He says his name is Ryan, but that’s a lie.  He says he’s twenty-one, and that’s a lie, too.  He can’t be more than eighteen. 

But you want him.  You want to possess him, to own him, here and now, and that’s what matters.  And he’s a street whore, which makes it even better, because there’s only one way to make a whore yours.

And no one else will ever miss him.

When it happened before, it was an accident but it had been so good—you’d never known sex could be that intense.  Now you do, and you want—no, you need—to recapture that feeling.

This time, you know what’s going to happen.  The excitement, the anticipation, already have your long thick cock already swollen so visibly that a mere glance at your crotch makes your arousal painfully obvious.

But above all, it’s the sense of power, of control, that sparks your desire.  You’re anxious to get to that ultimate conquest, that moment when the boy can never belong to anyone else and is yours to do with as you will.

And, after all, this is only a practice run.  You’re working on a rewiring job, bringing an older office building up to code.  It’s long, hard work, and you need to blow off some steam.  There’s that guy who works in one of the offices, the one that’s been eyeing you.  No, not eyeing—ogling. 

If he went missing, questions would be asked.  Best to work out your technique on a non-entity.  A non-entity that you still want to possess.

So you decided to go trolling, and that’s what led you here.  Despite your deep desire, you still feel awkward, of course—it’s not like you’re used to doing this often.  But you have done it before, on rare occasions.  You know about the alleyway behind a certain block of bars in the gayborhood. 

The alley is narrow enough to make fitting your F-250 into it somewhat difficult, but nowhere near impossible.  Thirty yards ahead is a spot where it widens a little, and that’s where you pull in.

You see him almost immediately.  He’s about another fifty feet down the alley.  He’s standing next to a dumpster, under a security light, but at first, it’s hard for your eyes to make him out.  The light is fluorescent, and it’s about to fail—it’s flickering like a strobe.  Further down the alley, you can see several other guys, but not clearly.  Two of them seemed to be engaged in oral sex.

Not your business.  The boy closest to you has seen you and is coming closer.

He has straight blond hair that falls to shoulder length at least, if not beyond.  The hair is likely dyed, since his eyebrows are as brown as his puppy-like, long-lashed eyes.  He’s seriously whoring himself out, to judge by the skin-tight black leather jeans, white t-shirt, and black leather biker’s jacker that highlight his lithe adolescent body.  The cuffs of the leather jeans are caught up in a pair of tightly laced red, white, and black Adidas Rivalry hightops.

He approaches the passenger door; you’ve already lowered the window.  As he leans in to start the ball rolling, you notice the clear skin on his face, and the faint black smudge on his upper lip that betrays the onset of facial hair.  That’s one definite sign that his stated age is a lie.

Not that it matters.  You start to tell him your name is Mike, thinking it can’t hurt for him to know, but at that moment, he whips out a phone and starts texting, saying he always likes to check in with a friend before taking on a trick. 

You immediately change tack and give him a false first and last name.  You also bitch about dealing with a loaner since you Chevy Tahoe is in the shop, hoping it throws him—and his friend, more likely his pimp—off the track.  You’ can’t afford to make that kind of mistake in the future, but you push that aside.  You’ll deal with that later; right now, you have the kid to deal with.

He demands three hundred bucks for an hour, anything goes—no boundaries.  That’s not a lot of money to you in general—hell, you’ve got five hundred in your wallet right now, for that matter—but it’s a fuck of a lot to spend for sex.  It takes a moment for you to realize that it ultimately won’t matter.

You agree and “Ryan” demands to see the cash.  Not a problem. 

All it took was a quick glance at the money and the boy eagerly pops open the passenger door and climbs up into the passenger seat of your pickup.  You cautiously back out of the alleyway and head for home.  Once you hit the freeway, the kid starts asking about booze.

Well, you got some nice single malt scotch back home, but you’re not gonna waste that on this punk.  That’s for a real date—like that guy at the office building…

Stop counting that chicken before it’s hatched.  You’ve got a fluffy little chick right here with you that needs some attention first.  There’s half a bottle of Smirnov left from a party you had three months ago, and this kid says he’s satisfied with that, especially when you add the fact that you have liter of fresh orange juice in the fridge.

When you get home, you park in the garage, closing the door behind you before shutting off and exiting the truck.  None of your neighbors has the chance to see that someone else is riding with you.

It’s time to get it on.

You lead the way from the garage down a short hallway, your Timberland boots thudding on the tile until you reach the carpeted living room.  The moment you get to the sofa, you turn to him.  Without a word, he reaches out and grabs the groin of your Wrangler boot cut jeans, fondling your erect shaft through the tight denim.

You look him deeply in the eyes, those huge, adorable, puppy-dog brown eyes.  You know what’s happening, you know how this will end for him.  But yet your heart, contrarian as always, swells with pity and love for the youth.

You wrap your hand around the nape of his neck and slowly pull him to you until you can feel his slim, firm body pressing against you.  Your lips meet and instantly your tongue is probing his mouth, entwining with his own tongue.  Part of you regrets what you have to do to him—and certainly regrets doing it here, in your own home.  But the boy is a whore and any place of his own would likely be compromised by others.

And as far was what you’re going to do—well, that’s an expression of love.  This is the only way to keep him safe, to make him yours, to make sure no one else can ever hurt him again.

If he truly knew how much you loved him in this moment, how you were going to protect for all time, he’d be eternally grateful.

He breaks away and steps back momentarily, breathing deeply and fixing me with a lascivious gaze.  Tremblingly, he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.  “Where, uh, where’s that drink you mentioned?” he asks in a strained voice.

“This way,” you reply, and lead him into the kitchen.  You pull a highball glass from a cabinet and place it on the counter; it’s soon joined by the vodka and orange juice.  “Go ahead and help yourself,” you say casually, and head back to the living room.

As you wait for the kid, you remove your dark blue button-down and white cotton t-shirt, laying them carefully over the back of a chair on the far side of the room.  No sense, after all, in getting your work clothes mussed.

Then you unzip your fly and yank your huge throbbing tackle out.   When the boy returns, he’s greeted by the sight of your jutting cock. 

His jaw drops; the only reason his glass doesn’t do the same is because he raises it to his lips and empties the entire thing in two consecutive chugs.  He sways for a moment—the alcohol can’t have fully entered his bloodstream yet, so it must be a reaction to the strength of the drink.  Then he grins in a stupidly endearing way and shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor.  Two seconds later, his t-shirt is lying on top of it and he’s massaging his leather-covered shaft.

His grin gets even wider.  “You got any weed, dude?”  That I can provide, and he knows it—my bong is in plain sight, so I nod to indicate my agreement.  He takes a couple of lung-busting hits and as he staggers, coughing and gagging in a cloud of sweet bluish smoke, you reach out and grab him around the waist, pulling him to you again.  This time, you unbutton his fly and pull his long boydick out of his leather jeans.

He looks down at you, his grin now goofy and loveable.  You take the head of his dick into your mouth, showing him how much you truly love him.  As you lavish your tongue on his thick head and lap at the thin tube of spongy tissue running along the underside of his meat, you hope that he’ll be able to sense what you feel about him. 

You hope he knows that it might hurt a little to start, but it’s only being done to ensure he can never hurt again.  And if that’s not true love, what is?

You run your head down his shaft, savoring every inch of it.  He does, too, judging by the way he pulls his balls out so you can rest your chin on them, your face buried in his silky adolescent pubes.

This time, it’s your turn to break it off.  “C’mon,” you say, rising suddenly and grabbing him by the hand.  “Let’s go into the bedroom…”  Your voice trails off as you smile seductively and pull him into the next room.

Once inside the door, you maneuver him around in a semicircle, like a ballroom dance move, so you can seat him on the foot of the bed with you standing in front of him, your dick bobbing in his face.  Fuck, it’s so erotic, the way your oozing precum slathers his young, greedy face with transparent glaze. 

He’ll know.  He’ll know why.  He wants you as much as you want him right now.

“Your turn,” you whisper gently to him, “Let me see what you can do.”  He obliges by gulping down my raging erection.  He can’t quite get as far down on mine as you got on his, but he’s doing his damnedest to get there.

And as he does so, you unbuckle your belt and very slowly remove it from around your waist.  Raising it up, you wrap each end once about your palms, leaving a sizable leather strap in between.  Holding this above the teen’s head, you jerk your hips backward and drop the belt down around the boy’s neck.  Already drunk and stoned, his unprepared reflexes are no match for your determination and you’re able to close his throat off with ease.

This is it.  This is the moment that makes him yours.  You know—or, at least, experience has led you to expect—that he’s not going to want this, not at first.  He’s gonna be scared, he’s gonna resist.  You need to calm him, to explain why this is the best thing that could ever happen to him.

You can do this.  You can make him understand your utter devotion in offering the gift of death.

He fights, of course; he will at first.  But he’s really struggling to push you away.  He keeps trying to stand but you pull down on the belt while tightening, ensuring that the kid can’t rise.  Poor boy, he must be terrified.  His arms claw at you wildly, his fists beating futilely beating on your bulging, fur-covered pecs.  Between your spread, booted legs you can see his leather-clad thighs thrashing as he kicks in sheer panic.

Sometimes, suffering is needed to understand love—but you still want to soften the blow for the beautiful teenager.  You’re able to twist the ends of the belt together so you can still hold the noose tight with your left hand.  With your right hand, you cradle his jerking head and press his purple, gagging face into you ripped abs.

“Shhh,” you whisper, stroking his long, silky hair, “It won’t hurt for long.  I promise.  And then nothing will ever hurt again.”

You stand up and pull him erect by his neck, keeping the belt taut and gently clutching his chin.  His hands start scrabbling at the black leather strap around his neck, alternating that target with your own hands and wrists.  But he’s not hurting you.  You can look directly and deeply into his horrified eyes and watch as they slowly start to bulge, pinprick hemorrhages discoloring the whites.

Poor, poor boy.  You don’t want to make him suffer like this, but there really is no other way.  If only he wouldn’t resist, if only he understood how soon he’d be at peace. 

You pull him close, so close your cheeks brush.  In this tight proximity, you can hear every single strained grunt that is the ghost of an unborn scream of utter terror.  “Don’t fight it, my love,” you murmur into his ear as he gags and chokes, “Let it come.  Submit to it.  Embrace the darkness that will make you truly mine, and no one else’s.”

You pull back again, to see it he heard you, if he understands who much you love him.   He seems to.

He’s gazing into your eyes, a long, deep unfocused look.  He’s no longer resisting you; in fact his hands are caressing your face, his fingers making a fluttering motion—although they grow weaker with each pass.  Suddenly he stiffens. His face is almost jet black and his eyes roll back until nothing can be seen but blood-streaked white.  His purple lips have been forced apart by his dark, swollen tongue.  As his head bobs erratically, thick foamy spittle drips from his chin.

Oh god, he’s irresistible.  You want him now, more than ever.  As his brain flicker out, you grab the back of his head and pull him to you, kissing him deeply, forcing your tongue past his despite its thick, swollen state.  His face is so puffy and black that he’s almost unrecognizable, but you don’t care.  Now, in this moment, you love him.  The only thing needed to make it right is some sign of his acceptance, some acknowledgment of your intense, profound love—

—and he gives it.  You hold his dying body close to you, feeling that firm teenage form writhe in its death throes, when suddenly he experiences a powerful convulsion.

At the same time, what seems to be a gallon of sticky, white boyspunk splashes up your torso, splattering on your erect, oozing rod and matting your pubes and chest hair.

He’s dead.  He’s still thrashing and ejaculating, but you’ve done what you promised.  He’ll never belong to anyone else; he’ll never be hurt by anyone else, ever again.  But even better, he knew it.  He knew it, and he loved you for it.

You have his semen to prove how much he loved you for it.

And now, you can love him back.  Now, he’s really, truly yours.

You lower his quivering body back onto the bed, slowly loosening the belt enough to slip it back out from around his neck.  It takes a bit of force, though; it’s been embedded pretty deeply.  You step back and circle around the foot of the bed, walking slowly, struck by the marble-like beauty of the dead you.  His face is still badly swollen, but the blackness is already fading into a faint indigo.  You admire his expression as he stares into eternity, fully at peace.

You glance up and notice your reflection in the mirror on the dresser on the far side of the bed from you.  From this distance you can see not only yourself, but the corpse as well—and you’re struck by a sudden urge.  It’s not something you’ve ever felt before and you don’t know where the compulsion comes from, but, well, why not?

Staring at the mirror, you grin as you flex your powerful arms and, in that moment, you knew why you felt the need to do it.

It’s the link between seeing the power of your muscles and the sensation of power you’ve derived from using them.  The thick biceps and triceps, the swollen pecs and the bulging delts and lats are a visual testament to your power.  You can do this.  You can make a man yours, forever—any man you wanted.  You can end another man’s life.

You LIKE ending another man’s life, as the sight of your ragingly erect, dripping cock proves. 

And now it’s time to claim him, to mark him as yours.

You kneel down to pull his shoes off.  One has come off already; evidently, he managed to work it off during his convulsions.  Shame; you’d have liked to see that.  You pause for a moment to imagine it…

But enough of that.  You slip the other sneaker off.  He can keep his calf-high athletic socks.

Rising, you lean over and begin peeling his leather jeans off, a smooth, musky second skin that slowly reveals the alabaster skin of the dead boy underneath.  They get tossed to the floor.

Nude but for his socks, he’s finally ready for you.  You still love him, in a way.  It’s time to finish showing him how much. 

Climbing onto the foot of the bed, you take his feet by the ankles and bend his legs up until his knees are nearly touching his chest.  From there, you can mount him with ease.

And mount the boy you do.  He accepts you, almost willingly, but there are moment of resistance where you need to use…force.  It’s ok, though, you’re not hurting him.  Once you’re fully inside him, you lower his feet until his ankles rest on your shoulders.

And now, you give him what he needed, what he desired, what drove him to you on this dark, fateful night.  As you pump him full of your achingly hard member, you lean forward and plant kisses on his face.  Fuck, the jaded look in the face of a dead man is almost more than you can take.  More, his dick is still semi-erect and slapping between his belly and yours, smearing your ripped abs with his still-dribbling semen.

It’s coming, you can feel it.  You lean forward, letting his legs splay out on either side.  For a moment, you run your hands over his taut, smooth thighs, then lean forward again and kiss him on the mouth.

Make him yours.  Mark him with your manseed.  No one will ever breed him again.

You kiss him deeply, your tongue thrusting into the crushed remains of his throat as your long, hard dick explores his guts.  Yes.  Now you’ll show him.  Now, you’ll prove he’s yours.

When the orgasm comes, it’s of an intensity you’ve never experienced before.  Clutching the teen’s corpse tightly, you continue to French his mouth long and hard as spurt after spurt of hot jizz spits from your engorged shaft up into the kid’s intestines.

Even after it feel like your balls have drained, you keep fucking him, emitting grunts and moans of agonized pleasure.  Finally, it ceases and you collapse, sweating and panting, your heaving flanks glistening with sweat.

After several minutes, you finally recover enough to pull out of him and get up so you can head to the bathroom and clean yourself off.  Afterwards, you put your shirt and belt back on.  At the tough of the thick black leather strap, your knowledge of what you are able to do with it make your dick, back snug inside your jeans, twitch and begin to stiffen again.

But you don’t have time for that.  It’s time to clean up the results of your experiment.

The dead kid is easy to handle; you just scoop him off the bed, carry him out to the garage, and dump him in the bed of your truck.  A return trip into the house clears up his clothes and shoes, and they join him soon enough.

Now, it’s time to put him back where you found him.

It’s four-thirty in the morning, but as you approach the alley, you can see a pair of shapes down in the darkness.  There aren’t any cameras back there—that’s why whores hang out there, but it’s also a spot for quick sex after the bars close.  You pull into a near-empty parking lot across from the alley and shut your lights off.

You feel a sense of impatience, but it’s replaced by a sharper pang of concern when a police car turns down the street.  It soon turns out to be beneficial, though—the cop isn’t interested in you, but he is in the alley.  He shines his searchlight down it. 

From where you’re sitting, you can see that his light isn’t quite making it into the corner where the figures are.  But it’s extremely close, and they stop moving.  Not seeing anything, the cop shuts the light off and continues down the street.  Less than sixty seconds later, two young men come out of the alley, one zipping his pants.  They scan up and down the street and immediately depart on foot in opposite directions.

The alley is clear.  You drive straight to the dumpster where the kid had been standing.  You shift into park and exit the truck.  Thirty seconds later, the dead kid hits the bottom of the dumpster with a loud thud, reminiscent of over a hundred pounds of meat being disposed of.  He ends up on the reeking, rusting metal floor face down, legs spread, ass bared and still leaking your spunk.  When you toss his clothes in, they land to the side.  The boy’s cooling, stiffening corpse has no cover against the elements.

 It doesn’t matter, though.  He past the need for any.  Your desire for him has ensured his immunity from any possible pain or discomfort, ever again.

As you drive home, your mind seethes with epiphanies and possibilities.  This is who you are.  This is how you love.  And in the end, they love you back.  They love you so, so much for your ultimate devotion, your need to own them and protect them.  After all, if they didn’t, why did they cum so hard when they finally realized what you were doing for them?

When you’re home and undressing, another thought occurs to you—you can’t count this as successful until you know there won’t be any further consequences.  You need to watch the news to see if there’s any mention of that alley or the kid himself.

What did he say his name was again?  Oh, yeah.  His name was Ryan.