Fantasy Scenario 17

On June 28, 2015May 1, 2016 By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario SeriesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for a barbecue.

Fantasy Scenario 16

On June 28, 2015May 1, 2016 By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series3 Comments

It’s been a while since I’ve actively hunted. Recently, meat seems to come to me of its own accord. Today, though, I’m out and stalking. After all, I need to keep my skills up.

I’m sitting in the parking lot of a strip mall. This isn’t a good part of town and most of the businesses here are closed or seriously under-staffed. The lot is practically empty–which is why the two punks I’ve got my eye on are here; they have a wide-open space to practice their moves.

The taller one is on a skateboard. He’s got a ball cap on over his shoulder-length black hair. He’s about twenty, with a faint goatee encircling his mouth. Skinny jeans, a black t-shirt and black hightops complete the look.

The other kid is shorter and might be a year or two younger. He’s on a bike. He’s dressed just like his friend, except his shirt is blue and his sneakers are white. His blond hair is straight and not quite as long as his buddy’s. His face is smooth and hairless. As he speeds by the spot where I’m parked, I see that his wallet is attached to a belt loop with a chain.

Since I’m guessing they’re under 21, I have an easy lure. I’m parked where they can clearly see me downing a beer. I’m not actually drinking alcohol; the last thing I need is to get pulled over for DWI. This is an open can filled with water. But there’s a case in the back of my van in case they take the bait.

And they do. Stupid little shits. They deserve every second of suffering I have planned for them.

It’s the younger one, the kid on the bike, who comes by first. Hesitantly, he asks to borrow a cigarette. Sure, no problem. His name is Tommy and his buddy is Jake, who soon joins us.

I offer them a beer. They accept eagerly and soon they’re both guzzling away in the back of my van. It’s been earlier than I expected.

I tell them I have weed back at my place if they’re interested. They are, so we head out. It’s during the drive to my killing pit that Jake mentions he’d rather find some heroin. Tommy seconds him. I grin knowingly as I let them know I can accommodate them with that as well.

I hadn’t tagged the little fucks as needle freaks. It makes them easier to subdue, but I’ll need to be careful. As I’ve said before, I’ll fuck the meat even if it dies of an overdose, but I prefer a fresh kill.

Once we’re back at the run-down house I’ve rented, I leave them in the living room while I get my stash. I haven’t had the chance to use this stuff on my prey in a while; it’s extremely pure. I go ahead and load the syringes myself; they’d OD right away if I let them do it themselves.

Tommy is still on the couch when I get back to the living room, but Jake is peering out the front window. I know what he’s looking at; the house across the street is a notorious crack house–which is exactly what I was looking for.

Sometimes the best place to hide is right out in front. That house is a magnet for any law enforcement in the neighborhood. It keeps the cops so busy no one even glances in my direction.

I get Jake’s attention and draw him back to the couch. It’s not long before he and Tommy have tied off and are grinning and joking with each other. I let them have their last bit of fun.

When it’s my turn for fun, they’ll be screaming, not smiling.

It hits them hard. Jake nods off. Tommy gives me a goofy grin as he sinks into acquiescence. As I pull him up off the couch and drag him into the bedroom, I glance back at Jake. He won’t be rescuing his friend; he’s unconscious and drooling.

Tommy stumbles along with me and flops limply onto the bed when I shove him down and start cutting his clothes off with a utility knife. I slice up each leg of his jeans, running my hands along his smooth, firm thighs. He moans but doesn’t resist at all. I slash at his waistband and yank off the jeans. His shorts and shirt come off with no problems as well.

He’s lying back on the bed, eyes closed, long blond hair spread in a fan around his hair. His thick cock presses flaccidly against his inner leg. I want to fuck him badly, but not yet. He’s gonna get tenderized first–he gets to watch while I make his friend into meat. Of course, I’ll need to secure him beforehand. I have just the contraption for that.

I have a new toy as well, and Tommy’s gonna help me play with it. I’m anxious to try it out since it’s kinda unwieldy and a bit bulky; I hope it works well.

It’s a nail gun.

The bed faces the door. At the head of the bed, I’ve attached a 4X4 post upright to a base; the post is about four and a half feet high. Nailed horizontally to the post is a long 2X4, the whole forming a T shape.

I drag Tommy around the post and stand him up so that he’s facing it and looking down at the head of the bed. He giggles and drools a little while I force him up against the post and fondle his ass. He barely stirs when I fasten a ball gag into his mouth. High as he is, he’s gonna want to scream here in a sec, when I secure him to the 2X4. And as hot as I think his screaming will be, he’s not up at bat right now. Order must be maintained.

Somewhere inside the stupid little bitch’s drug-fogged mind, an awareness creeps in that something isn’t right. I don’t give him a chance to jerk away, though. I place his left hand with the palm flat against the board. Then I snatch up the nail gun and drive a three-inch nail through the back of his hand into the board. It sinks in, the head making a dimple in the back of the fucker’s hand out of which blood drips.

He reacts more violently than I’d anticipated, but it doesn’t matter–he can’t move with his hand nailed to the post. His cries are muffled by the gag and even with the pain, he’s still too high to fight back. I quickly get his right hand nailed into place on the other side. He’s permanently attached to the post, facing it, helpless to protect himself when his time comes.

Tommy is snuffling and crying but not really able to make enough noise to alert Jake–who’s too drugged himself to do anything anyway. He turns his tear-stained face to me in confusion, but I’m already on my way out of the room to get his buddy.

Jake has regained consciousness but hasn’t moved; he’s still in place on the couch. Like Tommy, he knows something is wrong but the drug has rendered him helpless to protect himself. I’m able to pull him up and get him into the bedroom with no trouble. He sees Tommy at the post, but he’s still high enough that it doesn’t register.

I cut his clothes off as well but he stays on the bed. It doesn’t take me long to get him into position; I’ve had lots of practice at this. I bind his hands behind his back with handcuffs before laying him out on the bed face up. When I mount him, I’ll be able to look up directly into Tommy’s face.

Even better, Tommy will have to watch Jake get raped and killed, knowing that it’s going to happen to him as well.

Jake gets to have a little fun himself, of course, whether he wants to or not. I snake a thick leather cockring through the bush of hair at the base of his long plump dick, encircling his scrotum as well. The moment I snap it closed, his cock begins to darken and swell.

I can’t wait. I’m fully erect at the thought of plowing the punk’s hole while life seeps out of his body. Time to rock ‘n roll.

Jake gasps and moans when I stuff my tool deep inside him. He’s extremely tight–this must be excruciating but he’s still too drugged to cry out. I’m on my knees with my arms wrapped around his legs to fuck him missionary position. I look across to Tommy’s dazed and confused face.

“Damn,” I tell him, “your friend’s a good piece of fuckmeat. Hope you’re as tight as he is. I can’t fucking wait to find out. Feels so goddam good stretching out his ass–if you’re any tighter yourself, I’m gonna have to tear your hole when I stick my cock in your ass. It’ll hurt like a bitch for you, but it’ll feel even better on my dick than your buddy–and he feels great. The inside of his ass is like silk.”

Jake’s arms are twisted painfully behind him as he lies on his back, adding to his discomfort. His body rocks back and forth with each of my thrusts; my balls slap his ass rhythmically. It’s nice, but something is missing. I know what–and I know how to fix it. I get Tommy’s attention first.

“Hey, meat, this fuckwad’s getting loose. I’ve already stretched him out too much. Gotta tighten him back up. Lessee now, what can I do to make him clench up? I got an idea…”

That’s when I hold up a military knife. It’s six inches long with a rubber grip and wicked serrations. I make sure they both can see it.

I lie across Jake and slide my other hand underneath him. I work it up between his shoulder blades until I can grasp his long, slightly curly black hair. As I do so, I lower the blade until it’s right over his head. I can see the glint of light on its razor-sharp edge reflected in his wide, fear-filled brown eyes. He knows it’s coming for him, but he doesn’t know where. I keep him in suspense for a while.

“Look at it, fuckmeat,” I whisper to him. “Look at the blade. Imagine it cutting into you, bitch, imagine how much it’s gonna hurt. I’m gonna slice your flesh open like tender roast beef. You’re gonna wallow in pain and blood, suffering unbearable agony while you ride my cock. Don’t that sound like fun, you fucking pig?”

Jake cries and babbles incoherently. He’s still too high to be able to put up any effective resistance–but not too high to know what’s about to happen. I turn to Tommy and crank up the horror.

“This fuckpig is just about reamed out. Guess it’s time for a radical retightening. Pay close attention, meat, so you’ll know what to expect when it’s your turn.”

I wrap Jake’s hair around my hand and pull down, jerking his head back. I put the knife down for a moment to savor his long, muscular neck and massage his Adam’s apple. “Big piece of gristle in your throat,” I tell him, picking the knife back up, “let’s see if we can cut it down to size.”

I slam the blade straight down into his Adam’s apple, destroying his larynx in one blow.

Jake’s eyes open wide in shock. He starts to shriek, but I’ve severed his vocal cords; all that comes out is a gagging gasp. The knife has gone straight into the front of his throat so no major blood vessels have been cut. He’s in phenomenal pain–but he’s not dying.

I decide to enjoy it for a moment. I let go of the knife but leave it buried in his throat while I continue to fuck him.

“Oh yeah, motherfucker, that got you nice and clenched. Nothing like a little pain to help you get a grip on things–like my cock. Keep trying to scream, boy, your useless wheezing is really getting me off.”

Tommy is openly sobbing now. I’m gonna have to keep an eye on him; with that ball gag in, he could suffocate on his own snot. And I don’t want him dying till he’s on my dick.

Jake is coughing up a little blood but judging by the gurgling sounds I think he’s inhaling most of it. Each time I jam my rod deep inside of him, the blade bobs back and forth in the wound, causing more damage. His face is a rictus of agony, wet with tears, his black goatee stained with blood.

“Holy shit, that did the trick, you worthless little fuck. A little tickle with a blade got you all hot and horny. Keep it up, punk, you’re working my dick real good now.”

The meat has no choice; it has to lie there and submit to my knife and my cock. Rigid with pain and panic, Jake is trying desperately to remain conscious. It would be easier for him if he just let go, but he doesn’t know that. That’s why I like them young–they struggle to stay alive longer. Any strength they possess works against them by dragging out the nightmarish scene.

I’m really pounding the meat in the ass by this point. He’s staring at the ceiling in misery, face streaked with tears and snot and blood, probably trying to tell himself that he’ll get through this if he can just hold on. Time to disabuse him–and Tommy too–of that notion.

“Fuckin’ A, happens every time. I get to fucking a nice, conditioned piece of meat and it starts to go loose again. What are we gonna do about that, boy? I must not have hurt you bad enough for it to stick. Well, I can fix that. Hold on, pig; if you though that last one was bad, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

I press one hand down over his face to hold his head in place while I yank the blade out of his throat. More blood seeps from the wound as I reposition the knife and start flaying open his esophagus.

The punk fucker opens his mouth and screams silently as the taut flesh of his neck is sliced open, exposing the raw meat inside his throat. I only cut about halfway down, still trying to avoid the major blood vessels; bleeding out would be too quick. I’m still having fun playing with him. I find myself having to put some effort into sawing open the rubbery tissue of his windpipe.

As the gurgling sound of his respiration quickens in shock and terror, pink foam comes bubbling out of the gaping hole in his neck. Even without severing the carotid or the jugular, he’s still inhaling substantial amounts of blood

I take a quick peek at Tommy to see how he’s enjoying his ringside seat. He stares dully at the horror show in front of him. I suspect he’s protecting his psyche by retreating into a catatonic state.

Well, pain will take care of that. He won’t have the luxury of denial long.

Jake is still trying to straight-arm death. He’s losing the battle, but his fight is working my dick like magic. His trachea has partially collapsed and he’s having difficulty breathing. Each agonizing breath is accompanied by a high-pitched squeal as sliced shreds of flesh block the meat’s airway.

He’s having to strain harder with each attempt to inhale. Every time he does, his entire body goes rigid with the effort, causing his rectum to close up on my tool. I run my hands up his sides and over his firm, heaving chest, slick with desperate sweat. His glands are malfunctioning in the face of swiftly approaching death; powerful manstink wafts from his hairy pits.

As I lean over him, anxious to watch the light fade from his eyes, I can feel his dick, still swollen and engorged from the cockring. It’s hot and throbbing; I can feel it spasm against my belly. A bubble of blood burst from the meat’s mouth and then I feel a warmth spreading over my abdomen as the dying punk shoots uncontrollably.

His ass seems to pulse around my rod, forcing a huge wad of spunk to erupt deep inside him. At the same time, he hasn’t stopped shooting; a jet of semen rises in the air and splashes back down onto his face, diluting the blood and pooling into his slowly glazing eyes.

The meat gives one last long groan–a death rattle not caused by his shredded vocal cords but instead caused by his last breath forcing its way out past the mangled cartilage blocking his throat. He shudders momentarily, milking the last drop of cum out of my shaft before he goes still.

But I ain’t done yet. There’s still plenty of cream boiling in my sack. Time to drain it into my next fucktoy.

The first thing I do after pulling my cock out of the dead meat is remove the gag from Tommy’s mouth. Tommy’s eyes are half-closed. He drools and makes a low keening sound, terror rendering him non-functional. I approach him from behind, running my hands over his smooth ass, reaching between his legs and jacking his dick for a bit. He may be out of his mind with fear, but his tool responds like he’s really into this.

Maybe he is. Most of these little punks usually submit to their buried desire by the time death takes them. They’ll fight it to the bitter end, but they finally come to accept and understand. Some of them, I’m convinced, enjoy the pain and fear and domination–judging by how hard they cum when it’s all said and done.

Of course, I’ve learned a lot about human physiology over the years. Whether they want to or not, they all blow a huge load when they die. I see to that. But still, as they sink into the cold embrace of oblivion, I can see in their eyes gratitude for showing them their ultimate purpose and giving them the greatest orgasm possible, one fueled by the body’s instinctive need to expel its reproductive seed before it dies.

On the other hand, I leave some of the meat so brain-damaged that it’s incapable of realizing that it’s cumming. The orgasm is reflexive, caused by misfiring neurons. I really don’t care, as long as it gets me off. It’s just meat, after all.

There’s a recliner in the room. I pull it up behind my fucktoy and sit for a moment, admiring his tight ass, his muscular calves rising from his skate shoes, his smooth back widening to his shoulders. It’s not long before I’m hard again. When I get up, I leave the chair in place. I have plans for it, if I can manipulate the meat just right.

Tommy’s low moaning spirals into a wail as I split his asscheeks with my cock, mounting him from behind like a dog. The kid is clearly a virgin; he’s so tight it hurts my dick. His own pain is much worse, of course–I’m tearing his sphincter. I can feel a thick, viscous fluid on my tool. He’s bleeding inside.

I hold the meat tightly to me as I brutally fuck him. He sobs and moans in time to my thrusts, each pump of my hips eliciting a cry of pain. My hands slip down his belly to grab his dick and cup his balls. As I masturbate him, he starts to respond, growing erect in spite of himself.

“Horny little faggot, aren’t ya?” I whisper in his ear. “You just love my thick rod plowing your hole. Fuckin’ hurts, don’t it, but deep inside you’re a little fuckpig who gets off on gettin’ hurt. You’re really gonna like what happens next. I’m gonna hurt you so good you’ll scream with joy.”

I reach for the nail gun. I’ve really been looking forward to this. These three-inch nails will pitilessly tear into his young, hard body, embedding themselves into his muscles and bones. His agony will be exquisite and I’ll enjoy every second of the torture.

I reach around Tommy’s chest and up to his face, grabbing it and pulling him back so he’s pressed against me. I bring up the nail gun and fire it into his side.

The first one shatters a rib on the way in, spewing bone fragments like shrapnel. The kid stiffens and I can feel his scream vibrate down his body and up through my cock. He’s making too much noise; I need to quiet him down. Traumatic shock will do the job nicely. The next nail goes into his kidney.

The meat gasps and trembles. He’s panting like a dog and his blond hair is dark and slick with sweat. He jerks his arms but he’s held firm with his hands nailed to the board.

“Try as hard as you like, motherfucker. There’s no escape. You’ll take all the pain I give you until I’m ready to waste your punk ass. And you’re gonna die hard, bitch. Your last few minutes on earth will be a nightmare of agony. You’ll squeal like a pig as I off you and fill your corpse with cum.”

As his back writhes against my stomach, I slip the gun around to Tommy’s front and fire again. This nail misses the ribs but rips through his pectoral muscle and penetrates his lung. The punk kicks and twists vainly, unable to break free of the iron grip of pain. The hole in his lung makes it difficult to inhale; each breath is labored and panicked.

He’s so fucking hot–young, smooth, strong, bleeding and crying. Suddenly, with gasping words, he starts begging–not for his life, but for his death. He wants me to kill him and end his misery.

“I knew it, you worthless little fuck. This is what you want, what gets you hard. You’ll cry and piss and scream, but your fucking pig soul wants to be used and thrown out like the piece of shit you are. Now shut up and take my cock, whore; the only thing I wanna hear you beg for is more of my dick.”

I put a nail into the meat’s flat belly. His broken sobbing is beautifully erotic; in a haze of lust, I pound his ass furiously. Slippery with sweat, he moans and struggles, his silky skin sliding frictionlessly over mine. I’m close, I’m so close.

“Going into the home stretch, motherfucker. It’s just about time to pop one of these bad boys into your skull, dude. Are ya ready, bitch? Ready to feel steel in your brain and my cum warming your guts as you sink into a cold, agonizing death? I sure the fuck am. I’m gonna fuck up your brain so bad you’ll end up as a meat puppet dancing on the end of my dick and after I cum, I’m gonna toss you and your buddy in the trash like used rubbers.”

I’m hunched over him, hips gyrating in a blur, pressing the nail gun against the back of the meat’s head. After I speak, I stay silent for a while, fucking him continually, letting his terror build. After about sixty seconds, I feel him relax slightly. That’s when I fire the gun.

The nail penetrates his skull smoothly, the head resting flush against the skin, buried in his sweat-soaked hair. The punk’s soft, vulnerable cerebellum is peppered with shards of cranial bone. Tommy’s spasm is instant and incredibly violent; he arches his body back against mine. His arms pull back with a mighty yank, ripping his hands free by jerking the heads of the nails through the backs of his hands. As his fists clench and release convulsively, they bleed like stigmata. The nails I used to secure him remain in the crossbar, dripping blood and flesh. One has a length of tendon dangling from it.

Holding the meat to me, I stagger backwards and fall into the recliner. My cock never leaves the pig’s ass as I pull him down on top of me. I lay back and blast another nail into his brain, this one in the temple.

This one short-circuits the electrochemical pulses in his nervous system. He flops back in my lap; looking over his shoulder, I can see his thick rod, erect and corded with veins, throbbing and oozing pre-cum. He’s just about there. I just need to make him shoot.

I take my time. He’s bouncing up and down on my tool like he’s riding a pogo stick. His respiration speeds up; he’s breathing in short, irregular gasps. Each exhale is accompanied by an involuntary moan. I fondle the dying meat’s cock and balls as he seizes and convulses on top of me. This is my reward; this is what I wanted–this little skate punk bobbing mindlessly on my dick, helpless, vulnerable, completely in my control.

I’m set for the ultimate domination–working the agonized punk to orgasm as his life drains away. He’s nearly there already; the trauma to his brain has made him susceptible to physical manipulation. I jack him with one hand while I place the nail gun in his groin.

An explosion of semen, boiling like magma, erupts from the head of my cock and floods the meat’s rectum. Simultaneously, I fire the gun, driving a nail deep into the base of the punk’s sack, cold steel penetrating his scrotum and skewering the root of his cock. His velvety balls pucker and spasm instantly. The final blast of pain was all he needed–the extra stimulus to his nervous system pushing him over the edge of orgasm. Ropy white strands spew out of the straining purple head of the meat’s dick. His shuddering, rigid body locks up, forcing a series of grunts out of his mouth. At the same time, a chunk of meat slips from between his lips and off his chin, leaving a bloody trail. In his convulsions, the fuckpig bit off the tip of his tongue.

I don’t know how long I shoot. My orgasm seems to last for half an hour; I unload so much sperm into the meat’s intestines that I’m amazed my balls don’t collapse. My fucktoy is packed full of cum. I can feel it oozing out of his torn, reamed-out hole and matting my pubic hair.

I slump back in exhaustion, glancing over at Jake’s gorgeous corpse lying in a puddle of piss and cum. I may go another round with both boys–there’s no sense in wasting fresh meat, after all–but right now, I need some sleep. I start drifting off with my rod still sheathed in Tommy. As I close my eyes, I can still feel him quiver and twitch. When I wake up later on, he’ll be stiff and cold on my cock, but right now there’s still a tiny, dwindling spark of life left in his sexy, traumatized body. I hold him close, turn his trembling, innocent face to mine and kiss his bloody lips as I fall asleep.

Fantasy Scenario 12

On June 28, 2015April 30, 2016 By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series1 Comment

The kid is young, no older than twenty. Short, but muscular; he’s been working out. No surprise there; he’s a whore, so he needs to maintain his moneymaker.

It’s cold out and sleet is starting to fall. That’s probably why he’s still available—there’s no traffic now. Everyone is home and safe and warm. Except this kid; he’s still out selling his body. He must be desperate. Wonder what kinda habit he’s supporting.

Well, after tonight, it won’t matter. Surest way to get a monkey off your back is to get dead.

He’s relieved when I pull up. I don’t give him much time; I’ve got my tire iron in the back seat and I go upside his head with it before he can speak. He slumps against his door, snoring slightly as I drive back to the apartment I’ve rented.

It’s dark when I get there. Power’s out in the whole neighborhood. This place I’ve rented is older and has a fireplace. I’d laid in a supply of wood when I saw the forecast.

This whore is gonna die in front of the fire.

I’ve positioned an upright pole in front of the fireplace. I place the kid on his back and pull his hands up over his head, tying them to the pole. After I start a fire—and get enough light to see what I’m doing—I start removing his clothes. I cut off his jeans, leaving his shiny black Doc Martens in place. I cut off his t-shirt and the denim vest he’s wearing, too. He must have been cold.

He’s nude now, except for his socks and boots. He’s well-built and pretty well hung for his size. There’s a tribal armband tattoo around his bulging right bicep. His hair is black and curly and worn long in the back, kinda like a mullet. A trickle of blood has run down his right temple from the spot where I’d popped him. It’s dry now.

Rentboy is starting to wake up. In a flash, I’ve got a ball gag in his mouth. With the power out, it’s really quiet around here. This piggy’s gonna squeal some before I’m done; I need to muffle him before I get started.

I pry his smooth thighs apart and shove the head of my cock into his well-used hole. He gives a slight groan, but this is clearly nothing new for him. He’s pretty loose, but I know how to fix that.

I always like showing off my knife before I use it. The fuckmeat works my tool longer and more intensely when the pain is combined with fear. And my Ka-bar utility knife with its seven inch serrated carbon-steel blade is something to be afraid of.

The kid’s large, dark eyes finally open. He looks around in dazed confusion, trying to move. His hands are bound above his head with zip ties and he can’t do anything with them. He can kick his legs but I’m pinning him to the floor with my dick, so he can’t do much else.

I lie full-length on top of him and grab his throat. With my other hand, I hold the knife in front of his eyes, letting it reflect the orange flames back into his panicked face.

“See this, ya little fuck? I’m gonna stick this in ya. I’m gonna fuck your ass with my cock and your body with my blade. Don’t worry, punk, I ain’t gonna kill ya. Yet. But you whored yourself out too much, bitch, so I’m gonna tighten ya up a little. Ready for it, fuckmeat? Here we go!”

I slowly insert the knife into his left side, under the rib cage. The whore quivers in agony as the sharpened steel slides through his flesh and tears open muscle. His screams are muffled by the gag, but his face shows how much pain he’s in. He shakes his head; eyes squeezed shut with tears streaming out. The resistance on my blade changes abruptly; I’ve hit the spleen.

Suddenly the punk jerks, his eyes opened wide and dilated. Organ trauma usually induces a basic level of shock. His muscles tightened reflexively and his ass clamped down on my dick, as I’d planned.

I slowly pull the blade out. I don’t want to do too much damage yet. I’m gonna bleed him out like a stuck pig, but that’s for later. It’s difficult to keep ‘em going like this sometimes. Getting the right physical reaction requires precision placement of the blade and usually involves trauma to some organ or another. But too much organ damage can lead to death by hemorrhage (before I’m ready) or an irreversible deep state of shock that elicits no reaction at all. This latter state is useful if you need a quick stealth kill.

I like to enjoy my kills a little more. I ease the blade into the punk’s hard, flat belly. It slips in smoothly, almost gliding in like a hot knife through butter. The bitch’s scream is tempered to a long, low moan by the gag.

“Shut up, you fuckin’ bitch. This is what you been wantin’, ain’t it? You’ve just been waiting for some guy to come along and stick something long and hard into ya. Now you got two at the same time, fucker. And you love it, don’t ya, faggot? You tighten your ass up like a good little piggy every time I stick ya. You keep that up and you’ll get my load, bitch. You’re gonna love what happens then. You really are gonna die squealing like a pig when I give you my load. Best happy ending ever!”

I smile beatifically into his face as I tell him about his death. I don’t miss a stroke in my thrusting, though. I only miss a beat while I press the tip of the knife into his right pectoral muscle. There’s immediate resistance—I must have hit a rib—and I have to lean on the haft of the blade. There’s a snapping sound and the knife sinks in up to the hilt. The kid is developed, but small—the blade has completely penetrated him, with the tip coming out of his back.

He stiffens in pain, moaning loudly. He starts writhing, trying to free himself from the iron grip of agony. But he’s pinned in place by my rod and my blade, the latter impaling him to the floor. His rectum cycles through a swift rippling motion up and down the shaft of my cock.

His eyes stare frantically into mine. He still doesn’t quite get it. I know he will, before he dies. He’ll realize that I’m only giving him what he’s wanted all along. He just needs to know he’s really dying. His left lung has been penetrated twice and is collapsing, but he still doesn’t know, beyond any doubt, that he’s dying…

I can fix that.

I lie full-length on him again, feeling his hard body jerking underneath my, sliding around on the blood that’s leaked from his chest wound. There’s really not that much blood since I haven’t pulled the knife out of the wound yet. His dark eyes look pleadingly into mine. His breathing it swift and deep; he’s starting to cough up blood from his damaged lung. He’s gonna die soon enough—I’m just making sure he knows it.

“Ok, you punk fuck, time to make you meat. This is gonna hurt like fuck. I’m gonna cut your throat and let you bleed out while you’re riding my dick. You’re gonna love it, faggot; you’re gonna get butchered like a good pig. Just accept it; this is what you want. This is why you’re out on the streets every night. You wanted a man to come along and cut you like the meat you are. You wanted to die with a dick up your ass. Here ya go, ya fuckin’ death pig, die on my fucking cock, you worthless punk shit!”

I yank the knife brutally out of his chest and saw open his throat, using the serrated edge of the blade to cut into the rubbery trachea. The moment I slice open his windpipe, the fuckmeat shoots his load up my belly and chest. His legs tighten around me. I can feel the smooth leather of his boots as his heels rake my ass in pain—and in pleasure.

His eyes—I can’t really describe the expression. There’s the terror of his imminent death, but there’s also a gratitude for the satisfaction of a desire he’d never known he’d had.

He lays his head back, gasping and gurgling as blood flows down his shredded esophagus into his lungs. Each agonized exhale covers the gash in the meat’s throat with pink foam. Each inhalation is a gargle, the desperate reflex of fuckmeat drowning in its own blood.

As he gags and the foam boils from his bisected neck, he continues to shoot. He finally gets it. Things are getting dim for him. His blood pressure is dropping rapidly, so his extremities are going limp and numb. His vision is fading from the outside in. But he can still feel my tool buried deep in his ass. And since there’s still enough life left in him for his ass to massage my dick, he gets to feel my load, too, before the darkness claims him.

As I cum, holding the dying meat down, two more streams of semen erupt from his swollen cock, splattering his face and smearing into the blood oozing from his throat. The kid milks the last few drops out of my cock with a final death spasm, then goes still. His dick contracts, leaving a glistening trail behind.

I clean myself up and wait for the whoremeat to stop leaking. When it does, I pick it up and carry it to the bedroom.

Without power, it’s cold in there. And it’ll keep longer, away from the fire. I don’t think I’m quite done with it yet.

Fantasy Scenario 11

On June 28, 2015April 30, 2016 By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario SeriesLeave a comment

Young, dumb, and full of cum. It’s my favorite combination. Catch ‘em in their late teens or early twenties after all the hormones are functioning and they shoot huge wads of semen when you put ‘em down. It’s as if it were hard-wired into them, physiologically.

This one fits the bill. He looks about nineteen or so. I can see him on a bench on the other side of the empty playground. He’s had a lot of traffic, but he hasn’t left the bench. From where I’m sitting, I can only see his head, but unless he’s been giving handies, he’s not a whore. And if he is into handjobs, he’s had bad luck; no one’s been next to him for more than thirty seconds or so.

So if he ain’t selling his body, what is he selling? Drugs, most likely. He’d had a backpack when he came in. Can’t tell if he’s still wearing it, but it doesn’t really matter anyway.

I’m just curious how much money he has. He won’t need it when I’m done with him, but I might find it handy…

He’s been looking in my direction, off and on, for a while now. It doesn’t take long before he gets up and moves towards me.

Short red-gold hair; his face is broad and his nose is large. It makes me think Eastern Europe for some reason. His complexion is pale with a scattering of freckles.

He’s wearing a grey hoodie, jeans, and Converse red canvas hightops. The backpack is slung over his shoulder as he strolls nonchalantly by me. He stares in my face the entire time. As he walks away, I get up and follow him fifty yards further down the park path, into the greenbelt. He’s waiting.

He goes through his spiel, trying to get me to buy one of the bags of cheap skunk weed he was selling before progressing to pills and coke. But he’s not trying too hard—and his eyes keep coming back to the bulge in my crotch.

I flat out solicit him. I’ll pay him fifty bucks and get him high—my own stash, not his—if he’ll let me suck his dick. His eyes light up but I can’t tell if it’s from lust or greed. Again, doesn’t matter, as long as I get to watch that light fade as he dies.

He doesn’t mind hauling his dick out in the back of my van right there in the parking lot of the rec center. I want someplace a little more private, though, so I hand him a joint to smoke while I head towards an empty industrial park just on the other side of the highway.

By the time I get there, the special mixture in my joint has done its job. The kid lies limply in the seat, awake, but barely able to move. His speech is little more than an inarticulate mumble. He’s drooling slightly—there’s something about the combination of the drugs that induces a very slight paralysis. I think it has something to do with the hallucinogen, but I’m no chemist. But his breathing is shallow and rapid; panic is starting to set in.

He’s just realized that’s he’s completely helpless. He also knows what it means—something very bad is going to happen to him.

Tears ooze from his fear-widened eyes as I drag him out of his seat into the back. I show him a sharp knife just to terrorize him; I’m not planning to use it on him directly. It’s here so I can cut his clothes off, which I do very quickly. It doesn’t take long to slash apart his hoodie, jeans, and boxers. As usual; I leave his shoes on; I like it when they kick.

I throw him down flat on his back on the carpeted floor of the van and climb on top of him, laying full length. I grab a handful of his hair to hold his head still as I talk to him.

“All right, listen up, bitch. This is how this is gonna go down. I’m gonna shove my dick up your ass and while it’s up there, I’m gonna choke you to death. Nothing personal, dude, but I wanna blow a load into some dead meat. And that means someone’s gotta die. Just your lucky night, fucker. Don’t worry, though, you’ll shoot a wad, too. Dunno if enough of your brain will be left alive at the time for you to enjoy it, but I promise you—you’ll cum before you go.”

I grinned at this witticism. The kid moaned and shuddered but wasn’t capable of anything more coordinated. Even without the drugs, his fear would have incapacitated him at this point.

Perfect time for me to whip my hog out of my jeans and slam it into his hole. Fuck yeah. He was tight. Dunno if he was a virgin; I’d like to think so but I doubt it. I know it hurt; the only lube I used was my own spit and the kid was moaning even more loudly, tears welling out of his eyes and streaming down the side of his face. I propped the bitch’s hightops on my shoulders as I bent over him, still spearing his ass with my thick cock.

I held the nylon cord in front of his eyes. See, the Inquisition knew a trick or two. They made it a practice to show the prisoner the implements of torture before they were used on him. As the true horror of what was to come sank in, the prisoner was more likely to confess with needing to be tortured at all.

Not that I give a shit about confession. The more terrified the meat is, the better it milks the cum out of my cock. I want it to know what’s coming.

“See this? I’m gonna tighten it around your neck. Does dying hurt? Yeah, bitch, it’s gonna hurt. I’m gonna make it hurt because that’s what gets me off. And somewhere in all that pain, you’re gonna cum too. So are ya ready, ya little fuck? Ready to ride my cock down into your grave? Let’s saddle up!”

I grab his hair again and gently lift his head, laying the cord under his neck. I lower his head, pick up the ends of the cords and cross them at the front of his throat, just under the adam’s apple. I position myself for maximum traction; my boots are digging into the carpet with each thrust of my tool and my elbows support my upper half. I wrap the cord ends around the palms of my hands and yank as hard as I can.

It sinks in so deeply that I can barely see it. The boy’s eyes are huge now; the expression on his face is terror. His voluntary nervous system is slowed by the drugs but not the involuntary. His face starts to go red immediately as he arcs his back in a vain attempt to draw in air.

“That’s it. You can feel the pressure building in your head, can’t you? Yeah, that’s gonna get real bad, fuckmeat. But we’ve only been doing this for a few seconds. It’s gonna be three minutes before death takes you, punk. It may not sound long, but it’s gonna be three minutes of agony and I’m gonna be fucking you each second of it. By the time your thrashing, dying body works the last drop of cum outta my rod, your brain will be so damaged you won’t feel the hot seed I plant inside you.”

He’s able to move some now. There’s no strength or focus but he can bat his arms weakly against me. Perhaps his panic is allowing him to overcome some of the paralysis effect. It’s not strong enough to inconvenience me.

His face is darker and his bloodshot eyes are bulging slightly. His lips are swelling as well and have a distinct bluish tint. His involuntary movements are stronger now; he’s writhing under me, his body lubed by the thin film of cold perspiration that’s covering him.

“Whaddaya say, fuckmeat, time to take it up a notch? Yeah, bitch? Don’t think you’re hurtin’ enough yet. Fuck yeah, let’s see if we can fix that.”

I start to pull tighter on the cord. My biceps are beginning to bulge and tendons are standing out. But I keep my breathing regular, timing it with each thrust so I can speak clearly.

“You’re gonna hear a crunching sound in a moment, fuckmeat. Gonna fuckin’ feel it too. It’ll be the sound of your hyoid bone breaking and your esophagus collapsing. Once that happens, you’re dead. Even if I undo this cord, you still won’t be able to breathe. But I’m not gonna undo the cord anyway, because you’re not completely dead yet and I can tighten it even more before you die. “

I grin cheerfully into his terrified, pleading eyes. His tongue, black at the tip, has protruded beyond his puffy cyan lips. It’s moving slightly; the punk dealer is trying to speak, to beg for his life, to plead on behalf of a sick mother or younger brother or some such bullshit. All he’s actually doing is pushing out a stream of foamy drool that trickles down his cheek. The sound came, more like a twig snapping, really.

“Fuckin’-A, yeah! Die, motherfucker, die on my dick. Fuckin’ shoot your punk-ass load and die so I can fill your worthless meat with man cum before I throw it out to rot. C’mon, dude, give up your wad and it’ll all be over. Die, you pig fuck. It won’t hurt after you’re dead.”

His arms flail around my body, hands scrabbling against my sweaty back and sides. He’s completely covered in a sheet of cold sweat himself; it’s the cold sweat of serious body crisis. The canvas of his shoes scratches at my cheeks as his feet jerk with approaching death.

I’m bent down close to his face now. This is the finale; this is what I’ve been waiting for.

“Soon, fuckmeat, it’ll all be over soon. Your only purpose on earth was as a sack to hold my cum. Let go and stop fighting. You’re helpless against it anyway. Let it come and let it be.”

His face is almost black and the whites of his eyes are blood red with hemorrhages. Some part of him hears me though—hears me in the depths of massive brain damage and accepts his fate. He becomes less frantic. His arms slow, his hands caressing my back as they wrap around me.

Suddenly the punk’s grip tightens around me as his body arcs up, pressing his smooth, flat, sweaty belly against mine. His shoes press against the side of my head. But it’s his ass that tightens the most; it clamps down on my cock like it’s getting vacuum-wrapped.

His body thrashes a moment, then something flies between us. The dying boy has shot a wad; it splatters on the back of the seat, above his head. It’s the first of several; most land in his face. Soon his own cum is dripping off his thick swollen tongue and seeping into pools covering his dull, half-lidded eyes.

As he shoots, random nerves fire throughout his body, creating a rippling effect in his rectum. I cum so hard I hear myself cry out incoherently. I jerk the cord so tightly around the meat’s neck that it sinks to a circumference only a little larger than his spine. After I empty myself into the meat’s guts, I fall asleep with my cock still up his ass.

I can’t sleep too long; this is too public a place when I still had the meat in my possession. But I’m horny again when I wake up, so I decide to use the meat one more time.

I flip it over and fuck it from behind this time. I ride the meat like a bronco, using the cord that I’d left around the neck as reins. I get a little carried away when I have my second orgasm; I yank back a little too hard and snap the spine. By the time I stop shooting; the meat’s glazed, blackened face is bent over backwards and staring at me upside-down.

Oh well. This meat is fucked out anyways. Time to throw it away and find another one.

Fantasy Scenario 10

On June 28, 2015April 30, 2016 By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series1 Comment

“Shut up, you little fucking bitch. You said you wanted some cock and now you’re getting it, so shut the fuck up.”

He had, too. Come right up to me and grabbed my junk. I’d gone to a different park this time; a place I’d heard had some good pick-ups. I’d heard right. I hadn’t been there for more than a few minutes before this one approached.

He’s about twenty, short—five foot two, if I’m generous. Stocky and well-built, though. Long sandy hair worn in a ponytail. Faint shadow of facial hair. He’s got large dark eyes with long lashes.

He’s wearing tight brown jeans with gray suede Nike hightops. His dark t-shirt clings to him, showing his muscled chest to advantage. He stands right in front of me, grinning up into my face as he tells me he wanted to get fucked.

So I say sure. He’s gonna get fucked all right. He has no idea how fucked he is.

It’s been a while. I was looking for some meat to soak up my seed.

The fuckmeat yammers away about what it likes to do as I decide the best way to off it. I’ve got several fresh layers of plastic in the back of the van. I can make a little mess…

I let him smoke the rest of the joint that I’d saved from last time. Damn, that works perfectly. He’s awake and moaning but unable to do more than bat weakly at me as I drag him out of the passenger seat and into the back.

I slip a ball gag on him; he can’t speak but he can make involuntary sounds. And he’s gonna be making a lot of them before I’m done.

Then I strip him—shoes, jeans, shorts, shirt. Shoes go back on and then I pull out a length of string for something I’ve been practicing. I loop the string tightly around the base of the kid’s dick and then again around his balls before jerking the knot closed. His cock slowly swells, purple with bulging veins.

The boy is flat on his back, arms out to his side, as I kneel between his legs. He moans loudly, incoherently as I spit on my throbbing cock and shove it into his ass. I remind him this is what he’d wanted.

What comes next, he probably won’t want.

“Your ass is kinda loose, fuckmeat. Been whorin’ it out a lot, ain’t ya? Wonder what I can do to make ya tighten it up? Huh, lessee what we got here…”

I grope around on the floor above the kid’s head. This way, I can lean over him and stare right into those beautiful dark eyes and smile benignly as I reach for the 7-inch serrated steel K-Bar knife.

I slowly caress the fuckmeat’s face with the blade, smiling and whispering.

“Feel it, punk? Do ya feel the cold, hard steel? In just a bit, I’m gonna use it to slice into your tender, quivering flesh. I’m gonna cut your throat with this. Understand me? I’m gonna saw open your neck.”

His eyes are huge, the terror in them shining through like madness. He jerks his body convulsively in a futile attempt to make a useful move towards fleeing. A babble of muffled grunts erupts from behind the ball gag.

None of it does any good; he can’t move. He has no choice but to accept what I’m doing to him.

“I’m getting’ close, fuckmeat. Gonna blow my load soon. Looks like you are, too. Damn, bitch, look at that precum drooling from the head of your dick. You’re liking this, ain’t ya?”

I lean down, stroking his face with the blade again.

“You want this, don’t ya, you little death whore? You wanted someone to breed you and off you, huh? You’re gonna get embalmed with cum, you fuckin’ punk. Gonna get my semen pumped into your ass while your blood pumps out through the hole I’m gonna rip in your throat, fucker. And your dick’s tied up so tight you’re gonna blow your load too. No matter how much you suffer, you’re gonna shoot; you won’t be able to control it.”

More inarticulate moans, rising in pitch as I close in with the knife and start slicing into the fuckmeat’s neck just below the adam’s apple. His entire body is rigid and quivering in agony; I can feel his sphincter clamp the base of my tool like a cock ring. The tempo and pitch of the boy’s cries increase as I cut through the tougher tissues of the esophageal wall.

The sound of his cries cease abruptly; now that I’ve torn a hole in his windpipe, there’s a deep gurgling gasp. The fuckmeat writhes, eyes frantically seeking my own in horror and confusion. He still doesn’t understand.

Not good enough.

“I don’t care who you are, bitch. You are fuckmeat. The more it hurts while you die, the better my orgasm will be. It’s that simple. Now suffer, you fucking piece of shit, suffer and make me cum.”

He responds by arcing his body violently upwards off the floor, accompanied by a loud high wheeze, almost a squeal. I can see what’s happening. The front of his trachea, no longer supported as a tube, is collapsing in on itself with each breath where the throat is slashed. Each tortured gasp is drawing in only the minimal amount of oxygen needed to retain consciousness.

His hands come up, flailing uselessly at his throat. By the way he’s pawing at his wound, I can tell this is a desperate effort to claw open his plugged airway. But he doesn’t have the coordination to successfully grasp the flap of flesh that’s been sucked back down his throat. And the blood, acting as lube, doesn’t help his fingers gain any traction on the mangled gash.

Now he’s fighting for air. The agony in his throat, in his ass, in his rigid, straining cock—these fill his awareness as death overwhelms the fuckmeat. His hard, muscled body begins the rhythmic convulsions that occur at the onset of brain death. I’m not sure if the fuckmeat knows I’m here; I don’t know if his brain is still functional enough to perceive more of me than the horrible tearing sensation in the rectum. But just in case…

“Bleed and die, you little fuck. The only thing I’m gonna remember about you is that you got my rocks off when you died. I probably won’t remember where I toss your rotting cum-soaked meat when I’m done fucking it. Ya like that, ya fuckin’ deathpig? Yeah, I thought so, ya worthless fuckwhore…”

He ejaculated a solid stream of cum that splattered in the pool of blood over the kid’s right shoulder. The pool had spread out around his head and his ponytail was dark with the blood. Pink foam was oozing out of the throat wound as blood flowed into the airway.

More blood continued to leak from the massive rip in the boy’s neck. The convulsions became more frequent as the squeals from the fuckmeat’s closed-off windpipe became more desperate. Suddenly his legs clamped around me, his shoes digging into my back as a massive final convulsion held us both in its embrace and I filled the meat’s guts with my load—a last bit of warmth inside him as he bled out into a cold, cold death.
************************************************************************************************************************************************************
When I throw the meat out, I like to wrap it loosely in the plastic. That way, it traps warmth and moisture and gasses and rots faster. Just make sure it’s not wrapped too tightly. Let the bugs in; they’re your friends.

See, if I do that, I can go back to him one last time before disposal and not have to worry about evidence. And I am going back to him. He’s lying there, pale and helpless, legs spread, blood matting his hair, and I can tell by the look in his dull, glazed eyes, he still wants my cock.

Fantasy Scenario 9

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

I’ve heard it said repeatedly that the anticipation of having something is better than actually having whatever it is you’re anticipating. In many cases, that’s true. In some, however, it’s not.

As much as I’m enjoying my plans to hurt the boy on the bike, I think I’m gonna like actually hurting him more.

He’s been out on his bicycle for a little while now. He caught my attention because he’s riding around without a shirt on and it’s been kinda cool for the past week or so. Not weather in which to go shirtless. I’m glad he is, though.

He looks like he’s in his late teens; I’d say no older than twenty. Slim build but his smooth skin is stretched taut over his biceps and pecs. He’s not overly developed but instead has a strong, wiry swimmer’s body.

He’s wearing a pair of tight gray jeans that just barely come up over his ass. His tightly laced white leather hightops are pumping the pedals furiously.

I have to close my eyes and breathe deeply for a moment. I’m imagining those shoes pumping futilely in the air as life ebbs from his body. Yes, there’s something to be said for anticipation, too.

He’s got a shock of curly brunette hair, but most of it is covered by what appears to be a battered gray fedora. It’s somehow both ridiculous and adorable.

I’m going to take this boy. I’m gonna get off by killing him. I’m gonna use his worthless meat to wipe up my semen. His corpse is gonna end up as nothing more than a used cumrag.

He’s been circling the parking lot for the better part of an hour by now. He pops a wheelie now and then but isn’t really doing much else. He’s been glancing at me from time to time. Clearly wondering why I’m watching him. It’s also just as clear that he doesn’t suspect my real motive, because he starts circling closer and closer, staring at me a little longer each time he passes by
.
As he gets closer, I notice the tattoo on his left shoulder. It’s a smiley face with a bullet hole in the forehead, leaking blood. I can’t help but to grin broadly at the kid; it’s too perfect.

He also starts getting a bit bolder on the bike. I’m not sure what he’s hoping for, but I think he’s trying to impress me. At any rate, he gives me my opening when he fucks up a stoppie right in front of me and falls headfirst onto the asphalt.

“Hey, dude, you ok? That was wicked!” I grin and lay it on thick.

“Shit, man, I dunno. Guess I got owned. Think I should sit down for a sec.”

“C’mon into my van and have a seat. Lemme get you a beer.”

His eyes light up—so, under twenty-one then. When I offer a joint as well, he becomes downright eager. They make it so easy. Poor little fucktoy has no idea how close he is to an agonizing death.

I open the door on the side of the van so we can get in the back, telling the punk to grab himself a beer from the cooler. Of course he’s going to ask about the layer of plastic covering the floor, so I have a story ready.

“I paint houses, man. That’s so I don’t get paint all over the place. Put a new sheet of painter’s plastic down after each job.”

Little fuck buys it and helps himself to a can of cheap beer. Slams the fucking thing, in fact; I’m impressed. I’d puke, trying to get that swill down that quick…

The joint, as usual, is pre-rolled and spiked. Not heavily; I don’t want him unconscious. This is gonna be something like GHB. He’ll be awake but unable to resist. I’ve added something new; there’s a bit of a hallucinogenic in there too. I’m hoping to make this the ultimate bad trip. The greater his terror, the more he’ll thrash about on my cock. I let him smoke it alone while we talk.

“I was watchin’ you for a while, dude. You ain’t bad,” I tell him.

He grins and blushes a bit, then turns away, embarrassed. Tries to play it tough. “Yeah, I seen ya lookin’. Thought you was a faggot or something at first. But this is some good weed, so we’re cool, dude, even if ya are.”

He stares me directly in the face with his hand on the bulge in his crotch. He’s telling me he can be had, as if I didn’t already know that. As if it mattered, anyway. His coordination is getting worse with each passing minute.

He’s limp by the time he’s smoked the joint halfway. I make sure to put it out and save it for later; this mixture might come in handy.

I pull the boy next to me and take that stupid fedora off his head. I grab the thick rod silhouetted in his groin and massage it for a moment, enjoying its thick heft. In a moment, his shoes are off and I’ve got his jeans down, running my hands down his thighs as he lies limp in my arms. He’s gone commando under the jeans—of course; ready for action at the drop of a hat (a battered fedora, perhaps).

I grab at his tool again; long and thick and yet still not hard. I cradle his balls in my palm for a moment, then bend down and slip his hightops back on.

I lean back and look in his face. As I’d hoped, he’s conscious but not able to move much. He’s moaning slightly, fear building in his eyes as he realizes his helplessness. He’s becoming aware that I can do anything I want to him and there’s nothing he could do to stop it. He can’t really even cry out right now.

I still strap a ball gag into his mouth, though. It doesn’t matter how drugged he is—the pain I’m gonna inflict on him will have him screaming. Only way drugs could help would be to put him out of his pain with an overdose. And that, of course, is no fun.

The boy is laying on his back now, legs spread. With apprehensive eyes, he watches me strip. I put my work boots back on afterwards—helps to have some traction on the plastic.

Then I jam my engorged purple cock into the punk’s tight hole.

He moans loudly, grimacing in pain. He looks at me desperately, tears leaking from the corners of his wide green eyes. He still has no control over his muscles, so I place his legs on my shoulders and hold them in place with my arms, feeling the leather of his shoes against my head. I spend the next few minutes raping him while he lies immobile on the bed, arms out to his sides.

After a while, I’ve stretched out the natural elasticity of his sphincter. I need to get his ass to tighten down on my dick again, but from now on it’ll have to be the tightening of muscle. And since his voluntary muscle system is kinda paralyzed at the moment, I need something to manipulate his reflexes.

Although I don’t use it often, the icepick is one of my favorite toys. In reality, though, I don’t like calling it a toy. It’s a weapon of accuracy and finesse. Flailing away with one, stabbing at random (as it seems to be most commonly used), is like using a Stradivarius for high school band practice.

The kid has his head back and his eyes closed and seems to have calmed down. He clearly enjoying getting fucked. I lean down over him, my belly against his firm, flat belly. I’m looking into his face as I insert the icepick into his side—slowly, smoothly.

He’s screaming now, but it only comes out as a long, emphatic moan. He’s crying, tears trickling down the side of his face. But he can’t move; he can’t twist away from the thin shaft of steel that’s slowly—oh god, so slowly—skewering its way into his left side, puncturing his abdominal cavity below the ribcage, piercing his intestines multiple times.

His muscles tighten with the agony. It makes his rectum clamp down on my cock. Once you get down the right speed, everything else happens automatically.

Let’s see if that hallucinogen has helped.

“How does that feel bitch? Ya like that? Good, cause you’re gonna get more. See, I already reamed your ass out. But every time I stick you, your ass tightens, along with most of the rest of your muscles. It’s a reflex over which you have no control. But I do, with this.” I held the icepick right in front of his face so he could see his own blood dripping off it. “I can use this to make your ass keep squeezing my dick. But only for so long, fuckmeat, only for so long.”

I’m grinning at him the entire time, not losing a single thrust in his ass while I talk. I switch the pick to my other hand and slide it into the fucker’s left side, enjoying the velvety smoothness of his rectum clenching my rod. He moans loudly.

For the next half hour, I run the icepick into in various parts of his chest and abdomen, very carefully avoiding organs and major blood vessels. Even so, internal bleeding was starting to take a toll. He was a long way from death yet, but the reflex reaction was starting to fade.

“Fuck, dude, you’re getting’ loose,” I whisper to him. “Gotta tighten ya up again. Guess I better amp it up a notch. Ready to take it to the next level, fuckmeat? Ready to get fucked up for good? The more it hurts, the better it feels. So I’m gonna make sure this hurts wicked bad, dude.”

This time, it goes into his kidney. He doesn’t scream; he tries to gasp around the bright orange ball tied into his mouth. As the fucker goes into shock, his ass muscles ripple up and down my shaft.

God, I’m so close. I get one more of these and then it’ll be time for the finale. Timing is everything; it’s what lifts this above a sordid physical interaction into a form of art.

I slam the icepick into the right side of the kid’s chest, feeling the resistance of the pectoral give way as the tip passes through and punctures the lung. The boy gives a low, despairing bleat.

I’m back over him, showing him the pick again. There’s a miniscule nick in the shaft and a tiny sliver of lung tissue is caught in it.

“Just about fucked you out, bitch. It’s been fun but I wanna shoot my load and you gotta get wasted for that to happen. Don’t worry, dude; I’m gonna make sure you drain your dick, too. Don’t know if you’ll get to enjoy it, though; you’re gonna have other things on your mind. Or in it. Same difference. All that will be left will be your highest and best use—meat to soak up my cum.”

He’s still there. He’s on his way out; it’s only a matter of time. And not much time, at that. He’s been crying continually and his nostrils are getting clogged. With that gag in his mouth, he’s gonna suffocate in a few minutes.

But the hallucinogen did what I’d hoped. He’s still there–even in a state of trauma-induced shock, he’s heard every word I’ve said. Even better, he’s understood them all. He knows why this is happening. He knows that he’s suffering this indescribable agony so I can get off. I don’t need to know his name, who he is, what his hopes were. As far as I care, his only purpose on earth is to die slowly and painfully so his death throes can jack me off.

“Ok, you little fuck; this is what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna stick this in your ear. You’ll feel it tear through you eardrum before it thrusts its way through the fragile bone structure in your inner ear. This part, I’ll do slowly, so you can enjoy it. After that, it’ll be in your brain. You don’t have any nerves there, but I have another way to have fun at that point. Time to get saddled up, fuckmeat. Gonna be up your ass and in your skull at the same time.”

I’m a man of my word. I’m laying full on top of him, watching his face the entire time, my cock up his ass as far as I can get it while I patiently, lovingly insert the icepick into his ear.

Tears flow down his face and his breathing becomes swift and irregular. I can feel his chest jerking beneath mine, his smooth, tight chest, well-greased with a desperate sweat forced out by the pain. His body, naturally oiled, squirms beneath me, but it’s his eyes I’m watching.

I can tell when I’ve reached the brain. His eyes—oh my god, his eyes, the beautiful terror in his helpless green eyes—dilate when I penetrate to a certain depth. Then I jerk down, a little jog to the left…

Suddenly there’s a red hot bar of iron pressed against my belly. Fuckmeat has a hard-on; I’ve hit the pleasure center of the brain. One little twitch to make him blow…

It takes pin-point accuracy to get that massive convulsion that causes the fuckmeat to shoot. It’s worth finding the right spot, though, because that same convulsion somehow seems to collapse the meat’s asshole around my cock and apply suction.

As the kid goes rigid with the massive brain trauma I’ve inflicted, his legs tighten around my back in a kind of embrace that forces his ass down further onto my dick. The drugs have no effect on his death spasm. His body arcs up off the floor; violently, it brings me up with it.

He shoots his wad. A reflex from the brain damage; the boy is dead. This is a corpse, spraying semen as a reflexive attempt to preserve DNA. A fountain of cum sprays between us; he keeps pumping out thick creamy ropes. My god, his balls must have been full. It keeps flowing and flowing…

The seizure works the fuckmeat’s ass beautifully; I shoot a solid stream of cum up into the dying kid’s guts. Holy fuck, I keep spraying too. I remember collapsing on top of the quivering fuckmeat, still skullfucking the steel shaft into his brain and feeling the spasms flowing along that hot iron bar that was still pressed against my belly…

It’s dark when I wake up. My cock is still nestled in my fuckmeat’s ass. We’ve both cum so much that I’m stuck to his body by a glazed coat—a glaze that matches the look in his beautiful green eyes.

I need to get moving. Have to get out of here, have to get rid of the body—oh, but not for a while yet. I’m getting hard again. The ball gag has kept his mouth open and his eyes are tilted slightly upwards.

They’ll be looking right into mine when his lips are resting on the root of my cock.

Fantasy Scenario 7

On June 28, 2015April 30, 2016 By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario SeriesLeave a comment

The boy leans back against the wall with his head turned down. I know he’s watching me, though; he’s been eyeing me as much as I’ve been checking him out.

Late teens, medium height and build. I can see his pecs through his tight t-shirt. He has curly hair, kinda dirty blond. There’s a faint dark down on his face that he evidently thinks is a goatee. At least, that’s how he’s shaved it—but it’s barely there.

He’s got on a purple t-shirt and tight black jeans. On his feet are tightly laced sneakers of black and white leather.

Dressed like a typical skater rat but he can be had for a suitable fee.

I grin. I’m gonna have him, all right, and fuck the fee. Money won’t do him any good by the time I’m done with him.

His face is turned down but he glances up frequently. I catch a glimpse of his brown eyes through his tangled bangs. He’s wondering if I’m gonna approach. Bet he’s trying to figure out how much to charge.

I’ll give him a moment of anticipation at first; I’ll agree to his first offer. He’ll think I’m desperate and he’ll come along willingly, thinking he won’t have to do much to keep me happy. See, he’s glancing at me again. Now he’s rubbing the bulge in his crotch. He wouldn’t be making those gestures if he really knew what it will take to keep me happy.

But he’s gonna learn real soon. Let’s see his price.

A hundred bucks to fuck him? Yeah, right. Little whore has a high opinion of himself. But I smile and leer and agree to his terms. His face lights up and he climbs into my truck eagerly.

The location of the room I’d rented was perfect; it was the last one in that wing of the cheap highway motel. Middle of the weekday, no one saw us enter.

The kid was apprehensive when he saw the sheet of plastic I’d already spread on the floor, but he bought my explanation that I wanted to rub him down with baby oil. It probably helped that I mentioned I’d pay him extra for that—and for tying his hands behind his back. He’s hesitant about the last part, but I have his arms behind him and his wrists bound by a zip tie before he can object.

I know that the surrounding rooms are vacant and the maids have already done this wing, but I still don’t want to make too much noise. The boy is starting to get wound up, so I clamp a ball gag in his mouth before it gets too loud. Then I kick the back of his leg, dropping him to his knees on the plastic sheet. I’m down on my knees behind him, pulling out my knife.

It’s a serious knife, a Ka-bar D2 with a seven inch blade. The fuckmeat will get a chance to admire it in a moment, but first, I need to cut access through the kid’s jeans. It’s easier than I’d anticipated; I only need to cut through one layer. The slut is going commando, planning for easy access himself.

I’m already hard and dripping at the thought of what’s to come. I’m resting my cock on the kid’s back so he can feel what I’m about to stick into him.

As far as he knows, that’s the only thing I’m gonna stick into him. Time to change that misconception.

I grab a hank of his hair and pull him back until his back it pressed against my chest. With my other hand I hold the knife in front of his face and I whisper into his ear.

“See this knife, bitch? I’m gonna kill you with it. I’m gonna cut your throat. See these serrations that go all up the haft? You’re gonna feel them tearing into your windpipe. This groove here is gonna channel your blood away from my hand as I slash your neck open. You’re gonna bleed, fucker. It’s gonna take a long time to die and you’re gonna be riding my dick all the way, you fucking whore. I want to feel you fight, punk. The more you struggle, the harder I cum. You’ll fight to live and it’s gonna feel so good on my cock.”

He’s struggling and crying now and I’m not even in him yet. That’s quickly changed—I force his head to the floor and jam my tool into his ass through the hole I cut in his jeans. I’m fucking him fully clothed.

The kid’s screams are muffled to a frantic moaning by the ball gag. He’s sobbing deeply, to the point that the snot leaking from his nose is interfering with his breathing. He’s suffocating, his face turning purple.

“Oh, my poor boy,” I whisper to him, stroking his face with the knife, “Guess I better help you breathe. Are you ready, fuckmeat? Ready for me to rip your throat open? Fuck yeah! Let’s get it on!”

I yank his head back, hard, and stick the Ka-bar knife into his throat, punching through from one side to the other. As I do, the teen punk’s rectum clamps down hard on my cock. It feels like its set in concrete and I can’t imagine the pressure getting any stronger—until I start slicing out of the kid’s throat.

He screams, but the only sound that emerges it a high-pitched squeal. I take my time, sawing my way out from the middle of his neck. Each sweep of my hand slices the tender flesh of his neck more. The pain must be excruciating.

“That’s it, fuckwad,” I snarl into his ear as he writhes in agony on my cock, “Jerk and die. I want to feel you bleed out on my rod. You can feel death coming, can’t you? Everything is going gray as your blood pressure drops. Your heart is gonna fail soon and your quivering ass is gonna milk the cum right outta me as you die.”

The blond whore really doesn’t wanna die. He’s fighting it hard—it feels fantastic. He’s struggling, stretching his arms out behind him, trying to free himself from the zip tie. His flailing hands brush against my face, beating helplessly against my chest. He’s convulsing his entire body. I’m holding his head against the plastic sheet as he thrashes violently, trying in vain to escape the merciless grip of death. He attempts to scream in pain and terror, but I’ve shredded his larynx into ragged strings of meat. The only sound he can make now is a strained grunt.

With each grunt, he jerks his ass back onto my dick. As the punk bleeds out, the thrusts come farther apart but are more intense. His breathing becomes irregular as he gargles away his last few seconds, drowning in his own blood. I lose control during my orgasm and find myself stabbing the kid in the back repeatedly as I cum. I don’t know that he’s still alive to feel it as I slam my knife into his smooth hairless back with each wad I blow into his hot dying guts.

The next thing that I’m aware of is that I’m still lying on top of the fuckmeat. And inside of, for that matter; my cock is still hard and still inside the dead boy’s ass.

He’s not moving underneath me. My blond whore is meat. His eyes gaze vacantly ahead, one of them filled with blood. The corpse twitches and quivers as oxygen-deprived nerves fire randomly. Far from relaxing in death, his sphincter has actually tightened. It remains taut as I slowly withdraw from his hole—and stays that way when I push myself back in.

I fuck the dead boy again. It’s a nice, smooth feeling, since the muscle rigidity was held constant by death. His ass stayed nice and tight while I blew a second load of sperm into him, giving him more of my seed to warm his cold rectum.

Oh, my pretty brown eyed golden-curled fucktoy. You were so much fun. And you didn’t even stain the carpet.

Fantasy Scenario 6

On June 28, 2015January 15, 2016 By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series1 Comment

Wow. These kids get younger each year. Maybe it’s just that I’m getting older. It doesn’t matter. But I seem to save fewer of them as time goes by.

It doesn’t matter. I still love my work. Pain and fear still exist. The fuckmeat still squeals and dies in a welter of blood and semen. Nothing changes.

Thank God!

The one I’m watching is Mexican. Straight black hair, beautiful black eyes. He’s adorable. I’m gonna cum so hard when he dies.

He’s hustling as hard as he can. Skin-tight faded jeans highlight his junk. He must be wearing a cockring; I’ve been watching him for twenty minutes and he’s been rock hard the entire time. Oh, that’s good. This is gonna be fun.

I know this boy’s a whore and already lost and beyond redemption. But I’m feeling wild tonight, so this will be perfect. I have some frustrations to work out. This one’s gonna be messy.

He hasn’t had any luck. They seem to be going for the more well-built rentboys tonight; this kid is slim, almost a swimmer’s build. He’s got on a simple white t-shirt and a pair of scuffed lace-up work boots.

He looks like part of a landscaping crew and that may be what he does during the day. This may just be a sideline to make some extra money.

Oh, I hope he’s straight. His suffering will be so much more intense.

Ok, he’s the only one left on the street now. Time to get the show going. He’s grateful that he’s got a paying customer and hops in my car right away. I ask him how much he wants for a blowjob and then punch him in the face hard. He stares at me, stunned. I pop him on the jaw and put out his lights.

He’s out for a while, which is good, because it’s a long drive. I’ve saved this location for a special occasion. It’s an abandoned house way out of town near the intersection of a couple of two-lane state highways. The nearest inhabited building is a cement plant about a mile and a half up one of the highways, and at this hour, it’s closed. And it’s not guarded; I’d checked.

I needed a place in a middle of nowhere. See, this one gets to scream.

I’ve already got a mattress and my steel frame in place. I’d made this one custom for this situation; I’d been planning it for some time and had set up everything I needed in advance.

I strip the kid of everything—I was right, he’s got thick leather cockring on, which I leave in place–but put his boots back on. I love it when they die with their boots on. Did you know that’s the title of a movie? It’s an old western.

Doubt I could get anyone to produce the porno I’d want to go with that title.

Bitchboy goes on his back on the mattress. This frame has two pairs of upright posts at one end of the mattress. The whore’s hands are tied to one pair and his ankles to the other. He’s lying there with his fuckhole in the air, unable to move. Perfect.

Even better—he’s starting to wake up. This is an almost unique experience for me; I think it’s the first one I’ve done where my snuff toy wasn’t drugged. This should be fun.

None of his senses will be dulled. There won’t be any chemical joy offsetting the horror. He’s going to experience this in a way none of the others did.

He gives a loud moan as I stuff my thick cock into his ass. He’s only semi-conscious, but he’s coming around quickly. Little Mexican cunt has been fucked before—but never like this, I’ll bet.

He’s awake now. Awake and unhappy. He’s yelling at me in Spanish and twisting his body, trying to get away from my dick.

Tough luck—the kid’s impaled on my meat and isn’t going anywhere. He’s scared, but he doesn’t want to show it, so he’s acting tough and threatening to hurt me. So sweet and smooth with those soft black eyes, trying to be intimidating—I love him and am almost moved to pity.

Almost. Not quite. Time to turn it up.

“Shut up, you fucking cholo cocksucker,” I snarl at him. “You’ve had plenty of cocks up your faggot fuckhole. You ain’t ever had anyone like me, though. My dick ain’t the only hard thing that’s getting stuck into you. I’m gonna hurt you, fucker, and there’s not a goddam thing you can do about it. You’re gonna like there and suffer like a punk bitch so I can cum.”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about? Get the fuck off me, you fucking psycho bastard; I’m gonna fuck you up! GET FUCKIN’ OFF ME!!”

He’s yelling because there’s nothing else he can do. His legs are tied back up over his head, rope looped around his booted ankles running to the steel posts at the end of the mattress. The only part of his body he can really move is his ass—and I’m so deep in him that he can’t manage to squirm off my dick, hard as he tries.

I start pounding his hole as hard as I can, relentlessly fucking the living shit out of him. He screams loudly; it must really hurt since I’m not using any lube but my own spit. But this is only foreplay, of course. He may not know it, but this is the most fun he’s gonna have tonight.

I mean, the LAST fun he’s gonna have tonight.

I keep reaming him till he settles down. Good little whore; now he’s starting to enjoy it. I love him so much. It’s a shame he can’t be saved. Thanks ok, though; I’ll send him off right. He starts moaning with pleasure. And then—he’s working his ass in synch with my thrusts. He’s matching my rhythm. Damn—little spic whore is good!

He really wants me to cum. He’s working desperately to make me give him my load. He has no idea what it’s gonna take to get that—but I think it’s about time he found out. I pick up my knife from the floor beside the mattress.

It’s a black Ka-bar seven-inch serrated fighting knife. It’s a vicious, brutal tool that’s designed to kill. I let the fuckmeat get a good look at it.

“What, did you think I was gonna blow a wad into you and be done like one of your usual tricks? You’re gonna have to do more than that to get my sperm, cumpig. You’re gonna have to die like the worthless fucking faggot whore you are. I’m gonna cut your useless pig throat. Watching you bleed out and die in agony is gonna make me shoot. That’s how this ends for you, bleeding and dying on my cock.”

He looks at the knife and then back at my face, those amazing eyes wide with terror. He’s trying to process what’s happening. His brain isn’t able to handle it; the idea that his existence is about to end just won’t compute.

I make it compute. Without missing a stoke in my fucking, I lean down and kiss him, ramming my tongue deep in his mouth. Then I take my knife and start slicing into his throat.

Slowly.

He screams; oh my god, does he scream. Deep whooping shrieks. Oh, it’s beautiful. Each one resonates throughout his entire body and works my shaft life a velvet glove.

This takes some precision. I don’t want him dying too soon. I want to savor these precious moments. I have to grab his hair in one hand to hold his head still while I slice deeper into his tender, exposed throat, carefully avoiding the carotid and the jugular. The last thing I want if for him to bleed out too soon.

He’s still shrieking; the pain must be phenomenal. Let’s see if I can intensify the horror for him.

“Fucking die, you whore. You’re gonna leave this world with my dick in your worthless guts. You’re gonna scream and bleed and suffer and it’s gonna last as long as I want it to, to make me cum. I’m gonna dump my load into you and throw out your rotting meat like garbage. I want this to hurt, punk. The more you suffer, the more I enjoy it. Look into my eyes and see how much I want to hurt you, fucker.”

He obeys and stares into my eyes, but he doesn’t stop shrieking. His screams get louder as he realizes how much pain I can inflict on him at will. It’s incredibly erotic, how consumed with terror his is. As I lie on top of him, I feel a warmth spreading over my groin and belly. Thanks to his too-tight cockring, he’s still sporting a serious tent pole, but he’s lost control of his bladder. He’s pissing himself in fear.

Still screaming. I’m so glad I found this place; this isn’t something I could have done closer to town. The tempo of his cries increases with the speed of my thrusts while I’m fucking him. But I’m so close to shooting my wad. Time to grant my beautiful fuckmeat its release.

I plant one hand squarely on the Mexican’s face and slash into his throat as hard as I can, penetrating the carotid and the trachea simultaneously. Suddenly, my adorable cholo isn’t screaming any more; he’s gargling. The gout of blood that’s been pouring over my hand changes to a pink froth as the punk bitch struggles futilely to breathe. His head shudders beneath my hand as his rectum spasms against the engorged head of my cock. I cum explosively in his ass as I hear his last breath gurgle out of his mangled airway and see his eyes glaze over.

Oh, it’s the best one yet. And I wasn’t even able to save him.

What shall I do with my next true lost soul?

Fantasy Scenario 5

On June 28, 2015January 15, 2016 By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series1 Comment

Jesus, this is harder than I thought. I knew finding two boys at once would be difficult but I didn’t know it’d be this bad. Virtually all of my lost souls are trying to buy drugs, and that’s usually not a spectator sport.

I might be in luck, though. Think I’m gonna get both a seller and a buyer. I don’t really know if the dealers count as true lost souls. I can get them in the car, but that’s about it. But I’ve got my eye on a Mexican kid I’ve seen before.

He acts as a middleman—he gets the buyer to wait in his car around the corner while he texts the guy who actually has the drugs. He then walks the drugs around to the buyer and returns with the cash. This way, the goods being sold move around and are less susceptible to raids, while the kid actually doing the deal on the street only has possession of either the drugs or the cash for a very brief time.

But something’s gone wrong today. I’m idling in a spot about three-quarters down the block and I’ve been watching him for a good ten minutes. He’s hard to miss. His swarthy face is slightly pockmarked and he’s spiked his glossy black hair. He’s wearing a magenta dress shirt open to the middle of his belly, displaying his smooth, hairless chest. The sleeves are rolled up. His jeans are so tight they appear painted on and he’s got a pair of genuine shitkickers on his feet. Around his tight waist is a brown leather belt that is buckled by a metal object only slightly smaller than a hubcap. He’s about twenty-two or –three and even if he’s not a lost soul, he’s still prime fuckmeat.

He’s looking worriedly up and down the street; his guy hasn’t shown. Worse, the kid he’s buying for has come around the corner to look for him. I wonder if the buyer was stupid enough to pay up first. He looks stupid enough.

He’s about eighteen, a typical suburban kid whose mommy and daddy don’t realize their snowflake is spending his college savings to get high. His dirty-blond hair is cut short on the top and sides but is longer in the back. He’s well-built, something like a jock, and is a good six inches taller than the dealer. His white t-shirt highlights his broad chest and even his skinny jeans can’t hide his muscular legs. He’s wearing expensive kicks, bright blue with orange laces. Clearly not a kid “counseled in the ways of patience”—he wants a hit, and he wants it now.

The spic dealer was in a bad spot. This kid could beat the shit out of him. Maybe I could help them both…

Wow, it actually works. I tell them I don’t sell out of my car, but if they’ll come back to my place, I’ll give the kid a sample. If he likes it, he buys it and I’ll give the dealer a cut on any business he sends my way. I’m amazed they both agree without hesitation; I’d expected some resistance.

I let the kid load his own needle. He’s a cocky little shit and says he’s used to heroin—I’m willing to bet this spoiled rich kid hasn’t come across anything as pure as the junk he’s shooting into his veins. He immediately slumps back unconscious, with the syringe still stuck in his arm.

The spic leans over him, concerned. The second his back is turned, I give him a swift bash in the head with a hammer. He goes limp, falling onto the kid.

Getting them positioned is easy. The spic is on his back on the bed with his hands bound behind him, his head at the foot of the bed. I already know I’m going to strangle him; it’s my favorite way of offing the fuckmeat. Later on, I plan on trying out a new toy with the kid. In the meantime, he’s gonna watch. I’ve secured him to a heavy wooden chair by tying his ankles to the front legs and by binding his hands behind the back of the chair using the strip of latex with which he’d tied off his arm.

Both of them are nude but I’ve slipped the boots back onto the Mexican. I’ve given white boy his shoes back, too. I like it when they die with their footwear on.

I don’t need to gag them. This complex is such a rathole that it’s never more than half full. Right now, my unit is the only one occupied in this building. My closest neighbor is six units and a firewall away. She’s eighty and is so deaf she runs the TV at full volume. Cocky rich boy gets to scream. I place his chair at the foot of the bed so he can get a close-up view.

The kid had convulsed a couple of times, so he’s not fully awake. He’s in a fugue state, drooling and staring dully through half-open eyes. Time to mount up, though; the Mexican is starting to wake up. I press myself down onto him, pushing his knees up to his chest while I thrust my dick into his vulnerable ass. This position, as I’ve indicated before, pins the fuckmeat to the bed so he can’t get any leverage while still leaving my hands free.

The spic yells as my thick cock tears into his tight rectum; I’m inflicting a lot of pain. I love ripping virgin holes open. His yell becomes a torrent of Spanish; he’s screaming at the top of his lungs. It doesn’t go on for long. I place a wooden rod—a sawn-off broom handle, actually—across his throat. I grip one end in each hand and lean forward with my entire weight. The stream of babble is cut off with a croak.

His screams have woken white boy up a little. He’s still not quite capable of speaking, but he’s aware of what’s happening as he watches me rape and strangle the dealer. There’s nothing like a nice preview of coming attractions, and I make sure he gets the full benefit.

“Look at him,” I snarl at the kid, “watch him die. See the pain and fear in his face. He’s gonna die riding my cock. You’re gonna die like this too, but I’m gonna hurt you more. This little fucker is dying so I can cum. Watch him fight—it won’t go on long. By the time I’m done, he’ll want my load so bad he’ll cum himself. Won’t even have to touch his dick. See? Look down here. His thick uncut dick is hard already. He knows he’s dying like a bitch with my cock jammed up inside him. He’s fighting because he thinks he wants to live, but his hard cock knows better. He wants to end his life filled with my spunk…”

The spic is turning his head from side to side, trying to get out from under the rod across his throat. It’s hopeless and his panic is getting worse because he can understand every word I’m saying. He stops trying to escape and stares at me in horror, blood vessels already starting to burst in his bulging eyes. His purple, foam-flecked lips are moving; if he could speak, he’d be begging for his life. He’s helpless. He has no choice but to lie there and take my cock while I choke the life out of him.

“Oh yeah,” I moan, pumping my meat into the spic’s trembling hole. I stare into the white kid’s terror-filled face. “Watch this. Watch me get off by taking this little fuck down. Little fuckin’ bitch is gonna cum so hard when he dies. All you little bitches want to go out full of cum. You’re gonna love getting killed with my load inside you.”

Now I’m talking directly to the Mexican. “You want it, cholo? You want my hot jizz? Work for it. Die for it. Die, motherfucker; make me cum!”

The spic is looking at me desperately, searching for a sign of pity. There is none. I spit in his face and his mouth, aiming for his swollen, protruding tongue. I ease the pressure on his neck for a brief moment only so I can throw myself back onto him with more force. I do major damage this time.

There’s a low crunchy sound as I crush the spic’s larynx. His final frantic gasp for air ends in a short guttural hiss. It’s obvious the pain is excruciating; he draws his legs in sharply, the heels of his cowboy boots digging into my ass. His entire face is purple and his brain is dying. His death throes become a rhythmic convulsion. With each spasm, he’s tightening his legs and clamping his quivering fuckhole down to the very base of my cock. Cursing violently, I shoot a wad into his ass with each jerk. His own massive uncut tool blows thick gobs of spunk in synch. One particularly intense convulsion launches a stream of semen over the spic’s head; it splashes on rich boy’s firm belly.

I’m still cumming and spitting in the Mexican’s face as his convulsions fade into a gentle trembling. When he goes limp, I collapse on top of him, exhausted. I kiss him deeply, my tongue roaming in his mouth, feeling his own thick, swollen tongue. I look up into the kid’s tear-stained face. “He had it easy,” I tell him. “I’m using an ice pick on you.”

His terrified moans lull me to sleep, my dick still stuffed up the spic’s ass.

The kid is unconscious when I wake up. This makes positioning him on the bed easier—not that he’d have any fight left in him. The heroin has worn off by now, but he’s been strapped to that chair for more than thirteen hours. I’m willing to bet he can’t feel his arms or legs.

And he’s still in deep psychological shock after watching his dealer die while getting raped. There’s nothing like letting the fuckmeat stew in its own mental juices.

I tie him face down on the bed, spread-eagled. A length of nylon cord around each wrist and ankle is secured to one of the legs of the bed frame. He’s waking up and starting to struggle, but he stops when he sees where he is.

I never took the spic off the bed. White boy has been tied face down onto the rotting corpse. His face is pressed against the dead Mexican’s; he can stare directly into the beautiful cloudy eyes. He starts moaning and blubbering.

I stand right in front of him at the foot of the bed. “Look at me, you little fuck,” I say, snapping my fingers. “Up here. This is what’s gonna happen. I’ve got two things I’m gonna stick in you. One is my dick. See how hard it is? I’m gonna love plowing your hole. Hurting you is gonna feel so good. The other thing I’m gonna stick into you is this ice pick. If I’m careful, I can do a lot of damage before you die. But understand this, you fuckin’ punk bitch, you’re gonna die. And you’re gonna love it, you little snuff pig. Oh, you’re gonna fight, and you’re gonna scream in agony from pain you’ve never dreamed possible, but in the end you’ll be so grateful for the death I bring you that you’ll shoot your wad.”

I spit on him, and then smile coldly. “You’ll love dying, punk. It’ll get you off.”

He understands me. He’s sobbing brokenly as I force myself into him. He tries to resist but I tear relentlessly into his sweet tender ass, shredding his rectum with my fat thick tool, making him bleed internally. I lie quietly on top of him for a moment, letting him settle back down onto the dead spic beneath him. I didn’t show him the bottle of poppers I’d placed on the bed. Bet he’s never even heard of them. It’s gonna be hot, watching his reactions…

I insert the ice pick into his kidney, slowly, sensuously. As long as I avoid major organs and blood vessels, I can do this for quite a while without killing him. He cries out and writhes, his body wriggling erotically against mine. Little fuckin’ snuff punk, he loves it for all that he cries and pleads for me to stop. He loves getting penetrated…

He needs some pillow talk. I whisper to him. “I know, I know. You got up today with raging morning wood. Your first thought was about getting high. You pulled on your tight clothes and laced up those hot kicks that are still on your feet. And not once did you think that you’d end the day dying with a thick cock jammed up your ass. But you’ve always wanted this. Inside, you’ve always wanted a man to overwhelm you and dominate you to the point when pain and death and orgasm fuse into a single burning, agonizing blast of spunk…”

Laying down the ice pick, I seal his mouth with one hand and hold the poppers to his nose. I keep it there for a while. When he becomes still and quiet, I start inserting to ice pick lovingly into his side. After it was in up to the handle, I removed it and stuck it in slowly elsewhere. I filled his back and sides with holes. There wasn’t much of a mess; most of the bleeding was internal.

Oh yeah, the little fuck bitch was getting off. He was still sobbing and begging for his life, but the moans he gave when I timed the slow thrust of my cock to the insertion of the ice pick told the true story. They were moans of pleasure. He’s getting fucked by two tools at once.

“You like that, you dying little faggot? You like having me inside you, having my cold hard steel inside your body? It hurts so good your dick is hard, fuckmeat. Are you ready for it? Are you ready for the final agony, the one that’s gonna make you blow your load all over that dead spic underneath you?”

He’s screaming now, pleading for his life in mindless terror. His body is ready, though. His erect rod is poking at the Mexican’s flaccid scrotum; I can hear the balls slapping with each jab. He’s ready to shoot.

I give him another rush with the poppers and force his head down, face turned to the side. Pinning him down with one hand in his blond hair, I slam the ice pick through his ear and into his brain.

Oh my god, I love brain trauma. Brain damage makes the fuckmeat really work my cock. The kid convulses wildly and I ride him like a bucking bronco while reaming the inside of his skull with the ice pick. I’ve rammed it into the part of the brain stem that controls orgasm. I can’t see the stream of cum that he shoots, but it’s flowing down the Mexican’s sides like water. I’ve short-circuited his brain to produce an orgasm that utterly drains his balls.

The kid’s uncontrollable jerking and flopping are yanking the spunk out of me. As I shoot, I keep skullfucking the punk’s head with the ice pick, totally destroying his brain. When I’ve stopped unloading, there’s nothing left but quivering meat.

I instantly start falling asleep. I burrow down and pull the bodies on top of me like blankets—one cold and stiff, the other warm and twitching, both drenched with jizz.

I fuck them each in turns during the night. The first time, I shoot my wad down the kid’s throat while piercing the Mexican’s cock and balls with the ice pick. The second time, I wedge my hard dick down past the spic’s enlarged tongue. I insert the ice pick into the kid’s urethra and I’m stabbing his bladder when I blow my load. The spic’s throat is so crushed that it’s completely blocked. I shoot so much cum that the Mexican’s mouth overflows and it trickles down his face.

Later on, I cut off their cocks and scrotums, shoving each into the other’s mouth before sealing it with duct tape. There’s an abandoned crack house six blocks away. I bind the kid’s hands—I’d never untied the spic—and shove them both into the crawlspace under the house. They’re gonna have to rot a long time before the smell alerts anyone. By the time they’re found, all the evidence will look like gang drug activity.

I feel better. I’ve saved one, perhaps two lost souls. Still not sure about the dealer. Either way, it doesn’t matter. What’s important is how much fun I had with two of them. I’ll keep my eyes open in the future. The opportunity may not come up, but if it does, I’ll be ready.

Fantasy Scenario 3

On June 28, 2015December 23, 2015 By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario SeriesLeave a comment

Oh my god. So many lost souls out today. Who among them deserves the love and death I can give? Who is the most worthy of my baptism of blood and semen?

That hot little Mexican kid over by that tree? Nah—he’s dealing. Too hard to get back to my place. I need a buyer for what I have to offer.

Ok, that one has promise. White kid, early twenties. Wearing a ball cap but I can see he’s practically a skinhead underneath. Razor-thin sideburns running down his cheeks to meet a near-invisible goatee. Cold, squinting eyes. Plaid button-down shirt worn open over a stained white t-shirt. Tight, faded jeans tucked into worn, scuffed work boots. Clearly looking to buy. Perfect.

I pull up and start the usual routine. Coke? Sure, I can hook you up. Friend will bring it, sample back at my place, blah blah blah.

He gets in. Quiet and kinda nervous—doesn’t offer his name. Wonder if it’s his first time buying. His button-down shirt has short sleeves and I can see his arms. There’s a couple of recent tracks but no old scarring. A new convert then, thinking he was being a man by buying his own drugs.

I grin to myself. He’s gonna die like a man, slowly and painfully, as I choke the life out of him. And somewhere within, he’s gonna realize his only worth is as fuckmeat and he’s gonna give me his seed in his gratitude as he slides into eternity…

Don’t get carried away. Almost home; wait till he’s too drugged to notice. Don’t give the surprise away too soon.

Once inside, I tell him I’ll load his sample myself. It’s strong, I say, and I don’t want him flopping on me. There’s a puzzled look on his face and I realize he’s so new at this that he doesn’t know the term for overdosing. I explain and he agrees, saying, “All right, but don’t try nothing weird on me. I can fuck you up bad if I hafta.”

I really don’t want him to OD. It’s heroin I’m giving him, not coke. He’s not used to it, clearly, and I want to take my time with him—there. Just a tiny amount should be enough to make him tractable.

He’s already tied off his left arm when I hand him the syringe. He’s learned enough to flush back the needle after inserting it; the flow of blood back into the syringe proving he’s hit a vein.

He removes the needle and instantly slumps back on the sofa. I carefully pick the syringe up off the floor and dispose of it before sitting down beside him.

He’s turned to me, so high he can barely keep his eyes open. He’s drooling, a slight froth running from the corner of his mouth. Fear is on his face; coke has never done this to him and he doesn’t know what’s happening.

“It’s okay,” I say soothingly, stroking his taut, hard body, “just let what’s gonna happen, happen. I’m gonna hurt you bad, but in the end you’ll be happy. I always make my fuckmeat happy before they die.”

His eyes widen slightly and he gives a pathetic moan. The drug has made his breathing weak and shallow; he doesn’t make much noise. His hands batter limply at my chest. I won’t even have to bind him. He’s completely in my power, to do with as I wish.

But what’s getting me hard is that he’s just awake enough to realize it.

I slowly strip off his clothes, ignoring his faint attempts to resist. After removing his cap and shirts, I pull off his boots and jeans, revealing his tender ass and thick cock. Then I slip his boots back on. “There you go,” I tell him, “now you can die with your boots on.”

He’s lying back on the couch, his face turned slightly away from me. But from the corner of his eye, he’s watching me frantically, his hands pawing ineffectually at my face. “Time to rock and roll, motherfucker. This thick hog’s goin’ in your ass.”

I lay him flat on his back on the couch, propping his head up on the armrest. I easily force his legs apart, sinking my shaft into his pulsing fuckhole. It feels like a rubber band around my dick; no one’s been up there before. I slammed myself into him, feeling flesh tear as I penetrate his rectum. Low guttural sounds emerge from his throat as his face is drawn into a rictus of pain.

He instinctively wraps his muscled legs around me; I can feel his boots scuffling on my ass. He’s pawing at my chest and face, doing his sad best to resist. “Shh,” I whisper to him, “stop fighting it. You know you want this cock up your ass. You know when you’re out getting fucked up with your buddies, you want their dicks inside you. It hurts so good, doesn’t it? You know you like it, you fuckin’ bitch, now take my cock!”

Pain and confusion have spread over his face; he still doesn’t realize what’s really happening. I’m not even sure he fully understands that he’s being raped. Time to remove all doubt. I wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze.

Instantly his hands come up, plucking weakly at my wrists. I’m holding him down by his throat while I fuck him and I can see the erotic gleam of terror in his eyes. The concept of death has penetrated his drug-fogged mind and he scrambles to escape it. His struggles are hopeless; he’s pinned to the couch by the unbearable pressure on his throat and by the stabbing, searing agony in his rectum.

“Yeah, bitch,” I moan, “This is what you were looking for. This is why you went out today, so you could find a man who would give you what you deserve. All you’re good for is dying on my dick. Yeah, you piece of shit, I’m gonna use you and throw you away, you fuckin’ wad of garbage.” I spit in his face and his mouth.

He claws at my hands as gagging sounds erupt from his clenched throat. His eyes, wide and bulging, stare into mine, begging in desperation. Oh god, his pleading and fear and pain—it’s driving me on to hurt him more. I’m reaming him like a jackhammer now, plunging myself deep within his helpless ass, inflicting as much agony as possible. I’m so close to blowing my wad…

I squeeze my hands together with as much force as I can. I damn near shoot as I hear the sound of cartilage and bone cracking and feel his esophagus crushed in my hands. The fuckmeat’s face has turned a dusky blue and his gagging sounds have become intermittent but much more intense. I spit in his face again, my saliva lost in the foam flowing around his swollen tongue.

“Die, motherfucker. Shoot your worthless bitch wad and die. Die so I can fuck your sweet lifeless corpse. C’mon, you piece of shit, give me your death load. You always wanted a man to choke the cum out you. Gimme your hot dying spunk, you fuckin’ death pig…”

His struggles weaken as his brain dies. He’s not resisting me anymore; instead, his hands are caressing my face and my chest. I grip his neck more tightly, eliciting a final crunch, and his ass responds by tightening around my shaft like a hand. He arches his body upwards, pressing his smooth flat belly against mine. His boots dig into my back, holding me in a desperate dying grip.

He’s accepted my gift and embraced the death I’ve brought him. Spunk boils out of me, filling the fuckmeat with hot cum. His hard rod, pressed between our bellies, disgorges a steady stream of semen that splatters against the underside of his jaw and splashes my face. I’m vaguely aware of my own inarticulate cries as the fuckmeat writhes and jerks on my dick and showers me with cum.

It’s pitch black when I wake up. About twelve hours again, then. I’m stiff and sore and still on top of the corpse. I’m stuck to the meat by a glaze of dried cum and my hands are still wrapped around his throat.

Oh, such hot meat. His smooth body is now flaccid and limp and fit for love. The dull look of resignation in his cloudy eyes is irresistible. My pretty, sweet, helpless fuckmeat…

His tongue begs for my cock. I pull him lower on the couch to skullfuck him with more ease. I shudder as his dry, swollen tongue rasps against the rosebud on the underside of my oozing mushroom head. I pump his mouth hard, ramming my tool deep into his ruined throat. My sweet fucktoy, swallowing my entire dick without protest.

When I give him my second load, it’s with all my love. I had to hurt him, but only to perfect him. Now he’ll always be mine, even after his meat rots, and he’ll be beyond all pain.

As I drag him to the bathtub for dismemberment, I draw fresh inspiration from his dark twisted face. So many boys out there who need to be saved, to be made perfect. How lucky am I that I so enjoy my calling…