Fantasy Scenario 13

I can hear the whore moan. That’s good; I’d thought I’d killed him for a moment there.

Of course, I plan on killing him later–but not till I’m ready. I really want to enjoy this.

He’s about eighteen or nineteen, but looks a little older. He’s clearly been living hard for some time, probably on the streets. His darting eyes and nervous hand movements betray a drug addiction. He wants this over but needs the money for his next bump.

He’s beautiful. Long dark silky hair with blond highlights. Pale blue eyes with long lashes. He’s wearing tight skinny jeans and a dark red t-shirt with black and white leather hightops.

I’d take him away from this, from the life of want and necessity, but he wouldn’t come. This will only end one way for him. Down inside, it’s what he truly wants, even if he doesn’t realize it yet. He will, though. Before I’m done, before the heart stops beating and the semen stops flowing, he’ll understand the gift I’m giving him.

He’s jonesing badly, so it only takes an offer of twenty bucks to get him in my car. He starts babbling about the different things he’ll do for me for various amounts of money. That’s when I slug him in the jaw. As he stares at me in stunned silence, I grab his long hair and slam him face-first into the dashboard.

He goes limp, bleeding from his nose. There’s also some blood leaking from his mouth; his lip is cut. But he’s out good–so good, I was worried that I might have wasted him before I got to have any fun with him. It’s good to hear him moan. It makes my dick hard.

When I get the fuckboy back to the shitty apartment I use as my killing pit, I take my time stripping his clothes off, fondling his hard, smooth, helpless body. He can’t resist; he’s still out. I slowly cut off his shirt and jeans. He won’t need those again. Ever.

As usual, I leave his shoes on.

There’s nothing else I need to remove. He’s gone commando under his jeans, most likely so he can take it up the ass in some dark alley quickly, without trouble.

So now he’s moaning quietly and starting to move. He’s ready. But I’m not, not quite. I need to do something first.

And that something is to zip-tie his hands behind his back and lay him in the bathtub.

He’s on his back. Before he can fully awaken, I’ve inserted myself into him. It works better this way; I don’t have to fight him in order to fuck him. He’ll be fighting for his life in a moment but by then, my engorged cock will be planted firmly inside the bitch.

He’s awake now. Awake and very unhappy. He starts swearing and threatening me, trying to get free.

“Get off me, motherfucker! What, you got me in a fuckin’ tub? What the fuck? Get off me before I fuck you up, bitch!”

I ram my dick into him. He cries out and starts cursing again.

“Goddammit, get fucking off, you weirdo! I’m gonna hurt you bad when I get outta here, fucker!”

I smile benignantly and whisper in his ear, “And what makes you think you’re getting out of here?”

He goes quiet, staring up at me, his lovely blue eyes round with fear and his long hair disheveled by his struggles.

“Wh-what are you talkin’ about, dude?”

I smile gently again, lean down over him, and turn the water on. Slowly.

It falls from the spout to the right of his head. He looks at me in silence for a couple of seconds while his drug-addled brain tries to sort out what this means.

When it hits him, it’s like an explosion. There’s instant panic as he starts thrashing violently. He slams his head into the side of the tub and flails uselessly with his legs, trying to work them under me so he can leverage me off him. But I’m gripping one of his legs with each of my arms, holding them apart as I continue to plow his ass. And with his hands bound underneath him, he can’t move.

He starts screaming for help. Most of the units in this run-down dump are empty and I don’t have any near neighbors, but there’s no sense in taking chances. I let go of one leg long enough to pop him on the jaw again. The blow makes him grunt, but his cries subside to a terrified whimper.

I keep fucking him as the water gets deeper. He’s been reamed out real good in his career as a rentboy, but the fear and the physical abuse tighten him up some. Not enough, but the water will take care of the rest.

The water has reached the level of his face. It feels warm on my thighs and makes an odd sucking sound as it’s pumped into the fuckmeat’s ass with each thrust of my dick.

Whoreboy has to lift his head out of the water now in order to keep breathing. It’s a strain on his neck and he won’t be able to keep it up long. He knows it, too, as he begs for his life.

“P-please, dude, don’t do this. Don’t kill me. Oh god, please don’t. You can do whatever you want, you can fuck me for a week, just please don’t kill me…”

“Shut up, fuckmeat,” I snarl at him. “The sooner you die, the sooner I cum. That’s what you’re here for, to die on my cock. You’re going to drown soon, but it’ll take a few minutes. You’re gonna struggle and convulse during those few minutes. Your body is gonna thrash and jerk as is tries to find more oxygen and that’s gonna feel great against my dick. I’m gonna cum so fuckin’ hard as you die, motherfucker.”

He can’t beg anymore; the water’s too high. Even holding his head up, it’s still above his mouth. He can only stare at me pleadingly as his tear-stained face turns to mine.

“Oh yeah, you punk faggot, that’s it. You have no idea how erotic your fear and despair are. You’re about to die, motherfucker, and that’s so fucking hot. Even if I wasn’t boning you, I’d still get off just watching you get whacked. Now just lay back and let go, whore and it’ll be over soon. Shhh. Just accept it. Take my cock and die, fucker.”

His head begins to shudder; the strain of holding it up is too much. And pointless, really, by now. The water has risen to the level of his nose and he can’t lift himself any higher, even by pushing back with his arms. He collapses back into the water.

I turn the tap off after a few seconds and let the surface of the water grow still. I’m not pumping him anymore; I’m just lying on top of him, my rod plugging his rectum. He’s very still himself, staring up at me. A small bubble rises from his right nostril.

I’m looking straight down at him, my hands pressing down on his shoulders, his legs wrapped tightly around my waist. He’d kicked and struggled well enough earlier; I’ll have bruises on my ass for days from the heels of his hightops.

He starts trembling underneath me. Fuckmeat has been holding his breath for a long time now and it’s starting to tell. As I look into his face, I can see a blood vessel rupture in the white of his right eye—then two in his left.

His trembling becomes more violent. Suddenly, a froth of bubbles erupts from his face. He’s let out the air he’d been holding. But he’d already exhausted all the oxygen in it; his body needs to take another breath immediately.

Now the only thing to inhale is water. I grip the whore’s shoulders and prepare for a ride.

The moment the water hit his lungs he bucks like a bronco under me. The reaction is extreme and involuntary; his body’s thrashing out in every way possible to reach air. As I clamp myself to the writhing meat, his rectum massages my cock with an almost fluid motion.

My fucktoy thrashes and wriggles like an eel. It takes a great deal of force to hold him down onto my dick. He’s young—and despite abusing his body for a couple of years, he’s still strong. It takes him some time to die, and he fights it as long as he can.

As the brain dies, there’s a progression of physical movement from voluntary to involuntary. I can feel the boy twisting under me as he fights to remain conscious, knowing that once everything fades away, it won’t be coming back. As he loses the battle, his deliberate efforts to save himself falter and become weak. Soon, they cease altogether and are replaced with the convulsions of irreversible brain damage—the involuntary movements.

This is when the meat starts to milk the cum out of my cock. Each seizure creates a suction effect in his rectum. It’s also at this point the whore shoots his first load; a cloudy jet muddying the water over his chest and face.

I wonder how far gone he is; I wonder if he can feel my hot wad burning inside his guts. I don’t really care, though; he’s just here to get me off as he dies. His dick, rock-hard and swollen purple in the warm water, sends spray after milky spray into the tub.

I can still see his face, though. His dull eyes are half-lidded; his hair floats around his head, the blond highlights glinting like lightning in a thundercloud. A thin trail of bloody foam flows from the meat’s open mouth.

Suddenly he clenches up on me in his final spasm, grinding his ass onto my cock as a vast white cloud erupts from his straining dick. I shudder and gasp as my balls drain into the dead whore’s ass—and by the time I finish unloading into his hole, he really is dead.

It takes me a few minutes to get my strength back. I pull the plug on the tub, climb out and sit, nude, on the bath rug, panting. While I rest, I look up at the pulley I’d hung over the tub and wondered if the fuckmeat had noticed it before he died. What’s that, fucker? What’s the pulley for? Silly faggot, that’s to drain your corpse.

Once I get my breath back, I get a ten-foot length of rope I’d bought some days earlier—longer than needed, but I figured better too much than too little, in this case. I feed it through the pulley and loop it about the meat’s ankles. I then hoist the meat up and tie the rope off on the faucet. I leave the meat there, hanging by the ankles, fingertips scraping the bottom of the tub.

After all, I don’t want him leaking water if I want to play with him again.

Fantasy Scenario 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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