Family Matter

Vinnie Simonini and his young brother Frankie strolled casually and coolly down lower Fourth Street. It was obvious they were brothers, just by looking at them. They both had a knockoff “Jersey boy” look with their spiked black hair, black sleeveless muscle tees and shiny track pants; they’d even managed to score identical Air Jordans.

Vinnie was about twenty-one and clearly spent a lot of time in the gym. His body was hard and thickly muscled and he stood just short of six feet. Frankie was eighteen and a little shorter, about five-nine. He wasn’t quite as developed as his brother, but he was getting close.

They were cocky to the point of arrogance—the kind of arrogance that comes with stupidity. They were about to make a terrible mistake, and they were going to pay dearly for it.

Their mistake was entering Sal’s Pool Hall. Sal Pistoli, the owner, saw them and knew what was coming. He didn’t know the Simonini brothers but he had anticipated their purpose. Sal was in his seventies and had owned the pool hall for nearly forty years. He’d come to learn early on that lower Fourth Street was a boundary line between two of the many families that ran the city. Since the boundary was arbitrary, it wasn’t always steady. Sometimes, he paid his protection money to one gang, sometimes to the other.

For the past few years, lower Fourth had been the turf of the Dei Rossi family. Rumor on the street, though, was that Angelo Dei Rossi was getting old and weak. Sal had figured that sooner or later someone from the Giancotta family would show up and demand that the money be paid to them instead. Sal was concerned; if old Angelo wasn’t as weak as everyone thought, he’d be in serious trouble. Having the pool hall torn up would be the least of his concerns. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

Sal’s reasoning was correct in all but one detail. Vinnie and Frankie were indeed there to demand the payoff for the Giancotta family—but the family was completely unaware of the fact. The brothers were looking to get themselves in good with the Giancotta by performing a little free-lance enforcing.

Vinnie had been hanging around the Giancotta since he was sixteen. Frankie was fourteen when Vinnie drew him in; not a lot of persuasion was needed, since Frankie idolized his older brother. Together, they’d performed a number of commissions for the family, but it had all been low-level work—delivering cash or drugs for the most part; occasionally roughing up someone who’d incurred the displeasure of the Giancotta in a minor way. The Simonini brothers were anxious to move up in the ranks and they thought their experience with beating up helpless old men would enable them to tangle with the Dei Rossi.

They were about to find out otherwise.

Sal approached them. “You’re Giancotta? I been expectin’ ya. I’ll meet you in the basement soon as I get someone to cover the bar. I don’t do this kinda business in public. The stairs are through that door. When you get down there, go to the room on the left. And don’t fuck with the door on the right; that’s where I store the booze and I got an alarm on it.”

The boys slouched nonchalantly to the door Sal had indicated. As they left, Sal shook his head at their naivety. The stupid little fucks were actually following his directions. There was no cure for that kind of dumb. Oh well, not his problem anymore.

Vinnie made his way cautiously down the dimly-lit stairs with Frankie trailing him. At the bottom was a small space lit by a single 40-watt overhead bulb. There were doors on the left and right and a brick wall in front of them. They obediently turned to the left and Vinnie’s hand had just grasped the doorknob when the door behind them suddenly opened. Vinnie had no time to turn before there was a blast of pain at the back of his head. He crumpled unconscious to the floor, unaware that Frankie’s lights had been put out as well.

Vinnie came to slowly, in a haze of pain and confusion. He didn’t remember getting clocked; the last thing he could remember was starting down the stairs. He became aware of his situation gradually. He was sitting in a folding chair, his hands tied behind his back. His legs had been tied to the front legs of the chair; he was completely immobilized. He was also completely nude. His rank socks had been balled up and shoved in his mouth and were kept in place by a strip of duct tape.

Vinnie slowly lifted his head. He was in a circle of light cast by another overhead bulb. The rest of the room was so dark he couldn’t have seen anything if he tried. But he didn’t try. His attention was focused on Frankie, who was bound to a chair and gagged in the same manner. Frankie was facing him; fear shone in his wide eyes.

Two figures stepped out of the dark. Vinnie recognized them as Dei Rossi mooks, both mid-level enforcers. They were wearing dark blue jumpsuits and work boots. The significance of the clothing didn’t escape Vinnie; it’s hard to see blood on dark blue fabric. These were cold hard men who’d killed before.

Vinnie knew that he and his brother were fucked.

The goon on the left spoke. “Ok, punk, lissen up. We’re gonna ask you just one question and you’re gonna answer it or else. And we’re gonna use your buddy here to show you what we mean by ‘else’.”

Frankie’s eyes darted frantically. He struggled violently in the chair but was too well bound than to do more than to jerk it a few inches around on the floor. He tried to beg, but the reeking socks in his mouth muffled the cries. He stared desperately at Vinnie, pleading silently for help. His fear grew stronger when he saw that Vinnie was crying. Vinnie knew he was going to watch his kid brother die and he couldn’t do anything about it. He could only hope to save his own life by giving these men the information they wanted.

The man on the right pulled a glittering object from the pocket of his jumpsuit. It took Vinnie a moment to realize that it was a staple gun. He stared in horror as the enforcer pressed the gun against Frankie’s smooth hairless pec and squeezed the handle. Frankie jerked in pain as the long sharp staple pierced his flesh and penetrated his muscle. His scream was audible despite the gag. It didn’t seem to bother the goons. No one could hear it down here.

The session with the staple gun went on for a while. Stapled were embedded in his arms and legs, in his belly and on his face. Each one left tiny trickles of blood; each one made Frankie jerk and scream. He was already sobbing uncontrollably when his torturer moved the gun to his scrotum and shot staples into his balls and the head of his dick.

Snot clogged Frankie’s nose and he began to turn blue. The man with the staple gun noticed. “Ok, party’s over. Time to say goodnight.” He stepped back as the other enforcer moved back into the light. He held a long knife with a viciously serrated blade. “Hold his head up. Make him watch,” he said to the torturer, jerking his head at Vinnie. The he spoke directly to Vinnie, a cold grin on his face. “Looks like your pal is havin’ a little trouble breathin’. What say we open up his airway a little?”

Vinnie’s head was clamped in a vise-like grip and pointed straight ahead. He had no choice but to watch the executioner stand behind Frankie and jerk his head back by the hair. He stared Vinnie right in the eyes as he started sawing Frankie’s throat open.

Frankie’s piercing scream ended in a gurgle. Blood gushed from the gaping throat wound, spurting over Vinnie. A drawn-out spluttering, like someone blowing out a mouthful of water, came from the terrible gash—Frankie was trying to cough up the blood he was aspirating.

Frankie’s short, wasted life came to an agonizing and brutal end. The fountain of blood became a sluggish stream before it ceased altogether. His struggles slowed to a stop and the smell of piss and shit from bowels gone loose in death filled the room. The only sound was Vinnie’s gagged attempt to call his brother’s name.

“All right, punk, tell me one thing and we’ll let you go. You can tell those Giancotta bitches what’ll happen to ‘em if come into Dei Rossi territory. Capice?”

Vinnie nodded. The hitman snatched the tape off Vinnie’s face, ripping out his light facial hair by the roots and pulled the balled up socks out of his mouth. “All I want is the name of the motherfucker who sent you here. He’s gonna learn a lesson about keeping his hands off our property.”

Vinnie exhaled in a shuddering sob, “No one sent us, it was my idea, oh fuck please don’t kill me. I won’t tell anyone anything and I’ll tell the Giancotta to stay away, please, just don’t fuckin’ kill me!”

“Aw shit, ya little bitch, are we gonna play this game? We ain’t got time for this. Tell me his name or I’m gonna whack ya and leave the both of ya’s stretched out in the middle of the street for the Giancotta to find.”

Vinnie started sobbing and babbling hysterically. He knew he was about to suffer horribly and die through his own stupidity. He really had thought it up on his own; there was no name to give. These guys were on a high enough level to know the names of their counterparts in the other family. Vinnie, on the other hand, wasn’t. He hadn’t even been a foot soldier, just an errand boy. They’d know he was lying if made something up and they wouldn’t believe the truth.

There was no hope. He was going to die in agony in this basement and no one would care. The Giancotta would spit on hearing his name when they realized he’d started a turf war; they’d drag the bodies off the street because it would look bad but he and Frankie would end up rotting in an unmarked shallow grave out in the swamps. Vinnie pissed himself in terror.

“All right, you stupid punk, I warned ya.” The killer grabbed Vinnie scrotum and thick cock and began slicing them off—slowly.

The pain was so intense that Vinnie couldn’t breathe. He sat bolt upright, eyes dazed and mouth gaping as his junk was sawn off. When the enforcer stepped back, Vinnie took a deep, shuddering gasp. It was the opening the killer was looking for. With a single swift motion, he jammed the bleeding mass of flesh into Vinnie’s mouth. As he gagged on his own dick, Vinnie was peripherally aware that the goon had a massive erection tenting his jumpsuit. This wasn’t just a job for him; he was getting off on it.

The killer suddenly drove the knife into the right side of Vinnie’s chest, slicing through the pectoral muscle and puncturing the right lung. A quick twist and the knife was yanked back out. Vinnie trembled in shock and the knife was plunged into the left side of his chest. It missed the heart but penetrated his other lung. This time the executioner caught the knife on a rib while twisting it and had to rip it out of Vinnie’s body violently. The goon moaned and shuddered while grinding the knife in the wound. The sadistic bastard had shot his wad in his shorts.

Vinnie leaned back in the chair, losing the fight to breathe as his lungs collapsed. His cheeks bulged obscenely with his severed manmeat; he could taste his own piss. He could see the man who’d had the staple gun slicing Frankie’s package off and stuffing it into his ripped-out throat, a semen stain barely visible in the crotch of his jumpsuit.

They had been such badasses; they were gonna own this place and get the recognition they deserved. Vinnie’s last conscious thought was that their mutilated corpses were going to be dumped like garbage; his last emotion one of pathetic bewilderment. Then death took him down and all that was left was twitching nerves and shredded flesh.

Fantasy Scenario 17

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for a barbecue.