Tag: sneakers

Threesome

On By m3mayhemIn Miscellaneous Other/Guard KillsLeave a comment

Travis took a huge swig of Jack before handing the bottle to Ryan and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. As he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, Ryan turned around and passed the bottle to Justin in the back seat. Justin returned the favor by handing Ryan the joint he’d just rolled.

“This weed’s pretty weak,” commented Justin after he’d swallowed a mouthful of the whiskey, “but we should be able to afford some good shit once we get paid.”

“Gotta do the work to get paid,” replied Travis. “Don’t get too fucked up. Sanchez said there might be some trouble tonight. Dunno what he’s heard, but he’ll treat us right if we keep everyone away from his field. And you know Sanchez’s weed is good. I got half an ounce in my boot now. We keep an eye on his grow operation and he’ll make sure we got plenty to smoke. Now shut up and let me drive. These logging trails are fuckin’ hell.”

Travis leaned forward and squinted, trying to make out the next turn the dirt road made. Travis was about twenty-five with long brown hair and a mean look on his acne-scarred face. He wore a black leather aviator’s jacket over a white t-shirt. His tight, ripped jeans were tucked into a pair of black harness boots, where a baggie of pot pressed against his ankle.

Travis was the town “problem”. Dropped out of school at sixteen, got by by selling drugs and doing odd jobs. He’d tried the biker lifestyle for about three days before he got so drunk he managed to end up ditching in the river. He never could remember how he’d done it, but he couldn’t afford another bike, so that was it for his crotch-rocket days.

Of course Ryan and Justin had gravitated towards him; he was their epitome of Cool. Ryan was twenty-one, with dark curly hair and a tuft on his chin that he thought of as a goatee. He wore a black t-shirt and gray jeans, with a white baseball cap. The work boots on his feet were clean because he didn’t do any work. He still lived with his folks, decent working-class people who had no idea that their son was a waste. He lived with them and ate their food, but he didn’t ask them for money because he got most of what he wanted by theft.

Justin, in the back seat, was the youngest at nineteen. He had more of a skater-rat look, with wavy auburn hair, skinny jeans and a hoodie, red skate shoes on his feet. He was nothing more than a small-time delinquent trying to gain some street cred by hanging around the local toughs.

They were headed out to Sanchez’s field—actually, a small clearing in the state forest. Sanchez had been growing his weed there for a while, using random occasional labor—Travis had done a lot of it; Sanchez had been his supplier for quite a while now.

Tonight, Sanchez had asked Travis to round up a couple of guys and keep an eye on the field. He didn’t say why. Evidently he had heard something—Travis thought it likely that a rival was going to make a move. He didn’t know what to expect, but he didn’t expect much. He’d chased off other growers before; they were pussies. Nothing to break a sweat over.

None of them knew they were going to die in excruciating pain in a very short time.

At a seemingly random place in the road, Travis pulled over and shut off the car (Ryan’s mother’s car, borrowed for the evening). They all got out. Travis turned to Justin.

“Dude, you stay here. Text me if you see or hear anything. We’re gonna go keep an eye on the field itself. You set up ok?”

Justin, who’d rolled himself three joints out of Travis’ stash, nodded. Travis and Ryan turned away and disappeared into the trees on the west side of the road. Justin leaned back against the car, fired up one of the jays and slipped his earphones in. In no time at all, he was groovin’ and flyin’, utterly unaware that he was being sized up for a kill.

The mercenaries crept forward silently, keeping their focus on the road. They had been hired to destroy a marijuana grow op. They were prepared to terminate any defense they encountered, by whatever means necessary.

There were two mercs, in black body suits and hoods, black tactical boots, black camo on their faces—absolutely invisible in the shadows of the forest. They had approached through the woods from the next logging road to the east, three miles as the crow flies. Justin was the first guard they came across and they were gonna make damn sure he didn’t have the chance to alert anyone.

 

Travis and Ryan split up when they reached the field. Ryan stayed on the east side of the field, closest to the road. Travis made sure Ryan was set up well and had a couple of jays tucked inside his boot too. The he made his way across to the west side. The clearing extended to a couple of acres, so when Travis got to the far side, he was some distance from Ryan.

Each of them was going to die alone.

Even if he hadn’t been rocking out, it’s unlikely Justin would have heard the faint crunch of the merc’s rubber-soled boot as he approached from behind. The kid had just taken a lung-busting hit off his joint when a kick to the back of his knee brought him down. A hand in a black leather fingerless glove clamped down over his forehead, middle fingers digging into Justin’s eyes. He gasped as his head was yanked back sharply.

He didn’t get the chance to exhale before the seven-inch serrated steel blade ripped his throat open.

Justin stiffened as the knife slashed mercilessly though his flesh and into his larynx. His involuntary scream of agony became a bubbling hiss, the coppery smell of blood blending in with the sweet scent of the smoke that had been trapped in the boy’s lungs and was now escaping through the gushing hole in his esophagus.

The merc held on tight as Justin kicked and jerked. Soon more primal smells prevailed—a dark stain spreading in the punk’s groin as the realization that he was dying pervaded his drug-fogged brain—Justin was pissing himself in terror. He could feel the terrible gash in his throat, could feel the blood filling his lungs with each desperate, gasping breath. He was dying, it hurt, it was going on so long…

When the merc let him go, Justin staggered to his feet, grabbing the terrible gash in his throat with both hands, feeling his blood pouring out around his fingers. He stumbled forward two steps, and then fell face-down in the road. He spent his last half-minute on earth inhaling mud made of the dirt road mixed with his own blood. In Justin’s last seconds, he was aware of the two dark figures that crossed the road and had a vague idea of demons. Then everything faded to gray.

Justin’s eyes glazed and his body continued to twitch and jerk for a few minutes. In the silence surrounding his corpse, the loudest sound was his red shoes scuffling in the dirt as neurons fired at random. Then there was nothing but a pile of cooling meat.

 

Ryan rubbed the bulge in his groin. He wasn’t particularly horny; he was just hard most of the time. He’d had a fair amount to drink tonight, though, so he didn’t think it was going to be an issue.

He’d already pulled a joint out of his boot and smoked it. He was thinking that Justin had been smart to bring some tunes; he wished he’d thought of it. He wasn’t given time to think of anything else. The cord that appeared out of nowhere, whipped round his neck and cut off his air also cut off whatever limited ability for rational thought that Ryan had ever had.

The boy fought hard for his life—harder than anyone who had seen him waste it would have thought warranted. He kicked and jerked like a trout on a line, thrashing about in a futile attempt to break free of the unknown force that was choking him to death.

As he struggled, Ryan reached back behind him in an instinctive drive to stop whatever was attacking him. He could feel the powerful muscles of the man behind him and heard his ragged breathing as he and his killer fought against one another. But Ryan was fighting without air–and was doomed.

As great dark patches appeared in his field of vision, Ryan could feel his face swelling with the terrible pressure that was building up. His eyes were starting to protrude and he could feel his tongue forcing its way out of his mouth. That wasn’t the only thing swelling, though. Vaguely at first, but growing more insistent, Ryan could feel his cock starting to strain as well.

It was surprising how it made a greater impression as his brain began to die. Ryan lost contact with various parts of his body as his nervous system began to shut down but the swelling and strain in his dick kept growing.

On the outside, the kid was drooling, ropes of foam dangling from his chin. His eyes stared frantically, the whites hemorrhaging to red. His thick, purple tongue extended grotesquely past his swollen, blue lips. He shook convulsively, his boots digging furrows in the dirt.

On the inside, it was all dark explosions, deafening in their silence. A fire burned in Ryan’s crotch, a blaze raging out of control until it erupted like a volcano with molten lead flowing from the caldera…

As Ryan died, he blew his load and shit his jeans simultaneously. His bowels went slack as he poured a dying load of semen into his shorts. The cord became embedded in Ryan’s neck so deeply the merc had to brace himself by planting his boot on the back of Ryan’s head to pull the it out.

He ground Ryan’s puffy black face into the dirt.

Two down, one to go. The mercs pushed quietly through the field in a direct line to the final target. There would be plenty of time afterwards to spread a few chemicals around and make sure this grow op was finished.

Their mandate didn’t include corpses. The bodies would be left where they fell. The mercs didn’t give a shit; they would be long gone by the time the bodies were found.

Travis stood facing the field, leaning against a tree with one hand, fishing a joint out of his boot with the other hand. He had drunk more than the others, so he was at even more of a disadvantage than the others when it came time to fight for his life.

The moment he stood upright, a hand clamped over his mouth and a sharp hard blade was slammed into his right kidney. Travis’ bloodshot, half-lidded eyes dilated in shock. He stiffened involuntarily, his body snapping upright and rising up on his toes. The merc twisted the knife, then ripped it back out of the wound, causing Travis unspeakable agony.

But it was nothing to the pain that came next, when the merc pulled Travis’ head back and stuck the knife into the soft flesh of the bottom jaw, behind the chin.

The tempered steel blade tore upward through the bottom jaw and pierced the tongue, pinning it to the roof of the punk’s mouth. The blade continued up through the soft palate, penetrating the sinuses, passing behind the eyes and severing the optic nerves, shredding the brain tissue in its path.

The tip of the blade came to rest in the pleasure center of the brain, which was why Travis began spewing huge amounts of spunk out of his dying cock.

Travis was locked in a blinded world of loud noises and the most phenomenal pain possible. The brain trauma sent a shockwave through his entire central nervous system. His body seemed to flow in waves from the mangled brain matter down his spine to his dick, where his entire life seemed to flow in great white gobs of cum out of his unnaturally engorged tool.

Travis fell back into the strong, ruthless arms of the merc, thrashing with massive brain damage, his entire existence reduced to the solid stream of semen his shorted-out cerebrum was forcing out of his rod in a final agonizing, involuntary orgasm.

The stoned fucker slumped to the ground, still twitching and convulsing. Long after the mercs had done what they needed to do, Travis was still jerking, cum oozing from the head of his flaccid cock.

The moon rose long after midnight. It shed its slivery beams down on three young men getting hard in the wood. But these boys were getting hard all over—in fact, they were downright stiff.

Good meat never goes to waste in the forest.

The Boy in the Blue and Black Sneakers

On By m3mayhemIn Miscellaneous Sex SnuffLeave a comment

The guy in 1324 has got himself a rentboy. I can see him out on the balcony, which usually means the deed is done and the tenant is asleep—or passed out, more likely. Dunno why he does that; he’s been ripped off so many times…

He leaves his blinds open and I own an excellent pair of binoculars. I see exactly what goes on over there and he has no idea. He’s never laid eyes on me directly.

The boy, though…he can see me. I’m out on my balcony tonight and we have a clear view of each other across the courtyard. I’d already checked him out with the binocs, of course.

He’s got black hair, a large nose, olive skin—kinda a Middle Eastern look. He’s well-built with smooth, muscular arms shown off by the electric blue sleeveless t-shirt he’s got on. His tight jeans highlight his junk, the long bulge of his tool very visible. His hightops are black and blue, the same bright blue as his shirt—laces, too.

Now that he can see me—and see me looking—he seems to develop an interest in me. He’s rubbing his dick and I think he’s smiling at me. He’s far enough away that I can’t tell for sure.

Well, why not? His john is passed out and nobody would know he was over here. If anyone ever bothers to trace him, the trail will end at apartment 1324.

But nobody bothers to trace the whores. That’s why I like to play with them. When I’ve used them up, I can just throw them away.
He’s on the other side of the courtyard but he sees me beckon. He vanishes from the balcony, and in a couple of minutes I see him emerge from building thirteen, coming towards me. Most of the courtyard is shrouded in deep shadow, the security lights not having been maintained (like much else in this place).
I hear him coming up the stairs and meet him at the door. He’s smiling, eager to get laid and get paid. I’m stripped and ready. He tells me his name, but I don’t care. His name is fuckmeat and he ain’t gonna live long enough to enjoy it.
When he gets his shirt off, I can see his smooth, hard belly and developed pectorals. I’m actually surprised at smooth he is; he’s in his mid-twenties and I had somehow expected him to be hairier. Even his legs are like silk. I wonder what kind of skin treatment he uses—and how much he charges.

Again, not that I really care. Price isn’t an issue. By the time I’m done with the bitch, he’ll be past his sell-by date.

He’s a pro. When he’s down to a jockstrap and socks, he puts the shoes back on. I’m on him the moment he stands back up, throwing him up against the wall face first. As I press against his back, he moans and shudders with pleasure. I force his hands back and slip a zip tie around his wrists before he realizes it.

The fucktoy starts complaining. Wants to charge more for kinky stuff. I slam his face into the wall, stunning him. Kinky? Little fucker has no idea.

I wrap duct tape around his head a couple of times to seal off his mouth. No more complaints. I toss him onto the bed on his back and climb on top of him. He’s just starting to wise up as I plow my dick into his ass. He opens his eyes wide and glares at me, struggling to slide out from under me.

That’s when I pull out the bag.

It’s a plastic bag from the cleaners. It’s perfect. A couple of twists around the head and it’ll cut off all air but I’ll still be able to see his face. I’ll blow my load as I watch him die.

He sees it coming. He squirms away in terror, his cries muffled behind the tape. He knows what is happening here; he’s a professional whore who knows the risks.

He knows he’s in for a long, slow death.

For the first few seconds, he lays there, huge liquid brown eyes staring into mine. Then the little free air he has starts to go bad and the panic sets in. He starts squirming again, trying to kick at me with those long firm legs. I grin at him and give the bag another twist around his neck.

Now he’s really panicking. He’s blindly shaking his head. Inside the bag, the temperature is going up each time the fuckboy exhales. Sweat beads dot the boy’s forehead and cheeks. The bag is now being pulled tight against his face with each attempt to inhale; his nose is profiled in plastic.

I can feel every single time he attempts to breathe. He’s struggling so hard his body goes rigid with the strain and his sphincter tightens around my meat like a cockring. It’s incredible; it’s totally a reflexive action on his part. He has no idea that his dying spasms are giving me the best fuck I’ve had in a while.
So maybe I should let him know. I jerk his head up towards me, shaking him harshly to get his attention.

“Yeah, bitch, that’s it. You know what’s going on, boy. Let go. Let death take you. Let me feel your dying meat jerk the cum out of my dick. Give it up, whore. This ain’t gonna end till you’re dead.”

He’s writhing against me, his skin slick with perspiration, the sweat of extreme bodily crisis—of death. His legs flail aimlessly against my back and my ass. I can feel those black and blue shoes digging at me but he can’t muster up enough force to really hurt me. His brain is starting to shut down and he doesn’t have the coordination.

His beautiful olive-skinned face is much darker now. His mouth is gaping, the plastic bag forming a concave surface over the opening. His muffled grunts have increased in pitch, caused by a combination of fear and lack of oxygen. Even now, though, they are becoming quieter and farther apart. His movements seem to become less deliberate; he’s nearing the point of brain death. I can’t tell if there’s anything left inside the twitching sack of meat that’s jerking me off—but just in case, I thought I’d let it know…

“Die, motherfucker, die on my fucking cock. Come on, you fucking whore, I want to feel it when you kick off. Gonna blow my wad in your worthless dead ass and throw you out like rotting meat. Yeah? Yeah? Ya feel it? Ya feel death coming? Good. Hope it fuckin’ hurts, bitch. I hope this hurts a lot.”

His face is dark and grimaces spasmodically, uncontrollably. Even though I can feel his rock-hard uncut cock against my belly, a pool is spreading across the whore’s own stomach. He’d pissed himself just before the involuntary hard-on.
His rectum seems to flow in waves along the shaft of my dick. Each one is slightly slower and yet slightly more intense than the last. Suddenly, the fuckmeat goes rigid and I realize that he’s in the final moments of life. Somewhere deep inside, he’s accepted what must be and is using his last seconds on earth to earn my seed.
His blackened face clenches in the final physical agony of death. His entire body shudders; the slightest nuance of each quiver is transmitted to the head of my cock by the fuckmeat’s agile colon.

As I spew load after uncontrollable burning load into the dying slut’s hole I yank the bitch’s head up with one hand and start punching him in the face with the other because my orgasm is so intense I’ll start screaming otherwise and wake the neighbors…

A few minutes pass before I’m fully functional again. I’m still hard and still buried deep in the whore’s ass. The meat is still quivering around my dick, but it’s the uncoordinated spasms of the freshly dead. I need to get cleaned up.
I can’t keep this toy around too long; after all, I did steal it from my neighbor. But I might be able to play with it one more time. That gaping mouth looks inviting…

Mall Rat Trap

On By m3mayhemIn Miscellaneous Sex Snuff2 Comments

It wasn’t love at first sight—not at all—but it was certainly lust at first glance. Jason was bored out of his mind, standing in the concession line. He’d agreed to meet Sam in the food court of the mall before going to the theater, but like a fool, Jason had bought his ticket and gone inside before he got Sam’s text. Asshole bailed on him. So he was standing here waiting for overpriced popcorn before going to see a movie he’d already seen and hadn’t really liked.

Looking around, he noticed the dude standing next to him, in a parallel line (and moving just as slowly). He was instantly hard.

The guy was older than Jason—early thirties, perhaps. He could easily have passed for younger but for the tightness about his mouth and jaw and the lines that gave his eyes a squint. His hair was a mass of golden curls like that found on cherubim, but there was nothing else cherubic about him. He was very well-built and dressed to show it off. A simple white cotton t-shirt stretched tightly over his chest, looking at least two sizes too small. The nipples on his hubcap-like pecs would have been visible had he not been wearing a leather vest.

His narrow waist was circled by a thick black leather belt; the shirt was tucked into a pair of tight but very worn jeans. A slash on the left side revealed a bulge of thigh dusted with a fine gold fur. The knee was worn away on the right leg. The jeans had no further tears; they continued complete until they vanished into the tops of his black engineer boots.

As if he knew he was being looked at, the dude turned and stared directly at Jason, his thick arms flexing as he turned, revealing some tattoos—zodiacal symbols, Jason thought. Then he caught the dude’s eye. His eyes were still in a squint, but head-on, they were an unnerving ice-blue. Jason felt like he was being appraised like a side of beef.

He was well-dressed beef himself. He hadn’t set out today to get fucked—but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to get fucked. Even Sam, although that had gotten old for both of them. At any rate, he was an eighteen-year-old faggot mallrat and had dressed for sexual success.

He hadn’t needed much to enhance his natural assets; his face, clear and smooth, drew older men like a magnet anyway. He looked younger than his years and much less experienced than he really was. His brown hair was swept to a point in front and kept short behind. He was wearing a maroon t-shirt that clung to his slim but firm torso.

His tight low-rise jeans exposed flesh at the waist; in the back, a starburst tattoo could be seen just above the crack of Jason’s ass—his tramp stamp, so to speak. The jeans wrapped around his slender but defined legs. The shiny black hightop sneakers on his feet were loose, the tongues sticking out.

It was what the dude seemed to notice. At any rate, his assessment of Jason started with his shoes and worked its way up, making him feel even more like meat. It was incredible; Jason had never felt so judged on the basis of sexual utility before; it was like the guy was trying to decide if he wanted to buy a sex toy.

He got even harder at the thought. His skinny jeans were too tight to let him hide it. The man’s expression became a sneer of amused contempt when his gaze reached Jason’s crotch. He kept going up to take in his torso and—momentarily—his face, but he’d already seen what he’d needed to.

His steely blue eyes locked onto Jason large dark ones and he jerked his head towards the exit. He left the line, striding swiftly towards the door. Jason followed automatically, as if pulled along by the head of his dick.

Jason had followed lots of guys into the restrooms in the mall, but not too many outside. If they were hot enough, he’d go out and get fucked in their car. But they had to be really fucking hot.

He’d let this guy fuck him in the food court. He had no qualms whatsoever about following the man out to his car. He was willing to endure damn near anything to get this stud to drill his hole.

Exactly how much he was willing to endure was about to be tested to—and beyond—the breaking point.

It was a long walk. The alpha dude had parked way out at the end of the lot; Jason was winded by the time he got there. Once the man had opened the door, he slipped into the passenger seat gratefully. The dude climbed into the driver’s seat. Jason turned to him and had a brief impression of a fist before he had no impressions of anything at all.

His next awareness was of pain; it took a while to sort out exactly what was hurting. His face hurt and his left eye was swollen shut. But his hands hurt too, and his arms were in an awkward position.

As Jason began to sort out his physical sensations and the world swam up out of the depths, he came to understand his position. He was on his back, his arms up over his head with some sort of ligature around his wrists, painfully constricting the blood flow.

The dude; the hot blonde dude he’d followed out to the car. Jason realized he’d been assaulted.

He looked around frantically. He could barely see out of his left eye but his right eye worked fine. He was in a room. A small room, painted white, utterly bare except for the mattress on which he was laying. He couldn’t see what his hands were bound to above his head, but whatever it was, it was very firmly attached.

The dude was standing over him. He’d removed the vest and t-shirt and was rubbing one hand over the massive bulge in his groin while the other pulled and manipulated a nipple. “Good, you’re awake,” he chuckled, “I was afraid you might miss this.” Both his nipple and his dick grew erect under his handling.

“W-wait,” stammered Jason, “where—where am I? Wha-what’s h-happening here?”

“You know what’s happening here,” the older man said as he bent forward. His shark-like grin appeared for a moment just before his head was silhouetted by the overhead light, his hair becoming a halo of golden froth as he leaned in menacingly.

Jason whimpered in fear, in the realization of his surrender of control to this unknown and evidently malevolent entity. He had no idea what was happening; he thought he was gonna get raped—but he was still fully dressed. What the fuck was this dude doing?

The older man couldn’t help but notice the boy’s trepidation. He chuckled in predatory anticipation. He leaned forward again, placing his left foot on the bed. As he did so, there was a tearing sound and the denim on his left leg parted, the existing tear widening as the dude’s huge thigh muscle flexed within it and stretched it beyond its bounds.

The man paused and looked down at the material hanging loosely under his furry leg. His hand moved down to his boot. Jason arced his neck to follow him and noticed for the first time that something was sticking up from inside the alpha stud’s right boot. It was clearly a handle with a full molded grip, including finger holes, looking like nothing so much as a set of brass knuckles covered in black rubber.

As the blond dude’s hard hand closed on it and pulled up, it became obvious that it was the hilt of a knife. A long, wicked-looking knife. The blade was at least seven inches long. The four inches closest to the tip gleamed with a razor-like ferocity, then came another couple of inches of vicious serrations designed to rip tender skin apart irreparably.

The dude withdrew the knife slowly from his boot sheath, looking Jason straight in the eye while maintaining a cold smirk on his face. Jason felt himself entranced, the way snakes are said to entrance birds in folklore. The introduction of the weapon seemed to sap his will.

The older man cut away the torn leg of his jeans, first near his thigh, then slitting the leg all the way down and pulling off the remainder. He was now standing over Jason shirtless, his golden hair gilding his sculpted pecs and firm six-pack abs, his large dark nipples protruding like fireplugs. His right leg was still in worn pale denim down to his engineer boot, but his left leg was bare from the hip down. A white tube sock clung to his muscled calf above his left boot.

Despite his fear and physical discomfort, Jason was still turned on beyond belief. He knew that this was gonna end badly for him and the thought scared the shit outta him, but maybe—just maybe—the dude wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe he just wanted to dominate him.

Jason was enough of a slut to enjoy being treated like a slut. This guy didn’t need a knife to fuck him, but if he got off by fucking Jason at knifepoint, Jason didn’t care. As long as he got to have this stud’s cum inside him…

The dude didn’t have to unzip his fly. He was commando under his jeans. His huge tool was already stiff and poking out from under the ragged edge of the cut-off denim. Thick and heavily-veined, it was oozing clear precum as the man surveyed his captive fucktoy.

He suddenly bent over Jason, whose heart leaped into his mouth with fear. The dude saw that, too, and laughed outright. “Don’t worry, cunt,” he grinned, “I ain’t stickin’ this in ya yet. First, I gotta get to ya.” And with that, he cut Jason’s shirt off, revealing his firm, slim chest heaving in fear and excitement.

Abruptly, the man threw himself on top of Jason, grabbing a fistful of his hair and jerking his head back. His face less than six inches from Jason’s, his gaze drilled directly into the startled and scared punk’s eyes. He spit in the boy’s face before stroking his face with the tip of his blade, not quite breaking the skin.

“Yeah, you like fuckin’ bitch, you want me inside ya? Huh? That what ya want, faggot? Don’t matter, it’s what you’re gonna get. I’m gonna stick all kinda things in you and you’re gonna like it, you worthless fuckpig!”

Jason whimpered again, not realizing how his fear only added fuel to the older man’s lust. He closed his eyes and, gritting his teeth in determination, turned his head to the side as the hard dude ran the blade down from his face—moving slowly, oh so slowly and lovingly—over his throat and down his slick smooth chest.

“I know what you want, you fucking faggot cunt. I know what you been lookin’ for. Don’t worry, bitch, I’m gonna make it hurt so good you won’t be able to tell my long hot dick from my long cold blade. All you’re gonna know is that I’m stickin’ ya good, like the worthless fucking pig you are.”

He left the knife on Jason’s belly. It slipped and slid on the sheen of sweat that Jason was oozing in a state of terror.

He’d wanted to get fucked. That was all. Whatever was going on here, it was gonna…

He couldn’t let himself finish the thought. He simply wasn’t able to process it. He’d been picking up guys in the mall for three years now but he’d never imagined that he was in any danger beyond that of an STD.

That changed the moment the dude grabbed the knife and slammed it up his ass, slicing a hole in his jeans, shorts—and sphincter.  There was a momentary pause that lasted eons and then the knife sliced its way back out, a long, smooth icy-cold slash in his colon…

The pain was like a tsunami. It paralyzed him. He shuddered, gasping, his eyes wide and staring at the dude’s face with an expression of absolute horror. The man returned it with a cheerful grin and as Jason inhaled deeply, instinctively driven to scream, he was aware of a flash of movement on his left side and had just enough time to realize that the hilt of the knife was indeed a set of rubber-coated brass knuckles when another burst of pain in his face took him under…

When he surfaced from the pool of darkness, he was still swimming in a sea of pain. His ass—Jason had never known such pain existed. And now he was getting fucked through the wound.

The dude was raping him through the hole he’d cut in Jason’s jeans. Jason’s legs, still encased in tight jeans, were spread out as the man lay on top of him, pumping and thrusting his engorged shaft into Jason’s torn and bleeding hole. The kid’s hightop sneakers kicked in the air in agony as he twisted his arms fruitlessly against whatever restraints were binding them—he couldn’t see over his head and by now he’d lost the sensation in his hands due to the tightness of the ligature.

“Fuck yeah, cunt, had to cut your fuckhole open so it could handle my horse dick. Knew ya’d be cool with it, motherfucker, since you ain’t gonna be usin’ it once I’m done with it anyway. Now just relax what’s left of your asshole and enjoy what’s coming, slut.”

Jason looked up into the face hanging over him, a face gleeful in demonic lust. He was desperate to speak, to beg and plead for his life but his mouth was jammed full of something—an acrid scent of sweat—he realized the dude had shoved his t-shirt into Jason’s mouth to stifle his screams.

The next few minutes were not preserved in Jason’s memory; moments of blind panic rarely are. By the time they subsided, Jason was swimming in the sea of pain again, accompanied by the sound of cruel laughter.

“Ya done kickin’ yet, cocksucker?” the hard dude sneered. He spit in Jason’s face, then thrust his cock deep inside the kid’s torn and bleeding rectum, lying flat on top of him and stroking his face with the blade again. “Whaddaya think, fuckwad? Where do ya wanna get stuck next? Or ya wanna kick and jerk some more first? Just let me know, cause your kickin’ feels great on my cock.”

Jason’s screams of agonized terror were muffled to faint squeals by the rank t-shirt shoved into his mouth. His hands were useless; the flow of blood had been cut off by the restraints and they were little more than lumps of cold flesh. He kicked and jerked his legs but his jeans were so tight they hindered his movement. The heels of his shiny black sneakers couldn’t reach the dude’s back to leave any marks; no matter how much he thrashed, his jeans wouldn’t let him bend his legs far enough.

The blond man with the ice-blue eyes knew what he was doing. It was obvious in the calm and collected way he dragged the tip of the knife over Jason’s slim but muscular torso, allowing the anticipation of the first thrust, the first ice-cold blast of agony, to build for them both. He was setting Jason up for an experience that would fuse pain and pleasure in a way he’d never known possible.

First, he needed complete control of his victim; this was done by inducing shock. A quick jerk of the wrist and the knife sliced into Jason’s left flank. Seven inches of cold carbon steel pierced deep into the teen slut’s kidney as seven inches of hard throbbing cock tore into his colon. Jason was aware of both; it was a sensation he had never known could exist. His muted cry became a moan as adrenaline flooded his system and his body went into neurochemical overload.

His lithe, hard body, soaked in sweat, writhed against the blond dude’s chest, matting his fur with the kid’s rank perspiration. The alpha dude gave a gasp as Jason’s slashed sphincter fluttered against the base of his cock. He twisted the knife in the wound, shredding Jason’s left kidney as the punk grunted in agony and kicked his shoes helplessly in the air.

“Ya likin’ that, fuckpig? You’re squealing like a fuckin’ pig in heat, so I guess ya do. I knew you were such a slut you didn’t care what I stuck in ya. Fucking cunt. You wanted a real man to show you your place. Well, ya got it, motherfucker. Your place is kicking your life away on the end of my cock, and I’m about to grant your whore cunt wish!”

Jason shook his head wildly, in denial, in panic, in self-defense. It had no effect whatever and he knew it. What he couldn’t understand, in the middle of the horrible agony that was being forced upon him, was why some of the worst pain he was experiencing was in his own cock, which was swelling and oozing uncontrollably.

This guy was raping him and killing him. He couldn’t be right. This couldn’t be what he wanted, Jason thought—but his dick said otherwise. It was swollen and purple, slapping against the dude’s belly as he got fucked, each impact leaving a spatter of precum in the alpha dude’s fur.

“Ready for it, cunt?” whispered the alpha blond, his blue eyes gleaming as he closed in for the kill. “Ready to experience pain beyond your worst nightmare? Ready to feel my cock spasm and pump your faggot asshole full of hot seed as I shove this blade into your head? Not that I fuckin’ care; I just want you to know what’s happening. See, I think it’s gonna take a little while for you to die. I sure the fuck hope so; I want you to enjoy this as much as I’m gonna. Feel it and enjoy it, you motherfucking faggot cunt; I’m gonna fill your ass with my spunk and your brain with my blade.”

His eyes were almost insane with lust and contempt as he spit one last time into Jason’s face and placing the tip of his blade under his jaw, as far back as he could, angled it directly up and began inserting it into the back of Jason’s oral cavity where the mouth met the esophagus.

As he’d promised, he did it slowly, allowing Jason to enjoy every agony-soaked moment of death. As the blade moved upwards, it sliced through the base of Jason’s tongue. Even in the excruciating nightmare of pain that followed, Jason was aware of the dude’s larger, harder, more muscular body holding him down and preventing him from thrashing too violently. He could also feel the alpha male’s long hard cock, like a hot shaft of iron, pinning him to the stained mattress.

In an almost idle moment of lucidity, Jason glanced around the bare white walls of the room and had time to vaguely wonder where he was dying. He would never know. He’d never know if his killer was caught. All he knew from this point on was the overwhelming agony of a brutal death.

“You’re getting’ loose, man,” leered the alpha male, “I guess I cut you open too soon. That’s ok, though. Wait till I get this sharp metal shaft into your sinuses. You’ll feel the crunch as I rip my blade through your skull. Fuckin-A, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit, you’re gonna taste blood and steel in your brain as you soak up my sperm. Ready for it, cuntwad, ready for that last grunt and thrust as I bury my cock in your worthless guts and my blade in your useless brain?”

Jason squealed like the pig in heat he was. He knew that he was utterly helpless in the hands of this man. He could only hold on in agony and terror, hoping for the mercy of a quick death. The fact that his dick was erect and straining, a steady stream of precum oozing from the tip, was beyond his control.

As the knife slashed up through his sinus tissue, Jason experienced a horrifying mortal pain, the pain that can only lead to death. His body instinctively clenched in resistance, tightening his ravaged sphincter around his killer’s raging erection. Each crunch of the blade tearing through the thin bone structure inside the skull reverberated in Jason’s head, amplifying the pain and contacting his anus, bringing more pleasure to the alpha dude.

One last thrust was all that was needed. A quick jerk of the dude’s wrist and Jason ceased to exist. A meat puppet jerked and spasmed, shooting great streams of semen uncontrollably, splashing the blond man’s chest and face. The alpha male grasped the thrashing meat, placing his hands on both shoulders and forcing the faggot’s convulsing corpse down to the root of his cock, draining every drop of sperm into the flailing colon.

Jason fell into a howling vortex of pain and orgasm. The dude had been right. He was in a place where he could no longer tell pain from pleasure; it was as if he was shooting agonizing razor blades from his cock while someone fucked his skull and was shooting a load in his brain.

Jason died awash in semen. He never knew where he died or the name of the man who killed him.

Party & Punish

On By m3mayhemIn Miscellaneous Sex Snuff2 Comments

Tommy was out looking for a good time and he was reasonably certain of finding one. He’d accentuated his lean, hard body with the kind of clothing Ralph liked to see him in. Tight skinny jeans in black, with a purple sleeveless t-shirt highlighting the contours of his smooth, slim chest, just giving the slightest hint of pectoral muscles. Ankle-high skate shoes of the same color completed his mating plumage.

He was nineteen, with long brown hair that stopped just short of his shoulders. His full red lips were surrounded with a faint fuzz of the same color; Tommy liked to imagine that it was a virile goatee. In reality it was a sparse haze that actually made him look a little younger than he actually was. At any rate, it certainly accomplished its purpose of attracting the eye; he got lots of admiring glances. Tonight he’d try for more than just a glance.

Ralph was sound asleep and had no idea Tommy had even left, much less taken the car. But Ralph was fat and middle-aged; the only reason Tommy tolerated him was because he had money—and was willing to spend it on Tommy. But, of course, nothing is free. Ralph liked to get fucked. Problem was, so did Tommy. So Tommy banged him and got access to the house, car, and bank account—but he didn’t get the sex he wanted.

Tonight wasn’t the first time he’d sneaked out after Ralph had fallen asleep. His slim form behind the wheel of the huge Cadillac had become a familiar sight as he trolled the back streets for hustlers. A quick pickup, some party drugs and a cheap motel room gave Tommy some release after performing for his sugar daddy all day (not that Tommy actually did anything for Ralph that day or most others, but he considered just being around the man was work enough).

Tommy, in other words, was a cheap whore looking for a cheap whore; the only difference between him and the rentboys he hooked up with was that he was filling a longer-term position than they did. But the motivations and mentality were the same.

Well, usually. Tommy didn’t know it, but tonight he’d find someone with motivations he couldn’t possibly have imagined.

He eased the big car around the corner onto the street that ran behind the clubs. This was the spot he picked up most of his tricks, but the two guys he saw—one at the corner, the other under a streetlight more than halfway down the block—had the same build he did. Tommy wasn’t interested; he wanted a real man to fuck the shit outta him tonight. These kids couldn’t give his ass the workout he was looking for.

That meant turning west and heading towards the highway. He’d expected this; it was where the rough trade was located, and rough was exactly what he wanted. He didn’t care if the guy was a junkie—hell, Tommy would take a hit or a bump along with him—but he had to have power and stamina.

He wasn’t always in the mood to get treated like a sex toy—well, no, that wasn’t true; he always liked it rough but that usually cost extra. Ralph would want to know where the money went. It came from his account, so he’d notice most of the time and Tommy would have to come up with a convincing lie about a necessary expenditure.

But Ralph had been generous; he’d just gotten a bonus from work and had given Tommy a large amount of cash, to do with as he wished. Naturally, Tommy couldn’t wait to get away from him and go spend it.

As a result, Tommy had promptly impaired his already negligible sense of judgment. He was slightly (read: extremely) intoxicated, having gotten Ralph to sleep by spending the evening insisting they get drunk in celebration of the bonus—knowing that the older man was diabetic and would pass out after three very strong cocktails.

He was also very high; he always had a steady supply of weed. Ralph knew and disapproved, but continued to pay for it on the basis that fucked-up Tommy was considerably easier to live with than stone-cold sober Tommy.

Long story short: one very high twink slut cruising around looking for rough sex. A recipe for disaster, but Tommy had gotten away with it before; this was far from the first time. He knew what he was doing—he thought.

He’d travelled about a mile and a half west when he spotted a dude hanging out on the periphery of a run-down convenience store; the kind of place with wire mesh in the windows and where business after dark is conducted via a drawer under three inches of bullet-proof glass.

He was standing next to a pole that had been installed thirty years ago to hold a payphone; the metal shell with the Ma Bell logo was still extant. A fluorescent light, still working, illuminated him, but the placement of a huge garbage bin blocked the view of the store itself. Tommy slowed abruptly—holy fuck, this one was hot.

He wasn’t tall, certainly not over six feet, but he was extremely well-built and dressed to show it. He had a swarthy, almost Italian appearance, with short jet-black hair and eyebrows. His face, with large dark eyes, even features and a Roman nose, was almost that of a model, but dark circles under the eyes testified to some…unhealthy habits.

He wore a denim vest, skin-tight jeans, combat boots—and, as near as Tommy could tell, nothing else. His huge smooth chest was clearly visible under the vest, swelling in front before dropping to the rippling firmness of his muscled abdomen. Given the dark-blue shadow wrapped around the hustler’s jaw, Tommy guessed the guy must shave his chest regularly; otherwise, it’d have to be covered in black hair. His lower arms certainly were, but not quite enough to hide the needle tracks in the inner elbow of his left arm. His upper arms bulged with biceps, though; they looked like they barely fit through the holes in the vest.

His jeans were so tight, his legs looked like they’d been painted with denim. Tommy was kinda surprised that he’d been able to find jeans that tight that still had such a large area in the crotch; nonetheless, the long tube of flesh was clearly defined as it strained the material. Tommy’s eyes slid down the hustler’s legs to his combat boots, laced, but not tied. He caught a glint of light from something stuck inside the right boot, but it didn’t register.

He wanted this guy inside him. He wanted to feel the dude’s cum splashing in his guts.

The hustler had noticed him the moment he braked. He approached as the passenger window rolled down. Up close, Tommy noticed the guy was sweaty and jittery. Serious junkie then—good. They usually can be gotten pretty cheap.

“Dude, I got a hundred plus whatever kinda hit you want if you’ll bang me like a screen door in a tornado.”

The hustler bent down to the window and grinned. “You payin’ for the hit? Sure. Keep drivin’ and pull over when I tell ya.” He opened the door and hopped in.

Tommy went three and a half blocks further west before the trick told him to pull over outside a decrepit apartment complex. The muscled dude got out and vanished into the darkness of the complex courtyard. Tommy waited patiently. When he’d slipped the whore two twenties for the coke, he’d made sure he’d seen that there was plenty more where that came from. The dude would be back.

Unfortunately for him, he was right.

In fact, he wasn’t gone more than five minutes. He reappeared from the shadows, still grinning, striding along with the smooth feral grace of a panther. Tommy got hard just watching him walk.

The moment the hustler was back in the car, Tommy pointed it west. A mile or two away some worn-out motor court motels still stood on what had once been the state highway. But the interstate had been put in a mile still further west, some fifty years ago. What had once been valuable commercial land was now mostly vacant lots strewn with rubble and glass shards. The two motels still standing survived by renting by the hour, no questions asked, open twenty-four hours. Given the hourly rate, the low overhead and the general utility of the places, they were probably making someone a mint.

Tommy pulled into the Shamrock Motel. He threw the car into park near the office and got out. He wasn’t quite as incapacitated as to forget to take the keys with him. He doubted the dude would take the car and go, but there was no sense in taking chances.

By the time the irony of that phrase was driven home to Tommy, he was in no position to appreciate the lesson.

Tommy left the car in the middle of the parking lot—wisely, perhaps, since everyone else had parked in front of the rooms and he was far too fucked up to fit the huge Caddy between the lines. He handed the key to the whore as he shut off the engine. Once they got out and he locked the doors, he stumbled after the dude, who headed straight towards the room.

The hustler had gone in and turned on the light by the time Tommy got to the door. He already knew what to expect—the cheap, thin, mis-matched carpet; the dented AC unit squealing like stuck pig for the sole purpose of pushing the fetid air around, the antique TV chained to the dresser, and burn marks on everything.

The stud already had his kit out and had drawn up the coke powder in a couple of syringes. He turned and faced Tommy and unzipped his fly. He reached in and uncurled his long, semi-soft cock like a length of rope.

“You want my cock? Pay me. Gimme the money, we’ll do a bump and I’ll fuck ya, man. I can get hard when I’m high. But I gotta get the money first.”

Tommy had been stripping while the hustler was talking. He bent down and retrieved his wallet from the pocket of his jeans on the floor. He made sure the hustler saw that the Franklin he slipped out had company, figuring the dude might be willing to go a bit further than most if he know Tommy would make it worth his while. For once, Tommy was dead right.

He placed the wallet on the dresser and continued to undress until he was wearing nothing but his socks and purple skate shoes. His dick, thin but long, jutted in front like a flagpole. The whore tied Tommy off with a strip of rubber and shot him up. As Tommy started to feel the train, the hustler injected himself. As the rush set in, he grabbed Tommy and threw him face-down on the bed.

Tommy had a metallic taste in his mouth; he knew he was seriously high and about to get plowed. He was happier than a pig in shit—which was a pretty good description of his situation. He moaned in pleasure as he felt the hustler grab his wrists and roughly twist his arms behind him. “Stay like that, bitch; I’m gonna tie you down before I fuck ya,” he heard whispered into his ear. He did as he was told.

He felt a cord wrapped multiple times around his wrists, painfully, before being tied in an excruciatingly tight knot. He moaned again, his mouth stretched into a broad grin. “Fuck yeah, man, rape the fuck outta me, dude,” he muttered. “Shut up, bitch,” the whore snarled back. Tommy buried his face in the pillow in a wave of pig lust, never wondering how the hell his hands would get untied after being bound so securely.

When it came, it was even more brutal than Tommy had been expecting. His head was forced violently down into the thin, scratchy pillows a split second before the dude’s cock tore its way through his sphincter.

Tommy screamed. It was muffled to a faint cry by the pillows. He twisted and writhed, instinctively seeking escape from the pain; it felt like someone had stuck a light bulb up his ass. He hadn’t realized the whore was this big—and as much as Tommy had whored his own ass out, that said a lot.

“Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit, and take my fuckin’ cock,” snarled the rough trade trick. Tommy writhed in pig lust, enjoying the pain. Deep in his slut soul, he loved being treated like the whore he truly was, and he didn’t mind paying for it.

The dude pulled Tommy closer to mount him more securely. Tommy could feel his jeans rasping against his outer thighs with each thrust, could feel the older man’s boots flexing against his own feet in rhythm with each agonizing penetration of his ass. Suddenly, the trick straightened his back and pulled his vest off, his massive, muscled chest slick with sweat, his pecs and biceps glistening in the dim light—not that Tommy, face down on the bed, was in a position to appreciate any of it.

“Ya like that, ya little fuckin’ faggot,” sneered the trick as he pumped Tommy’s ass. Given that he was still forcing Tommy’s face into the pillow, the expectation of a reply would probably be unreasonable. He let go, disentangling his hand from Tommy’s long hair for a moment. Tommy raised his head and gasped for air, emitting faint whines with each lungful.

The trick grabbed him roughly and turned him slightly on his left side, bringing his own right leg up and planting his right boot in front of Tommy’s face. Tommy had a perfect view when the dude pulled the folding buck knife out of his loose boot. His eyes widened as the trick opened it, revealing a serrated five-inch blade.

“What the fuck, man?” he whispered hoarsely. “What’s that for?”

“”It’s to stick into you, you worthless faggot. Fuckin’ homo. You deserve to die, you fuckin’ pervert.”

Tommy gulped, then giggled nervously. “Dude, stop kidding. You’re fucking me too good not to like this. What’s it for?”

“It’s for you, you fucking cocksucking slut. Goddam fucking cock pig, I’m gonna waste ya and have some fun with your money. You’ll keep me high for a week at least, maybe more. Understand this, you fuckin’ bitch, I ain’t no faggot; I’m just wastin’ ya for your money. But I figure, why not enjoy myself while I put down another useless homo cunt?”

Deep within Tommy’s drug- and alcohol-hazed brain, the true danger of his situation began to seep through. He started to snivel and blubber, begging incoherently, not realizing how much his desperate babbling was turning the trick on. The fact that the guy’s rod seemed to have swollen to fill his entire rectum should have been a clue; Tommy had never experienced so painful a fuck to begin with. Every vein wrapped around his massive shaft seemed to force Tommy’s ass open even further.

“Fuckin’ A,” came a deep, lust-filled whisper into his ear, “I’m gonna kill you, cunt. You’re gonna die with my cock up your ass. Ain’t no one gonna miss a worthless little fuckhole like you. What, you got some sugar daddy payin’ yer bills? Dude, he’s gonna thank me for wastin’ your ass.”

Tommy was in deep panic by this point. He was frozen in fear, unable to process what was happening. So far the hustler was threatening him, but Tommy couldn’t see the knife any more. Maybe he got off on talking tough…

The first thrust of the blade, when it came, was nothing like Tommy had anticipated. It was almost icy cold, a quick penetration into his right side; thrust and twist, then out again. He gasped in shock, uncertain what had actually just happened.

Whatever it was, he knew it was bad. He reacted as expected; the trick could feel his hands clench involuntarily in pain and fear. Tommy drew his legs up in shock; the rough trade junkie could feel his victim spasm uncontrollably beneath him as the punk went into clinical shock. But the junkie wasn’t done with him yet.

The next few minutes of Tommy’s life—the last few minutes of Tommy’s life—were the stuff of nightmares. The torture inflicted on him far exceeded his own pig needs and wants.

The trick timed the thrusts of his knife to the thrusts of his dick; each time his long hard cock tore into Tommy’s guts, his long cold blade ripped into Tommy’s lungs, or liver, or stomach. At one point, the dude pulled Tommy up on his knees and, reversing his blade, thrust upwards into Tommy’s soft, smooth belly, slicing holes in his abdomen.

Tommy cried in pain and fear, sniveling and babbling as he died in horrible agony, terror seizing control of his body and rendering him utterly incapable of resisting as he was raped and murdered. And somewhere deep inside, as he felt the cold knife tearing into him, he knew that this was exactly what he’d always deserved, what he’d prowled the streets looking for.

It hurts, oh fucking god it hurts, please end it now I’m full of him his dick his knife oh fuck he’s sticking me everywhere shit the pain stop the pain oh fucking god stop the pain this is it his cock is plugging the hole in my soul or is it his knife it doesn’t matter he’s in me I’m going fuck that burns my ass so bad is that his cum it burns so fucking bad no not yet not ye–

The hustler took a couple of minutes to let his tool drain into the corpse, with the ease of someone who’d had a great deal of experience at this. After the quivering, bleeding meat milked his shaft dry, the muscled junkie pulled his swollen shaft out of the twitching smooth buttocks. He toweled the sweat off his hard, gleaming body and opened the wallet to empty it of cash before tossing it onto the huddled bleeding mass of hamburger on the blood-soaked bed.

“Fuck yeah, cunt, you’re gonna keep me higher than fuck for a long time,” he said with a grin to the still-twitching corpse on the stained bedspread. Slipping his vest (blood-free since he’d had the foresight to remove it) back on and stuffing his still-dripping dick back into his jeans, the whore searched Tommy’s jean for his keys.

As he walked out the door, he took a last backwards glance. Tommy’s blood-soaked corpse, eyes wide open in terror, gaped at the left-hand wall, his hair fanned out over his shoulders, his knees drawn up and his ass in the air. It was obvious that he’d been fucked and wasted like the useless cunt he was.

Ralph got his car back; it was found outside the drug complex with the keys in it. It had sustained no damage. Ralph himself cried for the better part of a week after learning of Tommy’s death, but within three months, found his finances improved. A year later, he moved to a much nicer neighborhood…

Jamie’s Night Out

On By m3mayhemIn Miscellaneous Sex SnuffLeave a comment

Jamie stomped angrily out of the twinkie dance club, his expensive black Nike ball shoes slapping firmly against the pavement. Everything about Jamie was expensive—or so Brad had said. So Jamie, already so drunk his gait was just short of a stagger, had screamed at Brad, right in the middle of the dance floor and stumbled out.

He paused at the corner and turned back. The club’s neon sign lit his face as it was reflected in a puddle left by the sprinklers; he could see ‘Studio 69’ in the murky pool, the words upside down but the numbers just right. The name was as subtle as a coronary thrombosis, but subtlety wasn’t Jamie strong suit.

He was in his early twenties, thin and wiry without being scrawny. There was just enough definition to his lithe, hard body to make him desirable, and he knew it. With his slightly olive complexion, black hair and high cheekbones, he had an ethnic cast. Depending on the lighting and the angle at which they beheld him, some observers had thought he was Hispanic. Others caught something Asian in the tilt of his dark almond eyes. In fact, he was neither, but because of this trick of the light, he had a unique ability to attract all kinds of men.

His boyfriend Brad, a chiseled blond god, as vain and shallow as he was, had the advantage of being rich. He and Jamie had met out of a mutual interest in choking. There was actually no choking involved; Brad would put his hand over Jamie’s mouth, Jamie would flop around a little on top of Brad, getting each other hard, then they’d jack off together. They didn’t really think about why it got them hard, especially since they never cut off each other’s breath long enough to get so much as a headache.

But Brad was getting bored. And Jamie had pricey tastes and no job. Plus, he was a slut; he tried to hide it from Brad since Brad paid the bills, but it was kinda obvious when Brad got home from work to find the freshly-laundered sheets he’d put on the bed last night stiff with cum and he hadn’t had sex with Jamie since they were put on…

It came to a head on the dance floor. And so Jamie was out on the corner, swerving back around to find the car. Fuck Brad. He could take a cab home.

Jamie was wearing a tight sky-blue t-shirt that wrapped firmly around his lean swimmer’s torso—swimming was about the only thing Jamie did regularly; not with the discipline of a sport, of course. But he knew on an instinctive level that he had to keep it up to maintain his desirability. A white leather belt covered in square metal studs wrapped around his narrow waist, holding up a pair of skinny black jeans that outlined each asscheek, cinched up along his taint and wrapped around the thick bulge in his groin.

As he turned the last corner into the parking lot, staggering toward the car and a near-certain death in a fiery drunken wreck, he ran straight into some dude who was walking out of the lot. Jamie grunted in surprise as he bounced off a hard body as if he’d walked into a brick wall.

He stumbled back and looked up—and instantly got hard. The dude was seriously hot. Taller than Jamie himself, the guy must have been six-six or more. He was older, early thirties perhaps. Curly hair like spun gold, he had a broad, muscled chest accented by the dirty sleeveless white t-shirt he wore. Jamie could see a skull tattoo on the dude’s left shoulder. Under the skeletal grin were inked the words “Die, Motherfucker, Die!”

The dude’s jeans were tight and faded, ragged at the hems and torn at the left knee. On his feet were rugged, well-worn construction boots laced tightly above his ankles.

Jamie looked up into the man’s face. The orange glare of the sodium light in the parking lot lit a nimbus of fire in the man’s gold hair. His eyes were ice-blue—and ice-cold. Stubble darkened his lean, hard jaw. He looked down at Jamie with no emotion at all.

Jamie found himself turned on—and scared. There was something about this guy that reeked of sex. Jamie knew, somehow, deep within himself, that this man was capable of giving him the best sex he’d ever had. He didn’t know why he was so certain, but he was. He was, however, also frightened by the dude. There was something about him—he was appraising Jamie with a look of lust that Jamie was very familiar with, but the other emotions that should be there—hope, doubt, desperation—well, there was nothing.

It didn’t matter. Jamie was too drunk to heed the red flags. “Hey, sweetie,” he leered obscenely, “wanna fuck me? We can go back to my place; it’s only a few blocks away.”

The dude looked down at him for a moment, considering. In his drunken state, Jamie concluded the guy was a construction worker. Straight to his friends and family. Comes down for a quick fuck on the DL every now and then. Ok by him. Dude had a hot body and anyway fuck Brad! This guy would fuck him without bitching about money and maybe even choke him a little. He’d ask; couldn’t hurt. And if he was better than Brad and had some money—fuck Brad!

Even in his alcoholic stupor, Jamie felt a slight chill down his spine when the dude reacted to his suggestion by staring levelly into his eyes and saying in a monotone, “Yeah, you’ll do.” Jamie interpreted it as a lack of gratitude that a young stud like himself should condescend to make the offer. It was an experience he was not used to; most of the time guys were “generous” to him in every sense of the word, which infuriated Brad.

“C’mon, we’ll take my car,” the dude snapped suddenly, “you’re in no shape to drive. You live alone?”

“No,” Jamie slurred, “but that asthhole won’t be back for long time. He gonna go fuck someone elsh. Like I don’t fuckin’ know what he means when he says ek—exthp—I cost too much, fuckin’ bitsth…”

Jamie found himself strapped into the front seat of a car, not quite remembering if he’d gotten in under his own power. The car was moving. He must’ve passed out for a moment. He hoped they were going home but was just a little too wasted to be able to tell. “Where we goin’, man,” he blurted.

“Your place. That’s what ya said,” the dude replied abruptly.

“How you know where t’ go?”

“Your wallet. Got the address off your driver’s license. Just lay back, James, you’re gonna have a good time.”

“Jamie, dude, name is Jamie. Will you choke me? I don’ mean really choke me, dude, I mean act like it. Y’know, pretend-like. Gets me off, if ya know what I mean.”

The older man let out a deep chuckle. “Yeah, Jamie,” he grinned, “I think I can do that. I can choke ya and make you get off.”

It was a ground floor condo at the back edge of the complex. In the parking lot, Jamie grabbed the dude’s hand and led him to the front door, letting go to unlock it. The unit was dark. Jamie didn’t bother to turn on any lights. Walking straight back into the bedroom, he started to strip.

“When you’re done, put your shoes back on,” the dude said as he walked into the room and pulled his shirt off, exposing his broad chest and rippled abdomen covered with a fine golden haze of fur. “I wanna fuck you while you’re wearing them.” His taut body glistened in the half-light.

As Jamie tightly re-laced his basketball shoes up to his ankles, the older man unzipped his fly. Slipping the elastic band of his briefs under his scrotum, he let his cock and balls flop out, already swollen and purple.

Lying back on the bed, Jamie stared at the dude’s thick tackle and inhaled deeply, shudderingly. “Fuck, dude,” he moaned, “stick it in me. Make me feel it.”

The dude’s cold, icy eyes roved over Jamie’s body like he was appraising a piece of meat—which was exactly what he was doing. The thin, firm, wiry body of the boy was stretched out on the bed. He wrapped his hands under his knees and hoisted his legs, exposing his pink quivering butthole, his black Nike kicks dangling in the air.

The dude approached the bed. Not bothering to remove his boots or his jeans—since his dick was out anyway—he plunged his long, erect member into the boy’s trembling, pale rosebud of a sphincter. Jamie cried out in pain as the thick tool split his ass, impaling him on a rod of hard flesh. He’d been fucked many, many times before, but never quite this ruthlessly.

Somewhere deep in his little pig soul, he loved it and craved more. He looked up into the dude’s face and saw nothing there but contempt. It scared him, and being scared got him harder than ever. So did the dude’s cock. Jamie could feel every ridged inch of it stretching out his already well-worn fuckhole; the guy’s tool was painfully thick.

If Jamie hadn’t been so drunk and angry, he might have recognized some danger signals; he was pretty experienced with random pick-ups. But with his senses dulled, he walked into a bad situation. He was about to make it worse.

“Goddam, dude,” he moaned breathily. He jerked back on his legs, spreading his black sneakers further apart as they hung in the air. “Fuckin’ Brad can’t fuck me like this. Can ya choke me, too? Can ya do that better than him? If ya got some money, I’ll be your bitch, dude. Take care of me and you can bang me all th’ time.”

The dude slipped one hand down to the right front pocket of his jeans. Without breaking the rhythm of his pumping, he grinned into Jamie’s face, his left hand placed in the center of Jamie’s chest, pinning him to the bed. “Don’t worry, bitch,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of you, all right.”

Suddenly, he spit in Jamie’s face. It took a moment for Jamie to realize what had happened; just as he did so, the dude’s right arm came up, biceps bunched in strain, swinging right at Jamie’s face. In the last split-second before it made contact, Jamie could see what looked like a length of braided nylon cord in his clenched fist.

The blow stunned him–it actually wasn’t that strong; just hard enough to split his lips and cause some minor bleeding. But Jamie was still too drunk to put up any kind of coordinated defense, so the impact was out of proportion to the force. He grunted in pain as he felt a hand grip his hair and jerk his head up off the mattress. He was laid back down a moment later, but he could feel that something was different.

He could feel the rope on the back of his neck. Despite the unexpected, terrifying assault, Jamie’s long cock was still erect, slapping against his own lean belly as his body rocked with the purposeful thrusting of the man on top of him. As the dude crossed the ends of the rope over the front of his throat, Jamie’s dick started oozing in anticipation. He had a live one. This guy was gonna fuck him good. And a hard alpha male like him pretending to choke…

And then the dude pulled the rope taut. Jamie’s perspective changed immediately as the cord sank deeply into his skin. Jamie’s eyes widened; Brad had never cut off his air so completely so early. And besides, it hurt like fuck. The dude was gonna have to let up or this was gonna be over real fast.

Jamie tried to cry out, to tell the older man to ease up a bit, but found that his throat was too constricted to be able to make an intelligible sound. He turned his bulging eyes up to the dude’s face and for the first time during the encounter, experienced true fear—just after the nick of time, so to speak.

The dude was bearing down on him, straight-arming the tight cord into his neck. It was the look in the eyes, though, that managed to pierce through Jamie’s alcohol-induced haze and spark true terror in his soul. It was a look of lust, mixed with contempt and rage. Seeing it made Jamie instantly aware of his vulnerable position; a larger, stronger man was holding him to the bed with his huge cock up Jamie’s ass and a cord wrapped tightly around Jamie’s neck.

That’s when he finally realized what was happening. This guy wasn’t gonna let go. He wasn’t pretending. He was gonna take Jamie all the way down that path to the very end.

Jamie panicked. He began flailing wildly, trying to batter his way free. The dude shifted both ends of the cord to one hand, never creating any slack in the process. Jamie still couldn’t breathe, but now the man had one arm free. He drew back and began pummeling Jamie’s face. Bruises bloomed on Jamie’s tan cheeks as a series of roundhouse blows taught him the virtue of accepting his fate.

With each shuddering smack of fist against flesh, Jamie’s colon tightened involuntarily; even in his pain and fear, he could feel it—but he didn’t know what the feeling was. Since he had no way of knowing that his rectum was contracting, he thought the dude’s dick was swelling to completely fill his ass every time he got punched.

This was going way too far. Jamie’s eyes, protruding from the orbits, began to leak tears. He wanted to stop, to get off the ride. He wrapped his lean, strong legs around the dude’s heaving, sweaty flanks in a vain attempt to force him off. His Nike kicks drummed helplessly on the man’s back. His face was beginning to swell and turn red, and he was gagging uncontrollably; if his esophagus hadn’t been closed off, he’d have been vomiting. But it still wasn’t too late. If the cord came off now, it could all still be okay.

That was when he made his fatal mistake. Giving in to utter panic, Jamie clawed and scrabbled furiously at the dude, scraping and scratching along the man’s hard, hairy chest, breaking the skin and clawing out hair.

The dude grimaced and leaned down with his face up against Jamie’s. Jamie could feel the man’s stubble graze his cheek as he hissed, “You’re gonna pay for that, you fucking slut. You marked me. But you’re my bitch, remember? So now I gotta mark you even harder. See, this is how I know you’re my bitch; I’m gonna mark you as my property—for good.”

With a deep grunt from the center of his chest, the dude spit into Jamie’s face. Wrapping the ends of the cord twice around his hands to improve his grip, the dude yanked it tight around Jamie’s neck.

After Brad’s play-smother, Jamie was unprepared for the dude’s first true choke. Compared to the intensity of the burning agony around his windpipe now, that first one seemed as benign as Brad’s. His fingers scrabbled frantically at his throat but were unable to find leverage; the cord had sunk in too deeply for him to reach.

Jamie felt the pounding, excruciating pressure increase above the stricture. His head felt like it was being over-inflated; his eyes, his tongue, the very skin of his face, all were swelling. A fire was burning in the center of his chest; he thrashed wildly in an attempt to escape it. Somewhere in the depths of his fear-inflamed mind, he could feel the dude’s cock, like a red-hot shaft of iron shoved up his ass. But the pain in his chest and his head overrode that.

The dude was still, holding himself over Jamie’s thrashing, limber body. He didn’t really need to thrust anymore; he could just stay still and let Jamie’s quivering, flailing hole work his cock for him. He remained poised above the kid’s wiry, convulsing body like a steel cage, one shaft of which held the boy to the bed by his ass.

Jamie couldn’t actually feel his face turning black. He could feel his tongue swelling and forcing his jaws apart, though. He could feel his eyes bulging out to the point that he could no longer close his lids. He couldn’t feel the petechial hemorrhages or the blood vessels rupture in the white of his eyes, but he could see the great bursts and blooms of nothingness as his eyes began to misfire from lack of oxygen.

By the time white frothy drool began to leak down his cheek from the corners of his blue lips, Jamie wasn’t really capable of conscious thought. There was nothing left but a nervous system growing increasingly unstable under progressive brain damage. His long, thin cock, all seven inches, was erect and glistening.

Suddenly, a massive convulsion wracked Jamie’s body. As his muscles tightened involuntarily, cum flew from the end of his dick in thin, ropy strands; it looked like someone stomped on a tube of toothpaste.

The older man shuddered, grunting and groaning as Jamie’s colon sucked out his spunk in a suction created by the death throes of the rectum. Gripping the cord in one hand and a handful of Jamie’s hair in another, he jerked them violently apart. As Jamie’s neck snapped under the strain, sending a last constrictive shockwave through his body and milking that last drop of seed out of the dude’s cock, he gave a last strangled cry, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” before relaxing his hard, tensed body.

After a couple of minutes, the dude’s breathing returned to normal. He pulled himself out of the corpse’s ass, his boots hitting the floor with a thump. He walked into the bathroom and spent a little time cleaning himself up.

When he came out, Jamie was still lying stretched out across the bed, legs spread, arms still clutching his throat, blood-stained eyes rolled back so that only a tiny arc of the iris was visible. It was too good of an opportunity to miss. The dude’s dick was still hard. He slipped it into the corpse’s mouth, forcing it past the dry, swollen tongue, feeling it rasp against the sensitive bud of nerves on the underside of his dick head. As he pumped his shaft down the dead kid’s throat, he could feel a slight obstruction on his deepest thrusts; it was the crushed section of Jamie’s esophagus.

The dude came so hard it overflowed the corpse’s oral cavity and leaked out onto the face. It took another few minutes in the bathroom to clean up for the second time. The dude left without a look back.

It was another couple of hours before Brad got home. As Jamie had thought, he’d fucked someone else who’d dropped him off afterwards. Brad was stunned and shocked when he turned on the bedroom light and revealed Jamie’s throttled, abused corpse.

Shocked and stunned, yes. Surprised, no. Brad had known that Jamie could be naïve and randy when drunk, so he had always kinda thought this might happen someday. He’d tried to imagine how he would handle it and now he knew.

Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t fuck Jamie’s body; he couldn’t afford to contaminate the evidence.

But he took plenty of photos before calling 911.

M4M4snuff

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories, Victim POV2 Comments

“M4M—looking now.

Aggressive top looking for service.  32, built, 170, 6’4”.  Can host.  Looking for young only.  HMU.”

That’s all it says, but that’s all it has to.  I’m already hard just reading it.  No idea who this dude is, but I want his cum.  Thank you, Craigslist.

I reply with my stats:

“Hey man, want your dick.  19, 5’9”, 123 lbs.  Blond and smooth.  Willing to travel for your load. –teenslutboi”

I navigate the obstacle course of my bedroom floor, littered with piles of dirty laundry, to the tiny bathroom area.  The vanity and sink are actually part of the open closet; as I check my look in the mirror, I can see my remaining clean clothes hanging behind me.

What I wear will depend on the reply.  Fuck, man, please let him reply.  I’m so anxious my hands are trembling when I reach for the phone.  I can barely pull up my email account.

Man, I know I’m high, but there must be something else going on; it’s not like I’ve seen a pic of this guy, even.  But there’s something about his ad that makes me know I want him.

Fuck, there’s an answer. Please, please, pleasepleaseplease….

“Roehampton Suites, 15th and Park.  Reply when you get here and wait for directions.”

I look at the time—it’s about a quarter past eleven.  I’m one block off Park and four from 15th.  “OMW.  Be there by 11:30.”

I know the place; I’ve had hookups there before.  The entrance is locked after 10 pm.  There is no real lobby, the street door leads to a glass cubicle.  From it, the door on the left leads to the check-in desk, which is set so far back it can’t be seen.  The door on the right leads to the guest entrance and gives access to the rooms.

He’s gonna have to come down and let me in.  If I don’t like what I see, I can always leave.  But I think I’m gonna like it.

But that clears up one thing—I can’t dress too much like a slut.  Well, I mean, I ain’t gonna cover myself with a burka, but I can’t go full-on whore the way I’d like; this motel ain’t that kinda place.

So I find a clean simple t-shirt of thin white cotton.  I’ve shrunk it slightly.  My torso is smooth and slim, but the shirt is tight enough to highlight my small but firm pecs.  I tuck the shirt into the tightest pair of skinny jeans I have—they’re black, with elaborate designer stitching on the rear pockets, which draws attention to the way they lovingly cradle my firm bubble butt.

I cap it off—literally—with a black ball cap worn backwards, shoved down on my head.  Even so, the mirror shows unruly strands of blond hair peeking out underneath.

Just before leaving, I lace my white leather sneakers forcefully around my feet, tightening them almost painfully.

I’m ready to be used.

It actually takes me twenty minutes to get there; I missed a light because of an ambulance going through the intersection at the wrong moment.  I send a reply the moment I throw my car into park; I’ve parked on the side of the building out of sight of the entrance.

His response is swift and abrupt; he’ll be at the door in exactly three minutes to let me in.  I leave the car and hurry around the corner to be there in time.

Holy fuck, I’m glad I am.  He’s there—it has to be him.  Jesus Christ, what a fucking stud.

His short hair is dark and slightly curly—and receding slightly at the temples; a sure sign of an overabundance of testosterone.  His t-shirt is tighter than mine, stretched tautly across the massive swelling of his chest muscles.  It’s the same shade of electric blue as his eyes, coldly appraising me the way I’m appraising him.  The cuffs of the sleeves stretch tightly across his large biceps and down the inside of his left forearms is a large tattoo of a winged skull.

His jeans are as tight as his shirt; they aren’t skinny jeans like mine because skinny jeans wouldn’t fit over the massive knots of muscles in his thighs and calves.  Under the frayed denim cuffs, I can see he’s got on a pair of worn and scuffed square-toed ropers.

Did I say I could leave?  I can’t leave.  I have to have him.  I crave his cock.  I want his sperm so bad, please let him want me too, oh please…

I sigh with relief as he opens the doors and lets me in.  He gives me another quick cold glance before turning silently away and striding down the brightly-lit but empty hallway.  I follow, almost having to run to keep up with the pace of his long legs.

He arrives at his room and opens the door before I catch up; I manage to slip inside quickly—but realize I never caught a glimpse of the room number.  Not that it matters.

The dude turns to look at me calmly.  I notice the muscles bunched at the corners of his hard, frim jaw.  A heavy scruff of five o’clock shadow darkens the jaw as well as his cheeks.  “Well, what ya, waitin’ for, faggot?  Strip!” he barks.

I comply; even if I didn’t want to obey this stud, I don’t think I could have resisted his command.  There’s something about the scent coming off him—pheromones, maybe—that overrides the smell of bleach and industrial cleaning solvents in the relentlessly clean room and establishes his alpha status.

Sitting on the bed, I start with my shoes, unlacing them carefully before prying them off.  The dude stands over, watching, one hand rubbing an almost frighteningly huge bulge in his crotch.  He continues to rub himself as I stand up and wriggle out of my skinny jeans, so tight I almost need to peel them out of the crack of my ass.

Once free of the jeans, I jerk the shirt up and off over my head, taking my cap with it.  I stand before the dominant stud, nude except for my white ankle socks, my long, thin, vein-wrapped cock standing to attention in front of me.

He smirks at me and I know what he thinks.  He thinks I’m just some useless slut who wants his cock—and he’s right.  I’m anxious to prove it to him.

Suddenly he reaches down and grabs the hem of his t-shirt.  In a much smoother move than mine, he whips it off over his head in one swift motion, revealing his enormous pecs and six-pack abs.

There’s a dusting of dark fur across the stud’s bulging chest which darkens into a clearly-defined trail as it works its way down his firm belly and disappears below the waistband of his jeans.  A long, defined ridge in the denim extends outward from his groin; as he rubs his right hand over it, the ridge extends even further.

Holy fuck, what I have I gotten myself into?  I want his dick, but I’m not sure I can handle it—it’s literally that big.

But then my eyes are drawn inexorably upwards along the thick fur trail lining his belly, up past his muscular chest, glistening with sweat, his large dark nipples hard and erect like his cock, to his cold, hard, handsome face.  I know I’m going to submit.  No matter how much it hurts, for him, I’ll submit.

His eyes drift behind me.  He grunts and looks back at me.  I get it; he wants me on the bed.  Without allowing my gaze to shift from his face, I slowly back towards the double bed. I stop when I feel the slick polyester comforter against the back of my calves.  Gingerly, I ease my way back up onto the bed.  I hadn’t paid any attention to it before; the comforter and blankets, I now realize, have been turned down and soon the thin sheets, stiff with starch, are scraping my bare, smooth asscheeks.

Feeling behind me with one arm, I manage to snag the pillows and get them placed under my head.  I finally settle in on my back, my legs spread, my dick rising in front of me like a hood ornament.

I’m ready for him.

Silently, he continues to stare down at me, one hand on his groin, the other rubbing and fondling one of his nipples.  I can’t tell if that faint look of contempt on his face is his natural expression or not, but it doesn’t matter.  Somehow, it only seems to make him even hotter.

He unzips his fly.  He has to reach in with both hands to wrest his monster hog free from the confines of his tight jeans.

Oh fuck, it’s even bigger than I thought it would be—how is that even possible?  From here, it looks like a vine-wrapped fireplug.  Clear beads of precum glint on the swollen purple head.

A lump forms in my throat; I have trouble swallowing.  I cast my eyes downward as I gulp, only to find my gaze pulled irresistibly upwards.  His thick-soled ropers planted firmly on the thin carpet, those faded jeans becoming tighter around his legs the further up his thighs my eyes travel, that jutting, bobbing, dripping shaft, his massive chest with its fine haze of fur heaving in anticipation, his eyes—

Oh fuck, his eyes—what is that look?  I’ve never seen that kinda look before…

I think he’s more ready for me than I am for him.

He lunges—wait, what?  Dude, no lemme prepare myself—no wait stop for fuck’s sake use some lube don’t just hawk up phlegm on my ass get something to—

FUCK STOP IT OH GOD THE PAIN YOU’RE TEARING ME FUCK FUCK THE PAIN

Breathe, just keep breathing, he can’t keep going his cock can’t be that long shit shit shit it feels like I’m getting a spear shoved up my ass FUCK DUDE STOP PLEASE OH PLEASE

There’s nothing else right now, nothing else in my universe but this huge, powerful man fucking me brutally in the ass.  The weight of his muscles pressing down on me, his fur scratching me as his body slides over mine on a film of our mingled sweat, the waves of manscent and pheromones exuded by his body as he pins me down and reams out my colon—this is all there is.

But he’s stopped.  He’s not driving in any further, oh thank you Jesus.  I can’t take any more.

I can’t speak.  I’m too full of cock.  My sphincter has already collapsed under the onslaught of his shaft, but I’m afraid to move.  Fuck oh fuck he’s so huge inside me if he moves at all he’s gonna tear me he’s gonna make me bleed please no dude…

Then he speaks.

“Almost all the way in, motherfucker.  Ya likin’ it?  I ain’t even started fuckin’ ya yet.  And I gotta special happy ending for ya—don’t worry, faggot, you ain’t ever gonna cum harder than you’re gonna tonight!”

What?  No, dude, there can’t be more, it already feels like you’re raping my fucking intestines, you gotta be OH FUCK NO CHRIST YOU’RE FUCKING HOLES IN MY GUTS JESUS NO—

It hurts so bad how can I feel anything else but I can

I can feel his denim-covered thighs pumping like pistons as he drives his shaft even deeper into my rectum

I can feel his hard firm six-pack abs thrusting against my smooth flat belly

I can feel his hands gripping my wrists and forcing my arms back above my head on the bed

I can feel his scuffed square-toed shitkickers scraping against my socks and lower calves

I can feel every inch of the hot hard man as he painfully violates my body and I love it I love the fucking and the thrusting and even the pain that sharp spearing agony hurts so fucking good

He sees it.  He knows, and I know he knows.  Good.  He knows I’ll give him whatever he wants for the sake of his load.  It’ll make him happy—and I want this hot as fuck stud to be happy.

Except it’s not.  What’s wrong?  Why is he looking at me like that?  The contempt was sexy, but this is—is—what?  It’s not hate; it’s too erotic for that; what the fuck is going on?

He lets go of my wrists and rises up somewhat, looking down on me.  He’s still pumping my ass, fuck yeah—it hurts, oh god it hurts so bad but I’m falling in with his rhythm.  Why is he looking at me like that?  What is he

His hands oh shit what the fuck dude get ‘em off I can’t breathe what the fuck are you doing

Dude no get off what the fuck off me let go why are your hands around my throat what what’s that

“Time to die, faggot.  You worthless homo bitches always fall for the Craigslist ads and the motel hookups.  You stupid piece of shit, you make it so easy.  Just another useless queer gettin’ raped and strangled in a motel room.  Yeah, you heard me, cunt.  You’re dying.  I’m gonna kill ya.  So c’mon and fight it, cocksucker—you’re gonna lose, but your struggle is gonna jack me off so good!”

What the fuck he’s killing me so he can cum what OH SHIT HE’S GONNA FUCKIN’ KILL ME THIS PSYCHO IS GONNA STRANGLE ME TO DEATH

No no no no get the fuck off me I gotta get away gotta get away I can’t his rod is impaling my ass pinning me to the bed like I’ve been speared

air air no air oh my god GET OFF GET OFF I CAN STILL FEEL YOU IN ME FUCK DUDE NO WHY WHY I JUST WANTED YOUR LOAD

it hurts so fucking bad his hands are tightening like a vise I can’t pull them away he’s too strong higher maybe

no his rock hard biceps too strong my hands slipping on sweat over his winged skull tattoo

his chest his hard heaving chest no get off beat against it fuck like beating a brick wall no fuck this can’t be happening oh god oh fuck oh please no beat and slap and thrash just GET THE FUCK OFF OH FUCKING HELL PLEASE OH GOD NO

his face his eyes claw claw make him stop rough steel wool that’s his scruff his stubble on his cheeks oh fuck those cold blue eyes

they’re not cold anymore hot hot with bloodlust he wants me to die

oh shit still on me and in me I can’t break free he fills me utterly

the pain the pressure my throat my chest my head my dick what the fuck why is my dick so hard

he’s still squeezing my throat as he thrusts that massive shaft up my colon crunching pain what the fuck

MY WINDPIPE OH GOD OH FUCK HE CRUSHED MY THROAT I FELT SHIT BREAK I HEARD SHIT BREAK IN MY THROAT

NO NO NO BEAT AND FLAIL GET OFF NOW I CAN’T THE PAIN DUDE YOUR COCK SWELLING IN MY ASS OH FUCK MY CHEST

what’s happening was gonna meet a friend for coffee after wasn’t supposed to die tonight just looking for a quick fuck why why

a vacuum I’m trying to breathe in a vacuum fight try harder keep going harder air if I try hard enough I can breathe I know it forget about the man holding you down and traumatizing your colon just breathe asshole you can do it

NO I CAN’T NO AIR PAIN HIS HANDS ARE STILL SQUEEZING I CAN’T PRY THEM OFF HE’S SPTTING IN MY FACE

“Die, you cocksucking faggot, die with my dick up your disgusting homo fuckhole, you worthless fucking cunt, yeah? Huh?  Ain’t no one gonna care about yer useless cumslurping ass gettin’ offed, huh?  Ya like that?  C’mon, cunt, fight for it, fight for the air.  Work the spunk outta my shaft as you die so your death ain’t a total waste of flesh, you piece of shit!”

what I don’t

AIR OH PLEASE AIR

it’s fading cold and black but the pain won’t fade why please just let me die but the pain won’t go away

my chest fuck it hurts the pain the pressure please let me die

my throat fuck why dude why are you still throttling me I’m dying you’re only doing this so you can keep hurting me

my head the black fireworks the maddening buzz of cicadas such agony

my dick what why so stiff so erect my sack so puckered and shriveled what the fuck is happening

please no don’t do this maybe I can still live please let me live let go

your cock oh shit it’s so big inside me the pain is fading black roses are blooming and I am full of you

no please it feels so good but it means death I know it means death but it’s so good

fuck the burning the boiling in my ass your face is fading but I can still see the snarl that’s your cum you’re cumming in me as I die that’s why

the pain the terrible burning pain in my cock what the fuck im cumming thick ropy strands

fuck feels like my spunk is being ripped outta my cock i didn’t know it would hurt this bad i didn’t know it would hurt this good

oh fuck cold and dark the pain THE PAIN NO IT HURTS TOO GOOD I DON’T WANNA DIE YET IT HURTS TOO GOOD—

seed flowing into me and out of me

Mac and Bill 1

On By m3mayhemIn Mac and Bill Stories3 Comments

They had scoped out the kill and were ready.

They didn’t know who the client was. Sometimes the client was private and sometimes it was a government contract. It didn’t matter. All they needed to know was who the targets were and whether they were supposed to die easy or hard.

This job, they were supposed to die hard.

The targets were a couple of drug lords. Intelligence had it that they were meeting in a neutral location to work out a territorial dispute. They had kept security light— some local punks who hadn’t been able to pay their tabs.

Mac grinned as he sighted the first sentry. He and Bill were gonna enjoy this. The actual targets would be done too quickly—a couple of taps to the head and it’d be over. But the men standing guard–oh, yeah, this was gonna be fun.

Mac and Bill had over a hundred kills of this kind between them. They’d worked out a method that involved incredible precision. Mac had found on an earlier kill that if a knife enters the target’s brain at a certain point and depth, it strikes an area that controls orgasm. The target will drop like a rag doll and cream his jeans on the way down.

He’d practiced it on his next few hits and when he felt confident, he demonstrated it to Bill. It had been on a job south of the border. Bill had already whacked his target—a Mexican hardman who gagged and coughed his life away in Bill’s arms after his throat had been slit.

The sentry Mac was going for was a young man with dirty jeans and combat boots. He wore a tight black tee which covered the handgun tucked down the front of his pants. He’d heard his buddy’s dying gasps and started moving in that direction. Mac had come behind him and clamped a hand over the guard’s mouth; ramming his razor-sharp knife into the guy’s kidney. As the hardman stiffened in agony and shock, Mac had called Bill and had him watch as he lifted the man’s chin and slammed the knife up through the guard’s jaw, puncturing his tongue and soft palate and piercing his brain. After seeing the massive, sticky wet spot form in the dying man’s crotch, Bill had been a willing and able student of form.

Now it was time to send these two punks out the same way.

Mac saw that Bill had the same hard grin as he did. This was gonna be real smooth. These two were practically kids, barely old enough to buy their own beer. Hardman wanna-bes. The wanted to be men; they were gonna die like men. And it was gonna hurt.

The two mercs had gotten close enough to overhear the guards. From their conversation, they had learned the names of each. Danny was short and dark, with shoulder-length black hair. He was wearing tight jeans and hightops, but had no shirt covering his well-developed chest. Bobby was the other one; he was practically a skinhead, with a razor-thin goatee. He was wearing a white wifebeater and showing the tattoos on his muscled arms to an admiring Danny. At the start of the conversation, Bobby had pulled a bag of weed out of his boot and fished papers from the back pocket of his jeans. They had passed a joint back and forth while talking about how fucked up they’d gotten and how many bitches they’d reamed out. When they finished, Bobby had rolled the each their own before they split up.

The warriors’ smiles got tighter. High on guard duty—these two were the definition of ‘young, dumb, and full of cum.’

Time to let that cum out.

Bobby was walking further up the road. Mac trailed him silently, timing the kill.

The hit on Danny was quick and brutal. It was over in an instant, but a lot happened in that instant.

Danny had just taken a lung-busting hit of his own from the joint when Bill grabbed the hair on the top of his head and pulled it back. At the same time, he brought his commando knife upward into Danny’s exposed jaw, slamming it home into the punk’s brain. Danny’s eyes opened wide with pain and fear as his cock swelled and began spurting uncontrollably. The dying punk jerked backwards several times, grinding his ass into Bill’s crotch before going rag-doll. Bill lowered the still-twitching corpse to the ground and turned to follow Mac.

Mac was crouched down in a ditch about ten yards behind Bobby. Bobby was fucked up—he’d been hotboxing his joint and had smoked it down in less than two minutes. Mac wasn’t worried about cover; the guy was too stoned to have any reaction speed.

Mac crept in silently for the kill. About ten feet behind the guard, he pulled his knife from his boot sheath.

He jumped forward quickly, one hand clamping the punk’s mouth, his fingerless leather glove forming a seal to muffle any noise. The other hand pressed the knife into the base of the guard’s head. There was a resistance, then a slight crunching sound as the tip of the knife penetrated the base of the skull. After that, it slid in smooth and easy.

Bobby’s reaction was immediate. He stiffened in a seizure that jerked his body erect. He arched backwards and his eyes rolled back. A grunt was forced out that was muffled to a moan by Mac’s glove.

“Shut up and die, motherfucker,” Mac whispered in Bobby’s ear.

In the dark buzzing vortex of his swiftly-diminishing consciousness, Bobby somehow knew that while he was being told to shut up and die he was spunking so hard it was agony.

After that, there was nothing left but the convulsions of brain trauma. Bobby thrashed violently, his boots digging furrows in the dirt. Mac held him tightly and reamed his knife into Bobby’s brain. The punk shuddered and went limp in Mac’s arms. Mac lowered him to the ground and wiped his knife on the corpse’s shirt.

Looking up, he saw Bill had been enjoying the show. They quickly regrouped and pressed on. There were at least two more guards between them and the final targets.

Things got quiet after they left. The dead meat that had been Bobby still kicked a little as random nerves fired. One of these kicks dislodged the bag of weed in his boot.

Danny’s body lay on its back, glazed eyes staring at nothing. Down the left side of the face was a small trickle of blood from the nose and another from the corner of the mouth. The body occasionally gave a slight twitch, the hightops scraping the dirt.

Mac and Bill crept silently up the road, leaving the piles of twitching meat behind them to rot.

Three hundred yards down, a sound to their right made them freeze. There shouldn’t have been any more guards this far out from the target, but intelligence had been incomplete before. Mac sent Bill further down the road to reconnoiter and went to investigate the sounds himself.

Moving silently through the underbrush, Mac emerged suddenly into a clearing. Right in front of him, leaning against a tree, was a young guard beating his meat. This was Frank.

Frank was wearing an open shirt-sleeve work shirt over his tight white undershirt. His jeans, opened at the fly to display his fully erect cock, were tucked into his dirty, slouched work boots. In his right boot was a half-ounce bag of weed—it was their advance pay for guard duty.

Frank was higher than a kite and had been thinking about the bitch he’d banged in an alleyway last night as he jacked himself. Precum was just starting to ooze from his mushroom tip when merc materialized in front of him. Franks bloodshot eyes widened as he tried to focus on the man who was going to end his life. The guy was wearing all black, from the cap on his close-shaven head to the tactical gloves and the combat boots.

Then bright pain exploded in Frank’s face.

Mac had been caught slightly by surprise, but hadn’t hesitated in wasting the punk. He’d stunned the little fuck with a line-drive punch straight from the shoulder. The steel knuckles built into his gloves added power to the blow.

Frank, semi-conscious, reeled away from Mac. His cheekbone was broken and his lips split. His dick, forgotten but still hard, bobbed in the wind.

Mac stepped forward and slid his left hand under Frank’s left arm and across his chest, grabbing his right shoulder. He reached his right hand around the back of Frank’s head to grab his chin from the left and pulled both of his arms back violently.

There was a cracking sound as Frank’s vertebrae shattered and his spinal cord ruptured. His head was twisted 180 degrees and his stunned, terrified eyes were staring directly into Mac’s.

Frank’s body stiffened and shuddered. His muscles went rigid involuntarily, forcing a geyser of cum to spew from his dick. Faint gasping sounds escaped his lips as he struggled to draw air with muscles and lungs that had stopped working.

There was another shudder and another fountain of spunk. Then Frank’s legs gave way, his boots buckling at the ankles and digging out paths in the dirt. Mac held him all the way down, starting into his eyes. The last thing the punk saw as his wasted life slipped away was the merciless face of the hard man who’d offed him.

Kneeling on the dead meat, with his leg on the corpse’s ass and his gloved hand pressing strongly on the blank, staring face, Mac paused and listed. These fucks usually traveled in pairs.

Sure enough, there was a rustling sound ahead and a little to the left. Mac moved quietly back into the woods, leaving the body in the clearing behind him to stiffen. After a while, the cum dried, leaving the corpse with glazed eyes and glazed thighs.

Mac was moving quietly parallel to the road. About ten yards beyond the clearing where he’d left Frank’s body, he was brought up short by a motorcycle hidden in the brush, with a helmet hanging from the handlebars. The sound he was tracking was louder now, and seemed to come from his right. He moved off in that direction.

It didn’t take him long to find the other guard. He was taking a leak into a small stream, with his back to Mac. This one had a shock of unruly black hair and a gold loop in his ear caught the light. He was wearing a white t-shirt tucked into tight leather pants cinched by some kind of metallic belt. The leather pants, in turn, were tucked into high biker boots. This one was young, about nineteen or twenty.

Mac slowly reached for the length of nylon cord in his pocket. He looped it around the kid’s neck in a flash and pulled hard.

The punk, as high as the others, hadn’t seen it coming. He flailed wildly, struggling for breath. Mac tightened his hold on the guard’s windpipe and braced himself as his victim fought—vainly—for his life.

The punk had some fight in him, too. He spent some time grabbing ineffectively at the cord digging into his neck, but Mac was pulling it violently and it was embedded in the flesh. That was when the kid panicked.

He stopped struggling with the cord and reached up, trying to connect with anything that would release his agonized throat and let him breathe again. In his terror of death, he lost control of his bladder. His dick was still out and the piss dribbled down his leather pants onto his desperately kicking boots.

The guard’s flailing hands batted aimlessly at Mac’s face and caught at his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, Mac could see that the stupid little fuck had a tribal armband tattoo. Then the victim’s hands were in his face again and he decided enough was enough.

He kicked the guy’s boots out from under him and kneeled to follow him down. The guard was now sitting on the ground with his legs jerking out in front, boots tearing up the dirt and leaves. Mac could see the pot leaf emblazoned on the punk’s belt buckle. He wondered if the kid had any idea that he was going to die wearing it when he put it on today. He gave the cord a hard tug and there was a crunching sound.

Mac knew he could let the punk go now; his windpipe was crushed and he’d be dead in sixty seconds no matter what. But he held on, watching the guy’s flaccid cock suddenly swell and turn a vivid purple—the same purple as the guard’s face. A foamy trickle of saliva escaped past the kid’s swollen, protruding tongue. His hands had stopped beating violently at Mac’s face and were moving slower, almost caressing him.

The punk’s random jerking became a rhythmic convulsion. With each spasm, the kid shot a load and he shot hard. Mac felt a splatter of semen on his cheek. The guy shot his next three loads into his own face. Cum dripped from his dull, half-open eyes down over the tip of his tongue and off his chin.

Mac held on to the wetly pulsating meat for a little while longer before removing his cord. He had to tug at it as it was buried deeply in the guard’s throat. He turned and left as quietly as he had come, on his way to rejoin Bill.

The silence that settled over the kill after Mac’s departure was only broken by the death throes of the corpse. These became fewer over time, but with each spasm, a slight trickle of sperm leaked out onto the leather pants.

Mac found Bill near what the map had marked as the last turn in the road. Beyond this point, the road ascended in a straight line to the cabin where the final targets were supposed to be located.

Naturally, there were another couple of guards around the bend.

Bill had already scoped them out. He told Mac that he’d gathered from their conversation that they were brothers. The younger brother wouldn’t give them any problems—he’d only come along to get high and would be easy to drop. The older brother, with bright red hair, would be tougher. He’d worked for the targets before and acted as if he knew how to handle himself. He didn’t, but he could still cause problems.

Mac went carefully forward and checked them out. They were standing by the far side of the road. Both had dressed similarly in tight black shirts and tight jeans. The ginger guard was in his mid-20’s and had his shirt tucked into his jeans. When he turned his back to Mac, he could see a 9-millimeter jammed down the back of the guy’s jeans, the handle out for access. Ginger was wearing combat boots and thick leather bands around his wrists, one of them holding a watch.

Junior was about 18 or 19. He was wearing a ball cap and didn’t have his shirt tucked in. He was squatting with his back to Mac, who could see that the kid was going commando. He’d tucked his jeans into ropers.

Mac returned to Bill.

“I found two more guard back there,” he said.

“Any problems?”

“Nah. They kicked a little. But we need to get one of these to talk. Need to find out if there’s any other surprises.”

Bill grinned.

“Good cop, bad cop? It’s my turn to be bad cop.”

They sprang out simultaneously. Bill went for Ginger, kicking his legs out. The guard fell to his knees with Bill behind him, one hand clenched in his hair. The other held a knife at the side of Ginger’s throat.

Junior had risen and was facing Mac when he jumped. Mac slammed the kid back into a tree and pressed hard on him, gloved hand over his mouth. He too had a knife, pointed at Junior’s belly.

Bill yanked up on Ginger’s hair.

“Ok, you little cocksucker, talk!”

Ginger snapped back, “Fuck you! I ain’t tellin’ ya shit!”

Bill hadn’t expected him to. He turned to Mac with a smile.

“He says he don’t wanna.”

Mac eased his pressure on Junior’s mouth just enough to let him speak.

“What about you? You feel like talking? “

“Don’t you say a word, dude!” shouted Ginger. “Those guys’ll fuck us up bad!”

Mac leaned forward, pinning Junior to the tree with his full body weight. He forced Junior’s head to the right, giving him a direct view of his brother.

“Watch what happens if you don’t talk. Go for it, Bill.”

With a violent jerk, Bill thrust his knife into Ginger’s throat, the tip coming out the other side. The sharp serrated blade tore through the punk’s vocal cords and windpipe, neatly spearing the adam’s apple.

Ginger made a choked gurgling sound. His face was a mask of pain and terror.

“Watch him,” whispered Mac into Junior’s ear, “watch him die.”

Ginger’s hands flailed helplessly in front of him. His body jerked and shuddered as a pink foam began to leak from the corners of his mouth. He sagged forward. The only thing keeping him from falling face down in the dirt was Bill’s hold on his hair.

Bill had gotten rock hard. He pulled Ginger’s head back into his groin. In his last few seconds alive, Ginger was dimly aware of only one other thing beside the agony of death—the sensation of a hot iron rod covered in fabric pressed against the back of his head.

Mac eased up on Junior’s mouth again. “Now talk, bitch,” he growled. “How many others between here and the cabin?”

Junior started crying—they’d been right; he was the weak one. When he spoke, it came out in one long gasp of terror, all at once.

“Ohfuckdon’tkillmepleasedon’tilltellyaanythingohfuckohshit,” he pleaded.

“Quit babbling, you little shit and tell me—anyone else between here and the cabin?’

Junior gulped hard and just barely managed to control his panic. “No one, dude,” he sobbed, “just them two dudes that went up there and the guys driving their cars—I swear. Fuck, dude, don’t kill me—I told ya what ya wanted to know. Oh God, please don’t kill me!’

Mac clamped his hand back over Junior’s mouth and turned to Bill with a grin.

“Whaddaya think?”

“Nah, he’s useless. Waste the little fuck.”

Mac turned back to Junior. “Sorry, kid,” he said with a smile. “If he says I gotta waste ya, I gotta waste ya.”

Junior stared at him with terrified eyes, He began struggling, tears running down his face.

Mac stabbed his knife upwards into Junior’s belly. Even with Mac’s gloved hand firmly covering his mouth, faint screams could be heard.

Mac slowly withdrew the knife. “You’re gonna die with your boots on, like a real man,” he whispered. “This is gonna hurt.”

With a single controlled jab, he rammed the knife up through Junior’s jaw and tongue, embedding it in the soft palate. The intense burst of agony combined with the shock of the gut stab had halted Junior’s struggle. He stood shuddering, his eyes wide.

Mac jammed the knife up into the kid’s brain. Junior’s eyes dilated, then rolled back so only the white could be seen. His tight muscular body arced forward, grinding his groin into Mac’s. Mac felt Junior’s hard dick rubbing against his own through several layers of fabric, getting him hard as well.

Then he felt liquid on his balls and the base of his cock and knew that the kid was cumming so hard in his dying moments that the spunk had soaked through. Mac lost control and shot his wad. As his own jizz spread over his belly and the kid’s cum oozed onto his balls, Mac skullfucked Junior with his knife, reaming in and out and shredding the kid’s brain.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mac saw that Bill hadn’t been able to control himself either. Still holding Ginger’s corpse by the hair, he’d positioned the body so it was facing him. He pulled his long rigid dick out and stuck it in Ginger’s mouth. A quick, violent facefuck and Bill growled, then gave a low groan, sending ropy strands of his spunk over Ginger’s mangled larynx. He was still oozing when he pulled out, sperm mixing with the blood drying at the corner of Ginger’s mouth.

“Sorry,” muttered Bill when he noticed Mac watching him. “Just seeing the two of you…well…”

“Don’t apologize. I didn’t know it would be like that. We’ll have to find a way to get ourselves off on every kill. Why should we let these fucks have all the fun?” As he finished saying this he kicked Junior’s blank staring face with his steel-toed boot.

“Yeah,” said Bill. “Shame we can’t have much fun with the targets. But I still got more spunk of my own to let out.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Mac. They cleaned themselves using the shirts of their dead fuckbuddies. “I think we can still have some fun during cleanup.”

They started climbing the hill in the direction of the cabin.

The approach to the cabin was difficult. Just a few yards past the spot where Ginger and Junior were turning cold and stiff, the line of sight forced them into the treeline—Mac and Bill could be seen from the cabin if they stayed on the road. The need for silence slowed them, especially if the two “drivers”—more likely professional killers—were outside.

They were. One of them was clearly a hardman type. Well-built, with thick short dark curls, he wore a white t-shirt and jeans, both skin-tight. His camo-patterned cap was backwards and his combat boots were desert camo.

The other guard surprised the mercs. He was about 18, little more than a kid. A black wifebeater showed tattoos on his muscled arms and pecs. His strong legs ended in colorful expensive sneakers. They later found that he was the nephew of one of the targets. He’d killed before and thought he was a major bad-ass. Mac and Bill agreed not to kill him right away.

They had plans for him.

The guards were standing between the cabin door and the cars, which were parked parallel to the front of the building. By keeping low and moving carefully, Mac and Bill had reached the other side of the cars, where they split up.

Bill whipped around the rear of the car and put the kid’s lights out. A lightning-fast blow to the jaw knocked the boy out.

The kid grunted when he got decked and the hardman heard. He turned towards Bill and opened his mouth to say something. He never had the chance. Mac was on him immediately, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other slashing mercilessly at his throat with a knife.

The hardman fell to his knees, hands grasping his throat. A look of horror and disbelief was in his eyes—he’d cut the throats of several men himself, but he didn’t know the pain and terror of watching his life spurt out. He tried to scream in agony but no sound came from his mangled larynx. The only noise was the uncontrollable gasping and gurgling from the wound.

The guard fell face down in a swiftly-spreading pool. He spent his last few seconds coughing up blood and scrabbling his boots ineffectually on the ground. The smell of blood and piss filled the air.

Bill had hogtied the boy to make sure he stayed put. The kid started to moan quietly.

“Hey, we need to shut him up. Whaddaya think?”

“Hold on a sec,” said Mac. He unlaced the dead guard’s boots and pulled them off. He yanked the corpse’s socks off and tossed them to Bill. “Gag him with these.”

Bill balled the guard’s reeking socks and shoved them into the boy’s mouth. The kid had no choice but to lie quietly until the mercs came back for him.

Time to take out the targets. There were two of them, Carlos Camacho and Eddie Herrera. Carlos was in his late 20’s and seriously hardcore. He was a major player in street gang drug activity in the western part of the state. He was wanted on several murder charges. His head was shaved but he wore a goatee and his arms were covered in tattoos. Bill and Mac, each watching through different windows, had no difficulty identifying him. He wore a white sleeveless t-shirt and tight white chinos. On his feet were expensive ostrich-skin cowboy boots.

Eddie had come up from Mexico to facilitate the flow of the drugs to Carlos. On his arrival, he’d found a rival supplier trying to make inroads with Carlos. He’d resolved the issue by leaving the rival and his entourage of guards alone—as dismembered corpses in a ravine. He was here tonight to work out the final details of the deal with Carlos in a place where they wouldn’t be interrupted.

He had no clue that both the deal and his life were about to be cut off.

Eddie was in his early 30’s and was beautiful to look at. His large brown eyes with long lashes had looked into the death stare of many men without losing the charm of innocence. His face, though, was hard and cold, showing the killer inside. He wore a long-sleeved western shirt tucked into tight blue jeans that sported a large belt buckle. His cowboy boots were dusty and plain, far less costly that the ones sported by Carlos.

The mercs quickly got the drop on their targets. The door splintered as soon as Mac applied his boot to it. He and Bill burst into the main room of the cabin, aiming their silenced handguns, taking Carlos and Eddie by surprise. The thugs were helpless.

“On your knees, assholes!” shouted Mac.

Then went down on their knees and raised their hands. Since the intruders were wearing paramilitary gear, Carlos and Eddie thought they were some branch of law enforcement. They foresaw legal issues, loss of time and money.

They didn’t see death staring them in the face—but they would, very soon.

“What have you done with Jose?” demanded Eddie.

“Who’s Jose?” asked Mac.

“My nephew,” replied Eddie, “He drove me here. If you hurt him—“

“The kid out front?” grinned Mac. “He’s safe. He’s gonna work for us. Now stand up and turn around. Spread ‘em”

Mac held the thugs at gunpoint while Bill frisked them. He did it thoroughly, making each man moan by squeezing the bulges between their legs. Nothing wrong with a man having a little fun on the job.

Neither Carlos nor Eddie was surprised when the handcuffs went on; they expected it as part of the arrest process. Mac was still pointing his gun at them, forcing them to keep their faces to the wall. They could hear Bill moving things behind them but had no idea what he was doing.

They soon found out. After a couple of minutes, Mac had them turn around. In the center of the room, a black nylon cord had been draped over a rafter. Each end of the cord terminated in a slip-knot loop, hanging about eight feet off the ground. Beneath each loop was a chair.

Even being forced up onto the chairs and having the loops placed around their necks didn’t faze the hardened thugs—they prided themselves on their reputation as tough motherfuckers and expected a little psychological torture in pursuit of a confession. The first conscious awareness they had that this wasn’t an ordinary arrest didn’t come until Mac and Bill had unzipped their captives’ pants and pulled out their thick, uncut cocks.

It was also their last conscious awareness. The mercs kicked away the chairs. After that, it was desperate, futile, primal fight for life.

Carlos and Eddie died a horrible, lingering death. With their hands bound but their legs free, they kicked at each other in their maddened struggle for breath.

Carlos had the strong, fit body of a street thug. This made him suffer longer. He jerked and kicked at his end of the rope, feeling Eddie die beside him. His face became congested and blue, with foam boiling from his open, swollen lips. His thick tool was fully erect.

Next to him, Eddie was also dancing on air, his boots flailing wildly beneath him. The slipknot had tightened agonizingly around his neck, causing great folds to form in the skin of the throat. Eddie’s thirteen-inch throat was constricted to a circumference of about five inches.

The blood, unable to escape, backed up in Eddie’s head. Vessels ruptured in his eyes and nose and his face turned black. His tongue and his bloodshot eyes bulged. A trickle of blood from the nose dripped onto the tip of his tongue. Like Carlos, his massive dick was standing up straight.

Carlos had stopped kicking. With his boots together, pointed down at the floor a couple of feet beneath him, he was arcing his body violently at the waist. He wasn’t ready to give up the battle for his life yet.

Eddie was. After a couple of convulsions, all Eddie could feel was burning agony in his throat and more burning agony in his cock. The sensation in his dick grew uncontrollably. As searing pain and death overwhelmed him, Eddie was unaware that cum had erupted from his cock in a steady stream. It shot up like a fountain and splattered back down onto all four of them. Several jets went up before Eddie’s spasms slowed and he dangled limply. The cum stains on his boots were washed off a moment later when his bladder voided post-mortem and piss flowed down his legs.

Mac pulled his straining cock out, already oozing with precum. He almost shot his wad watching Eddie die. He turned to Bill.

“You ready to finish off this little punk?” he asked.

Bill nodded. He was already beating his meat. He reached out and grabbed Carlos’s rigid dick.

Carlos’s body had let him down. It refused to let him die easy. The world had gone gray and soundless explosions burst inside his head but he was still conscious. Eddie’s spunk had splattered on his face and Carlos knew what that meant. He’d strangled men before and had seen them shoot as they died.

Carlos felt Bill’s hand on his cock, felt the smooth leather tactical glove stroke his shaft. He resisted the urge to shoot the seed bubbling up in his balls, but his dick was being controlled by automatic reflexes. He was getting jacked off as he died and he was going to blow his load whether he wanted to or not.

Carlos gave a vigorous jerk, thrusting his cock forward at Bill. It spat out a wad of cum, catching Bill full in the face. At the same time, Mac, pounding his meat furiously, shot his own load over Carlos’s legs and boots.

Bill didn’t even have to touch himself. He gushed his load when he caught Carlos’s dying facial. He continued to yank the thick rod in his hand. Carlos’s eyes rolled back in his head. Foamy spittle had run from the corner of his mouth and dripped from his jaw. Each tug on his meat was rewarded by another spurt of cum.

Bill grabbed the thug’s legs and jerked them downwards, hard. There was a thick cracking sound. Carlos felt sharp, stabbing pain in his neck and sank into the nothingness of death. His neck had stretched and his body went rigid at the moment of death, shooting out one last spray of sperm that splashed down Bill’s chest.

It took a few minutes for Mac and Bill to catch their breath. They cleaned themselves in the cabin’s washroom before retrieving Jose, who was still hogtied on the ground outside. They put him to work moving the bodies.

At gunpoint, they forced him into the driver’s seat of one of the cars. Bill sat next to him; Mac sat behind, the muzzle of his gun against the back of the boy’s head. He had to drive out to the first pair of corpses and load them into the trunk, then work his way back to the cabin. On the way down, they forced him to drive over Ginger’s body, still lying in the middle of the road.

“Shut up, bitch,” snarled Mac. “Just a pile of dead meat—which is what you’ll be, if you don’t shut your fuckin’ hole.”

Jose stopped whimpering, but terror was growing inside of him. He’d thought he was tough because he’d shanked a couple of dudes. This level of cold-bloodedness was beyond him. He was still too young to be this hard.

At each kill, Mac stayed inside the car with his gun on Jose as long as he was visible. Bill got out and had his gun in point-blank range of the kid the entire time. Jose had to drag each body to the car and lift it into the trunk. Every time he bent over a body, his eyes met the horror-filled death stare of the corpse and his panic increased.

They left the bodies in the car when they got back to the cabin. Taking a spade that was lying by the side of the building, they marched Jose into the woods. After about two hundred yards, they found what they were looking for. It was a clear spot, on the side of a hill overlooking a dry creek bed. Here they forced Jose to dig a pit.

The boy was almost hysterical now. Deep down, he knew that there was no way he’d survive this night. He had only one hope to hold on to, that his uncle was somehow all right and would save him. He hadn’t been inside the cabin yet.

That one hope was enough. He would still struggle for his worthless life. He sobbed in terror, but he dug the pit his own corpse would rot in.

When he was finished, shaking with exhaustion and with his grimy face streaked with his tears, they forced him to drag the corpses up one by one and throw them into the pit. Jose slowly emptied the car. By the time he’d pulled up the last body, the blood-caked hardman outside the cabin door, he had barely enough strength left to roll it into the pit. The corpses had been tossed in at random, boots on faces, groins to asses. The young punks had ended their worthless lives violently and were being left to rot like garbage.

Mac and Bill allowed Jose a little rest before taking him back to the cabin. They shoved him through to broken door and the first thing Jose saw was his uncle, still hanging from the beam. Carlos was dangling next to him, his neck grotesquely elongated. Jose fell to his knees, the last spark of hope dying inside him.

Mac cut the cord over the rafter and the bodies hit the floor with a thud. Jose dragged one body to the pit and Bill dragged the other.

When it was done, Mac made Jose stand at the edge of the pit and pull out his cock. His six inches of meat drooped in terror.

“Little hard-ass punk—can’t even get it up!” jeered Mac. “C’mere, Bill, let’s see if we can’t have a little fun offin’ this bitch.”

Mac wrapped a thin wire garrote around the kid’s neck and pulled it tight. The wire bit into the flesh, causing thin streams of blood to streak Jose’s throat. The boy sank to his knees, his hands clawing at his throat. Bill knelt beside him, tugging on his dick.

Jose was aware he was being jacked off, but the knife-like pain that shut off his air was more immediate. As his eyes bulged, everything grew dark and the edges of his vision shrank to a small vibrating circle. He could see his uncle’s twisted, blackened face staring back at him from the pit, Eddie’s own cum drying to a glaze on his face. Jose knew what was happening to him; when he shot his load, he knew he was dying. Before his sight vanished into oblivion, he saw his spunk raining in showers over the bodies in the pit.

Neither Bill not Mac had so much as undone their flies. Both had creamed their boxers as Jose hosed down the corpses with sperm. They rolled his body into the pit and left it the like the others to decay into a stinking pile of meat.

They returned to the cabin to clean themselves again and then started back to their local base. Time to send out word that they were ready for another job.

Victim POV 4–For Leather or Worse

On By m3mayhemIn Victim POVLeave a comment

I’m so fucking horny tonight.

It’s like being possessed, sometimes, I think. When I want dick, I go on autopilot. Like now. I’m out looking and I’m not going home until I get a fat mushroom head shoved past my tonsils.

I’m dressed for the part, too. I don’t think I could get on a tighter pair of jeans without someone else’s help. My hightop baller shoes are silver with bright red laces; they’re sure to draw attention if the skin-tight yellow t-shit I’m wearing doesn’t.

Yeah, I’m a little drunk, a little fucked up. Doesn’t matter. A little anesthesia to take a long hard cock inside me. Goddam, I want it bad.

Where am I? Looks like the spot. There’s Club 69 over there. Ain’t going in the clubs, though. They’ll call the cops if I go down on some dude on the dance floor. Got thrown outta 69 once for getting’ fucked in a bathroom stall.

Naw, if I can’t get some dude to pop for a cheap motel room, I’ll suck him off in the alley. Fuck yeah. As long as I get to drink some cum, I don’t care where.

I turn off the main drag and start ambling down a side street. I can take my time. I may be horny as fuck, but I ain’t swallowin’ any sperm that I don’t want. Not like I’m bein’ paid—I ain’t no fuckin’ whore.

I turn right along the street that runs behind the bars. It’s dark and deserted, but I’m only about a hundred yards down when a white shortbed pickup pulls up alongside me. He’s heading the same direction I am, so it’s the passenger window he rolls down.

He’s hot, in a way I find hard to describe. He’s in his mid- to late thirties. His face is…well, I have to say craggy. It’s the face of a man. His pale blonde hair is cut short, showing the receding hairline. The pheromones, the aura of testosterone he gives off is almost palpable.

I already know I want his cum. Whatever his offer, my answer will be yes.

He looks like he’s just leaving the leather bar that was further up the block. He’s wearing nothing but leather from head to foot. His visor cap, his vest, his skin-tight jeans and his boots are all black leather. Under the vest he’s wearing nothing but the dark fur covering his firm chest and his flat, hard belly. His dark eyes glint dangerously at me from the darkness under the brim of his cap.

His voice, when it comes, is low and gravelly. Even as I strain to hear, I’m getting hard.

“How much you charge, bitch?” he rasps.

“I ain’t a whore,” I drawl back at him insolently. I can see a tiny spark of interest in those dark eyes. “But I’ll give you the best blow job you’ve ever had—if your dick is worth it. You got enough cock to gag me?”

He grins. His teeth, white and even, catch the reflection of a streetlight further down the block, giving him the predatory gleam of a shark. For some reason, it makes me harder. Again, doesn’t matter. He’s taking me up.

“Get in,” he says, “I’ll run up to that place on the highway. You think you can handle my tool, cunt? We’ll see if you’re as good as you say.”

He floors it. In just a few lust-drenched minutes, we’re in the parking lot of the by-the-hour motel on the interstate access road. He hands me a twenty.

My dick is so hard, I have trouble walking to the office.

He’s parked on the far side of the lot—which is fine; we have a room at the end of the wing. I go directly to the room, as he told me; he gets out of his truck and walks toward me while I unlock the door. He and I enter the room together.

I’m aware of sudden movement on my left. There’s a sudden, bright, painful sensation.

I wake up slowly. There’s pain, lots of it. Where? My jaw, wow, yes, that hurts like fuck. My head in general, yeah. But there’s something else wrong…

As I become more aware of my surroundings, I realize that I’m kneeling. I can’t move my hands. Fuck, I can’t even feel them. They’re bound behind me painfully by something that constricts my wrists tightly enough to cut off my circulation. What is it? Wire? A zip tie? I can’t tell…

The leather dude is sitting on the bed, his vest off, revealing his furry, developed chest. His legs are spread; I’m on my knees between them. His leather button-fly jeans are open, his long engorged member erect in front of me. It’s huge; at least six inches if not longer. It’s swollen an angry purple and oozing clear precum from its tip.

The older dude grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls me upwards. As my head rises in response to his physical summons, I become aware for the first time of several different sensations.

The first is the feeling of something in my mouth. It’s a feeling I’ve experienced before, but never in a sexual setting and it’s very unsettling. There are jaw blocks in my mouth. The only other time I’ve ever experienced this was at the dentist.

They’re designed to keep me from closing my mouth.

I’m also suddenly aware of something circling the back of my neck. It’s about an inch and a half thick—my belt? My jeans are loose and sagging—is he using my belt to force me down onto his cock?

He gives the belt a brutal tug and my face is full of his pubic hair.

Oh fuck he’s plugging my throat hold on he’ll let up soon just hold on and take his shaft you know you want it just hold on he’s pulling out

Air oh thank god air

He’s laughing. He’s talking. What’s he saying?

“Fucking bitch, choke on my fucking cock. Fuck yeah, gag on it, you cunt. Ya wanted to know if it was big enough? How ya likin’ it now, you little slut—big enough for ya?”

He doesn’t give me a chance to reply before his huge shaft is plugging my throat again. I can feel his thick head deep against the base of my tongue as the strap at the back of my neck tightens painfully. I roll my eyes up, my gaze travelling upwards along his hard, hairy body to his face. He sees me looking and sneers. He grunts and gives a great thrust; my nose is flattened against the root of his cock as his bristly pubic hair scratches my face again.

I wish he hadn’t bound my hands. I’d have taken this without restraint. And I want to beat off so fuckin’ bad. This dude knows exactly how to treat a cocksucker like me. I’m pigging out on his dick.

He stops thrusting unexpectedly. I can feel his hand against the back of my head, forcing his cock further down my windpipe with inexorable intensity.

Goddam, I can’t breathe again. Fuckin’ stud is choking me with his dick again. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe oh shit I’m gagging I’m retching oh fuck get it out let me breathe dude let me—

He pulls out and I cough up a huge froth of drool, stringing from my mouth to the massive, glistening head of his meat. It forms a long string that breaks off and splatters on my yellow shirt, streaking it in large moist stripes that reduce it to transparency. My own chest is visible—and this dude seems to like it.

I can just barely glimpse his leering, sneering face beyond the sculpted hairy forest of his chest. He hacks up a large wad of slime and spits in my face. “Fucking faggot,” he grunts, “get back on my cock, you worthless piece of shit.”

I brace for the assault I know is coming. Sure enough, my mouth is full of his meat right away; I get the metallic taste of his precum as he reams my esophagus like a cheap sex toy. Suddenly his thrust increase in speed, force, everything.

Holy fuck, he’s seriously skullfucking me.

Hold on. Just hold on. Cough and spit up the drool. Just hang on. I just need to relax and let him use me. I try to open my throat, to accept his hot fucking cock and milk his seed out of it. I’m only scared when he buries my face deep in his crotch and I can’t see or breathe. I don’t know what he’s doing…

I turn my eyes up again. I can see his strong, furry chest heaving in exertion. He’s sweating heavily. Even from here, I can see it beading on his forehead and matting his chest fur. He’s really working, and really enjoying this. Well, he should. My tongue is working his shaft continually. I love his cock. I love that it’s big enough to gag me. I finally found a dude who can give me what I really want.

He tightens his grip on the belt again; by now, I know enough to inhale deeply as soon as I pick up on what he’s doing. He jams his long hog back down my throat. It sinks so deeply that I’m coughing and gagging involuntarily. Then, in a flash he locks me into place and starts thrusting rapidly.

Jesus, I can feel the bulging veins wrapped around his shaft as he reams out my esophagus. There are repeated blows to my chin, his huge hairy balls slamming into me in time with his pumping.

Fuck, dude, enough. My eyes are watering. I’m gagging—fuck, man, let me breathe. I’m gonna pass out if you don’t ease up. C’mon, man, please…

Oh shit he’s not letting up. Fuck, man, this ain’t cool. I can’t turn my head away, not with your dick so far down my throat. I can’t push you off with my hands bound. I can’t even close my jaws—

Oh shit oh fuck no dude please this isn’t what I want please let up dude please I need air soon oh god please—

Oh thank god he’s pulling back not far still down my throat but I’m unplugged air I have some air…

He presses one hand back against my forehead while pulling forward with the belt, turning my face up to his with my mouth still full of cock. “Fucking faggot,” he whispers as he spits in my face, “is it big enough for ya, you fuckin’ slut? Ya like choking on my cock, huh? Yeah, you fucking choke pig, look how hard your dick is, you piece of shit. Now be a good little piggy and drown on my cum.”

Wait. man, no. Please don’t fuckin’ do this, I don’t wanna—

Oh fuck he’s in me again he’s standing up what the fuck…he’s dragging me along, his dick like a fishhook in my mouth. The wall. He’s got my back against the wall thrusting he’s thrusting again—

He’s slamming my head against the wall. It hurts. I can feel his tight, leather-covered legs pressed against my drool-soaked chest, flexing rhythmically as he pumps his rod down my throat.

He doesn’t pull out, though. Not enough for me to breathe.

Gotta hang on. Maybe if I can make him cum, he won’t kill me. He wants to get off. Maybe. Maybe.

Keep awake. Stay awake. Oh fuck it hurts. It hurts bad. My head the wall his cock my chest my lungs I can hear my heart fuck it’s so fast oh shit I’m so scared so why the fuck is my dick so hard it hurts what the fuck is going on…

He’s cursing me, calling me faggot, whore, slut. His voice is fading, though. There’s a loud pounding in my head is that my heart is that his shaft plugging my windpipe

My face itches it’s his pubic hair my face mashed into his groin his powerful thighs clamping down on my skull to lock me into place so he can inch his tool further down my throat fuck dude you’re so far down inside me just cum please just give me your load that’s all I want right now fuck it just unload in me man—

Please dude quick it’s going dark I’m losing it I can’t hold on much longer just fucking shoot your sperm inside me and let me go—

black flowers blooming in my face hot hot inside me fuck molten lead is that his cum it burns bad it burns so bad not as bad as my own oh fuck i’m cumming jesus never like this before oh fuck he’s pumping his seed directly into my lungs—

he grabs my head and jerks the belt violently holy fuck that cracking sound lighting i’ve been hit by fucking lighting the electric shock fuck i can’t feel my body anymore what the fuck happened what did he do i can still feel his cock spewing in my mouth—

oh my god cold dark his hair in my face his cock swelling and pumping in my mouth buzzing what’s that buzzing sound oh shit it’s—

Victim POV 1

On By m3mayhemIn Victim POV1 Comment

What—

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

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

My head hurts bad. Did he hit me?

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

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

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

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

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

This guy can, I can tell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

dark its dark and cold

Mankiller–Finale (?)

On By m3mayhemIn Movies with Tony and NickLeave a comment

Tony leaned back on the bed, his breath ragged with anticipation.

Nick was finally gonna fuck him.

He’d fantasized about this since the first time he’d seen Nick online, his balls drawing up and dick getting hard at the thought of the hard alpha dude fucking him brutally and mercilessly. It was why his videos were so popular; he knew the perfect angles to catch Nick’s angry domination of his victims.

Tony was something of a coward. He wanted to be dominated like the rest of Nick’s victims, but he didn’t want to die. He’d been afraid to let Nick fuck him, afraid that Nick would take it too far.

Now, though, Tony had the control. He was the producer and distributor of the snuff videos; he was Nick’s meal ticket.

Tony felt confident. He could just lay back and enjoy every moment of Nick’s erotic anger, safe in the knowledge that Nick wasn’t stupid enough to derail the gravy train.

Right here, right now. It was finally gonna happen, and it was gonna happen on film. There was no problem there; both of them wanted it recorded. At any rate, Tony had insisted—he’d wanted it for his own private viewing, but Nick had agreed unhesitatingly.

So here Tony was, nude except for his white tube socks and black Nike hightops with red laces. He turned his head and grinned at the camera on the tripod, giving it a big thumbs-up just before Nick walked into the room, also nude, his thick construction boots clumping loudly on the metal floor.

Nick’s huge, well-developed muscles were already shining with sweat; he’d come straight from the gym, without showering once he’d gotten Tony’s text that everything was ready. Looked like he was just as horny as Tony was.

Nick stood by the bed, breathing heavily, looking down at Tony’s slim, smooth body, his thin but long cock standing straight up like a weathervane. Nick caught the gleam of triumph, of arrogance in Tony’s eyes.

He didn’t say anything; there really wasn’t anything to say.

He reached down, his strong, massive paw grasping Tony’s dick firmly. As he began to tug on it, feeling it swell and throb in his hand, Tony reached out and grabbed Nick’s shaft—just as long as his own but considerably thicker; a truly fearsome weapon.

Tony groaned in pleasure and arced his body in response to Nick’s jacking. Closing his eyes, he gripped Nick’s swollen, vein-wreathed penis. “I want it in me,” he moaned, writhing on the bed, “I want your fucking huge tool shoved into my ass, dude!”

Nick smiled down at Tony as he climbed onto the bed and spread the smaller man’s legs, parting the firm, smooth thighs with his muscle-bound arms, pulling them up so that Tony’s new Nike kicks were hanging in the air over his face; Tony’d get to watch them flex as his toes curled while he got fucked…

Tony moaned again as he felt Nick’s weight settle on top of him. Then the pain started.

The pressure against his sphincter, yes, he expected that. But it just kept going. It was bigger than anything Tony’d had shoved up his ass before, and he wasn’t prepared. He began whimpering before the huge, dripping, purple head was completely inserted.

He opened his eyes wide and gasped, Nick was grinning evilly down in him; he’d known that Nick would enjoy hurting him, but he hadn’t realized that just the fuck itself would hurt this bad. “Oh please,” he squealed, “it fucking hurts, slow down, dude, for fuck’s sake slow down, you’re tearing me open, fuck, ya shoulda used some lube!”

Nick chuckled down at Tony, slowly withdrawing his shaft until just the head remained buried within Tony’s quivering asshole. “Ya want some lube? No prob, dude!”

Nick gave a deep snort and spat into his hand. He wiped the spittle on his swollen, ridged dong—then slammed himself back down on top of Tony, shoving it in so far his pubic hairs tangled with Tony’s ass fur.

Tony’s yell of pain vibrated throughout the metal structure and out into the factory basement, echoing off the masonry walls. It also vibrated along his colon, causing the silky smooth rectal lining to flutter over the sensitive head of Nick’s dick.

Nick bent down, laying his hard body, rippled with muscles, over top of Tony’s smaller, smoother form, letting Tony feel the way Nick’s body thrust and contorted as his muscles worked away, pumping his cock up Tony’s stretched-out fuckhole.

This close, Nick’s scent was overpowering; the hot erotic manreek of sweat and testosterone flooded Tony’s nostrils, reinforcing the masculinity of the alpha dude spearing his ass and triggering a deep-seated fuckpig response in Tony’s already willing body.

He bent backwards, thrusting his pelvis forward and up to accommodate even more of Nick’s tool up his ass, feeling his buttcheeks planted firmly against Nick’s straining groin, loving the erotically agonizing pain of having his tender rectum reamed out by Nick’s massive, merciless dick.

As he bent back, he turned to the camera. Remembering that his performance was being recorded, Tony began to writhe and moan, making sure that the camera had a good view of the pleasure reflected in his face.

As his back bent, his cock, already straining, erect, and oozing a thin trickle of transparent precum, began bobbing and pulsing. Nick looked down at it, grinned again, and grasping it firmly, began jacking it again, warmly and wetly pulsating.

“Fuck, dude, I’m gonna cum,” Tony grunted, his face contracting as orgasm approached.

“Oh no, you’re not,” snapped Nick, “I ain’t anywhere near ready to blow my load. You gotta work harder than that to get my spunk, bitch.” And leaning forward, he wrapped one huge, strong hand around Tony’s throat and began to squeeze.

“What—“ Tony managed to gasp before his air was cut off. Clawing frantically, he managed to get both hands wrapped around Nick’s fingers and was able to relieve just enough pressure to be able to speak.

“What—“ gasp, grunt, “What the fuck are ya doin—“ cough, gasp, “Dude, you can’t—“

Then his fingers slipped and the crushing, vise-like grip closed off his windpipe again.

The next few minutes were some of the most terrifying in Tony’s life–and some of the last.

Nick leaned down, smiling tenderly in Tony’s face. He let go of the smaller dude’s dick, bringing his hand up to stroke Tony’s face and smooth his tousled hair. With the same gentle, loving expression, Nick began kissing Tony’s face—delicate touches on his cheeks and his brow, while carefully and caringly stroking Tony’s face.

Tony’s swelling, blackening face.

As Tony’s eyes, already wide with panic and befuddlement, locked onto Nick’s, the alpha top started speaking. “Gotta thank ya, Tony, your films were a serious springboard. I couldn’ta made such a big splash without ‘em. But ya see, I got an offer. Foreign, but lotsa money behind it.”

Nick closed in on Tony. His face filled the punk’s field of vision, his sweat and pheromones filling the atmosphere, emphasizing Tony’s utter helplessness in the situation he’d thought he controlled.

Now he realized, he’d never had control—he’d been under Nick’s complete control from the beginning of the fuck. Nick, however, made certain to drive the point home along with his cock.

“Ya get it, Tony, ya worthless fuckin’ cunt? I don’t need ya anymore. Yeah, thanks for getting’ me started, but hey—whaddaya done for me lately, know what I mean? Anyway, my new distributor says this snuff will make me even more money through his network. So you’re gonna die on my dick to help make me rich. Hope ya enjoy the ride, bitch—but I could really give a shit, as long as ya die and make me cum…”

Tony couldn’t tell if the tears streaming down his face were from the betrayal or the physical trauma. Nick’s hand was clamped like a bear trap around his esophagus. He couldn’t afford the luxury of wallowing in self-pity; he was dying and needed to fight. But the deep sense of shock undermined his efforts; part of him simply couldn’t believe that he’d die like so many of the useless whores he’d filmed.

And Nick was treating him just like one of them. Tony’s frantic reaction, triggered by the instinctive will to survive, was amplified by his anger—not a whore! Not a whore!

But it didn’t matter. The dominating muscle top had Tony under complete physical control and was working his body as a sex toy, using him to masturbate with.

As Tony sank back into the mattress, trying to retreat as far as possible from the crushing agony in his throat, his groin thrust up. As Nick leaned over him, his grip on Tony’s neck never slacking in the least, the alpha top’s other hand grasped the thrashing boy’s still-erect dick, pulling and tugging it with a grip as strong as that crushing his throat. Even as Tony struggled violently—and futilely—to escape, he was aware of the swollen pleasure of his shaft. Despite the fear and the anger, the pain and the betrayal, Tony could still feel sperm boiling up in his scrotum.

And that was the biggest betrayal of all. He was being murdered, and it was making him cum. His own death was cause for his own orgasm. Somewhere deep inside his cringing pig soul, this was what he’d always wanted. It was why he’d enjoyed filming it; he’d been subconsciously putting himself in the place of the victim.

But he hadn’t known the fear. He hadn’t known the pain. The pain, oh fuck the pain…

It was an all-encompassing sense of pressure, burning inexorable pressure. It centered in his chest and head, different than the grinding pain caused by Nick’s iron grip on his neck. But the pressure was spreading; there was an unaccountable pressure in his balls too—faint, but growing.

But right now, Tony wasn’t thinking about that. He wasn’t thinking at all; his brain was a white-hot flame of panic. This wasn’t happening. If the pain had not been so overwhelming, he’d have done his best to deny it existed at all; the mind is capable of remarkable feats when it finds reality too terrifying to deal with.

Tony had expected this to be the best night of his life, not the last.

His head was full of silent screaming and pitch-black light; a hot, numbing iciness flooded his body, percolating along his tight muscles. Turning to the camera, Tony made one last attempt to cling to life. He reached desperately, pleadingly towards the camera, as if hoping that those who saw the film would somehow be able to help him—but then he remembered being on the other side of the camera.

No one was going to help him. The guys who watched this would see him struggling—and it would make them cum.

No one was going to help him. Everyone wanted to see him die. They’d shoot a wad watching him die. There was no help.

Nick sneered down into Tony’s horror-filled eyes and began whispering. “You know what’s happening, don’t ya? You’ve cum to this kinda scene before, so you know the drill, Tony. You’re dying like a little cunt on my cock. Your face is already black. Fuck, man, I can see the tip of your tongue peekin’ out. Dude, you are totally fucked and it’s totally hot…”

Tony clawed frantically at Nick’s face, his manicured nails digging into the alpha’s cheeks. Without breaking the rhythm of his pumping, the muscled stud let go of his victim’s dick just long enough to deliver a roundhouse blow to the punk’s face. The force of his muscle-bound arms was enormous; Tony’s jaw snapped like a strand of spaghetti.

The boy’s slim, lithe body rocked back on the mattress, his face contorted out of all recognition in his agony. His swollen, bulging eyes, swimming in tears, stared mutely into the face of his assailant, begging for release.

Tony had had his epiphany. The deathpig part of his twisted little soul had finally bubbled to the top under the needed stimulus of pain—as Nick knew it would. Tony was ready. He wouldn’t fight his fate any longer. He was ready to give up his life and his seed so that he could receive the dominant bull male’s spunk.

“Fuck yeah, ‘bout goddam time you realized what a fuckin’ favor I’m doin’ ya, you worthless faggot. Every one of them bitches I wasted I imagined was you. Ya like that, slut? Ya like knowin’ that I been plannin’ to kill ya from the day we met?”

Tony strove to remain conscious, to hear Nick’s words. But he was losing the battle; as his eyes bulged grotesquely from his twisted deathmask of a face, he could no longer see Nick’s hard cold eyes leering down at him. Horrible icy pain wracked his limbs; his nervous system was compromised to the point that he couldn’t feel his legs kicking and jerking involuntarily or his arms thrashing about uselessly one the bed, no longer a threat to Nick.

He couldn’t feel it; he could only feel the pain. And his vision was horribly distorted—but enough remained for him to see a large white circle in front of him—Nick’s face—and two small dark irregular shapes shuddering and bobbing next to the circle.

His new Nike kicks. He was gonna watch his toes curl as he got fucked. Now he was getting to watch them convulse as he died…

He could still feel on the inside, though. Despite the pain and pressure, despite the loud buzzing sound that drowned out all other noise, despite the icy numbness in his extremities, Tony could still feel Nick’s cock relentlessly thrusting deep into his guts. Indeed, his ass seemed to have gotten more sensitive as his body shut down; Nick massive rod seemed to fill Tony’s abdomen and torso. For a brief moment, Tony’s oxygen-starved brain had an image of him hollowed out, nothing more than a receptacle for Nick’s sperm.

He knew that was what he wanted. It was what he was meant to be. He’d never had another purpose. He accepted it, finally letting the excruciating agony of death wash over him, flooding his body and flowing out through his cock.

As Nick bent over Tony’s thrashing, convulsing body, he spit in the slut’s face. He was about to taunt Tony again—arrogant little motherfucker needed to know his place—when he saw the light fade from Tony’s bulging eyes. As foam bubbled up from Tony’s swollen, purple lips, his body went rigid. Feeling the fucker stiffen under him, Nick realized that Tony has sustained too much brain damage to understand his words.

That was ok. While there might not be any Tony left, there was still a hot, firm, thrashing, tight, moist hole working Nick’s dick. And Nick was so close to blowing his wad…

He threw himself into overdrive, his hips thrusting so fast, they almost blurred on camera. As he took advantage of the way brain trauma tightened Tony’s anus, he bent down over the black, spittle-covered face of his victim and, spitting on him one last time, clenched his killing hand as hard as he could.

The crunching sound of Tony’s esophagus collapsing was louder than Nick’s grunting; it reverberated audibly off the metal wall. As it did, Nick felt the body’s sphincter cinch up tightly around the base of his dick, functioning like a cock ring.

Nick gave a loud, strangled cry as he unloaded his genetic material into Tony’s rectum. The others had been fun, but this—this was something else. He’d fucking hated Tony. Bitch had tried to take advantage of him.

“Fucking cunt!” he screamed. “Take it, bitch, take my spunk, you worthless whore!”

Despite all his experience, Nick was wrong about one thing. Tony’s brain was past the point of recovery, but there was still some consciousness left. He heard Nick’s words and responded in the only way he had left.

As Nick’s huge, developed body shuddered in erotic ecstasy on top of the dying youth, he became aware of a hot, sticky, fluid sensation on his abdomen. Looking down at his furry belly, rippled with muscles, Nick could see that it was covered in cum. Tony’s cock was erupting like a geyser, spewing his spunk in solid pearly jets. Nick took one look and came so hard his entire body convulsed. “FUCK YEAH! FUCK YEAH! FUCK YEAH!”

Nick collapsed on top of Tony. The smaller kid was dead, nothing now but a quivering corpse. Nick lay gasping on top of him, enjoying the feeling of Tony’s smooth body twitching involuntarily.

After a while, Nick gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. He slowly withdrew his cock, still massively erect, from the corpse’s ass. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment to catch his breath before getting up and walking to his gym bag, where he grabbed a towel and wiped himself down.

Tony’s body remained quivering on the bed, spread-eagled, violated, covered in semen, with a gruesome swollen black face streaked with saliva—his own, and that of his killer.

After Nick cleaned himself up and dressed, he approached the video camera. He was already familiar with this model; it was no trouble to remove the memory card.

As he walked out of the metal structure, he slipped the card into the pocket of his tight jeans. He walked up the stairs and out into the light, the sound of his thick-soled construction boots echoing rhythmically above the sound of his whistling.

He had an appointment later today with his new distributor. He had no doubt that his latest feature would improve his bargaining position; it was sure to be popular.

Behind him, Tony’s body continued to twitch as it cooled and stiffened. At some point, the gas for the generator ran out. Tony was left to rot in darkness.