Fantasy Scenario 5

On June 28, 2015January 15, 2016 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 2

On June 28, 2015May 18, 2016 By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I have a helluva good time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy Scenario 1

On June 28, 2015July 2, 2016 By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario SeriesLeave a comment

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

So I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meat Chronicles 17–Carnivore Uncaged

On June 27, 2015February 8, 2017 By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

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

I’m hungry for meat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good. He’s experienced pain…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I like it when the meat screams.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…eventually.”

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

I like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meat Chronicles 13–Snuff of Sam

On June 27, 2015February 8, 2017 By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

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

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

He wants to be hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ok. I can put this bitch down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meat Chronicles 12–Slutchoke

On June 27, 2015February 8, 2017 By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good. Time for him to die like a pig.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After all, it’s just another dead whore.

Meat Chronicles 11–Emo Slut

On June 27, 2015February 8, 2017 By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the cap?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for him to realize I know it, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meat Chronicles 8–Shanks for the Memory

On June 27, 2015January 26, 2017 By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s see if it works.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meat Chronicles 6–A Cut Above

On June 27, 2015January 26, 2017 By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles4 Comments

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

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

Luckily, I never have to look far.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least, not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

Now I can set out my toys.

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

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

I have lots and lots of nails.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s bad news for the meat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The meat doesn’t have to imagine it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And start sawing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meat Chronicles 5–Doublecunt Cum

On June 27, 2015January 26, 2017 By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, this is still gonna hurt like fuck,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then I’ll fill that emptiness with cum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, they’re not sweet. They’re salty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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