Tag: garrote

Meat Chronicles 13–Snuff of Sam

On 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 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 4–The Wages of Sin Are…

On By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles1 Comment

I’m back hunting in the suburbs. I’ve had good luck at malls, especially the extreme ends of the parking lots, so I figured I’d try a different one this time. I park in the shade, step into the back of the van, and wait to see what develops. I ain’t offin’ this one in the van, though.

Whatever I catch is going back to the apartment. I have something new I want to try. And anyways, I need to lay off that industrial park for a bit. Something washed up in a creek several miles downstream of the drainage canal, and I think it’s one of mine.

It isn’t long before something catches my eye. There’s a punk wandering through the lot, peering into the cars. I see him try to open a car door surreptitiously, glancing around to make sure no one’s looking. He can’t see deep enough into the van to see me.

He’s about eighteen or nineteen, with a broad face and large blue eyes. He’s not very tall—not quite six feet. He’s wearing a black baseball cap worn backwards; in the gap above the cap’s band on his forehead, golden hair about an inch in length stands out.

He’s got on a blue t-shirt with the red Superman symbol on the chest. Below his jean shorts I can see thick, strong legs covered with a golden fur, a finer and curlier version of the hair on his head. Underneath the golden haze a dragon tattoo on his left calf flexes with every movement of that muscle. His blue-and-white hightop sneakers dance nervously on the hot pavement as the kid keeps turning and looking around.

He was two rows out when I first noticed him, but he’s closer now. This is perfect; the meat is coming to me. All I have to do is bait the trap—and make sure it’s not too obvious a trap.

I set my wallet on the dashboard, lock the doors, and roll down the passenger window about three to four inches before retreating to the darkened rear of the van. I don’t have to wait long for him to notice it, but it seems to take him a while to decide to go for it.

He paces the length of the van a couple of times. I even hear him try the rear doors, but they’re secure. I can’t tell if he’s suspicious of the open window or is just too oblivious to notice it.

Turns out to be the latter. As soon as he sees it, his arm is in the window. He has to go up on his toes to get it in all the way to the elbow, but once he does, he’s able to unlock the door immediately. In a flash, he’s in the passenger seat and scrabbling madly for the wallet.

He’s so intent on his work that he never sees me coming. I take him by surprise, slamming his face into the dashboard, feeling the satisfying crunch of the little shit’s nose being broken. I draw back and he sits up, shaking and gasping, blood streaming from his nose, his cap remaining on the dash. He turns and looks in my direction, but I’m not sure he actually sees me. Doesn’t matter. A rabbit-punch to the jaw and his lights are out.

They stay out, too, which is good. I need that to get him into the apartment. He gets dumped into a large plastic tub with a lid, then takes a short ride on my dolly. I wheel him straight back into the bedroom and empty him out there. I can use this setup to get the meat back out for the garbage run, as well.

I cut off his shorts, boxers, and shirt, leaving him with nothing but his socks and shoes. Now that he’s ready, he can go on the table. I put a lot of time into building this thing; I hope it works well.

The basis for it is a rough plywood rectangle, about three feet wide and four feet long. The meat goes on it on his back, his ass hanging slightly off one end so I can fuck him. Just below the other end, I’ve drilled two holes, five or six inches apart. A length of nylon cord snakes out of one, forms a loop, and vanishes down the other. This cord is firmly attached to the underside of the table on the left side. It’s guided to and away from the holes by a series of metal hasps, also bolted to the underside.

The cord ends up on the right side, just by my hand, where’s it’s connected to a spindle on a ratchet gear that I can crank. In other words, it’s a fuck table with a built-in garrote that I control by a crank. I’ve even got restraining straps for his arms and legs.

Fuck yeah, I’m gonna dominate this worthless fucking thief.

Like I said, I’ve been having some control issues lately. I’m not waiting for the blond bitch to wake up. I strap him in, hock up a huge wad and spit it onto his pink puckered virgin hole, and insert my thick purple head, already oozing in anticipation. I can feel the resistance of his sphincter, unused to being stretched to such a diameter.

I’ve already loosened the cord to allow his head under it. Now I tighten it until it’s flush with his throat—just lying across it, really, not actually tight.

It takes a couple of minutes for him to awaken. That’s fine; I keep fucking him, waiting for him to come around. After all, I’m probably gonna be fucking him later on, too, after he’s dead. He won’t be moving any more then than now.

But now I want him awake. It’s not enough that he suffer. I want him to know exactly what’s happening to him—and why. I’m so excited that when he starts stirring, I can’t control the huge, sharklike grin that breaks out on my face.

He bats his long, dark lashes confusedly, staring at my face. He jerks his arms and legs, only to find the former held to his sides by a leather strap around the wrists and the latter spread wide to receive my cock with leather straps just above the knee. Below the knee, his legs are free to flail, his bright new sneakers kicking uselessly at the air…

Not yet, not yet. Control, goddammit!

I lean down over the meat, stroking his swollen nose. Caked blood trails from both nostrils. He’s gasping and making a low keening sound. More of a whimper than a moan, really.

He may whimper now, but his world ends with a bang.

“Hello there, you sorry little fuck.” I spit down into the meat’s tearful, bewildered face before I start talking again. “Picked the wrong car to break into, dintcha? You ain’t got no idea how wrong, but you’re gonna learn. Gotta tell ya though, dude, it’s gonna hurt a little.” I tweak the punk’s broken nose; he cries out in pain. “In fact, you piece of shit, it’s gonna hurt like fucking hell.”

I stroke his dragon tattoo with my left hand as I turn the crank with my right. The cord grows taut and starts to sink into the flesh of the meat’s neck. I stop before I completely cut off his air, though.

I want to enjoy this a bit. I can stand still for a few minutes as the meat struggles. He can breathe, but it’s requiring a lot of effort. As he fights for air, his sphincter tightens and his colon constricts, massaging my shaft. It would be so easy to blow my load now, but the meat is nowhere near ready. I have to maintain control of myself in order to maintain control of him. I have to hold out long enough to inflict a certain amount of brain damage…

In the meantime, the meat is trying to scream—without much luck. His deep, labored breathing is accompanied by gagging, choking sounds. Already, I can see his face turning red. He’s still getting air, but not enough. He’s being strangled very slowly.

“Hey, dude, how much ya get from breaking into cars? Was it worth it? Worth getting’ your ass plugged while I choke the life outta ya? Bet ya though only chicks got raped and strangled. Get ready for this, you worthless fuck, ‘cause it’s gonna hurt worse than you can imagine. I’m gonna make sure it does, ‘cause that’s the only way I’m gonna cum.”

His eyes, wide, clear, eloquent in horrified confusion, stare into mine. He looks like he’s trying to speak. I can make out the word “please” on his writhing lips as he spews spittle in a frantic attempt to beg for his useless life.

“What’s that, bitch? Still don’t get it, do ya, ya worthless fuck? You’re gonna die so I can cum. It’s that simple. Here, lemme show ya.”

I twist the crank mercilessly. The cord sinks so deep it nearly vanishes. There’s a cracking, crunching sound as the esophagus collapses; its cartilage shattered beyond repair. The damage is reflected in the blond punk’s face as more blood leaks from his nose.

His face darkens as the tip of his tongue parts his lips, accompanied by a froth of drool. More of this foamy drool is pushed out as the tongue extrudes, bubbling over his blue, swelling lips.

The meat convulses helplessly, his torn, ravaged rectum fluttering along the surface of my engorged tool. His balls contract as his own thickly-veined dick responds to asphyxia, rising and glistening as precum drips involuntarily.

His eyes, huge and desperate, bulge frantically as the pressure builds above the cord that has now sunk back nearly to his spine. His skin and eyes grow darker as I watch, as blood vessels rupture until the meat’s face is black and unrecognizably contorted. As I’d hoped, his shoes are kicking and flailing in the air. His broad, smooth, well-muscled chest is slick with deathsweat; the odor of it wafts from his pits.

He’s almost gone. There’s only a few more seconds until his brain is so damaged that he’ll never be a functional being again. A few more seconds before I perform a miracle and make meat into a vegetable. There’s just enough left of him to understand my words.

“Do you get it now, fuckmeat? See what a worthless little fuckwad you really are? Ain’t no one gonna miss you when you’re gone, bitch. You’re a fuckin’ thief. I don’t give a shit what the fuck you do, meat, but bein’ a thief is what got ya here, you stupid little shit. If you’d been a good little boy, you wouldn’t be choking to death with my cock pluggin’ your ass.”

His eyes had been losing focus and drifting, but as I speak, they turn and orient themselves on me. I can tell his brain is still functioning enough to understand my words, and his eyes well enough to see me despite the excruciating pain of the swelling and hemorrhages. His convulsions slow as his body strains futilely against its bonds, a single rigid clenching of everything. My god, the way his ass sucks down my cock…

“Let go, you useless fuck,” I snarl into the dying kid’s face, “you want this. You know it. Give up and let it happen. You worthless little pig, you wanna give me your load as you die. You can’t help it, I’m gonna get it whether you like it or not, but we both know this is what your sick little fucking soul has always wanted. You were out prowling the mall, looking for someone like me to find you and give you the best fuck, the most intense orgasm possible. You’re gonna cum when you die, fuckmeat, and that’s gonna make me cum too. The last thing you’re gonna feel is the hot splash of my spunk in your guts as your shudder and shoot and die. Stop fighting and let it happen. You’ve always wanted a man to hold you down and control you till you cum and die. It’s your lucky day, meat.”

He hears me and he understands. I know he understands because there’s a massive spasm that visibly runs along the meat’s dick and results in a fount of semen. He gets it. He relaxes, surrendering to death, allowing himself this ultimate orgasm as the last physical sensation of which he’s capable.

His ass clenches as well, gipping my cock tightly in a velvet glove of soft rectal lining, squeezing and rippling. It’s too intense for me to resist. Before I’m aware of my actions, I’m screaming and spitting on the meat as I blow my load deep inside his dying asshole. I’m lying flat on top of him, feeling him arch and twist, his hot, smooth, sweaty skin sliding across mine. The firm flesh inside his thighs caresses my flanks as his legs kick and tremble. I pump the bitch full of cum, cursing uncontrollably, as darkness overwhelms me.

When I come to, I find that I’m still hard. I couldn’t have been out long.

On the other hand, the meat is still jacking my dick. The fuckwad isn’t completely dead yet. It’s still convulsing; the aimless thrashing caused by massive trauma to the brain, but it massages my still-sensitive shaft beautifully. I look down into the meat’s face—bloated, black, every inch expressing the unspeakable agony of the garrote. Its eyes had rolled back into its head, only blood-streaked white showing beneath the half-open lids.

Its taut, firm body kept bucking and jerking on my cock. I found myself moaning, pawing at the meat, running my hands down its slick muscled flesh. I can feel a burning sensation in the head of my dick; I can tell I’m going to shoot again.

The meat is fading fast. Time for me to commit one last act of brutality on this hot little teenage punk. One last blast of pain to send him off right. Christ, the pain in the head of my dick; I’m gonna blow…

As I shoot, I crank the cord one last time. The meat’s neck snaps with a sound like a branch breaking. The corpse goes rigid one last time, encasing my cock, milking the last drop of semen out of me like a greedy little deathpig.

I stand up, my back aching. I’ve gotten a lot of exercise. Excellent piece of meat, but it’s completely fucked out now. I need to get it into the tub before it gets stiff and unwieldy. I also need to find a new dumping ground.

Good thing that tub is airtight. Depending on how long it takes me to find a dump, the meat could get pretty ripe before I’m done with it.