Tag: abuse

Fantasy Scenario 9

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario SeriesLeave a comment

I’ve heard it said repeatedly that the anticipation of having something is better than actually having whatever it is you’re anticipating. In many cases, that’s true. In some, however, it’s not.

As much as I’m enjoying my plans to hurt the boy on the bike, I think I’m gonna like actually hurting him more.

He’s been out on his bicycle for a little while now. He caught my attention because he’s riding around without a shirt on and it’s been kinda cool for the past week or so. Not weather in which to go shirtless. I’m glad he is, though.

He looks like he’s in his late teens; I’d say no older than twenty. Slim build but his smooth skin is stretched taut over his biceps and pecs. He’s not overly developed but instead has a strong, wiry swimmer’s body.

He’s wearing a pair of tight gray jeans that just barely come up over his ass. His tightly laced white leather hightops are pumping the pedals furiously.

I have to close my eyes and breathe deeply for a moment. I’m imagining those shoes pumping futilely in the air as life ebbs from his body. Yes, there’s something to be said for anticipation, too.

He’s got a shock of curly brunette hair, but most of it is covered by what appears to be a battered gray fedora. It’s somehow both ridiculous and adorable.

I’m going to take this boy. I’m gonna get off by killing him. I’m gonna use his worthless meat to wipe up my semen. His corpse is gonna end up as nothing more than a used cumrag.

He’s been circling the parking lot for the better part of an hour by now. He pops a wheelie now and then but isn’t really doing much else. He’s been glancing at me from time to time. Clearly wondering why I’m watching him. It’s also just as clear that he doesn’t suspect my real motive, because he starts circling closer and closer, staring at me a little longer each time he passes by
.
As he gets closer, I notice the tattoo on his left shoulder. It’s a smiley face with a bullet hole in the forehead, leaking blood. I can’t help but to grin broadly at the kid; it’s too perfect.

He also starts getting a bit bolder on the bike. I’m not sure what he’s hoping for, but I think he’s trying to impress me. At any rate, he gives me my opening when he fucks up a stoppie right in front of me and falls headfirst onto the asphalt.

“Hey, dude, you ok? That was wicked!” I grin and lay it on thick.

“Shit, man, I dunno. Guess I got owned. Think I should sit down for a sec.”

“C’mon into my van and have a seat. Lemme get you a beer.”

His eyes light up—so, under twenty-one then. When I offer a joint as well, he becomes downright eager. They make it so easy. Poor little fucktoy has no idea how close he is to an agonizing death.

I open the door on the side of the van so we can get in the back, telling the punk to grab himself a beer from the cooler. Of course he’s going to ask about the layer of plastic covering the floor, so I have a story ready.

“I paint houses, man. That’s so I don’t get paint all over the place. Put a new sheet of painter’s plastic down after each job.”

Little fuck buys it and helps himself to a can of cheap beer. Slams the fucking thing, in fact; I’m impressed. I’d puke, trying to get that swill down that quick…

The joint, as usual, is pre-rolled and spiked. Not heavily; I don’t want him unconscious. This is gonna be something like GHB. He’ll be awake but unable to resist. I’ve added something new; there’s a bit of a hallucinogenic in there too. I’m hoping to make this the ultimate bad trip. The greater his terror, the more he’ll thrash about on my cock. I let him smoke it alone while we talk.

“I was watchin’ you for a while, dude. You ain’t bad,” I tell him.

He grins and blushes a bit, then turns away, embarrassed. Tries to play it tough. “Yeah, I seen ya lookin’. Thought you was a faggot or something at first. But this is some good weed, so we’re cool, dude, even if ya are.”

He stares me directly in the face with his hand on the bulge in his crotch. He’s telling me he can be had, as if I didn’t already know that. As if it mattered, anyway. His coordination is getting worse with each passing minute.

He’s limp by the time he’s smoked the joint halfway. I make sure to put it out and save it for later; this mixture might come in handy.

I pull the boy next to me and take that stupid fedora off his head. I grab the thick rod silhouetted in his groin and massage it for a moment, enjoying its thick heft. In a moment, his shoes are off and I’ve got his jeans down, running my hands down his thighs as he lies limp in my arms. He’s gone commando under the jeans—of course; ready for action at the drop of a hat (a battered fedora, perhaps).

I grab at his tool again; long and thick and yet still not hard. I cradle his balls in my palm for a moment, then bend down and slip his hightops back on.

I lean back and look in his face. As I’d hoped, he’s conscious but not able to move much. He’s moaning slightly, fear building in his eyes as he realizes his helplessness. He’s becoming aware that I can do anything I want to him and there’s nothing he could do to stop it. He can’t really even cry out right now.

I still strap a ball gag into his mouth, though. It doesn’t matter how drugged he is—the pain I’m gonna inflict on him will have him screaming. Only way drugs could help would be to put him out of his pain with an overdose. And that, of course, is no fun.

The boy is laying on his back now, legs spread. With apprehensive eyes, he watches me strip. I put my work boots back on afterwards—helps to have some traction on the plastic.

Then I jam my engorged purple cock into the punk’s tight hole.

He moans loudly, grimacing in pain. He looks at me desperately, tears leaking from the corners of his wide green eyes. He still has no control over his muscles, so I place his legs on my shoulders and hold them in place with my arms, feeling the leather of his shoes against my head. I spend the next few minutes raping him while he lies immobile on the bed, arms out to his sides.

After a while, I’ve stretched out the natural elasticity of his sphincter. I need to get his ass to tighten down on my dick again, but from now on it’ll have to be the tightening of muscle. And since his voluntary muscle system is kinda paralyzed at the moment, I need something to manipulate his reflexes.

Although I don’t use it often, the icepick is one of my favorite toys. In reality, though, I don’t like calling it a toy. It’s a weapon of accuracy and finesse. Flailing away with one, stabbing at random (as it seems to be most commonly used), is like using a Stradivarius for high school band practice.

The kid has his head back and his eyes closed and seems to have calmed down. He clearly enjoying getting fucked. I lean down over him, my belly against his firm, flat belly. I’m looking into his face as I insert the icepick into his side—slowly, smoothly.

He’s screaming now, but it only comes out as a long, emphatic moan. He’s crying, tears trickling down the side of his face. But he can’t move; he can’t twist away from the thin shaft of steel that’s slowly—oh god, so slowly—skewering its way into his left side, puncturing his abdominal cavity below the ribcage, piercing his intestines multiple times.

His muscles tighten with the agony. It makes his rectum clamp down on my cock. Once you get down the right speed, everything else happens automatically.

Let’s see if that hallucinogen has helped.

“How does that feel bitch? Ya like that? Good, cause you’re gonna get more. See, I already reamed your ass out. But every time I stick you, your ass tightens, along with most of the rest of your muscles. It’s a reflex over which you have no control. But I do, with this.” I held the icepick right in front of his face so he could see his own blood dripping off it. “I can use this to make your ass keep squeezing my dick. But only for so long, fuckmeat, only for so long.”

I’m grinning at him the entire time, not losing a single thrust in his ass while I talk. I switch the pick to my other hand and slide it into the fucker’s left side, enjoying the velvety smoothness of his rectum clenching my rod. He moans loudly.

For the next half hour, I run the icepick into in various parts of his chest and abdomen, very carefully avoiding organs and major blood vessels. Even so, internal bleeding was starting to take a toll. He was a long way from death yet, but the reflex reaction was starting to fade.

“Fuck, dude, you’re getting’ loose,” I whisper to him. “Gotta tighten ya up again. Guess I better amp it up a notch. Ready to take it to the next level, fuckmeat? Ready to get fucked up for good? The more it hurts, the better it feels. So I’m gonna make sure this hurts wicked bad, dude.”

This time, it goes into his kidney. He doesn’t scream; he tries to gasp around the bright orange ball tied into his mouth. As the fucker goes into shock, his ass muscles ripple up and down my shaft.

God, I’m so close. I get one more of these and then it’ll be time for the finale. Timing is everything; it’s what lifts this above a sordid physical interaction into a form of art.

I slam the icepick into the right side of the kid’s chest, feeling the resistance of the pectoral give way as the tip passes through and punctures the lung. The boy gives a low, despairing bleat.

I’m back over him, showing him the pick again. There’s a miniscule nick in the shaft and a tiny sliver of lung tissue is caught in it.

“Just about fucked you out, bitch. It’s been fun but I wanna shoot my load and you gotta get wasted for that to happen. Don’t worry, dude; I’m gonna make sure you drain your dick, too. Don’t know if you’ll get to enjoy it, though; you’re gonna have other things on your mind. Or in it. Same difference. All that will be left will be your highest and best use—meat to soak up my cum.”

He’s still there. He’s on his way out; it’s only a matter of time. And not much time, at that. He’s been crying continually and his nostrils are getting clogged. With that gag in his mouth, he’s gonna suffocate in a few minutes.

But the hallucinogen did what I’d hoped. He’s still there–even in a state of trauma-induced shock, he’s heard every word I’ve said. Even better, he’s understood them all. He knows why this is happening. He knows that he’s suffering this indescribable agony so I can get off. I don’t need to know his name, who he is, what his hopes were. As far as I care, his only purpose on earth is to die slowly and painfully so his death throes can jack me off.

“Ok, you little fuck; this is what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna stick this in your ear. You’ll feel it tear through you eardrum before it thrusts its way through the fragile bone structure in your inner ear. This part, I’ll do slowly, so you can enjoy it. After that, it’ll be in your brain. You don’t have any nerves there, but I have another way to have fun at that point. Time to get saddled up, fuckmeat. Gonna be up your ass and in your skull at the same time.”

I’m a man of my word. I’m laying full on top of him, watching his face the entire time, my cock up his ass as far as I can get it while I patiently, lovingly insert the icepick into his ear.

Tears flow down his face and his breathing becomes swift and irregular. I can feel his chest jerking beneath mine, his smooth, tight chest, well-greased with a desperate sweat forced out by the pain. His body, naturally oiled, squirms beneath me, but it’s his eyes I’m watching.

I can tell when I’ve reached the brain. His eyes—oh my god, his eyes, the beautiful terror in his helpless green eyes—dilate when I penetrate to a certain depth. Then I jerk down, a little jog to the left…

Suddenly there’s a red hot bar of iron pressed against my belly. Fuckmeat has a hard-on; I’ve hit the pleasure center of the brain. One little twitch to make him blow…

It takes pin-point accuracy to get that massive convulsion that causes the fuckmeat to shoot. It’s worth finding the right spot, though, because that same convulsion somehow seems to collapse the meat’s asshole around my cock and apply suction.

As the kid goes rigid with the massive brain trauma I’ve inflicted, his legs tighten around my back in a kind of embrace that forces his ass down further onto my dick. The drugs have no effect on his death spasm. His body arcs up off the floor; violently, it brings me up with it.

He shoots his wad. A reflex from the brain damage; the boy is dead. This is a corpse, spraying semen as a reflexive attempt to preserve DNA. A fountain of cum sprays between us; he keeps pumping out thick creamy ropes. My god, his balls must have been full. It keeps flowing and flowing…

The seizure works the fuckmeat’s ass beautifully; I shoot a solid stream of cum up into the dying kid’s guts. Holy fuck, I keep spraying too. I remember collapsing on top of the quivering fuckmeat, still skullfucking the steel shaft into his brain and feeling the spasms flowing along that hot iron bar that was still pressed against my belly…

It’s dark when I wake up. My cock is still nestled in my fuckmeat’s ass. We’ve both cum so much that I’m stuck to his body by a glazed coat—a glaze that matches the look in his beautiful green eyes.

I need to get moving. Have to get out of here, have to get rid of the body—oh, but not for a while yet. I’m getting hard again. The ball gag has kept his mouth open and his eyes are tilted slightly upwards.

They’ll be looking right into mine when his lips are resting on the root of my cock.

Fantasy Scenario 8

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario SeriesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

I grin—cheap little whore.

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

Just my type.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy Scenario 7

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario SeriesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy Scenario 4

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy Scenario 2

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I have a helluva good time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy Scenario 1

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario SeriesLeave a comment

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

So I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meat Chronicles 17–Carnivore Uncaged

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

Finally. I’m back out on the hunt. It’s been too long; I’ve had too much shit to deal with recently to go prowling for prey, but I’m back.

I’m hungry for meat.

Among other things, I got a new van. Didn’t want to tool around too long in the last car; it coulda been recognized at a dump site. This one’s nice. Lotta nice features.

The plastic lining the back isn’t standard. Did that myself. Covered as much of the interior as I can; no sense in leaving trace evidence.

Although the way I’m feeling today, there’ll be more than just “trace” evidence. Gonna take more than that to sate the hunger and rage inside.

It’s a warm night for this time of year. I’m in a major shopping center; there’s lots of meat out and about. There’s also a fair amount of security in some of these stores, but at the moment, I’m way out in the middle of the parking lot. There’s the strip mall dead ahead, the big-box store on my left and more strip mall behind me. To my right, I can see the back side of several fast food places and boutique stores facing the main street.

It’s late afternoon. The sky is strange; huge low heavy clouds sit oppressively overhead, but the sun is shining through a break. It seems so much brighter contrasted with the dark, lowering ceiling overhead. Everything is suffused with a golden light.

There aren’t too many cars near me, so I have a pretty good view. Not much to look at, though. There are a few hot boys running around, but they’re all either too far away or accompanied by someone. So I wait.

As the bronze rays of the sun slowly begin to slant away, the security light behind the restaurant closest to me comes on. Just after it does, I see the back door swing open and my meat steps out.

He doesn’t know he’s my meat yet. He’s young; looks like he’s about eighteen or nineteen. Tall, lean and lanky but not scrawny. Above his full lips his face is angular but no more acne-scarred than the average teenager. Just below his smoky blue-gray eyes, his straight nose is interrupted by a swelling; it appears to have been broken at some point in the past.

Good. He’s experienced pain…

In this light, his long blond hair has an amazing golden glow. It’s very straight except for a slight curl at the ends, just above his shoulders. As he turns and I can see his profile, I also notice the haze of shining curls on his chin, a tuft of blond hair there catching the light.

He must be about six, six one. He’s in a black t-shirt that clings tightly to his boyish chest, his pecs two small rises with a shallow valley between. Below his flat belly tight skinny jeans hug his rounded ass and outline a long ridge in his crotch. As his denim-wrapped legs taper to his black leather hightop sneakers, I can imagine his firm thighs tightening around me in agony…

Ok, deep breath. Let’s see what it takes to get the punk. He’s smoking a cigarette and talking on his phone. I’m about twenty yards away, but with the window down I can just barely make out the gist of his conversation.

He’s yelling at someone who was supposed to give him a ride home but didn’t answer his texts. Sounds like he’s talking to voicemail. Poor little guy; maybe he needs a lift. I can do that. But I don’t just wanna pull up in my van and offer a ride; that’d most likely raise a red flag.

This is what it means to be a hunter. It’s a gamble, literally; you’re betting that you’ll get a better shot at your prey while risking allowing him to escape. I wait.

He hangs up, tosses his butt aside and paces angrily for a couple of minutes. I continue to wait, wanting to see what he does. The length and force of his strides decreases as he walks off his frustration.

I settle back, waiting for my cue. It’ll come soon. My heart is pounding with anticipation; I know it’s coming soon. My cock is hard and oozing already but I’m focused and ready to pounce.

The lithe blond punk pauses and glances around. He slips his cigarette pack out again, but what he pulls out is slimmer and more irregular then a cigarette. He lights his joint and inhales deeply, closing his eyes in pleasure. It’s the opening I’ve been looking for.

I start my van and ease out of my parking space. I slowly coast down the row and turn right. The kid is facing away from me; good—he doesn’t hear me until I’m right up on him. He turns, startled, hiding the weed behind him with a guilty expression.

I grin nonchalantly. “Dude, you got another of those?” I ask him casually. “I’ll give ya five bucks; my guy can’t find any right now.”

He gives me a startled glance, but there’s no suspicion in his naïve boyish face. “Yeah, I got more,” he says slowly, eying me very closely. Is the little cunt cruising me? Goddam faggot—I knew it. “Ya wanna buy some? Gimme a lift and I’ll make ya a deal. My ride bailed on me.”

“Not a prob,” I chuckle, “hop in, dude.” He strolls around to the passenger side and climbs in. Fuck, his jeans are clinging so tightly to his slim, firm legs—it’s all I can do to resist jumping him right now. But I don’t; not yet. I need to get someplace private.

“Where we goin’?” I drawl. He gives me directions to one of the suburbs on the east side of town. Kinda a low-rent district. “Ok, I can do that,” I reply. “So whaddaya got to sell?”

“Dude,” he grins, his young, eager face framed by his long blond locks, “I gotta half-ounce tucked down inside my shoe right now.”

“That’ll work,” I smile back, “but I gotta run by my place and get the money first. I don’t tool around with a lot of cash.”

He agrees cheerfully. Perfect. I pull over in a residential area. “Get in the back,” I tell the kid, “I don’t want my girl to see ya; I got enough explainin’ to do as it is.” His beautiful cloudy gray eyes rest hesitantly on mine for a moment, but the punk is too stoned to pick up on any danger signals. He gives another big goofy grin. “Sure, dude,” he lilts, “don’t wanna cause a problem.”

“Don’t worry,” I say as I unbuckle my seat belt and start to follow him into the rear of the van, “you won’t.”

“Huh?” he grunts confusedly, turning his wide, slightly unfocused eyes towards me, “what’s that—unhh!”

He gives a loud grunt as I drive my fist into his face. The sound makes me hard.

The kid falls to his knees, mewling in pain. I grab a fistful of his long blond hair and yank his head back until I can look into his stunned eyes. “Welcome to hell, cunt,” I whisper, smiling into his vacant, horrified face before I slam my fist back into it, putting out his lights. He drops to the floor with a thump.

Well, I ain’t gonna do him here. Too exposed, too much traffic. But I can do a little prep work so he knows what to expect.

Stripping him isn’t difficult but I take a little time—not too much; I’m still on a main street—just enough to enjoy myself. I pull off his black t-shirt, still damp and reeking with boysweat, and toss it to one side. Rolling him flat on his back, I sit on his crotch, facing him, feeling his thick dick pressing against my ass through my tight jeans—and his. He moans thickly, his long eyelashes fluttering as I run my hand down his smooth, firm chest. After fondling his flat belly, I drive my fist into it violently, just to hear that erotic grunt again.

I like to fuck my meat with its shoes on, so his don’t come off. His jeans are too tight to pull off over them. Well, I wanted to get my knife out anyway…

I haven’t used it in a while. It’s so fucking hot; I’m already hard, but holding it makes me drip. It’s a Ka-bar knife with a seven-inch black steel blade. The last three inches towards the hilt are serrated. It’s vicious and clearly designed to inflict maximum damage. It slices through kid’s denim like it was butter, laying bare his muscled legs, covered with a faint fine down of blond hair.

Little motherfucker is commando under. Figures. Stupid bitch probably wants to get used. Well, fuck, guess he’s in for a good time, then—cause I’m damn sure gonna use him good and hard.

In fact, I’m gonna use him right the fuck up.

I was right about his cock, a long snake-like tube of flesh coiled in the golden nest of his pubic hair. I flip the limp slut over and admire his smooth taut bubble butt. Goddam, I can’t wait to plow that tight fuckhole. But I gotta get somewhere private, so I restrain myself—and restrain my meat. His hands go behind his back; I make sure the zip tie is painfully tight.

Later on, I’m gonna spread his legs and rape his smooth teen ass, but right now, I don’t need him kicking around in the back of my van, so I loop his belt around his ankles—a thick black leather strap. I cinch it tight, just above his hightops and white tube socks. I need to keep him quiet; just before climbing back into the driver’s seat, I ball up his reeking t-shirt and shove it in his mouth.

I also make sure to leave the knife where he can see it if he wakes up.

I’m not too far from one of my favorite killing grounds, a semi-deserted industrial area where I know I can get some privacy for at least an hour. That should be enough time to fuck and waste the meat.

It takes a couple of minutes to find the right spot—an enclosed yard containing the loading dock for a defunct factory. Isolated and dark, it hasn’t been used for years for any legitimate purpose. Judging by the amount of broken glass strewn across the cracked, streaked asphalt, it hasn’t been used for any other in quite a while too. Which makes it perfect, but I have to drive carefully.

The meat is awake. I can hear him struggling and jerking, a series of frantic muffled grunts and cries coming from his plugged-up mouth. Good—hope he’s seen the knife.

If not, that’s okay. He’ll see it soon enough anyway.

I ease my van in and shut off the ignition. I step into the rear and turn on the overhead light I had put in, attached directly to the battery. There’s a curtain I can draw to close off the front; with the tinted windows in the rear, no one can see in—not that there’s anyone within at least a mile.

I stand over the meat, looking down at him in the dim light. His face is smeared with tears and snot; he’s clearly terrified. His fear exudes from his hard nude body like an erotic musk. It’s time.

I bend down and snatch the sweaty t-shirt, now soaked with drool, out of the teen’s mouth. It doesn’t matter if he screams now; there’s no one to hear. And I want him to scream.

I like it when the meat screams.

The punk looks up at me, his long blond hair in disarray. When he speaks, his voice quavers in fear. “What-what ya doin’ man? What ya goin’ to do to me?” he whines.

I don’t say anything. Looking down at him with a leer on my face, I pull off my shirt. His smoky eyes slide over my hairy, muscular chest before returning to my face with obvious trepidation. He still doesn’t get it.

Without saying a word, I unzip my fly and let my long, thick, dripping hog flop out.

The kid’s eyes become large round circles and his face pales visibly. “No,” he whispers shakily, “please, fuck, no. Oh God, no, please, don’t do this…” He trails off into broken sobs.

Still not saying anything, I pick up my knife. The meat sees me and gasps, then begins blubbering incoherently. Ignoring him, I bend down and cut the belt binding his legs. Deep in the iron grip of terror, the teen doesn’t try to move; he shudders and trembles as I run my hand up his smooth firm thighs, parting them forcefully so I can get at his fuckhole.

As I kneel between his legs, the boy writhes on his back, his hands bound agonizingly under him. He knows what’s coming; grimacing, he turns his head to the side, tears slipping out from under his long pale lashes.

I move slowly, caressing his smooth boytaint with the oozing head of my dick, letting him feel the massive mushroom tip that’s about to get jammed up his ass. I make sure he doesn’t miss the point. “Yeah, cocksucker, feels good, don’t it? Think how it’s gonna feel when it’s reaming your guts out through your asshole!”

He gasps in fear—or pleasure. It sounds the same. But it’s not his gasping I wanna hear; it’s his screaming. I know how to get it.

Without warning, I plunge my swollen cock into his hole, ramming my vein-wrapped dong as far in as I can, grinding my dark pubic hair into the cunt’s smooth asscheeks. His shriek is loud and piercing—and beautiful. There’s no one for miles, so he can scream as much as he want. Fuck, it’s so goddam hot, the way his body tenses and his silky rectum tightens on my dick like a velvet glove…

The punk takes a deep, shuddering gasp and screams again. The vibration begins in his vocal cords and runs the length of his taut body. I moan out loud. “Fuck yeahhhhh…..”

He turns his head back towards me, his innocent teen face staring into my eyes in pain. “You like hurting me…” he whispers faintly as he pales with horror.

I grin down at him. “Yeah, you fuckin’ faggot. And trust me, you ain’t begun to start hurtin’ yet.”

He glares up at me defiantly. “I ain’t no faggot. And I ain’t gonna help you get off, fucker. You wanna hear me scream? Tough shit. Rape me all fuckin’ night, but I ain’t gonna scream.”

I piledrive my fist into his face, straight from my shoulder. The feisty teen fuckmeat gives another deep grunt of pain and shock as his head rocks back violently. I don’t say a word—I don’t need to. I just pick up my knife and lay it on the cunt’s flat, heaving belly.

My cock remains buried in the bitch’s hole the entire time. His colon massages my swollen, sensitive shaft as he jerks and claws his way back to consciousness. He lifts his head up off the floor, looking down at the knife resting on his abdomen. His left eye is already starting to swell and darken. He’s silent. Stupid fucking teen, but he knows what it means. I can see it in his face.

“Don’t think I can make ya scream, motherfucker? Wanna bet? You’re gonna be screamin’ like the bitch you are, you worthless homo piece of shit. You’re gonna scream and scream but the only way the pain is gonna stop is when I cum. Know what it’s gonna take to make me cum? You gotta die. That’s all there is for ya, pain and death. You’re gonna be a meat puppet filled with my spunk and left to rot in a ditch. How ya like that, you fuckin’ stoned-ass punk cunt?”

Fear rendering the queer punk unable to hold his rebellious glare, the boycunt ducks his head and whimpers. He’s coming to understand that his lithe, lean, smooth body is mine to use as I want. Understanding, however, is not acceptance. And it’s not compliance.

I lay down on top of him, the weight of my muscles holding down his slim teen body, forcing his hands agonizingly into the small of his back—I can see his pain in his eyes. It’s beautiful. It makes me want to hurt him more.

I slowly pump my engorged shaft deep within the youth’s quivering, traumatized rectum. The meat responds to each thrust with faint gasp, almost a moan, his pain-wracked face taut with panic. I can feel his warm, firm body twist and press against me as he seeks to escape from the penetrating agony of my huge cock reaming into his guts.

“Yeah, you worthless little fuck, ya like that, dontcha? Goddam faggot cunt, you love that massive fuckin’ tool plugging your hole, huh? Is that it? You like the way it hurts, fuckmeat? Fuckin’-A, yeah, dude, the way you’re ridin’ my cock, you gotta love it. And I know it hurts, bitch, cause I’m makin’ it hurt. So don’t worry, you worthless pain pig, I’m about to amp up the agony—fuck, meat, I’m gonna hurt you so motherfuckin’ good!”

I grab a fistful of the boy’s hair and pull him down to the floor, forcing my full weight on top of him. As he whines and struggles under me, I slip my other hand down his side, the knife gripped tightly in my fingers. I raise my head up slightly, clenching my fist and pulling up on his hair painfully. His lashes part and I meet the plea in those smoky blue eyes with a cold stare.

I sneer slightly just before I insert the knife into the kid’s flank, slowly inching the sharp, serrated blade into his liver.

The kid’s mouth opens. His face draws back into a rictus of pain; his slim, lithe body contracts around me, his tight legs gripping me tightly in a desperate reflex to trauma. I shudder and gasp as his asshole clamps down on my dick. Fuck, this one’s good. This one is responsive.

This ain’t just meat, this is steak. I need to savor it.

I let go of the knife, leaving it buried up to the hilt in the boy’s heaving, sweating flesh. I don’t want him to bleed out. I let him know.

“Goddam, you’re good fuckin’ meat. Lucky motherfuckin’ cunt, I ain’t gonna kill ya right away–gotta say, bitch, you really know how to enjoy the pain. Holy fuck, if this is getting’ ya off this much, I can’t wait to see what kinda reaction I’ll get from the nightmarish agony I got planned…”

The teen’s face is white but for the huge dark rings of shock forming around his eyes—on his left, it merges with the swollen, bruised skin from his earlier tenderizing. Even a good cut of meat needs some preparation. But he’s hitting the peak of the pain reaction; his body is relaxing, he’s gasping for air in a high-pitched squeal, his teen fuckhole is loosening on my cock.

“Yeah, faggot, that was good for me. Was it good for you? No? Didn’t hurt enough? Geez, dude, you really are a sick fuckin’ pain perv, aintcha? Ok, then, here ya go, ya worthless piece a’ homo shit, ya like this?”

As I lean over and spit into the kid’s face, his look of terrified incomprehension is beautiful. I’m about to recall him into the moment…

Grasping the knife tightly, I begin twisting it inside the youth. The razor-sharp steel slices effortlessly through his liver and spleen. I jerk the hilt brutally upwards, slashing into the teen’s kidney. The serrated edge comes in handy when I encounter some gristle. I look deep into the meat’s eyes as I saw through the obstruction.

He reacts exactly as I’d hoped, black sneakers kicking against my back as his legs grip me again, tightly, desperately, his firm chest slipping over mine on a sheen of cold, agonized sweat leaking out of his abused body. He tightens up even on the inside and I feel my cock swell as if his rectum was forming a vacuum.

“God-fuckin-dam, you motherfuckin’ pain whore! See, I knew it. Ya like that, yeah? How ya like this, meat—I’m about to waste your useless ass. You are about to die in screaming agony and they’re gonna find your body rotting in a ditch full of my cum. Ya like that, ya fuckin’ stoned-ass faggot pig? If not, ya got ten seconds to learn to love it, cocksucker, cause it’s time to die…

…eventually.”

It’s my favorite way of offing my meat with a knife, because I can take my time. The pain the meat endures is excruciating if I do it slowly, and they remain aware of what’s happening for a long time.

I like that.

I swiftly jerk the knife out of the kid’s side, managing to elicit another physical contraction. I have to hold him and shudder for a moment; fuck, that sensation around my shaft… Ok, ok, I need to maintain control. The best part is yet to come—so to speak. I hold up the blade, watching it glisten in the dim overhead light, before I point the razor-sharp, crimson-stained  tip at just about the punk’s Adam’s apple.

Rotating the knife ninety degrees and holding it parallel to his throat, I shove the tip up under his jaw, near the rear of the mouth. As the tip penetrates the skin, releasing a thin trail of blood from the wound, the meat begins the greatest sexual performance of his wasted young life.

Again, he clamps his hard, sweaty legs around me in an unconscious, reflexive embrace. I can feel the heels of his sneakers digging into my thrusting ass as I continue to pump my thick, engorged shaft into the dying teen’s fuckhole. He jerks and thrashes in mortal pain and fear as I slowly insert my steel shaft into his head.

As the blade moves upward, I make sure to describe what’s going on to the meat; I want him to enjoy this as much as I do.

“Ok, cunt, can ya feel that? That’s my knife slicing up through the base of yer tongue. Y’know, like ya can get sliced tongue at the deli? Think of it like that. But I’m doing it to your tongue while my dick is up yer ass. That get ya off, ya pain pig? No? Fuck, ya coulda fooled me, the way your tight fuckin’ teen ass is suckin’ down my cock as I off ya. So let’s kick it up some, huh?

He’s thrashing violently, his face purple with strain and twisted by pain into an almost unrecognizable mask. But I can still see the occasional pimple on his teen face, the golden tuft of fur on his chin, now stained with the blood leaking out his gasping mouth—he’s still my stoned teen meat, writhing against me as I put his flesh to its highest and best use…

I tighten my large bicep, shoving the blade further into the kid’s head as I shove my massive rod deeper into his helpless guts.

“Hell yeah, dude, I bet your tongue is almost cut in half by now and the tip of my blade is goin’ up through the roof of your mouth. Fuck, bitch, that’s gotta fuckin’ hurt—good thing you’re a worthless pain pig, huh?”

Suddenly, the smooth progress of my knife is interrupted. The vicious tip of the blade jams into something solid. I make sure the meat knows that I won’t let it stop me.

“Damn, looks like I hit somethin’—must be the bottom of your sinuses. Goddam, you lucky fucking piece of shit fuckmeat, you get to hear my blade getting’ rammed through the bottom of your skull while you get to feel my dick shred your punk fuckhole.”

His eyes are huge and frantic. I’m not sure how much comprehension remains behind those amazing blue-gray orbs, now bloodshot and staring fixedly. But I haven’t touched his brain yet, so there’s nothing neurologically wrong. The pain, the knife will cut through his terror. He’ll be there for the money shot.

It begins as I press down on the boy’s head with one hand while I drive the knife upwards with the other. As the cunt struggles in my hands, I’m rewarded with the deeply erotic crunch of steel penetrating bone while my dick simultaneously penetrates the meat’s quivering teen rectum.

“What’s it feel like, motherfucker? What’s it feel like to have a serrated blade rammed up though your sinuses? What’s it feel like to ride both my cock and my blade down into agonizing death? I know you’re still in there, you fucking homo piece of shit, I know you can still hear me the same way you can still feel my dick up your ass.”

I smile sweetly into the punk’s crazed, horrified face, releasing the top of his head to stoke his strained, tear-streaked face before resuming my grip.

“You won’t feel your death; you’ll just feel your body and your senses shut down. But at some point, I’ll hit the point your brain that controls orgasm. At the moment of death, you’ll cum uncontrollably. When they find your discarded rotting corpse, they’ll find your own DNA.

Everyone is gonna think you wanted this, you fuckin’ cunt. They’re gonna think you wanted to get fucked to death—and you do, dontcha? This is what ya really want. So just enjoy it. I’m gonna fuck yer ass with my dick and yer brain with my blade; I’m gonna use your body to get off and I’m gonna throw your cum-filled body into the gutter like a used rubber, and ain’t no one gonna give a shit. So get ready to spunk and die, you faggot; get ready to have your fuckin’ pain pig death left in the street for everyone to see.”

I slide my knife up slowly, lovingly, though the teen’s sinuses, holding him down and maintaining control as his body convulses rhythmically, pumping his sphincter along my shaft as it clenches my rod like a cock ring. He rocks violently side to side, his eyes staring deeply into mine, conveying his complete surrender to the overwhelming assault on his body…

And then I hit the point I’ve been seeking—the point at which the teen is truly made into meat, the point of the brain that makes the punk blow his load despite the pain and fear and trauma.

I have no idea if he even knows what’s happening at this point. His eyes roll back in his head as his legs dig into me painfully, convulsing to the point of pulling me in and driving my swollen purple shaft even deeper into the meat’s torn and damaged rectum. As the faggot fuckmeat jerks under me, I feel a hot blast of fluid across my flat, hairy abdomen.

The cunt is shooting uncontrollably, just like I promised. I always make sure the meat blows a load. This one’s no different. His long thick glistening cock stands up and presses firmly into my belly so I can feel his shaft swell and spunk as he dies.

I ream his ass and his skull, one with a hot, hard shaft—the other with a cold, hard shaft. I pump his guts full of spunk as the dying meat drains his semen over my furry belly. Gasping deeply, I hold the youth tight, stroking and kissing the shuddering corpse tenderly.

I slowly regain my composure. Pulling my still-oozing tool out of the body’s torn colon, I wipe my dick (and my knife) off with what’s left of the meat’s jeans. I get dressed and, shutting off the light, slip past the curtain into the driver’s seat. I slowly ease out of the yard, glad there’s enough of a moon that I don’t have to turn on the lights.

I keep them off till I reach a main road. Long before then, though, I pull over to a storm culvert. There’s been a lot of rain lately, so it’s pretty full.

I drag the meat out of the van. Hands still bound behind its back, its black sneakers drag over the pavement as I lift it over the railing and dump it into the runoff. I quickly toss the cunt’s shirt and jeans in behind the meat and take off.

Damn, it feels good to be back in the saddle.

Meat Chronicles 16–Make a Lunge for the Border

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

He’s young, no more than eighteen or nineteen, to judge by his appearance. Latino, with smooth brown skin. Slim, with tight jeans and a black t-shirt under a gray hoodie. There’s a knit cap over his hair and square-toed shitkicker boots on his shuffling feet.

He looks cold, out there on the corner, where the rentboys usually hang. But it’s too cold for them, and I don’t think this one’s a whore. He looks a little too rough; the sluts tend to be more hip. And he seems embarrassed, uncertain.

Think I should find out what his story is. He looks like he wants it, but is scared to death of finding it—whatever “it” is.

I grin. I know what “it” is. And he’s right to be scared.

I’ve been sitting in my van in a dark parking lot about a third of the way down the block. Despite the cold, I’ve left the ignition off. I have a very clear view of him. He can’t see me; he’s unaware of my existence. But he won’t be for long.

I start the van and pull out of the lot; he swivels and focuses on me instantly. I drive slowly past the pool of light in which he’s standing and ease over to the curb just past the illuminated circle. No one is out to see anything on this chilly night, but there’s no sense in taking chances.

Despite whatever trepidation he might be feeling, the chicoputa is at the passenger door quickly. When he opens it, I get my first clear glimpse of him in detail. I lean forward, scanning his face carefully. I’ll fuck him no matter what he looks like—after all, he’s just meat—but I wanna see if it’s gonna be doggie style or missionary.

Missionary, definitely. His huge black puppy-dog eyes are almond-shaped. My eyes are drawn into them by his long, lush eyelashes. A stray curl of hair that’s escaped his knit cap reveals his silky blue-black hair.

His full, red lips give his face an erotic vulnerability that gets a boost from the fine shadow on his upper lip; despite his age, he has the wispy moustache of puberty.

He smiles sweetly—and nervously—and hops in right away. He pauses uncertainly for a moment, then reaches over and grabs my cock, already tent-poling my jeans.

“Cin-cincuenta dolares,” he stammers.

“Fifty bucks?” I reply. “Sure, I can do that. Lemme get somewhere private. Get in the back, cholo, if ya wanna get chingado’d. And drop your pantalones.”

He obeys, scrambling into the back and unbuttoning his skin-tight jeans, letting them slide to the floor—he’s not wearing a belt. He reaches down to his waist and pulls off his hoodie in one swift, smooth motion. For a brief moment, he stands, lithe, firm torso wrapped in a black t-shirt that comes down to mid-belly. Beneath that, his smooth flat abdomen sweeps down to the haze of black curly hair from which a short, thick, uncut dick stands erect and dripping. There’s a hint of black fur on his smooth, firm thighs and calves that disappear into the tops of his brown leather shitkickers. His jeans have slid all the way down. Bracing himself against the side with in hand, he reaches down with other and works the cuffs of his jeans over his boots so he’s able to get the former off without removing the latter.

Then the t-shirt comes off. His taut, tight abdomen is tattooed. Across his smooth, flat brown belly is a huge tattoo in blue ink—two crossed knives, in the center of which is a blazing circle surrounding an eagle, holding a writhing snake in the shape of an “M” in its beak. Above are the letters “MM” several inches high.

It’s a gang tattoo. In this case, Mexican Mafia. And since I can see the word “Mexikano” on his right bicep; it’s specifically the Texas Mexican Mafia.

Oh fuck yeah. I can’t wait to shove my hard dripping shaft up this worthless little gangbanger’s asshole. Fucking cunt wants it, too. His eyes are shining with lust as he looks at my tool…

At any rate, fuck foreplay. I lunge at the meat, driving my fist into his beautiful spic face, catching him on the jaw, and utterly, completely stunning him.

He grunts before falling to his knees. It’s a deep, vital sound that gets me even harder. I bend down between his legs and grab…his wallet.

With a quick jerk, I snatch it out of his back pocket of his discarded jeans, pulling with enough force to snap the belt loop. I have the wallet and its chain, which turns out to be two feet long.

Oh, that’s perfect. The kid groans and looks up at me with a wounded expression. He sees the wallet in my hand. “Por favor, señor, no dinero! No dinero!”

I know ya ain’t got any money, cunt; that’s not what I want.

I lunge, my animal instincts taking over, forcing the kid onto his back. I grab his ankles—his boots, actually, feeling the scarred leather of his dirty workboots as I grasp them roughly and hoist his legs up to my shoulders. I’ve left his wallet, long chain attached, on the right.

I still have plans for it.

He jerks his firm, brown legs, trying to free them from my grip. I’m bigger and better-built; he doesn’t stand a chance. I lean over him, slowly bending his knees until they’re forced back to his chest. The punk tries to resist, his breathing labored and frightened, his eyes wide with bewilderment. His knit cap—it’s black or dark blue—still clings to his head, slightly askew. Several locks of long black hair have escaped and fan into the air as the kid struggles. He still doesn’t understand what’s happening.

Time for a little enlightenment. My cock is primed and ready to go; so is the meat. I think it’s time to get them together.

Judging by his scream, the kid thinks differently. There’s no one close enough to hear; the only impact the noise has is to vibrate his innards a little, making them constrict slightly as my shaft tears its way past his sphincter and plunges deep into his tender colon.

“Yeah, scream like a bitch, ya fuckin’ faggot,” I sneer at him, “feels so fuckin’ good on my cock. Go on, cholo, scream. Lemme feel your punk ass get a good grip on my dick.”

I spit in his face. He stares up at me; if his eyes had been wide before, they’re enormous now. His entire face is stretched into a mask of shock, his mouth a perfect O. He’s literally stunned and is—momentarily, at least—unable to comprehend what’s happening to him.

I get it. Little motherfucker is a virgin. This is his first time gettin’ it up the ass. Been spending his time blowing his homies in alleyways—probably hasn’t ever asked for money before. It would explain his nervousness when he first approached me.

I grin down at him. “Helluva time to turn puta, esé. You’re gonna love this. I’m gonna give ya the hardest, best, most painful fuck of your entire life.” I can’t stop myself from chuckling as I smile down into the spic’s eyes, brimming with tears. “And the last. La ultima cogida.”

It takes a moment for my words to work their way into the Latino slut’s fear-jammed mind. I can see when it happens; that moment of terror, the eyes widening with the realization that his life might be ending tonight. I can see it processing. He’s gonna scream. I don’t care if he does; like I said, there’s no one to hear him.

So I don’t know why I stop him, but I do. Just as he gasps, filling his lungs with air in order to heave out what would surely be a tremendous cry of panic, I slam my fist into his face with the force of a piledriver. I can feel the satisfying crunch of his cheekbone under my hand.

He expels his lungful of air—not in a scream, but in a deep, shocked grunt that reverberates through his firm body. I can feel the blow in my cock. “Hell yeah, you fuckin’ spic puta, ya love getting’ hurt, huh? I can tell by the way yer fuckhole milks my cock when you’re in pain. Tell me, vato, did your gangbanger buddies slap ya around while you were blowin’ them? Bet ya loved it, ya fuckin’ pain pig; bet ya begged ‘em for more. Lessee how much more you can take, si? Mas dolor, perra, mucho mas dolor.”

He moans in pain and confusion, but it doesn’t last long. He’s smaller than me, but he’s a tough little street punk nonetheless and he doesn’t want to go quietly.

Good. I’m in the mood for a little workout. And the longer he struggles on my cock, the better it feels. And the better it feels for him, too, the little fag slut, judging by the way his cock is suddenly erect; its dark swollen head leaving a trail on my skin as it slips over my firm flat belly.

He looks up at me—now there’s a look of rage to go with the pain. I’m already anticipating him when he suddenly explodes into a scrabbling, scratching fury like a feral cat—which is pretty close to what he is. A wild little street punk whose wasted life is gonna end agonizingly on the head of my dick without anyone ever knowing or caring.

My hands are pressing against the inside of his thighs, just above the knees, forcing his legs up against his chest—and slightly apart. I’ve thrust myself between them while fucking him so that by now, his smooth, taut legs have wrapped around my sweaty torso of their own accord.

The useless little cocksucker, enraged by the pain of getting his ass violated, kicks violently now. The thick soles of his dirty, rough workboots catch at my flanks as the boy thrusts his legs down, trying to pull me off using just his legs. He’s trying to find a weak spot on me, something to use to his advantage. Luckily I’ve built up a good sheen of sweat—these feral little street whores are always a good workout—so his boots don’t find a purchase.

Still, the scraping is painful. And this piece of shit is here to be on the receiving end, not the giving.

I think the cunt needs a reminder.

The next blow comes straight down from my shoulder into the kid’s mouth. His head bounces off the carpeted floor of the van as his arms and legs splay out in shock; his boots leaving one last bruise as they fall back limply onto my back. The meat rolls his head to the right and coughs out something small, red and white. It’s an incisor. His head moves back, his eyelids fluttering as he struggles to maintain consciousness. His lips are already split and swollen, a trickle of blood leaking from the right corner of his mouth.

He’s limp and jerking, not fighting me, at least for the moment. He’s still pinned to the floor by my cock; he ain’t goin’ anywhere. I wanna admire his wallet.

Specifically, I wanna admire the chain he’d used to secure it to his jeans. It’s a small gauge, but sturdy, and there’s more than two feet of it.

I hold it in front of the stunned whore. His eyes follow the chain blearily. “Mira, puta, su cadena. Your own chain.” I lay it across his neck as I reach up and snatch off his cap, finally revealing an untidy mop of long, slightly curly black hair. I grab a handful of greasy black silk, jerk his head up, and wrap the chain all the way around his neck.

He moans, clears his throat and opens his eyes. His hands crawl up his chest to his neck; just as his questing fingers encounter the chain, I wrap it around my hands and jerk as hard as I can, my biceps bulging as the links of the chain compress the punk’s throat to the point that they sink into the flesh.

He fights, of course. This is the kinda struggle I’d wanted. Before, the kid was thinking and planning.

Now, I’ve got the feral street whore back. He claws and scratches, reaching instinctively for my face. I lean back, keeping him out at full arm length. And my arms are longer than his. The tips of his fingers scrabble in the stubble of my goatee on my chin, but he can’t quite come close enough to actually grasp anything. All he can do is fondle the facial hair of the man who’s raping and strangling him.

“Hey, cholo,” I tell him, my jaw dropping just enough when I speak to allow his frantic hands to stroke my chin. “Tiempo de morir. Did I get that right, cunt? Time to die. Here, if ya didn’t get it in two languages, maybe this’ll get the point across.” I jerk my arms further apart, grunting with the exertion as tendons stand out in my arms.

The spic arcs violently. Balling his hands into fists, he beats at my arms, desperately trying to break my grip. His face swells and darkens as his eyes focus frantically on my face. Despite the excruciating pain of strangulation, he still doesn’t realize he’s dying. He can still feel my cock plugging his hole, after all.

I grin at him before spitting in his purple face. His eyes bulge up at me, blood vessels starting to burst and stain his whites with red. “Tu es carne. You got that, concha? You’re nothing but meat. You’re gonna gag and choke and milk the cum outta my shaft as you die. When I’ve filled your worthless ass up with my spunk, I’ll throw your useless corpse into the canal like the pile of rotting meat you’ll be. Even if anyone finds ya, they won’t give a shit. So keep fightin’ it, cunt, the longer you live, the more ya jack my dick.”

Man, this one’s hot. Little spic slut is stronger than he looks; he fights for more than five minutes.

At first, he’s wild. I didn’t expect him to last long; he fought so hard that I was sure he was using up all the oxygen left in his bloodstream. He continues to beat and kick at me for about ninety seconds, his eyes looking up into mine, tears leaking from the corners the entire time.

“I know, I know,” I tell him softly. “Sucks, don’t it? Didn’t think you were gonna go out like this, huh? Not tonight, huh? Tough shit. You’re just a useless spic cumpig. No one cares how or when you go out. So ya might as well make me cum and make your death have some meaning, huh? Not like anyone’s gonna give a fuck about your worthless puta ass.”

He’s not fighting as hard now. I can lower my head. When I do, he doesn’t try to rip and gouge my face, now he caresses my cheeks.

His legs, too, have slowed. He’s not kicking the living shit outta me anymore; now I can feel his smooth firm thighs embracing my flanks, our entwined bodies writhing together in a vital dance of sex and death. Between us, his uncut tool burns and twitches violently as if it has a mind of its own.

As indeed, it must. I recognize the signs. I can stop my inept attempts at Spanish. The kid isn’t dead—not by a long shot—but there’s not enough working brain matter for him to appreciate my taunting. He’s still conscious (in a way) but my ability to use his fear to chemically stimulate his own body is at an end.

His brain is too damaged to comprehend my words. Well, that’s a goddam shame. But I ain’t done havin’ fun with my meat. And fuck, it ain’t even really meat yet.

The wiry muscular little cholo begins to convulse rhythmically as more and more of his brain dies and his nervous system begins to collapse. His rectum spasms and writhes, his guts clenching around my thick, hypersensitive shaft as his taut teen body grips me tightly in its death throes.

As I feel my seed boiling up in my balls, ready to overflow and inject this dying teen meatpunk with my genetic material, claiming his unwanted fuckhole as my own to dispose as I wish, I spit into his grotesque mask of a face. His beautiful Latino features are blackened and distorted, his eyes bulging, his tongue a purple protrusion surrounded by foam that oozes from both corners of his mouth. On the left, it leaves a trail of white slime down the punk’s cheek. On the right, it’s the same—except the drool has mixed with the blood from the split lips. The trail is pink.

I don’t think there’s enough left of him to hear me—and if there is, it damn sure ain’t enough for the spic punk to understand English—but I let him know anyway. Just cause the meat’s tender enough doesn’t mean I can’t pound it a few more times.

“Almost there, cunt, almost there. Fight it, you bitch, keep scrambling to stay alive. Lemme feel ya fight to the very end, ya fucking whore, lemme feel you die like a worthless cumsucking pig on my cock—“

There’s a loud crunch as his esophagus collapses. In the ultimate agony of death, his arms and legs contract around me; he clings to me desperately as life leaves his body and the neurons in his brain begin to fire at random. As he shudders and trembles, holding me in the iron grip of one suffering a traumatic death, I feel his orgasm; his cock is so swollen I can feel it pulse and writhe as jets of semen erupt between us, hot on my skin.

At the same time, his stretched and torn sphincter gives one last convulsion, cinching about my dick like a cockring. As the punk’s rectum flutters and spasms over the engorged head of my tool, I can feel my release pumping the meat’s ass full of my seed. I grunt and cry out, but then I’m dizzy…

…I can feel hot jizz flowing out of me, pumping so hard it hurts…

…I don’t let go; I have to hold on to something as I cum, something to brace myself—this chain in my hand…

…oh fuck you gotta be feelin’ this cunt, my huge load’s gotta be the last thing ya feel…

 

Ok. I’m ok. I’m back under control.

I’m on my knees with my cock still sunk deep in the quivering meat. And now it really is meat. I don’t think there’s any brain activity left—and if there is, well, that chain is buried too deep for me to bother digging it out.

I pull out and stand up, cum still dripping from the head of my cock. I let it drip onto the meat, watching it vanish into the pools of the slut’s own semen that spread over his flat belly.

I get dressed quickly. There’s no real reason to rush; no one has seen me and no one knows we’re here. But still, the sooner done the better, as long as I’m careful. And I have been careful.

I open the back doors of the van. Barely a foot beyond is a short wood and metal guardrail intended to prevent anyone from driving into the drainage ditch. It’s about eight feet down at that point. At the moment there’s just enough water to cover the body, but a front is coming through tonight and it’s supposed to rain for two days. By the time he rots enough to pop up, he’ll be halfway to the ocean.

I grab the meat under the armpits and drag him out. His leg spasms, making his scarred workboot kick. I drag him up over the guardrail and tumble him headfirst into the ditch. I make a second trip, picking up his clothes and belongings and toss them in after.

Well, I’d wanted a little Mexican tonight. Now what do I want for dinner?

Meat Chronicles 15–Getting the Point

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

I’m angry tonight. I don’t know why and it really doesn’t matter. What matters is finding some young stud and working out my frustrations. There’s a burning rage inside me and I can extinguish it only with the blood and cum of some teen punk.

I need to find fuckmeat and find it soon. Doesn’t matter if it likes dick or not; by the time I’m done with it, it won’t care anyway. It’s getting dick, like it or not. It’s getting dick and a lot more.

Goddam, I’m dripping just thinkin’ about it.

I’ve been so intent on every punk I’ve seen on the street that I haven’t been aiming my van towards any specific locale; I’m just kinda driving around at random. When I first notice the kid, he’s just leaving a convenience store. I catch a glimpse of him under the bright orange glare of the sodium vapor lights under the gas pump canopy.

He’s just coming out of the store with fresh pack of cigarettes; he pauses to open the pack and light one. The store is on the corner of the avenue I’m on and a side street; I’m stuck at a light.

He just bought the pack; they card in this state, so he must be eighteen. Looks younger from here, but I’m a coupla hundred yards away. But it’s dusk, so he’s well-lit.

He’s at or just under six feet tall. He’s shirtless, so I can see his slender but muscled torso. For a moment, he turns in my direction; I can see a tattoo on his left pectoral, broad and hard like a hubcap. He’s too far away for me to make it out, though. His upper body is smooth, his clear skin flowing like silk over his thick biceps and flat, firm belly. The lower part of his abdomen appears shadowed; he might have some hair flowing downward. But I can’t tell what color; his hair must be cut short, since it’s completely hidden under a red ball cap, brim turned to the left.

He reaches into the pocket of his tight black denim shorts to replace his lighter; I catch the glint of a chain that drapes from a belt loop to his rear pocket; obviously his wallet. Beneath the short I can see his thick muscular legs. He’s got a pair of white leather hightops on his feet and tight black socks with white stripes and a sports logo wrapped around his lower calves. He’s perfect.

And I can’t take him, goddammit. He’s right under a security camera. And my light has turned green; I’m heading away from him. I’m gonna run around—I woulda anyway; if ya want good hunting, you don’t go to the suburbs after dark on a weeknight. But the punk probably lives in this neighborhood. There was no car in the lot, so he (and the clerk, too) must be walking.

I could catch up, but not if he lives here. This neighborhood is too well lit. Well, fuck. If I turn around, I can hit the highway. I haven’t grabbed a whore in a while; it’s still warm enough for plenty of them to be out…

I pull a U at the next light and head back towards the highway. As I approach the light, I peer into the distance in hopes of catching sight of the teen bitch, but there’s nothing. He’s not in front of the store anymore and I can’t see him within the radius of the dull orange glow of the lights. Shit. Well, I hadn’t really counted on it. Highway is only a few more lights down.

The neighborhood becomes more commercial as I approach the highway, but about a half mile from the store there’s a patch of greenbelt. Railroad tracks run through the center of it; a good quarter mile of trees deaden the sound and preserve property values.

And that’s where he was, walking. He’s heading towards the highway, too. Wonder where he’s going and what he’s doing.

No, I don’t. I wanna fuck him and kill him. He’s meat.

I pull up alongside and roll down the passenger window down. Yeah, it’s a big creepy van. Bet the little fuck gets in anyway.

“Need a lift? Where ya headed?” I call out.

He stops and turns to me. “I’m headed to a club. Club Polo, ya heard of it? Down east of the highway on Eighth. Dude, I’d love a lift.”

He opens the door and I get a good close-up under the dome light. I can see his eyebrows and his slight stubble; his hair is nearly platinum blond. The tattoo on his beautiful chest is Roman numerals; “XIII” in block letters on that thick pec. His eyes are deep emerald green with long thick lashes—and the whites are red. Little fucker’s higher than shit.

Good. Let’s help that along. Nothing gets meat in the mood like getting wasted—before getting wasted.

He hops in. I leave a half-smoked joint in the ashtray for occasions like this; the teen punk notices it and grins. I notice him and grin. “Dude, you wanna hit? Finish this off; I’ve had enough.”

He beams with joy and snatches up the jay, lighting it instantly and sucking damn near half the thing down in one long hit. It’s strong shit, a little too much for him. He starts coughing, his hard body shuddering and jerking he tries to keep the smoke in while his lungs and diaphragm fight against him.

As he gasps and emits a huge, sweet-smelling cloud, he lies back in the seat, choking and coughing. Fuck, look at that body shudder and twitch; enjoy it, cunt, cause soon you’re gonna be shuddering for real…

I know where to go. I used to work around here; I know a place to park where I won’t be disturbed. A business that’s closed for the day—the rear lot backs onto a drainage canal. No one ever goes there after dark.

As I drive, the meat starts talking. He’s going to the club because his favorite DJ is there. That’s all I hear. The rest of it is just the bleating of the meat; the only reason I haven’t cold-cocked the little fuck is because his voice turns me on; the deep voice of a stupid teen jock.

Can’t wait to hear what it sounds like when it screams.

Only a couple more blocks to go. Time to bait the trap. “Hey dude, if ya liked that, I got something that’ll really fuck ya up. See that other joint down in the console? I got some prime peyote mixed with that. If you’re into music, it’ll open a whole new world for ya.”

The meat’s eyes light up redly at the thought. Punk’s already so fucked he doesn’t know which end is up. Well, he’s gonna find which end is up his ass soon enough. This is almost too easy. Poor little fuckwad has no idea of the hell in store for him.

“Dude, if you’re gonna burn that, get in the back. Don’t wanna show it off to the 5-0.” He gives me big, goofy, happy grin and squeezes past me into the rear of the van. His smooth back and firm ass press against me as he moves.

Can’t wait to plug that fuckhole. My weapon is back there, but he won’t notice it, high as he is. And getting higher by the second, judging by the smoke that fills the van.

I’m nearly there; good thing, too. Starting to smell like a pot farm. Motherfucker must be huffing the goddam thing. There’s no peyote in there but it’s really strong shit. I don’t want him out—I just wanna dull his reactions and slow him down. Never occurred to me that the kid would smoke himself to incoherence during the short drive.

Well, he’s certainly gonna be slowed down. May not even have to bind the cocksucker.

I pull behind the low dark building and shut off my lights as I park in the rear, backing into a space at the very far end of the lot. I slip into the back to join the boy, who’s so fucked up I don’t think he’s realized we’ve stopped even though no one’s in the driver’s seat. He’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet lining the floor. Before I join him, I quickly check the surrounding through the small windows in the rear doors.

It’s a commercial/warehouse district. The closest buildings in this direction are a quarter-mile away, on the other side of the ditch and floodplain. Bright security lights illuminate empty parking lots. This neighborhood is deserted at this hour.

I sit next to the punk. He smiles at me happily and hands me the joint. I take a small hit and pass it back; I don’t need to be too stoned for this, but it’s making him relaxed. After we pass it back and forth a couple of times, I put my hand on his thigh.

“I ain’t inta other dude,” he mumbles.

I smile broadly at him. “No? How about another dude in you?”

He grins at me, too fucked up to get it. I grin back and slam my fist into his jaw with a swift sucker punch.

He grunts loudly, flying backwards, splaying his arms and legs. I get up quickly, but there’s no need. He’s not completely unconscious, but he’s way too stunned to do more than lay spread-eagled on his back and gasp.

I bend down and grab the waist of his shorts, roughly jerking them down his legs. Fucking cunt is commando. Yeah, he was either gonna fuck or get fucked tonight. Well, I guess that cliffhanger has been resolved. Bitch is gonna regret the easy access.

I drag him, nude but for his sport socks and leather hightops, to the center of the floor. The kid moans as I stand over him and unzip my fly, letting my hog flop out, swollen and dripping in anticipation of the pain I’m gonna inflict on this worthless teen slut.

My chest glistens with sweat—like the boy, I decided it was too warm for a shirt tonight. And there’s no AC in my rape van.

I like it when the meat sweats.

I kneel and pull the boy’s legs up, placing his shoes on my shoulders as I run my hands down his smooth, muscular thighs. His cock, short but massively thick, lies limply in a nest of golden fuzz, a nest containing two huge, wrinkled eggs. Propping him up, I spit into my palm and use it to moisten the oozing purple head of my cock before bending down and gently placing it against the youth’s pink fuckhole.

I grasp his thighs, digging my fingers into his firm flesh, and shove my mushroom head as deep into his guts as I can in one thrust.

That woke the little cunt up. He’s wailing like a banshee, his hands snatching at my skin at random, his legs jerking and twisting in my arms. I draw my legs up, feeling the soles of my combat boots finding traction on the van’s carpet. Applying pressure to my legs, I push up and on top of the bitch, pinning him to the floor with my dick and my body weight. I’m larger and better built—no matter how hard he struggles, he can’t get out from under me.

He can’t escape my cock. And he can’t escape anything else I wanna stick in him.

I settle down on top of him, letting my thick cock slide all the way up his tender rectum. He’s yowling like a cat in heat as I split his virgin hole, feeling the flesh tear and blood trickle as my engorged shaft sinks into him inch by inch. It’s hard to tell if he’s yelling in pleasure or in pain, but it’s too loud.

Plus, he’s starting to scratch and fight now. Need to tame the little fuck. I grab a hank of his hair with my left hand and draw my right fist back. He doesn’t see it coming. He gives another loud grunt as the blow lands on his jaw. His whole body contracts with the impact; I can even feel his sphincter clench slightly.

Good. If that’s how the meat reacts to pain, this is gonna be lots of fun.

For me, that is.

I’m pumping his smooth ass with long, deep thrusts. He groans, his eyelids fluttering as he fights to retain consciousness. I keep fucking his hot, sexy, limp body as he starts stirring. Suddenly his bright green eyes open wide and he remembers. He opens his mouth and inhales; he’s gonna start screaming again.

I’m still holding his hair. I draw my fist back and he flinches, throwing up his arms to block. I smack them out of the way as I twist his head around painfully by the scalp.

“Shut up and take my cock, you little motherfucker,” I snarl at him. He looks at me, his face etched with pain and fear, tear-filled eyes wide as he whimpers. “You’re making too much noise, you cunt. Either shut the fuck up or I’ll make ya shut up. Ya want that, fuckwad? Want me to shut you up? I can shut ya up for good, whore, ya want that?”

He shakes his head in terror, his lips pressed together as hard as he can to prevent any sound from escaping. He knows what I mean.

He doesn’t know it’s gonna happen anyway. I wanna play with him a bit first. I spit in his bewildered face.

“Yeah, you just thought you were gonna get high and party tonight, you stupid asswipe? Guess what—you are. You’re already higher than fuck and now we’re gonna party my way. Most intense party of your worthless fucking life, meat.”

His beautiful emerald eyes, framed by his long golden lashes, stare up at me uncomprehendingly, beseechingly. He’s desperate for the pain to end but is too cowed to speak.

He has no idea that what he’s experiencing now is like a mother’s kiss compared to the nightmarish hell that awaits him.

I make sure to give him a hint. I’m still pumping up his ass, rough, hard and raw. Even wallowing in fear, he’s unable to keep silent; faint mewling sounds burst from his lush, full lips.

His face is moist with tears; the rest of him is moist with sweat. So am I. It’s hot in here in more ways than one. I can feel the beads trickle down through the matted hair on my chest to drip on the meat’s abdomen, heaving in agony. It lubes our writhing, intertwined bodies as we slide over each other in hot wet forced mansex.

He’s starting to accept it. It usually happens. Most of the time, the meat has to be forced to acknowledge its true desires; it never wants to admit how much it gets off on what happens. This cunt is slowly relaxing into the fuck, enjoying it. As he does so, his ass starts to go slack.

It’s a fatal mistake. He’s too relaxed for his colon to suck out my spunk.

Not good enough, bitch, not by a long shot. I think it’s time the meat knows what’s in store. I reach into the shadows on the right, groping with my hand while still rhythmically thrusting my tool into the punk’s inflamed fuckhole. I keep his attention by sneering at him and spitting in his face. When I hold the weapon in front of his face, it’s a total shock. He’d thought he was getting raped. Now he knows he’s getting raped and murdered.

It’s an M1 Garand Springfield bayonet. Not a vintage one—although it’s identical to one made in 1942. The grip is plastic, but the rest of it is sixteen inches of sharpened stainless steel, ready to penetrate the boy’s body like a hard dick.

He sees it, his eyes focusing on the glint of the razor-sharp blade, the pointed tip, so ready to rip into his tender, defenseless body. He’s quiet, but it’s because fear has overloaded his drugged brain. He doesn’t scream, he whispers. “No, please, no, no, don’t, please god no don’t no no no…”

“Yeah, ya little cocksucker, ya see it? You’re gonna more than see it, cunt, you’re gonna feel it in yer guts. This is what happens to useless whores like you when ya get into stranger’s cars. You’re gonna get fucked in every way possible. You think gettin’ my cock stuck in ya hurt? Wait’ll I stick this in ya too. You’re gonna hurt so good you’re gonna spunk uncontrollably.”

He shakes his head speechlessly, retreating into denial in his attempt to preserve his sanity. No ya don’t, meat. I want it to know exactly what’s happening.

I place my left hand over the meat’s forehead, pressing it forcefully into the shag carpet lining the van’s floor. With my right, I drag the bayo blade over the cunt’s face. Even though it’s a replica, I keep it oiled to prevent rust; I make sure to wipe it over the meat’s nostrils.

“Smell that, fuckmeat? That’s oiled steel. Imagine what that’s gonna feel like slicing through your stomach. Imagine that sharp tip stabbing its way up through your intestines into your ribcage. It’s gonna be excruciating. Pain like you never felt in your short wasted life, bitch. But you’re a fucking pain pig cunt, I can tell. It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad you’re gonna blow yer wad, you stupid whore.”

He looks. He can’t help it. The blade is long and dark, except along the cutting edge, where it’s been ground down to a point; the razor edge reflects the faint glow from the parking lot security lights.

He’s breathing deeply, timing it perfectly to the stokes of my dick. His eyes seem mesmerized by the bayo; I can feel his sphincter tighten as his brain unwillingly follows my words and starts imagining. He’s already caught up in a whirlpool of lust and drugs and pain and fear.

“Time to rock ‘n roll, motherfucker. Time to get it on. Are ya ready for the burn, cunt? Ready to ride my cock and my blade into agonizing death? No? Heh, tough shit, you worthless cocksucking piece a’ shit, cause it’s gonna happen anyway. And you’re such a fucking useless faggot motherfucker, you’re gonna spunk as I end your worthless life, cocksucker.”

His eyes break away from the blade, turning frantically up to mine. His face is crazed with pain and panic, his arms clawing wildly at me, scratching my arms, my chest, scrabbling at my face. His legs flail in his terror, the rubber soles of his pricey leather hightops scraping my heaving, sweaty flanks in his instinctive attempt to escape. His head is still forced down onto the floor by my left hand pressing onto his forehead. I rise up on my knees—and my hand on his head, my shaft still spearing his ass mercilessly.

I look down into his youthful pig face, streaked with tears of pain and strain. He looks up to me, eyes filled with a silent plea that only makes me want to hurt him more.

So I do. I place the tip of the blade against his smooth, flat belly, and slow increase the pressure.

It takes two minutes to get the first inch of the blade in. It’s all I can do not to cum; the meat’s colon reacts to pain beautifully. He’s gasping and moaning, but not screaming; he’s too overwhelmed. I’m overwhelmed, too, overwhelmed by lust. I pull my dick out of his ass, leaving just my fat mushroom tip inside his quivering fuckhole.

“You want it, meat, you know you do,” I whisper to the boy. His pale, creamy skin highlights his platinum blonde hair. His smooth, firm body trembles under me, still sliding frictionlessly on a sheen of cold sweat, forced out by sheer terror. It’s nothing next to the sweat and pheromones he’ll be pumping out as he dies.

“Ready, meat? Time to die, cunt. Time to waste your worthless ass so I can cum. Ya like that, dontcha? You know it’s what you want. You wanna die on my dick. You know it, meat. Just accept it. You’re gonna die in agony taking my load up your ass and you’re gonna like it, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit, aintcha?”

I smile beatifically into his face as I watch him absorb my words. It’s that moment of realization I’m looking for; the moment he realizes I’m serious.

I see it. His eyes widen slightly. It’s all I need. As I slam my thick purple cock deep into the cunt’s fuckhole, I shove the bayonet into his belly, feeling no resistance as the sharpened steel parts his flesh like soft butter.

He inhales deeply, his body pulling upward, fleeing my cock and my blade—like the fucker can. He’s trapped and he knows it. He’s dying. All he can hope for is an end to the pain; he can’t imagine the explosive, agonizing orgasm that’s awaiting him.

“Enjoy the pain, cunt. You deserve it, you fuckin’ whore. I saw ya out buyin’ smokes; didn’t know that was gonna end up costing ya your life, didja? Thought you were gonna go get fucked up and rock out and get laid, huh, you fuckin’ punk?”

Blood seeps from the wound in his abdomen, but I’m nowhere near done. It’s gonna take the meat some time to die; if I’m gonna get him to jack me off as he dies, I’m gonna need him to be in a lot more pain. Time to put the hurtin’ on.

“Yeah, that’s a good start, fuckmeat, but you ain’t jerkin’ my shaft enough yet. Guess I gotta hurt ya more, yeah? Gotta make you jack me good, cunt, gotta make yer loose fuckhole get tight again. Only one way to do that. You know what that is, you useless pain pig, don’t ya? I gotta hurt ya. You love it, you fucking cunt. You love the pain, I can see it in your hot sweaty face.”

He’s still denying it, even to himself. He’s sobbing openly as the bayonet slices upwards through his stomach. I don’t want him dead yet; I need him to jack me off a little longer. I angle the blade to the side and slice his liver in half.

As much as I’d hurt the meat before, the damage to a major organ had a significant impact on my dick. The kid spasmed violently, his arms going rigid, his smooth, firm legs contracting tightly around my body as he gasped deeply, reacting to the steel piercing his liver.

I don’t give a shit. He’s not in enough pain yet. “Fuck, cocksucker, ya gotta work harder than that to get my load. And my boiling sperm is the only thing that’s gonna end this for ya. You want it over? You wanna sink into the cold dark release of death? You gotta make me cum, you cunt. And the more pain you’re in, the sooner I’ll shoot. So get with it, motherfucker, the more it hurts the better it feels. Fuck yeah, meat!”

I spit in the teen’s frantic face before I punch him again. This time, I’m rewarded with a satisfying, deeply erotic crunch as I break the meat’s cheekbone. Again, I can feel his pain on my cock as his rectum writhes along my swollen shaft.

It’s still not enough. I’m ready. I wanna cum. Time for the cunt to truly become meat so I can cum.

I don’t know how fast I’m fucking him; I’m ramming the bayo into the fuckmeat in time with my thrusts. Oiled steel punctures the motherfucker’s guts and lungs; I avoid his heart—I don’t want him to die instantly; I want him to enjoy this.

And the pig does enjoy it. I can tell by the way he writhes and groans in agony, by the way his rectum collapses on my cock, applying involuntary suction. I can tell by the way his short, thick rod stands up straight and spews a jet of sperm three feet into the air as sixteen inches of sharpened, oiled steel spears his heart, letting it pump itself to shreds on a razor-sharp blade.

The meat’s sphincter contracts uncontrollably in death, tightening around my shaft like a cockring; I blow my wad up the dying meat’s fuckhole as I ream my long sharp hard bayo deep into his guts.

It takes me a few minutes to recover after unloading into the fuckmeat. I pull my dripping cock of the corpse’s ass and rise shakily to my feet. I zip my dripping tool back into my jeans before I open the rear door of the van.

There’s a flash of lightning as I open the doors. Looks like the unusually warm weather is about to break; there’s gonna be an intense storm here soon.

Good.

I dump the meat into the ditch and throw his clothes in afterwards. There’s a nasty storm coming. Enough rain, and the cunt’s body will be halfway to the ocean before anyone finds him…

Meat Chronicles 14–Back Alley Boys

On By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles1 Comment

He knows I’m following him; he can’t help but know it. It might not have been obvious out on the main drag, but he glanced back once on the side street. Evidently he liked what he saw—he nodded his head and turned down an alley.

Naturally, I’m gonna follow. My dick has been tingling all day. Time to find a bitch and make some meat.

They haven’t found that last kid yet. I’m safe hitting up the bar scene again. As it so happens, I don’t need to; at least, I don’t need to go inside. Sometimes the prey strolls right into the trap.

I’m walking slowly, looking around, appraising the goods on display on the street, when a loud blare of music lets me know an exterior door of one of the dance clubs has opened. Hearing footsteps behind me, I slow to allow him to pass.

We check each other out simultaneously. I’m in a gray jersey wifebeater, showing off my chest and arms. My jeans are tight and worn and are tucked into a pair of charcoal-gray leather ropers. My thick black leather belt has metal studs that catch the light; I can see him looking.

He’s got a stamp from the club, so he’s over twenty-one, but he looks much younger. That’s why I trust the stamp; I bet they carded the shit outta him.

It’s a warm night and he’s taken his shirt off and looped it in his belt. He’s slim and smooth, with just enough musculature to hint at manhood as opposed to boyhood. He’s a peroxide blonde, his hair sculpted with massive amounts of some product. His eyebrows and the slight down of hair on his lower arms showed that his true shade was a darker color. Stupid little shit; it’s probably a beautiful golden color; why fuck it up?

He’s wearing bright red cotton shorts that end mid-thigh and are so tight he probably needed Vaseline and a shoehorn to get them on. They circle his taut firm thighs and cling to his ass—and seem to have been specially-made to include accommodation for his cock; it bulges in front like he’s got a snake in his front pocket.

His calves show the same golden haze that appears on his lower arms. He’s wearing Nike Cortez running shoes—they look like black leather ankle socks, but I can see the white socks inside. I have just a moment to note that his face is clear-featured, his eyes a bright emerald green—and he’s passed, going ahead of me. That’s when I decide to follow.

He’s ducked behind that dumpster, further up the alley. This block isn’t part of the club scene; in fact, these businesses are barely hanging on—there’s a derelict dry cleaners, an unsanitary-looking tortilla factory…

They’re all closed and empty at this hour. So either this kid is waiting to jump me, or he wants me to fuck him back here. And if it’s the former, he’d better have some help, ‘cause I can put him down with no problem.

And I will.

I unzip my fly and let my dong flop out. I step around the dumpster and there he is, assuming the position. He’s dropped his shorts and stepped out of them, standing in front of me, nude except for his shoes, hands up against the cinderblock wall, slightly stooped so that his puckered hole faces me directly.

This is the first time in quite a while that the meat has surprised me. I know by now who truly wants the sexual experience I can provide. There are signs. I knew this cunt was a deathpig the moment I laid eyes on him; he’s been aching to be put down for a long time.

But, even with as much experience as I have with this by now, I still didn’t expect him to want to die behind a dumpster. This bitch wants to go out like a cheap fucking whore in a stinking alleyway.

I don’t bother to undress any further; there’s no need. The punk is posed to receive anonymous sperm, his hole gaping, waiting for my cock. He doesn’t wait long; I mount the slut like a stallion covering a mare, shoving the full length of my engorged rod deep into the twink’s straining ass.

He exhales all at once, in sheer pain, and croaks like a frog trying to inhale as my dick sinks deeper into his rectum. He rises up on his toes, his thighs quivering in strain, his tight black sneakers scuffling at the toes on the filthy pavement.

No one is in this neighborhood at this time of night—as this piece of shit damn well knows—but I still don’t want to take a chance. I clamp one hand tightly over his mouth as I grip his waist with the other. I pace my thrusts to allow the slut some time to loosen up, reaming him deeply but slowly, letting his fuckhole stretch out.

After a while, his colon stops fighting and accepts my tool. The meat calms visibly, responding to my thrusts, his lean, smooth body slick with sweat but no longer shuddering. He starts backing his ass up on my dick in anticipation of my rhythm. It feels good.

For now. But soon it won’t be enough. That’s what this cunt is hoping for—someone for whom a quick back-alley fuck isn’t enough. Someone who’ll go all the way. Someone who’ll use him and dispose of him like the fucking faggot garbage he is.

Guess it’s lucky he found me; otherwise he coulda been looking for a long time. Maybe he needs a hint how lucky he is. I reach into my right front pocket and pull out a yard-long piece of braided nylon cord and drape it over the meat’s neck, letting the loose ends dangle in front of his chest.

“Dude, what’s this sh—“he starts.

“Shut up!” I snarl and start pumping his ass faster. He grunts, but he shuts up. He’s loving this. Worthless cunt, letting every guy he can find spunk inside him. He’s little more than a living condom—and soon he won’t even be that.

He’s moaning—not a steady sound, but the “uh-uh-uh” of repeated blows to the body, underscored by the slapping sound made as my scrotum smashes his like a billiard shot. He’s happier than a pig in shit.

Now it’s my turn. Reaching down in front of the slut, I grab the end of the cord on the right with my left hand and the one on the left with my right. Bringing my arms back and up, I loop the cord around the cunt’s neck and pull tight. As I take up the slack in the cord, I wrap it around my hands to gain traction and keep it taut.

It takes the meat a moment to realize what’s happened. Stupid little fucks never do seem to recognize the beginning of their greatest sexual experience, even when they’ve been striving for it from the moment they became sexually aware.

That’s why I’m here. I have control. I’ll put the punk down the way he wants it, no matter how hard he fights. After all, he doesn’t have my discipline. He can’t be expected to override the biological imperative to stay alive. I’m here to guide him to orgasmic death, to use him and abuse him and leave him in the gutter like the worthless used cumrag he is.

He stands up straight—he’s moving his hips forward, trying to pry himself off my cock. I throw myself forward, slamming him against the rough cinderblocks.

“Uh-uh, cunt, you ain’t gettin’ off the ride yet,” I whisper into his ear, his head pressed painfully against the alley wall. “It’s time to get what you been askin’ for. So I choke you out like you’ve always wanted and in return, when you die, you do it on my cock so I can enjoy every last second of you kicking away your useless life. Sounds like a deal, yeah? Fuckin’ works for me!”

I yank the cord brutally round the whore’s neck, sinking it in below the surface of the skin. The kid’s hands claw desperately at his throat with no effect. He’s starting to fight now. His ass slaps against my crotch as his pelvis bucks in fear.

“Enough, you fucking cocksucker!” I snarl and slam him forward into the wall, hard. He’s stunned and goes limp momentarily. He’s help upright by the cord around his neck and my dick forcing him to the wall.

Once the effects of the blow to the head wear off, the boy starts thrashing again. I’m pressing him too firmly against the rough, graffiti-scarred cinderblock for him to be able to do any more than pump his ass along my thick shaft. His hands claw and scrabble at the wall; he’s not able to reach me behind him.

“Oh fuck yeah, cunt, fight it,” I moan into his ear. “Keep kicking, bitch. It’s so tofucking hot, feelin’ ya die on my cock. The harder you fight to stay alive, the more your ass massages my dick. Oh yeah, you love it, you fucking pig—here, lemme grind your hard cock into the wall, you worthless fucking whore.”

I’m ramming my rod into his fluttering hole, slamming him brutally into the wall. I’m jerking the cord taut around his neck; as I strain, it puckers his skin and sinks in deeply. His thrashing becomes more frantic, more mindless. His tight black shoes drum heavily on the pavement as his hands beat desperately at the wall in an instinctive attempt to escape.

“Whoa, there, cunt. Just enjoy it. Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna let ya go. This is why ya wanted me, after all—you knew I’d take control of you and keep control of you all the way to the end. You got your wish, bitch. So kick and scratch as hard as much as ya want, you’re still dying on my dick. They’re gonna find your stiff cum-filled corpse behind this filthy dumpster, you worthless whore, right where you belong.”

He turns his head to the side and I can see that beautiful face distorted and swollen, his bulging eyes glaring frantically straight into nothing at all. As his hands slap lightly against the wall and slowly slide down, only to be heaved back up convulsively with another slap, a low bubbling sound emerges from his mouth, where foam oozes out past his thick black tongue. His hair is still in place but the rest of his body is covered in a slick sheen of warm sweat.

His brain is shutting down from lack of oxygen. His metabolism is crashing; that’s why he’s sweating. This is my last moment to put him in his place; at any moment, a critical part of his cerebrum may fail and he’ll be past understanding my words.

“Give it up, you fucking faggot whore,” I snarl in his ear. “Milk my fuckin’ load outta my aching shaft, cunt. You’re gonna cum and die just like ya wanted, you punk-ass bitch, now gimme what I want and work my fuckin’ cock!”

He’s been without oxygen for so long that I’m surprised—again—that he obeys. A tiny spark of life in his fuckpig soul shoots his hips backwards one last time. His legs lock up rigidly, cramps caused by his dying nervous system rippling in waves under his smooth skin—and deep into his intestines. His entire body convulses in what almost feels like a slow-motion wave, generating a suction effect in his rectum.

I try to hold off as long as I can. My arms shudder and tighten with the tension and there’s a faint cracking sound as the boy’s larynx is crushed by the cord. Just before I give a loud, growling grunt of orgasm, I hear a splattering sound as the whore’s worthless spunk splashes the wall in front of him. I shoot violently, a continual stream of semen injected into the kid’s guts at high pressure.

Gasping in relief, I unwrap the cord from the meat’s neck and shove it back in my pocket. His shirt is lying next to me on the ground—I use it as a cumrag and shove it in my pocket, zipping my dripping hog back into my tight jeans. No sense in leaving too much evidence around. Not like there isn’t plenty already, but the cops really won’t care. Just another faggot whore wasted in an alleyway by a trick. They don’t really investigate these things.

So I go, leaving the kid exactly as he’d wanted. Huddled face-down, cum-filled ass in the air, shorts around one ankle with his leather sneakers splayed. Used and discarded in a garbage-strewn alley.

Little cunt was damn sure lucky I found him