He’s young, no more than eighteen or nineteen, to judge by his appearance. Latino, with smooth brown skin. Slim, with tight jeans and a black t-shirt under a gray hoodie. There’s a knit cap over his hair and square-toed shitkicker boots on his shuffling feet.
He looks cold, out there on the corner, where the rentboys usually hang. But it’s too cold for them, and I don’t think this one’s a whore. He looks a little too rough; the sluts tend to be more hip. And he seems embarrassed, uncertain.
Think I should find out what his story is. He looks like he wants it, but is scared to death of finding it—whatever “it” is.
I grin. I know what “it” is. And he’s right to be scared.
I’ve been sitting in my van in a dark parking lot about a third of the way down the block. Despite the cold, I’ve left the ignition off. I have a very clear view of him. He can’t see me; he’s unaware of my existence. But he won’t be for long.
I start the van and pull out of the lot; he swivels and focuses on me instantly. I drive slowly past the pool of light in which he’s standing and ease over to the curb just past the illuminated circle. No one is out to see anything on this chilly night, but there’s no sense in taking chances.
Despite whatever trepidation he might be feeling, the chicoputa is at the passenger door quickly. When he opens it, I get my first clear glimpse of him in detail. I lean forward, scanning his face carefully. I’ll fuck him no matter what he looks like—after all, he’s just meat—but I wanna see if it’s gonna be doggie style or missionary.
Missionary, definitely. His huge black puppy-dog eyes are almond-shaped. My eyes are drawn into them by his long, lush eyelashes. A stray curl of hair that’s escaped his knit cap reveals his silky blue-black hair.
His full, red lips give his face an erotic vulnerability that gets a boost from the fine shadow on his upper lip; despite his age, he has the wispy moustache of puberty.
He smiles sweetly—and nervously—and hops in right away. He pauses uncertainly for a moment, then reaches over and grabs my cock, already tent-poling my jeans.
“Cin-cincuenta dolares,” he stammers.
“Fifty bucks?” I reply. “Sure, I can do that. Lemme get somewhere private. Get in the back, cholo, if ya wanna get chingado’d. And drop your pantalones.”
He obeys, scrambling into the back and unbuttoning his skin-tight jeans, letting them slide to the floor—he’s not wearing a belt. He reaches down to his waist and pulls off his hoodie in one swift, smooth motion. For a brief moment, he stands, lithe, firm torso wrapped in a black t-shirt that comes down to mid-belly. Beneath that, his smooth flat abdomen sweeps down to the haze of black curly hair from which a short, thick, uncut dick stands erect and dripping. There’s a hint of black fur on his smooth, firm thighs and calves that disappear into the tops of his brown leather shitkickers. His jeans have slid all the way down. Bracing himself against the side with in hand, he reaches down with other and works the cuffs of his jeans over his boots so he’s able to get the former off without removing the latter.
Then the t-shirt comes off. His taut, tight abdomen is tattooed. Across his smooth, flat brown belly is a huge tattoo in blue ink—two crossed knives, in the center of which is a blazing circle surrounding an eagle, holding a writhing snake in the shape of an “M” in its beak. Above are the letters “MM” several inches high.
It’s a gang tattoo. In this case, Mexican Mafia. And since I can see the word “Mexikano” on his right bicep; it’s specifically the Texas Mexican Mafia.
Oh fuck yeah. I can’t wait to shove my hard dripping shaft up this worthless little gangbanger’s asshole. Fucking cunt wants it, too. His eyes are shining with lust as he looks at my tool…
At any rate, fuck foreplay. I lunge at the meat, driving my fist into his beautiful spic face, catching him on the jaw, and utterly, completely stunning him.
He grunts before falling to his knees. It’s a deep, vital sound that gets me even harder. I bend down between his legs and grab…his wallet.
With a quick jerk, I snatch it out of his back pocket of his discarded jeans, pulling with enough force to snap the belt loop. I have the wallet and its chain, which turns out to be two feet long.
Oh, that’s perfect. The kid groans and looks up at me with a wounded expression. He sees the wallet in my hand. “Por favor, señor, no dinero! No dinero!”
I know ya ain’t got any money, cunt; that’s not what I want.
I lunge, my animal instincts taking over, forcing the kid onto his back. I grab his ankles—his boots, actually, feeling the scarred leather of his dirty workboots as I grasp them roughly and hoist his legs up to my shoulders. I’ve left his wallet, long chain attached, on the right.
I still have plans for it.
He jerks his firm, brown legs, trying to free them from my grip. I’m bigger and better-built; he doesn’t stand a chance. I lean over him, slowly bending his knees until they’re forced back to his chest. The punk tries to resist, his breathing labored and frightened, his eyes wide with bewilderment. His knit cap—it’s black or dark blue—still clings to his head, slightly askew. Several locks of long black hair have escaped and fan into the air as the kid struggles. He still doesn’t understand what’s happening.
Time for a little enlightenment. My cock is primed and ready to go; so is the meat. I think it’s time to get them together.
Judging by his scream, the kid thinks differently. There’s no one close enough to hear; the only impact the noise has is to vibrate his innards a little, making them constrict slightly as my shaft tears its way past his sphincter and plunges deep into his tender colon.
“Yeah, scream like a bitch, ya fuckin’ faggot,” I sneer at him, “feels so fuckin’ good on my cock. Go on, cholo, scream. Lemme feel your punk ass get a good grip on my dick.”
I spit in his face. He stares up at me; if his eyes had been wide before, they’re enormous now. His entire face is stretched into a mask of shock, his mouth a perfect O. He’s literally stunned and is—momentarily, at least—unable to comprehend what’s happening to him.
I get it. Little motherfucker is a virgin. This is his first time gettin’ it up the ass. Been spending his time blowing his homies in alleyways—probably hasn’t ever asked for money before. It would explain his nervousness when he first approached me.
I grin down at him. “Helluva time to turn puta, esé. You’re gonna love this. I’m gonna give ya the hardest, best, most painful fuck of your entire life.” I can’t stop myself from chuckling as I smile down into the spic’s eyes, brimming with tears. “And the last. La ultima cogida.”
It takes a moment for my words to work their way into the Latino slut’s fear-jammed mind. I can see when it happens; that moment of terror, the eyes widening with the realization that his life might be ending tonight. I can see it processing. He’s gonna scream. I don’t care if he does; like I said, there’s no one to hear him.
So I don’t know why I stop him, but I do. Just as he gasps, filling his lungs with air in order to heave out what would surely be a tremendous cry of panic, I slam my fist into his face with the force of a piledriver. I can feel the satisfying crunch of his cheekbone under my hand.
He expels his lungful of air—not in a scream, but in a deep, shocked grunt that reverberates through his firm body. I can feel the blow in my cock. “Hell yeah, you fuckin’ spic puta, ya love getting’ hurt, huh? I can tell by the way yer fuckhole milks my cock when you’re in pain. Tell me, vato, did your gangbanger buddies slap ya around while you were blowin’ them? Bet ya loved it, ya fuckin’ pain pig; bet ya begged ‘em for more. Lessee how much more you can take, si? Mas dolor, perra, mucho mas dolor.”
He moans in pain and confusion, but it doesn’t last long. He’s smaller than me, but he’s a tough little street punk nonetheless and he doesn’t want to go quietly.
Good. I’m in the mood for a little workout. And the longer he struggles on my cock, the better it feels. And the better it feels for him, too, the little fag slut, judging by the way his cock is suddenly erect; its dark swollen head leaving a trail on my skin as it slips over my firm flat belly.
He looks up at me—now there’s a look of rage to go with the pain. I’m already anticipating him when he suddenly explodes into a scrabbling, scratching fury like a feral cat—which is pretty close to what he is. A wild little street punk whose wasted life is gonna end agonizingly on the head of my dick without anyone ever knowing or caring.
My hands are pressing against the inside of his thighs, just above the knees, forcing his legs up against his chest—and slightly apart. I’ve thrust myself between them while fucking him so that by now, his smooth, taut legs have wrapped around my sweaty torso of their own accord.
The useless little cocksucker, enraged by the pain of getting his ass violated, kicks violently now. The thick soles of his dirty, rough workboots catch at my flanks as the boy thrusts his legs down, trying to pull me off using just his legs. He’s trying to find a weak spot on me, something to use to his advantage. Luckily I’ve built up a good sheen of sweat—these feral little street whores are always a good workout—so his boots don’t find a purchase.
Still, the scraping is painful. And this piece of shit is here to be on the receiving end, not the giving.
I think the cunt needs a reminder.
The next blow comes straight down from my shoulder into the kid’s mouth. His head bounces off the carpeted floor of the van as his arms and legs splay out in shock; his boots leaving one last bruise as they fall back limply onto my back. The meat rolls his head to the right and coughs out something small, red and white. It’s an incisor. His head moves back, his eyelids fluttering as he struggles to maintain consciousness. His lips are already split and swollen, a trickle of blood leaking from the right corner of his mouth.
He’s limp and jerking, not fighting me, at least for the moment. He’s still pinned to the floor by my cock; he ain’t goin’ anywhere. I wanna admire his wallet.
Specifically, I wanna admire the chain he’d used to secure it to his jeans. It’s a small gauge, but sturdy, and there’s more than two feet of it.
I hold it in front of the stunned whore. His eyes follow the chain blearily. “Mira, puta, su cadena. Your own chain.” I lay it across his neck as I reach up and snatch off his cap, finally revealing an untidy mop of long, slightly curly black hair. I grab a handful of greasy black silk, jerk his head up, and wrap the chain all the way around his neck.
He moans, clears his throat and opens his eyes. His hands crawl up his chest to his neck; just as his questing fingers encounter the chain, I wrap it around my hands and jerk as hard as I can, my biceps bulging as the links of the chain compress the punk’s throat to the point that they sink into the flesh.
He fights, of course. This is the kinda struggle I’d wanted. Before, the kid was thinking and planning.
Now, I’ve got the feral street whore back. He claws and scratches, reaching instinctively for my face. I lean back, keeping him out at full arm length. And my arms are longer than his. The tips of his fingers scrabble in the stubble of my goatee on my chin, but he can’t quite come close enough to actually grasp anything. All he can do is fondle the facial hair of the man who’s raping and strangling him.
“Hey, cholo,” I tell him, my jaw dropping just enough when I speak to allow his frantic hands to stroke my chin. “Tiempo de morir. Did I get that right, cunt? Time to die. Here, if ya didn’t get it in two languages, maybe this’ll get the point across.” I jerk my arms further apart, grunting with the exertion as tendons stand out in my arms.
The spic arcs violently. Balling his hands into fists, he beats at my arms, desperately trying to break my grip. His face swells and darkens as his eyes focus frantically on my face. Despite the excruciating pain of strangulation, he still doesn’t realize he’s dying. He can still feel my cock plugging his hole, after all.
I grin at him before spitting in his purple face. His eyes bulge up at me, blood vessels starting to burst and stain his whites with red. “Tu es carne. You got that, concha? You’re nothing but meat. You’re gonna gag and choke and milk the cum outta my shaft as you die. When I’ve filled your worthless ass up with my spunk, I’ll throw your useless corpse into the canal like the pile of rotting meat you’ll be. Even if anyone finds ya, they won’t give a shit. So keep fightin’ it, cunt, the longer you live, the more ya jack my dick.”
Man, this one’s hot. Little spic slut is stronger than he looks; he fights for more than five minutes.
At first, he’s wild. I didn’t expect him to last long; he fought so hard that I was sure he was using up all the oxygen left in his bloodstream. He continues to beat and kick at me for about ninety seconds, his eyes looking up into mine, tears leaking from the corners the entire time.
“I know, I know,” I tell him softly. “Sucks, don’t it? Didn’t think you were gonna go out like this, huh? Not tonight, huh? Tough shit. You’re just a useless spic cumpig. No one cares how or when you go out. So ya might as well make me cum and make your death have some meaning, huh? Not like anyone’s gonna give a fuck about your worthless puta ass.”
He’s not fighting as hard now. I can lower my head. When I do, he doesn’t try to rip and gouge my face, now he caresses my cheeks.
His legs, too, have slowed. He’s not kicking the living shit outta me anymore; now I can feel his smooth firm thighs embracing my flanks, our entwined bodies writhing together in a vital dance of sex and death. Between us, his uncut tool burns and twitches violently as if it has a mind of its own.
As indeed, it must. I recognize the signs. I can stop my inept attempts at Spanish. The kid isn’t dead—not by a long shot—but there’s not enough working brain matter for him to appreciate my taunting. He’s still conscious (in a way) but my ability to use his fear to chemically stimulate his own body is at an end.
His brain is too damaged to comprehend my words. Well, that’s a goddam shame. But I ain’t done havin’ fun with my meat. And fuck, it ain’t even really meat yet.
The wiry muscular little cholo begins to convulse rhythmically as more and more of his brain dies and his nervous system begins to collapse. His rectum spasms and writhes, his guts clenching around my thick, hypersensitive shaft as his taut teen body grips me tightly in its death throes.
As I feel my seed boiling up in my balls, ready to overflow and inject this dying teen meatpunk with my genetic material, claiming his unwanted fuckhole as my own to dispose as I wish, I spit into his grotesque mask of a face. His beautiful Latino features are blackened and distorted, his eyes bulging, his tongue a purple protrusion surrounded by foam that oozes from both corners of his mouth. On the left, it leaves a trail of white slime down the punk’s cheek. On the right, it’s the same—except the drool has mixed with the blood from the split lips. The trail is pink.
I don’t think there’s enough left of him to hear me—and if there is, it damn sure ain’t enough for the spic punk to understand English—but I let him know anyway. Just cause the meat’s tender enough doesn’t mean I can’t pound it a few more times.
“Almost there, cunt, almost there. Fight it, you bitch, keep scrambling to stay alive. Lemme feel ya fight to the very end, ya fucking whore, lemme feel you die like a worthless cumsucking pig on my cock—“
There’s a loud crunch as his esophagus collapses. In the ultimate agony of death, his arms and legs contract around me; he clings to me desperately as life leaves his body and the neurons in his brain begin to fire at random. As he shudders and trembles, holding me in the iron grip of one suffering a traumatic death, I feel his orgasm; his cock is so swollen I can feel it pulse and writhe as jets of semen erupt between us, hot on my skin.
At the same time, his stretched and torn sphincter gives one last convulsion, cinching about my dick like a cockring. As the punk’s rectum flutters and spasms over the engorged head of my tool, I can feel my release pumping the meat’s ass full of my seed. I grunt and cry out, but then I’m dizzy…
…I can feel hot jizz flowing out of me, pumping so hard it hurts…
…I don’t let go; I have to hold on to something as I cum, something to brace myself—this chain in my hand…
…oh fuck you gotta be feelin’ this cunt, my huge load’s gotta be the last thing ya feel…
Ok. I’m ok. I’m back under control.
I’m on my knees with my cock still sunk deep in the quivering meat. And now it really is meat. I don’t think there’s any brain activity left—and if there is, well, that chain is buried too deep for me to bother digging it out.
I pull out and stand up, cum still dripping from the head of my cock. I let it drip onto the meat, watching it vanish into the pools of the slut’s own semen that spread over his flat belly.
I get dressed quickly. There’s no real reason to rush; no one has seen me and no one knows we’re here. But still, the sooner done the better, as long as I’m careful. And I have been careful.
I open the back doors of the van. Barely a foot beyond is a short wood and metal guardrail intended to prevent anyone from driving into the drainage ditch. It’s about eight feet down at that point. At the moment there’s just enough water to cover the body, but a front is coming through tonight and it’s supposed to rain for two days. By the time he rots enough to pop up, he’ll be halfway to the ocean.
I grab the meat under the armpits and drag him out. His leg spasms, making his scarred workboot kick. I drag him up over the guardrail and tumble him headfirst into the ditch. I make a second trip, picking up his clothes and belongings and toss them in after.
Well, I’d wanted a little Mexican tonight. Now what do I want for dinner?