M4M4S&M

The best ads are clear, concise and direct; they get their point across with ease.  This was a very good ad.

 

“22, white, 5’ 10”, 125 lbs looking 4 older.  Need a daddy to punish me.  R U rough enough?  Send pic; will contact if you’re worth it.”

 

The words were appended to the photo of a young man’s torso—lean and smooth, with some muscles but not overly buff or developed.  Dark areolae surrounded the nipples, two hard plugs of pale flesh.  It was a body that would appeal to a lot of dudes.

 

It certainly appealed to Joe.

 

He’d been skimming through a hookup app on a phone belonging to one of his prior kills—he couldn’t remember which one; after a while, the meat tends to blur—when he came across the pic.  He knew the moment he read the words that this little motherfucker was gonna be his bitch tonight.

 

He responded to the ad with nothing but a photo of his own torso.  No words were needed; his massive, fur-covered pecs and ripped hairy abs spoke for themselves.  And given how fast the horny little cunt replied, they didn’t just speak, they commanded.

 

“Hell yeah dude u got the power to stick it in me and make it hurt?  Want ya to hurt me”

 

For a moment, Joe started blankly at the small screen, unable to believe his luck.  When he finally responded, it was with a broad, shark-like grin and an erection so hard it hurt.  “Yeah boy I’ll hurt u good I promise”

 

He’d be as good as his word—it was a promise he’d keep with pleasure.

 

The reply was swift.  “Cool cum now”

 

Along with it was a map location file.  Joe opened it and noted with interest the neighborhood; most of the houses in that area were million-dollar-plus mansions.  This should be interesting, he decided; clearly this kid was living with his parents or other relatives.  At least it wasn’t a gated community, and it wasn’t too far away—only about twenty minutes if he took the freeway.

 

Joe didn’t need any time to prepare.  The image reflected in his bedroom mirror was adequate for the purpose; it showed a dark-haired, muscular stud in black clothing—a t-shirt that was two sizes too small, so skin-tight that his large nipples were clearly defined on his broad chest.  Below the waist (circled by a thick leather belt with a large buckle of dull, burnished metal), his jeans were equally revealing.  His crotch bulged and a thick ridge was traceable halfway down his thigh.  The mirror didn’t reach down far enough to reflect his slightly worn harness boots.

 

Pulling up the app, he texted “OMW” and headed out the door.  Outside, the summer night was hot and unusually humid.  Even on the highway, with the T-top of his Camaro open, a slight gleam of perspiration burnished Joe’s bulging biceps and hairy forearms.  He stepped on the gas and headed into the dark night.

 

The address wasn’t in a gated community, but the house he was headed to had gates—luckily, they were open.  A long drive led up to massive, rambling house, its exterior done in a half-timbered, faux-Tudor style that owed nothing to historical accuracy.  He followed the driveway past the courtyard that contained multiple garages, around to the main entrance, where he parked and exited the car.  No lights showed anywhere in the façade of the house.

 

The double front door sat in darkness under a deep porch, but the darkness wasn’t so intense that Joe failed to spot a security camera aimed directly at him.  He paused on the doorstep, considering his options.  The idea of being caught on camera was disturbing—but on the other hand, he’d probably been on video since he’d driven onto the property.

 

If that was true, he needed to get inside in any case and see if he could find the recording; he wasn’t about to leave that kind of evidence behind.  He knocked at the door and was surprised to find it open immediately.

 

The figure in the doorway was lit from behind by a dim lamp in the rear of the foyer.  It took Joe a moment to focus on the lithe, lean form which soon resolved into a youth with tousled blonde hair.  The boy was shorter than Joe, with a snub nose and freckles across his cheeks.  His smooth, slim abdomen was bare; the only clothing he wore was a pair of lounge pants—the striped flannel looked like pajama bottoms.  His feet, in white ped socks, seemed to slide on the polished parquet flooring of the vestibule.

 

“Come in,” the kid said abruptly, glancing out the door before shutting it hurriedly, “Quick, before anyone sees ya.”

 

Since the nearest neighbor was at least a heavily-landscaped half-mile away, Joe grinned at the boy’s paranoia.  The youth noticed the look of contemptuous amusement and blushed.

 

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered shamefacedly, “But seriously, dude, I gotta keep this on the DL.  My folks’ll freak if they find out; they don’t even know I like dick.  I mean, they’re on vacation, but I gotta be careful, y’know?  I even shut off the security cameras so nothin’ will be recorded.”

 

That was what Joe needed to know.  He could let the beast out tonight, and let it rage unchained.

 

“This way,” the kid said, heading up the stairs.  “I’m Bart, by the way.”

 

Joe grunted his reply and followed, the thump of his boots echoing in the cavernous stairwell.  Like the rest of the house, the upper hall was shrouded in in darkness.  Bart led the way towards an open double door from which an orange light flickered.

 

Once inside the doors, Joe looked around and realized he was in the largest bedroom he’d ever seen.  On the far right, in a large window-filled bay, was a huge TV with a pair of recliners in front of it.  To the immediate right was a California king waterbed sheathed in plush mauve velour.

 

Just opposite the door was a large gas fireplace, already lit.  The kid was standing in front of it, on what appeared to be a bear-skin rug; the rug was surrounded by a divan and a couple of chairs, all upholstered in thick mohair.  On the left was a large cheval mirror that appeared to be an antique.  Its handsome appearance was somewhat jarring, given the off-putting décor of the rest of the room.

 

“It’s my parents’ bedroom,” Bart admitted; Joe had already figured that.

 

The older man approached the boy, who was standing with his back to the fireplace.  As he got closer, he could almost feel the heat from the lust in the kid’s eyes was they slid over his well-defined form.

 

“Strip, boy,” Joe said.  “Let’s see what ya got.”

 

As Bart reached for the drawstring at the waist of his flannel pants, he turned his large blue-gray eyes up to Joe and grinned.  “Goddam, dude—I wanna see what you got, too.  Bet a big fucker like you’s got the tackle to tear my ass up good.”  He dropped the pants as he spoke, revealing his legs, his firm thighs smooth while his calves were shaded with a faint golden fuzz.  Six inches of thick but semi-soft boycock dangled from a tangled mass of dirty blond pubes.

 

Smirking, Joe peeled off his shirt, revealing his powerful, V-shaped torso, wide across his broad, hubcap pecs and narrowing to his tight, firm waist.  The fur on his sculpted abs darkened and thickened as it descended his flat belly in a black treasure trail that vanished behind the dull burnished steel of his belt buckle.  Above the dark forest on his pecs, the firm twin mounds of his large nipples protruded, hard in the open air.

 

At the sight, Bart’s dick stiffened and enlarged.  His eyes followed Joe’s hand as it descended to his crotch below the belt buckle and grasped the zipper.  Slowly and longingly, the youth’s eyes lowered with the zipper itself, achingly tracing its path until the fly was wide enough for Joe to reach in and extract his enormous shaft.

 

“Oh fuck,” Bart moaned sluttishly, “That’s gonna tear me the fuck open.  Shit, bro, I need to be hurt—and you’re the dude to do it.  Use me, man, make me your whore.”

 

Joe grinned, moving forward slowly.  “So ya wanna get hurt, do ya, boy?  How bad ya wanna get hurt?”  His cock pulsed rhythmically with each step.  Bart noticed.

 

“I—uh, I want ya to hit me.  Slap me around while you’re fuckin’ me.  Spit on me, treat me like shit.”

 

Joe laughed out loud.  “Treat ya like shit?  You are shit, faggot.  And I’m gonna make damn sure you know it.”

 

The blond youth wriggled like a bitch in heat.  “Yeah,” he squealed, “Oh fuck yeah…”

 

Joe had reached the bearskin rug; turning so that the orange glare of the gas fireplace was out of his eyes, he was able to note a few more details about the room—the faint tiger-stripe pattern on the velour bedspread, the utter incongruousness of the saccharine Thomas Kinkade print on the far wall…

 

…and the useless and unused set of elaborate cast-iron fire tools set to one side of the fireplace.  Turning his back to the kid, he went to the set and pulled out the poker, holding it up and examining the brass-handled shaft of iron.

 

“Don’t worry, cunt,” he said quietly, “I’ll hurt ya.  I’ll hurt ya good…”

 

Whirling back to the boy with a broad smile on his face, he realized that his control was slipping.   There wasn’t gonna be any foreplay with this little fucker.  “Ya ready, fag?” he asked and without waiting for a response, swung the poker like he was aiming for the fences.

 

It connected with Bart’s left flank with a loud thump, knocking the kid to his knees.  The boy screeched in pain and clutched his side.  He looked up a Joe, his expression a confused mix of pain and angry bewilderment; his large blue-gray eyes full of tears.

 

“Hey,” he gasped in ragged breaths, “Whatdja do that for?”

 

“You needed to be punished, right, bitch?  Your own words.  So I’m gonna make damn sure you get punished real good—ya get me, cocksucker?”

 

“Wh-what’re ya talkin’ about?”  Bart whimpered.  “I ju-just wanted to get slapped around a little, dude, y’know?  I didn’t mean I actually wanted ya to hurt me!”

 

Joe grinned again.  For the first time, Bart noticed the disturbing, shark-like quality.  “Gee, that’s too fuckin’ bad,” the older man chuckled, “Cause I’m planning on beatin’ the shit outta you, faggot.  Oh, don’t worry—I’m still gonna fuck ya.  But first I’m gonna fuck ya up.”

 

“Wha—no—no, dude, no—” In sudden fear, Bart was scooting backwards, slowly and unconsciously crawling off the bearskin rug on his ass.  “No, this ain’t what I—AAAHHH!”

 

With no warning, Joe had swung the poker again, this time up over his shoulder and straight down onto the kid’s right leg, the iron tip making contact with the kneecap with a loud crunch.

 

“JESUS FUCKIN’ CHRIST!!!” the agonized youth shrieked as his kneecap shattered.  He sobbed in pain as Joe laughed mockingly.

 

“Whadda fuckin’ pussy,” Joe sneered, “Man up, homo, we’re just gettin’ started!  I ain’t even completely hard yet, cunt—it’s gonna be a long night.”

 

Panic gripped Bart’s hormone-drenched mind as he writhed in searing pain; despite this nightmarish turn of events, his dick was somehow still hard.  His rich suburban white-boy psyche hadn’t been able to fully assimilate the onslaught of violence; some part of him still seemed to be expecting hot raunchy mansex.  At least, his hot throbbing cock seemed to expect it.

 

Joe was still planning on hot raunchy mansex as well—he just wanted to tenderize the meat a little first.

 

Bart rolled over and climbed awkwardly to his feet, whimpering and blubbering and unable to bend his right knee.  “No,” the young blond faggot sobbed, “No, not this—I just wanted your dick, dude, please…”

 

“You ain’t gettin’ my manmeat till I’m done workin’ ya over, bitch.  Now shaddup and take what you deserve, you worthless little fuck!”  Joe began to slowly pace toward the kid.

 

The lean, smooth youth, his tear-streaked face ashen with shock, tried to move backwards in a clumsy hopping motion.  Surprisingly, he managed to remain vertical even as Joe approached.  The alpha tossed the poker down onto one of the sofas as he passed by—both hands were free when he reached out and grabbed hold of the unfortunate punk.

 

Joe held Bart by the upper arms, lifting him straight into the air until the kid’s white ped socks dangled a good four inches above the floor.  He brought the little pansy’s face up to his, and for the first time, Bart got a really good look at the seething rage boiling in the eyes of the stud—the sexy stud he’d thought would make this a perfect evening.

 

The fact that the rage was obviously entwined with a smoldering lust somehow only seemed to make the situation more terrifying.  And worst of all—his own dick was still so pulsatingly erect it ached as precum trickled from his enlarged piss slit.

 

“You wanted me to spit on ya?  You wanted me to treat ya like shit?  You got it, ya cumguzzlin’ motherfucker; I’ll treat ya like the piece of shit you are.  Don’t worry, asswipe, I’m gonna make damn sure you not only know exactly what a worthless faggot you are—you’ll feel it.”

 

Bart shook his head numbly, hearing the words but refusing to understand them.  He couldn’t refuse to listen to the pain, though—the throbbing in his left side, up under the ribs, the horrific pain in his right knee, the increasing ache in his shoulders as they were forced to support his entire body weight…none of it could be ignored.  The kid moaned incoherently as he kicked vainly in midair.

 

“No…no…not this…not here…not me…” he mumbled in stupefied shock.

 

“You, here and now—and this,” Joe snarled.  Bart experienced a violent sensation of movement that lasted only a split second before a sudden shattering impact that left him dazed and shuddering in agony on the floor.  It took more than a sixty seconds for the realization that he’d been thrown into—and through—the cheval mirror.  Groaning loudly, the slim, smooth youth was rolling on top of small shards of mirror glass, grinding them into his back.

 

“Ya like that one, cunt?” Joe chuckled, strolling in Bart’s direction.  “I sure did.  Teachin’ little fucks like you their place always gets me hard.  You gotta a lot of learnin’ to do in the next hour, you faggot slut.  You like pain, ya disgusting little perv?  Then suffer, scumbag!”

 

Reaching Bart as he spoke, Joe raised his foot and placed it on Bart’s crotch.   Without the slightest hesitation, the sadistic alpha applied pressure, grinding the horny, hormone-riddled youth’s cum-filled ballsack under his bootheel.  The boyslut’s moaning spiraled up into the piercing squeal of a terrified pig.

 

“Aw, yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Joe chortled.  “Ya feelin’ me, boy?”  He pressed down, crushing Bart’s thick boycock under the sole of his boot.  The oozing ridge of flesh remained erect despite the intense pain—Bart screamed in agony until his voice cracked, but was still aware of his unaccountably rigid tool.

 

“You disgusting little painpig,” the muscled older man sneered at the crying, cowering youth, “Lookit how hard yer cock is, dicksucker—you just lovin’ this shit, aintcha?  How ‘bout I give ya a little more”—here he leaned forward, letting the weight of his hulking, powerful body rest on his bootheel—“just enough to pop yer balls and grind yer homo nutsack to meat paste?”

 

The brutal stud ground down on the shrieking punk’s scrotum; for a few terrifying seconds, Bart’s testicles were in such excruciating pain that he thought they really would burst.  Then suddenly the inexorable pressure was gone.  It was such a relief that the boy almost passed out; the pain in his knee was practically forgotten.  It didn’t last long.

 

Joe struck out with his strong, muscled leg, his steel-toed boot catching the prone slut on the hip.  It was a swift, vicious kick, with enough force to flip the writhing whoreboy over onto his stomach, revealing the multiple lacerations from mirror shards on his back.  “Fuckin’ cunt,” the cruel alpha muttered.

 

Bart was in deep fear.  This hadn’t worked out like he’d planned at all.  He was just gonna find a hot stud and get some dick tonight before his folks got back tomorrow; instead, he was on the floor in nightmarish pain and his parents’ bedroom had morphed from a passion pit to a scene of brutal violence.  He didn’t—wouldn’t—follow the scenario to its logical conclusion, but he knew he had to get out before things got any worse.  Unsteadily, he rose to his hands and knees.  Well, one knee.  He still couldn’t get the right one to bend right; it hurt too much to try.  He made a motion towards the door in a wobbly crawl—and then he heard Joe’s quietly mocking voice behind him.

 

“Tryin’ to fly, little bird?  Maybe it’s time to clip a wing.”

 

Bart turned his head and looked up as the buff sadist walked up to him.  Despite the way tears had blurred his vision, he could see the tall man looming over him with desperate clarity.  The dude’s enormous hog was dangling over him, dripping hot beads of precum into the kids’ blond hair.  Beyond the huge hairy expanse of muscled chest, the hard, handsome face looked down on him, glowing with a bizarre mixture of lust and incandescent contempt.

 

It was terrifying and erotic; he’d have pissed himself if his dick wasn’t so hard.

 

Then Joe stepped kicked at the queerboy’s left leg, making him fall flat to the floor.  Stepping up to where Bart’s arms were stretched out on the floor above his head, the sick stud placed his big black boot in the middle of the boy’s right forearm, halfway between the hand and the elbow.

 

Smiling cheerfully, but without saying a word, the powerful alpha bent down, grabbed the boy’s right wrist.  His biceps bulging, the muscled sadist pulled upwards with a mighty jerk.  There was a loud double snapping sound, like tree branches breaking, as Joe bent the fucker’s arm to ninety degrees, shattering the radius and ulna almost simultaneously.

 

Bart tried to scream; the cold, glassy pain of fractured bone tore through his lean, tortured frame.  He opened his mouth, instinctively taking a lungful of air, but before the pent-up shriek could escape, there was a flash, a violent impact, and the young slut slumped to the floor—not completely unconscious, but lost in a dark haze, shot through with flashes of agony like bolts of lightning.

 

Joe chuckled; the kick he’d aimed at the faggot’s head had connected perfectly with the asswipe’s jaw.  “That oughtta keep ya quiet for a bit, dickwad,” the older man smirked as he walked away, heading for the huge waterbed.

 

When he reached the bed, Joe sat on the velour bedspread; crossing his legs, he slowly pulled his left boot off, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thump.  Across the room, the kid flinched at the sound.  Joe, stripping the white, calf-high tube sock from his leg, kept his eye on the punk as the latter began slowly and painfully wriggling his way towards the door.  No need to rush; there was no way the badly abused meat was gonna be able to reach the door before Joe was done gettin’ naked.

 

And if he did, were was the little shit gonna go?  The brutal alpha had made sure his fucktoy was too badly fucked up to make it down the stairs.

 

Bart was unable to think that logically; he was driven by a reflexive drive to flee imminent danger.  But it hurt to move, it hurt so fuckin’ bad…  How did this happen?  This wasn’t supposed to happen.  He hadn’t meant it about the pain, please, dear God, he hadn’t really meant—please, no, no more pain…

 

He’d managed to squirm some four feet across the room before he heard the unmistakable thud of the dude’s other boot hitting the floor.  Moaning in terror, the lean, smooth boy tried to increase his speed but only managed to intensify his pain.  He inched along on his belly, his long hard cock scraping uncomfortably across the wood floor.  Every movement of his limbs sent jagged shockwaves of suffering through his slim firm body as his shattered kneecap was pressed against the boards under him.  Even worse was the searing torture as the splintered ends of broken bones ground together in his arm.

 

Behind him, Joe stood up, peeling his tight jeans off his thick, muscles legs.  Folding the faded denim neatly, he placed them on the bed, next to his leather belt.  The belt, though, he picked back up before heading toward the shuddering, crawling mass of battered flesh.

 

Without his boots, Bart couldn’t hear Joe coming closer, but he could feel the powerful tremors of the bulked-out stud’s footfalls.  They were coming closer, oh holy fuck, this crazy motherfucker is getting nearer—

 

And then he was there.  Joe bent down and looped the belt around Bart’s throat before the kid realized what happened.  The towering killer whirled, jerking the helpless punk around and dragging him back towards the fireplace.  Bart’s airway wasn’t completely constricted but it was cinched off enough that it cut off the agonized scream building in his chest.

 

“Didja think I was done with ya, you stupid motherfucker?” Joe asked sardonically.  “You wanted pain, faggot, you wanted a real man to make ya submit, yeah?  Well ya fuckin’ got one, bitch, and you ain’t done submittin’ till I say yer done, understand?”

 

Joe bent down and picked up the poker again as he passed the sofa on the way back to the fireplace; Bart, being dragged along on the floor behind him, saw the action but was suffering too badly to assign any significance to it.

 

Once he reached the bearskin rug, Joe spun around, flinging the lean, limp boyslut onto the center of the rug and whipped the belt from around his throat.  As the raw leather on the inside of the belt was torn away, it took the top layer of skin with it, leaving an angry red welt of raw flesh around Bart’s neck.

 

Joe tossed the belt aside—it landed on the sofa in the same spot the poker had been—and stood over the smooth young boy.  Bart was writhing in excruciating pain; he’d been dragged and thrown around like a sack of potatoes—not like a human being with internal injuries and multiple broken bones.  Even the wood floor bore witness to Bart’s torment; it was streaked with blood that trickled from the lacerations on his back.

 

On his back, groaning fitfully, the dazed homo opened his eyes, focusing blearily on the alpha stud towering over him.  Joe was nude, his cock magnificently erect and jutting out a good eight inches in front of him, hot transparent drops of precum seeping from the engorged head.  Beyond the huge hard shaft, the killer’s torso widen from the tight waist up to the dark forest of fur clinging to the broad and powerfully muscled chest.  And above that, the merciless glare of hate, contempt—and somehow, lust…

 

“No…”  Bart whispered in a croak as Joe lowered himself, grinning.

 

“Yeah,” Joe said.  “Time to take it in the ass, cunt.”

 

On his knees, Joe grabbed Bart’s legs and forced them apart.  Without a pause—and without even so much as spitting on it—he rammed his enormous tool into the kid’s quivering fuckhole.  The thick, vein-wrapped dick tore open the boy’s clenched sphincter like tissue paper before ripping its way through his colon and lodging deep in his guts.

 

After all he’d endured, Bart had thought he’d gotten jaded to the pain.  He was wrong.  Holy fuckin’ shit, was he wrong.  For a brief, insane moment, the slut thought someone had jammed a steel umbrella up his ass and opened it.  He shrieked so intensely that his voice cracked again; his mouth was open, but only a croaking, gasping noise emerged.

 

“Can ya feel me, boy?” Joe jeered.  “I’m balls-deep in yer ass, slut.  Jeez, cunt, you musta had a buncha tiny-dicked fairies bang ya, huh?  Don’t it feel good havin’ a real man tear you a new fuckhole?  Feels hot as fuck to me!”

 

Still unable to control his breathing or his voice, Bart could only stare up at Joe, his mouth and his blue-gray eyes open wide in shock and horror—and his innards full of mancock.  He was finally getting fucked by the hot stud, just the way he wanted, but he no longer wanted it.

 

Joe knew it.  It just made him hornier and more vicious.  “This what you were lookin’ fer, cunt?” he said with malicious glee.  “This what ya wanted when you asked for someone to hurt ya?  Gotta tell ya, fag, the moment I saw yer add I knew I was gonna be makin’ you into fuckmeat tonight.”

 

Bart was shaking his head in denial—not of Joe’s words; he wasn’t in an adequate condition to comprehend or process the sense of what was being said to him.  It was a denial of reality, of the horrific universe of pain in which he found himself.  But the agony was too intense to be denied, and that was the reality that was etched in tense lines across the youth’s taut, tortured face.

 

As he relentlessly pounded Bart’s ass, the brutal alpha knew shock was setting in; the boy wasn’t listening anymore.  And he didn’t want that.  The little fucker wasn’t meat yet; there was still plenty of time for a good mindfuck.  All he needed to do was grab the homo’s attention.

 

“Am I hurtin’ ya enough, cocksucker?  No?  What, ya want more?  Fuck, yer one greedy-ass painpig aintcha?  Ok, motherfucker, here ya fuckin’ go!”  Drawing his powerful arm back, he slammed his huge fist straight into Bart’s tear-stained face.

 

The loud smack of flesh on flesh merged seamlessly with the punk’s grunt of pain as his lips were split under the impact of Joe’s blow.  His head rocked back and stuck the floor violently but the bearskin rug cruelly provided enough padding to prevent Bart being knocked out. As his head rebounded, it was met with another line-drive blow straight from Joe’s shoulder; this one was rewarded with a loud crunch as the boywhore’s nose was crushed.

 

The kid’s lean body, bathed in sweat wrung from his physical torment, jerked rhythmically as Joe continued to force his massive hog up Bart’s torn, bleeding rectum.  The young pansy was dazed from the sadist’s powerful punches; he was stunned and limp in an excruciating aura of suffering.

 

But he was still awake enough to hear Joe’s cruel taunts.  “Fuck yeah, motherfucker, now we’re talkin’!  That got yer motor runnin’, didn’t it, ya pain-lovin’ pervert?  Yer sportin’ some serious wood, assfuck; the harder I hit ya, the harder yer dick gets.”

 

The muscular alpha leaned down and whispered into Bart’s ear.  He was close enough that despite his flattened, bloody nose, the kid could still smell his rank, powerful mansweat, laden with testosterone.  Bart brought up his left arm—his right was lying uselessly by his side, bent into an impossible shape—and tried to brace himself, placing his palm flat on Joe’s chest.  It was a futile gesture of protest; it had no impact on his assailant.

 

Bart could only curl his fingers in his torturer’s chest hair and hang on as the top raped his ass and fucked his mind.  “If ya liked that, you sick fuck, yer gonna cream when ya find out what I got planned for ya.  I’m gonna snuff you, faggot.  I’m gonna kill you.  You’re gonna die here, tonight, with my cock buried in your guts.  Don’t that sound fuckin’ hot?  Hell yeah, cunt, time to die!”

 

Bart moaned faintly.  The pain of the beating radiated through his lean, fit body, but the searing agony of the huge tube of manflesh, barbed with thick veins, that impaled his guts was what he was suffering from the most.  This pain was alive and sentient, it tore its way through his tender innards, mercilessly keeping pressure on his prostate—and keeping him achingly erect.

 

“Yer dick is oozin’” Joe guffawed.  “That gets ya off, huh?  Yer just lovin’ the thought of gettin’ offed by a real man—ha!  Fuckin’ piece a’ shit faggot—all you cocksuckers deserve to be killed, an’ all y’all know it, too.  Every homo I snuff cums as it dies.  You ain’t gonna be no different, motherfucker.  I’m gonna put you down and yer gonna blow your fuckin’ load, and it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my dick.”

 

With his cock still buried balls-deep in the battered and broken boy, Joe rose up on his knees, turned, and picked up the poker.  Straitening himself, he held it up horizontally in front of Bart, then slowly lowered it until it touched his neck—a bar of iron running across the trembling boy’s throat.

 

Bart could feel the cold metal pressing against the skin.  He knew what was coming but refused to consciously acknowledge it.  That didn’t stop the fear that was building with him, though; Joe could see the terror in the boy’s eyes.  The buff killer grinned and applied pressure.

 

The poker sank into Bart’s throat like a garrote, just above the larynx.  As it pressed deeper into his flesh, it deformed his esophagus more and more, stressing the cartilage and closing off the airway.  Bart’s crushed nose had already been interfering with his ability to breathe; now, with each passing second, it was becoming more impossible for him to draw breath.  Fear turned to panic.

 

Joe recognized the symptoms and braced himself.  He’d already done a good job of hobbling the fuckmeat while he was tenderizing it; the cunt only had one good arm and one good leg.  Even so, there is a strength in frenzied desperation that can momentarily compensate for the most intense agony.

 

Joe leaned back and held on; both his hands were on the poker as he forced it into the punk’s neck, one on each side of the head.  While he could have let go with one hand and still kept some pressure on the metal shaft, it wouldn’t have been as evenly applied and he didn’t want to give the meat an inadvertent chance to draw air.  Besides, it wasn’t like the little shit could actually hurt him, even in the depths of panic.  Nor could he squirm away—he was pinned to the bearskin rug by Joe’s huge engorged cock.

 

The muscled alpha jerked his head up and back, out of the range of the kid’s left hand which had come up, clawing and fluttering around his face like a startled bird.  Curling his toes, the hulking sadist flexed his powerful thighs and ram-rodded his swollen tool deep into the meat’s fuckhole.  The veins on the thick tube of flesh rode over the helpless youth’s prostate like the ridges on a ribbed condom.  The boy responded with a dramatic increase in precum; the steady stream that emerged from the purple tip left a smeared trail in the body fur as the homo’s dick slapped and slid against his rapist’s flat, firm belly.

 

As the last remaining space in his windpipe was closed off, Bart’s labored breathing became a shrill squeal, then stopped for good.  His strained face, already bruised enough to make recognition difficult, began to darken and swell.  Now his panic reached a point near dementia—now, even searing agony wasn’t enough to penetrate the vortex of asphyxiation-driven terror.

 

Bart turned into a writhing animal, flailing in blind panic.  He beat against Joe, his left hand balled into a fist, his useless right hand flopping as the right arm thrashed; the excruciating agony of the broken bone ends grinding together having no effect in Bart’s mindless fear.  Both of the meat’s legs were wrapped around Joe’s tight waist, kicking in the air— and despite the sheer torture of the slut’s shattered right kneecap, the right leg was flung with such force that the ped sock flew off, a white ball of cotton that landed on one of the chairs.

 

Bart was finally getting what he wanted—the fuck of a lifetime by someone who was willing to hurt him the way he needed to be hurt.  It was a shame it hurt so much more than he’d anticipated that he was only vaguely aware he was being fucked at all—but it was what he deserved.

 

And his hard cock proved it, straining, glistening, erect, and as purple as Bart’s face.

 

“Ya know what happens when ya die?” Joe whispered to the shuddering meat in a low, erotic tone, as the poker sank even deeper into his neck.  “Your asshole starts to spasm.  As your brain begins to die, your body will shudder and convulse.  It’s gonna hurt like fuck, but it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my cock.  Ain’t that cool?  Yer gonna suffer the way all you little fuckin’ faggots need to, and you’ll give your worthless life meaning by milking out my load as you die.  Just lay back and lemme snuff yer homo ass, bitch.”

 

Bart stared at Joe, his eyes bulging with hypoxia and shock.  The cute, snub-nosed blond was almost unrecognizable.  The meat’s face was swollen and black, the tongue protruding horribly, surrounded by foamy drool.  The whites of the eyes were turning red as tiny blood vessels started to rupture within.

 

The dying boy heard Joe’s words; his brain was starting to shut down, but there was still enough of him left to understand what had been said to him.  Images flickered through his fading mind; the romantic shadows that the gas fireplace cast on the bearskin rug, the shattered remains of the cheval mirror—how was he gonna explain that to his folks?—the online photo he’d received of a hairy, muscular, V-shaped torso that has inspired such lust in him.  It was the torso of the man who was murdering him.

 

And it hurt.  It hurt so fucking bad.  Dying didn’t feel good; it wasn’t gentle or peaceful—it hurt like fucking hell.  Even the pain of bruised flesh and broken bones faded into the background as the suffering youth felt his lungs strain to function, a fiery pressure like nothing he’d had to endure before.  But after a few seconds, it was surpassed by the pressure in his head.

 

Bart knew his face was swollen; he knew his eyes were bulging and his tongue was sticking out—he could feel it.  All of it.  Every agonizing second of it.  His head was swelling; the pressure within was phenomenal.  He didn’t understand why his skull didn’t just burst; the pain was beyond human endurance, and that pounding—that sledgehammer pounding in hear ears and inside his cranium, getting faster and faster…

 

But somehow, even in the depths of his nightmarish suffering, the slender young cockpig remained aware of the massive dick in his ass, and of his own hard tool, pressed between his sweat-slick, slender body and the hard, muscled form of his killer.  As he lost control of his limbs, as the overwhelming pounding of his pulse in his ears reached an insane tempo, he still knew he was being banged like a cheap whore.

 

White foam trickled down the cunt’s black, puffy cheeks.  His left hand no longer grabbed at Joe’s face; it was stroking the side of the alpha’s head in an almost loving caress as Bart’s desperate fight for life faded into a feeble, nearly gentle touch.

 

“You’re dyin’, motherfucker,” Joe whispered.  “Yer lights are goin’ out.  Mommy and daddy are gonna come home and find yer worthless, fucked-out ass right here in the middle of their bedroom.  They’re gonna see you got beaten and used like the homo cunt ya are.”

 

Bart nodded, but he wasn’t replying to Joe.  He’d reached a tipping point; enough of his brain had died off that he wasn’t coming back—he was starting to convulse.  Even if Joe removed the poker, Bart would still end up a vegetable, a brain-dead sack of meat.  Sadly for the boy, though, there a piece of him still left aware, a tiny piece of trapped sentience doomed to witness his own death.

 

Joe could feel the change coming over the meat; he was too experienced in boysnuff not to know what was coming.  “Oh hell yeah,” he muttered in sexual anticipation, “Now yer startin’ to work my tool.  C’mon, faggot, lessee if we can make ya kick real good—the more you suffer, the harder I cum!”

 

His face twisted into a hate-filled snarl, Joe shoved forward, his thick biceps bulging and glistening with sweat as he forced the iron rod deep into the queerboy’s neck.  Bart hacked and choked, a huge bubble of drool erupting past his swollen tongue, as the poker crushed his esophagus with a wet crackling sound, like someone tearing apart gristle.    His protruding, blood-red eyes stared into Joe’s with one last look of horror and despair before rolling back into his head, leaving nothing but a sliver of white showing under the fluttering lashes.

 

And then the convulsion began.  The small corner of awareness inside Bart had no memory capability; it couldn’t recall Joe’s promise that he would suffer horrific pain during his death throes.  It was still capable of suffering the pain, though and it did.  The unlucky boyslut’s last few seconds on earth were nightmarish.

 

The meat arched its back, squeezing its hard cock against Joe’s abdomen and the left hand clutched Joe’s right shoulder in an iron grip.  The left leg wrapped tightly around Joe’s waist and he could feel the smooth right thigh pressing against his hip—the right calf bent outward grotesquely at the ruined knee.  Similarly, the right arm slapped against Joe’s left arm but the hand itself dangled, limp and useless, to the side, jerking randomly as the slim but strong body convulsed violently.

 

“Shit, you worthless punk,” Joe moaned between gritted teeth, “Keep that shit up, yer gonna get my load.”  As the youth convulsed and shuddered under him, the rippling spasms that traveled along the inside of the rectum had a suctioning effect on Joe’s huge shaft; he’d plugged the kid’s colon so completely that the rectum itself was stretched and taut around the massive member, like a condom.  Every dying quiver of rectal musculature stroked the sadist’s hog.  It felt kinda like getting a handjob and a blowjob simultaneously—and the fact that he had to snuff a fag to feel it only made it more erotic.

 

As the sperm in his hot, puckered balls began to seethe, Joe grunted.  He was losing control himself; in a moment, he’d be shuddering violently himself in orgasm.  Not yet, though—the motherfucker was still alive—the meat still needed to know that it was dead—

 

—then, with a loud, inarticulate cry, Joe jerked and bucked powerfully, driving the poker so forcefully into Bart’s throat that the punk’s head popped forward with the sickening sound of shattering vertebrae.  For Bart, it was a bolt of lightning; there was an undefinable sensation of great heat and great pain.  For Joe, it was an electric shock that raced through his body and trigged an intense orgasm.

 

Jets of cum erupted from the killer alpha’s engorged cock, splashing hot manseed deep inside the meat.  The meat responded; in the last moments of life, the hot wet geyser in the meat’s ass, the incessant pressure on its prostate and the devastating blow to the nervous system all combined to force a savagely powerful explosion of spunk from the corpse.

 

The last nerve signals that were transmitted to Bart’s brain were those of his orgasm—but the spinal cord was torn and damaged, so the signals were corrupt.   The unfortunate youth could only interpret them as searing pain, as if molten metal or liquid magma was being forced along his urethra; he was too brain dead to know he was cumming longer, harder, and more intensely than he ever had in his short, wasted life.

 

Joe knew it, though, and could feel its heat and intensity as a solid stream of boycum splattered up his belly and onto his chest, the pearly seed matting his dark chest hair.  Load after load of steaming semen splashed across his pecs as both killer and meat continued to jerk and grind against each other’s sweat-and cum-sticky bodies.

 

After a few minutes, Joe was able to get better control of himself; the magnitude of his orgasm kept him shuddering for a bit longer as he strained to empty his balls.  At the same time, the convulsions of the corpse in which his cock was still buried began slow and lessen in ferocity; in another minute, the body was reduced to a twitching pile of meat and Joe was able to pull out without too much trouble.  Sometimes, the meat can knot up on yer tool…

 

Stretching himself and sighing contentedly, the buff, hardbodied alpha ambled off to find the bathroom.

 

When he did, he noted the palatial appointments—the sunken marble tub, the matching marble vanity tops, the multi-jet rainfall shower—there was even a bidet, for fuck’s sake.  Smiling with amused contempt, he grabbed the thickest, most decorative-looking guest towel he could find and, soaking it in the sink, used it to clean the dead boy’s cum off his chest and belly, as well as wiping down his dick.

 

Then, with a malicious grin, he took the towel over to the tub and wedged a corner of it down into the drain as tightly as he could, before turning the hot water on full blast.  As he left the bathroom, he idly wondered how long it would take the tub to overflow.  After all, he wasn’t quote done here.

 

Back in the bedroom, he retrieved his t-shirt and jeans, quickly slipping the shirt on.  Tucking the shirt into his pants, he zipped the fly and threaded the belt back around his narrow waist.  Then he sat on the bed, pulling his sock and boots back on, eyeing  the evening’s work critically as he did.

 

His experience told him the composition was unfinished.  The dead kid was splayed out on his back with both the right arm and right leg bent at impossible angles and a single sock on his left foot.  The head was bent forward around the poker as if his was trying to look down his chest.  The meat’s face was starting to fade from black back to a cyan blue; it was still swollen and streaked with drool.  The eyes no longer protruded quite so grotesquely, but the tongue still did.  The smooth chest and belly were smeared with a white crust—the fag’s own cum, some of which was still leaking from his deflating cock.

 

Something was still needed, something to drive home the contempt Joe felt for the meat—and for the parents who raised it.  Something that would—oh, yes.  That would work.

 

Smiling broadly, Joe strode across to the corpse, the loud thumping of his boots fading once he stepped on the bearskin rug.  Placing one hand flat on the cunt’s forehead, he shoved it back while grabbing the poker with his other hand.  He turned, shifted slightly, and knelt between the meat’s spread legs.  With a loud grunt and a single powerful thrust of his arm, Joe rammed the poker up the corpse’s ass, tearing and mutilating the dead flesh until it had gone a good two feet into the meat’s intestines.  Only the brass handle and few inches of black iron stuck out of the kid’s ass; the head of the instrument, deep inside the corpse, had been smeared with Joe’s cum as it punched its way through the boy’s innards.

 

Joe stood up and took a step back for another critical glance.  There.  That was perfect.

 

He wasn’t the type to whistle, but if he was, he would have been whistling as he headed for the door; he’d gotten his dick milked and he’d put another fag down good and hard; all in all, a good night’s work.  As he got to the bedroom door, something caught his eye—a cellphone on an otherwise bare dresser.  Probably the meat’s.  That could be handy; he needed to dump the one he’d used to respond to the ad—he’d used it too many times.  Didn’t need to be traced.

 

Powering up the phone, he saw it had a touch lock.  Well, that damn sure wasn’t a problem.  He strolled back to the corpse and used the stiffening index finger to unlock the phone.  Once it was open, he reset the lock to his own finger.  Then, in a burst of inspiration, he took some photos of the corpse, from different angles and varying degrees of closeness.

 

Once he finished recording the brutality he’d visited upon the meat, he turned and left the room.  The echo of his big black boots on the staircase lingered for a moment after he’d gone, but soon the big house was quiet, the flickering of the still-lit gas fireplace providing the only hint of heat or motion in the darkness.

 


 

Elaine unlocked the front door and stepped into the entryway in a brusque manner indicative of her anger and impatience.  The flight had been late and that stupid shuttle bus driver was so slow—and Larry had actually tipped him instead of telling the useless towelhead to go back to driving a camel in whatever fly-ridden country he was from…

 

Huffing and grunting under the weight of the luggage in the doorway behind her, Larry was no less in a foul mood; his face was red in the overheated way some men get in their mid-forties when they get stressed.  “There, I think that’s everything,” he said, dumping the bags on the floor.  “Are you sure the maids come back tomorrow?  Some of this stuff’s gotta be—”

 

“Shh!” Elaine cut him off.  “What’s that sound?”

 

Now the she’d drawn his attention to it, he could hear it too.  It sounded like a waterfall—or at least, water falling from a height.  “It’s coming from the dining room,” he said.

 

He headed in that direction with his wife following him.  In the dining room, their worst fears—for the moment—were confirmed; water was pouring from the ceiling, running down the wires and the chain for the chandelier and splattering all over the antique damask-and-lace tablecloth.

 

“Oh my God,” Elaine squeaked, “Where’s that coming from?”

 

“Our bathroom is upstairs,” Larry replied in a dazed voice.

 

“Oh no, what has Bartholomew been doing?”

 

At this suggestion, Larry’s face went puce.  “By God,” he growled, “If that brat’s responsible for this, I’m gonna take it outta his fuckin’ hide!”

 

He dashed for the stair, bawling, “You’re dead meat when I get a hold of ya, boy!”

 

Elaine trailed after him, wailing.  “Don’t you hurt him, Larry!  It must be an accident!”

 

Larry raced up the stairs, rounding the turn at the top and propelling himself into the open bedroom door—and there he paused, trying to make some sense of the bizarre scene in front of him.  The splashing form the bathroom, the water running across the floor, the broken mirror—and Bart lying naked on the floor.  He didn’t look right.  Was he drunk?  Had he gotten wasted, broken the mirror, left the tub or shower running and passed out in front of the fireplace?  If that was the case, Larry was gonna kick his ass so hard.  He walked towards the prone youth.

 

Elaine burst into the room just as Larry realized that Bart had indeed gotten wasted last night, but not in the sense that Larry had originally intended.  Looking down at the beaten and strangled corpse of his son, the older man swayed on his feet.  Dear God in heaven, what the hell was that sticking out of his ass?

 

He was in no condition divert his wife from the nauseating sight.

 

“What the fuck is going on in here?” she demanded as she entered.  “Did Bartholomew do all this?  Where is he?”  She drew level with her husband, took one look down, shrieked at the top of her lungs and fell into a dead faint.

 

It was all over the local evening news.  It didn’t make state news until photos of the corpse began appearing anonymously on social media sites.  The first ones targeted were ones to which Larry or Elaine subscribed…

5 thoughts on “M4M4S&M

  1. djlovekraft

    tsk… tsk… Bart. If only you’d had more experience, you’d know to maybe stay near the fireplace implements to use as handy weapons in case something went wrong. Looks like Joe meant to teach you that lesson, permanently

    Liked by 1 person

  2. den

    Fascinates me how your stories affect me. My image of snuff for myself is very different, and the events in your stories arouse a kind of fear and terror. But at the end of reading any of them (this one included), i’m dripping pre-cum. Got to rub one out now before heading to work.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. My stories are as much about power as raw sex. As Orwell said in “1984”, power is about forcing someone else to endure something they would never undergo willingly (like suffering and death). To that extent, it’s important to me that the victims in my stories are NOT willing to be snuffed. And sometimes I’ll use straight victims who don’t even want the sex, but end up raped anyway.

      Like

  3. Gay Slavemeat

    And me too. But I also get turned on by willing submission by a masochist like myself (and likely Den) who understands it’s status as a piece of meat owned by a master and deserving of torture, rape, humiliation, and a horrible but entertaining death. That’s what my stories are built around, with being used as a human urinal and eventually eaten (preferably alive) as ways to illustrate my appropriate uses.

    But the power gig is great and you do it well.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s