The kid is young, no older than twenty. Short, but muscular; he’s been working out. No surprise there; he’s a whore, so he needs to maintain his moneymaker.
It’s cold out and sleet is starting to fall. That’s probably why he’s still available—there’s no traffic now. Everyone is home and safe and warm. Except this kid; he’s still out selling his body. He must be desperate. Wonder what kinda habit he’s supporting.
Well, after tonight, it won’t matter. Surest way to get a monkey off your back is to get dead.
He’s relieved when I pull up. I don’t give him much time; I’ve got my tire iron in the back seat and I go upside his head with it before he can speak. He slumps against his door, snoring slightly as I drive back to the apartment I’ve rented.
It’s dark when I get there. Power’s out in the whole neighborhood. This place I’ve rented is older and has a fireplace. I’d laid in a supply of wood when I saw the forecast.
This whore is gonna die in front of the fire.
I’ve positioned an upright pole in front of the fireplace. I place the kid on his back and pull his hands up over his head, tying them to the pole. After I start a fire—and get enough light to see what I’m doing—I start removing his clothes. I cut off his jeans, leaving his shiny black Doc Martens in place. I cut off his t-shirt and the denim vest he’s wearing, too. He must have been cold.
He’s nude now, except for his socks and boots. He’s well-built and pretty well hung for his size. There’s a tribal armband tattoo around his bulging right bicep. His hair is black and curly and worn long in the back, kinda like a mullet. A trickle of blood has run down his right temple from the spot where I’d popped him. It’s dry now.
Rentboy is starting to wake up. In a flash, I’ve got a ball gag in his mouth. With the power out, it’s really quiet around here. This piggy’s gonna squeal some before I’m done; I need to muffle him before I get started.
I pry his smooth thighs apart and shove the head of my cock into his well-used hole. He gives a slight groan, but this is clearly nothing new for him. He’s pretty loose, but I know how to fix that.
I always like showing off my knife before I use it. The fuckmeat works my tool longer and more intensely when the pain is combined with fear. And my Ka-bar utility knife with its seven inch serrated carbon-steel blade is something to be afraid of.
The kid’s large, dark eyes finally open. He looks around in dazed confusion, trying to move. His hands are bound above his head with zip ties and he can’t do anything with them. He can kick his legs but I’m pinning him to the floor with my dick, so he can’t do much else.
I lie full-length on top of him and grab his throat. With my other hand, I hold the knife in front of his eyes, letting it reflect the orange flames back into his panicked face.
“See this, ya little fuck? I’m gonna stick this in ya. I’m gonna fuck your ass with my cock and your body with my blade. Don’t worry, punk, I ain’t gonna kill ya. Yet. But you whored yourself out too much, bitch, so I’m gonna tighten ya up a little. Ready for it, fuckmeat? Here we go!”
I slowly insert the knife into his left side, under the rib cage. The whore quivers in agony as the sharpened steel slides through his flesh and tears open muscle. His screams are muffled by the gag, but his face shows how much pain he’s in. He shakes his head; eyes squeezed shut with tears streaming out. The resistance on my blade changes abruptly; I’ve hit the spleen.
Suddenly the punk jerks, his eyes opened wide and dilated. Organ trauma usually induces a basic level of shock. His muscles tightened reflexively and his ass clamped down on my dick, as I’d planned.
I slowly pull the blade out. I don’t want to do too much damage yet. I’m gonna bleed him out like a stuck pig, but that’s for later. It’s difficult to keep ‘em going like this sometimes. Getting the right physical reaction requires precision placement of the blade and usually involves trauma to some organ or another. But too much organ damage can lead to death by hemorrhage (before I’m ready) or an irreversible deep state of shock that elicits no reaction at all. This latter state is useful if you need a quick stealth kill.
I like to enjoy my kills a little more. I ease the blade into the punk’s hard, flat belly. It slips in smoothly, almost gliding in like a hot knife through butter. The bitch’s scream is tempered to a long, low moan by the gag.
“Shut up, you fuckin’ bitch. This is what you been wantin’, ain’t it? You’ve just been waiting for some guy to come along and stick something long and hard into ya. Now you got two at the same time, fucker. And you love it, don’t ya, faggot? You tighten your ass up like a good little piggy every time I stick ya. You keep that up and you’ll get my load, bitch. You’re gonna love what happens then. You really are gonna die squealing like a pig when I give you my load. Best happy ending ever!”
I smile beatifically into his face as I tell him about his death. I don’t miss a stroke in my thrusting, though. I only miss a beat while I press the tip of the knife into his right pectoral muscle. There’s immediate resistance—I must have hit a rib—and I have to lean on the haft of the blade. There’s a snapping sound and the knife sinks in up to the hilt. The kid is developed, but small—the blade has completely penetrated him, with the tip coming out of his back.
He stiffens in pain, moaning loudly. He starts writhing, trying to free himself from the iron grip of agony. But he’s pinned in place by my rod and my blade, the latter impaling him to the floor. His rectum cycles through a swift rippling motion up and down the shaft of my cock.
His eyes stare frantically into mine. He still doesn’t quite get it. I know he will, before he dies. He’ll realize that I’m only giving him what he’s wanted all along. He just needs to know he’s really dying. His left lung has been penetrated twice and is collapsing, but he still doesn’t know, beyond any doubt, that he’s dying…
I can fix that.
I lie full-length on him again, feeling his hard body jerking underneath my, sliding around on the blood that’s leaked from his chest wound. There’s really not that much blood since I haven’t pulled the knife out of the wound yet. His dark eyes look pleadingly into mine. His breathing it swift and deep; he’s starting to cough up blood from his damaged lung. He’s gonna die soon enough—I’m just making sure he knows it.
“Ok, you punk fuck, time to make you meat. This is gonna hurt like fuck. I’m gonna cut your throat and let you bleed out while you’re riding my dick. You’re gonna love it, faggot; you’re gonna get butchered like a good pig. Just accept it; this is what you want. This is why you’re out on the streets every night. You wanted a man to come along and cut you like the meat you are. You wanted to die with a dick up your ass. Here ya go, ya fuckin’ death pig, die on my fucking cock, you worthless punk shit!”
I yank the knife brutally out of his chest and saw open his throat, using the serrated edge of the blade to cut into the rubbery trachea. The moment I slice open his windpipe, the fuckmeat shoots his load up my belly and chest. His legs tighten around me. I can feel the smooth leather of his boots as his heels rake my ass in pain—and in pleasure.
His eyes—I can’t really describe the expression. There’s the terror of his imminent death, but there’s also a gratitude for the satisfaction of a desire he’d never known he’d had.
He lays his head back, gasping and gurgling as blood flows down his shredded esophagus into his lungs. Each agonized exhale covers the gash in the meat’s throat with pink foam. Each inhalation is a gargle, the desperate reflex of fuckmeat drowning in its own blood.
As he gags and the foam boils from his bisected neck, he continues to shoot. He finally gets it. Things are getting dim for him. His blood pressure is dropping rapidly, so his extremities are going limp and numb. His vision is fading from the outside in. But he can still feel my tool buried deep in his ass. And since there’s still enough life left in him for his ass to massage my dick, he gets to feel my load, too, before the darkness claims him.
As I cum, holding the dying meat down, two more streams of semen erupt from his swollen cock, splattering his face and smearing into the blood oozing from his throat. The kid milks the last few drops out of my cock with a final death spasm, then goes still. His dick contracts, leaving a glistening trail behind.
I clean myself up and wait for the whoremeat to stop leaking. When it does, I pick it up and carry it to the bedroom.
Without power, it’s cold in there. And it’ll keep longer, away from the fire. I don’t think I’m quite done with it yet.