Meat Chronicles 21—Homo for the Holidays

Goddamn, it’s hard to maintain control sometimes.  There’s a pile of teenage fuckmeat lying on the floor in front of the passenger seat of my van and I wanna drain my distended, over-pressurized balls into it right away.  Can’t let myself go yet, though—I need to tenderize the fucker first; it’s a tough piece of meat.

 

I’d marked this one for prey some time ago, but he’s eluded me each time, mostly by proximity.  I first saw him about five weeks back, outside the liquor store.  Too young to buy his own booze, he was lurking in the parking lot and pouncing on anyone who seemed likely to make purchases for him.  I ignored him—for one thing, I’m known there, and for another, every square inch of the place, inside and out, is recorded on video.  You don’t shit where you eat.

 

I’d seen him there on a number of later occasions, but nowhere else.  As long as he stayed there, he was safe from me.

 

Today, I happened to spot him on the side of the road, three blocks from the liquor store.   Luring him in was so goddam easy; stupid fuckin’ cunt was looking to get fucked up.  I’d offered to give him a lift to the store, knowing he’d ask me to get him something, but he kept going on about wanting anything—from weed to meth to coke.

 

He said he was twenty, but he was barely eighteen, if that; his skin was too clear and his teeth were too intact for him to have experienced such heavy drug use for too long.  He had dark wavy hair and dark eyes, the wide oval lids ringed with long lashes.  He wore a black t-shirt with a Wu-Tang Clan logo in gold; the sleeves were ripped off showing his muscled arms.  The punk wasn’t badly built—nowhere near as powerful as I am of course; the little fucks I waste can never hope to compete—and the shirt was stretched tightly across his chest, highlighting his pecs.

 

His skin-tight brown jeans were very old and worn; they were tucked into a pair of brown leather harness boots that came almost halfway up the cunt’s calf.  It was the same outfit I’d seen him in each time.

 

He hopped in my van the moment I offered him a lift.  When talking about what he was looking for, he put his hand on my thigh; I could feel the warmth of his skin through the tight denim.  “You hook me up, bro,” he said, grinning lecherously at me, “And I promise you a good time.”

 

I grinned right back.  “Aw, dude, I’ll getcha so fucked up you won’t know what hit ya.”  I always try to keep my word.

 

As usual, the meat started babbling; it always does.  It can be about different things—its boring past, its dumbass desires or worthless ambitions—but as much as I try to ignore it, I can’t help picking up a thing or two.  He called himself Mikey, like I cared, and said he’d left home at the age of fifteen and had been on the streets ever since (I knew he was younger than twenty).

 

I drove past the liquor store and pulled into the parking lot of a half-empty strip mall.  “Whatcha got for me?” the cunt asked.

 

“A sucker punch,” I replied, driving my right fist straight out into his jaw with the speed and power of a pneumatic piston.  His head hit the window so hard I thought the glass had cracked.  It hadn’t, but the meat had.  It slumped forward, sliding limply off its seat, still and unconscious on the floorboards.  Stupid bitch had a glass jaw.

 

And now I get to make it die on my dick.  I just need to find the right spot to snuff out its worthless life.  Shouldn’t be too hard.

 

It takes me longer than I expected to find the right place, but I do find it.  Elmhurst Avenue, south of downtown—an old neighborhood, the side streets are lined with sixty-year-old apartment buildings and ninety-year-old houses cut up into apartments.  The avenue itself is lined with low brick buildings and empty lots; perhaps one out of every five buildings shows some hint of occupation.  It’s a place where the rents are cheap and yet still overpriced, a neighborhood reeking of failure and despair.

 

I find what I’m looking for at a corner formed by one of the side streets.  It looks like its most recent used had been as a car lot; the whole corner was paved flat.  In the middle of the lot is a cinderblock building with a canopy that may or may not have been a gas station in a past incarnation; at any rate, it had been gutted by fire at some point—above the gaping black holes of the windows and door, black cones of soot mar the peeling white paint.

 

The entire lot is surrounded by a high chain link fence topped with barbed wire; the fence is rusted and bent but it still stands.  The gate, which rolls parallel to the street on a track, had been forced and is still ajar.  I can’t see any other vehicle on the crumbling concrete pavement, so I cautiously pull in and head for the structure that first caught my eye—the sheet-metal garage in the back corner.  It’s got two overhead doors on the left and some sort of reception/office area on the right with a door and windows.  Well, doorways and window openings; the only thing intact is the overhead door on the extreme left.  The rest of the building has been gutted—not by fire this time, but by vandalism.

 

I slowly back my van in, making sure no one’s around to notice.  Luckily the building next door, a furniture clearance warehouse, had expanded at the back; the garage was up against two blank brick walls.  Shifting into park, I roll down the window and cut the engine, listening carefully.  A car goes by on the Avenue.  There’s a rustling in the corner that’s likely a rat.  Otherwise, there’s nothing.

 

It’s a perfect place to snuff the fag.

 

I get out, letting my combat boots hit the oil-stained cement with a thud, and casually stroll around to the passenger door.   Opening it, I bend down and grab the meat’s boots and pull them off his feet.

 

They might fit me.  I’m keeping them.

 

I open the back the van and dump the meat on the floor; he’s easier to strip that way.  I sit him up and pull off his shirt, tossing it over my shoulder to land on the filthy floor.  The kid has a great torso, with hard smooth pecs displaying large and jutting nipples.  I take a moment to squeeze and twist the firm mounds of flesh, pinching and pulling at them.

 

The cunt must like it.  He starts moaning and the long soft lashes ringing his large eyes begin to flutter.  He blinks blearily a few times, trying to focus—and then he comes to, all at once.  It’s easy to recognize.  He has the hard edge of a street slut faggot, but he’s still too young and naïve to be able to cover his fear.  And he is afraid.

 

Just not enough.

 

“Wha—?” he started, but I don’t want him awake yet.  It’d ruin the surprise.  A little love tap does it; I don’t clock him hard, just enough to split his full red lips and make them bleed a little.  But his lights go out and I’m able to peel his tight jeans off without further interruption.

 

He’s freeballin’ underneath, six and a half inches of uncut boycock lolling along his smooth thigh.  Underneath it, he’s endowed with a decent sack, covered with a forest of dark curly pubes.

 

Good enough for me.  I’ve been wearing a button-down flannel shirt, left open; I slip out of it and sling it over the back of the driver’s seat.  After unzipping my fly, it takes a minute to haul my tackle up out of my crotch, but it’s rigid and rarin’ to go them moment it hits the open air.

 

And so am I.  A quick glance around to confirm that no one was gonna spoil my playtime, and I hop in the van and close the door.  Next time I open it, this stupid little motherfucker ain’t just gonna be dead, he’s gonna be glad he’s dead.

 

It’s dim in the back of the van, but not too dark.  I can see the whoreboy; he’s starting to stir again.  That’s good—I want him awake for this.  I wanna see the pain and fear in his face.

 

Speaking of pain, it’s time I inflicted some on him.  I’ve got a number of random items in my kill van—things I’ve picked up from time to time that might come in handy.  Let’s see; what will fuck this cunt up…ah, that’ll work.

 

It’s a length of sixteen-gauge jack chain, about three and a half feet.  I kneel over him, slowly winding it around my fist.  The teen slut blinks and gazes up at me; I can see the glint of lust in his big faggot eyes was they scan my body, from my erect, jutting shaft along my ripped abs to my broad, furry chest.  They never make it to my face, thought; they stop dead at the chain around my hand.

 

Already scared and confused, the runaway punk turns gray.  “Wha—what’s goin’ on?”

 

Dumbass piece of shit can’t figure it out; in fact, he doesn’t even seem to realize he’d been stripped nude yet.  But I don’t suffer fools gladly; I gladly make fools suffer.

 

“Remember when I toldja I was gonna get ya so fucked up you wouldn’t know what hit ya?” I leer down at him.

 

“Uh-huh,” he nods, his face drawn with trepidation.

 

“Well, I lied.  Yer gonna know,” I say and hold up my chain-wrapped fist.  “It’s this.  This is what’s gonna hit ya.”

 

I slam it into his face as hard as I can, feeling his left cheekbone snapping under the impact.  The chain digs deep, tearing into his skin.

 

The cunt squeals and cries out, clutching his face.  I shift downward and land two rapid-fire blows in the center of his smooth, vulnerable belly.  They strike with the heavy slapping sound of flesh on flesh, the chain giving an added impetus to the force.

 

The kid rises up with an anguished expression, his face taut as the gutpunches violently expel the air from his lungs.  His cheek is already black and swollen, but he seems to have forgotten about that little bit of foreplay in his sudden inability to breathe.  Gasping futilely, he rolls onto his side in a fetal position.

 

The cunt doesn’t get to long to comfort himself.  I dive between his legs, forcing them apart as I roll him onto his back.  He squirms away, kicking his legs blindly.

 

“Don’t fight me, faggot,” I snarl.  As he twists to the side again, I pound on him again, this time nailing his kidney.  He instantly flops onto his back, gasping, and I can part his writhing teen legs with ease.  “You know ya want this dick, so shaddup and take it, cunt!”

 

I rub the thick oozing head of my dick over his ass, leaving a trail of precum through the soft down covering those firm rounded cheeks.  He’s still struggling, but not so much that I can’t easily overpower him.

 

He’ll fight later, when the panic sets in.  I can tell; he’s the type.  At some point I’m gonna hafta ride him hard and rough.  For right now, though, the only thing he’s afraid of is getting raped.  He has no clue how much worse it’s gonna get.  He gets a hint, though, when I suddenly plunge in balls-deep, with no warning and my precum the only lube.

 

I dunno if he’s a virgin, but I can tell instantly that anyone who’s been up his hole before me wasn’t anywhere near as hung as I am.  My massive erect tool punches through his asshole like an awl; I can feel it when his strained sphincter give way and tears open under my relentless cock.

 

His eyes grow huge and his face is a mask of pain and shock as my shaft plunges deep inside him.  He’s gripping my arms, each of his hands tightly clutching my powerful biceps while his guts are relentlessly pounded by my dick.

 

Well, the cunt damn sure ain’t a virgin now.

 

He’s finally getting enough air back into his lungs to speak.  “St-stop…no, fuck no, stop!”

 

I punch him again, this time landing one on his broad smooth chest, hitting the left pec with a satisfying thud.  Again, just a love tap—didn’t even break the skin with the chain.  “Shaddup, bitch, and take my cock.”

 

Dumbass motherfucker doesn’t shut up.  Goddam, I’m really doin’ a service to the planet by riddin’ it of stupid pieces of faggot fuckmeat.  Even worse, this one’s startin’ to struggle.

 

“Wh-wh-what? What?  Help! HELP!!!  HEL—”

 

Ok, so I make it shut up.  One hand on its throat, my chained fist emphasizin’ my point to the cunt.  Makin’ sure I drive it into its head, so to speak, though I’m specifically aiming for its face.

 

“I toldja [WHAM] to shut [WHAM] yer fuckin’ [WHAM] face!! [WHAM]”

 

Oh fuck, I can feel every individual impact reverberate through his firm adolescent body, his pain communicated directly to my dick, his traumatized colon milking and massaging it with every agonized muscle contraction.  It feels so good, I wanna keep goin’…but I can’t.  It’ll kill the meat, and I ain’t done with it yet.

 

And even now, I’ve reduced the left side of its face to hamburger.  The eye is swollen shut, the cheek is flayed, the lips swollen and bleeding, and the nose is listing badly to starboard.  It occurs to me that offin’ the homo will be a mercy killing—sparing it from a lot of painful reconstructive surgery.

 

Of course, by the time I’m done with it, it’ll be a mercy killin’ anyway, ha!

 

At the moment it’s still conscious; it turns its head and coughs up a gout of blood and a couple of teeth.  It’s lying back, gasping, with its mouth open and eyes—well, eye—closed.

 

And during the entire beating I never once even slow the tempo of the assrape.  Man, it felt so fuckin’ good, pounding the teen’s ass and face at the same time. The boy’s a natural painpig; the way his fuckhole worked my rod it all the proof I need.

 

The fact that he got hard as I whaled on his face just adds to the evidence.

 

“You fuckin’ pervert faggot,” I snarl, “Lookit this shit.  Goddam, I was right again.  All you little boyfags are lookin’ for is a real man to come along and make ya suffer like you deserve.  Tell ya what, motherfucker, if this kinda foreplay gets yer little homo dick hard, yer gonna blow yer pansy wad at what’s comin’ next!”

 

He looks at me, opening both eyes so wide that even the left one opens up a narrow slit—but since it’s leaking tears, I doubt it’s helping him.  He’s trying to speak, but the left side of his jaw is swollen and misshapen.  Wonder if I broke it—damn, I hate to have missed that.

 

Oh well. I can make up for it before I’m done with the kid.

 

He gurgles and bleats; it’s not incomprehensible—I just don’t care enough to try to figure out what he’s sayin’.  As long as his ass keeps grippin’ my hog, he can start singin’ the national anthem, for as much as I give a shit…

 

…except he ain’t grippin’ quite as tight as he was.

 

Well, goddamn.  Guess I gotta tighten the meat up again.  I start unwinding the chain from my fist.  I think I’m gonna start a rebellion here, and I need a little somthin’ to help me put it down.

 

“You know where this is headin’, dontcha, cunt?” I say, smiling down at him.  His fear is palpable, almost tactile.  Just a tiny spark to set it off.  “This kinda shit happens all the time.  Dumbass faggot picks up the wrong dude, ends up a pile of well-used homo meat.  Guess what, motherfucker—I’m that wrong dude.”

 

I was right.  He has the wiry athleticism of youth, keyed up to extremes by panic.  There’s no way he’s gonna be able to overpower me; as hard as he thrashes and beats his balled fists against my fur-insulated chest, he ain’t doin’ me any damage.

 

Still don’t mean I gotta put up with this shit, though.  Rising up on my knees without pulling my rod out of his ass, I start lashing him brutally with the chain.

 

The pansy screeches like a pig gettin’ its throat slit; I’m leaving welts in the shape of chain links on his smooth, tender boyflesh.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” I jeer at him, spitting in his twisted, agonized face, “You just fuckin’ love this shit, dontcha?  Hurts so fuckin’ good, don’t it?  Hell yeah, bitch, keep screamin’—the more it hurts, the more ya work my dick.”

 

He squeals and throws up his arms to block the blows.  Big mistake.  Ever seen what a well-swung chain’ll do to human fingers?  His snap like toothpicks.

 

For a moment, he shuts up.  The only noise in the van is the slapping sound of a brutal assfuck.  The adolescent fagwhore stares, silent and agape, at the mangled remains of his right hand, splayed out like a crushed starfish.  I slash again with the chain, catching him across the left forearm with enough force to wrap the chain completely around it.  I grab his left hand with my free hand and stare him dead in the face.

 

“You deserve this, you motherfucking piece of faggot shit,” I sneer and jerk the chain, breaking both of the bones and ripping off a strip of flesh that completely encircles his arm.  He sputters and drools as his arm folds over, but I’m just about done with him.

 

“Yer a boring fuck, bitch, and I got shit to do today.  ‘Bout time to waste yer fag ass.  Hope ya kick a lot as ya die, motherfucker; it really helps get me off.”

 

Raising my hand in front of his bruised, terror-filled face, I let him watch me partially unwind the chain from my hand until I have a good two feet stretched in front of him.  “Ready to die, cocksucker?  Ready to choke to death so you can be my personal cumdump?  Not like you got any other reason for bein’ on this planet, ya useless cumguzzler; might as well work my shaft as ya get what’s comin’ to ya.”

 

He moans and shakes his head wildly as I lean forward and wrap the chain around his throat.  “Shh, shh,” I whisper, “Don’t worry—I promise, it’s gonna hurt. I promise.”

 

I yank the metal chain tight, so tight I can see his flesh welling up in the open spaces in the links.

 

The lithe teen body goes rigid with agony beneath me.  It feels so fuckin’ good, the smooth, soft flesh, taut with nightmarish suffering, pressed firmly against my hairy, muscular body.  The cunt doesn’t know how lucky he is; so many of his faggot buddies crave and yearn for the ultimate fuck.  Just like this stupid fucker, they deny it and fight it to the end, but I can see the gratitude in their eyes as they start to glaze over.  They stare into eternity with the knowledge that they’ve taken my load and thus achieved their greatest and highest use.

 

And they invariably blow a thick deathwad.

 

“That’s it, asswipe,” I grunt as I whale on his ass, “Fuckin’ die on my cock.  Ride my shaft right into yer grave, homo.  Ya know ya want this; that’s why yer teen dick is hard, right?  Fuck yeah, even a dumbass like you knows baby fags need to be put down by a real man.”

 

The meat’s eyes open wide—even the swollen one manages, a little—and it give me a look that tells me I need to hang on tight.   The boycunt is starting to panic; it’s not yet in a mindless frenzy of fear, but it’s coming soon.

 

And holy fuck does it feel good when the meat flails in mind-searing terror, its rectum sucking on my tool as if that’s what it was designed for.  On with the mindfuck.

 

“Yer gonna cum when ya die,” I casually remark to the meat, “Won’t be able to help it.  Shit, you shoulda seen the last teen cunt I offed; fucker musta shot damn near a quart of spooge.  Couse, he held out for a while.  Took him a long, long time to die…”

 

The meat’s close; there’s a developing glint in its one good eye reminiscent of insanity.

 

“You ain’t as good as he was, though,” I go on, “In fact, you’re a boring fuck.  Yer even useless as a faggot.  Hurry up an’ die, motherfucker, so I can toss yer worthless cumdump corpse out there in the filth and get outta here.  I’m a busy man, asshole—”

 

That did it.  The meat thrashes violently, as if its being electrocuted.  It can’t kick me, since I’m already between its legs, but they flail in the air behind me, feet and toes curling in agony in midair.  The cunt beats at my face with its right hand, slapping me since in can’t form its shattered fingers into a fist.  Its left arm flops and jerks uselessly at its side, the broken forearm limp and helpless.

 

And the entire time I hold the boyfag close to me, letting its ass milk my throbbing, oozing rod as I incrementally tighten the chain around its throat.

 

It’s obviously dying at this point.  Its face is congested and black, so distorted as to be almost unrecognizable.  Drool has bubbled out beside the engorged, protruding tongue and flows down both cheeks in white, foamy streams.  The slut is slick with sweat; the beads standing out on its forehead trickling painfully into its bulging eyes, now too swollen for mere bruised eyelids to hold them in.

 

“Now yer learnin’ yer place, cocksucker,” I tell the grunting, shuddering bitchboy, “You been needin’ this for a long time.  Die, fuckwad, choke and kick and die in agony!”

 

The cunt is arching its back, pressing its firm, flat belly against my furry ripped abs.  I can feel its hard thick boycock pressed firmly against me; the perverted little shit is so aroused by asphyxiation that its oozing precum as it dies.  Fuck, ain’t nobody gonna miss this disgustin’ babyfag.

 

Catch ‘em and take ‘em out while they’re still young so they do as little damage to society as possible.  And deep inside, the fuckers want it anyway.  They know gettin’ put down by a real man is the best thing that can happen to a fuckin’ useless pussyboy.

 

This one’s on its way out.  Its flailings are getting weaker and more uncoordinated; I brace myself and tighten the chain with as much force as I can.

 

The loud crunch of the teen’s larynx echoes in the confines of my van.  There’s a brief lull—the kid is shuddering beneath me, its blackened and drool-soaked cheeks distending with some final vain effort at exclamation, but no air is getting past the mangled wad of cartilage blocking its windpipe.  I can see one last gleam of consciousness left in its good eye, and in it I can recognize the true horror of a stupid faggot finally experiencing the brutal death it deserves.

 

And then the convulsions begin.

 

Once the convulsions start, the meat has reached a tipping point.  Too much brain damage has set in; whatever miserable excuse for a human once animated the body is gone and isn’t coming back.  But adolescent boys have a lot of stamina.  As the meat rhythmically writhes and kicks under my muscled weight, I realize it may be possible that there may still be some deep inner spark of personality still lit.

 

I let go of the chain and punch the thrashing cunt in the face.  Still pounding its ass, I lay at full length, my powerful form restraining its thrashing, and grab its head with both hands, forcing it back and to the side.

 

One hand is gripped around the jaw and the other around the back of the skull.  Slowly and inexorably, I force the fuckmeat’s head past its normal point of rotation.  I can feel “twangings”—the only way I can describe it—as the cervical tendons and sinews begin to snap. Suddenly, bone meets bone and I reach a hard stop.

 

The faggot is still convulsing beneath me.  It feels good, but my cock needs more.  And I know how to get it.

 

My biceps bulging with the effort, I twist the homo’s head with a might jerk and am instantly rewarded with the crunchy, popcorn-like noise of shattering vertebrae.

 

As bone shards tear through its spinal cord, the meat finally responds properly, its colon clutching tightly to my engorged shaft, milking the swollen, throbbing member desperately.  Fuck yeah, that’s it—don’t back off now…

 

With a primal grunt, I force the fucker’s head further.  More popcorn, the ass gets tighter—

 

Fuck fuck fuck I’m cumming take it you sack a’ shit, take my load ya worthless faggot scum, feel my hot manseed scald yer guts as you slide into cold death, motherfucker—

 

In the back of my mind I register the hot gooey splash of the teen’s thick and seemingly endless deathload.  The slut has stopped thrashing and is rigid from sudden massive nervous system trauma.  I’m locked into the corpse, almost helpless myself as I pump wad after wad of manspunk into the quivering cumdump.

 

After a moment, I realize I’ve finally emptied my huge aching sack.  The dead whoreboy has stopped unloading, too, only a slight pearlescent trickle oozing from the semi-soft dick.  Pulling my shaft out of the trembling corpse, I remain on my knees as I use the bitch’s t-shirt to sponge its death wad out of my chest fur.  After I wipe my tackle off, too, I stuff it back into my jeans, then open the van door.

 

I climb out and toss the cum-soaked t-shirt onto the floor.  Walking warily to the open doorway, I peer out and make sure the coast is still clear.  As I expected, no one is out in the middle of a muggy gray weekday, and close as it is to the holidays, this neighborhood damn sure isn’t considered a shopping area for anything but drugs and sex.

 

In other words, no one’s around, and if they were, they wouldn’t care.

 

I drag the dead punk’s body to the edge of the van and unceremoniously dump it out onto the filthy, oil-stained concrete floor, not bothering to remove the chain from around the throat of the the badly beaten corpse.  Some homeless bum or cheap whore looking for a quick pump-n-dump will find it sooner or later, but I don’t give a shit.  I toss its jeans out, too, after rifling the pocket and taking the wallet.  It’s got a driver’s license in it, but again, I don’t care.  I’ll take the three bucks in cash though; every little bit helps.

 

Easing the van out of the garage, I’m still carefully scanning to make sure no one’s noticing me.  I turn left onto Elmhurst and realize how good my timing is; half a block down is a city street crew attaching some forlorn-looking holiday decorations to alternate light poles.  Given the surroundings, the cheap and tattered tinsel isn’t so much a mockery as a final touch of sordidness.

 

Well, no one can say I didn’t do my part.  I left them a nice dead faggot with a creamy cum-filled center.  And my gift?  This nice pair of brown leather harness boots.  Think I wear ‘em on my next kill.

One thought on “Meat Chronicles 21—Homo for the Holidays

  1. A kill in 1st person narrative = HOT. Dudes, read this one a few times – it’s expert writing and so sweet to be inside the head of this badass.

    M3M, this one is quietly one of your best ever. Thank you !!

    PS happy new year to all who read here.

    Liked by 2 people

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