The whores are back. I knew the raid wouldn’t have kept them cleared out for long. They’re like rats; the moment you turn around, they come swarming back in.
I do my little part to keep the population down.
I’m horny. I want a meat puppet to dance a jig of death on my cock and jack me off with his death throes. I want to drain my cum into a quivering, brain-dead sack of flesh before I throw it into a ditch to rot like garbage. I may or may not fuck the corpse before I dump it.
Y’know, my boss was right. It’s a lot easier to focus on the job at hand when you have a mission statement.
I’m focusing on one of the hustlers right now. He’s about a hundred yards away, under a streetlight, looking rather forlorn.
I’m in the parking lot behind one of the larger gay bars in town. The side street behind the lot is the main drag for cruising rentboys. I usually don’t hunt here; it’s so crowded and busy, I can never count on not being seen. But it’s hotter than fuck tonight; over ninety degrees at ten in the evening. Most of the boywhores are in the bars, getting themselves hot and sweaty with drugs and dancing.
The one I’m looking at is just plain hot and sweaty. Poor thing. I know how to cool him off—permanently.
He’s young, no more than twenty or twenty-one, and seriously inexperienced; I can tell by his appearance. Long black hair, almost shoulder-length. Maybe his hair is naturally that curly. Maybe it’s a perm. Do guys still do that? Is it coming back?
It’s the clothing that sets him apart, though. Kid is dressed like an extra from an 80’s hair metal video. Black vest of distressed leather, with no shirt underneath—not a bad choice; the punk is short but well-built; his outfit shows his bulging pecs, abs and biceps to advantage. His incredibly slutty short shorts do the same to his legs; his muscled thighs and calves glistening with sweat, like the rest of him. Even at this distance, I see glint of light reflecting of a bead of sweat as it navigates its way through the dark fur on his legs down to the white tube sock that ends just above his tightly-laced combat boot.
He’s putting it out there on a platter. Jesus, he wants it bad. And I’m gonna give it to him.
I start my van and pull out onto the street. I slow by the curb where he stands, looking around. Even though I can hear the hard driving thump of the bass from the bars, there’s no one in sight. Perfect.
He’s eager. Glad to get out of the heat, glad to be making some money, glad I’m not a weirdo—he says he can tell by looking at me.
Wow, he is seriously naïve. Just in from the sticks, most likely. Bad judgment call, dude, majorly bad. And he only asks fifty bucks to get fucked. With his body, he could get much more. I wonder why he’s selling himself so cheaply–then he whips out a glass stem with a bowl on then end and I get it. Meth freak. Man, that shit’ll destroy you; completely fuck your brain and body up. Rentboy is hot, but he ain’t gonna stay that way.
Well, then. I’ll be doing the faggot whore junkie a favor by ending his worthless life. A good deed is its own reward, they say, and offing this fucker is gonna be very much a reward. I don’t know if the hustler will appreciate the kindness I’m doing him.
I’ve gotten used to the fact that some of those I help show an appalling lack of gratitude.
It’s too far to the apartment and there’s nowhere near here where I can count on being undisturbed in the van. I head west, towards the highway. There are some sleazy motels a few blocks over on a major cross-street—places built sixty years ago when that road was a state highway. Now they’re rented for cash by the hour as fuck pits; sheets so stiff with cum they crackle when they’re folded back. I’ve been there before, but it’s been years.
I pull up to the first place I find. I don’t want some observant clerk to ID me, so I hand the whore some cash and send him to the office. He evidently expects this. He’s naïve but not completely inexperienced; he must have serviced married guys who were concerned about being recognized. I make sure he sees the large wad of cash in my wallet. He won’t take the money and run if he knows there’s more to be had.
He’s back within three minutes with a key. The room is out of sight of the office—very good; I hadn’t want to ask for it in case it aroused the rentboy’s suspicions. The room is small, sparsely furnished, and filthy—exactly what I expected. I’m sure they hafta get a truck in here on Mondays to haul out the bodies of all the whores who OD’d here over the weekend.
Just the thought gets me hard.
The kid tells me his name, shyly, bashfully. He really is kinda new at this. I ignore him, staring coldly into his face as I start to undress. He flushes red in the face and starts to strip himself.
I’m not wearing much; a white wifebeater and denim shorts that let me step out of them without having to take off my black canvas hightop Converse sneakers. I’m commando underneath. He follows suit by stepping out of his shorts with his boots still on. He’s wearing red bikini-cut briefs. I look at them and sneer slightly. He blushes again and looks down.
“Get on the bed, bitch,” I say levelly. “Get on your back with your feet in the air, you fucking slut.”
His eyes wide, he turns to obey. Just before he gets on the bed, I stop him. “Get those panties off your ass, faggot.” Bright red, he complies with his face aimed at the floor; he’s almost in tears with embarrassment—but when he gets the briefs off, he’s completely hard. I can see his pulse throbbing in the veins around his straining cock.
He wants to be used. I doubt he wants to be used as much as I’m gonna, but he wants this.
“On your back, whore. Spread those legs. C’mon, bitch, open up that fuckhole, if you wanna get paid.”
He’s looking at me with a paradoxical mix of lust and apprehension. I’m pretty well-built myself and I’m taller than this punk. Little cunt wants to get fucked by a real man. But I’m not responding as he expects. He’s really fucking hot himself and I bet most of his johns—the few he’s had—have showered him with love and money. I’m the first one to treat him like the fucking slut he is.
There’s something about him—that curious mix of innocence and experience—that makes me want to take my time with him. I want to savor the experience of ending his life, and I want him to savor it too.
I’ve seen his type before. He’ll fight it to the bitter end, but deep within his pig whore soul, he craves the agony of death during sex. In the end, I’m only giving the rentboy what he truly wants.
I’m only semi-erect when I force myself into him, but he grimaces and cries out in pain. “Shut up, fuckwad,” I snarl, “I ain’t even all the way in yet. What kinda fucking whore are ya, asswipe, if you can’t take my soft cock?”
He turns his head to the side, tears leaking down his face. “Please, oh god, please go slow,” he snivels, “You’re too big…”
Look, I ain’t given to boasting. I’m not small, but I ain’t inhumanly huge, either. This bitch is tight. He’s not a virgin; I’ve seen him before, getting into other guys’ cars. Maybe he just did handies and BJs. But young as he is, I ain’t buying him as an ass virgin.
I grab his chin and turn his face back to mine. I’m deep inside him by now, with his legs wrapped around my flanks. I look deep into his hazel eyes, flecked with green and surrounded by long, dark lashes as he mewls in pain.
“Quit squealin’, pig,” I snap. He gasps—then, with the next thrust of my hardening cock, lets out a high-pitched squeal, literally sounding like a pig. My dick snaps to attention and I reward the whore with a sucker-punch directly to the face.
His head rocks back into the cheap, stained motel mattress. I feel the blow resonate through his hard, firm body. The dark fur on his taut asscheeks tangles with my pubic hair as his rectum lovingly strokes my shaft, despite the slut’s fear.
Every voluntary reaction he has resists me; every involuntary reaction shows his pleasure. I have to kill off enough of his brain to destroy the voluntary nervous system. Then the involuntary will take over, giving him the greatest orgasm he could ever experience. And he’ll get me off as it happens. Shame that it kills him in the process, but it’s an occupational hazard for whores. And it spares him a more drawn-out agony. He could spend a decade or more as a druggie on the streets…
As I said, I don’t expect gratitude from him. I do, however, expect a good time. And I want it now. I reach down and wrap my hands around the whore’s throat. His eyes grow even wider as I squeeze. I brace my sneakers against the spunk-stained mattress, the soles of my canvas hightops gaining traction to help me pin the rentboy down, my cock pinning the lower part of his hard, tight torso to the bed as my hands force his neck down.
The cuntboy’s chest and abdomen arc up against my belly as his eyes bulge in panic. He reaches up and claws at my hands, his eyes pleading with me mutely. I hock up a massive wad of phlegm and spit it into his face. Repositioning myself so that I can pinion him with one arm, I free my other arm so that I can continue to express my opinion of whores by repeated blows to his face.
Adrenaline and testosterone boil over in my bloodstream as the kid’s body reacts to each impact with a short but intense contraction of the muscles. This reaction causes his colon to clench and release rhythmically, squeezing my tool like a fist.
“That’s it, bitch,” I whisper, “work my fucking cock, you whore. Choke and die while I punk-fuck you, you worthless fucking cumpig.”
I gotta admit, the little slut is strong. He straight-arms me as best he can, the muscles in his forearms popping out through the forest of fur that covers him nearly to the elbows as his adrenaline increases as well. The testosterone is obvious too as his cock swells into a fireplug, five inches long but nearly two in diameter.
His hands are flailing violently, scratching at my chest and my face. I’ve had enough of this shit; worthless little cunt needs to take what’s coming to him. A line drive straight from my shoulder to his nose results in a satisfying crunch and gives the slut something else to think about for a couple of minutes.
As blood leaks from the rentboy’s broken nose, I clamp down on his throat with both hands again. Leaning down and squeezing his throat, I pin him to the mattress as I ream his ass mercilessly. His eyes bulge from the lack of oxygen as his face begins to turn blue.
“That’s it, slut, now you’re gettin’ it. Let me feel you kick your life away. Die on my motherfuckin’ cock, you little cunt. I’m gonna wring your neck when I cum and you’re gonna be so glad, bitch, you’ll shoot your worthless slut load like the helpless little deathpig you really are.”
He resists, of course; they always do. Deep inside, he knows that this is what he wants; he needs to be used as a sex toy and thrown out like a soiled tissue. He wouldn’t be whoring himself out to get his drugs if he didn’t. But they never admit it, even to themselves, until the last minute, when they experience the orgasm that death brings them and come to understand that this is what they needed to give meaning to their useless, wasted lives.
It’s that moment of comprehension, that moment as their body reacts with the ultimate orgasm and they feel their soul empty out through their cock, that makes it worth the risk. Well, that, and it feels good on my cock. They aren’t the only ones experiencing an ultimate orgasm. Ordinary sex is nothing compared to the erotic intensity of a snuff.
The rentboy is losing it, slipping into blind panic. He’s beating and clawing at me violently. His mind is aflame with panic as the realization hits him that this is far worse than getting beaten in some kinky S&M game.
I tell them they’re gonna die, but the stupid little fucks never believe it until they feel it themselves. This is, of course, why I make sure they do feel it.
His face contorts in a rictus of agony as I squeeze harder, feeling his larynx sliding around in his throat under the pressure. He digs at my hands, his fingers bent into hooks, as he tries to pry my rigid arms away from his neck. As his desperate body writhes under me, his combat boots slapping at my ass, I can feel his erect dick prodding my belly.
As I throttle him, I pull downward on his neck, pulling him back until my thick purple shaft is half-buried in his panicked, fluttering rectum. Now it’s time to really show the whore who’s boss.
I stop pumping my tool. I’m gonna make the meat work my cock for a while. By varying the amount of pressure on his esophagus, I can control the amount of oxygen he receives and the amount of pain he’s in. As I clamp down on his neck, he thrashes and convulses, sliding around on my swollen, leaking mushroom tip. I can slow him down by easing the pressure.
I spend the next thirty-five minutes jacking off with the meat, strangling him to and past the point of unconsciousness, watching his face darken and his tongue protrude. His arms flail against my body; I’m gonna be covered in scratches, but he’s already too weak to do much damage. Same with his legs; I’m gonna have some bruises shaped like his bootheels, but nothing worse.
I enjoy watching his face, watching his expression as he regains consciousness each time. It’s a curious mix of relief and desperation; relief that he’s still alive and desperation because the nightmare is still going on.
“Wakey, wakey, you little fuck,” I leer into his tear-stained face, “you ain’t done working my cock yet, whoremeat. C’mon, get your fucking slut hole all the way down on my cockroot, punk. Next time I choke you out, I wanna feel your sphincter spasming in my pubic hair. Get it all the way down, you worthless pig!”
There’s resistance about three-quarters of the way down my shaft. He’s still just a little too tight to take all of me. “Goddammit,” I mutter, “you’re gonna take it all, whore. You’re here so I can use you like the piece of pig meat you are. Doesn’t matter how much damage you suffer, cause I’m just gonna throw you out after I’ve finished using your corpse as a cum dumpster.”
“Besides,” I whisper, smiling down into his wide, shock-rimmed eyes, “I know that deep inside your cumslut soul, you want to be hurt, you piece of shit whore. You know you deserve the pain; you need it to complete you. Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll complete you so hard they won’t find all the pieces.”
Gripping the kid’s throat tightly, I force his thick, wriggling muscle-body body down into my crotch, feeling the pressure around my rod increase painfully. The whoreboy is struggling heroically, in extreme agony as he’s impaled on my cock. Suddenly the pressure eases and my dick plunges in completely, slipping in on a warm moist film of blood. The boy’s eyes, pleading mutely up at me, roll back in his head as I tear his ass open.
I remove my hands from his throat and sit up on my knees, looking down at his limp unconscious body, glistening with a sheen of panic sweat. Drool runs across his face from the corners of his lips, parted in labored breathing. I’m waiting for him to wake up. He’s out from the pain; I’ve torn his sphincter and split his rectal lining. Every throb of my cock is gonna make him feel like he’s getting’ fucked with a razor.
His eyelid flutter and he starts moaning. Just as his eyes open, I grab his neck again, tightening my hands and wringing them together. He bucks and jerks under me, shaking his head violently from side to side. I hold myself still, enjoying the sensation of his mangled, bleeding colon contracting on and sliding over my oozing mushroom tip.
I sneer down into the dying meat’s face. “Time to say goodnight, bitch. Time to ride my hog down into a nice long dark dirt nap. Yeah, I know, it hurts like fuck. And you love it, you fucking pig; look at how hard your dork is. Damn, you’re dribbling more precum than I am right now, and I gotta tell ya, the thought of wasting your punk ass has got me dripping.”
His face, growing darker by the second, is covered with snot and tears. His tongue is peeking out from between his lips again and his bulging eyes are becoming bloodshot. His thrashing has slowed, his hands slowly trailing along my sides and my chest, his boots twitching and kicking spasmodically. As his pelvis bucks, his dick generates a slapping sound as it bobs between his writhing, firm abdomen and mine.
Time to wring the whoremeat out for good. I clamp down on his throat, feeling the resistance of the rubbery tissue of the trachea running like an inner tube on the inside. Squeezing so hard my biceps bulge and the tendons stand out in my neck as I clench my jaw, I’m rewarded with the erotic, satisfying crunch of his esophagus collapsing. His hard meat body goes rigid in exquisite agony as I increase the pressure, feeling the cartilage in his voice box crack and crush beneath my hands.
He arcs violently against me and I feel a warm flood spew over my chest as his cock spunks with the orgasmic pleasure of extreme pain; a true death load. His eyes roll back in his head, bloody white visible behind the half-open lids. A fount of foam boils out past his thick black tongue and slides down his purple cheeks.
I give one last squeeze, twisting my wrists backwards—and get one last snap, severing the spinal column between the third and fourth cervical vertebrae. The young whore’s body stiffens in massive neurological shock. His bleeding rectum folds around my cock and sucks my load out like it had applied a vacuum. His arms and legs hold me in one last iron embrace before he sinks into the flaccid passivity of death as a final spasm in his drawn-up balls forces the last drops of semen out of his thickly-veined tool.
I spend another ten minutes gasping for air, my shaft still firmly planted in the dead whore’s ass. When I finally pull it out, it’s glazed with blood and dried cum.
The bathroom is disgusting, but it’ll have to do. All I really need to do is wash off my dick anyway; I can deal with my own sweaty manfunk till I can get to a real shower.
I need to find someplace to dump the meat. I could leave it here, since no one’s seen me, but there’s DNA evidence. It’s high summer; I just gotta keep the meat from being found long enough to go putrid.
I feel bad about not being able to fuck the corpse like I’d promised; I know, deep in his little pig soul, the whore would have wanted me to. But it took me longer to off him than I expected. I’d really enjoyed beating off with him, using him as a human sex toy before I killed him. But I only paid for the room for so long, and I’m too far from home to risk driving around with a fresh kill.
I know! There’s a culvert under a train trestle a mile and a half up the road. Homeless people camp there in winter, but it’s overgrown and empty in the summer. By the time anyone finds the meat, it’ll be more like soup.
And anyway, they’re not gonna look real hard when they ID him and find out he was a meth head whore. No one’s gonna care.
Like I said, I’ve spared him a long, drawn-out, agonizing death by addiction. But do you think anyone will thank me? Not a chance in hell…