Fantasy Scenario 8

The process of selecting a target is never a lengthy one. What takes the time is sizing up the kill. After all, it doesn’t do to get careless. If I slip up, I stop having fun.

Which is why I’m sitting on this park bench, surreptitiously eyeing the kid. He’s about fifteen feet away and I know he’s eyeing me, too. He’s wondering if I’m good for any money and how to get it from me if so.

I know this because I’ve been watching him for a while. He’s in his late teens. He’s old enough not to have to worry about the cops picking him up as truant for being out here in the middle of the day. But he’s not old enough to buy alcohol. And I know that because I saw him come out of the trees at the top of the hill with an older man who offered him money. The kid wouldn’t take it and they both went down the other side of the hill. Thought I’d lost him then, but he showed up twenty minutes later with a six-pack.

I watched him slam the beers and realized that instead of taking cash, he’d had his trick go buy him the beer.

I grin—cheap little whore.

He’s wearing a gray knit ski cap but I can see blonde curls trying to escape beneath. Think his hair is dyed, though. There’s a very faint haze of black hairs on his upper lip. His hormones are just kicking in, turning his balls into overloaded sperm factories.

Just my type.

He leans back on his bench. He’s on the other side of the pathway, about ten feet to the south of my bench. He’s looking at me quite brazenly now. Well, he’s just downed six cans of beer in about twenty minutes. He’s trashed.

He gives me a big, goofy grin—almost a leer—and I’m instantly in love. That sweet, innocent smile, those half-lidded, compliant eyes, that not-so-innocent ass in those tight, low-slung jeans, his feet laced tightly in those white leather hightops…

I can’t wait to feel him die in my arms.

Ok, no question, he is flat-out leering at me now. He’s rubbing a bulge in his crotch and I’m impressed, not just by the size of the bulge, which is nice, but also by the fact that there’s a bulge at all, given how drunk he clearly is.

All it takes is a smile and he’s staggering over to me, still grinning. He slumps down beside me in a cloud of malt and hops. When he turns to face me, he flops in my direction so that his head is nearly resting on my shoulder. His eyes are a shade of jasper—a mix of jade green and blood red.

“Ya wanna BJ?” the kid slurs, “I’ll give ya one. Or you can put it in me if ya wanna. But you’re gonna have to pay me.”

He paused and giggled. “Or you can gemme fucked up. Want ya to get me fucked up.”

I grinned back. “How about both?” I offered, “I got some weed in my van. Let’s go get high and see if we can think of something fun I can pay you for.”

“Fuckin’-A, dude, les’ roll,” the punk agreed, somewhat unsteadily. But he got to his feel easily enough and was able to follow me without stumbling too often.

I had a blunt already rolled. I let the boy smoke it himself; I wasn’t going to hit it. I’d sprinkled a ground Valium on it as I rolled it.

It’s only a couple of hits before the fuckmeat is down. I strip him down in the back of the van, cutting his clothes off of him with a knife. As usual, I let him keep his shoes and his cap. I like it when they die with their footwear on.

I use a thick black zip tie to bind the bitch’s hands behind his back. I’m surprised at how resilient he is; he’s waking up much more quickly than he should. But’s he’s not putting up a coordinated defense—he’s still drunk and drugged.

He doesn’t put up a fight as I spit into my hand, lube my cock with it and stuff it up the kid’s ass. He does cry out, but not loudly enough that I need to worry. I do need to be careful, though. We’re still in the parking lot for the park. There’s a basketball court in use about fifty yards away.

Little fucker is a natural homo. He wraps his smooth tight legs around me and digs his hightops into my ass as I start fucking him. But he’s struggling, too, trying to get his hands free.

I think it’s time to get the show on the road.

The best thing I’ve found to use—so far—is a length of plastic clothesline. But no one uses clotheslines around here anymore so it’s hard to find. But I found some.

I loop it around my hands twice before I loop it around his neck. That way I’ve got a nice, strong grip.

Amazing how cutting off the air always seems to sober them up. Or maybe it’s just the terror. I’d like to think it is.

I lean down over my fuckmeat. He’s on his back, his hands bound painfully behind him. His legs are around me, my dick is in his ass and I have a cord tight around his neck.

The boy stares at me, wide-eyed. His mouth moves, but only a thick, grunting, gagging sound comes out.

“Yeah,” I whisper to him, “that’s it, you fucking faggot whore. Ya wanted to get paid for this fuck? Don’t worry, you bitch. You’ll get paid good. I’m gonna get off as you die on my cock. But don’t worry about missing the fun, fucker, cause I’m gonna make you die slow.”

I tighten down on his throat a little more. Creases begin to appear in his neck where the cord has sunk in. His face is darker now, his struggles more violent. His smooth muscular chest rises and falls beneath my own as the punk tries desperately to draw in some air. His eyes fill with tears as they plead silently with me, begging to be spared.

“Ya wanna live, boy? Too fuckin’ bad. You’re here so I can use you and toss you out like garbage.”

His face is nearly black. His red eyes bulge and dart frantically and I can seek pinprick hemorrhages in the skin around them.
The gagging and choking sounds stop as his tongue swells and pushes past his swollen blue lips.

“Yeah, boy, that’s it. Gimme what I want. Fight it to the end. Fight hard and make me cum. Work it, punk, work my fuckin’ cock…”

I wrap the cord around my hand one more time and clamp down on the boywhore’s neck as hard as I can. There’s a momentary resistance and then the cord sinks deeply into his neck, with a crunching sound. I’ve crushed the punk’s esophagus. He knows that terrible pain is the point of no return. No matter how hard he fights, he’s nothing but meat now.

The kid goes rigid, locking his legs around me, driving my tool deep inside him. His head rises up and begins to shake violently, his eyes roll back in his head.

The fucker’s head slams back down onto the floor of the van, his face covered with tears and snot and foamy spittle down his chin. I lean forward and feel something splash against the underside of my jaw.

Kid blew his death load all over me. I was almost too busy to notice it, the way his rectum had seized hold to my dick and was working it over. As I spew my burning semen into the the bitch’s hot thrashing colon, I’m still tightening the cord around his neck. As he convulses, blood leaks form his ears.

The boy’s death throes went on for another two minutes. I know, because I was squirting the entire time.

I need to go; I‘ve been in this parking lot too long. But I’m taking my fuckmeat with me. And later on—well, he’s just laying there, legs spread, white blank eyes staring dully into nothing. It’s nice to know he’ll be waiting for me.

Fantasy Scenario 7

The boy leans back against the wall with his head turned down. I know he’s watching me, though; he’s been eyeing me as much as I’ve been checking him out.

Late teens, medium height and build. I can see his pecs through his tight t-shirt. He has curly hair, kinda dirty blond. There’s a faint dark down on his face that he evidently thinks is a goatee. At least, that’s how he’s shaved it—but it’s barely there.

He’s got on a purple t-shirt and tight black jeans. On his feet are tightly laced sneakers of black and white leather.

Dressed like a typical skater rat but he can be had for a suitable fee.

I grin. I’m gonna have him, all right, and fuck the fee. Money won’t do him any good by the time I’m done with him.

His face is turned down but he glances up frequently. I catch a glimpse of his brown eyes through his tangled bangs. He’s wondering if I’m gonna approach. Bet he’s trying to figure out how much to charge.

I’ll give him a moment of anticipation at first; I’ll agree to his first offer. He’ll think I’m desperate and he’ll come along willingly, thinking he won’t have to do much to keep me happy. See, he’s glancing at me again. Now he’s rubbing the bulge in his crotch. He wouldn’t be making those gestures if he really knew what it will take to keep me happy.

But he’s gonna learn real soon. Let’s see his price.

A hundred bucks to fuck him? Yeah, right. Little whore has a high opinion of himself. But I smile and leer and agree to his terms. His face lights up and he climbs into my truck eagerly.

The location of the room I’d rented was perfect; it was the last one in that wing of the cheap highway motel. Middle of the weekday, no one saw us enter.

The kid was apprehensive when he saw the sheet of plastic I’d already spread on the floor, but he bought my explanation that I wanted to rub him down with baby oil. It probably helped that I mentioned I’d pay him extra for that—and for tying his hands behind his back. He’s hesitant about the last part, but I have his arms behind him and his wrists bound by a zip tie before he can object.

I know that the surrounding rooms are vacant and the maids have already done this wing, but I still don’t want to make too much noise. The boy is starting to get wound up, so I clamp a ball gag in his mouth before it gets too loud. Then I kick the back of his leg, dropping him to his knees on the plastic sheet. I’m down on my knees behind him, pulling out my knife.

It’s a serious knife, a Ka-bar D2 with a seven inch blade. The fuckmeat will get a chance to admire it in a moment, but first, I need to cut access through the kid’s jeans. It’s easier than I’d anticipated; I only need to cut through one layer. The slut is going commando, planning for easy access himself.

I’m already hard and dripping at the thought of what’s to come. I’m resting my cock on the kid’s back so he can feel what I’m about to stick into him.

As far as he knows, that’s the only thing I’m gonna stick into him. Time to change that misconception.

I grab a hank of his hair and pull him back until his back it pressed against my chest. With my other hand I hold the knife in front of his face and I whisper into his ear.

“See this knife, bitch? I’m gonna kill you with it. I’m gonna cut your throat. See these serrations that go all up the haft? You’re gonna feel them tearing into your windpipe. This groove here is gonna channel your blood away from my hand as I slash your neck open. You’re gonna bleed, fucker. It’s gonna take a long time to die and you’re gonna be riding my dick all the way, you fucking whore. I want to feel you fight, punk. The more you struggle, the harder I cum. You’ll fight to live and it’s gonna feel so good on my cock.”

He’s struggling and crying now and I’m not even in him yet. That’s quickly changed—I force his head to the floor and jam my tool into his ass through the hole I cut in his jeans. I’m fucking him fully clothed.

The kid’s screams are muffled to a frantic moaning by the ball gag. He’s sobbing deeply, to the point that the snot leaking from his nose is interfering with his breathing. He’s suffocating, his face turning purple.

“Oh, my poor boy,” I whisper to him, stroking his face with the knife, “Guess I better help you breathe. Are you ready, fuckmeat? Ready for me to rip your throat open? Fuck yeah! Let’s get it on!”

I yank his head back, hard, and stick the Ka-bar knife into his throat, punching through from one side to the other. As I do, the teen punk’s rectum clamps down hard on my cock. It feels like its set in concrete and I can’t imagine the pressure getting any stronger—until I start slicing out of the kid’s throat.

He screams, but the only sound that emerges it a high-pitched squeal. I take my time, sawing my way out from the middle of his neck. Each sweep of my hand slices the tender flesh of his neck more. The pain must be excruciating.

“That’s it, fuckwad,” I snarl into his ear as he writhes in agony on my cock, “Jerk and die. I want to feel you bleed out on my rod. You can feel death coming, can’t you? Everything is going gray as your blood pressure drops. Your heart is gonna fail soon and your quivering ass is gonna milk the cum right outta me as you die.”

The blond whore really doesn’t wanna die. He’s fighting it hard—it feels fantastic. He’s struggling, stretching his arms out behind him, trying to free himself from the zip tie. His flailing hands brush against my face, beating helplessly against my chest. He’s convulsing his entire body. I’m holding his head against the plastic sheet as he thrashes violently, trying in vain to escape the merciless grip of death. He attempts to scream in pain and terror, but I’ve shredded his larynx into ragged strings of meat. The only sound he can make now is a strained grunt.

With each grunt, he jerks his ass back onto my dick. As the punk bleeds out, the thrusts come farther apart but are more intense. His breathing becomes irregular as he gargles away his last few seconds, drowning in his own blood. I lose control during my orgasm and find myself stabbing the kid in the back repeatedly as I cum. I don’t know that he’s still alive to feel it as I slam my knife into his smooth hairless back with each wad I blow into his hot dying guts.

The next thing that I’m aware of is that I’m still lying on top of the fuckmeat. And inside of, for that matter; my cock is still hard and still inside the dead boy’s ass.

He’s not moving underneath me. My blond whore is meat. His eyes gaze vacantly ahead, one of them filled with blood. The corpse twitches and quivers as oxygen-deprived nerves fire randomly. Far from relaxing in death, his sphincter has actually tightened. It remains taut as I slowly withdraw from his hole—and stays that way when I push myself back in.

I fuck the dead boy again. It’s a nice, smooth feeling, since the muscle rigidity was held constant by death. His ass stayed nice and tight while I blew a second load of sperm into him, giving him more of my seed to warm his cold rectum.

Oh, my pretty brown eyed golden-curled fucktoy. You were so much fun. And you didn’t even stain the carpet.

Fantasy Scenario 6

Wow. These kids get younger each year. Maybe it’s just that I’m getting older. It doesn’t matter. But I seem to save fewer of them as time goes by.

It doesn’t matter. I still love my work. Pain and fear still exist. The fuckmeat still squeals and dies in a welter of blood and semen. Nothing changes.

Thank God!

The one I’m watching is Mexican. Straight black hair, beautiful black eyes. He’s adorable. I’m gonna cum so hard when he dies.

He’s hustling as hard as he can. Skin-tight faded jeans highlight his junk. He must be wearing a cockring; I’ve been watching him for twenty minutes and he’s been rock hard the entire time. Oh, that’s good. This is gonna be fun.

I know this boy’s a whore and already lost and beyond redemption. But I’m feeling wild tonight, so this will be perfect. I have some frustrations to work out. This one’s gonna be messy.

He hasn’t had any luck. They seem to be going for the more well-built rentboys tonight; this kid is slim, almost a swimmer’s build. He’s got on a simple white t-shirt and a pair of scuffed lace-up work boots.

He looks like part of a landscaping crew and that may be what he does during the day. This may just be a sideline to make some extra money.

Oh, I hope he’s straight. His suffering will be so much more intense.

Ok, he’s the only one left on the street now. Time to get the show going. He’s grateful that he’s got a paying customer and hops in my car right away. I ask him how much he wants for a blowjob and then punch him in the face hard. He stares at me, stunned. I pop him on the jaw and put out his lights.

He’s out for a while, which is good, because it’s a long drive. I’ve saved this location for a special occasion. It’s an abandoned house way out of town near the intersection of a couple of two-lane state highways. The nearest inhabited building is a cement plant about a mile and a half up one of the highways, and at this hour, it’s closed. And it’s not guarded; I’d checked.

I needed a place in a middle of nowhere. See, this one gets to scream.

I’ve already got a mattress and my steel frame in place. I’d made this one custom for this situation; I’d been planning it for some time and had set up everything I needed in advance.

I strip the kid of everything—I was right, he’s got thick leather cockring on, which I leave in place–but put his boots back on. I love it when they die with their boots on. Did you know that’s the title of a movie? It’s an old western.

Doubt I could get anyone to produce the porno I’d want to go with that title.

Bitchboy goes on his back on the mattress. This frame has two pairs of upright posts at one end of the mattress. The whore’s hands are tied to one pair and his ankles to the other. He’s lying there with his fuckhole in the air, unable to move. Perfect.

Even better—he’s starting to wake up. This is an almost unique experience for me; I think it’s the first one I’ve done where my snuff toy wasn’t drugged. This should be fun.

None of his senses will be dulled. There won’t be any chemical joy offsetting the horror. He’s going to experience this in a way none of the others did.

He gives a loud moan as I stuff my thick cock into his ass. He’s only semi-conscious, but he’s coming around quickly. Little Mexican cunt has been fucked before—but never like this, I’ll bet.

He’s awake now. Awake and unhappy. He’s yelling at me in Spanish and twisting his body, trying to get away from my dick.

Tough luck—the kid’s impaled on my meat and isn’t going anywhere. He’s scared, but he doesn’t want to show it, so he’s acting tough and threatening to hurt me. So sweet and smooth with those soft black eyes, trying to be intimidating—I love him and am almost moved to pity.

Almost. Not quite. Time to turn it up.

“Shut up, you fucking cholo cocksucker,” I snarl at him. “You’ve had plenty of cocks up your faggot fuckhole. You ain’t ever had anyone like me, though. My dick ain’t the only hard thing that’s getting stuck into you. I’m gonna hurt you, fucker, and there’s not a goddam thing you can do about it. You’re gonna like there and suffer like a punk bitch so I can cum.”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about? Get the fuck off me, you fucking psycho bastard; I’m gonna fuck you up! GET FUCKIN’ OFF ME!!”

He’s yelling because there’s nothing else he can do. His legs are tied back up over his head, rope looped around his booted ankles running to the steel posts at the end of the mattress. The only part of his body he can really move is his ass—and I’m so deep in him that he can’t manage to squirm off my dick, hard as he tries.

I start pounding his hole as hard as I can, relentlessly fucking the living shit out of him. He screams loudly; it must really hurt since I’m not using any lube but my own spit. But this is only foreplay, of course. He may not know it, but this is the most fun he’s gonna have tonight.

I mean, the LAST fun he’s gonna have tonight.

I keep reaming him till he settles down. Good little whore; now he’s starting to enjoy it. I love him so much. It’s a shame he can’t be saved. Thanks ok, though; I’ll send him off right. He starts moaning with pleasure. And then—he’s working his ass in synch with my thrusts. He’s matching my rhythm. Damn—little spic whore is good!

He really wants me to cum. He’s working desperately to make me give him my load. He has no idea what it’s gonna take to get that—but I think it’s about time he found out. I pick up my knife from the floor beside the mattress.

It’s a black Ka-bar seven-inch serrated fighting knife. It’s a vicious, brutal tool that’s designed to kill. I let the fuckmeat get a good look at it.

“What, did you think I was gonna blow a wad into you and be done like one of your usual tricks? You’re gonna have to do more than that to get my sperm, cumpig. You’re gonna have to die like the worthless fucking faggot whore you are. I’m gonna cut your useless pig throat. Watching you bleed out and die in agony is gonna make me shoot. That’s how this ends for you, bleeding and dying on my cock.”

He looks at the knife and then back at my face, those amazing eyes wide with terror. He’s trying to process what’s happening. His brain isn’t able to handle it; the idea that his existence is about to end just won’t compute.

I make it compute. Without missing a stoke in my fucking, I lean down and kiss him, ramming my tongue deep in his mouth. Then I take my knife and start slicing into his throat.


He screams; oh my god, does he scream. Deep whooping shrieks. Oh, it’s beautiful. Each one resonates throughout his entire body and works my shaft life a velvet glove.

This takes some precision. I don’t want him dying too soon. I want to savor these precious moments. I have to grab his hair in one hand to hold his head still while I slice deeper into his tender, exposed throat, carefully avoiding the carotid and the jugular. The last thing I want if for him to bleed out too soon.

He’s still shrieking; the pain must be phenomenal. Let’s see if I can intensify the horror for him.

“Fucking die, you whore. You’re gonna leave this world with my dick in your worthless guts. You’re gonna scream and bleed and suffer and it’s gonna last as long as I want it to, to make me cum. I’m gonna dump my load into you and throw out your rotting meat like garbage. I want this to hurt, punk. The more you suffer, the more I enjoy it. Look into my eyes and see how much I want to hurt you, fucker.”

He obeys and stares into my eyes, but he doesn’t stop shrieking. His screams get louder as he realizes how much pain I can inflict on him at will. It’s incredibly erotic, how consumed with terror his is. As I lie on top of him, I feel a warmth spreading over my groin and belly. Thanks to his too-tight cockring, he’s still sporting a serious tent pole, but he’s lost control of his bladder. He’s pissing himself in fear.

Still screaming. I’m so glad I found this place; this isn’t something I could have done closer to town. The tempo of his cries increases with the speed of my thrusts while I’m fucking him. But I’m so close to shooting my wad. Time to grant my beautiful fuckmeat its release.

I plant one hand squarely on the Mexican’s face and slash into his throat as hard as I can, penetrating the carotid and the trachea simultaneously. Suddenly, my adorable cholo isn’t screaming any more; he’s gargling. The gout of blood that’s been pouring over my hand changes to a pink froth as the punk bitch struggles futilely to breathe. His head shudders beneath my hand as his rectum spasms against the engorged head of my cock. I cum explosively in his ass as I hear his last breath gurgle out of his mangled airway and see his eyes glaze over.

Oh, it’s the best one yet. And I wasn’t even able to save him.

What shall I do with my next true lost soul?

Fantasy Scenario 5

Jesus, this is harder than I thought. I knew finding two boys at once would be difficult but I didn’t know it’d be this bad. Virtually all of my lost souls are trying to buy drugs, and that’s usually not a spectator sport.

I might be in luck, though. Think I’m gonna get both a seller and a buyer. I don’t really know if the dealers count as true lost souls. I can get them in the car, but that’s about it. But I’ve got my eye on a Mexican kid I’ve seen before.

He acts as a middleman—he gets the buyer to wait in his car around the corner while he texts the guy who actually has the drugs. He then walks the drugs around to the buyer and returns with the cash. This way, the goods being sold move around and are less susceptible to raids, while the kid actually doing the deal on the street only has possession of either the drugs or the cash for a very brief time.

But something’s gone wrong today. I’m idling in a spot about three-quarters down the block and I’ve been watching him for a good ten minutes. He’s hard to miss. His swarthy face is slightly pockmarked and he’s spiked his glossy black hair. He’s wearing a magenta dress shirt open to the middle of his belly, displaying his smooth, hairless chest. The sleeves are rolled up. His jeans are so tight they appear painted on and he’s got a pair of genuine shitkickers on his feet. Around his tight waist is a brown leather belt that is buckled by a metal object only slightly smaller than a hubcap. He’s about twenty-two or –three and even if he’s not a lost soul, he’s still prime fuckmeat.

He’s looking worriedly up and down the street; his guy hasn’t shown. Worse, the kid he’s buying for has come around the corner to look for him. I wonder if the buyer was stupid enough to pay up first. He looks stupid enough.

He’s about eighteen, a typical suburban kid whose mommy and daddy don’t realize their snowflake is spending his college savings to get high. His dirty-blond hair is cut short on the top and sides but is longer in the back. He’s well-built, something like a jock, and is a good six inches taller than the dealer. His white t-shirt highlights his broad chest and even his skinny jeans can’t hide his muscular legs. He’s wearing expensive kicks, bright blue with orange laces. Clearly not a kid “counseled in the ways of patience”—he wants a hit, and he wants it now.

The spic dealer was in a bad spot. This kid could beat the shit out of him. Maybe I could help them both…

Wow, it actually works. I tell them I don’t sell out of my car, but if they’ll come back to my place, I’ll give the kid a sample. If he likes it, he buys it and I’ll give the dealer a cut on any business he sends my way. I’m amazed they both agree without hesitation; I’d expected some resistance.

I let the kid load his own needle. He’s a cocky little shit and says he’s used to heroin—I’m willing to bet this spoiled rich kid hasn’t come across anything as pure as the junk he’s shooting into his veins. He immediately slumps back unconscious, with the syringe still stuck in his arm.

The spic leans over him, concerned. The second his back is turned, I give him a swift bash in the head with a hammer. He goes limp, falling onto the kid.

Getting them positioned is easy. The spic is on his back on the bed with his hands bound behind him, his head at the foot of the bed. I already know I’m going to strangle him; it’s my favorite way of offing the fuckmeat. Later on, I plan on trying out a new toy with the kid. In the meantime, he’s gonna watch. I’ve secured him to a heavy wooden chair by tying his ankles to the front legs and by binding his hands behind the back of the chair using the strip of latex with which he’d tied off his arm.

Both of them are nude but I’ve slipped the boots back onto the Mexican. I’ve given white boy his shoes back, too. I like it when they die with their footwear on.

I don’t need to gag them. This complex is such a rathole that it’s never more than half full. Right now, my unit is the only one occupied in this building. My closest neighbor is six units and a firewall away. She’s eighty and is so deaf she runs the TV at full volume. Cocky rich boy gets to scream. I place his chair at the foot of the bed so he can get a close-up view.

The kid had convulsed a couple of times, so he’s not fully awake. He’s in a fugue state, drooling and staring dully through half-open eyes. Time to mount up, though; the Mexican is starting to wake up. I press myself down onto him, pushing his knees up to his chest while I thrust my dick into his vulnerable ass. This position, as I’ve indicated before, pins the fuckmeat to the bed so he can’t get any leverage while still leaving my hands free.

The spic yells as my thick cock tears into his tight rectum; I’m inflicting a lot of pain. I love ripping virgin holes open. His yell becomes a torrent of Spanish; he’s screaming at the top of his lungs. It doesn’t go on for long. I place a wooden rod—a sawn-off broom handle, actually—across his throat. I grip one end in each hand and lean forward with my entire weight. The stream of babble is cut off with a croak.

His screams have woken white boy up a little. He’s still not quite capable of speaking, but he’s aware of what’s happening as he watches me rape and strangle the dealer. There’s nothing like a nice preview of coming attractions, and I make sure he gets the full benefit.

“Look at him,” I snarl at the kid, “watch him die. See the pain and fear in his face. He’s gonna die riding my cock. You’re gonna die like this too, but I’m gonna hurt you more. This little fucker is dying so I can cum. Watch him fight—it won’t go on long. By the time I’m done, he’ll want my load so bad he’ll cum himself. Won’t even have to touch his dick. See? Look down here. His thick uncut dick is hard already. He knows he’s dying like a bitch with my cock jammed up inside him. He’s fighting because he thinks he wants to live, but his hard cock knows better. He wants to end his life filled with my spunk…”

The spic is turning his head from side to side, trying to get out from under the rod across his throat. It’s hopeless and his panic is getting worse because he can understand every word I’m saying. He stops trying to escape and stares at me in horror, blood vessels already starting to burst in his bulging eyes. His purple, foam-flecked lips are moving; if he could speak, he’d be begging for his life. He’s helpless. He has no choice but to lie there and take my cock while I choke the life out of him.

“Oh yeah,” I moan, pumping my meat into the spic’s trembling hole. I stare into the white kid’s terror-filled face. “Watch this. Watch me get off by taking this little fuck down. Little fuckin’ bitch is gonna cum so hard when he dies. All you little bitches want to go out full of cum. You’re gonna love getting killed with my load inside you.”

Now I’m talking directly to the Mexican. “You want it, cholo? You want my hot jizz? Work for it. Die for it. Die, motherfucker; make me cum!”

The spic is looking at me desperately, searching for a sign of pity. There is none. I spit in his face and his mouth, aiming for his swollen, protruding tongue. I ease the pressure on his neck for a brief moment only so I can throw myself back onto him with more force. I do major damage this time.

There’s a low crunchy sound as I crush the spic’s larynx. His final frantic gasp for air ends in a short guttural hiss. It’s obvious the pain is excruciating; he draws his legs in sharply, the heels of his cowboy boots digging into my ass. His entire face is purple and his brain is dying. His death throes become a rhythmic convulsion. With each spasm, he’s tightening his legs and clamping his quivering fuckhole down to the very base of my cock. Cursing violently, I shoot a wad into his ass with each jerk. His own massive uncut tool blows thick gobs of spunk in synch. One particularly intense convulsion launches a stream of semen over the spic’s head; it splashes on rich boy’s firm belly.

I’m still cumming and spitting in the Mexican’s face as his convulsions fade into a gentle trembling. When he goes limp, I collapse on top of him, exhausted. I kiss him deeply, my tongue roaming in his mouth, feeling his own thick, swollen tongue. I look up into the kid’s tear-stained face. “He had it easy,” I tell him. “I’m using an ice pick on you.”

His terrified moans lull me to sleep, my dick still stuffed up the spic’s ass.

The kid is unconscious when I wake up. This makes positioning him on the bed easier—not that he’d have any fight left in him. The heroin has worn off by now, but he’s been strapped to that chair for more than thirteen hours. I’m willing to bet he can’t feel his arms or legs.

And he’s still in deep psychological shock after watching his dealer die while getting raped. There’s nothing like letting the fuckmeat stew in its own mental juices.

I tie him face down on the bed, spread-eagled. A length of nylon cord around each wrist and ankle is secured to one of the legs of the bed frame. He’s waking up and starting to struggle, but he stops when he sees where he is.

I never took the spic off the bed. White boy has been tied face down onto the rotting corpse. His face is pressed against the dead Mexican’s; he can stare directly into the beautiful cloudy eyes. He starts moaning and blubbering.

I stand right in front of him at the foot of the bed. “Look at me, you little fuck,” I say, snapping my fingers. “Up here. This is what’s gonna happen. I’ve got two things I’m gonna stick in you. One is my dick. See how hard it is? I’m gonna love plowing your hole. Hurting you is gonna feel so good. The other thing I’m gonna stick into you is this ice pick. If I’m careful, I can do a lot of damage before you die. But understand this, you fuckin’ punk bitch, you’re gonna die. And you’re gonna love it, you little snuff pig. Oh, you’re gonna fight, and you’re gonna scream in agony from pain you’ve never dreamed possible, but in the end you’ll be so grateful for the death I bring you that you’ll shoot your wad.”

I spit on him, and then smile coldly. “You’ll love dying, punk. It’ll get you off.”

He understands me. He’s sobbing brokenly as I force myself into him. He tries to resist but I tear relentlessly into his sweet tender ass, shredding his rectum with my fat thick tool, making him bleed internally. I lie quietly on top of him for a moment, letting him settle back down onto the dead spic beneath him. I didn’t show him the bottle of poppers I’d placed on the bed. Bet he’s never even heard of them. It’s gonna be hot, watching his reactions…

I insert the ice pick into his kidney, slowly, sensuously. As long as I avoid major organs and blood vessels, I can do this for quite a while without killing him. He cries out and writhes, his body wriggling erotically against mine. Little fuckin’ snuff punk, he loves it for all that he cries and pleads for me to stop. He loves getting penetrated…

He needs some pillow talk. I whisper to him. “I know, I know. You got up today with raging morning wood. Your first thought was about getting high. You pulled on your tight clothes and laced up those hot kicks that are still on your feet. And not once did you think that you’d end the day dying with a thick cock jammed up your ass. But you’ve always wanted this. Inside, you’ve always wanted a man to overwhelm you and dominate you to the point when pain and death and orgasm fuse into a single burning, agonizing blast of spunk…”

Laying down the ice pick, I seal his mouth with one hand and hold the poppers to his nose. I keep it there for a while. When he becomes still and quiet, I start inserting to ice pick lovingly into his side. After it was in up to the handle, I removed it and stuck it in slowly elsewhere. I filled his back and sides with holes. There wasn’t much of a mess; most of the bleeding was internal.

Oh yeah, the little fuck bitch was getting off. He was still sobbing and begging for his life, but the moans he gave when I timed the slow thrust of my cock to the insertion of the ice pick told the true story. They were moans of pleasure. He’s getting fucked by two tools at once.

“You like that, you dying little faggot? You like having me inside you, having my cold hard steel inside your body? It hurts so good your dick is hard, fuckmeat. Are you ready for it? Are you ready for the final agony, the one that’s gonna make you blow your load all over that dead spic underneath you?”

He’s screaming now, pleading for his life in mindless terror. His body is ready, though. His erect rod is poking at the Mexican’s flaccid scrotum; I can hear the balls slapping with each jab. He’s ready to shoot.

I give him another rush with the poppers and force his head down, face turned to the side. Pinning him down with one hand in his blond hair, I slam the ice pick through his ear and into his brain.

Oh my god, I love brain trauma. Brain damage makes the fuckmeat really work my cock. The kid convulses wildly and I ride him like a bucking bronco while reaming the inside of his skull with the ice pick. I’ve rammed it into the part of the brain stem that controls orgasm. I can’t see the stream of cum that he shoots, but it’s flowing down the Mexican’s sides like water. I’ve short-circuited his brain to produce an orgasm that utterly drains his balls.

The kid’s uncontrollable jerking and flopping are yanking the spunk out of me. As I shoot, I keep skullfucking the punk’s head with the ice pick, totally destroying his brain. When I’ve stopped unloading, there’s nothing left but quivering meat.

I instantly start falling asleep. I burrow down and pull the bodies on top of me like blankets—one cold and stiff, the other warm and twitching, both drenched with jizz.

I fuck them each in turns during the night. The first time, I shoot my wad down the kid’s throat while piercing the Mexican’s cock and balls with the ice pick. The second time, I wedge my hard dick down past the spic’s enlarged tongue. I insert the ice pick into the kid’s urethra and I’m stabbing his bladder when I blow my load. The spic’s throat is so crushed that it’s completely blocked. I shoot so much cum that the Mexican’s mouth overflows and it trickles down his face.

Later on, I cut off their cocks and scrotums, shoving each into the other’s mouth before sealing it with duct tape. There’s an abandoned crack house six blocks away. I bind the kid’s hands—I’d never untied the spic—and shove them both into the crawlspace under the house. They’re gonna have to rot a long time before the smell alerts anyone. By the time they’re found, all the evidence will look like gang drug activity.

I feel better. I’ve saved one, perhaps two lost souls. Still not sure about the dealer. Either way, it doesn’t matter. What’s important is how much fun I had with two of them. I’ll keep my eyes open in the future. The opportunity may not come up, but if it does, I’ll be ready.

Fantasy Scenario 4

It’s been raining for days. The drainage ditches are full, the sewers are overflowing, and I’m getting frustrated. Cold wet weather like this keeps the fuckmeat off the streets. It doesn’t stop them from doing their shady little deals, of course; they just do them inside—where I can’t get at them.

I manage to spot one lone figure out in the meat market area. I’ve seen him before, but I haven’t bothered with him. He’s a crackhead, so I can’t slip him the heroin. I can get him back to the playpen for sex, but why bother with whores when I can get true lost souls?

Problem is, I can’t seem to get any lost souls right now. He’ll have to do.

He’s very short, no more than five and a half feet, if that. He’s going for a rough trade look with a zipped-up black leather biker jacket and jeans tucked into black harness boots. His short brown hair is plastered to his skull by the rain. He’ll be glad to find a place to get out of the weather; he looks like a drowned rat—which gives me an idea.

I’m right; he’s grateful for the chance to get dry and earn the money for his next bump. When we get back to the playpen, I offer to get him a towel. While in the bathroom, I also start the tub running, to make sure the water’s nice and warm. When I return with the towel, he’s taken his jacket off. He’s not wearing a shirt—he must have been cold out on the street. His back is turned towards me, so he never sees the hammer in my other hand. One quick blow to the back of the head and he’s limp on the floor.

I pick him up and sit in the recliner with him on my lap, facing away. I think it’s much more erotic to slowly strip him in my lap—pulling off his boots, slowly peeling his socks off his feet, slipping my hands down his jeans to fondle his junk before sliding the jeans off altogether. I sit with him for a while, rubbing my hands over his smooth, fit, compact body. He looks like he’s about sixteen until you get up close—then you see the faint lines on his face. He still can’t be more than twenty, but he’s let himself get used and abused. A lot.

He moves his head and starts moaning; he’s waking up. Time to get it on.

I carry him into the bathroom and lay him on his back in the tub. I like my tub. These apartments are old and have never been remodeled; the tubs are huge and deep. Plus, the bathroom is at the back of the apartment and the unit on the other side of the wall is permanently empty; it’s so dilapidated, it can’t be rented. I’ve used the tub frequently when it’s time to reduce the dead meat to manageable proportions. Within certain limits, no one can hear what happens back there.

I’m counting on that; today, I’m using the tub for more than just disposal.

This might be easier if I laid him face down and mounted him like the fucking dog he is, but I’m really horny. I want to be looking in his face when he dies. I want the last thing this little bitch sees to be my face snarling at him as I pump my load into his guts.

I climb into the tub with him and throw his legs up. He gives a louder moan when I stuff my cock into his ass. The tub is slowly filling; when he rolls his head to the side, he inhales water. He’s instantly awake and struggling. But I’m leaning forward with both hands against his chest, pressing him against the bottom and he’s too small to shift me. He’s trapped.

I’ve wrapped my arms around his legs so that when I’m leaning forward his ass is raised off the bottom of the tub and his head is forced down. He can only lift it to the extent that he can bend his neck to press his chin down to his chest. Those muscles will weaken and he’ll have to fight to hold that position—for as long as he can.

I hope he’ll fight for a while. I want to enjoy watching him as he struggles to stay alive. I want to watch his eyes as he realizes that he’s losing the fight; I want to watch as he strains to the very end for one last second of air.

He’s thrashing around a lot now. He shouted for a couple of minutes, but I was silent and now he’s concentrating his energy on getting away. He’s not having any luck. He can’t do much with his legs since I’m leaning on them. He’s beating at the sides of the tub, but he can’t get a grip on anything. His arms aren’t quite long enough to reach my face and he isn’t strong enough to pull my hands away from his chest. He’s starting to realize that he’s in a lot of trouble.

The water’s getting deeper. The little fuck starts to beg and plead for his life, his cries interspersed with moans. Despite his fear, he seems to be enjoying being fucked. His hands are still scrambling to get a grip on the sides of the tub, but he’s squeezing his ass down onto my cock.

He can’t lie back in the tub anymore; the water is too high. He lifts his head and stares at me. His eyes are huge with panic. His face is too wet to be sure, but I think he’s crying. He’s not saying anything now; he can’t. The water is above the level of his mouth. When it’s a half-inch below his nose, I reach up with one hand and turn the tap off.

We’ll see how long he can hold his head up.

His legs jerk against my sides as he tries helplessly to find leverage. This makes his fuckhole slide along my rod; it’s so goddam hot. He grips my wrists as he tries to pull my hands off his chest. When this fails, he slides his hands up my straining muscled arm. He wants to reach my face but he can only graze my chin with his flailing fingertips.

His head starts shaking. The muscles in his neck are weakening and he’s gonna go under. He knows this, and he knows he can’t do anything about it. Oh, the beautiful terror in his face…I pound his ass violently. The water and the tub amplify the swift slapping sound.

The trembling of his head becomes uncontrollable as his neck starts to cramp. He reaches the end of his strength and sinks with a final look of despair. Though the broken surface of the water distorts the image some, I can clearly see him. He’s determinedly holding his breath. I keep reaming him, waiting it out. He can’t keep it up for long. Two things tell me he’s getting close: he’s moving his head erratically from side to side, and he’s getting hard.

He gives in and opens his mouth, expelling a great mass of bubbles. Then he inhales and water fills his lungs. He thrashes wildly, but this reaction is involuntary. He’s starting to accept. I can tell by the way he’s working my cock.

He gets it. He knows that he’s achieving his highest destiny by pleasuring me with his death. As his brain shuts down from lack of air, he’s doing everything in his power to make me cum. His own thick tool is rigid and flat against his wriggling belly. On some deep level, he’s realizing that the one thing he truly wants is for us both to shoot as life drains from his body.

He’s fading. His arms no longer resist me; he’s stroking me now. His eyes stare up at me with that gorgeous look of acceptance. He gives a last intense shudder, his rectum squeezing the cum out of me like toothpaste out of a tube. A milky cloud of sperm erupts from the head of his dick and diffuses into the water. Then it all goes still. The only sounds are the diminishing slosh of the water and my gasps for breath.

I drain the water. The meat has foam on his face; there’s a trail from each nostril and from the left corner of his mouth. The one from his mouth is faintly streaked with blood; probably a vessel burst in his lungs. I flip him over to let him drain a little so he wouldn’t spray water if his chest got compressed while I was taking out the trash. Then I stagger off to bed to sleep for my usual twelve hours.

When I awake, I go to dress the meat before throwing it out. I sit him in my lap as I had done while stripping him. And then I–

I don’t want to admit to it, but I weaken. He’s there in my lap, his cold, limp, smooth corpse leaning against my chest—and it has been too long since the last time—I know he was a whore and not worthy of me, but his meat is sweet and still and unmarked…

I lean back in the recliner, lifting him under his arms and lowering him gently onto the raging hard-on that has instantly sprung up. I can’t help whispering to him. “Worthless little fuckin’ whore, your dead ass feels so good around my dick…” I couldn’t do this if he wasn’t of such a small build. I want to kiss him but he’s facing the wrong way—I can fix that.

I pause my thrusting and by using a great amount of force, I snap his neck and twist his head around backwards. Now I can bounce his ass on my cock while kissing him and gazing into his dull clouded eyes. It’s beautiful and I blow my load right away.

In a state of remorse, I quickly dress—the meat first, then myself. It’s still raining—of course—when I drag him out to the car. It’s about five in the morning and very cold. This could turn into sleet; I need to get a move on. Luckily there’s an open drainage culvert two blocks down. It’s about five feet deep and is the perfect place to find a drowned man. Not that they’d find the meat where I would leave it; the raging stream will carry him for miles.

He goes into the water without a problem and sinks right away. Afterwards, I sit in my car and think. I have polluted myself and I must atone. I must bring salvation to more lost souls. Perhaps I can try saving two at the same time. That would be glorious—and might make up for my sin.

Fantasy Scenario 3

Oh my god. So many lost souls out today. Who among them deserves the love and death I can give? Who is the most worthy of my baptism of blood and semen?

That hot little Mexican kid over by that tree? Nah—he’s dealing. Too hard to get back to my place. I need a buyer for what I have to offer.

Ok, that one has promise. White kid, early twenties. Wearing a ball cap but I can see he’s practically a skinhead underneath. Razor-thin sideburns running down his cheeks to meet a near-invisible goatee. Cold, squinting eyes. Plaid button-down shirt worn open over a stained white t-shirt. Tight, faded jeans tucked into worn, scuffed work boots. Clearly looking to buy. Perfect.

I pull up and start the usual routine. Coke? Sure, I can hook you up. Friend will bring it, sample back at my place, blah blah blah.

He gets in. Quiet and kinda nervous—doesn’t offer his name. Wonder if it’s his first time buying. His button-down shirt has short sleeves and I can see his arms. There’s a couple of recent tracks but no old scarring. A new convert then, thinking he was being a man by buying his own drugs.

I grin to myself. He’s gonna die like a man, slowly and painfully, as I choke the life out of him. And somewhere within, he’s gonna realize his only worth is as fuckmeat and he’s gonna give me his seed in his gratitude as he slides into eternity…

Don’t get carried away. Almost home; wait till he’s too drugged to notice. Don’t give the surprise away too soon.

Once inside, I tell him I’ll load his sample myself. It’s strong, I say, and I don’t want him flopping on me. There’s a puzzled look on his face and I realize he’s so new at this that he doesn’t know the term for overdosing. I explain and he agrees, saying, “All right, but don’t try nothing weird on me. I can fuck you up bad if I hafta.”

I really don’t want him to OD. It’s heroin I’m giving him, not coke. He’s not used to it, clearly, and I want to take my time with him—there. Just a tiny amount should be enough to make him tractable.

He’s already tied off his left arm when I hand him the syringe. He’s learned enough to flush back the needle after inserting it; the flow of blood back into the syringe proving he’s hit a vein.

He removes the needle and instantly slumps back on the sofa. I carefully pick the syringe up off the floor and dispose of it before sitting down beside him.

He’s turned to me, so high he can barely keep his eyes open. He’s drooling, a slight froth running from the corner of his mouth. Fear is on his face; coke has never done this to him and he doesn’t know what’s happening.

“It’s okay,” I say soothingly, stroking his taut, hard body, “just let what’s gonna happen, happen. I’m gonna hurt you bad, but in the end you’ll be happy. I always make my fuckmeat happy before they die.”

His eyes widen slightly and he gives a pathetic moan. The drug has made his breathing weak and shallow; he doesn’t make much noise. His hands batter limply at my chest. I won’t even have to bind him. He’s completely in my power, to do with as I wish.

But what’s getting me hard is that he’s just awake enough to realize it.

I slowly strip off his clothes, ignoring his faint attempts to resist. After removing his cap and shirts, I pull off his boots and jeans, revealing his tender ass and thick cock. Then I slip his boots back on. “There you go,” I tell him, “now you can die with your boots on.”

He’s lying back on the couch, his face turned slightly away from me. But from the corner of his eye, he’s watching me frantically, his hands pawing ineffectually at my face. “Time to rock and roll, motherfucker. This thick hog’s goin’ in your ass.”

I lay him flat on his back on the couch, propping his head up on the armrest. I easily force his legs apart, sinking my shaft into his pulsing fuckhole. It feels like a rubber band around my dick; no one’s been up there before. I slammed myself into him, feeling flesh tear as I penetrate his rectum. Low guttural sounds emerge from his throat as his face is drawn into a rictus of pain.

He instinctively wraps his muscled legs around me; I can feel his boots scuffling on my ass. He’s pawing at my chest and face, doing his sad best to resist. “Shh,” I whisper to him, “stop fighting it. You know you want this cock up your ass. You know when you’re out getting fucked up with your buddies, you want their dicks inside you. It hurts so good, doesn’t it? You know you like it, you fuckin’ bitch, now take my cock!”

Pain and confusion have spread over his face; he still doesn’t realize what’s really happening. I’m not even sure he fully understands that he’s being raped. Time to remove all doubt. I wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze.

Instantly his hands come up, plucking weakly at my wrists. I’m holding him down by his throat while I fuck him and I can see the erotic gleam of terror in his eyes. The concept of death has penetrated his drug-fogged mind and he scrambles to escape it. His struggles are hopeless; he’s pinned to the couch by the unbearable pressure on his throat and by the stabbing, searing agony in his rectum.

“Yeah, bitch,” I moan, “This is what you were looking for. This is why you went out today, so you could find a man who would give you what you deserve. All you’re good for is dying on my dick. Yeah, you piece of shit, I’m gonna use you and throw you away, you fuckin’ wad of garbage.” I spit in his face and his mouth.

He claws at my hands as gagging sounds erupt from his clenched throat. His eyes, wide and bulging, stare into mine, begging in desperation. Oh god, his pleading and fear and pain—it’s driving me on to hurt him more. I’m reaming him like a jackhammer now, plunging myself deep within his helpless ass, inflicting as much agony as possible. I’m so close to blowing my wad…

I squeeze my hands together with as much force as I can. I damn near shoot as I hear the sound of cartilage and bone cracking and feel his esophagus crushed in my hands. The fuckmeat’s face has turned a dusky blue and his gagging sounds have become intermittent but much more intense. I spit in his face again, my saliva lost in the foam flowing around his swollen tongue.

“Die, motherfucker. Shoot your worthless bitch wad and die. Die so I can fuck your sweet lifeless corpse. C’mon, you piece of shit, give me your death load. You always wanted a man to choke the cum out you. Gimme your hot dying spunk, you fuckin’ death pig…”

His struggles weaken as his brain dies. He’s not resisting me anymore; instead, his hands are caressing my face and my chest. I grip his neck more tightly, eliciting a final crunch, and his ass responds by tightening around my shaft like a hand. He arches his body upwards, pressing his smooth flat belly against mine. His boots dig into my back, holding me in a desperate dying grip.

He’s accepted my gift and embraced the death I’ve brought him. Spunk boils out of me, filling the fuckmeat with hot cum. His hard rod, pressed between our bellies, disgorges a steady stream of semen that splatters against the underside of his jaw and splashes my face. I’m vaguely aware of my own inarticulate cries as the fuckmeat writhes and jerks on my dick and showers me with cum.

It’s pitch black when I wake up. About twelve hours again, then. I’m stiff and sore and still on top of the corpse. I’m stuck to the meat by a glaze of dried cum and my hands are still wrapped around his throat.

Oh, such hot meat. His smooth body is now flaccid and limp and fit for love. The dull look of resignation in his cloudy eyes is irresistible. My pretty, sweet, helpless fuckmeat…

His tongue begs for my cock. I pull him lower on the couch to skullfuck him with more ease. I shudder as his dry, swollen tongue rasps against the rosebud on the underside of my oozing mushroom head. I pump his mouth hard, ramming my tool deep into his ruined throat. My sweet fucktoy, swallowing my entire dick without protest.

When I give him my second load, it’s with all my love. I had to hurt him, but only to perfect him. Now he’ll always be mine, even after his meat rots, and he’ll be beyond all pain.

As I drag him to the bathtub for dismemberment, I draw fresh inspiration from his dark twisted face. So many boys out there who need to be saved, to be made perfect. How lucky am I that I so enjoy my calling…

Fantasy Scenario 2

I looked down at the boy-whore I’d tied to the bed and wondered when he’d wake up. Or if; I’d hit him pretty hard. I hoped he would. I wanted him to be awake. It’s not as much fun if they don’t know they’re dying.

He’d been hustling as hard as he could. I spotted him turning the corner off the main drag and had followed him down a side street to pick him up, making damn sure no one saw him get into my car. It looked like he’d struck out so far tonight, which was surprising. He was short but muscular, very well built, with long hair worn in a kind of mullet. And there was no question he was on the make. Combat boots and jean cutoffs, with nothing but a leather vest above, showing his sculpted chest and abs—he might as well have had “slut” tattooed on his forehead.

Perfect. He’d probably fight, but there are ways to solve that problem. And no one misses the whores.

As it turned out, there was no fight. He asked me to pull up in an alleyway so he could run into a house about halfway down and buy some crack. The tire iron I keep in the back seat comes in handy sometimes; he was just turning to open the door when I cracked him in the skull with it. Instant ragdoll.

Not for the first time, I was glad that I’d rented a miserable little apartment in a bad neighborhood. As none of the exterior lights ever worked, no one saw me carry my latest fuckmeat inside. I laid him facedown on the bed and pulled his shorts off. He got to keep his boots and vest—they were no obstruction to my fucking him.

I locked him into place by looping lengths of rope around his boots and tying each one to opposite sides of the headboard so his legs would stay spread. While cuffing his hands in front of him so they’d be pinned under his body, I noticed a trickle of blood from his ear and wondered if I’d fractured his skull. I’d still fuck him, of course, but it’d be a shame if he didn’t wake up.

Fucking them feels good, but inflicting pain and terror gets me off. What can I say? I’m a sick fuck.

But I have a helluva good time.

And I was gonna make sure this kid had a helluva bad time.

My first thought had been simply to hold his face down in the mattress and suffocate him, but I decided that just wouldn’t hurt enough. I went to the dresser and pulled two items from the top drawer. One was a bottle of poppers. I use them on occasion, but they’re mostly for the fuckmeat. I’ve gotten very good at closing off their mouth and one nostril with only one hand. I hold the bottle in the other; with only one nostril to breathe through, I can force the fumes on them anytime I want. You’d be amazed at how much a nice strong rush helps at the end. Makes them really work my cock. I usually don’t use it if I’m strangling them; they’ll thrash and cum on their own. But if I’m doing something else, a good hit of the poppers helps them shoot, no matter how much agony they’re in.

And this little bitch was going to be in a lot of pain. The other item I removed from the drawer was a razor-sharp hunting knife.

I was stroking my shaft, getting warmed up when the fuckmeat started moaning. Good; he was waking up. I looked at the knife again and thought about the agony I’d be putting him though. The thought made the head of my dick drip. It also put me in mind of the thin walls in this fleabag.

He still hadn’t fully regained consciousness when I fastened the ballgag onto him. One of these days I’m gonna have to build a soundproof room somewhere. I like it when they scream.

He was just starting to struggle when I slammed my tool into his ass. The gag muffled his screams, but he still made a lot of noise.

“Shut up, bitch,” I snarled. “This is what you were looking for. Shut up and enjoy it; you’ll get paid well when I’m done.”

He calmed down. I could feel his firm, smooth body relax under me. Rough play was familiar to him; he’d probably whored himself out for worse. He was likely more pissed than anything else, but he’d take it if it meant more money to buy crack. Even having his hands cuffed in front of him wasn’t too uncomfortable so far since I hadn’t rested my full body weight on top of him yet.

I slammed myself down onto him, thrusting my dick deep inside as he let out another stifled scream. I reached up and pinched off his nose, counting out a good thirty seconds as he writhed and fought. Releasing one nostril, I brought up the bottle of poppers and held there for a count of twenty.

As the rush swept over him, I held the knife in front of his face.

“This is for you,” I whispered into his ear. “I’m gonna ram this into you the way I’m ramming your bitch asshole with my dick. I’m gonna stick you like a pig and fuck you while you bleed out. You’re gonna die impaled on my cock and my blade. It’s gonna hurt bad, fuckmeat; it’s gonna hurt so bad when I twist my cold hard steel inside your quivering flesh. My cum is gonna spurt inside you while your blood is spurting out.”

Excellent. He went into full wide-eyed terror. I controlled his panicked attempts to break free; the only result of his frenzied fight to escape death was the movement of his ass on my rod. Nothing feels so good on my cock like fuckmeat fighting futilely for its life.

“Work it, bitch,” I moaned, “work my dick. If you can make me shoot before I shank you, I’ll let you live.” A promise that I could give freely. Shanking him was what was going to make me shoot.

Damn, his little whore ass was good. He’d had a lot of experience. And the hope of staying alive was powerful motivation. Time for another blast of poppers.

Then it’d be time to kill that hope—along with the rest of him.

I held the bottle to his nose much longer this time. Almost too long—he passed out for a moment. His limp body bobbed on the bed in time to the thrusting of my hips.

As soon as he raised his head again, I bent down to whisper in his ear. “Guess what, ya little bitch? I lied—gonna shank ya anyway. Time to die like the useless garbage you are, you fuckin’ whore. Gonna bleed you out and let you die like a dog so I can blow my load. Gonna use your meat as a cumdump and throw you away to fester and rot.”

I filled his final minutes on earth with mind-bending terror and pain. Clenching his hair in my left hand, I forced his head down into the mattress. With my right hand, I rammed the knife through his leather vest into his kidney. I brutally twisted the knife in the wound, carving and slicing into his flesh and organs.

Oh god, how hard he rode my cock. The agonized writhing of his ass milked the spunk out of my shaft. I pulled the knife out and thrust it in again—and again, and again, each time grinding into the wound to inflict as much pain and damage as possible. Each thrust of the knife was accompanied by a spray of cum into the fuckmeat’s ass.

A pool of moisture was forming under the whore’s belly. Not blood; most of the bleeding was internal. It was spunk and it couldn’t have been a reflex. In the end, amid all the fear and pain, the meat had understood that he had always wanted to die as a fucktoy and had shot his final wad. They always do. Deep down inside, they all want to get fucked to death.

I stabbed him a dozen times, filling him with cum each time. I avoided the major organs at first, but at the end, I slammed the knife into his heart with all the force I could, shattering a rib on the way in. The kid went rigid with the death blow, his breath forced out of him in a long, low moan. He bent his body backwards, trying to draw in air; his cheek brushed against mine. It was a vain effort. His lung had collapsed and his quivering heart was slicing itself to shreds on the knife still buried in his back. His body jerked twice, squeezing the last few drops of sperm from my cock. Then he went limp.

I don’t do the whores again after I’ve wasted them. It doesn’t matter how pretty their meat is; they’re whores and death does not purify them. They’re fun for playtime, but they remain unworthy of my love. All that was left now was rotting meat, to be taken out with the rest of the trash. I don’t even bother dismembering them; I know a nice dry creek bed that’s completely secluded. By the time the corpse is found, rain runoff will have washed it miles from the point I dumped it and time will have taken care of the details.

Of course, by the next time it rains, there may be more than one body to wash away. Who knows? There are so many whores out there; whores who in depths of their sick hearts crave the death that I bring them. This is my true calling—to bring peace and rest to those in need.

Fantasy Scenario 1

I knew I was gonna fuck the kid from the moment I laid eyes on him. He was in his late teens or very early twenties and very fit, his skin-tight black t-shirt and jeans highlighting his slim, muscled body. His carefully neglected black hair, his expensive sneakers and the gold chain around his neck all clearly showed his intentions. No white boy with that kind of money hung out on street corners in this neighborhood unless he was there to buy drugs. He was waiting for someone to drive up and offer him something.

So I did.

I could see needle tracks on his arm when I pulled up. He told me he wanted heroin, which was what I’d hoped for—I actually had some. I don’t do the stuff myself, but it helps my playtime by making the boys more docile. Some of them are looking for coke to shoot, but they can’t seem to tell the difference between one white powder and another. It’s more fun when they’re already used to heroin, though. The coke boys always OD. I still enjoy fucking their sweet, still, defenseless bodies, of course, but it’s not the same

I told the kid that I had a friend who could get what he needed and said that he’d meet us at my place. I had rented an apartment nearby. It was the type of complex where no one would notice a couple of addicts doing a minor transaction, which is what we’d look like. I sweetened the deal by offering a sample when we got there. He was eager. He jumped in and told me his name, like I cared—stupid little fuck.

He leaned back in the passenger seat and told me his plans. He massaged his crotch with one hand while describing his plans to find a whore after getting the drugs.

“Yeah, man, my bros wanted me to find some good shit so we can get fucked up hard tonight, but I ain’t goin’ back without findin’ a bitch to suck my dick. Can you hook me up, dude? I can pay.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said with a grin, knowing damn well that if anyone’s dick got sucked tonight, it wouldn’t be his.

It was stunningly easy after we got back to my place. I’d paid a small fortune for the small amount of heroin I’d bought because it was unusually pure—which was why cokeheads always ended up convulsing and dying in my arms before I could even get my cock out. This kid had more tolerance; he sank into a dreamy stupor, smiling at me with half-closed eyes in which the pupils were mere pinpricks.

He didn’t make a sound as I ran my hands down his hard, tight body and grasped his thick hard cock. Another disadvantage of cocaine: it kills erections. Might not have stopped this guy, though. He was rock hard.

He moaned when I held up a pair of handcuffs but offered no resistance during the process of having his hands bound behind him. No sense in taking chances. Drugged as he was, he would still fight hard.

I unbuckled his belt and pulled his jeans down to his knees. This made it easy to bend his legs with his knees pressed against his chest, exposing his ass. I spat into my hands a couple of times, lubed my dick with it and plunged into the boy’s quivering hole.

The kid gave a loud groan, almost a scream, and started crying. I had my head between his legs as I bent his body into a fetal position. I wanted to stare into his eyes while I raped him. My body was supported by his legs, leaving my hands free for other purposes.

The boy started begging. The heroin made it hard for him to speak and his sobbing didn’t help, but I could make out a few phrases.

“Please…stop…fuck, please…you’re hurting me…stop, dude, please, it hurts…”

Good. I wanted it to hurt badly. It was gonna hurt a lot more before we were done. It was time for the cord.

I looped the nylon cord around his neck. With my hands free, I could tighten and loosen it at will. This meant that playtime could be extended since I could allow my fuckmeat just enough air to keep him twitching.

I’ve seen strangling staged before but nothing ever recreates the reality of the desperation with which the victim struggles. The agony and the terror, the final moment of acceptance and release, all while riding my cock…

I tightened the cord down and he started to fight. A look of panic crossed his face and he squirmed violently. I shuddered; his ass slid up and down my dick—I didn’t even have to move. His ass was the only thing he could move, with his legs caught in his jeans and his hands cuffed behind him. That probably hurt. I slammed myself down on top him to make it hurt more.

His pleading eyes filled with mute terror as I shifted the cord so I could hold it tight with one hand. I ran my other hand over his smooth, hard torso, slick with the sweat of his death struggle. He twisted under my hand in a vain attempt to break free.

“Shhh,” I whispered to him, staring into his wide, panicked eyes, already starting to bulge from lack of oxygen, “Almost over now. Relax and let go. Enjoy the pain. You won’t get to feel me fuck you the next time because you’ll be dead.”

I eased up on the cord each time he was on the brink of losing consciousness, lengthening the time it took him to die. His beautiful tight ass squeezed my cock every time he thrashed. I stretched out his death throes as long as possible, his slow, painful fight for life meaning nothing more than a pleasurable sensation on my dick. I made sure he knew it, too.

His tongue protruded from his swollen lips, spittle ran down his chin. I dipped my finger in the spittle and traced patterns on his blackened, sweaty face as I continued to whisper to him.

“You’re just fuckmeat, you little bitch. You’re gonna die with my cum inside you and I’m gonna fill your dead body with more cum. No one’s gonna miss you after I finish using you. Your worthless, wasted life is over. You’re a useless sack of meat that I’m gonna throw out to rot after I fill you with my spunk. Death is gonna take you, punk, no matter how hard you fight—it’s gonna take you in a blast of jizz and sweat and piss. The harder you fight, the more I cum. You, too. Oh, yeah, bitch, you’re gonna blow your load in the end. Can you still feel your cock? I can. You’re hard, motherfucker. You know you’re dying and it’s getting you hard. All you little bitches are the same—you fight like your worthless life means something but you’ll shoot a huge wad at the end. This is what you want, isn’t it? Just accept it. You wanted a man to overpower you and fuck you to death. You always knew you were garbage, to be used and killed and tossed aside. You want this, bitch; you want to give me your load when you die…”

He was there. I couldn’t keep him going any longer by giving him air; the fear and desperation had drained from his eyes. His plans for a blowjob and a drug orgy were forgotten and confusion had been replaced by resignation.

I tightened the cord as much as I could. His tongue stuck out grotesquely as the pressure in his head increased. There was a distinct crunching sound as his windpipe collapsed and the hyoid bone in his throat fractured. I stopped whispering to him. His body was jerking rhythmically with approaching death; his brain was too damaged to understand my words.

His rectum clamped onto my cock and milked it brutally. It took all my restraint not to shoot then—not yet, not yet…

I crouched down on his body, staring deeply into his eyes. I wanted to shoot the moment I saw life drain out of him, the moment his eyes glazed over as he looked into the darkness of forever…there!

My orgasm was simultaneous with his. The moment I started filling his guts with cum, there was an explosion of spunk between his legs, spraying everywhere. His burning, dying semen splattered over my chest and his. It pooled on his face and got matted in his hair. The little shit’s final orgasm was probably the best one he ever had.

After a brief rest, I stripped him nude and climbed back into bed with him. I fell asleep with his corpse in my arms.

He was, of course, still there when I woke up. It was early morning, long before dawn. I always sleep for about twelve hours after playtime—it’s exhausting, but worth it. This time was no exception; the last stiffness of rigor mortis was fading from the fuckmeat as I started kissing and fondling it.

It was such a beautiful, still piece of meat, too. Now that the kid had been baptized into death by terror and agony, he was worth my love. I lay on top of him and kissed him deeply, his swollen tongue yielding to mine. I ran my hands down his firm, cold chest, still covered with the crust of his seed. His dull eyes were starting to turn milky with decay. Oh god, he was so beautiful…

I had to fuck him again, of course. His dead meat was so hot and just lying there, unable to resist. I threw his flaccid legs over my shoulders. His ass had tightened again with the rigor—it was like fucking a virgin.

His body jerked on the bed with the force of my thrusts. I bent forward, placing his knees against his chest again so I could kiss him while I fucked him. I licked the dried sperm on his face. His “bros” probably thought he’d skipped out with their money. If they could see him now, lying on my bed after losing the battle for his life, with my dick up his ass and my tongue in his mouth, such pretty, pretty meat…

I was kissing him violently, almost brutally when I came inside him. I lay on top of the body, gasping and panting, overcome with melancholy. It was time to say goodbye. He was so hot and so much fun, but soon he’d start to smell—he was already starting to turn green across his belly. Even in this shitty little dump, someone would complain.

Well, the bathtub was handy and the electric knife was even handier. A few garbage bags distributed in dumpsters around the city and that would be that.

And besides, there would be others. That was the nice thing about these hot punk bitches—there were always more of them, and no one ever seemed to care what happened to them. Well, no one but me. And I was very careful.