His Name Was Alex

“Mike!  Yo, ‘sup man!”

You hear your name and turn towards the voice.  Sure enough, it’s Alex. 

The movie has just let out and you’re standing outside on the pavement.  It was a good show, but Alex was supposed to see it with you.  He bailed at the last moment, saying he’d meet you afterwards.  Well, at least he’s kept his word on that part.

“Man, I’m so sorry about that,” he says with an apologetic smile, “Shit.  It was a work thing.  Y’know how that goes.  Anyway, didja like the movie?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, “But I’d have like it better if I’d had someone to see it with.  So, what do you wanna do know?”

You know what you want to do.  Alex has a nice chest that isn’t completely obscured by his thin windbreaker and dark blue polo shirt.  Beneath his slim-fit Banana Republic jeans, cinched by a leather belt, his feet are laced into a pair of white Jordan 4 White Oreo sneakers.  Above his slightly upturned nose, large pale blue eyes twinkle underneath a carefully disarranged mop of sandy blond hair.  He’s practically begging to be fucked—but that’ll come later.  You can be patient.

“Why don’t we go over to Buck’s Tavern?  It’s a cool place—I hang with Robbie and Stu there sometimes.  Won’t see ‘em tonight—they went to Florida for the week—but we can have a drink or two.”

You’re not fond of sitting in gay bars; it seems cheap and tawdry, at best.  But then Alex adds, “And after that, maybe we can chill at my place, see what happens…”

That, you want.  So, you agree to go to the bar.

The moment you enter Buck’s, you can feel the eyes on you.  It’s not that you’re self-conscious—and, on the other hand, you’re not anything spectacular.  But you’re aware your black long-sleeve button-down silk shirt and black Levi’s emphasize your dark eyes and your hair, which is so glossy black it almost has a blue tint.  The dark color scheme is slightly offset by your dark brown Timberland Redwood Falls boots, and the thick belt of the same color.

And, of course, there’s your height; it never fails to draw notice.  Alex is almost six feet tall—but you tower nearly six inches over him.

Not that you complain, of course—you’ve never had any problems getting laid.  They come to you like moths to a flame.  But the constant attention gets old sometimes, and lately you find yourself preferring a quiet, intimate evening in private to a rowdy night in a bar or a club.

But Buck’s isn’t too obnoxious.  Alex selects a booth on the side.  The conversation is light and casual—but you can’t help but notice that he’s knocking back two shots of whiskey to every one of your scotch and sodas.

Your mind goes back to the day he approached you in the coffee shop.  You’d been patronizing the place for less than a week since you’d just been contracted for an electrical job in the neighborhood.  It was a skilled trade that paid extremely well, and you were good at it—but a little caffeine in the mornings helped you be better.  So there you were, seven in the morning on weekdays, plain coffee, black, one sugar—and there was Alex.  Staring.

He wasn’t bad looking, so you frequently found yourself returning his gaze.  But it took him four days to get up the courage to come over and introduce himself, then another two to finally ask for a date.  Alex worked in middle management for a tech company and seemed inordinately proud of his MBA.  That kinda thing has never impressed you, but you don’t shoot him down.  He’s got a good body and otherwise seems kinda nice—who knows what it might lead to?

The idea of going to dinner and a movie tonight had been his.  He was going to meet you at Ricardo’s Steakhouse, then you were going to the show.  He picked out the movie—the latest superhero action flick.  Again, not your bag, but if he wanted to see it, why not?  Besides, a lot of fondling can go on in the dark…

But then he called just as you were about to leave for the restaurant.  Big fuckup at work, his ass was on the line if he couldn’t straighten it out, yadda yadda yadda.  Said he’d meet you after the movie—so you cancelled he reservation at the steakhouse went and paid way too much for popcorn and a ticket to a movie you’d never wanted to see.

Now he’s trying to explain what had happened.  The alcohol has loosened his tongue a bit and he’s getting kinda garrulous.  The details of the server crash are outside of your knowledge base, but he sounds apologetic.

Still, it’s difficult not to hold a grudge.  After all, this date night was his idea to begin with.

Suddenly, he reaches over and grabs your hand, breaking in on your thoughts. “Fuck man, I’ve been wanting it all day.  No more waiting.  Let’s get outta here—my place?” he says.  “I’ll make it up to you.”

As you stare deeply into his light blue eyes, you can feel your cock pulse with anticipation.  You want him, yes, but it’s kinda surprising how much you want him.  You want to sink your throbbing shaft into his bubble butt and plow him till he screams in ecstasy…

He stands up quickly, and you can’t help but notice the outline of his erection in the crotch of his jeans.  He wants this just as badly as you do.

“Fuck yeah, let’s go,” you growl.  He blushes and ducks his head; his boyish grin is adorable.  The thought of him riding your dick is irresistible—you hope his apartment isn’t far. 

It’s not.  Two blocks north and three west, and you’re there.  A century-old brick building five stories tall, converted to luxury apartments.  He has you park on the street in front; the rear lot is for tenants only.  You meet him in the entry hall—he needs to pick up his mail, anyway.

The floor and the stairs are marble.  The gleaming woodwork and polished brass trimmings show how much more expensive this place is than yours.  Not that you couldn’t afford it, but it does confirm your suspicion that there’s a certain pretentiousness abut Alex.

That’s ok, though.  As he leads the way up the stairs, you lag far enough behind that his smooth, tight, denim-encased ass is directly in front of your face.  No matter how pretentious the owner is, that fuckhole is gonna be nice and tight on you tool when you stick it in.

He’s on the second floor.  A thick, heavy door with a brass number plate.  The inside is luxurious, with thick carpeting, elaborate molding and recessed lighting.  The furniture is solid, in a retro mid-century modern style.  “Let’s make it a little cozier,” Alex says with a coy grin as he ignites the gas fireplace.  “Go have a seat; I’ll make us drinks.  You like scotch and soda, right?”

“Yeah,” you respond as you sit on the soda and unbutton your shirt.  Alex makes the drinks, turns to bring them—and nearly drops the glasses.  He’s staring at your chest, slack-jawed.  “Goddam, that’s…” he gasps somewhat incoherently, “Fuck, they sure know how to use you on your job.  First time I laid eyes on you, I was watchin’ you through the window, flexin’ while lifting all that equipment outta your truck, but goddam, bro…love that furry chest of yours…and that necklace.  It’s hot as hell; what is it?  Silver?”

“No,” you reply, “It’s platinum.  Gift from an old friend.  The dagger pendant is supposed to represent protection.”  But you wear it because you like it, not because you need protection.  You can take care of yourself.

Handing you your glass, Alex sits next to you.  Immediately, his hand is in your chest hair, his fingers entwined in the thick, wiry curls.  As he fondles your necklace and caresses your pecs, his breathing changes and becomes more ragged.  Suddenly, he grabs your face, pulls it to his, and begins kissing you.

It’s not a gentle, loving kiss.  It’s rough and somehow desperate, his tongue probing deep within your mouth.  It’s almost as if he wants to be the top—but you know that’s not the case.  You’d talked about it.  He says he loves rough sex, but he’s purely a bottom, which makes this precipitous move on his part something of a surprise.

“Take your shirt off,” he says, his voice husky with excitement.  As you slip out of it and lay it carefully over the arm of the sofa, he peels off his own.  His smooth, muscled chest appeals to me; you instantly reach over and twist one of his large, dark nipples.

He moans in pleasure.  Forcing your hand away, he stands up abruptly and begins unbuckling his belt.  “Whip it out, dude,” he gasps breathlessly, “I wanna see your cock.”

You don’t mind, but you want to see his too, and you tell him so.  He unbuttons his shirt, exposing his smooth, muscled chest, and you can feel your cock twitch.  It wants to be free of the confines of your jeans, and you want it to be free.  You stand up and grasp your zipper; at the same time, you notice that Alex has removed his belt and slipped his jeans down to his knees.  He’s got boxers on underneath; they’re tented, with a small wet spot forming. 

He’s wearing an embarrassed grin, but the light in his eyes is pure lust; they gaze with a laser focus on your crotch as you slowly unzip your fly.  It takes a moment to reach in and extract your massive hog; it reaches halfway down your thigh.

The look on Alex’s face changes as your rod leaps out into the open air.  Eager anticipation is replaced by awe, and perhaps a touch of fear.  “It’s—it’s…” he falters, gulps, and starts again, almost whispering.  “Dude, I knew you were…but holy fuck, bro…”

Yeah, he wants it.  He wants your dick.  And he’s gonna get it, too, right up his tight hole.  “Turn around,” you tell him, “I wanna see your ass.  I like to survey the landscape before I lay pipe.”  He turns—slowly, with some hesitancy.

Damn, he’s got a nice ass.  Smooth, firm, tight, just begging for your thick shaft to be sunk into it.  “Oh hell yeah, bro,” you say, “I’m gonna plow that hole.  You like it rough, yeah?  Dude, I’m gonna ream your ass like a fuckin’ jackhammer.”

Alex turn around.  He’s blushing and there are beads of sweat on his forehead.  “Man, Mike, I, uh—I dunno about this…”

What?  “Whaddaya mean?  Don’t know about what?”

“I, um…well, it’s just…I mean, you’re so big…”

Your cock is throbbing so bad it hurts.  You need release, and you need it soon.  He needs to get over whatever his bullshit is.

“Yeah?  I thought you liked that.”

“Well, yeah, but—y’know, there’s a limit—”

You can feel something deep inside start to churn.  It’s an ugly feeling, this sense of anger, and you know from past experience that it can become uncontrollable, so you do your best to remain calm and reasonable.

“You want this.  You know you do; you said so.”  You’re trying hard not to let your anger creep into your voice, but it’s difficult.  He invited you back here for sex; there was no mistaking his signals.  “C’mon, put your mouth on it.”

He comes closer, his reluctance obvious.  You know he’ll do it, though; there’s no mistaking the expression of lust that’s clearly battling with his trepidation.  Finally, he leans forward, opens his full, lush lips wide, and tries to encircle your engorged member with his mouth. 

It’s a tight fit.  You can feel how your thick, spongy head fills his mouth, but it’s not enough.  You want your pubes to be scratching his face; you know he’s gotta want that too.  So you place your hands on the back of his head and shove.

The pulsing head of your shaft lodges in Alex’s trachea and he gags.  Holy fuck, it feels good.  You hold his head in place, enjoying the way his throat is massaging your cock.  He starts resisting, trying to pull his head up off your dick, but you’re not done yet—hell, you’re just getting started.  As he struggles, you find yourself applying more and more force to keep his head in place.

Well, he did say he wanted it rough.  And he’s giving one hell of a skullfuck. 

His hands come up.  They start slapping at your thighs, but soon his efforts intensify and he’s actively beating at your abs.  It doesn’t matter—you can feel his esophagus milk your rod as he strains.  It feels too good to release him.

Suddenly, he give a burst of force so strong it catches you off guard; you didn’t think him capable of it.  He practically leaps backward, away from your crotch, leaving your toll bobbing in the air, glistening with his saliva.  You notice with a vague surprise how dark his face is.  Gasping frantically for air, he wipes the drool from his lips with the back of his hand; you can see the fear in his eyes.

“You—you need—” he breaks off and coughs till he gags, then starts again.  “You need to go.  I can’t—I just can’t…”

As he speaks, your vision becomes clouded.  It’s as if a red mist is forming in front of your eyes.  You know what it means—you’re getting angry.  Bad angry, not normal angry.  You’ve got to keep control.

“Go?” you ask calmly, “What do you mean, go?”  Your voice is barely about a whisper.  You know your smile is perhaps a little too broad, but you’re in control.  “You invited me here.  You asked me in.  We both know what I’m here for, but you don’t need to worry.  I’ll make it easy for you but remember—I’m in control.”

And you are in control.  He’ll put out; all you have to do is establish eye contact.  But he’s not looking at your face.  His attention is directed towards your right hand…

Alex’s belt—you don’t remember picking it up, but you’re holding it, and that seems natural.  It seems to make sense.  As you look at it, you can feel your cock swell.  It’s going to go around Alex’s neck.  You don’t exactly know why, but that also makes sense.  And you’re still in control.

He’s talking, but you’re not paying attention.  You’re looking at the belt and trying to figure—ah, there it is.  So easy—you just loop the belt back through its buckle, a simple, basic noose.  Casually, you toss it over his head.

Alex is still on knees.  As soon as the belt is over his head and resting loosely on his shoulders, he begins to rise.  “Wh-what are you doin’, bro?” he asks as he cautiously tried to get upright, “Gonna call the cops if you don’t—gaackthph!!”

You jerk him back down to his knees, cutting off his threat.  He’s not gonna do anything—you’re in control.  He gags and claws at the strap to leather around his throat, his huge eyes expressing his bewildered terror.

“No,” you say, your voice reflecting the profound calmness and serenity you feel.  “I’m not ready to leave yet.  C’mon, I still haven’t checked out your bedroom yet.”

You drag him across the floor by the belt around his neck.  The gurgling, choking sounds he’s making change pitch, as if it’s become harder to emit them.  His legs kick and flail frenetically as he tris to gain some sort of traction.  He can’t, of course—you’re in control.

There’s something about the way his Nikes dance a panicked, oxygen-deprived jig across the carpet—it’s a sign of how utterly helpless he his, and how much control you truly do have.

“You lied to me,” you tell him, “You led me on.”  His face is swelling and becoming purple.  He looks like he’s in a lot of pain; which, for some reason, makes your cock ache and throb a little more.  His bulging eyes are starting to form pinprick hemorrhages—they stare straight at you, begging in terror.

“Shh,” you whisper soothingly.  “It’ll be over soon.  After that, it won’t hurt.  Nothing will ever hurt you again.”

You’re not sure why you said that.  It seemed to come, spontaneously and fully-formed, from somewhere deep in your brain, but one thing you do know—you’re going to make it come true.  Your dick tells you that. 

His hands scramble desperately at you, his fingers curling in the hair of your forearms.  He’s kicking so violently he actually manages to get his left foot under.  It’s enough for him to start to leverage his way upward.  That’s not gonna happen; you yank the belt so hard sideways that he topples over, the Nike on his left foot popping off.

You can see his toes curling repeatedly, almost reflexively in his white ankle sock.  He seems to be a lot more panicked now.  How long has he been without oxygen?  There’s a detail you missed.  Next time, you’ll need to remember to time it.

You’re at the bedroom door now, and he’s still fighting.  He’s transferred his attention from your arms to the door frame, clutching it for all he’s worth.  “Let go,” you tell him.  “You’re ok.  You’re in your own bedroom.  Let go—I’m in control.”  You give the belt another vicious jerk and wrench him free.  

He seems to be giving up the fight as you approach the bed.  You stop and kneel down, your cock achingly erect and oozing, and there you see it.  In his face, you see proof that you are in control.

He’s so dark he’s almost black in the face.  His eyes are bulging grotesquely, but no less than his tongue, purple and distended.  A long, thick streamer of white foam dangled from his chin onto his bare chest.  It’s hot.  It’s so fucking hot, and you’re controlling it.  He isn’t doing it to please you.  He has no control—only you.  Only you.

He’s almost dead.  You watch life fade from his eyes, and for a moment you draw a blank.

Oh, yeah.  Alex.  His name was Alex.  You don’t want to forget that.

You lean close to him, so close you can hear the involuntary spasming of his cinched esophagus, and whisper softly into his ear.

“Hey, Alex, bro—still with me?  ‘No’ was the wrong answer…”

And another jerk of the belt.  There’s a gristly crunching sound, somewhere between crushing a foam cup and ripping off a chicken leg, and his trachea collapses.  You established your control over Alex so completely that he was utterly unable to prevent the last few moments of his life being spent in mind-rending agony.

His firm muscular body thrashes like a landed marlin, his heels drumming mindlessly against the floor.  His hands are raised, fists clenching and unclenching in midair.  His head shudders violent, spittle flying through the air.  And then you see something you didn’t know was possible.

As you’d taken him into control, you’d noticed that his jeans had finally ended up around his ankles and that the tent in his boxers had never been taken down.  Now, as you watched, the wet spot suddenly and very swiftly expanded in size as a pearly froth bubbled up at the tip of the tentpole.

He’d unloaded.  He’d liked it.  The fucker wanted it, wanted it so bad he’d blown his wad as it happened.  

Well, if he wanted that, then he’d wanted this too.  Reaching under its arms, you lift the convulsing corpse up to the bed.  You jerk the boxers down by the waistband; the hard cock leaps up, still spewing jizz even after death.  You suddenly find yourself seized by an overpowering urge—bend down and take the spurting shaft into your mouth.

Poor Alex—if only he’d given you what you wanted, he’d be having a great time right now.

But that’s no reason for you not to enjoy yourself.  You suck his tool as if he was still alive to feel something, letting your tongue linger on its slick, engorged head.  Within minutes, though, you can feel the dude’s generous tackle begin to wither and withdraw.  There’s no more sperm to be gotten, either.

It’s time to get what you came for.  You roll Alex’s firm but limp body over onto its belly, positioning it so you have perfect aim at its asshole.  Slapping your cock into the palm of your hand, you climb onto the bed and mount the corpse.

Holy fuck, that feels good.  Alex’s sphincter provides just the right amount of resistance before it gives way, accepting your aching, pulsing rod.  You sink balls-deep into the dead kid’s ass, barely aware that you’re groaning with intense pleasure.

No other fuck has ever felt this good, and you’re just getting started.

Alex lies there, uncomplainingly accepting your dick.  You have control; you can do whatever you want.  You can fuck him as long and as hard as you want.  He can’t say no, and that makes you want to fuck him even harder.

You can hear sounds echoing off the walls—your own physical grunting and the swift slapping of flesh created by vigorous sexual activity.  You can still smell the tang of Alex’s flesh in the air, against a backdrop his cologne; you can still taste his salty cum on your tongue.  He’s yours now, and he’ll never be anyone else’s.

That’s it; that’s what you needed to know, to feel, to really get.  Alex is truly yours.  Once you fill his tight fuckhole with manseed, no one else ever will.  He’ll never be able to say he’s had a better fuck than you, and he’ll never be able to tell anyone he turned you down.

You don’t take no for an answer.

Fuck yeah.  Fuck yeah.  Show Alex.  He didn’t want to take your dick?  Hose his guts with hot semen.  Fucker can’t do anything to stop you—

It hurts.  You cum so hard it hurts, burning, searing, like your dick is spewing lightning, not jizz.  It goes on and on, your entire body spasming and convulsing as if you yourself were dying with each successive load.  At some point, you become aware that you’ve been cursing Alex and slamming your fist into his lifeless back.  Eventually, you come to a shuddering stop, but it still takes you another five minutes to regain your composure—and your breath.

Eventually, you’re back in control.  You always are, sooner or later.  You extract yourself, carefully pulling your cock back out of the corpse’s still-quivering asshole.  You head back to the living room to get your clothing, but as you reach the bedroom door, you can see Alex’s Nike sneaker sitting upright by itself in the middle of the living room floor.  For some reason, the image compels you to turn back and face the enormity of what you’ve done in the bedroom.

Alex is face-down on the bed.   His arms are at his sides, his legs are spread as far as possible given that his jeans and boxers are down around his knees.  The belt around his neck has sunk in so deep, it’s barely visible. 

On the other hand, even from the doorway, you can clearly see how your cum still trickles from his ass.

The toes on the foot without the shoe are still curling, faintly and spasmodically.  At the same time, the sneaker on the other foot jerks in sync.  The entire corpse twitches randomly, but the movements are farther and farther apart each time.

You did this.  Not an hour ago, Alex was a viable human being with a career and a social life.  Now he’s a pile of human meat, filled with your cum.  It hits you all at once, the full knowledge of exactly what you’ve done, and you feel…you feel—

—you feel inspired.  You feel excited.  You’ve had an epiphany.

You tuck your member back down your pants ad put your shirt back on.  There’s a mirror by the front door; you stop and make sure that you look no different than you did when you came in.  It confirms that you give no sign of the violent scene in which you’ve just participated.

You peer out the door—no one in the hallway.  You luck holds; you leave the building unseen.  As you head back to your place, you obey the speed limit and all traffic signs and signals.  You’re filled with an understanding that you are at the doorway of a wondrous and dark new world, and you’re going to have to be very, very careful if you want to continue to taste its unspeakable pleasures.    


The next day, you don’t think about it.  You can’t.  You didn’t kill someone; that was a bad dream.  You go through your day, your mind relentlessly shying away from any train of thought that has Alex as its final destination.

But you can’t fool yourself.  You won’t think about it because you don’t want to acknowledge, even to yourself, that you just nonchalantly committed murder…

…and because every time you do think about it, your dick gets hard.

And so you get through the day.  And the next day.  By that evening, though, you’re feeling the strain.  You pour a drink as you sit down for you daily perusal of the local news apps—and there it is.

You don’t have to read the caption to recognize Alex’s apartment building.  The link goes to a video clip from the local affiliate of a major network; you follow it compulsively, needing to recognize the enormity of your actions.  The reporter is pretty and perky, and actually seems to have difficulty keeping the perkiness out of her voice as she speaks.

“Police responding to a welfare check at an apartment in the 5300 block of Anderson Avenue found the body of twenty-three-year-old Alexander Wallis.  According to the report, the young man had been found strangled and had been sexually assaulted, but the police aren’t releasing any further details at this time.”

The clip segues into interviews with neighbors on the sidewalk in front of the building.  A vivacious blond claiming to be Alex’s next-door neighbor is babbling away about not hearing a word from next door last night and of course she knew he was gay but didn’t think he was seeing anyone steadily…but your attention is suddenly riveted on the background.

A gurney is emerging from the front door, on top, a form covered by a sheet.  It’s Alex, and everything immediately seems to slow down as if the clip was running at half speed.

A pair of orderlies are wheeling him out; behind is a tall, lanky young man with sandy blond hair.  At that moment, the interviewee mentions something about the security of the front door, and the camera briefly zooms in.  The young man’s name is embroidered on the breast of his white lab coat.  The wind is flipping his lapel, so only part of it can be seen, and that not clearly—but you can make out ‘Harris’.

There’s something about him, something you can’t quite put your finger on, but then your eye lights on the pocket of his coat.  There’s something in it; you know that shape…

Then it hits you—it’s a shoe.  It’s Alex’s Nike sneaker.  And right at that moment, he looks at the camera.

No.  At you.  He’s looking at you.

He knows what happened.  He knows you’re out there.  He may not know specifically who you are, but he’s seen this before.  The sneaker—what does he want with Alex’s sneaker?

And then the image fills your mind—the Jordan 4 White Oreo sitting in the middle of the floor, your turning and admiring your kill with no shame, just the erotic thrill of domination. It rewinds like a film—his desperate, flailing death as he spunked in his shorts, the look of bewildered terror in his eye as you established control…

And you cum.  Good thing you just got out of the shower and you’re still nude, because your sperm explodes like a geyser—and you didn’t even touch yourself.  Just the memory of that night…

You head back to the bathroom to clean up, your mind racing madly.  You have no idea what’s going to happen next.  And that Harris dude—what the fuck was he up to?

But as you wipe your cum off your chest, you know one thing—you’ll never forget that night.  You’ll never forget what it felt like to gain ultimate control. 

You’ll never forget his name was Alex.

4 thoughts on “His Name Was Alex

  1. Anonymous

    I can tell this is the start of a new series of stories. Love the killer coming to the understanding of who he is and what he wants. Can’t imagine a dick so big I’d refuse it and not welcome the pain of it stretching me, or choking me. And actually a guy like this top might get me asking to be snuffed after I’d been fucked by him.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. JWC

    I adored Adam’s transformation into a fag-killer with a taste for the tightly gripping holes of his young, recently deceased victims. Sadly, Adam met his match at the hands and dick of the very man who inspired his snuff exploits, and has no further stories to follow. In Mike we get to witness the birth of a new killer, whose first victim is dispatched with almost autonomic reflex, the killer barely aware of his actions. Mike’s voice is strikingly different than most of the alphas we meet here, cajoling instead of contemptuous, preternaturally calm rather than explosive. Also unlike Adam and other fag killers, he is not motivated by homophobia or self-hatred, but appears quite comfortably gay. It is the power and control that turn him on, not hate. “You’ve had an epiphany,” Mike’s inner voice tells him. And that is just what it was, bu it is an epiphany that does not bode well for any fag Mike encounters in the future. I can hardly wait!

    Liked by 2 people

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 )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.