled with a feeling of vertigo and nausea when the man pulls Dustys upper body against his own. His rear balances over the edge of the stool, and the man is suddenly going much less slow.

He rams his hips forward, shoving a hard, thick cock past Dustys tight, unprepared ring of muscles, and Dusty yelps, nearly screams, though the sound is muddled by his own drunken state. Dusty tries to flail, to fight back, as the man pulls almost all the way out, only to shove sharply back inside once more. It feels like Dusty is being stabbed from the inside, over and over and over and over, and there is nothing that he can do.

The man fucks Dusty relentlessly, roughly, without any regard to why the friction inside Dustys ass is suddenly easier and slicker. The bar stool rattles against the floor as it is jostled with the violent movements, but nobody seems to notice. Not even the bartender; he seems enraptured with a tv screen, too caught up to pay attention.

During his attempts to break free, Dusty has found his head tipped back, leaning against the mans broad shoulder. It's hard to breathe, hard to form a single coherent thought, Dustys skin is wet, and he feels as if he is about to drown on his own saliva.

Then suddenly, nothing.

Everything ceases, as the edges of Dustys vision was turning a cloudy black.

But he hasn't passed out. He is once more slumped against the counter, but he is counscious, and wrecked by a violent, wet cough as his body tries to eject the saliva that threatened to fill up his lungs.

He's crying, he realizes. His face is covered in drool and tears. He wipes it all off as best he can with a shirt sleeve.

The movement sends intense pain up his spine, and the tears that he had tried to still falls thicker.

It's not until he has slid off the stool and is trying to steady his wobbling legs that he realises that he is able to move.

He suppresses a sob - the pain from the effort is searing - and quietly curses that he couldn't before. The assault must have sobered him up in the end.

When he carefully moves to pull his trousers back up they are wet, and when he looks he sees dark and pale stains that blend together. Cum and blood, he realises.

The strangled noise erupting from his throat is caught only by his assailant, watching as if nothing is amiss.

A Drink At The Bar