I’m not telling you my name or anything else that can identify me. You don’t need it. And if it gets out, my fun will stop. I’m not ready for that to happen.
I’m a hunter. I hunt young men, and when I catch them, I kill them. I fuck them, too. If I can, I fuck them while killing them. If not, I fuck them after killing them. During is much more fun, though. The way they struggle with my cock buried inside them…
I’ll tell you about my fun, but it has to stay between us. I’ll give you all the details of each erotic, agonizing kill. As long as it’s kept quiet, I’m pretty good about selecting fuckmeat that isn’t going to be missed–runaways, rent boys, drug addicts and even some dealers.
Really, if the police knew, I’d think they’d thank me. The fuckmeat won’t thank me. It just screams. And that gets me so hard.
I’ve rented a ratty little apartment under an assumed name. The complex is run down and my unit is the only one occupied out of the six in this building. This whole place will probably be condemned in a year or two.
Which makes it a perfect killing pit. There’s no one close enough to hear the meat scream.
I don’t have much in the way of furnishings. The living room is fully furnished since that’s what the meat sees when he walks in. It’s my place to make him relaxed–or drug him, if I have to–before taking him into the bedroom.
There’s lots of plastic in the bedroom. A lot of bodily fluids get spilled there.
The bedroom has a mattress on a frame and a couple of chairs. There’s a small table with a cabinet underneath; it holds my toys. The only other item in the room is an adjustable metal frame, consisting of both horizontal and vertical bars. It’s very useful for securing the meat in the right position. Every surface is covered with painter’s plastic. It’s amazing, the way blood gets everywhere.
It’s taken a while to get everything set up, but it’s all finally ready. All I need now is fresh prey. Time to go hunting.
He looks like he’s in his early twenties. Thin, but not scrawny–he’s got some muscles. I can see strands of black hair peeking out under his knit cap; his hair is probably shoulder-length.
He’s wearing a black wifebeater that shows off his firm biceps and smooth arms. He’s also got on a tight pair of skinny jeans and lace-up work boots. His pale face highlights his black goatee and the faint stubble that darkens his cheeks.
Not sure what he’s doing here at this late hour. There are several options. I’ve picked up boywhores in this neighborhood before, but this kid seems a little too edgy for that. He’s probably looking to score drugs. I imagine he’d take a BJ if someone offered money to give him one, but I don’t think I’ll need to go to that length.
He’s on a side street, at a corner where an access alley meets the street. I’m in my van down the block, watching. I don’t want to be seen picking him up, so I circle the block and come up through the alley behind him. I stop before I reach the street, but the kid has heard me. He comes back into the alley–perfect. We can’t be seen from the street.
“Hey, dude, ya looking for somethin’?” I set the trap. And it works. He wants anything he can get his hands on. Coke, weed, meth, you name it, he wants it. Sounds like an unpleasant mix to me–but nowhere near as unpleasant as he’ll find my plans for him are.
I tell him I can sell him some weed. I’ve actually got everything he’s asked for and more; I keep a small amount of several different drugs available for situations like this. And every single gram is mixed with a prescription pain med. Keeps the rough trade nice and docile without causing flat-out unconsciousness.
I don’t want him knocked out. I don’t simply want to rape him and waste him. I want to rape his mind, too. I want him to know exactly what’s happening as I fuck him and kill him. I want him frantic with pain and terror…
Ok, need to calm down a bit. Not at the apartment yet. God, I wanna hurt this little fuck so bad.
He’s quiet. I think he’s already high; I likely won’t have to drug him much. His eyes are bloodshot and he’s got a big goofy grin on his face. I glance at his crotch, noting the long, thick bulge in his jeans. This is gonna be fun. He stirs, shuffling his boots on the floor mats as if in eager anticipation of his coming death.
Most of the outside lights at my apartment don’t work. That’s good. No one sees him get out of my van and follow me inside.
The kid–somewhere along the line he told me his name, like I give a shit–settles on the couch while I excuse myself, telling him I’m getting a sample so he’ll know what he’s getting. Little fuck has no idea what he’ll be getting, but he’ll learn soon enough.
The “sample” is kept in the bedroom, in the cabinet with my toys. I load a bowl of my special blend and take it out to the kid, declining his offer to share. I smoke myself, but not this shit; in fact, I cut it a little with some good stuff so it doesn’t knock his ass completely out.
He only takes a couple of hits before he drops the pipe, sagging down onto the couch with his grin growing wider and goofier. He looks up at me, smiling, his red eyes half-lidded and his jeans outlining every contour of his cock. My own dick is straining with impatience. I sit next to him and start fondling him, running my hands over his flat belly and his firm legs.
“What you doin’?” he slurs, the grin never leaving his face. “Ain’t no faggot. Get off.”
But the tone is lackluster and he doesn’t resist physically. On some level he may want this. In fact, he may want all of it, every screaming moment of agony that he’s about to experience.
Time to find out. I drag him to his feet and push him, stumbling, into the bedroom.
Once inside, I snatch off his cap, revealing his long, slightly wavy black hair. He giggles but starts resisting as I pull his shirt off. I silence his protests by retrieving a knife and a pair of handcuffs from my toy cabinet. I’m not planning on using the knife on him, but the boy goes silent as he starts to realize that this may not end well for him.
After cuffing his hands behind his back, I push him down on the bed and cut his jeans off with the knife. He’s gone commando; once the jeans are gone, the only things he’s still wearing are his boots and socks. After revisiting my toy cabinet momentarily, I climb on top of the boy and pin him to the mattress with my hand on his throat.
“Ok, you little fuck, here’s what’s gonna happen,” I snarl at him. “I’m gonna stick my dick as far up your ass as I can. I’m gonna hurt you. Don’t scream. If you scream, I’m gonna hurt you even worse.”
Of course he’s going to scream; he won’t be able to help it. It’s all part of the fun. He’s going to struggle to avoid crying out and I’m gonna get off watching him do it.
I jerk the punk’s legs up and press them back to his chest, gripping his ankles just above the boots. The kid starts whimpering as I hock up a wad of phlegm and spit on his quivering pink hole. “Shut up, bitch,” I snap, “this is the only lube you’re getting. Keep your mouth shut–and hold on. This is gonna hurt like all fuck.”
I stare into his face as I stuff my engorged mushroom head into his virgin fuckhole. He tenses up, arching his back and biting his bottom lip. I feel intense pressure on the tip of my cock, then a spurt of moisture and the pressure eases. I’ve torn him open. Tears well from his eyes. The sound he makes–well, I guess it’s not technically a scream, since he doesn’t open his mouth, but it’s the most agonized moan I’ve heard in a long time.
I part his legs, lying between them on his belly. His face is an inch from mine as I grab a fistful of his hair with my left hand, stare him in the eyes, and start whispering. As I speak, my right arm drops to the floor beside the bed, where I retrieve the toy I’d taken from the cabinet. It takes some skill to do this while steadily fucking the bitch, but then, I’ve had some practice.
“Fuck yeah, nice and tight. Off to a good start. Get settled in, fuckwad, ‘cause you’re gonna be here a long time. The rest of your life, in fact.”
His red eyes, wide with uncomprehending fear, stare into mine. I think they’re blue. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that he doesn’t get it. Good; I get to explain it. Rough trade usually takes some tenderizing–that’s some tough meat. I find that nothing seasons them like being told how they’re gonna die, once they’re helpless to escape it.
“If you think you’re here so I can rape you, fuckmeat, think again. Oh, I’m gonna rape you, all right. I’m gonna blow a load deep inside ya. And you’re gonna blow a load, too. No shit, meat, I’m gonna make sure you have some fun. In fact, you won’t be able to help it.”–here I hold up a two-foot length of plastic clothesline–“Ya see, your useless brain will probably already be dead by that point, so I doubt you’ll even know it’s happening.”–I raise his head and slide the plastic cord underneath his neck, but he’s still not getting it; his ass is tightly clenched, fighting against every inch of my cock–“Like I said, you’ll be here for the rest of your life. That’ll only be for a few minutes, but I’m gonna make sure those minutes last a long, long time. By the end, you’ll welcome death.”
I cross the cord in front of the fuckbitch’s neck and jerk it tight. The boy’s whimpering stops instantly as his air is cut off. His bloodshot eyes widen in fear–he finally understands that he’s gonna die.
Now I have to hold him tightly for a bit while I ride out his panicked thrashing. It’s a little like riding a mechanical bull. He jerks and bucks wildly, doing his damnedest to inhale. His ass rocks against my groin, his smooth rectum sliding along my swollen shaft.
“That’s it, you worthless little fuck, work my dick. That’s why you’re here. You’re dying because it feels good on my tool. I don’t give a shit who you are; I just want you to die on my dick.”
I lie flat on top of him again. I can feel the silky smoothness of his inner thighs as his legs flail frantically against my flanks. There’ll be bruises on my ass tomorrow from the drumming heels of the kid’s work boots. I tighten the cord and transfer both ends to one hand so I can stroke the stubble on his darkening cheek with the other hand as I start whispering again.
“How’s that feel, meat? Ya havin’ fun yet? Must hurt like fuck, not being able to breathe. That pain in your chest is gonna get worse. You’re gonna be in horrible agony by the time you die and that’ll make you massage my shaft even harder. I can’t fuckin’ wait. C’mon, fuckmeat, thrash and die.”
His eyes start to bulge, changing to a deeper shade of red as pinpoint hemorrhages burst deep in the whites. The tears leaking from the corners run across his face to blend with the snot oozing from his nose.
“Bet it’s starting to get dark around the edges for ya, you little shit. You’re gonna die very soon. I’m gonna fill your corpse with cum and throw you out like garbage to fester and rot with my seed inside you. Your family and friends will never know that you ended your wasted life as a fucktoy, a sack to hold my spunk. I’m gonna blow a load, dump your body, and forget you ever existed, you piece of shit. You’re nothing but a cumrag to me. And the more pain you’re in, the better time I have. Saddle up, bitch I’m gonna ride you to death.”
God, it feels good to lie on top of him as he writhes in terror and pain. His face is contorted into a rictus of agony, white froth erupting from the corners of his mouth, squeezing out past his purple, protruding tongue. The meat shakes his head wildly from side to side, still futilely seeking escape from the crushing pain in his neck and chest. He knows by now that there is no escape; this will only end in his death, but the physical demands override logic. He has to fight; he can’t help it. And every moment of his struggle massages my cock, stroking me closer to orgasm. And then, he starts to slow…
“C’mon, fuckmeat. You’re young and strong, you should be good for a few more minutes of fucking. You’re dying, not going to sleep. Maybe some pain will remind you–”
I rise up on my knees, pulling the meat up with me by the cord. I draw back and drive a blow into the meat’s face, straight from my shoulder. His nose crunches under my fist as his head rocks back from the force of the impact. Still holding the cord tight, I lower him back down, watching blood trickle from his nostrils. I grin down at him as I repeatedly slam my fist into his face, each blow resonating through his body and vibrating his ass along my dick.
“Now you’re getting it. The more pain you’re in, the better a fucktoy you are. Your tight little hole is milking my cock good, fuckwad. Damn, bitch, I can tell you’re feelin’ it; your hard fucking dick is poking me in the belly.”
It is, too. It’s a sure sign the kid is close to death. His cock, straining and erect, is leaving shining trails of precum as it bobs and sways against my furry abdomen. His massive scrotum has contracted into a firm, wrinkled mass as it prepares to ejaculate in a desperate attempt to save some of the dying punk’s genetic material. It’s a last-ditch physiological response, utterly beyond the meat’s control.
And that’s a good thing, ’cause the motherfucker is just about brain dead. As his body convulses erotically under me, it suffers reflexive reactions to systemic organ failure. A sheen of cold sweat glistens on the meat’s soft skin, helping him slide around on the bed. Trickles slip down his thrashing taint; I can feel the moisture at the root of my cock. It acts as lube for his ravaged, torn hole, but I think the punk is past the point of being able to appreciate it.
I’m ready. So is the meat; he’s just about reamed out. I need to get him tight again; one last overwhelming blast of agony to end the show. That’s why I use plastic clothesline; it can withstand a great deal of force. I pull as hard as I can on the cord, my biceps bulging, the tendons in my neck standing out with the strain.
The cord sinks into the meat’s neck so deeply it vanishes. I can hear cracking sounds as his hyoid bone snaps and the cartilage in his esophagus is crushed. His bruised and bleeding face swells and turns black as the pressure builds; drool runs down his cheeks and mats the hair of his goatee.
Suddenly, the meat goes rigid, his body snapping to attention. His sphincter clamps around the base of my dick, strangling my sensitized tool like I’m strangling him. As vital sections of his brain begin to die off, whole-body convulsions flow like waves through the meat’s slender frame, involuntarily pumping his colon along my cock.
Holy fuck, I’m gonna cum. Not yet. Not yet…
He shoots first, a jet of spunk which is quickly compressed into a layer of hot goo as the motherfucker’s belly–made rigid by violent spasms–grinds repeatedly against my own. His rectum collapses on my dick like a vacuum. As his ass ripples over the oozing head of my cock, I start cumming uncontrollably.
“Fuckin’ whore!” I scream, punching the kid repeatedly in the face. “Take it, you sack of shit! Take my cum in your guts, you dead fucking asswipe! Yeah, you worthless punk, suck up my load!”
He can’t hear me, of course; his brain is far too damaged to comprehend my words. And he probably can’t feel the blows to his face. Goddammit, I still want to hurt him. Even in the very last seconds of his short, brutal life, I want him to experience unspeakable agony as I fill him with semen.
Jesus fucking Christ, I’m still cumming. I’m empty; there isn’t anything shooting out of my dick but the shaft is still spasming deep inside the fucker. Little bitch drained me dry and milked every drop of cum out of my throbbing cock–but I’m disappointed.
The meat didn’t suffer enough. He died fighting and clawing for one last second of life, but it was still too quick. I need to be more creative. I’m sleepy–maybe something will come to me in my dreams. I drift into darkness, holding the quivering, cooling corpse tightly, stroking its sweat-soaked black hair.
I awake in the middle of the night, hungry for cold meat. It’s nice to have some right here in bed with me. It’s stopped twitching. I fondle it, feeling the dried crust of sperm glazing its abdomen. There’s a dark wet spot between its legs; sometime after I passed out, the corpse voided its bladder.
I crouch over the meat’s chest, slapping its face with my thick, erect cock. I enjoy rubbing the head of my dick into the dull, milky eyes. When I get fully hard, I mount the face, forcing my rod into the mouth, thrusting the tongue (still black, swollen and protruding) aside as my shaft slides into the meat’s dry, closed-off throat. I bury my mushroom tip into the crushed mass of flesh blocking the airway.
God, it feels good, skullfucking the corpse. I roll onto my back and jack off with the dead boy’s head, clutching a handful of the meat’s hair as a handle. His half-open eyes have rolled back slightly–at this angle, they stare into my own. The meat may have died too soon, but he’s still hot as fuck.
I didn’t think I could generate that much sperm in so little time. When I cum, it backs up in the meat’s obstructed esophagus and fills his sinuses. As I pull my still-dripping head from between the corpse’s cold, blue lips, I can see a trickle of spunk seeping from his right nostril. Pearly drops of cum blend with flecks of dried spittle stuck in the meat’s dark facial hair.
I’ve fucked him out and used him up. All that’s left is a meatsack pumped full of semen at both ends. It’s still dark out; no one’s gonna see me dragging the corpse out to my van. I need to get moving; the meat is starting to get stiff and unwieldy. And I need to get it out before daybreak so I can make the run to the dump sometime in the morning.
After all, I gotta get this place cleaned up for the next one. Can’t have ‘em piling up like firewood.