Victim POV 2–Pig’s Point of View

Damn, I’ve been out here for hours. Good thing it’s summer; at least I’m not freezing. But it looks like it’s gonna rain soon and I’m getting frustrated.

What’s a guy gotta do to get fucked around here?

I ain’t looking to make any money–at least, not now. Still got some dough left from that last BJ I gave. I just want a fat mushroom head shoved down my throat or up my ass. I’m not picky; just horny. It’s a weeknight, though, and there just aren’t many guys out looking for a hole to use.

And that’s a shame; I really fucking want to be used.

Might as well head home. Nothing’s gonna happen tonight. Guess I can call Jimmy to come over and give me a workout, if he’s not too drunk to get it up–

Hold on, that van just turned around. Maybe I will get lucky, after all. He’s pulling up now; even from the curb, I can see that he’s got one hand in his lap, moving rhythmically.

Looks like I’m finally gonna get my hole plugged. Let’s see what the cards dealt me–I approach the van for a closer look.

Goddam, this one’s hot. Mid- to late twenties, I’d say, with shoulder-length black hair and a black mustache. He pops open the passenger door and I can see him a bit more clearly under the dome light. He’s taller than me and a bit larger. Very well built–he looks like he’s got the muscles of a body builder. There’s something disconcerting about his pale blue eyes, but I don’t care, not given the size of the hog outlined in his crotch and running down his leg.

He’s wearing a black leather bomber jacket over a plain white t-shirt. His tight jeans are old and faded; under the frayed cuffs, he’s sporting black harness boots.

“Whaddaya lookin’ for?” I ask.

He grins and unzips his fly, slowly pulling out his huge tube of meat. “Blow me, faggot. Gimme head while I drive back to my place and when we get there I’m gonna fuck you like you ain’t never been fucked before.”

His deep voice makes my dick hard. I climb in. As he puts the van in gear, I bend down and put my lips around his swollen head, deeply inhaling the musk of mansex. He places his hand on the back of my head and shoves; instantly, his massive cock is thrust down my throat, gagging me. His dark pubic scratches my face as I struggle to breathe.

I love it, having his massive rod rammed down my windpipe. And I think he knows it.

“Yeah, that’s it, cocksucker, work my dick. Get it nice and hard so I can stick it up your fuckhole,” he sneers. Not like I have to be told twice. I run my tongue over the bulging veins and lick at the rosebud just under the head, making the john moan in pleasure.

During the drive, he facefucks me, grabbing a hank of my hair to force my head up and down his thick rod. As his massive hairy sack smears across my face, I open my mouth wide and start sucking his large velvety balls.

I keep my face in his crotch all the way back to his apartment–I didn’t see any of the drive, so I don’t know where we are. I don’t even know this dude’s name, not that I care. I know he’s got a monster dong and my eager chute is quivering in anticipation of getting impaled by that enormous dick.

Watching him stuff it back into those skin-tight jeans is like watching a magic trick. If I hadn’t seen it come outta there in the first place, I’d never have believed it’d go back in.

As we cross the parking lot, I cast surreptitious glances at his face out of the corners of my eyes. He’s quiet, this one. Full lips, but they’re compressed into a tight line. There’s something hard about this guy; something undefinable but somehow scary…

It turns me on.

When we get inside, he takes off his leather jacket and his t-shirt. He leaves his jeans and boots on, pulling his cock out again.

“Get over here, you fucking whore,” he snaps, “I want you on your knees. Now!”

I hasten to obey. I kneel in front of him, this stud, this god leering down at me. Holy fuck, he’s built; a broad, smooth chest, a faint trail of fur leading down his six-pack abs like an arrow pointing to the dark erotic secrets hidden below his waistband. His biceps are huge and the tufts of black hair in his pits add to his heady man-scent.

I sit up on my knees, mouth open, waiting to be skullfucked, but he isn’t quite ready. First, he wants to put me in my place.

“Yeah, look at you, you fucking cocksucking homo. Think you’re ready for my cock? You ain’t man enough for it, faggot!” He grabs my hair again and, roughly jerking my head back, spits twice in my face. With his free hand, he begins dickslapping me in the face. Damn, he can swing that huge tool with great force; it actually hurts.

And it makes me hard. I am so fucking ready to be this dude’s bitch.

Suddenly, his fingers scrabble roughly in my mouth; before I realize what’s happening, he pries my jaws open and forces his thick purple head back down my throat. “Fuckin’ choke on it, you piece of shit,” he whispers as his hands force my head further down onto his thickly-veined shaft.

Christ, this thing’s like a log. It completely plugs my throat; I can’t breathe at all. Oh shit–I can deep-throat as well as the next guy, but I gotta know it’s coming. I haven’t had time to inhale. And he’s forced me all the way down. My nose is crushed into his pubic hair.

What the fuck is going on? He’s not thrusting; he’s just clamping my face into his crotch with painful pressure. What–

Oh shit, I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Fuck, I gotta get him outta me, I’m choking to death on his cock. He’s not letting me up!

I’m pressing against his thighs as hard as I can, trying to push him away. Goddam, dude, let go–I seriously can’t fucking breathe!

And then I hear him whisper–very faintly–“Fuck yeah, meat…”

Oh god oh god I know that word I’ve heard stories he’s gonna kill me on jesus oh god–

I gotta get off I gotta get him off now I’m gagging get off get off GET OFF OH FUCK YOUR COCK IS CHOKING ME GET OFF–

I finally succeed in pushing him away; I don’t know where the burst of strength comes from–probably panic. His dick swelled so much while it was plugging my gullet, it hurt coming out, reaming out my throat and leaving a thick salty trail of precum down the length of my tongue.

This is filed in the back of my mind, though. I gotta figure out how to get outta here. This guy’s a fucking psycho. He called me ‘meat’. Just fucking me won’t get him off; he wants to waste me too. I heard about guys like this; if you fuck random strangers, there’s always a chance of running into one.

I can usually take care of myself, but this guy is both bigger and stronger than me. He can really fucking hurt me if he wants to–and I don’t think I can stop him.

And I know he wants to. I don’t want to look at him, to see the triumph in those ice-cold eyes, the razor-sharp lust that sees me as a disposable fucktoy. But I look anyway. I can’t resist.

Oh god, I’m so scared.

He’s beautiful. I’d do anything for him. I tell him. “Please, don’t kill me. I’ll do anything. Anything you want, just tell me. Do you want to drag me around on a leash and piss on me in public? Please do it–just don’t kill me. I’ll be your complete fuck slave, anything you want if you let me live–anything!” Oh shit, I’m so scared, I’m sobbing the entire time.

Oh fuck, he likes that. He likes my begging. He knows he’s got control of the situation.

And that’s when he makes his move.

He leaps at me–I scream, shrilly, and try to move away, but I’m still on my knees and I simply fall over backwards. And then he’s on me.

Goddam, I gotta get out from under him. I turn over and try to wriggle out, but he gets my arm and twists it behind my back.

Shit that hurts fuck ok ok I’m getting up stop it it hurts stop it–

But he doesn’t stop it. With his other hand, he reaches around and grabs my throat so tightly I can’t speak. I’m completely helpless in his arms; they grip me like bands of iron.

He’s manhandling me into the bedroom. Oh fuck, what’s he gonna do to me oh please oh god–

He lets go of my throat. As I inhale deeply, gratefully, he jerks my other hand behind me and I feel a painful pinching sensation at the wrists. He’s bound my hands behind me with a zip tie. I cry out; it’s way too tight. He spins me around quickly; I see his fist coming at me but there’s no time–

Jesus Christ he split my fucking lips he’s talking what the fuck is he saying?

“Told ya I’d fuck ya like ya ain’t been fucked before, didn’t I,” he snarls, “and I know no one’s fucked ya like this before cause you’re still alive.”

He grabs something off the dresser. It’s a knife, large, serrated, ugly—

There’s a screaming sound somewhere. I think it’s me. I know that warm wet feeling down my legs is me. It doesn’t matter that I’ve pissed myself and can feel it pooling in my boots it doesn’t matter he’s gonna hit me again if I can’t stop screaming but I can’t I can’t–

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++

I’m on my back. My head hurts. My jaw hurts. I can taste blood. Something sticky on my face that’s blood too what the fuck is going on with my legs—

I’ve been unconscious. He didn’t kill me. He didn’t stab me thank you god thank you jesus he didn’t hurt me with the knife—

I open my eyes. He’s right in front of me, grinning. He’s having a great time, the psycho. It takes me a second before I notice I’m almost completely nude. He’s used his knife to cut my clothes off; he’s just now cutting away the last bit of my piss-soaked jeans. I was commando under them, in the hopes of getting fucked—

Oh god oh fuck what happened I just wanted some dick just wanted to swallow some cum take a load up the ass I wasn’t supposed to die tonight I was just gonna have some fun what happened—

Suddenly, he flips me over. All I can see is the edge of the bed and the wall. My hands, completely numb by now, are still bound behind me. He’s got my ass pointed in the air–

OH MY GOD GET THAT FUCKING FIREPLUG OUT OF ME OH CHRIST OH SHIT YOU’RE TEARING ME APART PLEASE OH PLEASE OH DEAR GOD PLEASE I’M BLEEDING YOU’RE TEARING ME—

Something slips past my eyes and tightens around my throat—

He’s in me oh jesus he’s in so far so deep he’s hurting me he’s tearing my guts open oh fuck it hurts oh fuck I CAN’T BREATHE—

I can’t move my hands are useless fuck that can’t be his cock he’s shoved a spear up my ass he can’t be that big I CAN’T BREATHE—

He’s saying something I can hear words faggot die cock whore fuck die choke I CAN’T BREATHE—

Oh god the pain my head is exploding my tongue what the fuck my tongue is growing it’s filling my mouth and poking out I wanna puke I’m gonna vomit but it’s blocked oh fuck my eyes what the fuck is happening to my eyes I CAN’T BREATHE—

Buzzing and popping the world is full of buzzing and popping I CAN’T BREATHE I can’t breathe—

My dick I can’t breathe I’m going numb but I can feel my cock it’s hard it’s straining so bad it hurts I can’t feel anything but searing pain IT HURTS MY CHEST MY LUNGS MY ASS MY COCK IT HURTS—

He’s on me and in me I am utterly his utterly in his power he has mastered me I will never belong to anyone else only him I am ready to receive what he will give–

It hurts yes it hurts so good it all flows it all flows out of my cock my life I feel it I feel him I feel it flow out of him into me his soul his seed his cum as it flows out of me into the universe my soul my seed my cum it flows together thank you for showing me this I didn’t know it would be like this thank you

dark and cold there’s a stream of fire inside me all else is dark and cold

Victim POV 1

What—

My head hurts. What’s happening? I don’t know what’s going on…

There was a guy. A trick. I was gonna suck him off. He picked me up, I was in his car—that’s the last thing I remember.

My head hurts bad. Did he hit me?

He was just few years older than me and he told me how much he liked the tight jeans I was wearing. Even liked these new Nikes I got.

He’s got longer hair than I do and he’s just wearing a white t-shirt and a black leather jacket. Looks like he’s got work boots on. Thought he was they typical construction worker. They can get rough sometimes; maybe he started punching me.

So why am I tied down? What’s he doing? I can’t remember—it’s all fuzzy in my head—but I don’t think I’d started blowing him yet.

He’s leaning over me now; I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a hard, cold face before. Oh fuck, I’m in real trouble. This guy’s gonna hurt me bad.

Not just that he wants to do it. A lot of my johns want to hurt me. But most of them can’t do it, no matter how much they want to.

This guy can, I can tell.

Please don’t, dude, please. I’ll do anything. Just tell me. Please, for fuck’s sake, just don’t hurt me.

Oh shit. He likes that. Christ, that smile is terrifying.

This hurts; I’m tied to a chair. He’s sitting on my lap. He’s unzipped my fly and pulled my dick out but otherwise, I’m fully dressed and so is he.

Wanna fuck me, buddy? Please fuck me. Stick it in any hole on my body, just please don’t hurt me. Oh god, please just let me out of this. I’m so scared. Please.

I’m crying; I can’t help it. I don’t know what he’s gonna do to me, but I don’t think I’m getting out of here. Nobody knows I’m here and I can’t move at all. I’m completely helpless.

What the fuck—duct tape. He slaps duct tape across my mouth. I can’t plead any more.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck I can’t scream I can’t do anything oh shit help let me out let me out oh fuck budd what’s happening I was just gonna swallow your cum

He’s got his dick out now, too. Oh my god it’s huge. Swollen, red and dripping. I can feel it nudging mine. Whatever he’s gonna do, he’s really gonna enjoy it. Oh fucking jesus what is he gonna do to me—

–a length of rope, white nylon rope. He’s gonna strangle me–

Please no oh fucking god no I don’t wanna die please no please don’t do this please no jesus christ someone help me someone stop this fucker holy shit I’m pissing myself PLEASE DEAR GOD NO DON’T KILL ME PLEASE—

Oh my god the pain it’s crushing my throat the pressure in my head building oh fuck it hurts so bad oh god I didn’t know I was gonna die today I didn’t know it would hurt so bad so why is my dick getting hard

he likes it he’s tightened the rope around one hand what’s he doing

his dick and my dick; he’s beating us off simultaneously

fireworks they look just like fireworks but they’re black that sound is too loud I can’t hear anything else

oh his snarling face and hate-filled eyes that stare into mine, even in the pain I can see them clearly

he wants me to die so he can cum and I can’t stop him he’s killing me just so he can get his rocks off but I’m getting hard too what’s happening

gah nothing but his eyes and my cock I can feel chest it wants to explode and my throat is crushed oh god I can feel my
trachea crunch beneath the rope as he clenches his steel-hard muscles I can’t stop him I can’t

oh fucking god it feels like molten steel flowing out of my cock

fading fading oh god the fiery pain in my dick am I cumming

orgasm fuck fuck I love you thank you never cum like this ever

oh fuck he’s shot his wad too it burns just like mine

dark its dark and cold

Trucker 2–Trucker v Hitchhicker

A chill wind swept across the highway, forcing the Trucker to grip the wheel tightly. Pale, watery winter light seeped across the empty expanse of desert. The Trucker hadn’t seen another vehicle in over an hour; he was on a state highway, not an interstate.

As a freelancer who owned his own rig, the Trucker was able to accept spontaneous consignments when it was convenient for him. After dropping his load of textiles at a depot in Chicago, he’d taken on an order of mixed goods for a chain of dollar stores operating primarily in small towns. It involved frequent stops in out-of-the-way places that were difficult to access. Maneuvering a semi on two-lane highways and in one-stoplight towns required a great deal of precision; the Trucker built up a lot of stress.

Luckily, he had a way of working it off.

He’d gone southwest out of Chicago and ran into some nasty winter weather while in Nebraska–which probably explained what had happened to that poor Sioux boy he’d picked up there. The Trucker loved a nice slow strangle, letting the dying whore’s convulsions milk the spunk out of his cock. Edged weapons were fun on occasion, but he really wasn’t into gore that much.

So it must have been stress that made him take the beautiful indian with the long, straight black hair and the smooth flat belly to a motel room and eviscerate him.

But that was several states ago. Now he was heading west across barren wastelands; his final stop was a small town south of Vegas. He’d come this way not long before; the motel where he’d met the Marine was about a hundred miles south of where he was now.

So here he was, crawling along a winding road in the desert on a cold winter day. He was going especially slowly at the moment since the wind was up; the last thing he needed was to catch a gust while rounding a curve and getting tipped.

As the huge steering wheel slipped in his strong, rough hands as he came out of the curve, the sun was in his eyes and he almost didn’t see the hitchhiker. And that would have been a shame. Even on a busy highway, the boy would have been worth stopping for.

Out here in the middle of nowhere, no one would even notice he was gone.

The kid looked like a hipster college kid. Early twenties at the oldest. Old enough to know better than to be out here hitching.

The Trucker had been going slowly around the curve; he was able to ease over onto the shoulder without going too far past the boy. He watched the kid approach in the side mirror, his dick getting harder as the youth got closer.

The hitcher was tall and lean, at least six feet. He had short, rust-brown hair in tight curls that wrapped his head and slid down his cheeks to blend seamlessly with his full beard and mustache, both trimmed very short. His lanky body shifted, displaying his muscles under his tight clothes as he strutted down the dusty, litter-strewn shoulder.

He wore what looked a pseudo-rugby shirt with broad, colorful horizontal stripes clinging to and outlining his well-formed pecs. Over it, he wore a distressed brown leather bomber jacket. It was unzipped but blocked the wind well enough.

Below the waist, he wore dark jeans so tight they looked as if they had been painted on. The Trucker could see the kid’s thick thigh muscles pumping as he walked. The jeans were tucked into a pair of black leather boots that rose to mid-calf, with thick soles and straps on each side to help pull them on.

As the boy climbed up to the door and his grinning, cheerful face appeared in the window, the Trucker noticed the backpack slung over his shoulder. Almost certainly a college kid, but even so, best not to take any chances. Only one of them was gonna survive the next hour–it was gonna be him. Hitchers could be dangerous, but the Trucker wasn’t gonna give this one the chance.

He turned in his seat and leaned back casually, smiling welcomingly as the door opened.

From this angle, the kid could see that the Trucker’s right arm was hanging over the back of the seat but he couldn’t see the tire iron clenched in the Trucker’s hand.

“C’mon in,” the Trucker. “Where ya headed?” He started the rig moving again, easing back onto the highway.

“Cali,” piped the boy as he settled into the passenger seat. “Going back to UCLA.”

“Well, I can get ya as far as Vegas. I go north after that.”

The kid leaned back, casually lounging in the seat, his long legs spread and the thick bulge in his crotch very visibly highlighted by the low winter sun streaming through the windshield. He gave a big goofy grin and a thumbs-up to indicate his acquiescence. He shifted the thick soles of his big black boots on the floorboard.

The Trucker smiled to himself, knowing the little hipster punk wouldn’t make it to Nevada, much less Cali.

“Dude, you hitch much?” he asked the kid. “Ever run into trouble?”

The boy turned to him. The Trucker noticed his eyes for the first time. Very large, very green, ringed with long lashes that gave his broad face more than a hint of vulnerability. His expression was puzzled. “Yeah, I hitch all the time. What kinda trouble ya talkin’ about?”

“No one ever try to do anything to ya? Y’know, get ya into the middle of nowhere and make ya do something you didn’t want to do?”

The kid shook his head. “Naw, man, ain’t nobody try to do anything to me.” He continued to lounge back in the large passenger seat of the semi cab. His leather jacket had draped open and the bright horizontal stripes on his shirt rose and fell with sculpted contours of his muscled chest.

The Trucker had been slowly downshifting during the conversation, letting the rig drift to a stop on the shoulder. He hadn’t seen another car in an hour. He parked and turned to the boy. “So I guess the first time will be the last, huh?” He smiled gently into the punk’s confused face and brought his arm up with lighting speed.

The kid grunted as the tire iron cracked against the side of his head. He went limp instantly, blood trickling from a small cut where the iron rod had split the skin on his temple.

The Trucker slipped out of his seatbelt and unfastened the one holding the unconscious boy in his seat. He dragged the limp dead weight into the rear of the cab—the sleeper compartment.

He quickly unbuttoned his shirt, leaving himself bare to the waist. He hung it neatly on a hook on the driver’s side of the compartment before pulling the privacy curtain closed and sealing it.

Now anyone approaching the cab from outside would have no way of seeing what was going on in the sleeper—not that there was anyone within fifty miles. But still, the Trucker preferred his fun uninterrupted.

Kneeling down, he carefully pulled the boy’s jacket off, then pulled his shirt off over his head, revealing his smooth, firm chest and flat hard belly. Reaching into the rear pocket of his tight, faded jeans, he pulled out a folding knife.

The Trucker knelt down and began slicing the tight hipster skinny jeans off the kid’s taut smooth legs, pulling them up and out of his boots. The little slut had been going commando under his jeans—of course. Now he was nude except for his black leather boots and white tube socks. As he leaned over the limp boy, a faint jingling sound filled the air. Dogtags—his trophy from his last kill in this state.

The bunk was small but adequate enough for the Trucker’s needs. It supported his muscular bulk when he needed to rest. And it was strong enough to resist the struggles of a dying cunt.

The Trucker quickly bound the hitcher’s hands behind his back with a zip tie before throwing him onto the bunk and spreading his legs. He paused for a moment to free his swollen, throbbing cock from the confines of his tight jeans. The thick purple head flopped out, dripping clear precum onto the tips of his own desert camo combat boots, the drops leaving dark stains on the pale brown toes.

He reached down, massaging the throbbing tube of meat, waiting calmly. He was gonna take his time and enjoy himself. This little fuck was gonna get used oh so hard…

The boy began to groan and jerk on the bunk, slowly waking up. He shook his head side to side, writhing urgently, trying to free his arms. His eyes blinked blearily several times, tears of pain and confusion welling in their emerald depths.

“Wha-what’s goin’ on?” he slurred, trying to focus on the muscular, half-nude man standing over him, brandishing a tire iron—and a huge, terrifying erect cock. It didn’t make any sense…

“Here’s what’s going on, you worthless little motherfucker,” barked the Trucker, a deep timbre of confidence adding an authoritative rumble to his bass voice. “I’m gonna fuck you in the ass. I’m gonna crush your throat with this tire iron while my dick tears your fuckhole open. I’m gonna hurt you, cunt. And the more you hurt, the better it feels on my cock. So get ready, slut, you’re gonna die sometime in the next hour—and before you do, you’re gonna go through such agony, death will be the greatest gift I can give you.”

The boy whimpered and moaned. It was obvious his privileged little hipster brain was unable to comprehend the nightmare world in which he now found himself.

The Trucker grinned. Perfect—the little stud was exactly where he wanted him, paralyzed with terror. “Time to saddle up, cunt. Ya ready, bitch? Ready to get the livin’ shit fucked outta ya? Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you blow your load as you die. You won’t miss out on the fun, meat, though your brain will probably be too dead for ya to enjoy it. That’s ok, though; you’re only here so I can cum—it don’t matter if you feel your death load. All I want you to feel is the horror and pain of death.”

The Trucker knelt on the bunk and grabbed the boy’s booted left ankle with his right hand, forcing both legs up, revealing the tender pink flesh of the hitcher’s quivering asshole. Already oozing with anticipation, the Trucker spit a gob of saliva as lube onto the pale pulsing puckered rosebud, then plunged his swollen mushroom tip into the kid’s colon with no warning.

The young bearded punk opened his eyes wide, his long lashes framing the pain of the intense assfuck, as he screamed in rage as much as agony. “Get off me, you fuckin’ psycho!” he wailed, “stop it! Fuck! Please, dear god, stop it now! Don’t do this, please don’t do this…”

He trailed off into hot snotty tears of humiliation as the Trucker’s thick shaft drove deeper into his rectum, tearing the lining of his colon. The fresh blast of pain, the sensation of razor blades being thrust deep inside him, brought forth a renewed volley of shrieks, the boy now flailing frantically against the Trucker’s overpowering strength.

The Trucker had anticipated every moment already. He’d done this many, many time before and knew what to expect by now. There was a crazed look on the meat’s face, the look of panic and self-preservation—the ultimate animal within the hipster, coming out to fight for his life.

It was futile. As much as he struggled, as desperately as he thrashed and flailed to save his life, he was caught in the iron grip of a sexual sadist and there would be no easy escape from his suffering.

The Trucker leaned forward and grabbed the kid’s hair. Pulling back and up, he drove his other hand, balled into a hard fist, into the punk’s face repeatedly. “There ya go, cunt,” he grunted, timing the blows to the face with the brutal thrusts of his swollen cock up the boy’s bleeding ass. “That get ya in the mood, bitch? That what it takes to get ya hot and horny? I know, slut, you gotta get tenderized before you can enjoy a good fuck. Ya need a man who can show you your place. And your place is dying on the thick dripping tip of my dick before I toss your cum-filled corpse into a ditch to rot like the garbage you are, ain’t that right, cunt? Don’t the thought just make ya wanna blow yer useless faggot load right now? No? Well, maybe this’ll help…”

With a single swift motion, the Trucker rose up on his knees. Digging the steel-lined toes of his combat boots into the bunk for traction, his tight jeans straining against the bulging, thrusting muscles in his thighs, he elbowed the kid’s smooth, taut legs, still encased to mid-calf in the tall black motorcycle boots, to each side. He paused for a moment, holding the huge tire iron horizontally in front of him, gripping it tightly, one hand at each end.

He threw himself down violently, driving the hard iron rod into the boy’s throat just above the Adam’s apple. The cunt’s eyes bulged frantically as his airway collapsed under the pressure. The excruciating pain in his rectum was now overtaken by the agony in his throat; he stopped fighting the fuck and began fighting the kill.

The smooth, bearded youth grunted inarticulately, jerking his arms in a desperate attempt to free his bound hands. “Nnnng! Gah! Gak!” he croaked, eyes wide with terror as he realized that forcing a tiny amount of air out of his closed-off windpipe was easier than getting any in.

The punk went into full panic mode, violently thrashing his firm body, the zipties digging cruelly and painfully into his struggling wrists. The Trucker gave a deep, shuddering sigh as the boy’s rectum began to spasm on his cock—and suddenly there was a knocking at the driver’s door.

With a single swift motion, the Trucker, swooped down and grabbed the boy’s striped shirt off the floor of the compartment. Tossing the tire iron aside, he balled the shirt up and jammed it into the kid’s mouth, letting him gag on the salty tang of his own sweat.

“Just a moment,” he yelled as he grabbed a belt from the dresser behind him and looped it around the punk’s boots, tightening it and tying it off. The hitcher was still struggling to recover from the crushing pain in his throat to attempt more than token resistance.

The Trucker slipped his arms into his button-down shirt but didn’t have time to button it; he merely slipped out from behind the curtain into the front part of the cab.

It was a state trooper knocking at the door.

The Trucker opened the door and climbed out warily. His combat boots settled firmly into the steps built into the outside of the cab as he came down to the pavement and turned to the trooper.

He found himself staring into the icy blue eyes of a younger man, very well built. He wore a dark button-down shirt, the short sleeves of which bulged around the trooper’s biceps. His broad chest strained the buttons on his shirt. Thick legs in khaki slacks descended to calf-high black leather boots, shiny as a mirror. A peaked cap sat above the strong-jawed face, on top of buzz-cut hair so short that the color was impossible to discern. Smaller than the Trucker, but nearly as well-built.

Controlling his lust, the Trucker asked, “Can I help you, officer?”

“Yeah,” drawled the Trooper, “why ya stopped on the side of the road here?”

“Man, I been drivin’ for a while,” the Trucker replied easily. “Pulled over to make a cup of coffee in the back.” He jerked his head towards the sleeping compartment.

In the back, in the dark, the young bound boy heard the exchange and realized that this would be his last chance to survive. He needed to contact the cop somehow. He began to squirm on the bunk, snot and tears of desperation leaking into his russet beard. His hands were in fiery agony with lack of blood flow; his firm smooth thighs jerked as he attempted to kick his tied legs.

Outside, the Trooper didn’t hear anything; he seemed to be more interested in the Trucker than anything else. His eyes roamed the length and breadth of the older man’s phenomenal physique; a light in his eyes that was strongly akin to lust. The light reflected from a metallic glint of a pair of small metal objects nestled deep in the Trucker’s wiry chest hair.

The Trooper noticed that it was pair of dogtags. Something triggered in the back of his mind, but the sense of desire had overwhelmed him; he filed it away for later review…

It took a moment for him to regain his composure.

He snapped back into character. “Anyway, I’m checking into a murder. Happen south of here a couple of weeks ago. Rig like yours was reported at the scene.”

The Trucker blinked at the Trooper in confusion. “What the hell is highway patrol doin’ with a homicide?”

The Trooper’s authority broke down for a moment. “Well, I ain’t, really. Just a project on my own time. Body was found in a motel on the highway just outside city limits and I happened to be the closest responder.”

The Trucker grinned down at the Trooper. “Just fillin’ some spare time, huh? Well, I’m on a Chicago-to-Vegas haul, man. Nothin’ to do with me. What happened?”

“Really fucking sick. Marine got raped and strangled—a male Marine. Faggot got what he deserved, if ya ask me, but if I can figure this out, I can get a promotion. Look, man, ya can’t stop here. Finish your coffee and go, buddy.”

“Sure thing,” grinned the Trucker, turning back to the cab nonchalantly. “Stay safe out there.”

“Thanks,” the young Trooper responded, his shiny tall boots scuffing the gravel on the highway shoulder as he walked back to his patrol car.

The Trucker lifted the edge of the privacy curtain and slipped behind it, shrugging off his shirt and re-hanging it before turning back to his captive fucktoy. He smiled coldly, seeing the boy’s tear-streaked face already going purple. He paused for a moment to watch the kid struggle and jerk as he slowly suffocated. He’d tried to cry out so hard he’d clogged his nose with snot and his shirt, now wet with his drool, was blocking his throat.

Suddenly the Trucker bent down, the dogtags jingling just above the hitcher’s bulging, terrified eyes. He jerked the sopping shirt out of the punk’s mouth. The boy gave a deep, sobbing gasp, shuddering as he sucked in air. “Not gonna get outta this that easy, cunt,” snarled his tormentor. “Fuck, you’re gonna wish you could by the time I’m done with you.”

The hitcher’s breathing grew ragged as his emerald eyes opened wide, glittering with panic in the half-light, his tight, smooth chest racked with sobs as he began to babble and plead. He’d already had a taste of the hell in store for him and had almost succumbed to death quietly in stunned silence, too shocked at the situation to resist.

Then the Trooper had come. For a moment—a very brief moment—the kid had thought his salvation was at hand. A rescuer, a knight on a white horse had come to save him.

The revelation that the only horse he’d be riding was a one-legged one into his grave had shattered his fragile hipster psyche. He mewled and cried like a bitch. “Please, oh god please don’t hurt me, man, please, don’t fuckin’ do this man, I swear I won’t say a word to anyone, just please god please let go…” His whining trailed off into snotty tears as the Trucker looked down at him contemptuously.

“Shut up, fuckwad,” he snapped, drawing back his right arm and driving his fist straight into the boy’s jaw, feeling the fucker’s rust-red beard scrape momentarily against his knuckles as the kid grunted, his head rocking back under the force of the blow. His jaw slammed shut; he bit his tongue, drawing blood, but he stopped trying to speak. The bound youth lay still and blubbered quietly.

The Trucker eased his still-swollen cock back out his tight jeans. Loosening the belt around the kid’s boots, he wrapped one end around his large fist and swung it savagely and repeatedly against the boy’s smooth ass. The punk screamed and squealed in pain, knowing that worse was to come, trying to brace himself against the agony he knew from painful experience would soon be spearing his ravaged, torn asshole.

“Ya like that, bitch?” leered the Trucker. “Ya like gettin’ your ass hurt? Fuck yeah, slut, gets me hard. Gonna stick my dick back up your fuckhole now, cunt. If you’re lucky, I’ll wrap this belt around your throat and choke the shit outta ya. But I still think I wanna hurt ya more than that. Get ready for my cock, motherfucker, cause it’s hard and oozin’ for you!”

It was worse than before. The brief brush with danger with the hot, hard Trooper had made the Trucker hornier than he already had been; his dick was swollen to almost unbelievable proportions, oozing a steady stream of clear precum from its enormous purple tip. The young hitcher screamed, his voice cracking from the terrible ripping pain in his rectum—an instinctive reaction to the horrifying agony. Even as he shrieked, the punk knew he was helpless; the Trooper had driven off and there was no one who could hear him.

“Fuck yeah, keep screaming, you motherfucker,” laughed the Trucker. “Dude, your vocal cords must be attached directly to your asshole, cause I can feel your screams on my dick, and they feel real fuckin’ good. Gotta make ya do more of that shit, fuck yeah!”

The young bearded punk jerked violently, trying to pull his torn, bleeding colon off the Trucker’s cock, thrashing his body convulsively, unable to free his legs from the firm grasp of the Trucker’s powerful arms. He twitched for several minutes before subsiding into a shuddering quiescence.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the Trucker sneered as he drove his hard shaft deep into his victim’s ass. “Little fuckin’ faggots, always fightin’ the dick you know ya want. And all a’ ya end up worthless fucks anyway, gettin’ too loose to get me off. Stupid fuckin’ cunt, you ain’t no better than any of the others—how many cocks you taken up your fuckhole, whore, huh?”

Somewhere deep within himself, the suburban hipster college boy found the spirit to answer. “None!” he screamed, “I ain’t no fag! I ain’t been fucked!”

It was the worst—and last—mistake of his life. The Trucker liked his fucks submissive.

“God-damn-mother-fuckin’-punk!!” he screamed, slamming his balled-up fist into the hitcher’s face with each word; by the time he was done, the boy’s beard was streaked with blood, his left eye was swollen shut and his nose was broken.

The college kid was weeping in agony as the Trucker reached down and picked up the tire iron again. “Ok, fuckmeat, time to get what you’re here for. I wanna blow my load and that means it’s time for you to die. You already knew that, right? I mean, that’s all you’re here for—so you can die on my dick and make me cum. Useless motherfucker, that’s all you’re good for anyway, fuckin’ hipster college punk—think you’re hot shit? I’m gonna use you like a bitch and throw you out like the fuckin’ garbage you are!”

He held the tire iron horizontally in front of the weeping youth and drove it down with both hands, burying the thick iron shaft in the boy’s throat, crushing his esophagus. The kid’s eyes opened to an almost unbelievable width in horror as his oxygen was cut off.

The next few minutes were some of the worst of the college boy’s life. And some of the best of the Trucker’s. The youth’s firm, smooth body thrashed against him, lubed by the cold sweat of intense physical crisis, pumping his smooth velvet boycunt tightly along the Trucker’s engorged shaft.

The horrible crushing pain across his throat, the searing agony in his rectum, the irresistible pressure building up in his chest—the naïve kid’s mind was overwhelmed with the cold brutality of his own rape and murder. He was unable to comprehend what was happening; he could only fight instinctively against impending death. Every second of his agonized struggle prolonged the Trucker’s pleasure, and he made sure the hitcher knew it.

“Fuck yeah, bitch, that’s it. Fight it, cunt. C’mon, punk, show me how much ya wanna live—fight for it. Goddam, that’s it, you worthless piece of shit, work my cock as you die. Let me feel it, boy, let me feel you die. I’m gonna fill your bleeding ass with cum when your brain shuts off and you start convulsing, motherfucker—ya like that? That get ya off, you fuckin’ faggot pig? Sure it does; that’s why you’re out there hitchin’. So enjoy it, cunt, enjoy the pain, cause there’s plenty more!”

As the iron bar sank deeper into the boy’s throat, his face began to swell and change color. It went red, blending in with the color of his beard as his legs kicked violently in a reflexive attempt to break free; his tall leather boots scraping against the Trucker’s sweaty, flexing flanks. As the oxygen deprivation continued, the punk’s face grew darker and darker. His struggles grew more frantic; he jerked and kicked uncontrollably and would have thrust himself off the sleeper bunk if he hadn’t been pinned down by the thick purple shaft of the Trucker’s cock—almost the same shade of dark purple as the bitch’s face.

“Does it hurt, cunt?” whispered the Trucker. “Does it hurt to die? I hope so, you fuckin’ faggot, I hope it’s nightmarish. Lemme feel your pain, motherfucker, lemme feel it on my dick. If you ain’t getting’ me off, I ain’t hurtin’ you enough!”

He increased the tempo of his thrusting to match the waves of convulsions the swept over the college boy’s lithe, smooth body. As his spine arched involuntarily, his flat belly and smooth muscled chest bent upward to press firmly against the Trucker’s much more developed torso, both hot bodies sliding together on a thin film of the kid’s death sweat.

Suddenly a loud crunching sound filled the sleeper compartment; the Trucker had applied enough pressure on the tire iron to crush the boy’s esophagus. The pain and horror registered in the kid’s bulging, frantic eyes. He continued to writhe impotently as his brain began to die; tightening his smooth, firm legs around the Trucker’s hard body, his big black boots digging at the Trucker’s pumping asscheeks.

“That’s it, cunt,” sneered the Trucker. “Die, faggot. Fuckin’ die like the useless piece of shit you are. Feel the pain, motherfucker, cause I know your fuckin’ love it, pig. See, lookit that, your faggot dick is hard. You love it, dontcha, bitch? You’re gonna blow your homo load as a real man fuckin’ wastes your worthless ass!”

The hipster punk started to drool as his consciousness began to fade into a fiery cold darkness. His tongue, swollen and dark, forced its way past his thick blue lips, foamy spittle spilling down his cheek to collect in a froth in the kid’s wiry beard, white bubbles on his rust-colored beard. His eyes lost their accusatory gleam and he stared at the Trucker with a dull, bulging gaze, emerald irises surrounded by the blood-red shading of ruptured vessels and petechiae blooming across his bewildered face.

As he slipped into the screaming icy hell of death, the unfortunate hitchhiker felt a last surge of warmth within himself, deep within his testicles. His brain was too damaged to realize that it was an instinctive response to extinction, an involuntary attempt to save his genetic material.

He also felt the surge of heat flowing into his rectum. He was too far gone to know that the Trucker was filling his guts with spunk, feeling the hot smooth punk die on his dick.

As the youth thrashed and died, his erect cock spewed a steady stream of semen, uncontrollably ejecting DNA in the ultimate last gasp of self-preservation. The Trucker grunted and hunched over; in the intense throes of orgasm, he began slamming his fist into the fucktoy’s face, feeling the satisfying crunch of cartilage as he pounded the punk’s already-broken nose.

Not that the hitcher felt it. His brain had shut down, his awareness faded with his life out of his dick, growing dimmer with each spurt of spunk, until all of him had been shot out onto the Trucker’s rippled belly, shiny with sweat.

The Trucker held the boy’s corpse close to him, each dying twitch of the bitch’s sphincter coaxing another blast of cum out of his engorged shaft. He felt himself thrusting brutally up the unnamed hitcher’s ass, pressing down with his arms until the there was a loud cracking sound, like the limb of a fresh green tree snapping—it was the faggot’s neck, vertebrae shattering under the force applied as the Trucker repeatedly spunked into the boy’s rectum.

For a long, long moment, there was a hard shaft of flesh injecting semen into warm, firm, smooth, twitching meat.

As the Trucker regained his breath, he withdrew his sticky, still-swollen member from the corpse’s ass. The hipster punk continued to quiver and convulse, random nerve endings causing his smooth, firm, cum-filled body to kick and jerk. His thick-soled boots scraped aimlessly against the bunk.

The Trucker rose up, spunk still dripping from his thick long cock. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and cleaned himself up, tucking his thick hog back into his tight jeans and slipping his shirt back on. He leisurely made a cup of coffee—exactly as he’d told the Trooper he would. Twenty minutes later, the Trucker slipped back into the driver’s seat, started the rig, and pulled out off the shoulder of the highway.

He didn’t pull over for another couple of hours. He’d found an isolated spot over a dry wash. He stopped on the shoulder and hauled the hitchhiker’s body out of the sleeper compartment. He still hadn’t seen any other vehicle, so he felt fairly safe as he dragged the corpse over the guardrail and dropped it into the culvert.

As he pulled out, the Trucker started to whistle. Next stop, he’d dispose of the cunt’s clothes. He had two more stops in the state, but there was no way anyone could connect him with this piece of rotting meat.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Eight hours later, the Trooper stood over the stiffening body of a young man, nude but for white tube socks and calf-high black leather boots. Even from several yards away, the Trooper could see a pearly dried crust of semen that had oozed from the corpse’s torn rectum.

It made him hard.

He turned back to his car, determined to find the man who did this.

He didn’t bother to call in a report on the corpse.

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.

Fantasy Scenario 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I have a helluva good time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meat Chronicles 12–Slutchoke

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 10–Nothing Like a Good Screw

I’m angry tonight, in a bad mood. I’m also horny. That combination usually gets someone killed. It damn sure will tonight; I’m hunting for meat I can hurt before I waste. I wanna make a fucktoy suffer.

Y’know, I love watching nature shows. Does that sound off-topic? It’s really not. I learned a lot about the use of protective coloration to hide and attractive coloration to reproduce.

In other words, camouflage helps you hide; bright colors draw a mate. Or, at least, bright colors let others know you’re fuckable.

I’m reminded of this right away when I see the kid. My attention is instantly drawn to his skin-tight jeans. I’ve never seen jeans that color and I don’t really have a word to describe it. The best I can say is that they’re somewhere between cherry-red and burgundy.

Having caught my eye, I look over the rest of him. He’s in his early twenties at most; probably no older than twenty-one. Just under six feet, he has an untidy mop of curly red-gold hair and his cheeks glitter with light reflecting off stubble of the same color. His eyes are kinda wide-set with long lashes. His face isn’t bad; it’s not the prettiest I’ve seen, but by the time I’m done with him, it’ll look a lot worse.

He’s also wearing a tight black t-shirt that’s molded across his well-defined chest. I can see, even from halfway down the block, that it’s a bit too small for him, the hems of the short sleeves bisecting his biceps. On his feet are tightly laced black and white Air Jordans.

He’s lounging against the wall of a building—the side of one of the gay bars, actually. But he’s not in the back with the rest of the whores and he isn’t under one of the streetlights. Despite the unusual hue of his snug jeans, I probably wouldn’t have noticed him in the shadows if he hadn’t lit a cigarette.

He doesn’t know the first thing about selling himself. Which means he’s either a newbie hustler or an amateur. The latter seems more likely. He just wants to get laid.

Poor randy little slut. He’s gonna get laid like he’s never imagined.

I pull my van up right in front of him. No one’s around; this side street is little used during the day and deserted at night. He must be new in town not to know that. He’d have been standing there all night if I hadn’t shown up.

Actually, that’s even better. Less of a connection for the police when they finally find his rotting corpse.

When he opens the door of my van, the dome light illuminates his long golden eyelashes. He looks at me for a split second before shyly dropping his eyes and sliding silently into the passenger seat.

I know what that means. He’s willing. It doesn’t matter what I do to the bitch; he wants my cock enough to suffer what I will inflict on him. The momentary gleam of lust I glimpsed in his face is clear enough evidence.

I’m ready. I feel like a coiled spring, ready to erupt in an orgy of violence. I need to find someplace close to vent my frustrations on this slutty little piece of shit. He’s eyeing me in sidelong glances, one hand rubbing the bulge in his jeans.

Oh yeah, little fucker wants it bad. He’s breathing deeply. He turns towards me, lust painting his eyes brightly as he admires my body. Evidently I’m his type; so much the better.

There’s a rent-by-the-hour motel half a mile west on the interstate frontage road. I’m there in less than ten minutes. As usual, I give the meat the money to get room; it helps if the strung-out desk jockey never sees me. I make sure to park out of sight of the office, too.

The room is small, filthy and stifling. I turn on the AC and am rewarded with a gentle puff of fetid air. The boy has already turned down the stained sheet and is sitting on the bed, untying his hightop sneakers.

“When you’re done, put them back on,” I tell him. “I wanna fuck you while you’re wearing them.”

He blushes and grins. He’s adorable; I want to hold him, kiss him, make him suffer unbearable agony…

He wants it. I said it before, but when he peels off the whore jeans, he’s commando underneath. And he’s hard; it’s huge and springs out like a javelin.

Little fucking deathpig knows what’s coming. On some deep, instinctive level, he knows that he’s about to experience the ultimate sexual experience. He may not know what form it will take (which is probably for the best, since he’d back away from the greatest orgasm imaginable if he knew what it would take to reach it) but he knows he’s about to experience something that will alter everything.

It’s a hot night. I wanted to wear my leather biker jacket, so I have nothing on underneath; it swings open over my bare chest. My faded jeans, torn at the left knee, are tucked into a worn, dirty pair of old lace-up black leather boots that come halfway up my calves. A black leather belt, two inches wide with sharp metal studs covering most of the surface, cinches tightly around my waist. It’s warm and a sheen of sweat is already glistening on my muscles; I remove the jacket and toss it in the corner.

As I move towards the bed, the kid, now nude, quickly slips his shoes back on, forgetting his socks in his haste. Long before I reach him, he’s face-down on the cum-stained bed with his ass in the air. Jesus, he really is a horny fucking pig.

I don’t bother to undress any further. I unzip the fly of my jeans, still tucked into my high leather boots, letting my thick, oozing hog flop out. I’m already dripping at the thought of wasting this horny little slut, so I don’t waste any time. I bend over the bitch and stuff my thick mushroom tip up his tight fuckhole. He screams in pain/pleasure as I force my shaft past his clenched sphincter.

“Fuck yeah, slut,” I whisper into his ear as I lie on top of him, pressing him down onto the filthy mattress. “I know you want my cock. But you know I can give you so much more.”

“Please,” he moans, “do it. Do whatever you have to. I don’t care. I want your load. Whatever else happens, I want your load. No matter how loud I scream, no matter how much I resist, I want you to cum inside me.”

“Yeah,” I snarl back. “I thought so, you little fucking cumslut. You wanna know what it feels like to get fucked for real? Get ready for this, you cunt; my cock ain’t the only thing I’m gonna shove into ya!”

He’s face-down on the bed, his firm muscular legs pressing against my thighs, his Nikes kicking against my thick boots. I’m pinning him down, spearing him to the mattress with my long hard cock, my left hand on the back of his neck, forcing his face down into the thin, smelly pillow. I slipped my right hand into the pocket of my jeans, feeling the open zipper rasping around my sack with each thrust into the kid’s fuckhole.

Deep in the pocket, I find what I’m looking for; it’s an ordinary screwdriver.

I’ve always wanted to do this; I figure it’s gonna hurt like fuck.

I place the screwdriver by the boy’s head, jamming his head into the pillow so he can’t see it. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out a pair of black leather gloves. I want to make sure I’ve got a good grip, whichever hand I use.

I hold the screwdriver up, looking down and admiring the boy’s broad, smooth back, muscles flexing with each pump of my dick, gleaming with perspiration, choosing the perfect spot.

There. The kidney. I slam the sharp-edged tool down, punching through his back and embedding the steel shaft directly into his organ.

The kid stiffens and shrieks. It’s a quick exhalation; an instinctive contraction of the diaphragm.

In other words, it’s not his fault. But it’s still too loud. I need to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Wrapping my hand in his shining halo of hair, I jerk his head to one side and brutally shank him through the throat, having to tense up to puncture the screwdriver through the tough cartilage. It grinds its way down, ripping out his vocal cords, rendering him helpless to cry out as he endures the unspeakable agony.

I twist the screwdriver ninety degrees before yanking it back out of the pig’s throat; it may not have been as broad as the knives I was used to using, but it was still capable of inflicting more damage. And with each extra assault on the nervous system, the meat’s colon would contract around my dick, applying that suction of which only a true deathpig is capable.

He gurgles and gasps as he jerks violently, thrusting his ass back up along my shaft, massaging my cock in his agony. There’s a bubbling, wheezing sound coming from the hole in his neck, it oozes out with the blood. He’s got his arms and legs up under him now, pressing back up against me as hard as he can in an attempt to escape the pain.

But I know that he really doesn’t want to escape; it’s a reflexive reaction that he’s unable to control. I help guide him back into submission by stabbing the shank into his back again, ramming it between his ribs and tearing through the latissimus muscles to rip a hole in his lung.

The boy squeals like the deathpig he his, his tight fuckhole flowing along my thick swollen shaft as his pelvis bucks in the ecstasy of pain. Thick mewling sounds erupt from his mangled larynx as his arms scramble feebly at the bed in a futile and half-hearted attempt at escape. He doesn’t really want to get away; deep in his disgusting little soul, this is what he’s always wanted.

I ram the tool into his back again. Blood leaks from the neat hole I’ve already torn though his smooth skin. Again, he stiffens and squeals, squeezing his ass tightly around my cock, making it swell and ooze precum deep in his guts.

“Fuck yeah, you worthless piece of fuckmeat, ya ready for my load? Your boycunt is stroking my rod like it wants me to shoot, pig. Ya know what that means by now, don’t ya? It means that if you think you’re hurtin’ now, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Get ready for pain so intense it’ll make you cum, you piece of shit.”

I stab the screwdriver down into the back of the pig’s neck, just at the top by the skull. I have to lean on it to get through the skin, then bounce up and down on the handle to force the by-now dulled steel tip through the meat’s intervertebral disc between the second and third cervical vertebrae.

The kid went rock-hard rigid as jagged steel tears its way through his spinal column. His asscheeks clamp down on my dick, straining in the final death throes, a rhythmic motion that milks the semen out of my throbbing purple shaft. A loud gargling sound bursts from the hole punched through the kid’s neck as a large moist spot spreads outward on the mattress, emanating from his crotch. I hadn’t even needed to touch the motherfucker; the little bitch was such a deathpig, he’s cum with no manipulation of his dick.

I grip the sides of the bed as I ride his bucking, flailing ass like a rodeo bull, letting him squeeze the last drop of spunk out of my tool. After a while, he slows to a stop and lies still, jerking and quivering. I pull out and stand up.

I quickly get dressed. Grabbing the bag out of the trashcan—doubtless reused many times—and stuffing his clothing into it, carry it out to my van. No one is about; perfect. I duck back into the room and, leaving the key on the dresser for the maid in the morning (or whenever), carry the pig’s nude, twitching body over my shoulder and toss him in the back.

There’s an industrial drainage ditch a couple of miles west of here. I’ll dump him there. They’ll never even connect him to the motel, much less me.

Hope I didn’t damage my screwdriver.

Meat Chronicles 9–Hands-On Solution

The whores are back. I knew the raid wouldn’t have kept them cleared out for long. They’re like rats; the moment you turn around, they come swarming back in.

I do my little part to keep the population down.

I’m horny. I want a meat puppet to dance a jig of death on my cock and jack me off with his death throes. I want to drain my cum into a quivering, brain-dead sack of flesh before I throw it into a ditch to rot like garbage. I may or may not fuck the corpse before I dump it.

Y’know, my boss was right. It’s a lot easier to focus on the job at hand when you have a mission statement.

I’m focusing on one of the hustlers right now. He’s about a hundred yards away, under a streetlight, looking rather forlorn.

I’m in the parking lot behind one of the larger gay bars in town. The side street behind the lot is the main drag for cruising rentboys. I usually don’t hunt here; it’s so crowded and busy, I can never count on not being seen. But it’s hotter than fuck tonight; over ninety degrees at ten in the evening. Most of the boywhores are in the bars, getting themselves hot and sweaty with drugs and dancing.

The one I’m looking at is just plain hot and sweaty. Poor thing. I know how to cool him off—permanently.

He’s young, no more than twenty or twenty-one, and seriously inexperienced; I can tell by his appearance. Long black hair, almost shoulder-length. Maybe his hair is naturally that curly. Maybe it’s a perm. Do guys still do that? Is it coming back?

It’s the clothing that sets him apart, though. Kid is dressed like an extra from an 80’s hair metal video. Black vest of distressed leather, with no shirt underneath—not a bad choice; the punk is short but well-built; his outfit shows his bulging pecs, abs and biceps to advantage. His incredibly slutty short shorts do the same to his legs; his muscled thighs and calves glistening with sweat, like the rest of him. Even at this distance, I see glint of light reflecting of a bead of sweat as it navigates its way through the dark fur on his legs down to the white tube sock that ends just above his tightly-laced combat boot.

He’s putting it out there on a platter. Jesus, he wants it bad. And I’m gonna give it to him.

I start my van and pull out onto the street. I slow by the curb where he stands, looking around. Even though I can hear the hard driving thump of the bass from the bars, there’s no one in sight. Perfect.

He’s eager. Glad to get out of the heat, glad to be making some money, glad I’m not a weirdo—he says he can tell by looking at me.

Wow, he is seriously naïve. Just in from the sticks, most likely. Bad judgment call, dude, majorly bad. And he only asks fifty bucks to get fucked. With his body, he could get much more. I wonder why he’s selling himself so cheaply–then he whips out a glass stem with a bowl on then end and I get it. Meth freak. Man, that shit’ll destroy you; completely fuck your brain and body up. Rentboy is hot, but he ain’t gonna stay that way.

Well, then. I’ll be doing the faggot whore junkie a favor by ending his worthless life. A good deed is its own reward, they say, and offing this fucker is gonna be very much a reward. I don’t know if the hustler will appreciate the kindness I’m doing him.

I’ve gotten used to the fact that some of those I help show an appalling lack of gratitude.

It’s too far to the apartment and there’s nowhere near here where I can count on being undisturbed in the van. I head west, towards the highway. There are some sleazy motels a few blocks over on a major cross-street—places built sixty years ago when that road was a state highway. Now they’re rented for cash by the hour as fuck pits; sheets so stiff with cum they crackle when they’re folded back. I’ve been there before, but it’s been years.

I pull up to the first place I find. I don’t want some observant clerk to ID me, so I hand the whore some cash and send him to the office. He evidently expects this. He’s naïve but not completely inexperienced; he must have serviced married guys who were concerned about being recognized. I make sure he sees the large wad of cash in my wallet. He won’t take the money and run if he knows there’s more to be had.

He’s back within three minutes with a key. The room is out of sight of the office—very good; I hadn’t want to ask for it in case it aroused the rentboy’s suspicions. The room is small, sparsely furnished, and filthy—exactly what I expected. I’m sure they hafta get a truck in here on Mondays to haul out the bodies of all the whores who OD’d here over the weekend.

Just the thought gets me hard.

The kid tells me his name, shyly, bashfully. He really is kinda new at this. I ignore him, staring coldly into his face as I start to undress. He flushes red in the face and starts to strip himself.

I’m not wearing much; a white wifebeater and denim shorts that let me step out of them without having to take off my black canvas hightop Converse sneakers. I’m commando underneath. He follows suit by stepping out of his shorts with his boots still on. He’s wearing red bikini-cut briefs. I look at them and sneer slightly. He blushes again and looks down.

“Get on the bed, bitch,” I say levelly. “Get on your back with your feet in the air, you fucking slut.”

His eyes wide, he turns to obey. Just before he gets on the bed, I stop him. “Get those panties off your ass, faggot.” Bright red, he complies with his face aimed at the floor; he’s almost in tears with embarrassment—but when he gets the briefs off, he’s completely hard. I can see his pulse throbbing in the veins around his straining cock.

He wants to be used. I doubt he wants to be used as much as I’m gonna, but he wants this.

“On your back, whore. Spread those legs. C’mon, bitch, open up that fuckhole, if you wanna get paid.”

He’s looking at me with a paradoxical mix of lust and apprehension. I’m pretty well-built myself and I’m taller than this punk. Little cunt wants to get fucked by a real man. But I’m not responding as he expects. He’s really fucking hot himself and I bet most of his johns—the few he’s had—have showered him with love and money. I’m the first one to treat him like the fucking slut he is.

There’s something about him—that curious mix of innocence and experience—that makes me want to take my time with him. I want to savor the experience of ending his life, and I want him to savor it too.

I’ve seen his type before. He’ll fight it to the bitter end, but deep within his pig whore soul, he craves the agony of death during sex. In the end, I’m only giving the rentboy what he truly wants.

I’m only semi-erect when I force myself into him, but he grimaces and cries out in pain. “Shut up, fuckwad,” I snarl, “I ain’t even all the way in yet. What kinda fucking whore are ya, asswipe, if you can’t take my soft cock?”

He turns his head to the side, tears leaking down his face. “Please, oh god, please go slow,” he snivels, “You’re too big…”

Look, I ain’t given to boasting. I’m not small, but I ain’t inhumanly huge, either. This bitch is tight. He’s not a virgin; I’ve seen him before, getting into other guys’ cars. Maybe he just did handies and BJs. But young as he is, I ain’t buying him as an ass virgin.

I grab his chin and turn his face back to mine. I’m deep inside him by now, with his legs wrapped around my flanks. I look deep into his hazel eyes, flecked with green and surrounded by long, dark lashes as he mewls in pain.

“Quit squealin’, pig,” I snap. He gasps—then, with the next thrust of my hardening cock, lets out a high-pitched squeal, literally sounding like a pig. My dick snaps to attention and I reward the whore with a sucker-punch directly to the face.

His head rocks back into the cheap, stained motel mattress. I feel the blow resonate through his hard, firm body. The dark fur on his taut asscheeks tangles with my pubic hair as his rectum lovingly strokes my shaft, despite the slut’s fear.

Every voluntary reaction he has resists me; every involuntary reaction shows his pleasure. I have to kill off enough of his brain to destroy the voluntary nervous system. Then the involuntary will take over, giving him the greatest orgasm he could ever experience. And he’ll get me off as it happens. Shame that it kills him in the process, but it’s an occupational hazard for whores. And it spares him a more drawn-out agony. He could spend a decade or more as a druggie on the streets…

As I said, I don’t expect gratitude from him. I do, however, expect a good time. And I want it now. I reach down and wrap my hands around the whore’s throat. His eyes grow even wider as I squeeze. I brace my sneakers against the spunk-stained mattress, the soles of my canvas hightops gaining traction to help me pin the rentboy down, my cock pinning the lower part of his hard, tight torso to the bed as my hands force his neck down.

The cuntboy’s chest and abdomen arc up against my belly as his eyes bulge in panic. He reaches up and claws at my hands, his eyes pleading with me mutely. I hock up a massive wad of phlegm and spit it into his face. Repositioning myself so that I can pinion him with one arm, I free my other arm so that I can continue to express my opinion of whores by repeated blows to his face.

Adrenaline and testosterone boil over in my bloodstream as the kid’s body reacts to each impact with a short but intense contraction of the muscles. This reaction causes his colon to clench and release rhythmically, squeezing my tool like a fist.

“That’s it, bitch,” I whisper, “work my fucking cock, you whore. Choke and die while I punk-fuck you, you worthless fucking cumpig.”

I gotta admit, the little slut is strong. He straight-arms me as best he can, the muscles in his forearms popping out through the forest of fur that covers him nearly to the elbows as his adrenaline increases as well. The testosterone is obvious too as his cock swells into a fireplug, five inches long but nearly two in diameter.

His hands are flailing violently, scratching at my chest and my face. I’ve had enough of this shit; worthless little cunt needs to take what’s coming to him. A line drive straight from my shoulder to his nose results in a satisfying crunch and gives the slut something else to think about for a couple of minutes.

As blood leaks from the rentboy’s broken nose, I clamp down on his throat with both hands again. Leaning down and squeezing his throat, I pin him to the mattress as I ream his ass mercilessly. His eyes bulge from the lack of oxygen as his face begins to turn blue.

“That’s it, slut, now you’re gettin’ it. Let me feel you kick your life away. Die on my motherfuckin’ cock, you little cunt. I’m gonna wring your neck when I cum and you’re gonna be so glad, bitch, you’ll shoot your worthless slut load like the helpless little deathpig you really are.”

He resists, of course; they always do. Deep inside, he knows that this is what he wants; he needs to be used as a sex toy and thrown out like a soiled tissue. He wouldn’t be whoring himself out to get his drugs if he didn’t. But they never admit it, even to themselves, until the last minute, when they experience the orgasm that death brings them and come to understand that this is what they needed to give meaning to their useless, wasted lives.

It’s that moment of comprehension, that moment as their body reacts with the ultimate orgasm and they feel their soul empty out through their cock, that makes it worth the risk. Well, that, and it feels good on my cock. They aren’t the only ones experiencing an ultimate orgasm. Ordinary sex is nothing compared to the erotic intensity of a snuff.

The rentboy is losing it, slipping into blind panic. He’s beating and clawing at me violently. His mind is aflame with panic as the realization hits him that this is far worse than getting beaten in some kinky S&M game.

I tell them they’re gonna die, but the stupid little fucks never believe it until they feel it themselves. This is, of course, why I make sure they do feel it.

His face contorts in a rictus of agony as I squeeze harder, feeling his larynx sliding around in his throat under the pressure. He digs at my hands, his fingers bent into hooks, as he tries to pry my rigid arms away from his neck. As his desperate body writhes under me, his combat boots slapping at my ass, I can feel his erect dick prodding my belly.

As I throttle him, I pull downward on his neck, pulling him back until my thick purple shaft is half-buried in his panicked, fluttering rectum. Now it’s time to really show the whore who’s boss.

I stop pumping my tool. I’m gonna make the meat work my cock for a while. By varying the amount of pressure on his esophagus, I can control the amount of oxygen he receives and the amount of pain he’s in. As I clamp down on his neck, he thrashes and convulses, sliding around on my swollen, leaking mushroom tip. I can slow him down by easing the pressure.

I spend the next thirty-five minutes jacking off with the meat, strangling him to and past the point of unconsciousness, watching his face darken and his tongue protrude. His arms flail against my body; I’m gonna be covered in scratches, but he’s already too weak to do much damage. Same with his legs; I’m gonna have some bruises shaped like his bootheels, but nothing worse.

I enjoy watching his face, watching his expression as he regains consciousness each time. It’s a curious mix of relief and desperation; relief that he’s still alive and desperation because the nightmare is still going on.

“Wakey, wakey, you little fuck,” I leer into his tear-stained face, “you ain’t done working my cock yet, whoremeat. C’mon, get your fucking slut hole all the way down on my cockroot, punk. Next time I choke you out, I wanna feel your sphincter spasming in my pubic hair. Get it all the way down, you worthless pig!”

There’s resistance about three-quarters of the way down my shaft. He’s still just a little too tight to take all of me. “Goddammit,” I mutter, “you’re gonna take it all, whore. You’re here so I can use you like the piece of pig meat you are. Doesn’t matter how much damage you suffer, cause I’m just gonna throw you out after I’ve finished using your corpse as a cum dumpster.”

“Besides,” I whisper, smiling down into his wide, shock-rimmed eyes, “I know that deep inside your cumslut soul, you want to be hurt, you piece of shit whore. You know you deserve the pain; you need it to complete you. Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll complete you so hard they won’t find all the pieces.”

Gripping the kid’s throat tightly, I force his thick, wriggling muscle-body body down into my crotch, feeling the pressure around my rod increase painfully. The whoreboy is struggling heroically, in extreme agony as he’s impaled on my cock. Suddenly the pressure eases and my dick plunges in completely, slipping in on a warm moist film of blood. The boy’s eyes, pleading mutely up at me, roll back in his head as I tear his ass open.

I remove my hands from his throat and sit up on my knees, looking down at his limp unconscious body, glistening with a sheen of panic sweat. Drool runs across his face from the corners of his lips, parted in labored breathing. I’m waiting for him to wake up. He’s out from the pain; I’ve torn his sphincter and split his rectal lining. Every throb of my cock is gonna make him feel like he’s getting’ fucked with a razor.

His eyelid flutter and he starts moaning. Just as his eyes open, I grab his neck again, tightening my hands and wringing them together. He bucks and jerks under me, shaking his head violently from side to side. I hold myself still, enjoying the sensation of his mangled, bleeding colon contracting on and sliding over my oozing mushroom tip.

I sneer down into the dying meat’s face. “Time to say goodnight, bitch. Time to ride my hog down into a nice long dark dirt nap. Yeah, I know, it hurts like fuck. And you love it, you fucking pig; look at how hard your dork is. Damn, you’re dribbling more precum than I am right now, and I gotta tell ya, the thought of wasting your punk ass has got me dripping.”

His face, growing darker by the second, is covered with snot and tears. His tongue is peeking out from between his lips again and his bulging eyes are becoming bloodshot. His thrashing has slowed, his hands slowly trailing along my sides and my chest, his boots twitching and kicking spasmodically. As his pelvis bucks, his dick generates a slapping sound as it bobs between his writhing, firm abdomen and mine.

Time to wring the whoremeat out for good. I clamp down on his throat, feeling the resistance of the rubbery tissue of the trachea running like an inner tube on the inside. Squeezing so hard my biceps bulge and the tendons stand out in my neck as I clench my jaw, I’m rewarded with the erotic, satisfying crunch of his esophagus collapsing. His hard meat body goes rigid in exquisite agony as I increase the pressure, feeling the cartilage in his voice box crack and crush beneath my hands.

He arcs violently against me and I feel a warm flood spew over my chest as his cock spunks with the orgasmic pleasure of extreme pain; a true death load. His eyes roll back in his head, bloody white visible behind the half-open lids. A fount of foam boils out past his thick black tongue and slides down his purple cheeks.

I give one last squeeze, twisting my wrists backwards—and get one last snap, severing the spinal column between the third and fourth cervical vertebrae. The young whore’s body stiffens in massive neurological shock. His bleeding rectum folds around my cock and sucks my load out like it had applied a vacuum. His arms and legs hold me in one last iron embrace before he sinks into the flaccid passivity of death as a final spasm in his drawn-up balls forces the last drops of semen out of his thickly-veined tool.

I spend another ten minutes gasping for air, my shaft still firmly planted in the dead whore’s ass. When I finally pull it out, it’s glazed with blood and dried cum.

The bathroom is disgusting, but it’ll have to do. All I really need to do is wash off my dick anyway; I can deal with my own sweaty manfunk till I can get to a real shower.

I need to find someplace to dump the meat. I could leave it here, since no one’s seen me, but there’s DNA evidence. It’s high summer; I just gotta keep the meat from being found long enough to go putrid.

I feel bad about not being able to fuck the corpse like I’d promised; I know, deep in his little pig soul, the whore would have wanted me to. But it took me longer to off him than I expected. I’d really enjoyed beating off with him, using him as a human sex toy before I killed him. But I only paid for the room for so long, and I’m too far from home to risk driving around with a fresh kill.

I know! There’s a culvert under a train trestle a mile and a half up the road. Homeless people camp there in winter, but it’s overgrown and empty in the summer. By the time anyone finds the meat, it’ll be more like soup.

And anyway, they’re not gonna look real hard when they ID him and find out he was a meth head whore. No one’s gonna care.

Like I said, I’ve spared him a long, drawn-out, agonizing death by addiction. But do you think anyone will thank me? Not a chance in hell…