Meat Chronicles 13–Snuff of Sam

He says his same is Sam and I’m suddenly a believer in love at first sight. I’ll admit my taste isn’t for everyone, but I think he’s adorable.

He’s in his early twenties and very short—I don’t think he’s more than five foot four. He has a thick unruly mop of jet-black hair. The broad swath of facial hair sweeping down from his temples to merge with his goatee is the same shade. There’s an element of excess about his face—his dark eyes, his nose, his lips; all are large. It gives him an air of vulnerability.

He wants to be hurt.

I usually don’t go to the bars. Most of the twinks bouncing around in these places come from a high enough social stratum that they can’t be killed with impunity. It’s easier to stick with whores or the criminal element. But I was drawn in tonight…

I’d been driving by on my way to the side street where the rentboys hung out when I saw him and knew I had to have him. He was lounging down the sidewalk with a black polo shirt around his slim torso, the shallow rise of his pectoral clear in silhouette. His hands were in the pockets of his tight khaki-colored jeans that didn’t quite come up to the hem of the shirt so that he flashed the top of his ass with each step of his gray canvas sneakers.

By the time I find a place to park, he’s disappeared into one of the clubs; I’d been careful to note which one. It takes about fifteen minutes inside the welter of thumping music and flashing lights to locate the kid.

He’s out on the dance floor. I walk along the edge, tracking my prey, avoiding contact with as many other people as possible, minimizing possible witnesses. He doesn’t seem to be with anyone in particular, so I wait for him to head back to the bar. Once he does, it’s easy enough to strike up a conversation.

Dude is horny; I can tell by the pole he’s sporting in his groin. Lust gleams in his eyes as they roam over my body and I know I can have him anytime I want. I suggest a quick fuck and he agrees. He lives alone, right around the corner—perfect. I don’t want to be seen leaving with him so I tell him I need to get something out of my car. I’ll go out the back way and meet him at the corner.

And I actually do want to get something from my car; it’s a spare three-foot phone cord. It’s handy to have around, especially when I thread it through the holes drilled in each end of a one-foot section of broom handle, as I do now. A working garrote from a pair of items that appear totally innocuous when viewed separately.

He’s waiting for me at the corner. He’s much like a puppy in his eager anticipation; he’s practically wagging his tail. His eyes travel the length of my body again, pausing only when he gets down to my black combat boots. He looks up at my face again, his large dark eyes sparkling behind the bang of black hair falling over his forehead. He’s already panting.

Little cocksucker wants it bad. He’s gonna get bad, too—even worse than he imagines.

I follow him into the dark maze of ill-lit streets and cheap, dilapidated apartment blocks. His place is the last one on the west side of the side street, where it dead-ended at a disused set of train tracks. A pair of two-story buildings in pink stucco with the depressed air of an all-bills-paid complex, it has nothing but efficiencies and one-bedroom apartments. Sam lives in one of the former—end building, ground floor, in the back by the parking lot.

It’s more squalid on the inside than it had been on the outside. Much of the floor space is taken up by a large mattress sitting directly on the floor. A small TV stands on a wooden TV tray in one corner. There really isn’t much else in the way of furniture; the kid lives like a pig.

Well, that’s ok. He’s gonna die like one, too.

Dirty clothing is strewn about the floor. There had been sheets on the mattress at one point, but they’re twisted and askew and barely cover a third of the surface. There’s a pervading funk of smoke and mansex that thickens the air almost visibly.

Sam’s a slut, but not a whore. He doesn’t sell himself; he gives himself away for free. The whole place (what little there is of it) is littered with used condoms and empty popper bottles mixed among the rank white socks, sneakers and boots scattered across stained carpet. The alcove that serves as a kitchen is dark—I’m not certain the cunt even eats here; I think he just uses this place to sleep and to fuck.

More of the latter than the former, by the looks of it.

He’s already slipped out of the black polo, revealing his smooth, slim torso with just a hint of muscle—just enough swelling of pectoral to avoid looking scrawny. The same is true of his arms, his firm skin with the finest down of honey-brown fur on his forearms, but silky above the elbow where he has a rainbow flag tattooed on his right shoulder.

He kicks off his sneakers but leaves the socks, which just cover his feet and end below the ankle. It takes but a moment for him to wriggle out of his low-rise jeans (of course the little slut was commando underneath) and I’m surprised by the elaborate tramp stamp that comes to a point just above the crack of his tight, smooth ass. He’d been flashing enough skin before, the little fucking cunt; how had I missed that?

I don’t bother to undress. I want to avoid as much exposure as possible in this pig sty. I’m wearing a tight white wifebeater and skin-tight, faded jeans that I’ve deliberately shrunk so that they cling to every nuance of my muscled legs. They’re an old pair of button-fly, so it’s easy enough to start with the second button down. They stay tight around my waist as I reach in, nearly bending my swollen cock double in order to pry it from its confines.

Sam bends over, his sweet, smooth boy-ass pointed straight at me. I’d love to jump him now and plug that hole with my dick, but I have other plans.

“Hold up, bitch,” I snarl. “Uh-uh. Move over.”

I lie down on the mattress, stretching myself out full length, my cock standing straight up, stiff, glistening, intimidating.

“Sit on it, slut,” I tell him abruptly. His own dick is fully erect and quivers in front of him, and suddenly I get it.

He is a dog; his tail is wagging in front instead of behind him.

Ok. I can put this bitch down.

He stands over me, looking down with a curious mix of anticipation and anxiety. It’s gonna hurt like fuck and he knows it. He wants it, but he fears it at the same time. Ok, Sam, we’ll make this the test.

If you chicken out and say no, I’ll leave. You’ll walk away without knowing how close you came.

If you sit on my dick, you fucking slut, you want all the pain I can give you. You want it, all the way to the end. Your choice. I’ll just sit here with my hard dripping cock out and let you make the choice, fuckmeat.

Damn, Sam is damn near drooling. He’s completely focused on my dick as he squats, lowering his pink quivering asshole down over the head of my rod. I haven’t used any lube—and he knows that. But he continues to lower himself, moaning the moment my thick, throbbing head, now moistened by precum, parts his puckered sphincter. He slides down my engorged shaft, his asshole gripping me like a rubber band sliding along my tool, his groan rising into a wail as he continues to impale himself on my cock.

He sits on my dick, his knees at my sides, his legs pressing against my hips. His thick, bobbing dick slaps against my taut belly. I place my arms over his legs and reach into my left pocket, pulling out a zip tie. Sam is too occupied with my cock to notice until I grab his wrists and bind his hands together.

I don’t think he ever noticed the garrote. I’d put it in my back pocket; it stuck out by quite a bit, but he’d never gotten a good look. As he looks down (rather confusedly) at his unexpectedly constricted hands, I slip it out and make sure he gets a good look now.

“Wh-what’s up, man? What ya doin?” he asks nervously.

I smile up at him. He’s so cute when he sweats. “Shhh,” I whisper, “you’re gonna like this. I’m gonna give you what you’ve always wanted. I’m gonna give you the ultimate orgasm. The most intense load of your life. Ya want it, cunt?”

He looks down at me, gasping, confused, unable to decide. The meat knows exactly what I’m saying. He wants this; he really does. The way he’s living shows it.

He’s not living. He’s fucking dude after dude, hoping one of them will show him mercy and put him down. I think he’s found his man.

His eyes—in the light, I can see them, huge and hazel-colored. The one lamp is on the floor just behind my head; I can see him perfectly. His eyes slide along my muscled body; as he licks his full, red lips, I can see his head nod almost imperceptibly…

Yeah, I thought so. Fucking little deathpig cunt. I knew it. I quickly slip the cord over his head—these pieces of shit end up changing their minds too soon. They know what they want, but they lack the courage to follow through. They have to be guided down into death. They want it, but they fear it; they need a man who has big enough balls to take command of the situation and give them the needed control.

I quickly spin the handle, soon tightening the cord into his neck. As it sinks in, he closes his eyes in a grimace and flinches. His erect cock twitches on its own, slapping against my belly. The meat suddenly reaches up, bringing both hands up to his throat simultaneously.

I’ve taken up enough of the slack in the garrote to hold it securely with one hand. I grab the plastic tie binding the pig’s hands, jerking his arms back down.

I have very strong hands. I can twirl the broom handle with one hand, like a baton, cinching the cord more deeply with each twist. I exert a downward pull on the handle as well, matching it to my downward pull on his wrists. The kid is kneeling, squatting on my dick, and I’m pulling him down onto it with such force he can’t rise up and throw himself off me.

I give the handle another mighty jerk, bending the meat over so that his red, swelling face is hanging right over me. I let go of his wrists and reach around, grabbing his sweaty, heaving back in a bearhug and pulling him down hard onto my shaft. I draw my knees up behind him, my boots finding the needed traction on the mattress as I began to launch my rod up into the meat’s quivering fuckhole.

He’s grasping at my hand, the one holding the handle, making it hard for me to tighten the cord. “Enough, you fucking cunt,” I sneer, “stop playing hard to get, you slut, you know you want this. Now shut up and take it, bitch. Relax and enjoy it, pig, cause you’re gonna be dead soon enough. But not before you get me off. Remember that, motherfucker. No matter how much it hurts, you worthless piece of shit, you gotta make me cum before I’ll end it.”

I’m looking straight into his eyes as I underscore my words by giving the handle a couple of violent cranks. The kid makes a loud sound, somewhere between a cough and a gag as his fists, bound together, beat my chest in unison. His eyes, desperate, frantic, seem to be seeking mine for a sign of mercy. These little pigs always wanna back out; it scares them to know how much dying turns them on. Even now, this punk’s dick is oozing precum, splattering it on my tight abdomen in rhythm with my thrusts.

That’s not all that’s oozing. His blue lips have parted, his tongue protruding farther from his mouth as the flat phone cord sinks below the surface of his neck. Tears well from the corners of his eyes, but it’s the foamy spittle that always floats my boat. “Fuck yeah, pig,” I whisper as his lips writhe, gasping for air, flinging specks of foam to pepper his black goatee, “choke and die, you cumsucking fuckwad. Let me see you drool out your last minutes alive.”

His fists are drumming relentlessly on my chest now; I’ll probably have some bruises. Totally worth it; the fuckmeat is riding my cock like a bronco, his legs kicking wildly by my sides but not making contact with me. He’s shaking his head frantically from side to side, his black bangs slick with sweat that sprinkles my twisted, sneering face like rain.

I give a single, strong yank on the handle and pull the meat’s face down to within inches of my own, jerking the handle out to the side as I do so it won’t be between us. It’s time. I can feel the flowing sensation in the cunt’s colon as the part of the bitch’s brain that controls the rectal muscles begins to die. His eyes are bulging grotesquely, hemorrhages bursting like fireworks in the whites. More foam oozes out past his huge black tongue and froths on his hairy chin. His hands no longer have the same force—and it’s his palms, not his fists; he’s almost caressing me.

“I don’t know if you can still hear me, you worthless fucking faggot, but it’s time to die. It’s your lucky night, cunt; you get to die as my cumdump.” I search his eyes closely. Deep in depths, past the shock and horror and pain, I can see a glimmer of light that understands and responds to my words. It’s the last spark of rational thought the deathpig is capable of, holding on for the orgasm it was promised. In the center of his pig soul, he’s remembering that he won’t be free of the torment until I blow my load.

“Yeah, you get it,” I mutter into his ear, holding his swollen, distorted face so close to mine that his beard brushes my face. “Your corpse is gonna rot around my seed. You want this, meat. This is your only reason for existing—so I can use you and dump you—“

He can’t hold out any longer. Not like the little fucker had much discipline to begin with, but his consciousness is fading out. Deep inside, he knows this is his final orgasm, the one that has to count. He’s accepted that this is the best way his for his useless life to end. He goes stiff, his ass gripping my straining cock, his rectal muscles rippling along my shaft like lips…

He hunches down on top of me, burying his head in my chest as his body convulses on top of me. I can feel his dick writhe with spasms as burning hot streams of semen flow from his thick purple glistening head. He continues to pump out jizz uncontrollably, his belly slapping against mine in his death throes and smearing sperm between us.

His ass—oh fuck, his ass, the way it squeezes my cock… I wrap one arm around the meat’s head, turning it to one side. I bend down and lick his nose before I force my tongue past his and down into his dying, closed-off throat. With the other arm, I pull the broom handle as hard as I can. As I strain, the tendons stand out on my neck and the biceps on my arms, but I keep my keep my tongue down the cunt’s throat until I’m rewarded with the erotic, crunching, cracking sound of shattered cartilage. I’ve yanked so hard, I’ve not only crushed the faggot’s larynx and esophagus, I’ve snapped his neck.

He goes rigid, harder than he ever has before. As his sphincter tightens around the base of my cock, I can feel the cum boil over in my balls. I don’t move; I just grab the meat and hold on as I spew semen repeatedly into the corpse’s guts, filling his intestines with sperm. As his he flops forward, my tongue still down his throat, he blows one last death load between us and sinks into the blankness of permanent brain death.

I push the meat off of me and stand up. The kid—what was his name? Sam?—is sprawled on his back, legs spread. Somewhere in his death struggle, the punk had kicked off one of his ankle socks; the one still left was twisted around. His hands are still bound in front of him. His face is black, distorted, and almost unrecognizable, his beard and goatee still full of the meat’s drool.

I stuff my cock back in my jeans and leave the scummy little apartment. Bad as this shithole stinks, he’ll be completely rotted before anyone notices the stench. And that’s exactly what the worthless little cunt deserves…

Meat Chronicles 12–Slutchoke

It’s an unusually cool night for this time of year, but I’m not cool at all. It’s been a rough week and I need to work off some frustration.

That tends to be bad news for somebody. Now, who’s gonna be my fucktoy tonight?

I see him. Over there, in the alley behind the bar, half in shadow. He’s staring at me as hard as I am at him. He steps out into the bright circle cast by the streetlight.

Wow. He’s beautiful. Green eyes with long golden lashes. Red-gold scruff of beard across his jaw. He’s dyed his hair fire-engine red, probably to advertise himself; it certainly grabs the attention.

He’s shorter than I am; no more than five-six. But he’s very well-built and dressed to show it off. He’s wearing a leather jacket over a white wifebeater that stretches tightly across his broad chest, highlighting the large nipples on his hubcap-like pectorals. His biceps bulge and the tribal armband tattoo flexes each time he moves his arm. His “skinny” jeans, revealing thick thighs and calves, like slabs of marble, are bloused into the top of combat boots with both laces and a zipper.

I know his type. Hanging out in the alley behind the gay bar; I know what the little faggot whore wants. And I’m ready to give it to him. But I need to be smooth; the rentboys can be skittish. I need to go slow until I’m ready to establish control…

He knows I’m looking. I’m dressed to catch the eye, too. I’m wearing a brown suede jacket over a black t-shirt. Unlike the whore, I didn’t bother to tuck my jeans into my harness boots.

I can put my boots back on when I’m ready to fuck him. He’ll never get the chance to take his off.

He’s still staring, his right hand rubbing the long, well-defined ridge in his crotch. Fuck yeah, the little bitch wants it.

I don’t even have to speak. I jerk my head and turn away, walking back to my car. The cockslut will follow me. He’s too horny not to; I can hear the sound of his boots on the pavement behind me long before I get to the parking lot.

I get in and unlock the passenger door. He slides in beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him look at me nervously, but I don’t say anything. I don’t look directly at him, either.

I pull out of the parking lot, heading towards a cheap hourly motel a few blocks away. The whore clears his throat and starts to speak. I cut him off before he can utter a syllable.

“Shut up, bitch,” I snarl. “You ain’t here to talk. You’re here to take my dick. I’m gonna get a motel room and fuck you to death.”

He looks at me, eyes wide, for a moment or two, then relaxes, evidently deciding I’m exaggerating. Bad mistake. Worst mistake of his life, in fact. And my cock is hard at the thought of showing him that.

We’re there in less than fifteen minutes. I give the slut some cash and tell him to get the room. He probably has a frequent flier account here anyway. And he won’t run with the cash; he wants to get banged too badly to skip out.

The boy comes back and hand me the key shyly, looking up at me like a puppy. He’s ready to be used. He may not be ready to be used as hard as I’m gonna use him, but I’m willing to bet he’s gonna have a good time anyway.

The room is hot and disgusting. The AC merely moves the fetid haze about in a desultory fashion, the funk of smoke and crack and mansex hanging heavy in the air. The boy strips off the torn bedspread to reveal the stained sheet underneath. He pulls off his shirt and bends down to unzip his boots.

I’m on him before he can do so. He looks up as I come at him—perfect timing to take my right across his jaw, splitting his lip. The whore staggers back, stunned, and falls onto the bed. He twists as he falls, landing face-down. Before he can recover, I’m on top of him, digging in my pocket for this zip tie I have hidden there. His hands are bound behind him before he can turn over.

He’s still gasping in pain as I pull out my knife and start cutting his jeans. He thrashes for a moment, but a poke with the tip of the blade reminds him that I’m the boss. He lies still as I cut away his shorts, leaving him in his boots and socks only. I grab his shoulder and flip him roughly onto his back.

I look down at him as I unzip my fly. I’m commando under these skin-tight jeans; my thick, dripping hog flops out instantly. He breathes deeply, lust gleaming in those amazing green eyes. He lays his head back, bright red hair fanning out on the yellowish sheet, and raises his legs, hoisting his boots in the air. Scared as he is, he’s still a little fucking whore at heart.

I move in, plunging my mushroom head into his quivering pink rosette fuckhole. His moan escalates into a cry of pain—too loud for my taste; I punch him in the face, hard. “Shut up, fuckwad, and take my cock. Keep your cunt mouth shut or I’ll shut it myself, slut.”

His cries fade to an annoying whimper. They increase in volume and pitch as I slam his raw fuckhole, his face contorting in a rictus of pain. His legs are wrapped tightly around me, trying to force me off of him. I wrap my arms up under the backs of his knees and raise his ass in the air.

I start pounding his soft cunt brutally as his boots kick at my sides. He begs me to stop, his voice rising into a shrill shriek as my swollen cock splits his sphincter and makes him bleed. Those green eyes peer beseechingly up at my under the long gold lashes, then fill with tears. He squeals in agony like a pig.

Good. Time for him to die like a pig.

I’m still full dressed, even in my brown leather jacket. I sit up on my knees, my cock still buried in the whore’s ass and shrug the jacket off. From the deep left pocket of the jacket, I pull out a little toy—a garrote I’ve improvised out of a thick wooden dowel with holes at either end and a length of nylon cord knotted in each. The slut’s eyes grow huge as I wrap it around his neck and begin twisting.

His cries are abruptly choked off as the cord sinks into his neck. I continue to twist the rod, tightening the cord around his throat.

The whore becomes frantic as his air is shut off. He twists his neck desperately as the cord sinks below the level of his skin. There’s nothing he can do to escape.

He’s thrashing violently now as panic takes over. His ass slides up and down my tool as he struggles to break free of the iron grip of strangulation. It’s like a satin glove massaging my swollen shaft…

As more and more of his brain dies from lack of oxygen, his body responds in a desperate attempt to keep going. Muscles tighten involuntarily and blood flows into the dying punk’s cock, causing it swell and grow erect.

“Fuck yeah, that’s it, you fuckin’ faggot whore,” I bend down and whisper into the boy’s ear. “Die on my cock. Jerk me off with your convulsions as you choke to death, you worthless slut. You’re just a sack of meat, good for nothing but soaking up my spunk as you die, you piece of shit. Ya like it, fuckwad? You like riding my fucking cock into your grave, you useless faggot?”

The kid’s face darkens as he begins to die. His eyes bulge from the sockets as the pressure in his head builds. The panic of imminent death is strong; as he thrashes, his ass squeezes my dick like he means it.

“That’s it, bitch. Fight it, whore, keep working my cock. The longer you struggle, the better it feels on my tool. Fuck yeah, die on my dick, motherfucker, jack me off with your death throes.”

His tongue, dark and thick, protrudes grotesquely from his swollen lips. Foamy drool erupts from the corners of his lips and trickles down the sides of his blackening face as his body jerks and convulses, his rectum fluttering along my dick, his boots beating a rhythm of death against my back.

I can feel his cock, stiffening and swelling as he dies. His huge purple head pokes against my belly and leave a trail of precum like a snail as it bobs aimlessly in pain of death.

The whore convulses wildly as life ebbs away. His head swings wildly side to side as his bright red hair spills out wantonly. His firm legs wrap around me as he goes rigid with extreme brain damage. He writhes under me, his body slipping on the film of death sweat that lubes his skin as his nervous system collapses from lack of oxygen.

I continue to twist the rod, digging the cord deeper and deeper into the slut’s neck. Suddenly, I’m rewarded with a crunching sound as the punk’s esophagus is crushed, the cartilage cracking and shattering. The boy’s eyes open wide in shock and horror as his hyoid bone breaks. Even if I let up now, it wouldn’t matter. The rentboy is dead meat.

I sit up and close my eyes, feeling him die. His ass bucks repeatedly, flattening itself against the root of my cock, sweat matting my pubic hair. I open my eyes and lean forward, spitting into the dying slut’s face.

“C’mon and die, motherfucker. Shoot your wad and die, bitch, you know you wanna. It’s all you got left, you fuckin’ piece of shit, so blow your load and fuckin’ die!”

He hears me. It’s probably the last conscious act of his traumatized brain. Foam erupts from his mouth and flows down the sides of his black, twisted face as his cock stands straight up and spews a steady stream of spunk for a good thirty seconds, jetting into the air and splattering back on his smooth chest and gruesomely discolored face.

As he cums, his colon wraps around my cock like a vacuum, sucking sperm out of my shaft in a screaming orgasm, so intense it’s almost painful. I jerk the cord embedded in the fucker’s neck as I shoot. There’s a loud crack, like the sharp snapping of a green limb, and the slut’s head flops back on a broken neck as I pump what feels like a gallon of sperm into his guts.

It takes a few minutes for me to regain composure. I pull out of the whore’s ass and step into the bathroom to clean up as best I can with the filthy washrag and used soap.

I leave the key in the room as I go. The maid will find the corpse in the morning—presuming they clean this place daily, which I doubt. At any rate, I’m really not worried about it. They haul dead rentboys outta here all the time; most of whom have OD’d. I’m not worried about DNA evidence. They probably won’t even check.

After all, it’s just another dead whore.

Meat Chronicles 11–Emo Slut

It’s been a while since I’ve been hunting. There was a big fuss when they found my last two. Seems one of the worthless little junkies was related to some suburban alderman. I‘ve needed to lie low a bit.

I’m still staying away from the ‘burbs for a bit. Gonna run down to the ghetto and look for a rentboy; there’s never any outcry when a hustler turns up snuffed.

It’s a hot summer night and there are lots of boys out. Lots of whores, too. Might sound like a kid in a candy shop, but I can’t have any. There are too many witnesses out here on the main drag. I have to turn down the side streets.

I’ve done this before. For some reason, I always turn west off the strip. Tonight, on a whim, I turn east. I haven’t been back here in years; it used to be kinda a rough neighborhood.

It still is. There are more gaps in the rows of crumbling old houses, cut into shoddy apartments. More rubble-strewn vacant lots and fewer streetlights. Otherwise it’s exactly as I remembered it.

The further east I go from the bar district, the fewer people are out on the streets. Within three blocks, I don’t see anyone at all. Goddammit. I need to turn around and head west.

I take the next left and as I make the corner, my headlights swing across a boy on the sidewalk. I pull to the curb. He’s a whore; I can tell just by looking.

He’s wearing a ball cap backwards—looks like it’s made of gray suede. Dangling out from under it is a long fringe of straight black hair, long bangs nearly obscuring his large dark eyes, emo-style.

He isn’t wearing a shirt. He’s slim but with some definition—his torso looks like photos I’ve seen of a certain punk-ass pop star bitch I’d love to spend an hour or two with. It’s humid and beads of sweat glitter in the shadows on his chest and highlight the biceps on his smooth arms.

He’s wearing baggy jeans halfway down his ass. The look has never done anything for me but I can see his skin-tight boxers underneath, the waistband bisecting his flat, firm abdomen a good four inches above his thick but loose leather belt. On his feet are thick-soled skate shoes, large white laces untied and flopping loose.

As he approaches me, I can see a bulge forming in his groin—just below his belt; if his pants were any lower, he could use the waist as a cockring. There’s a streetlight about fifty yards away. It gives enough light for me to catch a twinkle from the studs in his ears. There’s a large, ornate cross tattooed on his left shoulder.

He hocks and spits as I roll down the window. Idly scratching at his dick, he leers in at me. “You can blow me for twenty,” he drawls. “For fifty, I’ll knock ya around. For one fifty, I’ll blow you. ‘Course, I’ll take it in kind, too. Crack or powder. You got black tar, you can do what you want to me. But you gotta gimme some first.”

Wow. Hardcore street cunt. This little shit is flat-out offering to get punkfucked for drugs.

I grin. “Guess it’s a lucky night for both of us. I got some tar back at my place. And I got a J here to get us there.”

His eyes light up and he immediately grabs for the door handle. He doesn’t look like a heroin junkie. Either he hasn’t been doing it long or has trouble getting it; probably a combination of the two. At any rate, he’s excited enough not to question what I’m doing to him until it’s too late for him to get away.

I don’t have any heroin. I won’t need it. The joint I hand him is laced slightly with a ground-up sedative. I think it’ll be enough. He’s a cheap street whore who’s probably had to fight out of some bad situations before, but he’s shorter, smaller, and nowhere near as built as I am. There’s enough to take the edge off him, at least. From there, I’ll have no problems putting the bitch down.

He leans back in the passenger seat. As he tokes away, he pops in earbuds attached to his cheap phone. Soon I can hear the faint sound of gangsta rap bouncing off his deadened eardrums.

He’s already kinda limp when we get back to the killing pit. I still haven’t even decided how I’m gonna off the little cunt and he’s already climbing out of the van and staggering behind me in the treacherous darkness of the sleazy apartment parking lot.

Once we’re inside, he turns to me—actually, it’s more like he swings in a wide half circle. “Where’s the shit, dude?” he says. I’m kinda surprised his speech isn’t more slurred—he must have a higher tolerance than most of the meat I find. But then, I haven’t sunk quite so low on the food chain as this before.

He’s hot, though. I’m gonna snuff him in his prime. I wouldn’t give him more than a year before his looks are gone and he’s literally worthless. And since he’s a cheap skank, he’s likely to end up on meth, the bargain-basement of drugs. That shit’ll eat you up from the inside out. If that happens, he won’t last six months. Worst-case scenario—he ends up in an alley, huffing paint behind a dumpster.

So really, I’m doing the little slut a favor. He’d thank me if he knew. But he’ll never know, of course; he’s just a useless little whore without much of a brain, anyway.

“In there,” I reply, nodding towards the bedroom. “But strip out here first.”

He shrugs. “Ok, dude. Tell ya what, you throw in some points and I’ll let you fuck me.” He unbuckles his belt and his jeans fall to the floor. They’re so large he can literally step right out of them.

He stands before me in gray. His cap, his skate shoes, his boxers that (in contrast to his jeans) are so tight they look sprayed on—all are gray. Not only can I see his balls, large gray sacks stretching the material between his legs, I can see some of the veins running along his thick hog; they must be huge.

“Get them off, too,” I snap. “You can keep the shoes.”

“And the cap?” he asked.

“You can keep that, too. Won’t stay on long, anyway, with what I’m gonna do to you.”

He peels off the boxers, his massive dong springing free and bobbing in front of him. I nod towards the bedroom door. He gets it. He goes in and I follow.

The room is dark as he enters and I keep it that way. He’s too fucked up to really care, so he keeps walking until he stumbles into the bed and falls on it. He flounders for a moment before I’m on him, dragging him to the head of the bed and handcuffing him to the headboard. Only then do I turn on the only light in the room and reveal the slaughter room, the blood- and sperm-stained mattress he’s lying on.

He looks around dazedly, trying to figure out what’s going on. His normally sharp street sense, dulled by the drugs, takes a moment to register the surroundings. I can tell when it finally sinks in; his eyes grow wide and the expression of fear is both unmistakable and erotic. He inhales deeply in preparation for a scream. I punch him twice, hard as I can, driving my fist like a jackhammer into the cunt’s firm but unsuspectingly yielding belly, then into his jaw.

He exhales in a mighty grunt, followed by another as the blow to his face registers. Just to make sure, I slam another one into his solar plexus, leaving him writhing in agony on the crusty mattress.

As pain curls him into a fetal position, I slip off my t-shirt. My jeans are tight around my legs and my ass. It fells good and I don’t feel like taking them off or removing my black leather harness boots. I simply unzip my fly, letting my cock flop out like a length of bratwurst, gleaming and oozing with precum at the thought of the suffering I was about to inflict on this slutboy.

As the punk rolls about in pain, desperately trying to breathe, I kneel between his legs and grab his right ankle. Gipping him tightly, I start slipping the thick flat white shoelace free from his jerking skate shoe. The moment it’s out, I grab his left ankle and do the same.
The laces are about ¼’ wide and about 18” long. They’re not really long enough for me to get a good grip, but the laces from his skate shoes are good enough to choke him with. I slip them behind his head and pull them tight.

He bucks and jerks as his air is cut off. My long cock, not yet fully hard, brushes against his taint as his pelvis flails. His arms pull frantically—and vainly—at the handcuffs chaining him to the headboard. He bends his back, thrusting his flat smooth abdomen upwards as his large velvety balls slap against my belly.

Straining his arms, the emo cunt tries to pull himself up towards the headboard, planting his laceless shoes on the bed for leverage. He succeeds in getting enough slack to bend his arms, letting him swing at my head with his elbows.

I’m not taking that shit. I yank violently on the laces. They sink deeper into his neck; his being to bulge—then they snap.

The whore inhales, a deep, sobbing gasp. Angry red lines still twist about his neck where the laces had dug in. He relaxes visibly, the desperation fading out of his struggles. I’m pissed. Grabbing the slut’s ankles, I drag him back into position lower down on the bed. He begins to beg in a ragged, rasping croak.

“Fuck, don’t, man, don’t kill me—oh fuck, please don’t, do whatever you want to me, anything, dude, just please don’t kill—uhh!”

I shut him up with a blow to the face, a piledriver straight from my shoulder into his jaw. After his grunt of shock and gasp of pain, he turns his face to me.

His full lips are swollen and bleeding. His straight black hair is plastered to his forehead by a slick film of sweat. His large dark eyes are wide with the awareness of how completely he’s in my control. I can do whatever I want to him and kill him anyway, and he knows it.

Time for him to realize I know it, too.

“Ok, here’s what’s gonna happen, you piece of shit. You’re gonna die tonight like the fucking whore you are, riding my hog as you kick away your last few minutes on earth.” I grin down at him as I lean over, gripping his legs behind the knees and throwing his shoes up on my shoulders. “Ya ready for it, meat? Ready for the last cock you’re ever gonna have slammed up your reamed-out hole? No? Tough shit, you fucking worthless slut, cause you’re getting’ it anyway.”

I hock and spit the same way he’d done when he approached me—except mine was for lube. And it was all the lube there was gonna be. I just wanna make sure I’m comfortable. I could give a shit about the meat; he’s only here to die.

I shove my fat, dripping head in, feeling it push forcibly past his sphincter. His groan rises into a shrill scream. I don’t want too much noise, so I pop him in the face again and he quiets into a subdued moaning. I shove in another inch and he begins to build into a squeal. This time, I bust his nose, feeling it crunch under my knuckles.

I shove in another inch. His moaning and snuffling rises in volume, but not to unacceptable levels. Little bitch is starting to learn his place.

Let’s see how well. Enough inching in. I plunge the rest of my dick into his hole in a long, sustained thrust, feeling his tight asshole being stretched out of shape around the base of my cock, skin splitting, making the whore bleed. And scream.

Good. I punch him again. “Shut up, you useless pussyboy. Take my cock, slut and learn to love it, cause it’s gonna love you to death. When you die, I’m gonna hose your guts with cum.”

I rise up on my knees. His legs remain thrown up over my shoulder; I can feel them trembling. He’s clenched his muscles so tightly in the agony of having his ass split open that his thighs and calves have locked in a cramp. Much as he might want to, he can’t stretch them far enough to get them off of me; he’s stuck there.

I look down at him, his snot- and blood-smeared face, tears trickling down from the corners of his huge eyes—eyes that look so innocent even though they’ve seen every perversion under the sun…

I start unbuckling my thick brown leather belt. “Little piece of shit broke your own laces, huh? Bad move, dude, seriously bad. See, now you’re gonna have to deal with whatever I can improvise and it looks like it’s gonna be my belt. Now, you’da ended up just as dead with the laces, but they’d have hurt less. I’m gonna fuck you up so bad with this belt you’re gonna welcome death as a merciful escape from your own private hell. You think it hurts when I stick my dick in ya? Wait’ll you see what it takes to make me cum, whore.”

I’m a sick and cruel bastard, I know, but this worthless little street tough isn’t worth anyone’s sympathy. And I love raping their minds as much as their assholes.

Which gives me an idea; I may try that literally at some point…

But not now. The kid is where I want him. He lies still, quivering and sweating in physical and mental shock. His hard, lean body is my toy, waiting for me to use it as I wish. Beads of sweat trail across the elaborate cross tattoo on his shoulder. From between his swollen, parted lips comes a faint keening sound, somewhere between a moan and wail.

Grabbing a handful of his hair, I raise his head to slip the belt behind it. He must know what’s coming, but he doesn’t resist. I’m a bit surprised how acquiescent he is; I’d’ve thought a cheap junkie hustler would put up a fight. After all, these types will go into any situation, no matter how sketchy, for the sake of their high. They have to have a certain innate sense of danger to survive long.

Of course, this one won’t survive long. Maybe that proves the point.

I slip the belt back through the buckle, pulling up into a simple loop around the kid’s neck. As I tighten it around his throat, I slip the buckle around to the front so that it’s placed directly over the Adam’s apple.

“Time to get down to business, fuckmeat. Don’t worry, dude you don’t have to do much, just lie there and die in nightmarish pain. And, see, I don’t have to do anything either, cause as you die you’re gonna work my cock like a good little whore. You might even get off yourself, but your brain will probably be too damaged for you to enjoy it. But this way we both win. I get a load of spunk milked outta me by a dying cumpig and you get the death you deserve, you fucking slut.”

I wrap the belt around my right wrist and place my left hand on the cunt’s jaw. I pull towards me with my right hand and push away from me with my left, maintaining a rhythmic pumping in the whore’s ass the entire time.

The belt tightens instantly, cutting off all sound from the whore. He’s registered his last protest. From now on, he dies in silence; mute, unable to cry out in pain or fear. He can only communicate with his body. And he makes his message clear right away.

He fights, oh my god, how he fights. Fuck acquiescence, this kid doesn’t wanna die, judging by the way his body twists and writhes under me. The loud rattling of the handcuffs testifies to the frantic flailing of his arms. I can feel his belly slide under mine, friction eased by a sheen of slick perspiration.

His agony is beautiful. It gives meaning and purpose to his useless, wasted life. This is his reason for existing, his raison d’etre. He was born just so that I could drain my seed into his corpse.

The steel buckle sinks below the surface of the skin, compressing the larynx into the back of the esophagus. My left hand is clamped over the kid’s face, fingers spread so I can still see the look in his eyes…

He’s in excruciating pain, his eyes swelling and protruding from their sockets. I can see the skin on his face darken with each passing second. I remove my hand from his face, slipping it down to his throat, just above the belt. I continue to apply a string downward pressure, just as I continue to pull up on the belt, as brutally as I can.

“How’s that feel, motherfucker? Hurt enough for ya, bitch? How ya like dying? Feels pretty fuckin’ good to me, cunt, I gotta tell ya. You’re jackin’ me really good, whore. See, this is what all of ya really want; it’s why you’re out there on streets. You want an alpha male to come and fuck ya to death. Well, guess what, you cockpig—it’s your lucky night.”

His face is growing distorted as the pressure builds above the constriction in his throat, but I can still make out an expression of denial and disbelief. He’s getting away from me by retreating mentally. I need to bring him into reality.

I sit up on my knees again. My jeans tighten around my ass as I pull up, but even though my dick pulls back out of the whore’s ass, it’s long enough that the head still stays inside his rectum. I’m far enough down the bed that my boots dangle over the end.

The leather belt is still wrapped around my right wrist. I lean back, pulling my arm tight as I do. The slut’s head rises off the bed, pulled up by his neck as I yank on the belt. His arms, cuffed to the headboard over his head, twist behind him as he rises.

I keep pulling, staring deeply into the boy’s eyes, waiting for the moment he comes back to me. I know it when I see it.

“Fuck yeah, you piece of shit, you don’t get to take an easy way out. Suffer, motherfucker, feel every second of the pain I give you. It keeps your ass tight. As long as you can do that, you live. The moment you stop, you’re useless to me and I make you into meat. Understand, you worthless rentboy scum? Take the pain, bitch, or die. Your choice. I’m willing to bet you’ll take all I can give you and more, just to keep clinging to another second of your wasted life. I hope so; fucks like you always make me cum so hard when you fight the inevitable…”

I violently yank the belt, pulling the meat close to me. There’s a sound like the ripping of gristle as his shoulders pop out of joint and the tendons tear apart. His eyes, even bulging as they are, swell to the size of hubcaps in horror; he’d be screaming in agony if he could push air past his throttled larynx.

“That’s it, bitch, now you’re working my dick like a good little whore. See how easy it is with the right motivation? I can do this all night. Sounds like fun, huh, you slut? Was this what you wanted when you went out tonight to get fucked? Isn’t this what you’ve truly desired in the depths of your disgusting fucking pig soul?”

His face, black and puffy, stares back at me, his protruding, bloodshot eyes locked helplessly onto mine. He can hear me; he knows what I’m saying. I think he’s turned on; at any rate, his cock is erect and glistening. It pokes into my belly; he’s up against me at an angle that makes it stick into my abdomen like a heated metal bar.

His legs thrash violently, slipping off my shoulder to kick aimlessly at the mattress. His physical condition is so extreme that it overrides his leg cramps, tearing muscle tissue in the process. As he flails, the right skate shoe flies off, ricocheting off the far wall and landing in the middle of the floor. The left shoe stays on. It continues to kick at me as his rank right foot, scraping at the mattress, soon frees itself from its reeking sock and I can see his toes curl as he dies.

As damage from lack of oxygen progressively destroys his brain, the cunt’s ass convulses along with the rest of his body controlled by his increasingly unstable nervous system. I can feel it spasm, the seizures flowing along my shaft like—god, there aren’t words. He’s dying on my dick. These are the last seconds of his life and he’s still working my dick like the fucking cumwhore deathpig that he is.

I stop the mindfuck. He has no mind left to fuck. He’s nothing but spasming, jerking meat, squeezing my cock in his death throes. Drool oozes down his chin and drips onto his chest, forced out of his mouth in a bubbling froth by his thick, black tongue, protruding from between his lips. The tip wriggles in an obscene manner; the fucking piece of shit is such a whore that he’s coming onto me in the extremes of death.

I’m ready to end it—ready to blow my load. But the slut hasn’t earned it yet. He’s worked hard and given his all, but his worthless fucking hustler all wasn’t good enough to deserve my wad. I need one last physical reaction out of his fucked-out meat.

I yank up on the belt as hard as I can. Simultaneously, I bring my left hand up, driving my hand directly back into his face. Fuckin’ A, it’s exactly what the slut needed.

As his head snaps back under the force of my blow, the belt tightens around his neck, jerking forward and rupturing his vertebrae. At the same time, his larynx collapses into his esophagus with a loud cracking sound, like a large tree limb breaking.

It’s massive, fatal trauma to the central nervous system, and his entire musculature reacts in a death agony. As his torn sphincter tightens uncontrollably around the root of my dick like a cockring, his own dick suddenly rises up like a cobra. I can see it spasm visibly as it expels a phenomenal amount of semen in thick, ropy strands, shooting up to splatter and mat the hair on my chest. Before too long, my hard pecs, straining in the effort to waste the whore, are covered in his cum.

At the same time, I can see he finally knows his place by the way his colon vacuums the seed out of my tool like a Hoover. He’s nothing but an emo-style meat sack designed to hold my load and he’s finally realizing that. I had to destroy his brain to show him. It’s a shame that it’s the last thing he learns, but it had to happen at some point. As I fill his rectum with a boiling froth of spunk, I’m giving him the best exit he could have from his wasted life; after all, he’d probably die of an overdose soon enough, after a brief, unpleasant, degrading life.

At least I didn’t lengthen his suffering when I gave him a brief, unpleasant, degrading death. It’s what he’d have wanted, anyway.

Like most guys, I fall asleep after blowing a load. I as I drifted off, I marked the corpse as my territory by leaving my dick in its ass, letting my sperm continue to leak into the colon.

After a couple of hours, I woke back up, stiff as a board. There must be something wrong with me; maybe I produce too much testosterone. All I know it that I still wanted to claim the dead whore.

After freeing his hands from the cuffs, I drag him off the bed by the belt, pulling his flaccid body across the floor to the closet. I let the meat slump to the floor as I opened the door, but it wasn’t there long. I lifted it by the belt, grunting in effort, as I looped the thick leather strap over the hanger bar. I pulled the belt back after it crossed the bar, lifting the body up and, in effect, hanging it. I pulled the belt back out the closet door—the body hanging on the other side of the bar, facing away from me.

I’d thought this out beforehand. There’s already a nail hammered into the doorframe. I didn’t know it was gonna work out like this with this particular whore, but I’ve done this before.

Anyway—I pin the belt to the frame by the nail, sticking through one of the holes on the belt. The whoremeat is left dangling. The meat was slightly shorter than me, so his asscunt is right at the level of my hard cock as he dangles several inches off the ground.

I fuck his dead ass for several minutes. As his legs flop limply against mine, his other shoe comes off. His feet, one in an ankle sock and one bare, now kick in the air as I bang the corpse’s hole.

I grip his cold, firm thighs, my nails digging into his helpless, vulnerable flesh as I cry out and spew another load into his slowly stiffening ass.

I pull out, dripping, and stagger back to bed, seeking sleep. The street cunt can hang around like an old salami; I’ll take out the trash tomorrow.

Meat Chronicles 10–Nothing Like a Good Screw

I’m angry tonight, in a bad mood. I’m also horny. That combination usually gets someone killed. It damn sure will tonight; I’m hunting for meat I can hurt before I waste. I wanna make a fucktoy suffer.

Y’know, I love watching nature shows. Does that sound off-topic? It’s really not. I learned a lot about the use of protective coloration to hide and attractive coloration to reproduce.

In other words, camouflage helps you hide; bright colors draw a mate. Or, at least, bright colors let others know you’re fuckable.

I’m reminded of this right away when I see the kid. My attention is instantly drawn to his skin-tight jeans. I’ve never seen jeans that color and I don’t really have a word to describe it. The best I can say is that they’re somewhere between cherry-red and burgundy.

Having caught my eye, I look over the rest of him. He’s in his early twenties at most; probably no older than twenty-one. Just under six feet, he has an untidy mop of curly red-gold hair and his cheeks glitter with light reflecting off stubble of the same color. His eyes are kinda wide-set with long lashes. His face isn’t bad; it’s not the prettiest I’ve seen, but by the time I’m done with him, it’ll look a lot worse.

He’s also wearing a tight black t-shirt that’s molded across his well-defined chest. I can see, even from halfway down the block, that it’s a bit too small for him, the hems of the short sleeves bisecting his biceps. On his feet are tightly laced black and white Air Jordans.

He’s lounging against the wall of a building—the side of one of the gay bars, actually. But he’s not in the back with the rest of the whores and he isn’t under one of the streetlights. Despite the unusual hue of his snug jeans, I probably wouldn’t have noticed him in the shadows if he hadn’t lit a cigarette.

He doesn’t know the first thing about selling himself. Which means he’s either a newbie hustler or an amateur. The latter seems more likely. He just wants to get laid.

Poor randy little slut. He’s gonna get laid like he’s never imagined.

I pull my van up right in front of him. No one’s around; this side street is little used during the day and deserted at night. He must be new in town not to know that. He’d have been standing there all night if I hadn’t shown up.

Actually, that’s even better. Less of a connection for the police when they finally find his rotting corpse.

When he opens the door of my van, the dome light illuminates his long golden eyelashes. He looks at me for a split second before shyly dropping his eyes and sliding silently into the passenger seat.

I know what that means. He’s willing. It doesn’t matter what I do to the bitch; he wants my cock enough to suffer what I will inflict on him. The momentary gleam of lust I glimpsed in his face is clear enough evidence.

I’m ready. I feel like a coiled spring, ready to erupt in an orgy of violence. I need to find someplace close to vent my frustrations on this slutty little piece of shit. He’s eyeing me in sidelong glances, one hand rubbing the bulge in his jeans.

Oh yeah, little fucker wants it bad. He’s breathing deeply. He turns towards me, lust painting his eyes brightly as he admires my body. Evidently I’m his type; so much the better.

There’s a rent-by-the-hour motel half a mile west on the interstate frontage road. I’m there in less than ten minutes. As usual, I give the meat the money to get room; it helps if the strung-out desk jockey never sees me. I make sure to park out of sight of the office, too.

The room is small, filthy and stifling. I turn on the AC and am rewarded with a gentle puff of fetid air. The boy has already turned down the stained sheet and is sitting on the bed, untying his hightop sneakers.

“When you’re done, put them back on,” I tell him. “I wanna fuck you while you’re wearing them.”

He blushes and grins. He’s adorable; I want to hold him, kiss him, make him suffer unbearable agony…

He wants it. I said it before, but when he peels off the whore jeans, he’s commando underneath. And he’s hard; it’s huge and springs out like a javelin.

Little fucking deathpig knows what’s coming. On some deep, instinctive level, he knows that he’s about to experience the ultimate sexual experience. He may not know what form it will take (which is probably for the best, since he’d back away from the greatest orgasm imaginable if he knew what it would take to reach it) but he knows he’s about to experience something that will alter everything.

It’s a hot night. I wanted to wear my leather biker jacket, so I have nothing on underneath; it swings open over my bare chest. My faded jeans, torn at the left knee, are tucked into a worn, dirty pair of old lace-up black leather boots that come halfway up my calves. A black leather belt, two inches wide with sharp metal studs covering most of the surface, cinches tightly around my waist. It’s warm and a sheen of sweat is already glistening on my muscles; I remove the jacket and toss it in the corner.

As I move towards the bed, the kid, now nude, quickly slips his shoes back on, forgetting his socks in his haste. Long before I reach him, he’s face-down on the cum-stained bed with his ass in the air. Jesus, he really is a horny fucking pig.

I don’t bother to undress any further. I unzip the fly of my jeans, still tucked into my high leather boots, letting my thick, oozing hog flop out. I’m already dripping at the thought of wasting this horny little slut, so I don’t waste any time. I bend over the bitch and stuff my thick mushroom tip up his tight fuckhole. He screams in pain/pleasure as I force my shaft past his clenched sphincter.

“Fuck yeah, slut,” I whisper into his ear as I lie on top of him, pressing him down onto the filthy mattress. “I know you want my cock. But you know I can give you so much more.”

“Please,” he moans, “do it. Do whatever you have to. I don’t care. I want your load. Whatever else happens, I want your load. No matter how loud I scream, no matter how much I resist, I want you to cum inside me.”

“Yeah,” I snarl back. “I thought so, you little fucking cumslut. You wanna know what it feels like to get fucked for real? Get ready for this, you cunt; my cock ain’t the only thing I’m gonna shove into ya!”

He’s face-down on the bed, his firm muscular legs pressing against my thighs, his Nikes kicking against my thick boots. I’m pinning him down, spearing him to the mattress with my long hard cock, my left hand on the back of his neck, forcing his face down into the thin, smelly pillow. I slipped my right hand into the pocket of my jeans, feeling the open zipper rasping around my sack with each thrust into the kid’s fuckhole.

Deep in the pocket, I find what I’m looking for; it’s an ordinary screwdriver.

I’ve always wanted to do this; I figure it’s gonna hurt like fuck.

I place the screwdriver by the boy’s head, jamming his head into the pillow so he can’t see it. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out a pair of black leather gloves. I want to make sure I’ve got a good grip, whichever hand I use.

I hold the screwdriver up, looking down and admiring the boy’s broad, smooth back, muscles flexing with each pump of my dick, gleaming with perspiration, choosing the perfect spot.

There. The kidney. I slam the sharp-edged tool down, punching through his back and embedding the steel shaft directly into his organ.

The kid stiffens and shrieks. It’s a quick exhalation; an instinctive contraction of the diaphragm.

In other words, it’s not his fault. But it’s still too loud. I need to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Wrapping my hand in his shining halo of hair, I jerk his head to one side and brutally shank him through the throat, having to tense up to puncture the screwdriver through the tough cartilage. It grinds its way down, ripping out his vocal cords, rendering him helpless to cry out as he endures the unspeakable agony.

I twist the screwdriver ninety degrees before yanking it back out of the pig’s throat; it may not have been as broad as the knives I was used to using, but it was still capable of inflicting more damage. And with each extra assault on the nervous system, the meat’s colon would contract around my dick, applying that suction of which only a true deathpig is capable.

He gurgles and gasps as he jerks violently, thrusting his ass back up along my shaft, massaging my cock in his agony. There’s a bubbling, wheezing sound coming from the hole in his neck, it oozes out with the blood. He’s got his arms and legs up under him now, pressing back up against me as hard as he can in an attempt to escape the pain.

But I know that he really doesn’t want to escape; it’s a reflexive reaction that he’s unable to control. I help guide him back into submission by stabbing the shank into his back again, ramming it between his ribs and tearing through the latissimus muscles to rip a hole in his lung.

The boy squeals like the deathpig he his, his tight fuckhole flowing along my thick swollen shaft as his pelvis bucks in the ecstasy of pain. Thick mewling sounds erupt from his mangled larynx as his arms scramble feebly at the bed in a futile and half-hearted attempt at escape. He doesn’t really want to get away; deep in his disgusting little soul, this is what he’s always wanted.

I ram the tool into his back again. Blood leaks from the neat hole I’ve already torn though his smooth skin. Again, he stiffens and squeals, squeezing his ass tightly around my cock, making it swell and ooze precum deep in his guts.

“Fuck yeah, you worthless piece of fuckmeat, ya ready for my load? Your boycunt is stroking my rod like it wants me to shoot, pig. Ya know what that means by now, don’t ya? It means that if you think you’re hurtin’ now, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Get ready for pain so intense it’ll make you cum, you piece of shit.”

I stab the screwdriver down into the back of the pig’s neck, just at the top by the skull. I have to lean on it to get through the skin, then bounce up and down on the handle to force the by-now dulled steel tip through the meat’s intervertebral disc between the second and third cervical vertebrae.

The kid went rock-hard rigid as jagged steel tears its way through his spinal column. His asscheeks clamp down on my dick, straining in the final death throes, a rhythmic motion that milks the semen out of my throbbing purple shaft. A loud gargling sound bursts from the hole punched through the kid’s neck as a large moist spot spreads outward on the mattress, emanating from his crotch. I hadn’t even needed to touch the motherfucker; the little bitch was such a deathpig, he’s cum with no manipulation of his dick.

I grip the sides of the bed as I ride his bucking, flailing ass like a rodeo bull, letting him squeeze the last drop of spunk out of my tool. After a while, he slows to a stop and lies still, jerking and quivering. I pull out and stand up.

I quickly get dressed. Grabbing the bag out of the trashcan—doubtless reused many times—and stuffing his clothing into it, carry it out to my van. No one is about; perfect. I duck back into the room and, leaving the key on the dresser for the maid in the morning (or whenever), carry the pig’s nude, twitching body over my shoulder and toss him in the back.

There’s an industrial drainage ditch a couple of miles west of here. I’ll dump him there. They’ll never even connect him to the motel, much less me.

Hope I didn’t damage my screwdriver.

Meat Chronicles 9–Hands-On Solution

The whores are back. I knew the raid wouldn’t have kept them cleared out for long. They’re like rats; the moment you turn around, they come swarming back in.

I do my little part to keep the population down.

I’m horny. I want a meat puppet to dance a jig of death on my cock and jack me off with his death throes. I want to drain my cum into a quivering, brain-dead sack of flesh before I throw it into a ditch to rot like garbage. I may or may not fuck the corpse before I dump it.

Y’know, my boss was right. It’s a lot easier to focus on the job at hand when you have a mission statement.

I’m focusing on one of the hustlers right now. He’s about a hundred yards away, under a streetlight, looking rather forlorn.

I’m in the parking lot behind one of the larger gay bars in town. The side street behind the lot is the main drag for cruising rentboys. I usually don’t hunt here; it’s so crowded and busy, I can never count on not being seen. But it’s hotter than fuck tonight; over ninety degrees at ten in the evening. Most of the boywhores are in the bars, getting themselves hot and sweaty with drugs and dancing.

The one I’m looking at is just plain hot and sweaty. Poor thing. I know how to cool him off—permanently.

He’s young, no more than twenty or twenty-one, and seriously inexperienced; I can tell by his appearance. Long black hair, almost shoulder-length. Maybe his hair is naturally that curly. Maybe it’s a perm. Do guys still do that? Is it coming back?

It’s the clothing that sets him apart, though. Kid is dressed like an extra from an 80’s hair metal video. Black vest of distressed leather, with no shirt underneath—not a bad choice; the punk is short but well-built; his outfit shows his bulging pecs, abs and biceps to advantage. His incredibly slutty short shorts do the same to his legs; his muscled thighs and calves glistening with sweat, like the rest of him. Even at this distance, I see glint of light reflecting of a bead of sweat as it navigates its way through the dark fur on his legs down to the white tube sock that ends just above his tightly-laced combat boot.

He’s putting it out there on a platter. Jesus, he wants it bad. And I’m gonna give it to him.

I start my van and pull out onto the street. I slow by the curb where he stands, looking around. Even though I can hear the hard driving thump of the bass from the bars, there’s no one in sight. Perfect.

He’s eager. Glad to get out of the heat, glad to be making some money, glad I’m not a weirdo—he says he can tell by looking at me.

Wow, he is seriously naïve. Just in from the sticks, most likely. Bad judgment call, dude, majorly bad. And he only asks fifty bucks to get fucked. With his body, he could get much more. I wonder why he’s selling himself so cheaply–then he whips out a glass stem with a bowl on then end and I get it. Meth freak. Man, that shit’ll destroy you; completely fuck your brain and body up. Rentboy is hot, but he ain’t gonna stay that way.

Well, then. I’ll be doing the faggot whore junkie a favor by ending his worthless life. A good deed is its own reward, they say, and offing this fucker is gonna be very much a reward. I don’t know if the hustler will appreciate the kindness I’m doing him.

I’ve gotten used to the fact that some of those I help show an appalling lack of gratitude.

It’s too far to the apartment and there’s nowhere near here where I can count on being undisturbed in the van. I head west, towards the highway. There are some sleazy motels a few blocks over on a major cross-street—places built sixty years ago when that road was a state highway. Now they’re rented for cash by the hour as fuck pits; sheets so stiff with cum they crackle when they’re folded back. I’ve been there before, but it’s been years.

I pull up to the first place I find. I don’t want some observant clerk to ID me, so I hand the whore some cash and send him to the office. He evidently expects this. He’s naïve but not completely inexperienced; he must have serviced married guys who were concerned about being recognized. I make sure he sees the large wad of cash in my wallet. He won’t take the money and run if he knows there’s more to be had.

He’s back within three minutes with a key. The room is out of sight of the office—very good; I hadn’t want to ask for it in case it aroused the rentboy’s suspicions. The room is small, sparsely furnished, and filthy—exactly what I expected. I’m sure they hafta get a truck in here on Mondays to haul out the bodies of all the whores who OD’d here over the weekend.

Just the thought gets me hard.

The kid tells me his name, shyly, bashfully. He really is kinda new at this. I ignore him, staring coldly into his face as I start to undress. He flushes red in the face and starts to strip himself.

I’m not wearing much; a white wifebeater and denim shorts that let me step out of them without having to take off my black canvas hightop Converse sneakers. I’m commando underneath. He follows suit by stepping out of his shorts with his boots still on. He’s wearing red bikini-cut briefs. I look at them and sneer slightly. He blushes again and looks down.

“Get on the bed, bitch,” I say levelly. “Get on your back with your feet in the air, you fucking slut.”

His eyes wide, he turns to obey. Just before he gets on the bed, I stop him. “Get those panties off your ass, faggot.” Bright red, he complies with his face aimed at the floor; he’s almost in tears with embarrassment—but when he gets the briefs off, he’s completely hard. I can see his pulse throbbing in the veins around his straining cock.

He wants to be used. I doubt he wants to be used as much as I’m gonna, but he wants this.

“On your back, whore. Spread those legs. C’mon, bitch, open up that fuckhole, if you wanna get paid.”

He’s looking at me with a paradoxical mix of lust and apprehension. I’m pretty well-built myself and I’m taller than this punk. Little cunt wants to get fucked by a real man. But I’m not responding as he expects. He’s really fucking hot himself and I bet most of his johns—the few he’s had—have showered him with love and money. I’m the first one to treat him like the fucking slut he is.

There’s something about him—that curious mix of innocence and experience—that makes me want to take my time with him. I want to savor the experience of ending his life, and I want him to savor it too.

I’ve seen his type before. He’ll fight it to the bitter end, but deep within his pig whore soul, he craves the agony of death during sex. In the end, I’m only giving the rentboy what he truly wants.

I’m only semi-erect when I force myself into him, but he grimaces and cries out in pain. “Shut up, fuckwad,” I snarl, “I ain’t even all the way in yet. What kinda fucking whore are ya, asswipe, if you can’t take my soft cock?”

He turns his head to the side, tears leaking down his face. “Please, oh god, please go slow,” he snivels, “You’re too big…”

Look, I ain’t given to boasting. I’m not small, but I ain’t inhumanly huge, either. This bitch is tight. He’s not a virgin; I’ve seen him before, getting into other guys’ cars. Maybe he just did handies and BJs. But young as he is, I ain’t buying him as an ass virgin.

I grab his chin and turn his face back to mine. I’m deep inside him by now, with his legs wrapped around my flanks. I look deep into his hazel eyes, flecked with green and surrounded by long, dark lashes as he mewls in pain.

“Quit squealin’, pig,” I snap. He gasps—then, with the next thrust of my hardening cock, lets out a high-pitched squeal, literally sounding like a pig. My dick snaps to attention and I reward the whore with a sucker-punch directly to the face.

His head rocks back into the cheap, stained motel mattress. I feel the blow resonate through his hard, firm body. The dark fur on his taut asscheeks tangles with my pubic hair as his rectum lovingly strokes my shaft, despite the slut’s fear.

Every voluntary reaction he has resists me; every involuntary reaction shows his pleasure. I have to kill off enough of his brain to destroy the voluntary nervous system. Then the involuntary will take over, giving him the greatest orgasm he could ever experience. And he’ll get me off as it happens. Shame that it kills him in the process, but it’s an occupational hazard for whores. And it spares him a more drawn-out agony. He could spend a decade or more as a druggie on the streets…

As I said, I don’t expect gratitude from him. I do, however, expect a good time. And I want it now. I reach down and wrap my hands around the whore’s throat. His eyes grow even wider as I squeeze. I brace my sneakers against the spunk-stained mattress, the soles of my canvas hightops gaining traction to help me pin the rentboy down, my cock pinning the lower part of his hard, tight torso to the bed as my hands force his neck down.

The cuntboy’s chest and abdomen arc up against my belly as his eyes bulge in panic. He reaches up and claws at my hands, his eyes pleading with me mutely. I hock up a massive wad of phlegm and spit it into his face. Repositioning myself so that I can pinion him with one arm, I free my other arm so that I can continue to express my opinion of whores by repeated blows to his face.

Adrenaline and testosterone boil over in my bloodstream as the kid’s body reacts to each impact with a short but intense contraction of the muscles. This reaction causes his colon to clench and release rhythmically, squeezing my tool like a fist.

“That’s it, bitch,” I whisper, “work my fucking cock, you whore. Choke and die while I punk-fuck you, you worthless fucking cumpig.”

I gotta admit, the little slut is strong. He straight-arms me as best he can, the muscles in his forearms popping out through the forest of fur that covers him nearly to the elbows as his adrenaline increases as well. The testosterone is obvious too as his cock swells into a fireplug, five inches long but nearly two in diameter.

His hands are flailing violently, scratching at my chest and my face. I’ve had enough of this shit; worthless little cunt needs to take what’s coming to him. A line drive straight from my shoulder to his nose results in a satisfying crunch and gives the slut something else to think about for a couple of minutes.

As blood leaks from the rentboy’s broken nose, I clamp down on his throat with both hands again. Leaning down and squeezing his throat, I pin him to the mattress as I ream his ass mercilessly. His eyes bulge from the lack of oxygen as his face begins to turn blue.

“That’s it, slut, now you’re gettin’ it. Let me feel you kick your life away. Die on my motherfuckin’ cock, you little cunt. I’m gonna wring your neck when I cum and you’re gonna be so glad, bitch, you’ll shoot your worthless slut load like the helpless little deathpig you really are.”

He resists, of course; they always do. Deep inside, he knows that this is what he wants; he needs to be used as a sex toy and thrown out like a soiled tissue. He wouldn’t be whoring himself out to get his drugs if he didn’t. But they never admit it, even to themselves, until the last minute, when they experience the orgasm that death brings them and come to understand that this is what they needed to give meaning to their useless, wasted lives.

It’s that moment of comprehension, that moment as their body reacts with the ultimate orgasm and they feel their soul empty out through their cock, that makes it worth the risk. Well, that, and it feels good on my cock. They aren’t the only ones experiencing an ultimate orgasm. Ordinary sex is nothing compared to the erotic intensity of a snuff.

The rentboy is losing it, slipping into blind panic. He’s beating and clawing at me violently. His mind is aflame with panic as the realization hits him that this is far worse than getting beaten in some kinky S&M game.

I tell them they’re gonna die, but the stupid little fucks never believe it until they feel it themselves. This is, of course, why I make sure they do feel it.

His face contorts in a rictus of agony as I squeeze harder, feeling his larynx sliding around in his throat under the pressure. He digs at my hands, his fingers bent into hooks, as he tries to pry my rigid arms away from his neck. As his desperate body writhes under me, his combat boots slapping at my ass, I can feel his erect dick prodding my belly.

As I throttle him, I pull downward on his neck, pulling him back until my thick purple shaft is half-buried in his panicked, fluttering rectum. Now it’s time to really show the whore who’s boss.

I stop pumping my tool. I’m gonna make the meat work my cock for a while. By varying the amount of pressure on his esophagus, I can control the amount of oxygen he receives and the amount of pain he’s in. As I clamp down on his neck, he thrashes and convulses, sliding around on my swollen, leaking mushroom tip. I can slow him down by easing the pressure.

I spend the next thirty-five minutes jacking off with the meat, strangling him to and past the point of unconsciousness, watching his face darken and his tongue protrude. His arms flail against my body; I’m gonna be covered in scratches, but he’s already too weak to do much damage. Same with his legs; I’m gonna have some bruises shaped like his bootheels, but nothing worse.

I enjoy watching his face, watching his expression as he regains consciousness each time. It’s a curious mix of relief and desperation; relief that he’s still alive and desperation because the nightmare is still going on.

“Wakey, wakey, you little fuck,” I leer into his tear-stained face, “you ain’t done working my cock yet, whoremeat. C’mon, get your fucking slut hole all the way down on my cockroot, punk. Next time I choke you out, I wanna feel your sphincter spasming in my pubic hair. Get it all the way down, you worthless pig!”

There’s resistance about three-quarters of the way down my shaft. He’s still just a little too tight to take all of me. “Goddammit,” I mutter, “you’re gonna take it all, whore. You’re here so I can use you like the piece of pig meat you are. Doesn’t matter how much damage you suffer, cause I’m just gonna throw you out after I’ve finished using your corpse as a cum dumpster.”

“Besides,” I whisper, smiling down into his wide, shock-rimmed eyes, “I know that deep inside your cumslut soul, you want to be hurt, you piece of shit whore. You know you deserve the pain; you need it to complete you. Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll complete you so hard they won’t find all the pieces.”

Gripping the kid’s throat tightly, I force his thick, wriggling muscle-body body down into my crotch, feeling the pressure around my rod increase painfully. The whoreboy is struggling heroically, in extreme agony as he’s impaled on my cock. Suddenly the pressure eases and my dick plunges in completely, slipping in on a warm moist film of blood. The boy’s eyes, pleading mutely up at me, roll back in his head as I tear his ass open.

I remove my hands from his throat and sit up on my knees, looking down at his limp unconscious body, glistening with a sheen of panic sweat. Drool runs across his face from the corners of his lips, parted in labored breathing. I’m waiting for him to wake up. He’s out from the pain; I’ve torn his sphincter and split his rectal lining. Every throb of my cock is gonna make him feel like he’s getting’ fucked with a razor.

His eyelid flutter and he starts moaning. Just as his eyes open, I grab his neck again, tightening my hands and wringing them together. He bucks and jerks under me, shaking his head violently from side to side. I hold myself still, enjoying the sensation of his mangled, bleeding colon contracting on and sliding over my oozing mushroom tip.

I sneer down into the dying meat’s face. “Time to say goodnight, bitch. Time to ride my hog down into a nice long dark dirt nap. Yeah, I know, it hurts like fuck. And you love it, you fucking pig; look at how hard your dork is. Damn, you’re dribbling more precum than I am right now, and I gotta tell ya, the thought of wasting your punk ass has got me dripping.”

His face, growing darker by the second, is covered with snot and tears. His tongue is peeking out from between his lips again and his bulging eyes are becoming bloodshot. His thrashing has slowed, his hands slowly trailing along my sides and my chest, his boots twitching and kicking spasmodically. As his pelvis bucks, his dick generates a slapping sound as it bobs between his writhing, firm abdomen and mine.

Time to wring the whoremeat out for good. I clamp down on his throat, feeling the resistance of the rubbery tissue of the trachea running like an inner tube on the inside. Squeezing so hard my biceps bulge and the tendons stand out in my neck as I clench my jaw, I’m rewarded with the erotic, satisfying crunch of his esophagus collapsing. His hard meat body goes rigid in exquisite agony as I increase the pressure, feeling the cartilage in his voice box crack and crush beneath my hands.

He arcs violently against me and I feel a warm flood spew over my chest as his cock spunks with the orgasmic pleasure of extreme pain; a true death load. His eyes roll back in his head, bloody white visible behind the half-open lids. A fount of foam boils out past his thick black tongue and slides down his purple cheeks.

I give one last squeeze, twisting my wrists backwards—and get one last snap, severing the spinal column between the third and fourth cervical vertebrae. The young whore’s body stiffens in massive neurological shock. His bleeding rectum folds around my cock and sucks my load out like it had applied a vacuum. His arms and legs hold me in one last iron embrace before he sinks into the flaccid passivity of death as a final spasm in his drawn-up balls forces the last drops of semen out of his thickly-veined tool.

I spend another ten minutes gasping for air, my shaft still firmly planted in the dead whore’s ass. When I finally pull it out, it’s glazed with blood and dried cum.

The bathroom is disgusting, but it’ll have to do. All I really need to do is wash off my dick anyway; I can deal with my own sweaty manfunk till I can get to a real shower.

I need to find someplace to dump the meat. I could leave it here, since no one’s seen me, but there’s DNA evidence. It’s high summer; I just gotta keep the meat from being found long enough to go putrid.

I feel bad about not being able to fuck the corpse like I’d promised; I know, deep in his little pig soul, the whore would have wanted me to. But it took me longer to off him than I expected. I’d really enjoyed beating off with him, using him as a human sex toy before I killed him. But I only paid for the room for so long, and I’m too far from home to risk driving around with a fresh kill.

I know! There’s a culvert under a train trestle a mile and a half up the road. Homeless people camp there in winter, but it’s overgrown and empty in the summer. By the time anyone finds the meat, it’ll be more like soup.

And anyway, they’re not gonna look real hard when they ID him and find out he was a meth head whore. No one’s gonna care.

Like I said, I’ve spared him a long, drawn-out, agonizing death by addiction. But do you think anyone will thank me? Not a chance in hell…

Meat Chronicles 8–Shanks for the Memory

Yeah, I know, it’s been a while. Goddam vice raid is why. They went in a scooped up the entire contingent of rent boys last weekend, right after the body of my last toy was found. Since they had no clue to lead them to me—the meat had been exposed to the elements too long for any DNA traces to remain viable—their next best plan was to clamp down on my prey and work that angle.

Well, I wish them luck. None of the whores know who I am.

But it’s put me in a tight spot. My hunting grounds are shut down. And the ‘burbs are still off limits. It tends to require a bit more finesse working out there anyways; the stakes are higher since there’s more of an outcry.

Seems they value the teen hoods more than the rentboys. I don’t.

But that’s beside the point. I need relief, and I need it now. There’s too much cum boiling in my sack; I need to drain it into a writhing piece of meat. This is gonna be a quickie. Whatever unfortunate fuckpig I find isn’t gonna last long, not when I’m in this mood. I’m not in the mood for subtlety tonight.

I’ve even got myself a new toy to use. It’s very…primitive, I guess, would be the best way of phrasing it. Not sure how effective it’ll be.

May be a moot point if my luck doesn’t improve. Not sure where I can turn to find a decent meat puppet. I’m on the highway, heading north out of downtown. I’m at a loss; I take the first exit in the suburb and prepare to go home.

And that’s when I see him, although it takes me a moment to realize it. I’m at the light at the end of the exit ramp and he’s standing just beneath the underpass, with a cardboard sign. It read “Please help. Unemployed for 3 months. Wife unemployed 6 months. Newborn baby girl. Will work for money.”

This kid is seventeen, eighteen tops. Short black hair, large dark eyes, not even five and a half feet tall, he doesn’t look like a husband and father. Especially not dressed like that.

Or, rather, undressed like that. He isn’t wearing a shirt and on this hot summer evening, his broad muscled chest is glistening with sweat everywhere but the valley between his pecs, where a hint of fur shows that enough hormones have kicked in for him to be capable of fathering a child.

He’s wearing black sports shorts. At the end of his thick, well-built legs are a pair of Nike Air Jordans, laced up tight around his ankles. Sweat trickles down his forehead; he wipes it away as he insolently stares me in the face.

Will work for money, hmm? I wonder what kind of work he’ll do…

I’m a monster; a sadistic sexual psychopath of the worst kind, but I do have some scruples, hard as that may be to believe. I have no intention of depriving a family of its breadwinner. Maybe he’ll blow me for some dough.

On the other hand, if it turns out that his story isn’t true, I’m gonna fuck him to shreds.

I pull over and ask him his story. He says his name is AJ. He starts his spiel about being a mechanic and getting laid off from a quick lube place. He said his wife had been assistant manager at some fast food joint that had closed down.

I’m pretty obvious, sliding my eyes up and down his body as slowly and sensuously as if they had been my hands. He gets the message, standing up straighter, dropping one hand to his crotch. I grin and ask what exactly what he’ll do for money. He blushes and looks away, mumbling something about having a girlfriend and not swinging that way.

I tell him I’ll give him fifty dollars if I can suck his dick. His entire demeanor changes; he chirps happily, coming around to the passenger side of the van. I let him in and offer him a joint, certain he’ll take it. And, of course, he does.

There’s nothing in this one; I just want him mellow before I gut him like a pig. I’m curious, though, about how his wife became a girlfriend. Under the influence of some really good medicinal-grade weed, the kid is soon giggling and confessing everything.

His name really is AJ and he’s eighteen, from Oklahoma. Yes, he is a father, but his “baby mama” took the child back east; he didn’t know its name or gender and didn’t care. Perpetually unemployed, he worked the welfare system, was considered incapable of paying child support, and supported himself by dealing drugs and petty thievery for extra cash.

His girlfriend—he described her as “this skank I hooked up with coupla weeks ago”—was on her way out; between her warrant for prostitution and her possessive pimp, AJ was on the verge of “telling that nasty whore to get her slack ass outta the fuckin’ motel room—not like she brings in enough to pay her way, and anyway, her pussy is so fuckin’ reamed it’s like fucking a pickle jar!”

I tell him I want to go somewhere more private so I can give his cock the attention it deserves. And I will, too. Of course, whether or not he’ll agree my attentions are deserved remains to be seen.

Frankly, I’m stunned by my luck. I’m also in a hurry; I’m gonna fuck this kid up so bad I can barely avoid creaming my jeans just thinking about it. And he has no idea.

He’s leaned back in the passenger seat, taking huge hits off the joint I’d handed him. I’d declined hitting it myself on the grounds that I was driving and the very last thing I needed was to get pulled over with a jay hanging out of my mouth. I let him get higher and higher, watching him relax back into the seat, each passing streetlight seeming to focus attention on his moist, smooth skin, his tight, youthful body.

There are times I feel a certain remorse. So many of these boys end up in my clutches as a result of a stupid decision on their part; perhaps the hell I inflict on them is out of proportion to the crime. I do feel pity towards this young man who has been gifted with a beautiful appearance and has utterly wasted and misused it.

The pity passes. I’m hard and dripping; it’s time to fuck the meat to death.

I’ve arrived at a place I’ve long since scoped out and wanted to use. Massive construction site; there’s a vast office park going in on the northwest side of town. There’s a security patrol, naturally; a single rent-a-cop in a slightly battered Crown Vic circles the lot periodically. I’ve timed it; it never takes them less than fifty minutes to complete the full circuit.

I can fuck this piece of shit up badly in fifty minutes.

I slow as I approach the site. Damn, couldn’t have timed it better if I’d planned it. There’s the car now, passing the entrance. The parking garage for the first building is directly behind. The structure is complete; once the guard is out of sight, I can drive in and enjoy a little alone time with my new friend.

Once safely berthed in a space against an inside wall of the garage, I tell AJ to head to the back of the van. He steps back, slipping out of his short as I follow; his firm, taut ass makes my dick throb. He stands before me, revealing his hard, young body, his erection pointing straight up at his face, wearing nothing but his Air Jordans. At first I wasn’t sure he was even wearing socks, but from this angle, I can look down and see that he’s got black ped socks.

I lean back, my body obscuring a metal post, about a yard high, that I’d welded to the floor of the van. There was a steel ring welded to the top of the post, through which was draped a pair of handcuffs.

AJ steps forward, lust paining his dark eyes, saying, “C’mon, man, ya gonna go down on me or what?”

I smile gently at him and slam my fist into his jaw, stunning the kid. He staggers and sinks to his knees. I bend down and grab his wrists, dragging him roughly to the post. Before he has a chance to recover his wits, I’ve handcuffed him into place on the post.

Whatever happens beyond this point, the teen can’t get away.

It takes a bit for him to realize that he can’t escape. The knowledge dawns slowly as he comes to and tries to stand, only to find that if he does, he’s bent over with his ass in the air.

I’m not a man to miss an opening. As he rises shakily, presenting his pink rosebud hole to me, I grab him and mount him roughly from behind. He wails loudly as I thrust the swollen head of my cock into his tight hole.

“Shut the fuck up, you worthless slut,” I snarl; “you think this hurts? I got something special for you, boy. I made something to stick into you, to see how bad it hurts. Scream as loud as you like, bitch, ain’t no one gonna hear.”

And he does. He threatens me, too, dire curses and promise of physical retribution. I let him go on for a while; I love it when the meat plays tough. I’ll reduce him to a squealing little fuckpig soon enough. Let him put up his last futile resistance.

Besides, it gets me off when they scream and yell. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like it vibrates their colon. It’s a slight buzzing, tingling sensation along my dick. But not for long.

After all, by this time, I’ve wasted dozens of these little fucks. This feeble bleating isn’t gonna do it for long. A good, sustained screaming, on the other hand…

As his rectum clenches my shaft in a spasm of agony, I decide it’s time to see if my new tool works. It’s just to the right of the post. It’s a screwdriver, or was to begin with. I’ve spent a little time with a metal file, lovingly grinding it down to a shank. I made sure to leave all the edges with rough, jagged shards of metal.

This isn’t designed to part flesh surgically. It’s supposed to tear and punch its way through the body, mangling the wounds and causing unspeakable agony.

Let’s see if it works.

He gets it in his belly. I sink it into his hard six-pack abs, feeling the resistance as the shank rips through and plunges deep into the teen’s tender innards. The boy emits a high-pitched screech as his ass starts bouncing backwards, almost as if he’s twerking on my cock.

“Fuck yeah, asswipe,” I whisper with a shudder into his ear, “squeal like pig with my shank inside you. Let me feel how much it hurts, meat. Pump my cock in your motherfucking agony, you sack of shit.”

The kid gasps and starts babbling. I’m sure he’s pleading, but he’s so hysterical, I can’t make out the words. He’s bawling like a baby as he struggles uselessly to get his hands free. He’s already figured out that every time he moves his legs, his pelvis works backwards onto my raging hard-on and causes more pain, so he keeps his legs still.

Well, that’s not any fun. I raise the screwdriver and slam it down in his back. I drive it in with such force that it shatters a rib, peppering his thoracic cavity with bone shards as five inches of jagged steel punches through his lung and into his pectoral muscle from behind. I twist the shank in the wound before jerking it back out.

The punk mews like a kitten in his agony. At least I got him moving again; those hot-as-fuck Nikes are rubbing my legs again as the boy thrashes in excruciating pain.

“Hey, AJ, lemme ask ya something,” I mutter in his ear. “Was it worth it, askin’ for dough on the street? Was this what you wanted to happen? Quit squealin’, you fucking worthless whore, this is exactly what you wanted. You couldn’t handle being a real man, could ya, you useless fucking piece of shit? Gave up on your kid, gave up on your life… hope ya like what’s comin’ to ya, fuckwad, cause you deserve it.”

I’m holding him down and fucking him doggie style. Worthless lying sack of shit doesn’t even get to see the face of the man who’s fucking him to death. As he squirms in terror, begging me not to kill him, I ram the sharpened steel screwdriver into the punkass bitch’s right side. As I ream the shank into the wound, slashing his liver and spleen to hamburger, the teen goes rigid in the shock induced by major organ trauma. His hard muscled body presses firmly against my own; the trembling caused by the physiological reaction to pain is lubricated by sweat.

The little motherfucker slips and slides across my belly, quivering on my engorged shaft as if this is the most erotic thing he’s ever experienced. The kid is hovering somewhere in the gray area between pleasure and pain.

This is what I’ve been aiming for. AJ is totally under my control; my own meat puppet waiting to jack me off and milk every last drop of sperm out of my aching wrinkled balls. He just needs the right stimulus—and the right damage.

“Are ya ready, you fucking faggot?” I scream, spitting furiously on the helpless meat, “Ready to die so I can unload in your worthless ass, fuckwad? I am, you fucking cumpig. Yeah, you though I was gonna pay ya to swallow your wad—guess what, you fucking homo, you’re gonna die with my load plugging your guts. But I haven’t hurt you enough to cum yet, bitch. You’re gonna die in a nightmare of agony, fuckpig!”

Long streamers of snot flow from the youth’s nose as he babbles incoherently, begging for a quick death. He’s accepted his end and only wants to get through it with as little pain as possible.

At the very end, just before I inflict the last nightmarish blast of agony on the poor kid, I kiss the back of his neck tenderly. I empathize, I really do. But we’re at cross purposes. He wants to die with no further pain; I want him to die in much more pain than he’s currently experiencing.

Unfortunately for him, he’s the one in the handcuffs.

I hold the shank in front of him, whispering for the last time. “It’s over, meat. This is what your life has come down to. Make me cum, meat. Don’t die for no reason. Die so I can get off in your quivering ass. This is your last chance to make a difference. Make me cum, you worthless fuck; give your sad fucking death some meaning by soaking up my sperm.”

Angling the shank back towards me, I slam it into the meat’s neck, punching a hole in his esophagus. As he coughs and gags, his sphincter tightens around the base of my cock and I know he gets it. He’s ready. He knows that the last thing he can impact in life is whether or not I cum and he’ll give his last dying energy to achieve that, an instinctive grasp at life beyond death.

I reverse the angle of the shank. Grabbing AJ’s head in one hand, I slam the screwdriver up under his jaw. The sharpened steel head rips up through the kid’s tongue, punching through the soft palate.

As the boy goes rigid in the unspeakable agony I’m inflicting on him, his smooth, firm buttcheeks pump back against my groin; the kid’s rectum greedily contracting around my sensitive shaft, each ridged vein engorged with blood.

Jagged metal tears upward into the teen’s skull, rendering his hard firm body utterly uncontrolled. As my homemade shank shears through AJ’s optic nerve, his eyes roll back in his head. I can see this because he’s convulsing so badly, his head bends backwards. His blank, drooling face, devoid of any personality, shows only the whites of his eyes.

As AJ shudders in death, his rectum begins to convulse in a rhythmic manner, fluttering along my shaft. As always, the meat milks the seed out of my cock smoothly; it’s how I know that what I do is right. After all, if I wasn’t giving the meat what it needed, it wouldn’t drain my load so well.

As I tighten my biceps, grunting with the strain, I force the shank deeper into the pig’s skull. I’ve mangled his brain and my only regret was that I couldn’t fit my cock up inside his cranium so I could fuck the teen fuckwad’s brains out literally. But it’s ok; the meat has responded the way it usually does. There’s a splash of semen on the floor; the same time I hear the crunch of my shank penetrating the base of the meat’s skull, it starts spunking uncontrollably.

I’m up on my knees, holding the meat to me. One hand is gripping the boy’s forehead; the other is forcing the screwdriver up behind the kid’s chin. The meat is spewing a steady stream of cum as my roughened steel shank destroys its pleasure center; its contracting sphincter manages during massive convulsions to jack a huge wad of spunk out of me, filling the trembling meat with my built-up sperm.

There’s more in me after I waste the pig. I spend another twenty minutes fucking the corpse, sticking my cock into the gaping dead mouth and plowing the slack asshole, flaccid but convulsing from the intermittent commands of a reamed-out cranium.

I get dressed again. On my way out of the construction site, I remove a sheet of plywood from a foundation excavation and shove the deathpig in. Sometime, this week, they’ll pull the plywood off and fill the excavation with concrete. No one will see the pile of rotting meat at the bottom.

Damn, he was good. I’m still dripping. Wonder if I can find another pig. There’s still more sperm inside, just waiting to spew over some punk’s corpse…

Meat Chronicles 7–Chokin’ a Bitch

Ok, now I know there’s something wrong with me. I shouldn’t be back out this soon; it’s way too dangerous. I just got rid of the last one’s head yesterday. Maybe I need to get some help.

Nah. I’m havin’ too much fun. There’s just so much hot meat out there. But speaking of hot–I need to stay out of the burbs. I’ve over-hunted and need to keep a low profile in those parts of town.

So I’m just north of downtown, ogling the rent boys. One of these guys is gonna be the lucky whore who gets my full attention tonight.

I grin and shift my dick, already hard in my tight jeans. I’ll make sure the meat has a thoroughly entertaining evening before I waste him. Now, let’s see–who looks like he wants my cock?

There are several boys on the street in front of the bars and more in the alley behind them. My sights are set one specific boy, though. He’s trolling for dick, stepping out of the shadows and boldly peering into each passing car. There’s not much traffic back here. I may be able to lure him in without anyone noticing…

He’s in his early twenties and tall; a little over six feet. His swarthy skin hints at ethnic blood–I think he’s Latino. Black hair, short on the sides but a little longer in top, matches the black stubble on his cheeks and chin.

He’s wearing a tank top with dark blue and white horizontal stripes that shows off his muscled brown arms and shoulders. Tight black skinny jeans cling to his ass and legs, showing how far his soft brown leather boots come up his calves. He grins at every potential john, his white teeth highlighted by his black moustache and large brown eyes.

I pull up and see what he’s looking for. As I thought, he’s Hispanic, his English broken and heavily accented. As he climbs into the passenger seat of my van, his hair gleams blue-black for a brief moment under the done light. I gather he’s a laborer, moonlighting for fun and profit.

Well, he ain’t gonna make any profit tonight. As for fun–well, that’s subjective. After all, most of these whoreboys are true deathpigs deep in their festering, rotten cores.

At any rate, I’m damn sure gonna have fun, even if the meat doesn’t.

He’s eager, and very horny. Fucking whore can’t keep his hands off my dick; he’s fondling the hard bulge in my crotch all the way back to the apartment. His other hand is jammed into his own waistband so he can play with himself. Two hard, straining cocks for the ride.

When we get to the apartment, I stop in the living room. He’s not ready for the killing pit in the bedroom yet; I need to prime him a little first.

Actually, he hauls out a small bag of coke and a straw. The coffee table has a glass top; he’s got a couple lines laid out in no time. I decline his offer, so he snorts them both himself. Then he gets frisky.

Seems he’s a kisser. I don’t kiss whores, though; I just kill them. Still, his hard body pressed against me feels good. There’s a strong smell of alcohol on his breath and his cologne doesn’t completely cover the sour tang of sweat wafting from his pits.

He unzips my fly. Pulling my throbbing dick out, he bends downs and starts blowing me. He’s a very talented cocksucker; he does it well and it’s clear he loves doing it. I wrap my hand in his black hair and force his head down in my crotch, plugging his throat with my dick. He gobbles it down for a minute or two, then starts gagging and choking. I keep his head forced down on my groin for another thirty seconds before I let him up, coughing and spluttering.

He wipes the slobber off his soft cumpig lips, lust lighting his eyes as he gazes at my erect shaft. He’s got his own dick out–an impressive piece of meat on its own–and one of his hands is busy sliding along it.

The whore dives back onto my dick, jacking himself furiously. His tongue slides over the head and laps at my leaking precum. It feels good, and he’s a great cock gobbler, but it just isn’t doing it for me. Something is off. It takes me a moment to realize what it is.

He’s taken his shirt off. His smooth chest, with its swelling pectoral muscles and a trail of dark fur leading down from his flat belly, presses against me.

I can hear his heart beating. I don’t like that.

I think it’s time to make it stop.

I’m getting that feeling again, the incredible erotic excitement that comes over me as I’m about to take another man’s life.

“C’mon, puta,” I tell him, grabbing his hair and pulling him up off my cock. “Time to get earn your pay. Let’s see if you like my dick as much when it’s up your ass.”

He looks at me and nods, then puts his head back down and puts his full lips around my mushroom head again. He runs his tongue over it one last time, his huge brown eyes gazing adoringly up into mine through long lashes.

He draws back reluctantly and, slowly rising to his feet, braces himself against the wall as he pulls his boots off. As he wriggles out of his skin-tight black jean, I quickly strip myself. After slipping out of my own jeans, I sit back on the couch and put my combat boots back on. The fuckpig watches and, taking his cue from me, puts his own back on. Now that they’re not obscured under his jeans, I can see that they’re brown leather work boots, with thick black soles. They’re worn to the point that they’ve become slouched and soft as suede.

Almost as soft and smooth as the whore’s skin.

I’ve cleaned up the bedroom a bit. Sheets cover the bloodstains on the mattress. This cunt’s hot and ready; I won’t need to bind him. Good thing, too, because I don’t have any restraints out.

The slut climbs on the bed, rolls onto his back and grabs the backs of his knees. He holds his legs apart, boots hanging wide in the air. He wants cock, and he wants it now. He’s buzzing on coke–the pupils in those beautiful brown eyes have shrunk to pinpoints. The long meaty tube of his dick lies limply across his belly; cocaine makes it difficult to get hard.

I may be able to help him with that. I don’t think he’ll appreciate my method, though. Not that I give a shit what the fucker thinks; by the time I blow my load, the cunt won’t be thinking at all.

I start slow, kneeling on the bed and plugging the rentboy’s fuckhole. He moans softly as my rod slides into him, inch by inch. When I bend down over him, getting myself into position to plow his ass, he reaches up with both arms and grasps the back of my head. He pulls at me, wanting me to kiss him.

I push him back and speed up my thrusting. He closes his eyes and lays his head back, a true power bottom whore. He wriggles on my dick like a pig, wallowing in lust. But he still can’t get it up.

I reach down onto the floor beside the bed, feeling around for a moment—I don’t take my eyes of the Latino’s face as I fuck him—before I find what I’m searching for. It’s a two-foot wooden dowel (an old sawed-off broom handle, actually). I lay it on the bed beside the boy’s body, jerking in time with my thrusts. He doesn’t see it; he hasn’t opened his eyes yet.

I slide my hands up his chest, slowly, letting them linger over his nipples before continuing up to his neck. I wrap them around his throat and begin to apply pressure—gently at first. I’m curious how the meat will respond.

I’m not disappointed. He inhales deeply, shuddering with pleasure as he arches his back and presses his belly up against mine.

Little fuck likes to be choked. Let’s see if it’s the real thing or just puppy love.

I pick up the wooden bar. Holding it horizontally with one hand on each end, I press it across the whore’s throat with my body weight.

I’m larger and stronger than the hustler. Between the choking bar across his throat and my cock in his ass, he’s pinned to the bed.

Well, that sure the fuck got his eyes open again. A playful squeeze around the neck might be fun, but a good throttling terrified him.

That’s unfortunate—for him.

“What’s wrong, puta?” I whisper to him. “You expected somethin’ else? A quick bang, you take my load, you take my money and adios? Think again, cunt; I’m gonna kill you. That’s right, you worthless faggot whore, as you die, your convulsions will constrict your rectum and jack me off. Just so you know what’s happening.”

He freaks. I expected this; I pull my head back and to the side as his fingers, hooked into claws, flail frantically at my arms and chest. His eyes, wide with disbelief, stare into mine out of a reddening, panicked face.

I’m forced to duck and bob my head to avoid his clutching hands. Luckily, his nails aren’t long enough to scratch my skin; he must bite them.

Well, not anymore.

He kicks at me, hard. It hurts. His boots are soft and old, but I think he’s had them re-soled. I’m gonna have bruises all over my ass and legs tomorrow. Better remember to find a good spot to dump this one; I don’t want it found until long after I’ve healed.

His hands scrabble desperately over my chest and face. It’s seriously annoying. I ease up off his throat for a moment. He inhales deeply as I draw my arm back and drive a roundhouse blow straight from my shoulder to his jaw. He grunts loudly, his head rocking back and bloody spittle flying from his split lips.

I pull back again and aim the next punch directly into his solar plexus. He doubles up, almost sitting directly up, emptying his lungs with a loud whoosh.

I push him flat and slam myself back down on top of him, bar in place across his throat, before he can inhale again. He looks up at me dully, uncomprehendingly, an expression of wounded confusion.

“You don’t get it yet, do you, ya stupid fucking whore?” I snarl at the meat. “You’re dying. I don’t give a fuck who you are or what you want. I want to feel you kick and die with my tool up your ass, you cocksucking cumpig.”

He’s almost there; almost where I want him. He understands part of it, at least—he knows that he won’t survive this. He’s still fighting it, though; he hasn’t reached the point of acceptance.

He will. He’ll submit; they always do. It’s not like they have any choice; they’re gonna die whether they accept it or not. But they always do.

Because in their inner core, this is what they really lust after. They don’t just want to be used—they want to be used up and thrown away.

My brown-skinned fuckmeat hasn’t realized this yet, but he will. And until he does, he’s working my dick well enough.

Despite the obvious futility, he still struggles—not that he has the strength to do any damage any more. His hands bat weakly at my chest as his eyes bulge horribly from his distorted, blackening face. But part of him is starting to respond. Consciously or not, he’s getting hard. I can feel the hot fat tip of his cock poking at my navel as his body slides against mine on a film of musky death sweat. His legs have slowed and his boots now scrape along the outsides of my thighs.

“That’s it, you fucking piece of shit. This is what you’ve been looking for, ain’t it, cunt? Night after night, takin’ load after load, but it’s never enough, never the big one. This is what you’ve wanted; a man who’ll fuck you right out of your misery and put an end to your worthless faggot life in a blast of hot cum. Admit it, bitch, you’re lovin’ this, you fucking cumsucking death pig; that’s why your own fuckin’ tool is drippin’. So die, you fucking cunt!”

I spit in his face and launch myself up; the pressure is off his throat for too brief a time for him to inhale, but it lets me throw myself back down onto him with increased force. Accompanied by a loud crunching sound, the broom handle sinks deeply into the rentboy’s neck. The cartilage of his esophagus shattered beyond repair, the whore instinctively clutches me in a crushing embrace, his arms wrapped tightly around my back and his legs around my own.

His black, shuddering face is inches from my own. I can see spots in the whites of his glazing eyes where blood vessels have burst. Drool pushed out by his dark, swollen tongue has frothed onto his mustache and beard.

His dick slides and pulses between us, a hot, rigid bar slipping along my abdomen. It leaves a snail-like glaze of precum in a trail across my stomach. I force the bar down into the meat’s throat as hard as I can one last time, hearing the faint snapping sound of the hyoid bone breaking. And that’s when the cunt gets it.

He holds me tightly, desperately, passionately, as his hands caress my head and he drags his bootheels up the backs of my calves. I can feel his cock throb as it pumps a steady flow of semen.

“Fuck yeah, now you’re getting’ it, meat! Fuckin’ work my cock, you dying fucking faggot; fuckin’ die and make me cum, cunt…fucking pig…”

I become incoherent in my orgasm as the whore quivers and convulses, squeezing the last few drops of spunk out of his dick and mine. As I tremble in the final seconds of ejaculation, I press on the broom handle again—inadvertently, this time. For the third time, there’s a cracking sound, much louder this time, and the slut’s head lolls forward with the flaccidness of a broken neck.

I pull my still-dripping cock out of the corpse’s ass. I’m pretty pleased; it’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to ream out a whore. And it’s not like the cops are gonna look too hard for missing rentboy; hustlers are a dime a dozen out there and they’re always getting whacked by some sadist or another.

Nice to know there’s a pool of ready-made victims for those times when I’ve had too much fun in the burbs. Now if I can just remember where I was when I noticed that unattended dumpster…

Meat Chronicles 6–A Cut Above

Been a while since I’ve been out hunting. I’ve had some shit to deal with. Not very fun. But ya gotta do what you gotta do. But tonight I’m free. And speaking of what ya gotta do…

My dick is tingling. I need to stick it in some meat, but I gotta find some first.

Luckily, I never have to look far.

I’d stopped off at a convenience store when I spotted him. Young, about eighteen or so. He’s wearing a black and white check sleeveless shirt with white cargo shorts. His sneakers are black, white, and red and come up over his ankles.

He’s slightly shorter than I am. The sides of his head are shaved, with short gold fuzz on the top. He’s slim, but muscles bulge on his arms and furry legs–to say nothing of the enormous bulge in his crotch. He’s got a strong jaw, narrow blue eyes and a propensity for shoplifting.

I can see it while we’re both at the register. He buys a pack of gum and slips a pack of cigarettes out of the counter rack while the clerk is working the register. I watch as he leaves; he’s riding a bike. He heads west down the street.

I leisurely make my purchases. I’m in no rush; I can catch up to him. And I want to do it away from here, where we’re both on the security footage.

I exit the store lot heading north and circle the block. When I get back onto the main street, he’s still ahead of me, but not by much. Suddenly, he veers off in a strip center parking lot.

It’s a large center with a department store and a supermarket. Large parking lot with plenty of cars. If I can snatch him at the back end of the lot, I’ll be far enough away from the cameras up at the entrances…

He obliges by circling his bike at the back end of the lot. I pull into a spot a couple of rows away, where I can keep an eye on him.

He’s lit one of his stolen smokes. I think he’s sizing up parked cars to break into; he appears to get peering into windows as he rides by, his head turning this way and that, the sunlight glinting off his short golden hair.

An image of the boy screaming and writhing on my cock flashes across my mind and I have to grip the steering wheel and breathe deeply for a couple of minutes.

He’s moving my way. Good. And he’s clearly trying to break into cars. He’s trying the doors, but not finding any open–wait, there’s one. He’s inside. And right back out, empty-handed. Luck of the draw, I guess, but I’m relieved. He’s moving my way again.

I picked a good parking spot. There’s a Lexus next to me. When I look out my passenger window, I can see packages on the back seat and an iPad in the front. Even if the car is locked, he’s gonna want to take a bit to try it out. And that’s when I’ll get him.

The little fuck is getting sneaky. Every time he spots someone walking out to their car, he pedals off and rides around in big, lazy circles until they’re gone–then he’s right back at it.

Hang on, he’s noticed the Lexus. He’s coming over–perfect. He dismounts, leaving his bike on the median between the rows of cars. I watch as he approaches the Lexus. As he bends down to look in the window, his shorts ride up, stretching tautly over his ass.

I wait till he moves around to the driver’s side. As he tries the handles, I slide the door of my van open, carefully and silently. Once I have enough room to swing my arm. I go upside the punk’s head with my tire iron. He grunts and drops, and I quickly grab him under his arms and drag him into the back of my van.

He’s breathing deeply and bleeding from a cut in his scalp. I’m not worried about him; he’ll be out till I get back to the apartment. If I have any worry at all, it’s that I hit him too hard and he might not wake up.

Not that that changes anything. I’ll still fuck him and waste him, but it wouldn’t be as much fun. But I don’t think I’ve caused any permanent damage.

At least, not yet.

It was early evening when I caught the meat; it’s dark by the time I get to the apartment. As usual, most of the exterior lights are out and there’s no one around to see me drag the kid into my unit. I bypass the living room and toss him directly onto the blood-stained mattress. He’s still out as I cut him out of his clothes, leaving him nude except for his sock and shoes.

I sit beside him for a bit, fondling his firm, smooth flesh, running my hands over his flat belly and his broad chest, playing with his nipples, before I grab the long tube of meat dangling between his legs. It’s a thick, veined root emerging from the cloud of honey-colored pubic hair. The same fine, golden fur runs down his muscular legs–I slide my hands down them, all the way to the top of his sneakers as my dick gets hard.

I’m ready to fuck the meat now, but I need to make a couple of preparations first. I flip the boy over and bind his hands behind him with a zip tie. I leave him lying in his belly; I’m gonna fuck him from the back.

But I still want to see his face as I rape and kill him, so I prop a mirror against a chair at the head of the bed. Now, I’ll get to look into his eyes as he dies. Sexy little fucker. Can’t wait to start hurting him…

He’s gonna scream. I like it when they scream; it makes my dick so much harder. But even though I know none of the other units in this building are occupied, I still can’t take the chance. I pick up the slashed remains of the kid’s briefs and stuff them into his mouth. He’s stirring and moaning, staring to waken–I got them in just in time.

Now I can set out my toys.

I have a low table set next to the head of the bed. Not only can I reach it easily, it’s right in the meat’s line of sight. He gets to see every sharp object I’m gonna stick into him; I’ll make damn sure he does.

First up is my knife with the serrated blade, my favorite. I’ll off the meat with it, but I’ll have a little fun first. I had some trouble deciding between the staple gun and the nail gun, but eventually decided on the latter. There’s an outlet on that side of the room, so it’ll be easy to use. Plus, I’m almost out of staples.

I have lots and lots of nails.

The meat is becoming more active. I need to start.

I mount him from behind, feeling the fine hair on the backs of his legs press against mine. My cock is already engorged and dripping; I take a moment to position myself, then shove as hard as I can. There’s a brief, intense pressured, then I can feel it give. The meat’s sphincter tears and I can feel blood lubricating my shaft as it sinks full-length into the kid’s ass.

He screams. It’s muffled by the underwear gag, but it’s definitely a scream. I lie flat on top of the boy and grab his head with both hands, turning it so I can whisper in his ear–and so he can see the table with the toys.

“Fuck yeah, you piece of shit, does that hurt? No, not enough? Ok, bitch, there’s more coming. See all that shit on the table? I’m gonna stick it all into you. The more you jerk and squeal like a little fuck pig, the better it feels on my dick. So get ready for a hard ride, fuckwad, it ain’t over till I cum. And the more pain you’re in, the sooner I shoot. Got it, meat? This is hell and you’re about to get fucked to death. Now let’s start this off right.”

I pick up the nail gun. I spent a little extra for this model, but it’s worth it; it’s so lightweight I can use it with one hand. That’s handy when you have meat to control.

After all, sometimes the meat resists, like this kid. He’s fighting me, struggling and squirming as he tries to crawl out from under the agonizing onslaught of my dick–not that he’s getting anywhere, of course, but it’s pissing me off.

And that’s bad news for the meat.

“Goddam bitch, ya like squirmin’ around? Let’s see ya squirm some more, motherfucker.”

I hold the meat down with my hand on his head, place the nail gun on his back and gently pull the trigger. The gun fires with a loud metallic punch and the meat jerks violently, his rectum closing up on my rod.

“Fuckin’ A, that’s what I’m talkin’ about! Shake that ass, fuckmeat. Work my dick!”

The mirror is perfect, just the right spot. I can see the meat’s face, flushed red up to his scalp, tightly drawn in pain. His clenched teeth and slitted eyes show how much it hurts.

“Ya think that’s bad? We’re just getting started. You’re gonna hafta be in a lot more pain than that to get me off, you worthless fuck. Gonna be a long night.”

The head of a single nail protrudes from the boy’s smooth, hard back, a thin trickle of blood winding away to spill down his side. His back is an open canvas, waiting for me to create art with steel and flesh and blood.

I move the gun slightly and fire again. The meat twists and writhes; this nail shatters a rib and doesn’t go in quite as far. “Damn, fuckpig, that’s gotta hurt. Let’s see if it can hurt more.” Using my fingers, I slowly push the nail into the wound. As it slides smoothly in, the boy’s pelvis rises and falls, massaging my dick.

“Now you’re getting it, meat. Your ass feels good on my cock–but not great. Think you need a little more incentive…”

I work the fuckmeat over. In quick succession, I fire five nails at random into the kid’s back as I work out the rhythm. The meat bucks his hips backs as a reflexive reaction to the pain, so I fire a nail, then thrust forward as the fuckpig pumps backward. I get a long, smooth stroke that plunges my swollen mushroom tip deep into the meat’s satiny colon. Fire and fuck, fire and fuck…

I grin at the sobbing teen. “Guess I picked a good fucktoy. Keep working it, you piece of shit, I ain’t done yet. I’m gonna ream you out and throw your torn, bleeding corpse in the garbage. Alive, you’re a worthless little thief. Dead, you’re gonna make a good cumrag. You’re useless for anything but fucking and killing.”

His face, smeared with tears and snot, is reflected back to me from the mirror. It’s contorted with fear and pain. His jaw is working as if he’s trying to speak–and I’m sure he is, most likely to plead and beg–but the briefs I jammed down his throat are preventing him from making any audible sounds.

I hunch down over the kid, feeling my chest slide over his sweaty back. I hold the nail gun against his side while I reach my hand underneath him to grab his thick cock. I press the gun hard into his right side and fire. As I do, I feel his dick jerk and swell in my hand.

“That’s what I thought,” I whisper into the boy’s ear. “Little fuckin’ pain pig, ain’t ya? I could see it in your face. You like gettin’ hurt, bitch. It gets you off. You’ll snivel and blubber, but it makes you hard to have a real man on top of you, plowing your ass as you submit to the erotic agony. Yeah, you love it. Don’t worry, fuckmeat, I’ll make sure you’re in pain you never dreamed possible. I’m gonna hurt you so bad you’ll scream and die–and blow your load like a good fuckpig.”

The nail gun is small, but my nails aren’t. They’re a good three inches long. If that doesn’t sound like much, imagine a steel spike inserted three inches deep from the surface of your skin.

The meat doesn’t have to imagine it.

I fire a series of nails into the punk’s right side, below the rib cage, filling his intestines with holes. Each blast of the gun causes the meat to tense his muscles in misery and squeeze my rod. I almost don’t have to pump his hole; I can work his rectum just by torturing him.

The meat is shuddering under me, making a high-pitched whine as he struggles to free himself from the ordeal he’s undergoing. It’s hopeless, of course; my huge tool is pinning him to the mattress as if he’d been impaled.

“Shut up, fuckmeat. Quit fighting it. You want this. You love my hard cock and hard steel inside you, you fucking whore, don’t ya? You went out looking for trouble and you found it. Too late to stop now, motherfucker, you’re gonna ride my dick all the way to the end as you choke on your own blood. Shit, dude, you’re hard already. Goddam pig. There’s more where that came from.”

His struggles become more violent. I can feel his hands, pressed between our bodies–he’s clenching and unclenching his fists in desperate futility. I move the gun to his left side and continue to hit the trigger. Now I’m spearing his spleen and liver.

Suddenly, the kid tries to fight back. I can feel him bucking and twisting, trying to rise up on his knees, despite having his arms bound behind his back and my weight on top of him. I clock him on the back of the head with the nail gun, hard.

“Lay still, asswipe, I ain’t done with you yet. Just keep still…” I fire another nail into the meat, shattering another rib. “Goddam, that’s it, motherfucker. Keep milking my rod, boy. Feels so fucking good to hurt you, bitch.”

I reach under and grab his cock again. It’s fully erect now; my hand, sticky with the meat’s precum, slides along the veined shaft. His balls, huge and soft to begin with, have shriveled to hard wrinkled walnuts. Little fucking pain pig is gonna shoot soon.

I’m surprised; most of the time, the meat doesn’t react until it’s in the extremity of its death throes. Excruciating pain makes this one horny. I love it.

By now, we’re both sweating and breathing heavily. An audio recording would sound like ordinary sex.

If you edited out the metallic clank of the nail gun, that is. And the agonized bleating of the fucktoy.

I run my hand along the kid’s flanks, slick with the cold sweat of torment. His golden hair is dark with sweat as well. It trickles down his forehead to merge with the tears on his face. I catch his expression in the mirror–still contorted with pain and effort, eyes shut hard, streams of drool leaking from his blocked mouth. His eyes open and catch mine in the reflection.

His eyes are blue, huge and beautiful, with and expression of anguish and despair so erotic I almost blow my load. Gorgeous little punk, wasting his beautiful body until I grabbed him and put it to its best use. But his struggles are slowing and his colon isn’t stroking my rod as firmly as it had been. I think the meat is wearing out.

“Fuck, whore, you’re getting loose on me. You’ll never get my spunk like that. Guess I need to tighten your hole up. I know how much you fucking love getting shit stuck in ya, meat, but I don’t think you’re enjoying the nails any more. Think it’s time to turn the pain up to eleven. Whaddaya think, fuckwad, sound like a plan?”

I toss the nail gun to the side and pick up the knife. I hold it down in front of the teen’s face so he can see what’s coming for him.

“If the nails made you hard, you worthless fucking pain slut, this’ll make you cum so hard you bleed. It’s a Ka-bar utility knife. Look at it, motherfucker. Ain’t it sexy? See these serrations on the blade? When I stick this in you and twist it, those little pieces of metal are gonna shred your guts to hamburger. Ready for it, punk? No? Tough shit!”

I start thrusting my cock into his ass, pounding it mercilessly. The teen moans and writhes under me, but his eyes are fixed on the mirror, where he can see my upraised arm holding the knife. He has a fraction of a second to brace himself before I plunge it into his back.

It slips between his ribs, sinking like butter. It works, too. The fuckmeat goes completely rigid in his suffering. His asscheeks grasp my cock like a fist, his soft, creamy innards caressing the throbbing, oozing head of my tool. As I promised, I twist the knife brutally in the wound before jerking it back out.

The meat thrashes in agony. His eyes, wide and ringed with shock, stare frantically into mine as he tries to process the wave of agony sweeping over him. He’s sweating even more now; it runs off his body and makes a wet spot on the mattress.

It’s not the only thing making a wet spot. The punk’s dick is leaking. Throughout the entire ordeal, I manage to keep one hand underneath, jacking the meat. I want to make sure he stays hard; they usually go soft once the knife is used.

Not this fucker, though. He really is a masochistic little death pig. For all his crying and moaning, he’s enjoying this on some deep level. The fear of impending death—to say nothing of the pain itself—is not having any noticeable effect. I stab him again in the back and then in the side, reaming and twisting the knife each time. The meat shudders and trembles against me as I keep fondling his swollen shaft.

“It’s time, fuckmeat. I can feel my cum starting to boil in my balls and I’ll bet yours is too, you useless fucking whore. Get ready for it, motherfucker, I’m gonna cut your cut your throat wide open. I’m gonna fuck you as you die and fill you full of my sperm as your life drains out along with your blood. You want this. You know you do. You know you’re a fucking worthless piece of shit and you love being treated like it. You’re useless for anything but raping and killing and you’re gonna cum like a worthless piece of shit when I slash your throat because you know that’s all you deserve, motherfucker. Get ready to shoot the most intense wad of your short, wasted life, bitch.”

I sit up on my knees. Grabbing the kid by his chin, I pull him up with me. Our hard bodies slide against each other, lubed not only by sweat but by blood. The punk is yanking his head around, trying to break free of my grip on his jaw. Stupid fuckwad, must be an instinctive reaction. The boy wants it—my knife, my load, everything.

The long, hard, dripping cock I see bobbing in the mirror tells me so.

“Shhh,” I whisper in his ear. “Let go. It’ll be over soon. Enjoy it while you can. Feel the razor edge against your tender flesh? Picture it slowly slicing through, those sharp serrations starting to saw into your trachea—that’s a rubbery bit, so it’ll take some time. You’ll get to enjoy that. At some point, I’ll reach the jugular and the carotid. If I leave the knife in your neck, I may be able to stretch it out a little. Make it so that you don’t bleed out as much as you drown in your own blood. Sound fun? Sure the fuck does to me. Fuck yeah, bro, let’s get the party started!”

I dig my fingers into his face as I lift his chin. I’ve got an excellent view in the mirror. I move the blade up and down his neck, looking for just the right spot. I stop right on the bulge of the Adam’s apple.

And start sawing.

The high-pitched squeal the teen makes really is that of a pig. He grimaces, lips pulled back, revealing his briefs still wadded in his mouth. With his bound hands between us, his fingers scrape and claw at my belly.

There’s resistance on the blade as I cut through the larynx. It’s a tough piece of cartilage, and it took me a good fifteen seconds to slice through it—long before I could reach any major blood vessels.

The meat liked pain—and he got it. And I made sure he knew it.

“What’s it feel like, meat? Does it burn? Does it hurt your sorry ass good? Yeah? Ya liking that, you sick fucking death pig? Fuck yeah, you must be. God, your ass is jacking me off so good right now. This is why, fuckmeat. This is why I do this. This is why you have to die, so I can feel it on my cock. You’re no good for anything else, you fucking piece of shit, so you may as well make me cum as you die!”

And he does. He gets it. As the resistant tissue gives way to softer flesh and his trachea parts as if it’s been unzipped, the meat gives a last, despairing squeak and starts gargling blood. Pink foam bubbles past the knife out of the wound.

The meat has gone utterly stiff. I don’t know how he does it, but in the throes of orgasmic death, he’s creating suction in his colon. At the same time, I can see in the mirror a fountain of jizz rising from the fuckpig’s straining, purple cock. There’s no penile spasm; it’s just a steady jet of semen shooting up and splattering back on the dying teen’s face and chest, where it turns the blood pink.

Oh my god, the way his ass sucks my dick dry… It’s incredible. It seems to go on forever, my seed flowing into the dead kid’s ass as I curse him and keep sawing at his throat.

At some point, I become aware of myself again. I’m still kneeling on the bed. My cock is still spasming, but nothing is coming out. It isn’t in the meat anymore; at some point, the meat has fallen back down on the bed. But I haven’t let him go…

And then I get it. My knife is in my right hand. The meat’s head is in my left. I’d cum so hard, I didn’t realize I’d just kept sawing until I’d decapitated the meat.

Man, I’m tired. I shove the meat onto the floor and jump into the shower. After I finish, I fall asleep on the couch.

When I awake, it’s the early hours of the morning. I’m hard again. No idea how that happens; I thought I’d spewed out several days’ worth of spunk. But here I am, ready to go again.

I stroll back into the bedroom to get the meat and find myself disappointed. I’d wanted to fuck it again, but it has landed badly, with the legs splayed. Rigor mortis has set in and it’s kinda unfuckable.

But the head is still there. I pick it up and go back out to the couch.

I sit down and, opening the mouth, remove the blood-soaked briefs still crammed in the back of the throat. The huge blue eyes are open and a little cloudy; they’d rolled slightly up.

I position the open mouth over my erect dick and lower it. I spend a few minutes literally skullfucking the dude, using his head as a jackoff toy. If I hold the head just right, the eyes are looking directly into my own.

As I blow my wad, I spit into the boy’s blue-tinted face, calling him a fucking piece of shit whore and watching my load ooze out of the ragged stump.

I put the head in a garbage bag. The rest of the meat goes in another and they both go into a plastic tub and then out into my van. Eventually, the body will end up in the landfill and the head—I dunno, maybe into the river.

Doesn’t matter, really. Just a rotting piece of meat.

Meat Chronicles 5–Doublecunt Cum

He’s only about eighteen. I’ve got a great view of him as he crosses the street. Damn, he’s hot. Broad, muscled chest in a tight brown t-shirt. Khaki cargo short shorts cradle his firm ass and show off his tight calves, covered in a fine dark fur. A long, unruly mop of black hair hangs down, nearly obscuring his eyes, but the strong sun brings out the golden highlights in the hazel shaded by long lashes. Yellow construction boots with white socks rolled just above the black leather ankles…

He strides along confidently. He has no idea at all that I’m watching, planning, anticipating his agonizing death.

I think it’s about time to get that idea into his head. The question is, how do I lure him? I’m in the parking lot of a strip mall on a major street. I’m not hunting. I need to be very careful; it’s the unplanned situations that lead to mistakes and exposure. Dammit, this kid is almost up to my van. I really, really wanna fuckin’ hurt him. I need some time…

Hang on. He’s slowing. Right here, right beside my van. I crack the window; he’s talking to someone. As I listen, I adjust the side mirror until I get a glimpse of the other guy.

He’s about the same age as the kid I’ve been watching. His short brown hair is carefully sculpted and probably stiff with product. His face is pointed, with a sharp chin, but he’s compensated for this with a rigidly groomed goatee and a haze of brown stubble on his cheeks. His brown eyes are enormous and give an unexpected vulnerability to his arrogant expression.

He’s wearing a blue polo shirt that shows of his broad, firm pecs. The short sleeves bunch at his bulging biceps. His ‘skinny” jeans, straining tightly around his junk, outline the muscles in the kid’s thighs. He’s got on a pair of running shoes in a startling shade of neon yellow.

They called each other by name, but I never pay attention. As far as I care, they’re walking fuck toys. And when I’m done, well, rotting piles of meat don’t need names. But since there’s two of ‘em here, I’ll tell ya that the kid I’d first noticed was called Steve and the alpha punk was Kevin.

I think. Like I said, I don’t really give a shit. Most of the time, I don’t learn what the name is until they ID the body on the news.

I’ve run the numbers. I know the name of 13% of my victims. Most of them, I’ve learned after the kill.

Anyway, Steve and Kevin are looking to get high. Seems they haven’t had any luck. Nobody wants to sell these two poor little meat sacks any joy–what a shame. Perhaps I can help.

“Hey, you dudes lookin’ to have some fun?” I shout out the window. They both practically jump out of their skins. Stupid shits hadn’t realized I was here. Kevin gives me the hairy eye while Steve blushes and looks away. He’s embarrassed that he’s been caught looking for drugs. Kevin doesn’t care.

“I got whatever you need. Weed, crack, X , meth—what ya want?”

Kevin’s huge eyes are still slitted in distrust. “You ain’t a fuckin’ cop, are ya?”

“Fuck no, dude. I’ll take ya back to my place and let you sample whatever you wanna buy. Does that sound like a cop, showing ya where he lives?”

He’s still suspicious, but he agrees. I open the passenger door. I notice he lets Steve sit in the passenger seat while he crouches in the back of the van. That’s ok. Steve is hot and clearly well hung: I don’t mind him being my eye candy for the drive back to my killing pit.

Both boys follow me willingly into my apartment. Kevin wants coke, and he wants it now. He wants to mainline, to shoot it directly into his veins.

I know the feeling. I used to do it myself. Christ, it sucked getting off it; I went cold turkey. I shook for two straight weeks. This kid can’t have been doing it for too long; his body is too good to have been exposed to years of drug abuse.

On the other hand, he’s not likely to be able to get off this by himself, statistically speaking. Better for his sake to end it now. Same goes for the other punk. Trust me, I’ve been there. I know what I’m talking about.

Killing these two little fucks will be an act of mercy. And as long as I’m helping them out, what’s wrong with having some fun myself? After all, no matter how agonizing and drawn-out I make their deaths, it’s better and less painful than letting them live in such conditions.

Of course, this is still gonna hurt like fuck,

I’ve added ground-up diazepam to the coke they’re injecting. That’s generic Valium, by the way. I watch—and find myself getting harder by the second; I can feel precum oozing from the head of my cock as I watch the fucking punks get high.

It’s hard for me. Once an addict, always an addict. I don’t deny that I want to join them. I know what it feels like, after all, when the train hits. That’s what it’s called when the coke rush hits you; it’s the train. You can tell when the metallic taste hits your mouth. Your tongue sticks out as the rush begins. After that, no matter what happens, you’re ready to cum—you just need the proper physical stimulation. Problem is, you can’t get physically stimulated enough.

At least, not in the usual way. I’m gonna have to tinker with the meat. A steel shank embedded in the nervous system is a good way to override cocaine droop. There are other ways, too…

Once glance at the boys tells me it’s party time. They’re both leaning back on the sofa, eyelids half open, tongue sticking out. Steve is drooling slightly. They’re riding the train, all right—riding it straight to hell.

A box cutter makes quick work of their clothes. Kevin gets dragged back first. He moans incoherently as he’s sucked under by the cocaine. I tie him to a chair and duct tape his mouth after I remove from his left arm the strip of rubber that he’s used to tie off. At the same time, I place another small strip of duct tape on the back of the chair—that’s for later. He’s completely nude except for his white athletic socks and those day-glo yellow sneakers. His thick cock, four inches flaccid, lies on the black cloud of his pubic hair. He stares dully at the bed, so caught up in his coke rush that he has no clue what’s happening.

I grin. Kevin is going to be fun to play with. I can’t wait to fuck him.

Steve is young, dumb, and full of cum. Since I’m gonna fuck him first, I drag him to the bed. I bind his hands behind his back. I’m also gonna off him first, and I’m gonna make Kevin watch.

I think Kevin will be ready to die on my cock after I make him watch me kill Steve. He’ll feel responsible. Of course, that means I’ll have to make Steve’s death as painful as possible. I can’t fuckin’ wait.

It’s hit them both by now, worthless little fucks. They’re drooling, tongues protruding, eyes bulging, both of them—higher than kites. The coke may make it difficult for them to get off, but I can help them with that. A little breath control, a little pain, some manipulation of the nervous system and I can make these little punks cum no matter how much pain and fear they’re in.

So Steve is on his back on the bed—on the blood-and cum-soaked mattress. Kevin is bound to a chair and forced to watch. Steve’s arms are bound behind his back by a zip tie. He moans as I shove my engorged cock into his quivering asshole, but he’s still riding the coke train. He can’t resist, even if he wants to. It feels too good.

It’s about to feel a lot less good. Steve—or whatever the meat’s name is—is about to learn that I’m a lot less interested in getting him off than in getting myself off. That means that it doesn’t matter to me how much pain he’s in as long as it makes me cum.

In fact, the more pain he’s in, the more he’s gonna work my cock. And I’m gonna make sure Kevin sees it so he’ll know what to expect when it’s his turn.

Steve moans as I thrust the engorged head of my cock into his tender asshole. The pain is more than he’d anticipated. He’d wanted to be fucked; I can tell, but he didn’t know it would hurt this bad. I smile, knowing that it’ll hurt much more than this before I’m done.

They won’t admit it and may not consciously know it, but I’m giving them what they truly desire. They long for death; they show it by abusing their young, strong bodies. And they have a deep need for control or else they run wild like these two little shits. I can fulfill that need. The one thing they lack to complete their task on this planet—is me.

I am the missing father figure they’re yearning for, the adult male who can dominate them like the dogs they are and put them out of their misery. I’ll fill the void in their worthless souls by showing them just how worthless and empty they truly are.

And then I’ll fill that emptiness with cum.

Steve’s ass is so soft and smooth, it’s like fucking velvet. His eyes are wide with pain and shock; it’s clear that he never expected this. He’s on his back and his boots clamp tightly on my head. I can feel the soft leather on my ears as the meat stiffens in pain…

Kevin is squirming and trying to free himself from the chair. I can ignore him for the moment and focus on Steve. His eyes open wide and I can tell he’s about to scream. Good; I can stop that and show these pieces of shit that I’m not fucking around.

Steve inhales deeply, as if he’s about to scream. Before he can do that, I ram my knife into his throat. It’s a Ka-bar seven inch utility knife with a serrated edge. I stick it straight into his Adam’s apple and watch his face react to the pain.

His face contorts in agony as my blade punctures his larynx. I twist it, shredding the little fuck’s vocal cords, but I leave it in the wound. The hilt bobs in the air, matching the pace at which I’m fucking the meat. No matter how hard I make him work my dick, he won’t be able to cry out.

Kevin is conscious. I can tell that he’s watching, so he’s the one I speak to.

“How’s this look, fuckwad? Your buddy ain’t ever gonna speak again, not that it’ll matter. Neither one of y’all will need to speak by the time I’m done fucking you. Watch him die, asswipe. Whatever I do to him I’m gonna do worse to you. Watch him ride my cock until he dies, so you’ll know what I want you to do. Do it good and you won’t hurt as much. Watch, bitch, watch him die.”

The bedroom in this apartment is small. This mattress is already soaked with blood and cum. This is a nightmarish place to live your last moments, to suffer the pain that will be your last physical sensation on earth. The pain and fear that overwhelm Steve as I fuck him, as he tries to breathe with my knife embedded in his throat, must be unbearable.

“You wanted to get high?” I snarl into the teen’s tear-stained face. “How’s this feel, bitch? Are ya fuckin’ high enough? No? You’re fuckin’ loose, I can tell ya that, you worthless whore. Gotta tighten your ass up, bitch. Lessee what we can do about that.”

I yank my blade out of his throat and thrust it into the whore’s left flank. He writhes and massages the head of my cock, but Kevin doesn’t seem to be paying attention. I suppose I need to get a little more—dramatic, shall we say.

“Enough, you worthless fuckmeat,” I whisper into Steve’s ear. “You’re not gonna get me off. I’m gonna have to waste you just to get hard again. Maybe you’ll get my dick stiff as you die, fucker, but I doubt it. You really are a useless piece of shit.”

“Hey, dude,” I call to Kevin. “Wanna see something really fuckin’ hot? Watch this, asswipe, cause this is what I’m gonna do to you.”

As I say this, I grab a handful of Steve’s unruly black hair and jerk his head back. He gasps and grunts as this unexpected position makes it difficult for him to breathe. I could give a fuck; I yank Steve’s head back and slash his throat because I know that it’s gonna clench his sphincter around my cock.

Kevin stares wide-eyed as his buddy bleeds out on my cock. It takes a bit for Steve to die. I make sure both know what’s happening. The knife passes beneath Steve’s larynx. The tender flesh of his throat parts like it was butter. A fount of blood erupts from the punk’s throat. His eyes widen in shock—he’d thought he was gonna break into a car or two today, mug somebody, do whatever it took to get high. The muscular teen punk had thrown on his tight clothes and boots, prepared to break the law, but had no idea that it would lead to his agonizing death. He’d pulled on those tight cargo shorts and tied on his boots without realizing he was going to die in them.

“That’s it, you fuck, work my cock as your blood drains out. Come on, fuckmeat, you can do better than that. You’re dying, bitch, not taking a nap. I can make it hurt worse if I have to.”

Steve hacks up gouts of blood as he chokes and gasps. His sphincter spasms on my cock; a cockring that adjusts to the agony of my meat. He paws relentlessly despite the zip tie that renders his desperate flailing useless. His ass bucks and thrashes against my thick, swollen tool.

Suddenly, Steve’s dick begins to spasm. The meat’s brain has been deprived of oxygen too long. As his blood pressure drops, his consciousness fades and his struggles become more disjointed. The meat shudders and twitches and its cock, suddenly swollen, begins to expel seed. He’s not exactly shooting a wad; he’s just leaking a steady stream of semen. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it.

It feels so fucking good on my cock. Despair and fear—those who have never experienced it have no clue of the pleasure in store when these emotions are given full reign. But it’s over too soon. Steve has managed to give up his death load and escape my grasp without getting me off.

I’m very angry. I want to hurt someone very, very badly. Kevin is still awake. He’s the one I want to hurt; this cunt I’m fucking now is dogmeat.

I place my boot in Steve’s face—as always, I wear combat boots when I fuck; they give me a better purchase—and shove the meat onto the floor. “Fucking useless piece of shit,” I snarl at the corpse. “Couldn’t even make me fuckin’ cum.”

I stand in front of Kevin, my arms crossed and my legs spread. I’m nude except for my white socks and black combat boots. Blood glistens along my hard body as I look down into Kevin’s pleading, upturned face and hold the knife up. I can see it reflected in his huge, stunned eyes. On the floor behind me, visible between my legs, the huddled corpse of his buddy quivers, his boots making faint scuffling sounds on the floor.

The boy can’t bring himself to look at the knife—his eyes turn down and he’s confronted with my dick, engorged an angry red, dripping in readiness for him. He looks back up, and I can see in his face, that beautiful furry face with the huge brown eyes, that he knows what’s about to happen.

I cut him free from the chair. I leave the duct tape on his mouth, but I don’t bother to restrain him in any other way. I lead him to the bed by hand and lay him down before climbing on top of him. The mattress is still slick with Steve’s blood. I lift Kevin’s feet up as I had Steve’s, and placing his shoes on my shoulders, plug my cock up his ass. Kevin’s face clenches into a grimace as his cry is muffled to a loud grunt by the tape. He opens his eyes wide and they well with tears. I bend down and lick his tears as they run down his cheeks.

No, they’re not sweet. They’re salty.

I talk him through it. “You know what’s coming, boy,” I whisper as I stroke his face. “Your buddy couldn’t hack it. My fault, really, cutting his throat like that. I should’ve known he’d croak too soon. With you, it’s gonna take longer, at least a little.”

The meat flinches and turns his face away, excepting the sharp, cold pain of my knife. But that’s not what he gets. Remember that piece of duct tape that I’d put on the back of the chair? This is why. It goes over his nose.

He fights. They always fight, even the ones who’ve accepted the inevitable beforehand. They can’t help it; it’s physiological, part of the involuntary muscle system. The body fights to live under any circumstances.

Thank god it does; that’s what gets me off.

The meat—it doesn’t need a name anymore—reaches up, hands scrabbling desperately at its blocked-off orifices. The kid’s brown eyes grow larger still, revealing a world of hurt panic that nearly makes me as hard as the soft sponge-like texture of the fuckmeat’s rectum massaging my swollen tool.

I grab the boy’s flailing arms by the wrist, forcing them to the blood-stained mattress. The furry-faced twink bucks and jerks in a futile attempt to throw me off. I straddle him, feeling his thick, limp rod slapping against my belly with every thrust of my cock. I spit in the meat’s face as I sneer down at him.

“That’s it, boy. Good little death pig. Yeah, you’re getting’ it. Fuck yeah, does it hurt? I hope it does, you fucking piece of shit. My cock is killing you. I’m fucking you to death. Your buddy died to get my dick hard; now you’re gonna die to make me cum. Worthless little punks, had to waste two of ya to get off. Goddam, I’m going through meat like it was Kleenex. You better be worth it, fuckwad.”

The kid is shaking his head violently from side to side. His bright yellow sneakers drum against my back, my ass. His hands clench and unclench as I maintain my grip on his wrists; his chest heaves upwards, pressing against mine, sliding along on a thin film of sweat.

His eyes are no longer beautiful; they’re grotesque, bulging horribly from his purple face. There’s a bulge in the duct tape over his mouth as well, accompanied by a mewling sound; it’s his tongue, swelling but unable to protrude, backing up into his throat.

As the meat’s brain begins to die off from lack of oxygen, its dick starts to grow erect. I can feel it pressing into my belly, hard and hot. He’s finally giving in; I’ve brought him to the point of ultimate surrender.

“Die, you fucking bitch,” I scream, spitting into the meat’s face again, “die on my fucking cock. Make me cum, fuckmeat, die for me. I want your death throes to jack me off. Come on, you useless piece of shit, work my cock until I pump your guts full of spunk and throw you away like a used rubber.”

The embrace of death is hard and tight. He grabs me convulsively, entwining me with his arms and legs. His face is close to me; I can barely recognize the beautiful teen with the furry face and the brown eyes. Bloodshot and swollen, his eyes now convey nothing but the resignation of eternity. His lithe body, slick with perspiration, undulates beneath me and I suddenly feel a sticky warmth spread across my abdomen. The meat has unloaded his death wad all over my belly.

I moan and curse as I cum, fucking whore piece of shit fuck drain my load you worthless fuck oh god oh fuck you fucking shit meat…

The meat has stopped twitching by the time I come to. I have to yank my dick out of his ass; my spunk has dried to a crust inside the colon. He’s lying there on his back, arms at his side, legs spread, flaccid cock still lying thickly on his belly on top of a glaze of deathseed. The blood has drained from his face; it’s no longer black but a pale blue. His eyes have glazed to the point of opacity; he stares milkily into space.

God, I’d love to fuck him again, but I can’t take the chance. I gotta get rid of two of ‘em now, and it need to be done before they get stiff. It’ll be nearly impossible to dump them then.

Now, where the fuck am I gonna dump all this meat?

Meat Chronicles 4–The Wages of Sin Are…

I’m back hunting in the suburbs. I’ve had good luck at malls, especially the extreme ends of the parking lots, so I figured I’d try a different one this time. I park in the shade, step into the back of the van, and wait to see what develops. I ain’t offin’ this one in the van, though.

Whatever I catch is going back to the apartment. I have something new I want to try. And anyways, I need to lay off that industrial park for a bit. Something washed up in a creek several miles downstream of the drainage canal, and I think it’s one of mine.

It isn’t long before something catches my eye. There’s a punk wandering through the lot, peering into the cars. I see him try to open a car door surreptitiously, glancing around to make sure no one’s looking. He can’t see deep enough into the van to see me.

He’s about eighteen or nineteen, with a broad face and large blue eyes. He’s not very tall—not quite six feet. He’s wearing a black baseball cap worn backwards; in the gap above the cap’s band on his forehead, golden hair about an inch in length stands out.

He’s got on a blue t-shirt with the red Superman symbol on the chest. Below his jean shorts I can see thick, strong legs covered with a golden fur, a finer and curlier version of the hair on his head. Underneath the golden haze a dragon tattoo on his left calf flexes with every movement of that muscle. His blue-and-white hightop sneakers dance nervously on the hot pavement as the kid keeps turning and looking around.

He was two rows out when I first noticed him, but he’s closer now. This is perfect; the meat is coming to me. All I have to do is bait the trap—and make sure it’s not too obvious a trap.

I set my wallet on the dashboard, lock the doors, and roll down the passenger window about three to four inches before retreating to the darkened rear of the van. I don’t have to wait long for him to notice it, but it seems to take him a while to decide to go for it.

He paces the length of the van a couple of times. I even hear him try the rear doors, but they’re secure. I can’t tell if he’s suspicious of the open window or is just too oblivious to notice it.

Turns out to be the latter. As soon as he sees it, his arm is in the window. He has to go up on his toes to get it in all the way to the elbow, but once he does, he’s able to unlock the door immediately. In a flash, he’s in the passenger seat and scrabbling madly for the wallet.

He’s so intent on his work that he never sees me coming. I take him by surprise, slamming his face into the dashboard, feeling the satisfying crunch of the little shit’s nose being broken. I draw back and he sits up, shaking and gasping, blood streaming from his nose, his cap remaining on the dash. He turns and looks in my direction, but I’m not sure he actually sees me. Doesn’t matter. A rabbit-punch to the jaw and his lights are out.

They stay out, too, which is good. I need that to get him into the apartment. He gets dumped into a large plastic tub with a lid, then takes a short ride on my dolly. I wheel him straight back into the bedroom and empty him out there. I can use this setup to get the meat back out for the garbage run, as well.

I cut off his shorts, boxers, and shirt, leaving him with nothing but his socks and shoes. Now that he’s ready, he can go on the table. I put a lot of time into building this thing; I hope it works well.

The basis for it is a rough plywood rectangle, about three feet wide and four feet long. The meat goes on it on his back, his ass hanging slightly off one end so I can fuck him. Just below the other end, I’ve drilled two holes, five or six inches apart. A length of nylon cord snakes out of one, forms a loop, and vanishes down the other. This cord is firmly attached to the underside of the table on the left side. It’s guided to and away from the holes by a series of metal hasps, also bolted to the underside.

The cord ends up on the right side, just by my hand, where’s it’s connected to a spindle on a ratchet gear that I can crank. In other words, it’s a fuck table with a built-in garrote that I control by a crank. I’ve even got restraining straps for his arms and legs.

Fuck yeah, I’m gonna dominate this worthless fucking thief.

Like I said, I’ve been having some control issues lately. I’m not waiting for the blond bitch to wake up. I strap him in, hock up a huge wad and spit it onto his pink puckered virgin hole, and insert my thick purple head, already oozing in anticipation. I can feel the resistance of his sphincter, unused to being stretched to such a diameter.

I’ve already loosened the cord to allow his head under it. Now I tighten it until it’s flush with his throat—just lying across it, really, not actually tight.

It takes a couple of minutes for him to awaken. That’s fine; I keep fucking him, waiting for him to come around. After all, I’m probably gonna be fucking him later on, too, after he’s dead. He won’t be moving any more then than now.

But now I want him awake. It’s not enough that he suffer. I want him to know exactly what’s happening to him—and why. I’m so excited that when he starts stirring, I can’t control the huge, sharklike grin that breaks out on my face.

He bats his long, dark lashes confusedly, staring at my face. He jerks his arms and legs, only to find the former held to his sides by a leather strap around the wrists and the latter spread wide to receive my cock with leather straps just above the knee. Below the knee, his legs are free to flail, his bright new sneakers kicking uselessly at the air…

Not yet, not yet. Control, goddammit!

I lean down over the meat, stroking his swollen nose. Caked blood trails from both nostrils. He’s gasping and making a low keening sound. More of a whimper than a moan, really.

He may whimper now, but his world ends with a bang.

“Hello there, you sorry little fuck.” I spit down into the meat’s tearful, bewildered face before I start talking again. “Picked the wrong car to break into, dintcha? You ain’t got no idea how wrong, but you’re gonna learn. Gotta tell ya though, dude, it’s gonna hurt a little.” I tweak the punk’s broken nose; he cries out in pain. “In fact, you piece of shit, it’s gonna hurt like fucking hell.”

I stroke his dragon tattoo with my left hand as I turn the crank with my right. The cord grows taut and starts to sink into the flesh of the meat’s neck. I stop before I completely cut off his air, though.

I want to enjoy this a bit. I can stand still for a few minutes as the meat struggles. He can breathe, but it’s requiring a lot of effort. As he fights for air, his sphincter tightens and his colon constricts, massaging my shaft. It would be so easy to blow my load now, but the meat is nowhere near ready. I have to maintain control of myself in order to maintain control of him. I have to hold out long enough to inflict a certain amount of brain damage…

In the meantime, the meat is trying to scream—without much luck. His deep, labored breathing is accompanied by gagging, choking sounds. Already, I can see his face turning red. He’s still getting air, but not enough. He’s being strangled very slowly.

“Hey, dude, how much ya get from breaking into cars? Was it worth it? Worth getting’ your ass plugged while I choke the life outta ya? Bet ya though only chicks got raped and strangled. Get ready for this, you worthless fuck, ‘cause it’s gonna hurt worse than you can imagine. I’m gonna make sure it does, ‘cause that’s the only way I’m gonna cum.”

His eyes, wide, clear, eloquent in horrified confusion, stare into mine. He looks like he’s trying to speak. I can make out the word “please” on his writhing lips as he spews spittle in a frantic attempt to beg for his useless life.

“What’s that, bitch? Still don’t get it, do ya, ya worthless fuck? You’re gonna die so I can cum. It’s that simple. Here, lemme show ya.”

I twist the crank mercilessly. The cord sinks so deep it nearly vanishes. There’s a cracking, crunching sound as the esophagus collapses; its cartilage shattered beyond repair. The damage is reflected in the blond punk’s face as more blood leaks from his nose.

His face darkens as the tip of his tongue parts his lips, accompanied by a froth of drool. More of this foamy drool is pushed out as the tongue extrudes, bubbling over his blue, swelling lips.

The meat convulses helplessly, his torn, ravaged rectum fluttering along the surface of my engorged tool. His balls contract as his own thickly-veined dick responds to asphyxia, rising and glistening as precum drips involuntarily.

His eyes, huge and desperate, bulge frantically as the pressure builds above the cord that has now sunk back nearly to his spine. His skin and eyes grow darker as I watch, as blood vessels rupture until the meat’s face is black and unrecognizably contorted. As I’d hoped, his shoes are kicking and flailing in the air. His broad, smooth, well-muscled chest is slick with deathsweat; the odor of it wafts from his pits.

He’s almost gone. There’s only a few more seconds until his brain is so damaged that he’ll never be a functional being again. A few more seconds before I perform a miracle and make meat into a vegetable. There’s just enough left of him to understand my words.

“Do you get it now, fuckmeat? See what a worthless little fuckwad you really are? Ain’t no one gonna miss you when you’re gone, bitch. You’re a fuckin’ thief. I don’t give a shit what the fuck you do, meat, but bein’ a thief is what got ya here, you stupid little shit. If you’d been a good little boy, you wouldn’t be choking to death with my cock pluggin’ your ass.”

His eyes had been losing focus and drifting, but as I speak, they turn and orient themselves on me. I can tell his brain is still functioning enough to understand my words, and his eyes well enough to see me despite the excruciating pain of the swelling and hemorrhages. His convulsions slow as his body strains futilely against its bonds, a single rigid clenching of everything. My god, the way his ass sucks down my cock…

“Let go, you useless fuck,” I snarl into the dying kid’s face, “you want this. You know it. Give up and let it happen. You worthless little pig, you wanna give me your load as you die. You can’t help it, I’m gonna get it whether you like it or not, but we both know this is what your sick little fucking soul has always wanted. You were out prowling the mall, looking for someone like me to find you and give you the best fuck, the most intense orgasm possible. You’re gonna cum when you die, fuckmeat, and that’s gonna make me cum too. The last thing you’re gonna feel is the hot splash of my spunk in your guts as your shudder and shoot and die. Stop fighting and let it happen. You’ve always wanted a man to hold you down and control you till you cum and die. It’s your lucky day, meat.”

He hears me and he understands. I know he understands because there’s a massive spasm that visibly runs along the meat’s dick and results in a fount of semen. He gets it. He relaxes, surrendering to death, allowing himself this ultimate orgasm as the last physical sensation of which he’s capable.

His ass clenches as well, gipping my cock tightly in a velvet glove of soft rectal lining, squeezing and rippling. It’s too intense for me to resist. Before I’m aware of my actions, I’m screaming and spitting on the meat as I blow my load deep inside his dying asshole. I’m lying flat on top of him, feeling him arch and twist, his hot, smooth, sweaty skin sliding across mine. The firm flesh inside his thighs caresses my flanks as his legs kick and tremble. I pump the bitch full of cum, cursing uncontrollably, as darkness overwhelms me.

When I come to, I find that I’m still hard. I couldn’t have been out long.

On the other hand, the meat is still jacking my dick. The fuckwad isn’t completely dead yet. It’s still convulsing; the aimless thrashing caused by massive trauma to the brain, but it massages my still-sensitive shaft beautifully. I look down into the meat’s face—bloated, black, every inch expressing the unspeakable agony of the garrote. Its eyes had rolled back into its head, only blood-streaked white showing beneath the half-open lids.

Its taut, firm body kept bucking and jerking on my cock. I found myself moaning, pawing at the meat, running my hands down its slick muscled flesh. I can feel a burning sensation in the head of my dick; I can tell I’m going to shoot again.

The meat is fading fast. Time for me to commit one last act of brutality on this hot little teenage punk. One last blast of pain to send him off right. Christ, the pain in the head of my dick; I’m gonna blow…

As I shoot, I crank the cord one last time. The meat’s neck snaps with a sound like a branch breaking. The corpse goes rigid one last time, encasing my cock, milking the last drop of semen out of me like a greedy little deathpig.

I stand up, my back aching. I’ve gotten a lot of exercise. Excellent piece of meat, but it’s completely fucked out now. I need to get it into the tub before it gets stiff and unwieldy. I also need to find a new dumping ground.

Good thing that tub is airtight. Depending on how long it takes me to find a dump, the meat could get pretty ripe before I’m done with it.