The question, in these cases, is rarely when or where; I usually have those figured out in advance. And the question is never why—we all know why.
The question here is how. As in, how does he die? As if I didn’t already know…
He’s so fucking hot. Long strawberry blond hair, white t-shirt, “skinny” jeans and gray leather Etnies laced up on his feet. I’ve been watching him here in the park for a bit, fucking around with his skateboard. I’ve also seen him go off into the bushes with another guy a couple of times. Once, I think I saw him get paid for it. At any rate, money changed hands. The kid came out wiping his mouth after the second guy.
And I do mean kid. He’s young. Not sure how young; he doesn’t look older than eighteen. Maybe not even that old; he has facial hair, but it’s a soft down. I got a good look as he sauntered past me, looking briefly in my direction with large brown eyes. He knows I’ve been looking at him and he knows what I want.
Well, he thinks he knows what I want.
There’s no one else in sight when the boy comes gliding back on his board. He slows to a stop in front of me, rubbing his hand on his crotch and I can clearly see the long thick ridge of his junk through his tight jeans. He lowers his head, glancing at me almost shyly from under his long bangs.
“Not here,” I tell him. “Follow me. I have a van.”
Well. of course I have a rape van. It helps to be mobile when cleaning up the mess afterwards.
I get in the driver’s seat and tell the fucktoy to get in the back and get ready to take it up the ass. “I’m gonna get us someplace a little more private,” I tell him. It’s only a few miles to an alley between a couple of empty warehouses.
I climb into the back of the van to find the eager bitch already in position on the carpeted floor. He didn’t even take the time to get undressed. He’s crouched on his hands and knees with his jeans around his knees and his ass in the air; otherwise, he’s still fully dressed.
Wow, this little fucker is horny. I’m grinning; he’s bitten off more than he can chew, so to speak. He just doesn’t realize it yet.
Well, I ain’t gonna waste any more time than he did. I reposition him slightly so he’s facing a mirror I’ve attached to one side. I mount him roughly, forcing my thick member into his tight fuckhole. He’s no virgin, but a loud groan escapes his clenched jaw.
“Goddam, dude, ya shoulda warned me. Fuck, that hurts…” he tells me.
“Shut up,” I growl at him, “shut the fuck up.”
I’m on my knees, fucking him from behind. He’s looking at me in the mirror and gives me a big goofy grin.
I grin back and pick up a short length of thin plastic cord. It’s about two feet long and after I’ve wrapped it around my hands, I still have more than a foot left.
I make a loop of the cord in the air. “What’s that for?” asks the kid.
“This,” I reply, slipping the looped cord over his head and pulling tightly.
Instantly, skater boy starts twisting and thrashing. Little punk does not want to die. He tries to cry out, but the only sound he can make is a harsh gagging sound.
He isn’t tied down at all. I have to ride it out the entire time. He’s young and strong; it’s gonna take a while to put him down. Meanwhile, I’m gonna have to control him and guide him to his death in such a way that he works my cock to maximum effect.
All right, first, some physical control. I pull back hard with both hands, the muscles in my arms straining. I pull the boy backwards in a semicircle; he’s looking at the ceiling with his arms outstretched in front of him, hands clawing desperately at the empty air.
“Yeah?” I whisper into his ear, “You like that, you little whore? Ya want more? Yeah? That’s what I though, you fucking faggot bitch.”
He’s really squirming now; I think he’s going into some kind of fight-or-flight thing. His skate shoes are battering at my combat boots, but since he lowered his jeans only to his knees, he can’t really do much with his legs. I keep jerking back on his neck so that he can’t get any leverage with his arms. This keeps his firm back pressed against my chest; I can feel his muscles flex in his panicked attempt to free himself.
I lower him just enough that I can see his face in the mirror. It’s purple and distorted now; it would be hard to recognize the hot young teen punk in the mask of terror and agony I see in front of me.
God, it’s so fucking hot. The kid is dying on my dick and I can feel every last frantic kick and jerk as it travels down his hard, smooth body right to the head of my cock.
I look deep into his eyes in the mirror. They’re wide with horror and I can see the whites redden as the blood vessels bust.
Suddenly his eyes roll back—nothing but bloody white shows. His hands grasp weakly at the cord, but it’s sunk so deeply into the kid’s throat that he can’t reach it.
His white t-shirt is transparent with moisture. He’s sweating. It’s a death sweat, an automatic reflex from oxygen deprivation. His body is making its own lube, beads of sweat dripping into the teen’s ass as if to ease his passing—at least, the assfuck part of it.
His ass is thrusting up and down, smooth, creamy, the muscles of his rectum flowing like waves along the shaft of my dick as reflexive spasms cascade from the teen’s failing nervous system. I’m so close. I give a massive yank on the cord and am rewarded with a cracking, crunching sound from the boy’s neck that almost makes me cum by itself. The kid’s head is shaking and jerking violently, sending foamy spittle flying. His hands bat aimlessly at the air.
In the depths of the mirror, I can see a jet of white spunk erupt from the skater’s cock. It’s almost a fountain; it leaps and splatters against the mirror as the kid gives up his final wad.
Oh my god, his ass clamps down so hard at the moment of death—it feels like my soul is shooting out of my body in the hot flood of semen I release. I cum so hard I pass out.
I’m not out long. Can’t be more than ten, fifteen minutes. First thing I’m aware of is my cock. I can still feel the burn of the seed I planted in the dead punk’s ass. But I’m still hard. And my dick is still getting stroked. What the fuck?
I lean back and look down. It takes me a minute to get it. The kid’s not dead yet. He’s still on his way out; his body had continued to convulse and thrash about while I was out and it was still going on. It’s dead meat, still moving. There’s no brain anymore; these are nerve endings that are still firing.
Fuck, it feels good. The kid milks me for another fifteen minutes. I blow another load before the corpse shudders to a stop.
I pull his pants back up. I leave the body curled in a fetal position in the back of the van on the way to the dump. I know a back way in that isn’t watched. Skater Boy gets thrown out with the rest of the rotting meat.