He says his same is Sam and I’m suddenly a believer in love at first sight. I’ll admit my taste isn’t for everyone, but I think he’s adorable.
He’s in his early twenties and very short—I don’t think he’s more than five foot four. He has a thick unruly mop of jet-black hair. The broad swath of facial hair sweeping down from his temples to merge with his goatee is the same shade. There’s an element of excess about his face—his dark eyes, his nose, his lips; all are large. It gives him an air of vulnerability.
He wants to be hurt.
I usually don’t go to the bars. Most of the twinks bouncing around in these places come from a high enough social stratum that they can’t be killed with impunity. It’s easier to stick with whores or the criminal element. But I was drawn in tonight…
I’d been driving by on my way to the side street where the rentboys hung out when I saw him and knew I had to have him. He was lounging down the sidewalk with a black polo shirt around his slim torso, the shallow rise of his pectoral clear in silhouette. His hands were in the pockets of his tight khaki-colored jeans that didn’t quite come up to the hem of the shirt so that he flashed the top of his ass with each step of his gray canvas sneakers.
By the time I find a place to park, he’s disappeared into one of the clubs; I’d been careful to note which one. It takes about fifteen minutes inside the welter of thumping music and flashing lights to locate the kid.
He’s out on the dance floor. I walk along the edge, tracking my prey, avoiding contact with as many other people as possible, minimizing possible witnesses. He doesn’t seem to be with anyone in particular, so I wait for him to head back to the bar. Once he does, it’s easy enough to strike up a conversation.
Dude is horny; I can tell by the pole he’s sporting in his groin. Lust gleams in his eyes as they roam over my body and I know I can have him anytime I want. I suggest a quick fuck and he agrees. He lives alone, right around the corner—perfect. I don’t want to be seen leaving with him so I tell him I need to get something out of my car. I’ll go out the back way and meet him at the corner.
And I actually do want to get something from my car; it’s a spare three-foot phone cord. It’s handy to have around, especially when I thread it through the holes drilled in each end of a one-foot section of broom handle, as I do now. A working garrote from a pair of items that appear totally innocuous when viewed separately.
He’s waiting for me at the corner. He’s much like a puppy in his eager anticipation; he’s practically wagging his tail. His eyes travel the length of my body again, pausing only when he gets down to my black combat boots. He looks up at my face again, his large dark eyes sparkling behind the bang of black hair falling over his forehead. He’s already panting.
Little cocksucker wants it bad. He’s gonna get bad, too—even worse than he imagines.
I follow him into the dark maze of ill-lit streets and cheap, dilapidated apartment blocks. His place is the last one on the west side of the side street, where it dead-ended at a disused set of train tracks. A pair of two-story buildings in pink stucco with the depressed air of an all-bills-paid complex, it has nothing but efficiencies and one-bedroom apartments. Sam lives in one of the former—end building, ground floor, in the back by the parking lot.
It’s more squalid on the inside than it had been on the outside. Much of the floor space is taken up by a large mattress sitting directly on the floor. A small TV stands on a wooden TV tray in one corner. There really isn’t much else in the way of furniture; the kid lives like a pig.
Well, that’s ok. He’s gonna die like one, too.
Dirty clothing is strewn about the floor. There had been sheets on the mattress at one point, but they’re twisted and askew and barely cover a third of the surface. There’s a pervading funk of smoke and mansex that thickens the air almost visibly.
Sam’s a slut, but not a whore. He doesn’t sell himself; he gives himself away for free. The whole place (what little there is of it) is littered with used condoms and empty popper bottles mixed among the rank white socks, sneakers and boots scattered across stained carpet. The alcove that serves as a kitchen is dark—I’m not certain the cunt even eats here; I think he just uses this place to sleep and to fuck.
More of the latter than the former, by the looks of it.
He’s already slipped out of the black polo, revealing his smooth, slim torso with just a hint of muscle—just enough swelling of pectoral to avoid looking scrawny. The same is true of his arms, his firm skin with the finest down of honey-brown fur on his forearms, but silky above the elbow where he has a rainbow flag tattooed on his right shoulder.
He kicks off his sneakers but leaves the socks, which just cover his feet and end below the ankle. It takes but a moment for him to wriggle out of his low-rise jeans (of course the little slut was commando underneath) and I’m surprised by the elaborate tramp stamp that comes to a point just above the crack of his tight, smooth ass. He’d been flashing enough skin before, the little fucking cunt; how had I missed that?
I don’t bother to undress. I want to avoid as much exposure as possible in this pig sty. I’m wearing a tight white wifebeater and skin-tight, faded jeans that I’ve deliberately shrunk so that they cling to every nuance of my muscled legs. They’re an old pair of button-fly, so it’s easy enough to start with the second button down. They stay tight around my waist as I reach in, nearly bending my swollen cock double in order to pry it from its confines.
Sam bends over, his sweet, smooth boy-ass pointed straight at me. I’d love to jump him now and plug that hole with my dick, but I have other plans.
“Hold up, bitch,” I snarl. “Uh-uh. Move over.”
I lie down on the mattress, stretching myself out full length, my cock standing straight up, stiff, glistening, intimidating.
“Sit on it, slut,” I tell him abruptly. His own dick is fully erect and quivers in front of him, and suddenly I get it.
He is a dog; his tail is wagging in front instead of behind him.
Ok. I can put this bitch down.
He stands over me, looking down with a curious mix of anticipation and anxiety. It’s gonna hurt like fuck and he knows it. He wants it, but he fears it at the same time. Ok, Sam, we’ll make this the test.
If you chicken out and say no, I’ll leave. You’ll walk away without knowing how close you came.
If you sit on my dick, you fucking slut, you want all the pain I can give you. You want it, all the way to the end. Your choice. I’ll just sit here with my hard dripping cock out and let you make the choice, fuckmeat.
Damn, Sam is damn near drooling. He’s completely focused on my dick as he squats, lowering his pink quivering asshole down over the head of my rod. I haven’t used any lube—and he knows that. But he continues to lower himself, moaning the moment my thick, throbbing head, now moistened by precum, parts his puckered sphincter. He slides down my engorged shaft, his asshole gripping me like a rubber band sliding along my tool, his groan rising into a wail as he continues to impale himself on my cock.
He sits on my dick, his knees at my sides, his legs pressing against my hips. His thick, bobbing dick slaps against my taut belly. I place my arms over his legs and reach into my left pocket, pulling out a zip tie. Sam is too occupied with my cock to notice until I grab his wrists and bind his hands together.
I don’t think he ever noticed the garrote. I’d put it in my back pocket; it stuck out by quite a bit, but he’d never gotten a good look. As he looks down (rather confusedly) at his unexpectedly constricted hands, I slip it out and make sure he gets a good look now.
“Wh-what’s up, man? What ya doin?” he asks nervously.
I smile up at him. He’s so cute when he sweats. “Shhh,” I whisper, “you’re gonna like this. I’m gonna give you what you’ve always wanted. I’m gonna give you the ultimate orgasm. The most intense load of your life. Ya want it, cunt?”
He looks down at me, gasping, confused, unable to decide. The meat knows exactly what I’m saying. He wants this; he really does. The way he’s living shows it.
He’s not living. He’s fucking dude after dude, hoping one of them will show him mercy and put him down. I think he’s found his man.
His eyes—in the light, I can see them, huge and hazel-colored. The one lamp is on the floor just behind my head; I can see him perfectly. His eyes slide along my muscled body; as he licks his full, red lips, I can see his head nod almost imperceptibly…
Yeah, I thought so. Fucking little deathpig cunt. I knew it. I quickly slip the cord over his head—these pieces of shit end up changing their minds too soon. They know what they want, but they lack the courage to follow through. They have to be guided down into death. They want it, but they fear it; they need a man who has big enough balls to take command of the situation and give them the needed control.
I quickly spin the handle, soon tightening the cord into his neck. As it sinks in, he closes his eyes in a grimace and flinches. His erect cock twitches on its own, slapping against my belly. The meat suddenly reaches up, bringing both hands up to his throat simultaneously.
I’ve taken up enough of the slack in the garrote to hold it securely with one hand. I grab the plastic tie binding the pig’s hands, jerking his arms back down.
I have very strong hands. I can twirl the broom handle with one hand, like a baton, cinching the cord more deeply with each twist. I exert a downward pull on the handle as well, matching it to my downward pull on his wrists. The kid is kneeling, squatting on my dick, and I’m pulling him down onto it with such force he can’t rise up and throw himself off me.
I give the handle another mighty jerk, bending the meat over so that his red, swelling face is hanging right over me. I let go of his wrists and reach around, grabbing his sweaty, heaving back in a bearhug and pulling him down hard onto my shaft. I draw my knees up behind him, my boots finding the needed traction on the mattress as I began to launch my rod up into the meat’s quivering fuckhole.
He’s grasping at my hand, the one holding the handle, making it hard for me to tighten the cord. “Enough, you fucking cunt,” I sneer, “stop playing hard to get, you slut, you know you want this. Now shut up and take it, bitch. Relax and enjoy it, pig, cause you’re gonna be dead soon enough. But not before you get me off. Remember that, motherfucker. No matter how much it hurts, you worthless piece of shit, you gotta make me cum before I’ll end it.”
I’m looking straight into his eyes as I underscore my words by giving the handle a couple of violent cranks. The kid makes a loud sound, somewhere between a cough and a gag as his fists, bound together, beat my chest in unison. His eyes, desperate, frantic, seem to be seeking mine for a sign of mercy. These little pigs always wanna back out; it scares them to know how much dying turns them on. Even now, this punk’s dick is oozing precum, splattering it on my tight abdomen in rhythm with my thrusts.
That’s not all that’s oozing. His blue lips have parted, his tongue protruding farther from his mouth as the flat phone cord sinks below the surface of his neck. Tears well from the corners of his eyes, but it’s the foamy spittle that always floats my boat. “Fuck yeah, pig,” I whisper as his lips writhe, gasping for air, flinging specks of foam to pepper his black goatee, “choke and die, you cumsucking fuckwad. Let me see you drool out your last minutes alive.”
His fists are drumming relentlessly on my chest now; I’ll probably have some bruises. Totally worth it; the fuckmeat is riding my cock like a bronco, his legs kicking wildly by my sides but not making contact with me. He’s shaking his head frantically from side to side, his black bangs slick with sweat that sprinkles my twisted, sneering face like rain.
I give a single, strong yank on the handle and pull the meat’s face down to within inches of my own, jerking the handle out to the side as I do so it won’t be between us. It’s time. I can feel the flowing sensation in the cunt’s colon as the part of the bitch’s brain that controls the rectal muscles begins to die. His eyes are bulging grotesquely, hemorrhages bursting like fireworks in the whites. More foam oozes out past his huge black tongue and froths on his hairy chin. His hands no longer have the same force—and it’s his palms, not his fists; he’s almost caressing me.
“I don’t know if you can still hear me, you worthless fucking faggot, but it’s time to die. It’s your lucky night, cunt; you get to die as my cumdump.” I search his eyes closely. Deep in depths, past the shock and horror and pain, I can see a glimmer of light that understands and responds to my words. It’s the last spark of rational thought the deathpig is capable of, holding on for the orgasm it was promised. In the center of his pig soul, he’s remembering that he won’t be free of the torment until I blow my load.
“Yeah, you get it,” I mutter into his ear, holding his swollen, distorted face so close to mine that his beard brushes my face. “Your corpse is gonna rot around my seed. You want this, meat. This is your only reason for existing—so I can use you and dump you—“
He can’t hold out any longer. Not like the little fucker had much discipline to begin with, but his consciousness is fading out. Deep inside, he knows this is his final orgasm, the one that has to count. He’s accepted that this is the best way his for his useless life to end. He goes stiff, his ass gripping my straining cock, his rectal muscles rippling along my shaft like lips…
He hunches down on top of me, burying his head in my chest as his body convulses on top of me. I can feel his dick writhe with spasms as burning hot streams of semen flow from his thick purple glistening head. He continues to pump out jizz uncontrollably, his belly slapping against mine in his death throes and smearing sperm between us.
His ass—oh fuck, his ass, the way it squeezes my cock… I wrap one arm around the meat’s head, turning it to one side. I bend down and lick his nose before I force my tongue past his and down into his dying, closed-off throat. With the other arm, I pull the broom handle as hard as I can. As I strain, the tendons stand out on my neck and the biceps on my arms, but I keep my keep my tongue down the cunt’s throat until I’m rewarded with the erotic, crunching, cracking sound of shattered cartilage. I’ve yanked so hard, I’ve not only crushed the faggot’s larynx and esophagus, I’ve snapped his neck.
He goes rigid, harder than he ever has before. As his sphincter tightens around the base of my cock, I can feel the cum boil over in my balls. I don’t move; I just grab the meat and hold on as I spew semen repeatedly into the corpse’s guts, filling his intestines with sperm. As his he flops forward, my tongue still down his throat, he blows one last death load between us and sinks into the blankness of permanent brain death.
I push the meat off of me and stand up. The kid—what was his name? Sam?—is sprawled on his back, legs spread. Somewhere in his death struggle, the punk had kicked off one of his ankle socks; the one still left was twisted around. His hands are still bound in front of him. His face is black, distorted, and almost unrecognizable, his beard and goatee still full of the meat’s drool.
I stuff my cock back in my jeans and leave the scummy little apartment. Bad as this shithole stinks, he’ll be completely rotted before anyone notices the stench. And that’s exactly what the worthless little cunt deserves…