Victim POV 8–The Hands of Fate

Christ, I need dick so bad tonight.  I’m drunk and horny—fuck, I’m always drunk and horny, and high, too, but tonight seems to be even worse.  It’s been a rough week, and that means I need to get used rough myself.

I’ve struck out at three bars.  Plenty of horny fags, but no one with the sheer bulk masculinity I want, just lotsa pretty boy twinks who were obviously incapable of treating me like the whore I am.  Why is it so goddam hard to find a good, brutal stud?  Every homo I meet seems to be another bottom.  Might was well head to my car; looks like another night of jacking off to porn.

Let’s see, am I in this lot?  Yeah, there’s my car, in the back.  It stands out, not because it’s expensive or anything, but it is painted fire-engine red.  That’s why I bought it, so I can locate it easily, even when I’m stoned out of my mind—like now.

I just don’t get it.  I’m in my sluttiest skinny jeans, so tight that my seven-inch dong is completely visible.  I’m only twenty-one, and I go to the gym almost daily; my old-school Metallica is stretched so tightly across my firm chest and flat belly that it damn near constricts my breathing and it’s rubbing my nipples into a jutting frenzy.  A lotta dudes (including me) are turned on by boots, so my jeans are tucked into a gleaming pair of dark gray leather Justin Ropers. 

I must be doing something wrong, but I don’t know what.  It doesn’t make any—holy fuck, who is THAT?

He’s leaning against the brick wall of the building on the right side of the lot, at the end of the last row, where my car is.  I only vaguely noticed him at first; he’s in the dark and the only initial indication of his presence was the way the glow of his cigarette intensified each time he took a drag.  Now that I’m closer, though, I can see him more clearly.  Holy fucking shit, he’s hot!

Even from ten feet away, I can tell that he towers over me by a good six inches and probably more.  He’s also gotta outweigh me by about seventy-five pounds—all of it obviously pure muscle.  I can tell that because in light of the unusually warm weather for this time of the year, he’s opted to wear nothing but a leather vest over his strong, hairy chest.  I can even see the gleam of sweat among the fur. 

His faded denim jeans are even tighter than mine and the huge ridge they outline is a good two inches in diameter and runs halfway down his thick, power thigh.  His jeans are also tucked into a pair of boots, and I recognize them—they’re a pair of knee-high black Demonia lace-ups.  I used to have a pair myself until a trick beat the fuck outta me one night and stole them.

Losing the boots was the only thing I regret about that encounter.

I approach him slowly.  He languidly takes another drag from his cigarette and then blows the smoke into my face.  Both the gesture and his expression ooze contempt; I’m so fuckin’ turned on I can barely control myself.

“You lookin’ for somethin’?” he drawls nonchalantly, his voice husky and low.

He’s my dream fuck, hotter than anyone I’ve ever met, but I can’t let my sheer intimidation stop me now.  “Yeah,” I reply casually.  “I want you inside me.”

His steely blue eyes traverse my lean body, slowly and appraisingly, like a housewife evaluating a steak that she has to serve an abusive husband.  I fuckin’ love the sensation.

“You might do,” he says with a sneer.  “You gotta place?  I ain’t gonna pollute my space with a worthless fag like you.”

Fuck yeah, I do, and I tell him so.  Far from repulsing me, his blatant disrespect arouses the cockpig heart of my very soul.  I offer to give him a ride there, but he says he’ll follow me.  As I wait for him at the exit of the lot, I’m blinded by lights in my rear-view mirror.  Seems he drives a jacked-up pickup, but I can’t tell the make or model because of the glare.

It doesn’t matter.  It’s him.  The lights remain on my tail all the way back to my apartment. He doesn’t follow me into the parking lot, though—fuck, did he change his mind?

I’m not giving up, though.  I get out of my car and give it a few minutes.  Sure enough, I soon hear the heavy tread of his hard-soled boots on the sidewalk.  He evidently parked down the street; I wonder why.

But he’s here, and that’s the important thing.

I lead the way into my unit, but pause at the front door.  The place is seriously trashed.  I turn to excuse it to him, but then I catch a glimpse of his hard face, cheeks and chin covered with heavy, wiry scruff.  In the dim light illuminating the walkway a few doors down, I can clearly see that his wavy hair is so glossy black that it almost has a gun-metal blue sheen.

Before I can say a word, he growls at me.  “Whatcha waitin’ for, faggot?”  Instantly my cock swells and begins to ache; I unlock the door, my hands fumbling with the key in my eagerness.  Goddam, I need him plowing my hole so fuckin’ bad.

I step inside and flip on the light switch; he enters behind me, and I can hear him locking the deadbolt. After my sparsely-furnished living room, a short hall leads back to the bathroom.  My tiny kitchen is on the right—I leave that light off; I never cleared away last night’s dinner—and turn to the bedroom doorway on the left.  As I turn on the lights there, I can hear the distinctive sound of a lighter from behind me; he’s lighting another smoke.

I smoke a lot of weed (and a fair amount of meth) in the bedroom, but not cigarettes.  I turn back to him. “Uh, hey, dude—I, um I can’t smoke in here.  It’s in my lease…”

He just stares at me, coldly and evenly.  Then he slowly takes the cigarette out of his mouth and tosses it onto the floor, where he grinds it out with his boot, leaving a large burn mark in the carpet.  He maintains eye contact with me the entire time, smirking slightly.

Ok, yeah, that’s intimidating.  He clearly has no interest in respecting my boundaries.  It’s hot, but worrisome; I need to establish some kinda connection.  I hold out my right hand.  “I’m Alvin, by the way.  You can just call me Al.”

He glances down at my hand and then back into my face without taking my hand.  He’s lost his smirk; now his expression reflects nothing more than cold contempt.  “Get yer fuckin’ clothes off, fuckmeat,” he demands.

Wait, what?  Fuckmeat?  What the hell is that?  What have I gotten myself into?

But then he gives me a lewd grin and unzips his fly.  His hog is so massive it takes him more than thirty seconds to extract it from its tight denim prison.  Jesus H. Christ, I’ve never seen anything remotely like.  It’s downright monstrous.  It’ll literally tear me a new asshole.

And ya know what?  I’m fine with that.

I lead him into the bedroom.  I kick off my boots and peel out of my shirt and jeans until I’m standing nude before him, wearing only my tube socks.  In the meantime, he’s shrugged off his vest, revealing his broad, muscular chest in all its furry, magnificent glory.  I look at his jeans.  “You, uh you gonna take those off?” I ask, somewhat hesitantly.

His reply is as cold and abrupt as the rest of his communication.  “I can fuck you good enough like this.”  I can’t argue with that—he’s right. 

“Get over here and suck my thick cock, faggot!” he barks.  I hasten to obey.  I won’t disappoint this man, this god.  I drop to my knees before him but before I can wrap my lips around that huge piece of manmeat, he slaps me in the face with it, wielding it like a bat.  Holy shit.  The thing is so huge, it hurts.

I love it.

“Get down on it, motherfucker!” he sneers, “I wanna see you chock on my hog!”

Yessir.  Right away, sir.  I heartily engulf the enormous oozing head in my mouth; I have to stretch my jaws painfully to make it fit.  Even then, I can only just barely manage to get it all in.  There’s no way in hell I can deepthroat this monster; it’s just too big to go down my gullet.

Or so I think.

His hands clamp onto the back of my head, as hard and inexorable as a steel vise.  Before I know it, my face is buried in his thick wiry pubes and that ungodly tool is lodged so deep in my throat that I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.  I can’t fucking breathe!! Let me go, you psycho!!

But he doesn’t.  He’s too strong for me to pull myself off of him.  I hammer my fists against his thighs, but I might as well be beating tree trunks.  My chest is hurting, and I can hear my pulse racing in my ears.   This isn’t fun anymore; it’s fucking scary.  I can’t breathe…

And just like that, his hands are gone.  I fling myself backwards off his rod, coming to rest with my ass on the floor and my back against my bed, gasping and choking helplessly.  It’s a couple of minutes before I can catch my breath well enough to speak.  In the meantime, he goes over to the mirror outside the bathroom and flexes his arms in front of it, admiring his own physique.  I can see his self-satisfied smirk directly in the mirror.

The bastard’s a fucking narcissist, if not a downright sociopath.  He only cares about others to the point that they can serve his needs; that’s obvious.  And while I love a rough, arrogant alpha, I don’t wanna fucking die while servicing him.

“I can-can’t do thi-this…” I say, still with difficulty as I rise to my feet, “Th-that was sc-scary.  You need to go, dude.  I mean, you’re hot as fuck—but no, man.  No.”  I may be a cocksucking whore, but I have some standards, and not dying is probably number one.

As I speak, he turns and crosses towards me.  His expression is neutral; I can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling, but for some reason I’m goddam terrified.  Then, I know why.

It’s his eyes.  They’re a beautiful shade of blue, but there’s a light in them, a kinda of hard, cold glitter like sunlight reflecting off ice.  I’ve never seen that before in anyone’s eyes.  Never.

“You goddam whore,” he suddenly growls between tightly-clench teeth, “You think you can back out now?  Yer in this way too deep now, cocktease!”

He lashes out, too fast for me to react—almost too fast for me to see.  Before I can so much as flinch, I find myself lying on my bed, stars reeling in front of my eyes.  I can’t see much out of my right eye; that’s where the blow landed, but I can damn sure see enough to know I gotta get outta here, now.  This motherfucker is gonna hurt me bad.

I roll out of the bed, my feet under me as I hit the floor.  I ain’t no strongman, but I’m young and agile and not without some strength.  I can tell I’ve surprised him; I get a brief glance of shock and anger on his face as I bolt past him and out of the bedroom.  I’m halfway across the living room before I hear the sound of his heavy boots in pursuit. If I can get outside, I’ll be ok—

—but I can’t get outside.  The door won’t open.  Oh fucking Christ, why won’t the fucking door open??  He’s almost on top of me—oh yeah, he locked it.  I grasp the knob of the deadbolt…

…and then it’s too late.

He spins me like a top and flings me down to the floor.  I’m too stunned to offer any resistance when he raises his knee-high boot.  I get just a brief look to the thick tread on the sole before it slams into my taut, firm belly—

HOOG!!  FUCK, THAT HURTS!!  My lungs are instantly emptied by the crushing pressure on my diaphragm.  I gotta protect myself; I curl into a fetal ball, but I forgot something…

My scrote is still exposed.  The psycho fucker reminds me by driving the toe of his boot into them so hard, I swear to God that he ruptures something.

I don’t remember much after that.  All I know is that I descended into the depths of a blood-red sea of agony.  I know at one point, the beast was crouched over me, its rock-hard fists raining down on me like hail.  I also got the dim impression of him dragging me back into the bedroom, still pounding me, but after that—it’s all gone.

Until I wake up, still in screaming pain.  It’s even worse now.  I can barely see and my mouth is full of blood, but even before I can pry my eyes open, I can feel the heavy weight of his muscles pressing me into the bed—he must had swept my stiff cum-stained sheets off.  But much, much more excruciating is the sensation of having a power auger jammed up my ass and turned on full blast.


But the more I struggle, the harder he hits me.  I force my eyes open—no easy task, given how swollen they are—to see his grinning face and hairy chest with its hard, dark nipples looming over me.  I jerk and strain my arms but they’re pinned over my head, the wrists cinched way too tightly in steel bracelets—it takes a moment for me to realize he’s bound my with my own handcuffs.  My legs are propped over his shoulder; I can see my own socked feet hanging in midair beyond his head.

“Welcome back to the party, fuckmeat,” he jeers, “You showed up just time to enjoy the games.”

Without missing a single one of his rapid, brutal thrusts into my fuckhole, he rises up on his knees. He digs into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pair of black leather gloves.  As he slowly works them on—they’re so skin-tight that it takes him a moment—he leers maliciously into my face.

“Ya know what these are for, dontcha?  Sure ya do; yer nothing but a worthless street whore.  Bet plenty of yer cumsuckin’ butt-buddies have felt these wrapped around their throats before.  Now it’s your turn, cunt.  Get ready to die, ya useless homo!”


But it can.  He grips my neck and slowly beings applying horrible remorseless pressure.

I’ve gotta get free I gotta get free I gotta get free its so hard to breathe I cant keep it up

[The last scent I had of him still fills my nostrils; my brain can detect the sweat and testosterone]

Get offa me please let me go don’t do this im not gonna die like this

[As he completely closes off my esophagus, the frantic flailing of my arms suddenly snaps into a unified simultaneous pull so hard I feel like I’m going to peel the skin off my hands but the cuffs are still too tight]

My head it pounds it pounds I cant think I cant breathe my chest is on fire

[I can feel my cock, traitorously and humiliatingly hard, being scoured by his wiry belly fur by the rippling motion of his washboard abs as he brutally rapes me]

Im not gonna die like this motherfucker you cant kill me im too smart ill find a way to live

[He’s speaking; I can just barely hear the words over the incessant beating of my own heart echoing off the inside of my skull.  “You worthless faggot, you know you need this, yeah?  You know yer a stain that needs to be wiped up.  You know I’m doin’ everyone on the planet a favor by puttin’ yer disgustin’ homo ass outta yer misery!”]

No no wrong youre wrong I don’t deserve to die

[“Fuck, I can feel yer faggot dick, all hard and oozin’—ya just fuckin’ love this shit, dontcha? 
What’s gettin’ ya off more, pansy?  Is it the pain or is it the cold touch of death?  You can feel it already, can’tcha?  You can fuckin’ feel yer dyin’, bitch, I can see it in yer eyes!”]  

No you cant I cant I cant see big black flowers only black flowers my mouth whats in my mouth whats running down my cheeks

[There’s nothing, there’s only him and his rampaging manmeat shredding my guts and his hands, gloved in smooth leather, sinking into my throat.  He’s saying something, spewing more hate into my ear but I cant hear I cant see only feel only him only pain

No I wont I wont go not like this not like the cheap whore I am oh god no it cant end like this

But there’s only his cock and my cock and the sensation I don’t know the sensation but its strong

Its pain its pleasure never before such ecstatic agony so excruciatingly exquisite the words no losing the words

The feels the pain crunch my throat it hurts so bad im gonna cum I gonna cum

Heat such heat filling my ass my dick life being pumped into and outta me the searing agonizing joy

The cold the cold the dark its so dar

2 thoughts on “Victim POV 8–The Hands of Fate

  1. DMB

    Such a nice change to read from the fag’s POV how things go. Things didn’t go quite so easy on this one. I just hope the Man who snuffed this faggot, enjoyed it to the fullest. (I’m sure He did.)
    It was also good to see, how a nice kick to the balls still seems to pacify a fag. I know we all deserve those kicks.

    Liked by 1 person

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