Fantasy Scenario 8

The process of selecting a target is never a lengthy one. What takes the time is sizing up the kill. After all, it doesn’t do to get careless. If I slip up, I stop having fun.

Which is why I’m sitting on this park bench, surreptitiously eyeing the kid. He’s about fifteen feet away and I know he’s eyeing me, too. He’s wondering if I’m good for any money and how to get it from me if so.

I know this because I’ve been watching him for a while. He’s in his late teens. He’s old enough not to have to worry about the cops picking him up as truant for being out here in the middle of the day. But he’s not old enough to buy alcohol. And I know that because I saw him come out of the trees at the top of the hill with an older man who offered him money. The kid wouldn’t take it and they both went down the other side of the hill. Thought I’d lost him then, but he showed up twenty minutes later with a six-pack.

I watched him slam the beers and realized that instead of taking cash, he’d had his trick go buy him the beer.

I grin—cheap little whore.

He’s wearing a gray knit ski cap but I can see blonde curls trying to escape beneath. Think his hair is dyed, though. There’s a very faint haze of black hairs on his upper lip. His hormones are just kicking in, turning his balls into overloaded sperm factories.

Just my type.

He leans back on his bench. He’s on the other side of the pathway, about ten feet to the south of my bench. He’s looking at me quite brazenly now. Well, he’s just downed six cans of beer in about twenty minutes. He’s trashed.

He gives me a big, goofy grin—almost a leer—and I’m instantly in love. That sweet, innocent smile, those half-lidded, compliant eyes, that not-so-innocent ass in those tight, low-slung jeans, his feet laced tightly in those white leather hightops…

I can’t wait to feel him die in my arms.

Ok, no question, he is flat-out leering at me now. He’s rubbing a bulge in his crotch and I’m impressed, not just by the size of the bulge, which is nice, but also by the fact that there’s a bulge at all, given how drunk he clearly is.

All it takes is a smile and he’s staggering over to me, still grinning. He slumps down beside me in a cloud of malt and hops. When he turns to face me, he flops in my direction so that his head is nearly resting on my shoulder. His eyes are a shade of jasper—a mix of jade green and blood red.

“Ya wanna BJ?” the kid slurs, “I’ll give ya one. Or you can put it in me if ya wanna. But you’re gonna have to pay me.”

He paused and giggled. “Or you can gemme fucked up. Want ya to get me fucked up.”

I grinned back. “How about both?” I offered, “I got some weed in my van. Let’s go get high and see if we can think of something fun I can pay you for.”

“Fuckin’-A, dude, les’ roll,” the punk agreed, somewhat unsteadily. But he got to his feel easily enough and was able to follow me without stumbling too often.

I had a blunt already rolled. I let the boy smoke it himself; I wasn’t going to hit it. I’d sprinkled a ground Valium on it as I rolled it.

It’s only a couple of hits before the fuckmeat is down. I strip him down in the back of the van, cutting his clothes off of him with a knife. As usual, I let him keep his shoes and his cap. I like it when they die with their footwear on.

I use a thick black zip tie to bind the bitch’s hands behind his back. I’m surprised at how resilient he is; he’s waking up much more quickly than he should. But’s he’s not putting up a coordinated defense—he’s still drunk and drugged.

He doesn’t put up a fight as I spit into my hand, lube my cock with it and stuff it up the kid’s ass. He does cry out, but not loudly enough that I need to worry. I do need to be careful, though. We’re still in the parking lot for the park. There’s a basketball court in use about fifty yards away.

Little fucker is a natural homo. He wraps his smooth tight legs around me and digs his hightops into my ass as I start fucking him. But he’s struggling, too, trying to get his hands free.

I think it’s time to get the show on the road.

The best thing I’ve found to use—so far—is a length of plastic clothesline. But no one uses clotheslines around here anymore so it’s hard to find. But I found some.

I loop it around my hands twice before I loop it around his neck. That way I’ve got a nice, strong grip.

Amazing how cutting off the air always seems to sober them up. Or maybe it’s just the terror. I’d like to think it is.

I lean down over my fuckmeat. He’s on his back, his hands bound painfully behind him. His legs are around me, my dick is in his ass and I have a cord tight around his neck.

The boy stares at me, wide-eyed. His mouth moves, but only a thick, grunting, gagging sound comes out.

“Yeah,” I whisper to him, “that’s it, you fucking faggot whore. Ya wanted to get paid for this fuck? Don’t worry, you bitch. You’ll get paid good. I’m gonna get off as you die on my cock. But don’t worry about missing the fun, fucker, cause I’m gonna make you die slow.”

I tighten down on his throat a little more. Creases begin to appear in his neck where the cord has sunk in. His face is darker now, his struggles more violent. His smooth muscular chest rises and falls beneath my own as the punk tries desperately to draw in some air. His eyes fill with tears as they plead silently with me, begging to be spared.

“Ya wanna live, boy? Too fuckin’ bad. You’re here so I can use you and toss you out like garbage.”

His face is nearly black. His red eyes bulge and dart frantically and I can seek pinprick hemorrhages in the skin around them.
The gagging and choking sounds stop as his tongue swells and pushes past his swollen blue lips.

“Yeah, boy, that’s it. Gimme what I want. Fight it to the end. Fight hard and make me cum. Work it, punk, work my fuckin’ cock…”

I wrap the cord around my hand one more time and clamp down on the boywhore’s neck as hard as I can. There’s a momentary resistance and then the cord sinks deeply into his neck, with a crunching sound. I’ve crushed the punk’s esophagus. He knows that terrible pain is the point of no return. No matter how hard he fights, he’s nothing but meat now.

The kid goes rigid, locking his legs around me, driving my tool deep inside him. His head rises up and begins to shake violently, his eyes roll back in his head.

The fucker’s head slams back down onto the floor of the van, his face covered with tears and snot and foamy spittle down his chin. I lean forward and feel something splash against the underside of my jaw.

Kid blew his death load all over me. I was almost too busy to notice it, the way his rectum had seized hold to my dick and was working it over. As I spew my burning semen into the the bitch’s hot thrashing colon, I’m still tightening the cord around his neck. As he convulses, blood leaks form his ears.

The boy’s death throes went on for another two minutes. I know, because I was squirting the entire time.

I need to go; I‘ve been in this parking lot too long. But I’m taking my fuckmeat with me. And later on—well, he’s just laying there, legs spread, white blank eyes staring dully into nothing. It’s nice to know he’ll be waiting for me.

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