Tag: boots

Mankiller–Snuff Movie 2

On By m3mayhemIn Movies with Tony and NickLeave a comment

The percentages had been worked out. The video, carefully and skillfully edited, was a huge hit online and it became obvious that Nick’s cut was going to be considerably more than fifteen hundred per movie.

Nick and Tony were both pleased with the deal. Within days of Ricky’s debut, they met again in the studio. Each was eager to get started on the next video. And each brought something new to the table.

Tony brought a new bitch. “Name’s Joey. I met him a coupla weeks ago; finally got him in here for a photo shoot. Here, lemme pull the slideshow up—tell me what ya think.”

Nick sat in a chair, a large bag from a hardware store by his side. He’d brought it in with him but hadn’t said anything about it yet. And at the moment, he was too busy looking at the pics of Joey to pay much attention to anything else.

Joey was similar to Ricky, Nick’s last victim, in that he had a slender (but not scrawny) swimmer’s build and black hair cut fairly short. The resemblance ended there. Joey was taller, close to six feet—nowhere near as tall a Nick but several inches taller than Ricky had been. His slim, smooth body had a fine dusting of black hair on the calves and forearms—and large black tangles in the pits and groin—but was otherwise smooth and glistening.

The face was what set him apart. Joey was in his early twenties and had the face of a model. Sky-blue eyes framed by long black lashes gleamed seductively out of a perfectly-formed face with a strong, straight nose, a chiseled chin and lush, full lips. His short hair looked like a spill of black silk threads, perfectly sculpted without any obvious product. His skin was clear and smooth, except for what appeared to be the faintest shadow of stubble along the jaw and on the upper lip.

Nick turned to Tony. “Dude, he looks like a model. What’s his deal?”

Tony, whose eyes were drifting over Nick’s muscled body with a dreamy, faraway look, snapped back to himself. “New in town. He wants to get into movies. Sucking dicks back in Podunk wasn’t good enough; he wants to do it on camera.”

Nick turned back to the slideshow. “Fuck, he’s a hot little bitch. He’ll be very popular.”

Tony chuckled. “Yeah, but not in the way he thinks—not after we get him. But we need to move fast. With those looks, someone will grab him quick. I’m already blocking it out in my mind; he thinks it’s normal porn—we’ll use the bedroom. Question is, how are ya gonna off him? I wanna shake it up a little.”

Nick stood up and grinned. “Man, I got it covered. Here, lemme show ya somethin’.”

He bent over, reaching into the large shopping bag. He grinned ever wider to himself as he flexed his thick thighs and muscular ass at Tony. He knew that there was an attraction there. That was a good thing. That was a thing he could use in the future, maybe.

His bicep swelled as he lifted his purchase out of the bag; it apparently weighed several pounds. Tony’s attention slipped from Nick’s body to his hand; he couldn’t identify the device. It looked kinda like a cordless drill, but it was large and had a long, thin metal frame running down at an angle from the “bit” to beneath the grip.

“What the fuck is that?” he asked.

Nick’s grin grew yet even more shark-like. “It’s called a framing nailer. Cordless. Holds up to sixty three-and-a-half inch nails.”

“I don’t get it. What’s that—“ Tony paused, thought, and went pale.

But Nick couldn’t help noticing the bulge in Tony’s crotch.

“Dude,” Tony whispered, “that’s so fucking sick. It’s brilliant. I’ll get the motherfucker over here right away. This is gonna make us so fucking much money…”

================================================== ================================================== ===

The image is too blurry to make anything out; the camera is moving too much. There’s a couple of violent shakes, a “goddammit” muttered off-screen, and the frame steadies down.

It focuses on a young man’s face, classically formed, with bright blue eyes and a shy grin. He glances nervously to one side, then back at the camera. “Ya really think you can get me somethin’ with this? I wanna do more. I heard you can make a grand per movie, maybe more. Dude, that’d be sweet.”

The voice behind the camera comes back, “Joey, I’m givin’ ya that much for just one scene.”

The kid’s grin develops a slightly harder edge. “Yeah, but it’s only once. I wanna fuckin’ contract.”

“We talked about that, too. Let’s see what kinda response we get from this. You have no idea what the future holds. But I promise you one thing—just lie there and let Nick have his way with ya and you’ll be an instant star. You won’t even know what hit ya. I got another line of coke laid out if ya want it before we get started.”

The kid nods and gets up; the image blurs momentarily as the camera is repositioned. Now it’s aimed directly at the bed; the head is to the left and the foot to the right. The sheets are clean—at any rate, they have been cleaned; they’re yellowed and stained but not filthy. Over them is a brown fleece blanket and a couple of flattish pillows.

The punk walks back into the frame and sits on the bed, facing the camera, sniffling and wiping white powder from his nose. His slim, smooth body gleams under the overhead lighting. He’s nude except for his ankle socks and skate shoes. A long tube of flesh dangles between his firm thighs. He’s coked up and twitchy; his blown pupils changing his eyes from sky to midnight blue.

He almost jumps out of his skin when the large, muscular man enters from the right, nude but for his construction boots, his hard body gleaming in the light, his huge dick jutting straight out in front. The man laughs in a deep bass rumble as he reaches out and grabs the boy. “Slow down there, Tiger,” he chuckles, “I ain’t even gotten started yet.”

There’s a laugh—almost a giggle—from behind the camera. “Looks like he’s already anticipatin’ that hard fuckin’ shaft stickin’ in his ass,” the off-screen voice says. “Me too. Look here, Joey—I’m gonna be beatin’ off while I film. If you’re that good a fuck, I should be able to cum just by watching. See? Make me cum, boy, show us you’re worth the money.”

Joey looks wide-eyed at the man towering over him and then dead-on at the camera. He jerks abruptly as if he’s trying to bolt from the bed but the muscled alpha has his upper arm in a vice grip and yanks him back down on to the bed. “C’mon, man,” he hisses at the kid, “if ya wanna be in porn, ya gotta get fucked on film. First time is the hardest, I promise. After this one, it’ll be like doing everything else in your sleep.”

The kid seems to calm a bit, not thinking the words through. “How do ya want me?”

Nick smiled down at him. “Get on your hands and knees, bitch, I’m gonna fuck ya like a dog.”

The punk scrambles to obey, whipping his lithe body into position, his tightly-laced sneakers spread far apart on the sheets, his knees spread just as widely. The alpha top grins at the camera and, flogging his dong in one hand, spreads the boy’s asscheeks while he nods the camera in for a closer view. It closes in on the kid’s fluttering pink fuckhole, already quivering with excitement. “Dude, I can’t wait for you to get your tool inside this bitch,” the voice behind the camera mutters breathlessly.

“Yeah,” comes the basso rumble, “but I wanna fuck ‘im first.”

A thick purple head, oozing clear precum, slides into view. It looks like it’s at least twice the diameter of the slut’s hole. There’s an extreme close-up of the dark spongy mass spearing the writhing sphincter, stretching it unbearably. The sound of the punk’s yelling and bleating, off camera but very loud, attests to the pain he’s in.

“Fuck yeah,” the cameraman moans, “lookit that thick shaft tearing your asshole open. How’s that feelin’, Joey, huh? Looks like it hurts good, dude, looks like it hurts so fuckin’ good.”

The camera pans up the boy’s smooth body, heaving with the alpha’s thrusts. It focuses on the kid’s face. “Joey, man, look up here. Yeah, right at the camera, that’s it. Lemme see, fucker, lemme see in your face how much you love that cock inside ya. Yeah, I know it hurts, but you love gettin’ hurt, dontcha, cocksucker? Aw, dude, you’re gonna love what Nick’s gonna do to ya. You’re gonna cum harder than you ever have in your life, and you’re gonna do it on camera, man!”

Joey’s face fills the frame, tense and strained with the erotic agony of rough sex. His head is turned to the side, Nick’s thick hairy forearm and big muscled hand are visible, forcing the whore’s head down onto the mattress. As the top grunts and thrusts ever deeper, the kid’s eyes open wide, the pain of the assfuck shining in the huge pools of blue and black bordered with long silky lashes. He looks directly into the camera, lust and love of the pain written all over his grinning, straining countenance.

“Fuuuuuck, yeah…” Joey moans, deeply, breathily. His eyes close as he wallows in the sensation of a massive tube of flesh rammed up his rectum. He emits tiny, high-pitched squeaks in time with Nick’s deep strokes.

The camera pulls back. Both men can be seen in full on the bed.

Joey is huddled on his knees, ass in the air, head forced down onto the bed. Nick has mounted him from behind and is riding him like a bull, busting his ass like a bronco. Nick’s powerful legs, thick like the limbs of a tree, are pumping and sweating; his yellow construction boots with black leather at the ankles providing him traction on the synthetic material of the bed coverings.

The dominant alpha crouches over the slim, smooth boy, holding him down and sinking his dick into the punk’s colon with deliberate and intense brutality. He grunts again, then starts speaking, his voice rumbling in the lower registers.

“You like that cock, you fuckin’ faggot punk? Ya like feelin’ a real man inside a’ ya? C’mon, cunt, tell me ya like it. C’mon you fuckin’ faggot cocksucker, tell me how much ya love my shaft tearin’ yer guts open!”

As he’s speaking, Nick grabs Joey’s hair in his fist, pulling his head up slightly and spitting in his face. Shoving the slut’s head back down, Nick looks at the camera and winks, sticking his tongue out.

His eyes aren’t quite directly on the camera, though; they seem to be more on the cameraman.

The whore moans and groans loudly; Nick’s pace has picked up and the kid’s having trouble keeping up. He’s starting to sweat and jerk; it’s clear that the alpha top has exceeded the punk’s limits. Joey peers up as the camera is shoved obtrusively into his face; his discomfort is obvious in his strained expression.

“Man, Joey, that’s gotta feel hotter ‘n fuck, dude, that thick fuckin’ shaft reamin’ out your asshole. So many guys are gonna cum watching you get fucked, ya know that? Whaddaya think about that, man?”

Still pumping rhythmically, Nick growled, “I bet it turns the little faggot whore on, don’t it, boy?” The camera pulls out a bit to show him crouching over the kid, covering him completely with his hard muscled body, pinning the punk to the bed. Nick is still gripping his hair tightly in one hand, pulling his head to the side and whispering into Joey’s ear.

“Yeah, pretty boy, bet you just love getting’ dicked on camera, don’t ya? Show the world just what a whore you are, letting your faggot cunt get plugged fulla cock, huh? Yeah, motherfucker?”

Joey squirms and moans, looking pleadingly—and lovingly—at the camera. He’s really enjoying being dominated. As his stunning eyes focus on the camera, he licks his lips slowly and moans deeply, breathily.

A cold note creeps into the voice behind the camera. “Hey, Nick, I think Joey’s getting’ tolerant of your rod, man. Looks like he’s imitating Marilyn Monroe or something.”

Nick chuckles. “Yeah, think it’s time to change things up a bit. Set the camera down and get the thing, dude.”

The camera moves quickly, blurring the image for a couple of minutes. There are a few flashes of clarity—a shot of the floor, a brief pan of the bed—and then it stabilizes, evidently on a tripod. Again, it’s got a full-length shot from the side of the bed. Joey is still huddled on the bed, his smooth, firm ass speared by Nick’s huge, glistening shaft. The kid has buried his face in the pillow, biting it, his arms stretched above his head, hands grasping the sheets tightly. On top of him Nick pumps steadily and deeply, looking almost bored.

Tony appears from the right side, holding a large nail gun in both hands. Except for his white tube socks and hightops, Tony is nude. His dick isn’t thick, but it is long and heavily veined, and standing fully to attention. He approaches Nick, who reaches out and grabs the tool—the nail gun, that is—with one huge, strong arm.

He swings it up lightly, seemingly admiring the heft. As strong and well-built as he is, he has no difficulty maneuvering the device. Tony retreats from view again, moving towards and behind the camera. Nick turns to him and the camera closes in on him, just as he bends down over Joey and whispers into the boy’s ear again.

“Listen up, cunt. Time to rock n’ roll, motherfucker. Time to get what ya came here for. Ya wanted to get fucked on camera? You have no idea how fucked you are, cocksucker, but I think it’s time ya found out.”

The boy’s head is turning to the side, his expression one of trepidation—he has no idea what the alpha top is talking about. Before he can twist himself around to see, the muscled arm tightens, bringing the nail gun down onto the kid’s back, under his shoulder blade.

The camera closes in as Nick pulls the trigger. The gun bucks violently as it fires, the loud report echoing in the metal-walled room. It’s immediately drowned out by Joey’s screams. He thrashes wildly in pain, but the dominant strongman overpowers his struggles, holding him down on the bed with an almost nonchalant look on his face.

He moves back a little on the bed, admiring his work, his cock slipping smoothly from the punk’s ravaged fuckhole. Suddenly, he grins up at the camera. “Lookit that, huh? That’s three and a half inches of pointed steel, bitch.” The alpha manhandles the wailing slut, rolling him so that the head of the nail can be seen. The frame zooms in on it—the head of the nail is almost flush with the kid’s smooth, heaving skin. A trickle of blood leaks out from under the small shiny disk.

The stud grabs the whore’s black hair, roughly jerking his head up and back until his ear is at the level of his tormentor’s mouth. “How’s that feelin’, cunt? Told ya you were fucked. Damn, faggot, that must be stuck in your lung, huh? Keep jerkin’ around like that, you stupid fuckin’ whore, you’re just tearing yourself open inside. Now shaddup and lemme see how many things I can stick in ya before ya die.”

He rolls the punk back onto his belly. The camera had swung down briefly to catch a shot of the alpha’s thick purple cock, swaying free after he’d posed the whore for the camera. The frame closes in and slides, slowly and lovingly, along the glistening vein-bound shaft.

The camera quickly snaps back to a wide shot. Nick is poised over the weeping boy, snarling down at him. “Quit cryin’, you fuckin’ pussy assfuck, you ain’t felt anything yet. You’re gonna love this next one, cunt, you’re gettin’ a twofer!”

Nick raises himself up, his hard body gleaming in the light as his muscles tense for the assault. In a flash, he drives his engorged rod deep into Joey’s ass in one swift, brutal thrust. At the same time, he reaches around the punk’s side and fires a nail into the boy’s sweating, heaving flank, the sharp steel shaft shattering a rib on its way in.

The young man’s reaction is instant; he tenses rigidly, almost convulsively. His breath is expelled forcefully from his lungs. The involuntary contraction of his muscles in reaction to the excruciating pain tightens his vocal cords—the escaping air is channeled into a high pitch.

“Fuck yeah, cunt, that’s what I’m talking about!” Nick cries before turning happily to Tony (and coincidentally the camera). “Ya hear that, dude? Motherfucker’s squealin’ like a pig. And damn if his reamed-out fuckhole didn’t tighten up on my dick!”

The camera moves in closer, obviously being held up to Joey’s face. As the lens focuses on the beautiful face, smeared with tears and snot, the voice behind the camera begins to speak. “Fuckin’-A, Joey, you lucky cunt, gettin’ this hot stud’s cock shoved up inside ya—told ya, you were gonna get nailed tonight, didn’t I, ha! Make sure you scream loud now, dude, lotsa guys out there wanna watch you get hurt. Fuck, bro, hundreds of guys are gonna beat their meat and blow their loads watching you shriek and squirm and bleed—don’t it just make ya fuckin’ hard?”

The camera zeros in on the boy’s strained, pleading face. He’s not looking directly into the lens; he’s looking into the cameraman’s face, his expression full of misery, fear and desperation.

The cameraman whispers, “it don’t matter if it ain’t getting’ ya hard, Joey. What you like don’t matter to anyone anymore. Just enjoy the pain, motherfucker. All kinda guys are gonna enjoy it later on, I promise ya.”

The frame suddenly goes blurry. The camera’s being moved quickly. The movement stops momentarily, the lens pointing up towards the ceiling. Tony’s handsome face is visible from below, foreshortened to the point that his dark eyes, furrowed in concentration, can be seen over his cleft chin. The camera shakes again as he mutters, “yeah, I’m repositioning it. Just keep bangin’ him, dude, it’ll just be a sec.”

The camera frame tumbles as he manipulates the tripod; the metallic clicks and clanks are underscored by Joey’s sobbing.

The frame goes black—and then comes back instantly. The caesura was brief—just long enough to remount and refocus the camera.

The boy doesn’t need to be remounted. Or refocused. He’s still locked in place, held down on the bed by the alpha top, Nick’s hand pressing against the back of the punk’s head, forcing his face into the pillow, deep—but not deep enough to suffocate him. His weeping is muffled but still audible.

The porn-star wannabe kicks his smooth taut legs violently, his purple velour skate shoes flailing at Nick’s construction boots which are planted firmly on the rough blanket for traction. His hands clench and release convulsively, in rhythm with the muscle stud’s strokes, his fingers curling tightly as the thick shaft plunges deep into his rectum, splaying out as it’s withdrawn, the massive head scouring the whore’s colon roughly on the way out.

Joey’s arms, however, aren’t moving much. One of the nails in his back has pierced his trapezius muscle, the other the dorsal. Any movement of his arms at the shoulder would clearly be agony; now that the camera is closer, the thin trails of blood oozing out from under the nail heads is much easier to see.

As the two men writhe in an embrace of lust and pain, they’re joined by a third. Tony steps in, his lithe, hard body preceded into the frame by his long thin cock, already oozing from its swollen tip. His handsome face is split by an evil grin.

“Hey, dude,” he chuckles, “he ain’t makin’ enough noise. Hey, Joey, ya wanna be a star, right? You seen how it works in porn—the bottom’s gotta scream and yell so’s the audience knows he’s gettin’ fucked good! You’re too fuckin’ quiet, brah! Here, lemme see if I can help…”

As Nick obligingly leans back, Tony bends over Joey and, grabbing his wrists, wrenches his arms up over his head, then pulls them back down behind his back.

Joey screams, a loud, high-pitched shriek of agony. The twisting alone is almost enough to dislocate his shoulders, but the movement of his muscles can be seen under his slick, sweating skin.

So can the movement of the nails as the muscles contract around them, tearing themselves open on the thin steel shanks.

Joey’s scream trails off into an agonized croak before he draws in another breath with a loud whoop. But at least one of the nails has punctured a lung; his breathing is raspy and labored. He shrieks again, just as loudly but not as long. This one subsides into prolonged sobbing.

In the meantime, Nick hasn’t mistimed a single thrust of his dick. Tony, standing by the kid’s head, is slapping him in the face with his dick as the slut screams and cries. “Ya gotta stick a few more in him,” he tells Nick, “this cunt can take a lot more pain. He ain’t even passed out yet.”

Nick looks up at Tony, then at the camera. A slow smile, dripping with lust, crosses his face. He’d put the nail gun to one side for a moment; now he picks it up; his deltoid bulging as he hefts the seven-pound weapon and swings it around so the camera catches a good view.

Then, without warning, he drops it down and fires a nail into Joey’s elbow, on the outside at the bend.

The screams are ear-splitting as the boy thrashes and flails violently, his arms and legs a blur. The rest of him is motionless, however, held in place by Nick like an iron cage. The hard alpha dom leans back, eyes closed, grinning and snarling in sexual pleasure as the tortured youth kicks and struggles on his cock.

He’s having a great time, and it’s obvious. The poor porn actor manqué is not, and it’s also obvious. Tony has stepped back out of the kid’s reach for the moment. Nick is the true star and he shows it. “Oh fuck yeah, you motherfuckin’ whore,” he growls, “that got ya goin’, huh? Guess what, cunt—I can feel your little faggot dick getting’ hard while I fuck ya. It makes your ass get extra tight. Know what else, you fuckin’ cocksucker? I can feel your ass get tight every time I stick a nail in ya, too. I guess that means your worthless homo cock gets hard every time a real man shows it what pain feels like, huh? You love it, you fuckin’ fairy whore, dontcha? Then this’ll make ya cum, bitch!”

Nick seems to lose it on camera, raping the kid in a frenzy of rage and desire, his hips nearly a blur as he reams the struggling, terrified youth. Simultaneously, he flips a switch on the nail gun—it’s not obvious at first why, but it soon becomes clear. He doesn’t have to squeeze the trigger to fire the gun anymore; he just has to bump it against his victim with enough force to trigger it.

He’s beating the boy with the nail gun. Each blow fires a thin shaft of steel more than three inches into Joey’s smooth, flailing torso. As he screams and moans raggedly, holes are punched into his back and his sides, through his kidneys and liver.

“Roll ‘im on his side!” yells Tony, “do ‘im sidesaddle!”

Nick rolls onto his side, pulling Joey on over, still impaled on his huge tool. Joey looks directly at the camera, his sky-blue eyes bloodshot and ringed with gray by shock. His long lashes flutter, fear adding to the eroticism of the moment, as if he’s flirting with the camera in the moment of his greatest agony. His dick emerges from the dark hairy shadow of his groin, erect and straining despite the boy’s obvious agony.

Except it’s not his moment of greatest agony.

“Make him cum before he dies,” hisses Tony, leaning down and spitting into Joey’s stunned face. “Can ya do that? Motherfucker’s already hard. Can’t blame the little cunt, with your hot cock inside him. Bet he’s ready to shoot. Can ya make ‘im shoot and die?”

“Hell yeah,” chortles Nick, “watch this. First one in the head don’t kill him. Betcha ain’t seen this one before, dude.”

Grabbing a hank of the boy’s hair, Nick pulls Joey’s head backwards. From the camera’s angle, not much more can be seen beyond the thick bulge of Joey’s adam’s apple, bobbing up and down in terror. The frame jerks and blurs; Tony has picked it up momentarily to aim it from a higher angle, since Nick and Joey are on their sides now.

He gets it in focus just in time to catch Nick drive a nail into the back of Joey’s skull, about an inch above the top of the neck—directly into the brain stem.

Tony backs off, showing a full-length image of Joey—who seems to be frozen, not moving at all—and Nick reaching down into Joey’s groin.

The camera is no more than a yard from the bed, so Joey’s swollen purple dick is very clear in the frame. Tony was right; despite the fear and pain, some part of the little whore had gotten off on the pain and the fear. Even now, as he quivers in the throes of massive brain trauma, he’s oozing precum from the tip of his cock.

Nick places the gun up under Joey’s scrotum. As the kid trembles on his dick, Nick applies enough force to trigger the gun, sending a nail up behind the boy’s balls, deep within the root of the unfortunate slut’s rod, impaling the tube of flesh on a shaft of steel and forcing a massive ejaculation.

Joey’s mouth opens and a deep, mindless moan comes out, the sound flowing from his lips as the semen flows from his dick. He doesn’t spunk in spurts; it’s a solid stream of white shooting out like someone stomped on a tube of toothpaste.

“Fuck!” Nick yells, his face contorted in animalistic rage and ecstasy. “Fuckin’ cunt’s so goddam tight—fuck! Gonna shoot, dude, gonna fuckin’ unload in this whore’s fuckhole! Yeah, fuck yeah!”

Tony jacks himself furiously. He licks his lips, staring down at the writhing, traumatized flesh beneath him. “Waste him, dude,” he gasps, “lemme see ya use that hard strong body, dude. Waste the fuckin’ punk, man!”

“Hell fuckin’ yeah,” Nick grunts. He swings the nail gun around and slams it up against Joey’s temple. There’s a loud crunching sound as three inches of galvanized steel punches its way through bone and brain tissue.

Joey goes rigid instantly, his smooth, hard body covered in a greasy lube of sweat, gleaming under the overhead lights as it shudders and convulses.

As the kid thrashes on his cock, Nick grunts loudly and screams. “Fuck! Fuck! Motherfuckin’ faggot cunt, take my load! Fuck, slut, take my cum, you worthless pig whore! Goddamit, cunt, take another shaft in your useless homo skull!”

Nick drives the gun down onto the top of Joey’s cranium, sending another nail deep into Joey’s cerebrum. Quickly withdrawing the heavy tool, Nick whacks it against the whore’s skull one last time, in the back, before tossing the weapon away.

The alpha stud grabs the flailing boy’s hips and pulls his ass relentlessly up along his hard shaft, grunting uncontrollably in violent orgasm as the unconscious punk jerks bonelessly in his death throes. As his beautiful, lightly stubbled face bobs, tongue protruding and eyes rolled back to expose the whites, Tony cries out and shoots a jet of spunk into Joey’s dying face, cum splashing into his eyes and his open mouth.

There’s one last sound; one last grunt from each male as Tony, Nick and Joey each signal the last spurt of seed from their overwrought cocks. Joey’s grunt is louder—he’s shooting out the last spark of life along with his last drop of spunk. Nick and Tony go very still, looking each other straight in the eyes, each trying to catch their breath after their intense orgasms.

Joey, on the other hand, doesn’t try to catch his breath. And he doesn’t remain still, either. His body kicks, jerks, and convulses harder than before; his smooth sweaty legs flailing as his purple velour skate shoes kick convulsively on the bed…

================================================== ================================================== ===

Tony leaned back against the headboard and fired up a joint. He inhaled deeply before handing it off to Nick. As he held the smoke, Tony looked down at Joey’s corpse. There were at least a dozen nails driven into the youth’s smooth, slim body, not counting the ones stuck in his skull.

Nick took a hit and passed the joint back to Tony. He planted his right foot in its thick construction boot against Joey’s side and shoved the still-quivering body off the bed. It hit the floor with a boneless sound somewhere between a thud and a splat. It was the sound of warm dead flesh hitting the floor.

Nick looked at Tony. Tony returned his gaze, looking deeply into Nick’s eyes.

“You want me to fuck ya, don’t ya?” asked Nick

“Yeah, I do. But I don’t wanna end up like him.” Tony nodded at Joey’s body, still shuddering with the random firing of neurons within his mangled brain, his purple skate shoes scraping mindlessly on the floor.

“Maybe we can work something out,” Nick replied. “Let’s see what happens.”

Fantasy Scenario 17

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario SeriesLeave a comment

Like I said, I’m not doing a lot of hunting; lately the meat has been approaching me. But even I wasn’t prepared for what I found outside my front door–two hot little punks waiting for me. And one had a gun.

I’d seen them before on several occasions. I’d actually wanted to get my hands on them for a while, but they were customers of the crack house across the street. For all I knew, they could have been under surveillance, or even undercover themselves.

Well, they weren’t undercover if they were robbing me. And if they were being watched–well, maybe this wasn’t the best location to begin with. I tend to move my killing pit from time to time; this was a great big hint that I was overdue.

Ok, then. One last romp, then I’m burning the place down. Haven’t even had time to take out the trash. Tommy and Jake are still stacked up like cordwood in the bathtub, for fuck’s sake. I’ll spread ’em around. Make it look like a bunch of crackheads started a fire and were too fucked up to get out. The law won’t give a shit; they’ll likely never notice the holes in Tommy’s skull, especially if the fire gets hot enough.

In the meantime, though, I got these two fucks to deal with. I need to establish control.

“Well, well, what do we have here–two little suburban boys with their caps on wrong. Am I supposed to be scared of you, ya little shit? I get scarier things free with my breakfast cereal. Get the fuck in here!”

I reach out and grab the guy with the gun–I get him by his wrist–and jerk him quickly towards me. His hand smashes against the door jamb and he drops his weapon. I plant my large black combat boot on top of the gun; the kid trips over my foot as he comes towards me and sprawls on his face on the living room floor. His slack-jawed buddy stares at me passively as I bend down and retrieve the gun.

I’m not overly familiar with guns; they’re too dangerous for me. Seriously. It’s too easy to kill someone accidentally with a gun. My killing is intimate and very deliberate.

But at any rate, I know enough to realize I’m holding a loaded .22 revolver. I wave it at the kid on the doorstep. “You too, bitch,” I snap at him, “get your ass in here!”

The punk who’d had the gun is back on his feet, glaring, not quite understanding that I’m the alpha male now. I can’t wait to teach him.

He’s in his early twenties and has a close-trimmed beard. He’s wearing a cap with a flat brim; the khaki t-shirt in camouflage print matches his shorts and his shiny gold kicks. His short dark hair is barely visible under his cap, but the rest of his clothes are tight enough to show now well-built his is. The drugs have taken a toll; his face is hard and pock-marked.

His friend is much younger; he looks about eighteen. Clearly not the dominant one of the pair. He’s wearing a gray hoodie and tight skinny jeans. A mop of curly black hair erupts from under the backwards ball cap he’s got on. He’s soft and innocent, over his head in a rough life of drugs.

I’ll waste him first. The older one gets to watch–like any tough piece of meat, he’ll need some tenderizing. Using the gun, I direct them into the bedroom. They pause at the doorway in horror. The room’s still a mess, spattered and reeking of blood, piss and cum.

I shove them in and hand a zip tie to the older one. “Tie his hands behind him,” I tell him, nodding at his friend, “and do it right. Or else.”

Once the younger one is bound, I lock the bedroom door. The kid won’t be able to manipulate the knob with his hands behind him. Now all I have to do is secure the older punk. That’s simple enough; I bind him to a chair, arms handcuffed behind the back, hairy muscular legs tied to the legs of the chair. He’s not going anywhere. The younger one remains inert, watching me silently, fear written all over his face.

One I’ve got the older one in place I drag the younger one over and stand him in front of the chair, facing to the side. “On your knees, motherfucker,” I snarl at him. He drops just as he’s told, still fully dressed. “Now bend down and put your fucking face on the floor. Raise your ass up. Higher, bitch, I want it at the level of my dick.”

The kid starts crying. His buddy is furious, calling me a faggot, screaming about how he’s gonna fuck me up when he gets loose. I smile coldly at him. “And what the fuck makes you think you’re getting out of that chair alive?” I ask him. Actually, he will be getting out of it alive; I plan to whack him on the bed, but he doesn’t know that. He shuts up and his eyes grow wide as he considers the implications of my question.

I stand where both boys can see me clearly as I whip out both my knife and my cock. I grin down into the tear-stained face of the youth huddled on the floor. “It’s your lucky day, meat. I’m gonna fuck you with both of these.”

The boy starts bawling and pleading as I move behind him. Even the older thug is leaking some tears now. Fuck, that gets me hot. “Ready for something long and hard to be shoved up your ass, meat? No? Tough shit.” I thrust the knife into his fuckhole, slicing his sphincter open.

The little fuck rises up, screaming, his cap flying off his head. I slam his face back to the floor and stuff my cock into the hole I’ve cut in his jeans. He squirms under me, trying to escape the agony in his rectum, his blood lubing my rod as it tears its way into his guts.

“Fuck yeah, that feels good. Glad I opened your hole up, bitch, you’re fuckin’ tight. Stay down, you fuck, and take my dick. This is what happens when you try to play with the big boys, punk, you end up on your knees with manmeat plugging your ass. You think this hurts? Just wait.”

The older boy is screaming at me again, his face red with rage and fear. I don’t pay much attention, but I gather that the kid I’m fucking is bearded dude’s younger brother. I hadn’t picked up on that; they don’t look much alike. But I’m pleased.

Watching his kid brother getting offed should tenderize the meat nicely.

“Damn, think I cut this hole too wide. Little whore is goin’ loose on me. Only one way to fix a slack cockhole–I need to do some more cuttin’.”

I grab a handful of the kid’s curly hair and pull his head back until it’s almost level with mine. Without missing a stroke of my dick, I hold the blade to the fucker’s neck.

“Please don’t,” he sobs, “for god’s sake, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, please don’t, please–gaaaggghh!!!” His plea trails off into a bubbling hiss as I slit his throat like I’m carving a roast.

His brother goes silent except for one loud racking sob. My fucktoy chokes on his own blood as he pumps his ass back onto my cock in agony. His smooth, trembling cheek is next to mine as I whisper in his ear.

“How’s that taste, meat? Ya like that? That’s the taste of death in your mouth. Enjoy it while you can, you fuck, cause you’re gonna ride my cock all the way to your grave.”

The hot coppery smell of blood is momentarily overridden by a more acrid scent. Little cocksucker has pissed himself in terror. I shove his face back down into the thick puddle that’s formed on the floor and hold it there by placing my hand on the back of the meat’s head and putting all my weight on it. He’s slumped on his knees, head on the floor, ass in the air and taking my dick.

As he bleeds out, the punk starts straining for air. I lean over him, pumping his hole brutally, grinning with pleasure as his body clenches in desperate pain. Each panicked attempt to breathe is accompanied by a gurgle and the high-pitched whine of air escaping through the jagged gash in his windpipe. I turn to the thug in the chair.

“Listen to that, man. Don’t that get you hard, hearing your little bro squeal like a pig as he kicks out his last few seconds on earth? Gotta tell ya, dude, I’m lovin’ it. Every time he struggles, he clamps down on my tool like a good little faggot. Watch him die in agony with his ass full of cock and his mouth full of blood, you motherfucker, cause I’m gonna do the same thing to you. Well, not quite the same–yours will hurt more, bitch.”

The kid’s arms thrash uselessly behind his back, brushing against my chest, deep creases cut in his skin by the zip tie. I can feel his fingers scrabbling against my skin, seeking something to hold onto, to comfort him in his terror and pain. I slam his head into the ground, hard, and spit on him. Blood mats his black hair and his sneakers flail against my legs, but he’s growing weaker. The voiceless, involuntary grunts and moans that emerge from his severed trachea are becoming fainter and trail off into a despairing bleat.

As his blood pressure drops, the boy struggles to remain conscious, knowing that once he slips into the darkness, he won’t be coming back. “Let go, you little shit,” I whisper to him, “your worthless life is over. You ain’t gettin’ my load, fucker, I’m saving that for your brother. You’re dying so I can warm up my cock, pig. You’re an appetizer–and I like my meat cold. Die, motherfucker, die on my dick.”

My fucktoy trembles and goes limp. I pull out, blood dripping from the head of my cock. There’s nothing left of the kid but a huddled pile of meat, lifeless, leaking blood and shit from its ravaged asshole. His jeans and hoodie are covered with a slowly spreading maroon stain. He slumps to one side with a wet-sounding thump.

Big bro is sniveling, his face smeared with snot and tears. I stand and face him. I’m still dressed myself, my erect dick protruding from the open fly of my jeans. I cut the cords from his legs. “Get up, you piece of shit. Move your ass. Now!”

I pull him straight up so his arms come up off the back of the chair, staying cuffed behind his back. He stands, swaying slightly with a vacant expression on his face as I cut his shorts and his shirt off. I drag him to the bed–still encrusted with blood and semen from my last playtime–and push him down on his back.

He lies there, face turned away from me, chest heaving with suppressed sobs. His thick uncut cock is draped on the sheet like a python in a sweater; his balls are cradled in his pubic hair like eggs in a nest.

He knows what’s coming. He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw as I run my hands over his muscular chest and smooth, flat belly. The low moaning sound he makes as I place his ankles on my shoulders breaks into a continual sobbing when I jam my cock into his tight hairy hole and start raping him.

“Fuck, dude, you’re a lot looser than your baby brother was. You take it up the ass a lot, punk? Fuckin’ worthless motherfucker, bet you suck cock for spare change to buy your next bump. Don’t worry, meat, I’ll make sure your next hit fucks you up good. But I gotta tighten ya up first.”

I part the bitch’s legs so I can lie flat on top of him. I smile at him as I gently stroke his bearded cheek. Then I press my hand on his forehead to pin his head down while I sink my blade into his gut and slash at his soft entrails. As he screams, I spit in his face.

“Shut the fuck up, meat. You came in here with a gun. You thought you were a man, you useless thug, a man who was capable of killing, but you’re just a weak punk. Now you gotta take the consequences. You’re gonna die like a fucking pig, wallowing in blood and spunk and pain like your little bro. You wanted a hit? You’re gonna get one, fuckwad. I’m gonna fuck your brains out. You’re gonna blow a load yourself, but you’ll be in such agony you won’t even know it. I’m gonna ream you out and throw you and your brother away like used cumrags.”

He’s still crying, his fear and trauma reflected in his face. God, it gets me horny seeing how helpless and vulnerable he is; I’m gonna hurt him so bad. He can’t do a damn thing about it but lay there and take my dick and anything else I want to stick in him.

I spit on him again, then punch him in the face, hard. He grunts in pain and surprise as his head rocks back. “Fuckin’ whore,” I snarl and punch him again, splitting his bottom lip. “Now tell me how much you love my cock. Beg for it, meat.”

“Please,” he moans, “don’t hurt me anymore, please, fuck, please…”

I slap his face, then I grab his neck and squeeze. “That’s not what I told you to say, bitch. Beg for my fucking cock, you piece of shit!”

He gasps and whispers, “I want your cock, please, just stop hurting me…”

“Yeah, faggot, you want my rod plugging up your fuckhole. I got something else long and hard for ya too, meat. Here ya go, bitch, ya like that?” I stick the knife into the kid’s side. It slides smoothly into his liver, no resistance at all. His crying stops instantly. He stares at me in horror, his face ashen, dark rings of shock circling his eyes. The pain is so overwhelming he can’t process it. This would be a fatal wound–if I leave him alive long enough to die from it. But I won’t.

“Damn, fuckmeat, you respond to pain even better than your cumpig brother did. Your asshole is fluttering up and down my shaft. I had to waste him to get this kinda action. Bet I’ll squirt a quart of jizz into your guts when I off you.”

The meat shudders as waves of searing pain envelop his body. His breathing is swift and shallow, sweat from organ trauma oozing from his pores. I can feel the muscles in his slick firm thighs quivering under the onslaught of my knife. Jesus, he feels so fucking good around my dick…

“Are ya ready, mottherfucker? Ya ready to ride my cock down to hell? I’m sure the fuck ready to inject you with cum and let it marinate in your rotting corpse. I’m gonna fuck you again after I waste ya. Your little bro, too. Gonna fuck and mutilate his body before I throw it out like garbage.”

I don’t know if he’s listening; the pain and the fear he’s experiencing are mind-warping. I’m gonna have to inflict major trauma to get his attention. Once I do that, though, he won’t be able to pay attention at all. To anything.

I’m already leaking pre-cum into his ass at the thought.

I lie full-length on top of him again, stroking his trembling, furry face. In the depths of his agony, he turns to me, sniffling, his moist eyes silently beseeching mercy and relief from his ongoing nightmare. In this moment, I love him. I’ll grant his wish to be free from this horror–once I’ve shot my load.

But before I can do that, I have to hurt him some more. I want to make sure he understands.

“Ok, you worthless piece of shit, it’s time. Your wasted life is over. You let drugs make you think you were a real man, you punk; you’re nothing but a stupid thug and you’re gonna die like a dog with my cock up your ass. You dragged your little brother to a horrific death, but the kid felt good dying on my dick. He died like a crying little bitch just to help my dick get hard enough to fuck you. You’re gonna have to work my tool even better than he did if you’re gonna get me off. Don’t worry, fucker, I’ll make sure you work it. You don’t get a choice.”

I place my hand on the top of the punk’s head. I kiss the tip of his nose while I scrape the sharp serrated edge of my blade on the stubble on the boy’s chin. “Please make it quick,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Fuck you,” I whisper back, “I’ve wanted to hurt you badly for a long time. I’m gonna have fun now.” I slide the knife under his jaw.

“Don’t hurt me anymore. Fuck me all you want, just please don’t–gurk!!” His plea is cut off–literally–when I spear his jaw with the knife, shoving the blade up through the tender flesh underneath. It comes up through the bottom of his mouth, penetrating his tongue, the tip of the blade embedding itself in his soft palate.

He gives a deep, croaking gasp of anguish. As his mouth opens, I can clearly see the blade inside, the meat’s tongue flopping around, impaled like a hooked fish. “Fuck yeah, that’s so hot. Your suffering is so fucking erotic, I don’t want it to end. I wish I could make you scream and bleed for eternity, you little fuck, but I’m close to blowing my wad. Time to say goodnight, fuckmeat.”

Clamping down on the top of the thug’s skull for leverage, I force the knife up through the roof of his mouth. It takes all my will not to cum when I hear the crunching of the blade penetrating the base of the cranial cavity; it’s a sound that never fails to get me off.

It damn near gets the meat off as well. The youth’s hard body immediately reacts to the devastating brain trauma. His legs wrap tightly around my waist, immobilizing my hips. Luckily, I don’t need to thrust anymore; the thug’s ass is flailing on my cock as he convulses. His chest and belly arc upward to press against mine, sliding around on the greasy film of sweat and blood that coats his smooth skin. I become aware of the sensation of length of hot pipe laid against my abdomen. The punk is hard.

This is my favorite part. There’s no conscious will left in the kid. I don’t want to have sex with this worthless motherfucker; I want to masturbate with a piece of meat. So I make this punk into meat, meat that I can control. As I move the knife around, carving deeply into the little shit’s cerebrum, the damage to his nervous system influences the force and frequency of his convulsions.

I can play the fuckmeat like an instrument, using his death throes to jack off.

I ream the knife into the punk’s head. I’d promised him I’d fuck his brains out and that’s exactly what I’m doing–using my blade to skullfuck the meat. Each long hard thrust of the knife into the kid’s soft brain tissue causes a massive seizure that tightens his sphincter and applies what feels like suction the head of my dick. His ass slides up and down my shaft, milking me fiercely. I can feel my cock swelling, straining, ready to explode.

I angle the knife down and slam the blade back into his head. The tip of the blade cuts through the meat’s brain stem and jams into the back of his cranium with enough force to get stuck in the bone. The kid thrashes uncontrollably; it’s like trying to ride a bronco. The meat exhales a long, involuntary moan as his ass tightens around the base of my cock. I cum so hard it hurts. I scream curses at the meat as I clamp one hand on his face and use the other to grind the knife around, gutting the inside of his skull.

As I mince the tissue that forms the pleasure center of the brain into hamburger, I trigger a phenomenally powerful orgasm in the meat. He hunches forward and his cock stands straight up. A spasm, violent enough to be clearly visible, contracts his balls and runs up the length of his shaft, making him ejaculate a solid stream of spunk for a good fifteen seconds straight. I’m still cursing and pumping wads of my own into the meat’s fuckhole when a second spasm erupts, lasting just as long. The third one lasts longer and the stream of cum becomes increasingly stained with red near the end. The meat has shot his load so hard he’s torn his vas deferens and there’s blood in his semen.

I black out. I don’t know how long I’m out but the meat is still twitching when I wake up. The knife is still in his skull, wedged deep into the brain stem again. Contact with the carbon-steel blade is providing enough of an electrical connection inside the mangled folds of his brain for the random firing of dying neurons to be transferred into muscular contractions.

Not only am I still hard, the meat’s convulsing anus is still stroking my shaft, lovingly, slowly, but very firmly.

I don’t need to move. I hold on to the punk, letting him work my dick. I gaze down into his face. His half-open eyes have rolled back, the whites pink with hemorrhages. A trickle of blood has been aspirated from his mouth, staining his lips and running down his cheek. The knife is angled too far back to be visible inside his mouth, but I can see that it cut his tongue to pieces. He’s so beautiful. I kiss him, thrusting my tongue into his mouth, exploring the shredded slices of his tongue with the tip of mine.

I french and fondle the meat for another fifteen minutes or so, letting his rectum continue to jack me. Eventually my balls, bulging with seed, demand another release. When I cum, I slam my hand down onto the hilt of the knife so hard it punches through the back of the meat’s skull and pins his head to the mattress. He quivers and goes still. His dick spasms one last time, but the only thing that oozes out is blood.

Well, I may have lied about fucking little bro again. I’d love to–poor little fuck didn’t get any of my spunk–but I don’t think there’s a single sperm cell left in my overworked sack. And I need to be outta here before I have time to refill. There’s way too much stale meat in this house for me to be comfortable.

Time for a barbecue.

Fantasy Scenario 12

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series1 Comment

The kid is young, no older than twenty. Short, but muscular; he’s been working out. No surprise there; he’s a whore, so he needs to maintain his moneymaker.

It’s cold out and sleet is starting to fall. That’s probably why he’s still available—there’s no traffic now. Everyone is home and safe and warm. Except this kid; he’s still out selling his body. He must be desperate. Wonder what kinda habit he’s supporting.

Well, after tonight, it won’t matter. Surest way to get a monkey off your back is to get dead.

He’s relieved when I pull up. I don’t give him much time; I’ve got my tire iron in the back seat and I go upside his head with it before he can speak. He slumps against his door, snoring slightly as I drive back to the apartment I’ve rented.

It’s dark when I get there. Power’s out in the whole neighborhood. This place I’ve rented is older and has a fireplace. I’d laid in a supply of wood when I saw the forecast.

This whore is gonna die in front of the fire.

I’ve positioned an upright pole in front of the fireplace. I place the kid on his back and pull his hands up over his head, tying them to the pole. After I start a fire—and get enough light to see what I’m doing—I start removing his clothes. I cut off his jeans, leaving his shiny black Doc Martens in place. I cut off his t-shirt and the denim vest he’s wearing, too. He must have been cold.

He’s nude now, except for his socks and boots. He’s well-built and pretty well hung for his size. There’s a tribal armband tattoo around his bulging right bicep. His hair is black and curly and worn long in the back, kinda like a mullet. A trickle of blood has run down his right temple from the spot where I’d popped him. It’s dry now.

Rentboy is starting to wake up. In a flash, I’ve got a ball gag in his mouth. With the power out, it’s really quiet around here. This piggy’s gonna squeal some before I’m done; I need to muffle him before I get started.

I pry his smooth thighs apart and shove the head of my cock into his well-used hole. He gives a slight groan, but this is clearly nothing new for him. He’s pretty loose, but I know how to fix that.

I always like showing off my knife before I use it. The fuckmeat works my tool longer and more intensely when the pain is combined with fear. And my Ka-bar utility knife with its seven inch serrated carbon-steel blade is something to be afraid of.

The kid’s large, dark eyes finally open. He looks around in dazed confusion, trying to move. His hands are bound above his head with zip ties and he can’t do anything with them. He can kick his legs but I’m pinning him to the floor with my dick, so he can’t do much else.

I lie full-length on top of him and grab his throat. With my other hand, I hold the knife in front of his eyes, letting it reflect the orange flames back into his panicked face.

“See this, ya little fuck? I’m gonna stick this in ya. I’m gonna fuck your ass with my cock and your body with my blade. Don’t worry, punk, I ain’t gonna kill ya. Yet. But you whored yourself out too much, bitch, so I’m gonna tighten ya up a little. Ready for it, fuckmeat? Here we go!”

I slowly insert the knife into his left side, under the rib cage. The whore quivers in agony as the sharpened steel slides through his flesh and tears open muscle. His screams are muffled by the gag, but his face shows how much pain he’s in. He shakes his head; eyes squeezed shut with tears streaming out. The resistance on my blade changes abruptly; I’ve hit the spleen.

Suddenly the punk jerks, his eyes opened wide and dilated. Organ trauma usually induces a basic level of shock. His muscles tightened reflexively and his ass clamped down on my dick, as I’d planned.

I slowly pull the blade out. I don’t want to do too much damage yet. I’m gonna bleed him out like a stuck pig, but that’s for later. It’s difficult to keep ‘em going like this sometimes. Getting the right physical reaction requires precision placement of the blade and usually involves trauma to some organ or another. But too much organ damage can lead to death by hemorrhage (before I’m ready) or an irreversible deep state of shock that elicits no reaction at all. This latter state is useful if you need a quick stealth kill.

I like to enjoy my kills a little more. I ease the blade into the punk’s hard, flat belly. It slips in smoothly, almost gliding in like a hot knife through butter. The bitch’s scream is tempered to a long, low moan by the gag.

“Shut up, you fuckin’ bitch. This is what you been wantin’, ain’t it? You’ve just been waiting for some guy to come along and stick something long and hard into ya. Now you got two at the same time, fucker. And you love it, don’t ya, faggot? You tighten your ass up like a good little piggy every time I stick ya. You keep that up and you’ll get my load, bitch. You’re gonna love what happens then. You really are gonna die squealing like a pig when I give you my load. Best happy ending ever!”

I smile beatifically into his face as I tell him about his death. I don’t miss a stroke in my thrusting, though. I only miss a beat while I press the tip of the knife into his right pectoral muscle. There’s immediate resistance—I must have hit a rib—and I have to lean on the haft of the blade. There’s a snapping sound and the knife sinks in up to the hilt. The kid is developed, but small—the blade has completely penetrated him, with the tip coming out of his back.

He stiffens in pain, moaning loudly. He starts writhing, trying to free himself from the iron grip of agony. But he’s pinned in place by my rod and my blade, the latter impaling him to the floor. His rectum cycles through a swift rippling motion up and down the shaft of my cock.

His eyes stare frantically into mine. He still doesn’t quite get it. I know he will, before he dies. He’ll realize that I’m only giving him what he’s wanted all along. He just needs to know he’s really dying. His left lung has been penetrated twice and is collapsing, but he still doesn’t know, beyond any doubt, that he’s dying…

I can fix that.

I lie full-length on him again, feeling his hard body jerking underneath my, sliding around on the blood that’s leaked from his chest wound. There’s really not that much blood since I haven’t pulled the knife out of the wound yet. His dark eyes look pleadingly into mine. His breathing it swift and deep; he’s starting to cough up blood from his damaged lung. He’s gonna die soon enough—I’m just making sure he knows it.

“Ok, you punk fuck, time to make you meat. This is gonna hurt like fuck. I’m gonna cut your throat and let you bleed out while you’re riding my dick. You’re gonna love it, faggot; you’re gonna get butchered like a good pig. Just accept it; this is what you want. This is why you’re out on the streets every night. You wanted a man to come along and cut you like the meat you are. You wanted to die with a dick up your ass. Here ya go, ya fuckin’ death pig, die on my fucking cock, you worthless punk shit!”

I yank the knife brutally out of his chest and saw open his throat, using the serrated edge of the blade to cut into the rubbery trachea. The moment I slice open his windpipe, the fuckmeat shoots his load up my belly and chest. His legs tighten around me. I can feel the smooth leather of his boots as his heels rake my ass in pain—and in pleasure.

His eyes—I can’t really describe the expression. There’s the terror of his imminent death, but there’s also a gratitude for the satisfaction of a desire he’d never known he’d had.

He lays his head back, gasping and gurgling as blood flows down his shredded esophagus into his lungs. Each agonized exhale covers the gash in the meat’s throat with pink foam. Each inhalation is a gargle, the desperate reflex of fuckmeat drowning in its own blood.

As he gags and the foam boils from his bisected neck, he continues to shoot. He finally gets it. Things are getting dim for him. His blood pressure is dropping rapidly, so his extremities are going limp and numb. His vision is fading from the outside in. But he can still feel my tool buried deep in his ass. And since there’s still enough life left in him for his ass to massage my dick, he gets to feel my load, too, before the darkness claims him.

As I cum, holding the dying meat down, two more streams of semen erupt from his swollen cock, splattering his face and smearing into the blood oozing from his throat. The kid milks the last few drops out of my cock with a final death spasm, then goes still. His dick contracts, leaving a glistening trail behind.

I clean myself up and wait for the whoremeat to stop leaking. When it does, I pick it up and carry it to the bedroom.

Without power, it’s cold in there. And it’ll keep longer, away from the fire. I don’t think I’m quite done with it yet.

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 6

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series1 Comment

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

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

Thank God!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost. Not quite. Time to turn it up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What shall I do with my next true lost soul?

Fantasy Scenario 5

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy Scenario 4

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 3

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario SeriesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy Scenario 2

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.

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?