Tag: stab

Fantasy Scenario 9

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario SeriesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s see if that hallucinogen has helped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy Scenario 5

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy Scenario 2

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I have a helluva good time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meat Chronicles 17–Carnivore Uncaged

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

Finally. I’m back out on the hunt. It’s been too long; I’ve had too much shit to deal with recently to go prowling for prey, but I’m back.

I’m hungry for meat.

Among other things, I got a new van. Didn’t want to tool around too long in the last car; it coulda been recognized at a dump site. This one’s nice. Lotta nice features.

The plastic lining the back isn’t standard. Did that myself. Covered as much of the interior as I can; no sense in leaving trace evidence.

Although the way I’m feeling today, there’ll be more than just “trace” evidence. Gonna take more than that to sate the hunger and rage inside.

It’s a warm night for this time of year. I’m in a major shopping center; there’s lots of meat out and about. There’s also a fair amount of security in some of these stores, but at the moment, I’m way out in the middle of the parking lot. There’s the strip mall dead ahead, the big-box store on my left and more strip mall behind me. To my right, I can see the back side of several fast food places and boutique stores facing the main street.

It’s late afternoon. The sky is strange; huge low heavy clouds sit oppressively overhead, but the sun is shining through a break. It seems so much brighter contrasted with the dark, lowering ceiling overhead. Everything is suffused with a golden light.

There aren’t too many cars near me, so I have a pretty good view. Not much to look at, though. There are a few hot boys running around, but they’re all either too far away or accompanied by someone. So I wait.

As the bronze rays of the sun slowly begin to slant away, the security light behind the restaurant closest to me comes on. Just after it does, I see the back door swing open and my meat steps out.

He doesn’t know he’s my meat yet. He’s young; looks like he’s about eighteen or nineteen. Tall, lean and lanky but not scrawny. Above his full lips his face is angular but no more acne-scarred than the average teenager. Just below his smoky blue-gray eyes, his straight nose is interrupted by a swelling; it appears to have been broken at some point in the past.

Good. He’s experienced pain…

In this light, his long blond hair has an amazing golden glow. It’s very straight except for a slight curl at the ends, just above his shoulders. As he turns and I can see his profile, I also notice the haze of shining curls on his chin, a tuft of blond hair there catching the light.

He must be about six, six one. He’s in a black t-shirt that clings tightly to his boyish chest, his pecs two small rises with a shallow valley between. Below his flat belly tight skinny jeans hug his rounded ass and outline a long ridge in his crotch. As his denim-wrapped legs taper to his black leather hightop sneakers, I can imagine his firm thighs tightening around me in agony…

Ok, deep breath. Let’s see what it takes to get the punk. He’s smoking a cigarette and talking on his phone. I’m about twenty yards away, but with the window down I can just barely make out the gist of his conversation.

He’s yelling at someone who was supposed to give him a ride home but didn’t answer his texts. Sounds like he’s talking to voicemail. Poor little guy; maybe he needs a lift. I can do that. But I don’t just wanna pull up in my van and offer a ride; that’d most likely raise a red flag.

This is what it means to be a hunter. It’s a gamble, literally; you’re betting that you’ll get a better shot at your prey while risking allowing him to escape. I wait.

He hangs up, tosses his butt aside and paces angrily for a couple of minutes. I continue to wait, wanting to see what he does. The length and force of his strides decreases as he walks off his frustration.

I settle back, waiting for my cue. It’ll come soon. My heart is pounding with anticipation; I know it’s coming soon. My cock is hard and oozing already but I’m focused and ready to pounce.

The lithe blond punk pauses and glances around. He slips his cigarette pack out again, but what he pulls out is slimmer and more irregular then a cigarette. He lights his joint and inhales deeply, closing his eyes in pleasure. It’s the opening I’ve been looking for.

I start my van and ease out of my parking space. I slowly coast down the row and turn right. The kid is facing away from me; good—he doesn’t hear me until I’m right up on him. He turns, startled, hiding the weed behind him with a guilty expression.

I grin nonchalantly. “Dude, you got another of those?” I ask him casually. “I’ll give ya five bucks; my guy can’t find any right now.”

He gives me a startled glance, but there’s no suspicion in his naïve boyish face. “Yeah, I got more,” he says slowly, eying me very closely. Is the little cunt cruising me? Goddam faggot—I knew it. “Ya wanna buy some? Gimme a lift and I’ll make ya a deal. My ride bailed on me.”

“Not a prob,” I chuckle, “hop in, dude.” He strolls around to the passenger side and climbs in. Fuck, his jeans are clinging so tightly to his slim, firm legs—it’s all I can do to resist jumping him right now. But I don’t; not yet. I need to get someplace private.

“Where we goin’?” I drawl. He gives me directions to one of the suburbs on the east side of town. Kinda a low-rent district. “Ok, I can do that,” I reply. “So whaddaya got to sell?”

“Dude,” he grins, his young, eager face framed by his long blond locks, “I gotta half-ounce tucked down inside my shoe right now.”

“That’ll work,” I smile back, “but I gotta run by my place and get the money first. I don’t tool around with a lot of cash.”

He agrees cheerfully. Perfect. I pull over in a residential area. “Get in the back,” I tell the kid, “I don’t want my girl to see ya; I got enough explainin’ to do as it is.” His beautiful cloudy gray eyes rest hesitantly on mine for a moment, but the punk is too stoned to pick up on any danger signals. He gives another big goofy grin. “Sure, dude,” he lilts, “don’t wanna cause a problem.”

“Don’t worry,” I say as I unbuckle my seat belt and start to follow him into the rear of the van, “you won’t.”

“Huh?” he grunts confusedly, turning his wide, slightly unfocused eyes towards me, “what’s that—unhh!”

He gives a loud grunt as I drive my fist into his face. The sound makes me hard.

The kid falls to his knees, mewling in pain. I grab a fistful of his long blond hair and yank his head back until I can look into his stunned eyes. “Welcome to hell, cunt,” I whisper, smiling into his vacant, horrified face before I slam my fist back into it, putting out his lights. He drops to the floor with a thump.

Well, I ain’t gonna do him here. Too exposed, too much traffic. But I can do a little prep work so he knows what to expect.

Stripping him isn’t difficult but I take a little time—not too much; I’m still on a main street—just enough to enjoy myself. I pull off his black t-shirt, still damp and reeking with boysweat, and toss it to one side. Rolling him flat on his back, I sit on his crotch, facing him, feeling his thick dick pressing against my ass through my tight jeans—and his. He moans thickly, his long eyelashes fluttering as I run my hand down his smooth, firm chest. After fondling his flat belly, I drive my fist into it violently, just to hear that erotic grunt again.

I like to fuck my meat with its shoes on, so his don’t come off. His jeans are too tight to pull off over them. Well, I wanted to get my knife out anyway…

I haven’t used it in a while. It’s so fucking hot; I’m already hard, but holding it makes me drip. It’s a Ka-bar knife with a seven-inch black steel blade. The last three inches towards the hilt are serrated. It’s vicious and clearly designed to inflict maximum damage. It slices through kid’s denim like it was butter, laying bare his muscled legs, covered with a faint fine down of blond hair.

Little motherfucker is commando under. Figures. Stupid bitch probably wants to get used. Well, fuck, guess he’s in for a good time, then—cause I’m damn sure gonna use him good and hard.

In fact, I’m gonna use him right the fuck up.

I was right about his cock, a long snake-like tube of flesh coiled in the golden nest of his pubic hair. I flip the limp slut over and admire his smooth taut bubble butt. Goddam, I can’t wait to plow that tight fuckhole. But I gotta get somewhere private, so I restrain myself—and restrain my meat. His hands go behind his back; I make sure the zip tie is painfully tight.

Later on, I’m gonna spread his legs and rape his smooth teen ass, but right now, I don’t need him kicking around in the back of my van, so I loop his belt around his ankles—a thick black leather strap. I cinch it tight, just above his hightops and white tube socks. I need to keep him quiet; just before climbing back into the driver’s seat, I ball up his reeking t-shirt and shove it in his mouth.

I also make sure to leave the knife where he can see it if he wakes up.

I’m not too far from one of my favorite killing grounds, a semi-deserted industrial area where I know I can get some privacy for at least an hour. That should be enough time to fuck and waste the meat.

It takes a couple of minutes to find the right spot—an enclosed yard containing the loading dock for a defunct factory. Isolated and dark, it hasn’t been used for years for any legitimate purpose. Judging by the amount of broken glass strewn across the cracked, streaked asphalt, it hasn’t been used for any other in quite a while too. Which makes it perfect, but I have to drive carefully.

The meat is awake. I can hear him struggling and jerking, a series of frantic muffled grunts and cries coming from his plugged-up mouth. Good—hope he’s seen the knife.

If not, that’s okay. He’ll see it soon enough anyway.

I ease my van in and shut off the ignition. I step into the rear and turn on the overhead light I had put in, attached directly to the battery. There’s a curtain I can draw to close off the front; with the tinted windows in the rear, no one can see in—not that there’s anyone within at least a mile.

I stand over the meat, looking down at him in the dim light. His face is smeared with tears and snot; he’s clearly terrified. His fear exudes from his hard nude body like an erotic musk. It’s time.

I bend down and snatch the sweaty t-shirt, now soaked with drool, out of the teen’s mouth. It doesn’t matter if he screams now; there’s no one to hear. And I want him to scream.

I like it when the meat screams.

The punk looks up at me, his long blond hair in disarray. When he speaks, his voice quavers in fear. “What-what ya doin’ man? What ya goin’ to do to me?” he whines.

I don’t say anything. Looking down at him with a leer on my face, I pull off my shirt. His smoky eyes slide over my hairy, muscular chest before returning to my face with obvious trepidation. He still doesn’t get it.

Without saying a word, I unzip my fly and let my long, thick, dripping hog flop out.

The kid’s eyes become large round circles and his face pales visibly. “No,” he whispers shakily, “please, fuck, no. Oh God, no, please, don’t do this…” He trails off into broken sobs.

Still not saying anything, I pick up my knife. The meat sees me and gasps, then begins blubbering incoherently. Ignoring him, I bend down and cut the belt binding his legs. Deep in the iron grip of terror, the teen doesn’t try to move; he shudders and trembles as I run my hand up his smooth firm thighs, parting them forcefully so I can get at his fuckhole.

As I kneel between his legs, the boy writhes on his back, his hands bound agonizingly under him. He knows what’s coming; grimacing, he turns his head to the side, tears slipping out from under his long pale lashes.

I move slowly, caressing his smooth boytaint with the oozing head of my dick, letting him feel the massive mushroom tip that’s about to get jammed up his ass. I make sure he doesn’t miss the point. “Yeah, cocksucker, feels good, don’t it? Think how it’s gonna feel when it’s reaming your guts out through your asshole!”

He gasps in fear—or pleasure. It sounds the same. But it’s not his gasping I wanna hear; it’s his screaming. I know how to get it.

Without warning, I plunge my swollen cock into his hole, ramming my vein-wrapped dong as far in as I can, grinding my dark pubic hair into the cunt’s smooth asscheeks. His shriek is loud and piercing—and beautiful. There’s no one for miles, so he can scream as much as he want. Fuck, it’s so goddam hot, the way his body tenses and his silky rectum tightens on my dick like a velvet glove…

The punk takes a deep, shuddering gasp and screams again. The vibration begins in his vocal cords and runs the length of his taut body. I moan out loud. “Fuck yeahhhhh…..”

He turns his head back towards me, his innocent teen face staring into my eyes in pain. “You like hurting me…” he whispers faintly as he pales with horror.

I grin down at him. “Yeah, you fuckin’ faggot. And trust me, you ain’t begun to start hurtin’ yet.”

He glares up at me defiantly. “I ain’t no faggot. And I ain’t gonna help you get off, fucker. You wanna hear me scream? Tough shit. Rape me all fuckin’ night, but I ain’t gonna scream.”

I piledrive my fist into his face, straight from my shoulder. The feisty teen fuckmeat gives another deep grunt of pain and shock as his head rocks back violently. I don’t say a word—I don’t need to. I just pick up my knife and lay it on the cunt’s flat, heaving belly.

My cock remains buried in the bitch’s hole the entire time. His colon massages my swollen, sensitive shaft as he jerks and claws his way back to consciousness. He lifts his head up off the floor, looking down at the knife resting on his abdomen. His left eye is already starting to swell and darken. He’s silent. Stupid fucking teen, but he knows what it means. I can see it in his face.

“Don’t think I can make ya scream, motherfucker? Wanna bet? You’re gonna be screamin’ like the bitch you are, you worthless homo piece of shit. You’re gonna scream and scream but the only way the pain is gonna stop is when I cum. Know what it’s gonna take to make me cum? You gotta die. That’s all there is for ya, pain and death. You’re gonna be a meat puppet filled with my spunk and left to rot in a ditch. How ya like that, you fuckin’ stoned-ass punk cunt?”

Fear rendering the queer punk unable to hold his rebellious glare, the boycunt ducks his head and whimpers. He’s coming to understand that his lithe, lean, smooth body is mine to use as I want. Understanding, however, is not acceptance. And it’s not compliance.

I lay down on top of him, the weight of my muscles holding down his slim teen body, forcing his hands agonizingly into the small of his back—I can see his pain in his eyes. It’s beautiful. It makes me want to hurt him more.

I slowly pump my engorged shaft deep within the youth’s quivering, traumatized rectum. The meat responds to each thrust with faint gasp, almost a moan, his pain-wracked face taut with panic. I can feel his warm, firm body twist and press against me as he seeks to escape from the penetrating agony of my huge cock reaming into his guts.

“Yeah, you worthless little fuck, ya like that, dontcha? Goddam faggot cunt, you love that massive fuckin’ tool plugging your hole, huh? Is that it? You like the way it hurts, fuckmeat? Fuckin’-A, yeah, dude, the way you’re ridin’ my cock, you gotta love it. And I know it hurts, bitch, cause I’m makin’ it hurt. So don’t worry, you worthless pain pig, I’m about to amp up the agony—fuck, meat, I’m gonna hurt you so motherfuckin’ good!”

I grab a fistful of the boy’s hair and pull him down to the floor, forcing my full weight on top of him. As he whines and struggles under me, I slip my other hand down his side, the knife gripped tightly in my fingers. I raise my head up slightly, clenching my fist and pulling up on his hair painfully. His lashes part and I meet the plea in those smoky blue eyes with a cold stare.

I sneer slightly just before I insert the knife into the kid’s flank, slowly inching the sharp, serrated blade into his liver.

The kid’s mouth opens. His face draws back into a rictus of pain; his slim, lithe body contracts around me, his tight legs gripping me tightly in a desperate reflex to trauma. I shudder and gasp as his asshole clamps down on my dick. Fuck, this one’s good. This one is responsive.

This ain’t just meat, this is steak. I need to savor it.

I let go of the knife, leaving it buried up to the hilt in the boy’s heaving, sweating flesh. I don’t want him to bleed out. I let him know.

“Goddam, you’re good fuckin’ meat. Lucky motherfuckin’ cunt, I ain’t gonna kill ya right away–gotta say, bitch, you really know how to enjoy the pain. Holy fuck, if this is getting’ ya off this much, I can’t wait to see what kinda reaction I’ll get from the nightmarish agony I got planned…”

The teen’s face is white but for the huge dark rings of shock forming around his eyes—on his left, it merges with the swollen, bruised skin from his earlier tenderizing. Even a good cut of meat needs some preparation. But he’s hitting the peak of the pain reaction; his body is relaxing, he’s gasping for air in a high-pitched squeal, his teen fuckhole is loosening on my cock.

“Yeah, faggot, that was good for me. Was it good for you? No? Didn’t hurt enough? Geez, dude, you really are a sick fuckin’ pain perv, aintcha? Ok, then, here ya go, ya worthless piece a’ homo shit, ya like this?”

As I lean over and spit into the kid’s face, his look of terrified incomprehension is beautiful. I’m about to recall him into the moment…

Grasping the knife tightly, I begin twisting it inside the youth. The razor-sharp steel slices effortlessly through his liver and spleen. I jerk the hilt brutally upwards, slashing into the teen’s kidney. The serrated edge comes in handy when I encounter some gristle. I look deep into the meat’s eyes as I saw through the obstruction.

He reacts exactly as I’d hoped, black sneakers kicking against my back as his legs grip me again, tightly, desperately, his firm chest slipping over mine on a sheen of cold, agonized sweat leaking out of his abused body. He tightens up even on the inside and I feel my cock swell as if his rectum was forming a vacuum.

“God-fuckin-dam, you motherfuckin’ pain whore! See, I knew it. Ya like that, yeah? How ya like this, meat—I’m about to waste your useless ass. You are about to die in screaming agony and they’re gonna find your body rotting in a ditch full of my cum. Ya like that, ya fuckin’ stoned-ass faggot pig? If not, ya got ten seconds to learn to love it, cocksucker, cause it’s time to die…

…eventually.”

It’s my favorite way of offing my meat with a knife, because I can take my time. The pain the meat endures is excruciating if I do it slowly, and they remain aware of what’s happening for a long time.

I like that.

I swiftly jerk the knife out of the kid’s side, managing to elicit another physical contraction. I have to hold him and shudder for a moment; fuck, that sensation around my shaft… Ok, ok, I need to maintain control. The best part is yet to come—so to speak. I hold up the blade, watching it glisten in the dim overhead light, before I point the razor-sharp, crimson-stained  tip at just about the punk’s Adam’s apple.

Rotating the knife ninety degrees and holding it parallel to his throat, I shove the tip up under his jaw, near the rear of the mouth. As the tip penetrates the skin, releasing a thin trail of blood from the wound, the meat begins the greatest sexual performance of his wasted young life.

Again, he clamps his hard, sweaty legs around me in an unconscious, reflexive embrace. I can feel the heels of his sneakers digging into my thrusting ass as I continue to pump my thick, engorged shaft into the dying teen’s fuckhole. He jerks and thrashes in mortal pain and fear as I slowly insert my steel shaft into his head.

As the blade moves upward, I make sure to describe what’s going on to the meat; I want him to enjoy this as much as I do.

“Ok, cunt, can ya feel that? That’s my knife slicing up through the base of yer tongue. Y’know, like ya can get sliced tongue at the deli? Think of it like that. But I’m doing it to your tongue while my dick is up yer ass. That get ya off, ya pain pig? No? Fuck, ya coulda fooled me, the way your tight fuckin’ teen ass is suckin’ down my cock as I off ya. So let’s kick it up some, huh?

He’s thrashing violently, his face purple with strain and twisted by pain into an almost unrecognizable mask. But I can still see the occasional pimple on his teen face, the golden tuft of fur on his chin, now stained with the blood leaking out his gasping mouth—he’s still my stoned teen meat, writhing against me as I put his flesh to its highest and best use…

I tighten my large bicep, shoving the blade further into the kid’s head as I shove my massive rod deeper into his helpless guts.

“Hell yeah, dude, I bet your tongue is almost cut in half by now and the tip of my blade is goin’ up through the roof of your mouth. Fuck, bitch, that’s gotta fuckin’ hurt—good thing you’re a worthless pain pig, huh?”

Suddenly, the smooth progress of my knife is interrupted. The vicious tip of the blade jams into something solid. I make sure the meat knows that I won’t let it stop me.

“Damn, looks like I hit somethin’—must be the bottom of your sinuses. Goddam, you lucky fucking piece of shit fuckmeat, you get to hear my blade getting’ rammed through the bottom of your skull while you get to feel my dick shred your punk fuckhole.”

His eyes are huge and frantic. I’m not sure how much comprehension remains behind those amazing blue-gray orbs, now bloodshot and staring fixedly. But I haven’t touched his brain yet, so there’s nothing neurologically wrong. The pain, the knife will cut through his terror. He’ll be there for the money shot.

It begins as I press down on the boy’s head with one hand while I drive the knife upwards with the other. As the cunt struggles in my hands, I’m rewarded with the deeply erotic crunch of steel penetrating bone while my dick simultaneously penetrates the meat’s quivering teen rectum.

“What’s it feel like, motherfucker? What’s it feel like to have a serrated blade rammed up though your sinuses? What’s it feel like to ride both my cock and my blade down into agonizing death? I know you’re still in there, you fucking homo piece of shit, I know you can still hear me the same way you can still feel my dick up your ass.”

I smile sweetly into the punk’s crazed, horrified face, releasing the top of his head to stoke his strained, tear-streaked face before resuming my grip.

“You won’t feel your death; you’ll just feel your body and your senses shut down. But at some point, I’ll hit the point your brain that controls orgasm. At the moment of death, you’ll cum uncontrollably. When they find your discarded rotting corpse, they’ll find your own DNA.

Everyone is gonna think you wanted this, you fuckin’ cunt. They’re gonna think you wanted to get fucked to death—and you do, dontcha? This is what ya really want. So just enjoy it. I’m gonna fuck yer ass with my dick and yer brain with my blade; I’m gonna use your body to get off and I’m gonna throw your cum-filled body into the gutter like a used rubber, and ain’t no one gonna give a shit. So get ready to spunk and die, you faggot; get ready to have your fuckin’ pain pig death left in the street for everyone to see.”

I slide my knife up slowly, lovingly, though the teen’s sinuses, holding him down and maintaining control as his body convulses rhythmically, pumping his sphincter along my shaft as it clenches my rod like a cock ring. He rocks violently side to side, his eyes staring deeply into mine, conveying his complete surrender to the overwhelming assault on his body…

And then I hit the point I’ve been seeking—the point at which the teen is truly made into meat, the point of the brain that makes the punk blow his load despite the pain and fear and trauma.

I have no idea if he even knows what’s happening at this point. His eyes roll back in his head as his legs dig into me painfully, convulsing to the point of pulling me in and driving my swollen purple shaft even deeper into the meat’s torn and damaged rectum. As the faggot fuckmeat jerks under me, I feel a hot blast of fluid across my flat, hairy abdomen.

The cunt is shooting uncontrollably, just like I promised. I always make sure the meat blows a load. This one’s no different. His long thick glistening cock stands up and presses firmly into my belly so I can feel his shaft swell and spunk as he dies.

I ream his ass and his skull, one with a hot, hard shaft—the other with a cold, hard shaft. I pump his guts full of spunk as the dying meat drains his semen over my furry belly. Gasping deeply, I hold the youth tight, stroking and kissing the shuddering corpse tenderly.

I slowly regain my composure. Pulling my still-oozing tool out of the body’s torn colon, I wipe my dick (and my knife) off with what’s left of the meat’s jeans. I get dressed and, shutting off the light, slip past the curtain into the driver’s seat. I slowly ease out of the yard, glad there’s enough of a moon that I don’t have to turn on the lights.

I keep them off till I reach a main road. Long before then, though, I pull over to a storm culvert. There’s been a lot of rain lately, so it’s pretty full.

I drag the meat out of the van. Hands still bound behind its back, its black sneakers drag over the pavement as I lift it over the railing and dump it into the runoff. I quickly toss the cunt’s shirt and jeans in behind the meat and take off.

Damn, it feels good to be back in the saddle.

Meat Chronicles 15–Getting the Point

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

I’m angry tonight. I don’t know why and it really doesn’t matter. What matters is finding some young stud and working out my frustrations. There’s a burning rage inside me and I can extinguish it only with the blood and cum of some teen punk.

I need to find fuckmeat and find it soon. Doesn’t matter if it likes dick or not; by the time I’m done with it, it won’t care anyway. It’s getting dick, like it or not. It’s getting dick and a lot more.

Goddam, I’m dripping just thinkin’ about it.

I’ve been so intent on every punk I’ve seen on the street that I haven’t been aiming my van towards any specific locale; I’m just kinda driving around at random. When I first notice the kid, he’s just leaving a convenience store. I catch a glimpse of him under the bright orange glare of the sodium vapor lights under the gas pump canopy.

He’s just coming out of the store with fresh pack of cigarettes; he pauses to open the pack and light one. The store is on the corner of the avenue I’m on and a side street; I’m stuck at a light.

He just bought the pack; they card in this state, so he must be eighteen. Looks younger from here, but I’m a coupla hundred yards away. But it’s dusk, so he’s well-lit.

He’s at or just under six feet tall. He’s shirtless, so I can see his slender but muscled torso. For a moment, he turns in my direction; I can see a tattoo on his left pectoral, broad and hard like a hubcap. He’s too far away for me to make it out, though. His upper body is smooth, his clear skin flowing like silk over his thick biceps and flat, firm belly. The lower part of his abdomen appears shadowed; he might have some hair flowing downward. But I can’t tell what color; his hair must be cut short, since it’s completely hidden under a red ball cap, brim turned to the left.

He reaches into the pocket of his tight black denim shorts to replace his lighter; I catch the glint of a chain that drapes from a belt loop to his rear pocket; obviously his wallet. Beneath the short I can see his thick muscular legs. He’s got a pair of white leather hightops on his feet and tight black socks with white stripes and a sports logo wrapped around his lower calves. He’s perfect.

And I can’t take him, goddammit. He’s right under a security camera. And my light has turned green; I’m heading away from him. I’m gonna run around—I woulda anyway; if ya want good hunting, you don’t go to the suburbs after dark on a weeknight. But the punk probably lives in this neighborhood. There was no car in the lot, so he (and the clerk, too) must be walking.

I could catch up, but not if he lives here. This neighborhood is too well lit. Well, fuck. If I turn around, I can hit the highway. I haven’t grabbed a whore in a while; it’s still warm enough for plenty of them to be out…

I pull a U at the next light and head back towards the highway. As I approach the light, I peer into the distance in hopes of catching sight of the teen bitch, but there’s nothing. He’s not in front of the store anymore and I can’t see him within the radius of the dull orange glow of the lights. Shit. Well, I hadn’t really counted on it. Highway is only a few more lights down.

The neighborhood becomes more commercial as I approach the highway, but about a half mile from the store there’s a patch of greenbelt. Railroad tracks run through the center of it; a good quarter mile of trees deaden the sound and preserve property values.

And that’s where he was, walking. He’s heading towards the highway, too. Wonder where he’s going and what he’s doing.

No, I don’t. I wanna fuck him and kill him. He’s meat.

I pull up alongside and roll down the passenger window down. Yeah, it’s a big creepy van. Bet the little fuck gets in anyway.

“Need a lift? Where ya headed?” I call out.

He stops and turns to me. “I’m headed to a club. Club Polo, ya heard of it? Down east of the highway on Eighth. Dude, I’d love a lift.”

He opens the door and I get a good close-up under the dome light. I can see his eyebrows and his slight stubble; his hair is nearly platinum blond. The tattoo on his beautiful chest is Roman numerals; “XIII” in block letters on that thick pec. His eyes are deep emerald green with long thick lashes—and the whites are red. Little fucker’s higher than shit.

Good. Let’s help that along. Nothing gets meat in the mood like getting wasted—before getting wasted.

He hops in. I leave a half-smoked joint in the ashtray for occasions like this; the teen punk notices it and grins. I notice him and grin. “Dude, you wanna hit? Finish this off; I’ve had enough.”

He beams with joy and snatches up the jay, lighting it instantly and sucking damn near half the thing down in one long hit. It’s strong shit, a little too much for him. He starts coughing, his hard body shuddering and jerking he tries to keep the smoke in while his lungs and diaphragm fight against him.

As he gasps and emits a huge, sweet-smelling cloud, he lies back in the seat, choking and coughing. Fuck, look at that body shudder and twitch; enjoy it, cunt, cause soon you’re gonna be shuddering for real…

I know where to go. I used to work around here; I know a place to park where I won’t be disturbed. A business that’s closed for the day—the rear lot backs onto a drainage canal. No one ever goes there after dark.

As I drive, the meat starts talking. He’s going to the club because his favorite DJ is there. That’s all I hear. The rest of it is just the bleating of the meat; the only reason I haven’t cold-cocked the little fuck is because his voice turns me on; the deep voice of a stupid teen jock.

Can’t wait to hear what it sounds like when it screams.

Only a couple more blocks to go. Time to bait the trap. “Hey dude, if ya liked that, I got something that’ll really fuck ya up. See that other joint down in the console? I got some prime peyote mixed with that. If you’re into music, it’ll open a whole new world for ya.”

The meat’s eyes light up redly at the thought. Punk’s already so fucked he doesn’t know which end is up. Well, he’s gonna find which end is up his ass soon enough. This is almost too easy. Poor little fuckwad has no idea of the hell in store for him.

“Dude, if you’re gonna burn that, get in the back. Don’t wanna show it off to the 5-0.” He gives me big, goofy, happy grin and squeezes past me into the rear of the van. His smooth back and firm ass press against me as he moves.

Can’t wait to plug that fuckhole. My weapon is back there, but he won’t notice it, high as he is. And getting higher by the second, judging by the smoke that fills the van.

I’m nearly there; good thing, too. Starting to smell like a pot farm. Motherfucker must be huffing the goddam thing. There’s no peyote in there but it’s really strong shit. I don’t want him out—I just wanna dull his reactions and slow him down. Never occurred to me that the kid would smoke himself to incoherence during the short drive.

Well, he’s certainly gonna be slowed down. May not even have to bind the cocksucker.

I pull behind the low dark building and shut off my lights as I park in the rear, backing into a space at the very far end of the lot. I slip into the back to join the boy, who’s so fucked up I don’t think he’s realized we’ve stopped even though no one’s in the driver’s seat. He’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet lining the floor. Before I join him, I quickly check the surrounding through the small windows in the rear doors.

It’s a commercial/warehouse district. The closest buildings in this direction are a quarter-mile away, on the other side of the ditch and floodplain. Bright security lights illuminate empty parking lots. This neighborhood is deserted at this hour.

I sit next to the punk. He smiles at me happily and hands me the joint. I take a small hit and pass it back; I don’t need to be too stoned for this, but it’s making him relaxed. After we pass it back and forth a couple of times, I put my hand on his thigh.

“I ain’t inta other dude,” he mumbles.

I smile broadly at him. “No? How about another dude in you?”

He grins at me, too fucked up to get it. I grin back and slam my fist into his jaw with a swift sucker punch.

He grunts loudly, flying backwards, splaying his arms and legs. I get up quickly, but there’s no need. He’s not completely unconscious, but he’s way too stunned to do more than lay spread-eagled on his back and gasp.

I bend down and grab the waist of his shorts, roughly jerking them down his legs. Fucking cunt is commando. Yeah, he was either gonna fuck or get fucked tonight. Well, I guess that cliffhanger has been resolved. Bitch is gonna regret the easy access.

I drag him, nude but for his sport socks and leather hightops, to the center of the floor. The kid moans as I stand over him and unzip my fly, letting my hog flop out, swollen and dripping in anticipation of the pain I’m gonna inflict on this worthless teen slut.

My chest glistens with sweat—like the boy, I decided it was too warm for a shirt tonight. And there’s no AC in my rape van.

I like it when the meat sweats.

I kneel and pull the boy’s legs up, placing his shoes on my shoulders as I run my hands down his smooth, muscular thighs. His cock, short but massively thick, lies limply in a nest of golden fuzz, a nest containing two huge, wrinkled eggs. Propping him up, I spit into my palm and use it to moisten the oozing purple head of my cock before bending down and gently placing it against the youth’s pink fuckhole.

I grasp his thighs, digging my fingers into his firm flesh, and shove my mushroom head as deep into his guts as I can in one thrust.

That woke the little cunt up. He’s wailing like a banshee, his hands snatching at my skin at random, his legs jerking and twisting in my arms. I draw my legs up, feeling the soles of my combat boots finding traction on the van’s carpet. Applying pressure to my legs, I push up and on top of the bitch, pinning him to the floor with my dick and my body weight. I’m larger and better built—no matter how hard he struggles, he can’t get out from under me.

He can’t escape my cock. And he can’t escape anything else I wanna stick in him.

I settle down on top of him, letting my thick cock slide all the way up his tender rectum. He’s yowling like a cat in heat as I split his virgin hole, feeling the flesh tear and blood trickle as my engorged shaft sinks into him inch by inch. It’s hard to tell if he’s yelling in pleasure or in pain, but it’s too loud.

Plus, he’s starting to scratch and fight now. Need to tame the little fuck. I grab a hank of his hair with my left hand and draw my right fist back. He doesn’t see it coming. He gives another loud grunt as the blow lands on his jaw. His whole body contracts with the impact; I can even feel his sphincter clench slightly.

Good. If that’s how the meat reacts to pain, this is gonna be lots of fun.

For me, that is.

I’m pumping his smooth ass with long, deep thrusts. He groans, his eyelids fluttering as he fights to retain consciousness. I keep fucking his hot, sexy, limp body as he starts stirring. Suddenly his bright green eyes open wide and he remembers. He opens his mouth and inhales; he’s gonna start screaming again.

I’m still holding his hair. I draw my fist back and he flinches, throwing up his arms to block. I smack them out of the way as I twist his head around painfully by the scalp.

“Shut up and take my cock, you little motherfucker,” I snarl at him. He looks at me, his face etched with pain and fear, tear-filled eyes wide as he whimpers. “You’re making too much noise, you cunt. Either shut the fuck up or I’ll make ya shut up. Ya want that, fuckwad? Want me to shut you up? I can shut ya up for good, whore, ya want that?”

He shakes his head in terror, his lips pressed together as hard as he can to prevent any sound from escaping. He knows what I mean.

He doesn’t know it’s gonna happen anyway. I wanna play with him a bit first. I spit in his bewildered face.

“Yeah, you just thought you were gonna get high and party tonight, you stupid asswipe? Guess what—you are. You’re already higher than fuck and now we’re gonna party my way. Most intense party of your worthless fucking life, meat.”

His beautiful emerald eyes, framed by his long golden lashes, stare up at me uncomprehendingly, beseechingly. He’s desperate for the pain to end but is too cowed to speak.

He has no idea that what he’s experiencing now is like a mother’s kiss compared to the nightmarish hell that awaits him.

I make sure to give him a hint. I’m still pumping up his ass, rough, hard and raw. Even wallowing in fear, he’s unable to keep silent; faint mewling sounds burst from his lush, full lips.

His face is moist with tears; the rest of him is moist with sweat. So am I. It’s hot in here in more ways than one. I can feel the beads trickle down through the matted hair on my chest to drip on the meat’s abdomen, heaving in agony. It lubes our writhing, intertwined bodies as we slide over each other in hot wet forced mansex.

He’s starting to accept it. It usually happens. Most of the time, the meat has to be forced to acknowledge its true desires; it never wants to admit how much it gets off on what happens. This cunt is slowly relaxing into the fuck, enjoying it. As he does so, his ass starts to go slack.

It’s a fatal mistake. He’s too relaxed for his colon to suck out my spunk.

Not good enough, bitch, not by a long shot. I think it’s time the meat knows what’s in store. I reach into the shadows on the right, groping with my hand while still rhythmically thrusting my tool into the punk’s inflamed fuckhole. I keep his attention by sneering at him and spitting in his face. When I hold the weapon in front of his face, it’s a total shock. He’d thought he was getting raped. Now he knows he’s getting raped and murdered.

It’s an M1 Garand Springfield bayonet. Not a vintage one—although it’s identical to one made in 1942. The grip is plastic, but the rest of it is sixteen inches of sharpened stainless steel, ready to penetrate the boy’s body like a hard dick.

He sees it, his eyes focusing on the glint of the razor-sharp blade, the pointed tip, so ready to rip into his tender, defenseless body. He’s quiet, but it’s because fear has overloaded his drugged brain. He doesn’t scream, he whispers. “No, please, no, no, don’t, please god no don’t no no no…”

“Yeah, ya little cocksucker, ya see it? You’re gonna more than see it, cunt, you’re gonna feel it in yer guts. This is what happens to useless whores like you when ya get into stranger’s cars. You’re gonna get fucked in every way possible. You think gettin’ my cock stuck in ya hurt? Wait’ll I stick this in ya too. You’re gonna hurt so good you’re gonna spunk uncontrollably.”

He shakes his head speechlessly, retreating into denial in his attempt to preserve his sanity. No ya don’t, meat. I want it to know exactly what’s happening.

I place my left hand over the meat’s forehead, pressing it forcefully into the shag carpet lining the van’s floor. With my right, I drag the bayo blade over the cunt’s face. Even though it’s a replica, I keep it oiled to prevent rust; I make sure to wipe it over the meat’s nostrils.

“Smell that, fuckmeat? That’s oiled steel. Imagine what that’s gonna feel like slicing through your stomach. Imagine that sharp tip stabbing its way up through your intestines into your ribcage. It’s gonna be excruciating. Pain like you never felt in your short wasted life, bitch. But you’re a fucking pain pig cunt, I can tell. It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad you’re gonna blow yer wad, you stupid whore.”

He looks. He can’t help it. The blade is long and dark, except along the cutting edge, where it’s been ground down to a point; the razor edge reflects the faint glow from the parking lot security lights.

He’s breathing deeply, timing it perfectly to the stokes of my dick. His eyes seem mesmerized by the bayo; I can feel his sphincter tighten as his brain unwillingly follows my words and starts imagining. He’s already caught up in a whirlpool of lust and drugs and pain and fear.

“Time to rock ‘n roll, motherfucker. Time to get it on. Are ya ready for the burn, cunt? Ready to ride my cock and my blade into agonizing death? No? Heh, tough shit, you worthless cocksucking piece a’ shit, cause it’s gonna happen anyway. And you’re such a fucking useless faggot motherfucker, you’re gonna spunk as I end your worthless life, cocksucker.”

His eyes break away from the blade, turning frantically up to mine. His face is crazed with pain and panic, his arms clawing wildly at me, scratching my arms, my chest, scrabbling at my face. His legs flail in his terror, the rubber soles of his pricey leather hightops scraping my heaving, sweaty flanks in his instinctive attempt to escape. His head is still forced down onto the floor by my left hand pressing onto his forehead. I rise up on my knees—and my hand on his head, my shaft still spearing his ass mercilessly.

I look down into his youthful pig face, streaked with tears of pain and strain. He looks up to me, eyes filled with a silent plea that only makes me want to hurt him more.

So I do. I place the tip of the blade against his smooth, flat belly, and slow increase the pressure.

It takes two minutes to get the first inch of the blade in. It’s all I can do not to cum; the meat’s colon reacts to pain beautifully. He’s gasping and moaning, but not screaming; he’s too overwhelmed. I’m overwhelmed, too, overwhelmed by lust. I pull my dick out of his ass, leaving just my fat mushroom tip inside his quivering fuckhole.

“You want it, meat, you know you do,” I whisper to the boy. His pale, creamy skin highlights his platinum blonde hair. His smooth, firm body trembles under me, still sliding frictionlessly on a sheen of cold sweat, forced out by sheer terror. It’s nothing next to the sweat and pheromones he’ll be pumping out as he dies.

“Ready, meat? Time to die, cunt. Time to waste your worthless ass so I can cum. Ya like that, dontcha? You know it’s what you want. You wanna die on my dick. You know it, meat. Just accept it. You’re gonna die in agony taking my load up your ass and you’re gonna like it, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit, aintcha?”

I smile beatifically into his face as I watch him absorb my words. It’s that moment of realization I’m looking for; the moment he realizes I’m serious.

I see it. His eyes widen slightly. It’s all I need. As I slam my thick purple cock deep into the cunt’s fuckhole, I shove the bayonet into his belly, feeling no resistance as the sharpened steel parts his flesh like soft butter.

He inhales deeply, his body pulling upward, fleeing my cock and my blade—like the fucker can. He’s trapped and he knows it. He’s dying. All he can hope for is an end to the pain; he can’t imagine the explosive, agonizing orgasm that’s awaiting him.

“Enjoy the pain, cunt. You deserve it, you fuckin’ whore. I saw ya out buyin’ smokes; didn’t know that was gonna end up costing ya your life, didja? Thought you were gonna go get fucked up and rock out and get laid, huh, you fuckin’ punk?”

Blood seeps from the wound in his abdomen, but I’m nowhere near done. It’s gonna take the meat some time to die; if I’m gonna get him to jack me off as he dies, I’m gonna need him to be in a lot more pain. Time to put the hurtin’ on.

“Yeah, that’s a good start, fuckmeat, but you ain’t jerkin’ my shaft enough yet. Guess I gotta hurt ya more, yeah? Gotta make you jack me good, cunt, gotta make yer loose fuckhole get tight again. Only one way to do that. You know what that is, you useless pain pig, don’t ya? I gotta hurt ya. You love it, you fucking cunt. You love the pain, I can see it in your hot sweaty face.”

He’s still denying it, even to himself. He’s sobbing openly as the bayonet slices upwards through his stomach. I don’t want him dead yet; I need him to jack me off a little longer. I angle the blade to the side and slice his liver in half.

As much as I’d hurt the meat before, the damage to a major organ had a significant impact on my dick. The kid spasmed violently, his arms going rigid, his smooth, firm legs contracting tightly around my body as he gasped deeply, reacting to the steel piercing his liver.

I don’t give a shit. He’s not in enough pain yet. “Fuck, cocksucker, ya gotta work harder than that to get my load. And my boiling sperm is the only thing that’s gonna end this for ya. You want it over? You wanna sink into the cold dark release of death? You gotta make me cum, you cunt. And the more pain you’re in, the sooner I’ll shoot. So get with it, motherfucker, the more it hurts the better it feels. Fuck yeah, meat!”

I spit in the teen’s frantic face before I punch him again. This time, I’m rewarded with a satisfying, deeply erotic crunch as I break the meat’s cheekbone. Again, I can feel his pain on my cock as his rectum writhes along my swollen shaft.

It’s still not enough. I’m ready. I wanna cum. Time for the cunt to truly become meat so I can cum.

I don’t know how fast I’m fucking him; I’m ramming the bayo into the fuckmeat in time with my thrusts. Oiled steel punctures the motherfucker’s guts and lungs; I avoid his heart—I don’t want him to die instantly; I want him to enjoy this.

And the pig does enjoy it. I can tell by the way he writhes and groans in agony, by the way his rectum collapses on my cock, applying involuntary suction. I can tell by the way his short, thick rod stands up straight and spews a jet of sperm three feet into the air as sixteen inches of sharpened, oiled steel spears his heart, letting it pump itself to shreds on a razor-sharp blade.

The meat’s sphincter contracts uncontrollably in death, tightening around my shaft like a cockring; I blow my wad up the dying meat’s fuckhole as I ream my long sharp hard bayo deep into his guts.

It takes me a few minutes to recover after unloading into the fuckmeat. I pull my dripping cock of the corpse’s ass and rise shakily to my feet. I zip my dripping tool back into my jeans before I open the rear door of the van.

There’s a flash of lightning as I open the doors. Looks like the unusually warm weather is about to break; there’s gonna be an intense storm here soon.

Good.

I dump the meat into the ditch and throw his clothes in afterwards. There’s a nasty storm coming. Enough rain, and the cunt’s body will be halfway to the ocean before anyone finds him…

Meat Chronicles 10–Nothing Like a Good Screw

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope I didn’t damage my screwdriver.

Meat Chronicles 8–Shanks for the Memory

On By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles1 Comment

Yeah, I know, it’s been a while. Goddam vice raid is why. They went in a scooped up the entire contingent of rent boys last weekend, right after the body of my last toy was found. Since they had no clue to lead them to me—the meat had been exposed to the elements too long for any DNA traces to remain viable—their next best plan was to clamp down on my prey and work that angle.

Well, I wish them luck. None of the whores know who I am.

But it’s put me in a tight spot. My hunting grounds are shut down. And the ‘burbs are still off limits. It tends to require a bit more finesse working out there anyways; the stakes are higher since there’s more of an outcry.

Seems they value the teen hoods more than the rentboys. I don’t.

But that’s beside the point. I need relief, and I need it now. There’s too much cum boiling in my sack; I need to drain it into a writhing piece of meat. This is gonna be a quickie. Whatever unfortunate fuckpig I find isn’t gonna last long, not when I’m in this mood. I’m not in the mood for subtlety tonight.

I’ve even got myself a new toy to use. It’s very…primitive, I guess, would be the best way of phrasing it. Not sure how effective it’ll be.

May be a moot point if my luck doesn’t improve. Not sure where I can turn to find a decent meat puppet. I’m on the highway, heading north out of downtown. I’m at a loss; I take the first exit in the suburb and prepare to go home.

And that’s when I see him, although it takes me a moment to realize it. I’m at the light at the end of the exit ramp and he’s standing just beneath the underpass, with a cardboard sign. It read “Please help. Unemployed for 3 months. Wife unemployed 6 months. Newborn baby girl. Will work for money.”

This kid is seventeen, eighteen tops. Short black hair, large dark eyes, not even five and a half feet tall, he doesn’t look like a husband and father. Especially not dressed like that.

Or, rather, undressed like that. He isn’t wearing a shirt and on this hot summer evening, his broad muscled chest is glistening with sweat everywhere but the valley between his pecs, where a hint of fur shows that enough hormones have kicked in for him to be capable of fathering a child.

He’s wearing black sports shorts. At the end of his thick, well-built legs are a pair of Nike Air Jordans, laced up tight around his ankles. Sweat trickles down his forehead; he wipes it away as he insolently stares me in the face.

Will work for money, hmm? I wonder what kind of work he’ll do…

I’m a monster; a sadistic sexual psychopath of the worst kind, but I do have some scruples, hard as that may be to believe. I have no intention of depriving a family of its breadwinner. Maybe he’ll blow me for some dough.

On the other hand, if it turns out that his story isn’t true, I’m gonna fuck him to shreds.

I pull over and ask him his story. He says his name is AJ. He starts his spiel about being a mechanic and getting laid off from a quick lube place. He said his wife had been assistant manager at some fast food joint that had closed down.

I’m pretty obvious, sliding my eyes up and down his body as slowly and sensuously as if they had been my hands. He gets the message, standing up straighter, dropping one hand to his crotch. I grin and ask what exactly what he’ll do for money. He blushes and looks away, mumbling something about having a girlfriend and not swinging that way.

I tell him I’ll give him fifty dollars if I can suck his dick. His entire demeanor changes; he chirps happily, coming around to the passenger side of the van. I let him in and offer him a joint, certain he’ll take it. And, of course, he does.

There’s nothing in this one; I just want him mellow before I gut him like a pig. I’m curious, though, about how his wife became a girlfriend. Under the influence of some really good medicinal-grade weed, the kid is soon giggling and confessing everything.

His name really is AJ and he’s eighteen, from Oklahoma. Yes, he is a father, but his “baby mama” took the child back east; he didn’t know its name or gender and didn’t care. Perpetually unemployed, he worked the welfare system, was considered incapable of paying child support, and supported himself by dealing drugs and petty thievery for extra cash.

His girlfriend—he described her as “this skank I hooked up with coupla weeks ago”—was on her way out; between her warrant for prostitution and her possessive pimp, AJ was on the verge of “telling that nasty whore to get her slack ass outta the fuckin’ motel room—not like she brings in enough to pay her way, and anyway, her pussy is so fuckin’ reamed it’s like fucking a pickle jar!”

I tell him I want to go somewhere more private so I can give his cock the attention it deserves. And I will, too. Of course, whether or not he’ll agree my attentions are deserved remains to be seen.

Frankly, I’m stunned by my luck. I’m also in a hurry; I’m gonna fuck this kid up so bad I can barely avoid creaming my jeans just thinking about it. And he has no idea.

He’s leaned back in the passenger seat, taking huge hits off the joint I’d handed him. I’d declined hitting it myself on the grounds that I was driving and the very last thing I needed was to get pulled over with a jay hanging out of my mouth. I let him get higher and higher, watching him relax back into the seat, each passing streetlight seeming to focus attention on his moist, smooth skin, his tight, youthful body.

There are times I feel a certain remorse. So many of these boys end up in my clutches as a result of a stupid decision on their part; perhaps the hell I inflict on them is out of proportion to the crime. I do feel pity towards this young man who has been gifted with a beautiful appearance and has utterly wasted and misused it.

The pity passes. I’m hard and dripping; it’s time to fuck the meat to death.

I’ve arrived at a place I’ve long since scoped out and wanted to use. Massive construction site; there’s a vast office park going in on the northwest side of town. There’s a security patrol, naturally; a single rent-a-cop in a slightly battered Crown Vic circles the lot periodically. I’ve timed it; it never takes them less than fifty minutes to complete the full circuit.

I can fuck this piece of shit up badly in fifty minutes.

I slow as I approach the site. Damn, couldn’t have timed it better if I’d planned it. There’s the car now, passing the entrance. The parking garage for the first building is directly behind. The structure is complete; once the guard is out of sight, I can drive in and enjoy a little alone time with my new friend.

Once safely berthed in a space against an inside wall of the garage, I tell AJ to head to the back of the van. He steps back, slipping out of his short as I follow; his firm, taut ass makes my dick throb. He stands before me, revealing his hard, young body, his erection pointing straight up at his face, wearing nothing but his Air Jordans. At first I wasn’t sure he was even wearing socks, but from this angle, I can look down and see that he’s got black ped socks.

I lean back, my body obscuring a metal post, about a yard high, that I’d welded to the floor of the van. There was a steel ring welded to the top of the post, through which was draped a pair of handcuffs.

AJ steps forward, lust paining his dark eyes, saying, “C’mon, man, ya gonna go down on me or what?”

I smile gently at him and slam my fist into his jaw, stunning the kid. He staggers and sinks to his knees. I bend down and grab his wrists, dragging him roughly to the post. Before he has a chance to recover his wits, I’ve handcuffed him into place on the post.

Whatever happens beyond this point, the teen can’t get away.

It takes a bit for him to realize that he can’t escape. The knowledge dawns slowly as he comes to and tries to stand, only to find that if he does, he’s bent over with his ass in the air.

I’m not a man to miss an opening. As he rises shakily, presenting his pink rosebud hole to me, I grab him and mount him roughly from behind. He wails loudly as I thrust the swollen head of my cock into his tight hole.

“Shut the fuck up, you worthless slut,” I snarl; “you think this hurts? I got something special for you, boy. I made something to stick into you, to see how bad it hurts. Scream as loud as you like, bitch, ain’t no one gonna hear.”

And he does. He threatens me, too, dire curses and promise of physical retribution. I let him go on for a while; I love it when the meat plays tough. I’ll reduce him to a squealing little fuckpig soon enough. Let him put up his last futile resistance.

Besides, it gets me off when they scream and yell. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like it vibrates their colon. It’s a slight buzzing, tingling sensation along my dick. But not for long.

After all, by this time, I’ve wasted dozens of these little fucks. This feeble bleating isn’t gonna do it for long. A good, sustained screaming, on the other hand…

As his rectum clenches my shaft in a spasm of agony, I decide it’s time to see if my new tool works. It’s just to the right of the post. It’s a screwdriver, or was to begin with. I’ve spent a little time with a metal file, lovingly grinding it down to a shank. I made sure to leave all the edges with rough, jagged shards of metal.

This isn’t designed to part flesh surgically. It’s supposed to tear and punch its way through the body, mangling the wounds and causing unspeakable agony.

Let’s see if it works.

He gets it in his belly. I sink it into his hard six-pack abs, feeling the resistance as the shank rips through and plunges deep into the teen’s tender innards. The boy emits a high-pitched screech as his ass starts bouncing backwards, almost as if he’s twerking on my cock.

“Fuck yeah, asswipe,” I whisper with a shudder into his ear, “squeal like pig with my shank inside you. Let me feel how much it hurts, meat. Pump my cock in your motherfucking agony, you sack of shit.”

The kid gasps and starts babbling. I’m sure he’s pleading, but he’s so hysterical, I can’t make out the words. He’s bawling like a baby as he struggles uselessly to get his hands free. He’s already figured out that every time he moves his legs, his pelvis works backwards onto my raging hard-on and causes more pain, so he keeps his legs still.

Well, that’s not any fun. I raise the screwdriver and slam it down in his back. I drive it in with such force that it shatters a rib, peppering his thoracic cavity with bone shards as five inches of jagged steel punches through his lung and into his pectoral muscle from behind. I twist the shank in the wound before jerking it back out.

The punk mews like a kitten in his agony. At least I got him moving again; those hot-as-fuck Nikes are rubbing my legs again as the boy thrashes in excruciating pain.

“Hey, AJ, lemme ask ya something,” I mutter in his ear. “Was it worth it, askin’ for dough on the street? Was this what you wanted to happen? Quit squealin’, you fucking worthless whore, this is exactly what you wanted. You couldn’t handle being a real man, could ya, you useless fucking piece of shit? Gave up on your kid, gave up on your life… hope ya like what’s comin’ to ya, fuckwad, cause you deserve it.”

I’m holding him down and fucking him doggie style. Worthless lying sack of shit doesn’t even get to see the face of the man who’s fucking him to death. As he squirms in terror, begging me not to kill him, I ram the sharpened steel screwdriver into the punkass bitch’s right side. As I ream the shank into the wound, slashing his liver and spleen to hamburger, the teen goes rigid in the shock induced by major organ trauma. His hard muscled body presses firmly against my own; the trembling caused by the physiological reaction to pain is lubricated by sweat.

The little motherfucker slips and slides across my belly, quivering on my engorged shaft as if this is the most erotic thing he’s ever experienced. The kid is hovering somewhere in the gray area between pleasure and pain.

This is what I’ve been aiming for. AJ is totally under my control; my own meat puppet waiting to jack me off and milk every last drop of sperm out of my aching wrinkled balls. He just needs the right stimulus—and the right damage.

“Are ya ready, you fucking faggot?” I scream, spitting furiously on the helpless meat, “Ready to die so I can unload in your worthless ass, fuckwad? I am, you fucking cumpig. Yeah, you though I was gonna pay ya to swallow your wad—guess what, you fucking homo, you’re gonna die with my load plugging your guts. But I haven’t hurt you enough to cum yet, bitch. You’re gonna die in a nightmare of agony, fuckpig!”

Long streamers of snot flow from the youth’s nose as he babbles incoherently, begging for a quick death. He’s accepted his end and only wants to get through it with as little pain as possible.

At the very end, just before I inflict the last nightmarish blast of agony on the poor kid, I kiss the back of his neck tenderly. I empathize, I really do. But we’re at cross purposes. He wants to die with no further pain; I want him to die in much more pain than he’s currently experiencing.

Unfortunately for him, he’s the one in the handcuffs.

I hold the shank in front of him, whispering for the last time. “It’s over, meat. This is what your life has come down to. Make me cum, meat. Don’t die for no reason. Die so I can get off in your quivering ass. This is your last chance to make a difference. Make me cum, you worthless fuck; give your sad fucking death some meaning by soaking up my sperm.”

Angling the shank back towards me, I slam it into the meat’s neck, punching a hole in his esophagus. As he coughs and gags, his sphincter tightens around the base of my cock and I know he gets it. He’s ready. He knows that the last thing he can impact in life is whether or not I cum and he’ll give his last dying energy to achieve that, an instinctive grasp at life beyond death.

I reverse the angle of the shank. Grabbing AJ’s head in one hand, I slam the screwdriver up under his jaw. The sharpened steel head rips up through the kid’s tongue, punching through the soft palate.

As the boy goes rigid in the unspeakable agony I’m inflicting on him, his smooth, firm buttcheeks pump back against my groin; the kid’s rectum greedily contracting around my sensitive shaft, each ridged vein engorged with blood.

Jagged metal tears upward into the teen’s skull, rendering his hard firm body utterly uncontrolled. As my homemade shank shears through AJ’s optic nerve, his eyes roll back in his head. I can see this because he’s convulsing so badly, his head bends backwards. His blank, drooling face, devoid of any personality, shows only the whites of his eyes.

As AJ shudders in death, his rectum begins to convulse in a rhythmic manner, fluttering along my shaft. As always, the meat milks the seed out of my cock smoothly; it’s how I know that what I do is right. After all, if I wasn’t giving the meat what it needed, it wouldn’t drain my load so well.

As I tighten my biceps, grunting with the strain, I force the shank deeper into the pig’s skull. I’ve mangled his brain and my only regret was that I couldn’t fit my cock up inside his cranium so I could fuck the teen fuckwad’s brains out literally. But it’s ok; the meat has responded the way it usually does. There’s a splash of semen on the floor; the same time I hear the crunch of my shank penetrating the base of the meat’s skull, it starts spunking uncontrollably.

I’m up on my knees, holding the meat to me. One hand is gripping the boy’s forehead; the other is forcing the screwdriver up behind the kid’s chin. The meat is spewing a steady stream of cum as my roughened steel shank destroys its pleasure center; its contracting sphincter manages during massive convulsions to jack a huge wad of spunk out of me, filling the trembling meat with my built-up sperm.

There’s more in me after I waste the pig. I spend another twenty minutes fucking the corpse, sticking my cock into the gaping dead mouth and plowing the slack asshole, flaccid but convulsing from the intermittent commands of a reamed-out cranium.

I get dressed again. On my way out of the construction site, I remove a sheet of plywood from a foundation excavation and shove the deathpig in. Sometime, this week, they’ll pull the plywood off and fill the excavation with concrete. No one will see the pile of rotting meat at the bottom.

Damn, he was good. I’m still dripping. Wonder if I can find another pig. There’s still more sperm inside, just waiting to spew over some punk’s corpse…

Meat Chronicles 5–Doublecunt Cum

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

He’s only about eighteen. I’ve got a great view of him as he crosses the street. Damn, he’s hot. Broad, muscled chest in a tight brown t-shirt. Khaki cargo short shorts cradle his firm ass and show off his tight calves, covered in a fine dark fur. A long, unruly mop of black hair hangs down, nearly obscuring his eyes, but the strong sun brings out the golden highlights in the hazel shaded by long lashes. Yellow construction boots with white socks rolled just above the black leather ankles…

He strides along confidently. He has no idea at all that I’m watching, planning, anticipating his agonizing death.

I think it’s about time to get that idea into his head. The question is, how do I lure him? I’m in the parking lot of a strip mall on a major street. I’m not hunting. I need to be very careful; it’s the unplanned situations that lead to mistakes and exposure. Dammit, this kid is almost up to my van. I really, really wanna fuckin’ hurt him. I need some time…

Hang on. He’s slowing. Right here, right beside my van. I crack the window; he’s talking to someone. As I listen, I adjust the side mirror until I get a glimpse of the other guy.

He’s about the same age as the kid I’ve been watching. His short brown hair is carefully sculpted and probably stiff with product. His face is pointed, with a sharp chin, but he’s compensated for this with a rigidly groomed goatee and a haze of brown stubble on his cheeks. His brown eyes are enormous and give an unexpected vulnerability to his arrogant expression.

He’s wearing a blue polo shirt that shows of his broad, firm pecs. The short sleeves bunch at his bulging biceps. His ‘skinny” jeans, straining tightly around his junk, outline the muscles in the kid’s thighs. He’s got on a pair of running shoes in a startling shade of neon yellow.

They called each other by name, but I never pay attention. As far as I care, they’re walking fuck toys. And when I’m done, well, rotting piles of meat don’t need names. But since there’s two of ‘em here, I’ll tell ya that the kid I’d first noticed was called Steve and the alpha punk was Kevin.

I think. Like I said, I don’t really give a shit. Most of the time, I don’t learn what the name is until they ID the body on the news.

I’ve run the numbers. I know the name of 13% of my victims. Most of them, I’ve learned after the kill.

Anyway, Steve and Kevin are looking to get high. Seems they haven’t had any luck. Nobody wants to sell these two poor little meat sacks any joy–what a shame. Perhaps I can help.

“Hey, you dudes lookin’ to have some fun?” I shout out the window. They both practically jump out of their skins. Stupid shits hadn’t realized I was here. Kevin gives me the hairy eye while Steve blushes and looks away. He’s embarrassed that he’s been caught looking for drugs. Kevin doesn’t care.

“I got whatever you need. Weed, crack, X , meth—what ya want?”

Kevin’s huge eyes are still slitted in distrust. “You ain’t a fuckin’ cop, are ya?”

“Fuck no, dude. I’ll take ya back to my place and let you sample whatever you wanna buy. Does that sound like a cop, showing ya where he lives?”

He’s still suspicious, but he agrees. I open the passenger door. I notice he lets Steve sit in the passenger seat while he crouches in the back of the van. That’s ok. Steve is hot and clearly well hung: I don’t mind him being my eye candy for the drive back to my killing pit.

Both boys follow me willingly into my apartment. Kevin wants coke, and he wants it now. He wants to mainline, to shoot it directly into his veins.

I know the feeling. I used to do it myself. Christ, it sucked getting off it; I went cold turkey. I shook for two straight weeks. This kid can’t have been doing it for too long; his body is too good to have been exposed to years of drug abuse.

On the other hand, he’s not likely to be able to get off this by himself, statistically speaking. Better for his sake to end it now. Same goes for the other punk. Trust me, I’ve been there. I know what I’m talking about.

Killing these two little fucks will be an act of mercy. And as long as I’m helping them out, what’s wrong with having some fun myself? After all, no matter how agonizing and drawn-out I make their deaths, it’s better and less painful than letting them live in such conditions.

Of course, this is still gonna hurt like fuck,

I’ve added ground-up diazepam to the coke they’re injecting. That’s generic Valium, by the way. I watch—and find myself getting harder by the second; I can feel precum oozing from the head of my cock as I watch the fucking punks get high.

It’s hard for me. Once an addict, always an addict. I don’t deny that I want to join them. I know what it feels like, after all, when the train hits. That’s what it’s called when the coke rush hits you; it’s the train. You can tell when the metallic taste hits your mouth. Your tongue sticks out as the rush begins. After that, no matter what happens, you’re ready to cum—you just need the proper physical stimulation. Problem is, you can’t get physically stimulated enough.

At least, not in the usual way. I’m gonna have to tinker with the meat. A steel shank embedded in the nervous system is a good way to override cocaine droop. There are other ways, too…

Once glance at the boys tells me it’s party time. They’re both leaning back on the sofa, eyelids half open, tongue sticking out. Steve is drooling slightly. They’re riding the train, all right—riding it straight to hell.

A box cutter makes quick work of their clothes. Kevin gets dragged back first. He moans incoherently as he’s sucked under by the cocaine. I tie him to a chair and duct tape his mouth after I remove from his left arm the strip of rubber that he’s used to tie off. At the same time, I place another small strip of duct tape on the back of the chair—that’s for later. He’s completely nude except for his white athletic socks and those day-glo yellow sneakers. His thick cock, four inches flaccid, lies on the black cloud of his pubic hair. He stares dully at the bed, so caught up in his coke rush that he has no clue what’s happening.

I grin. Kevin is going to be fun to play with. I can’t wait to fuck him.

Steve is young, dumb, and full of cum. Since I’m gonna fuck him first, I drag him to the bed. I bind his hands behind his back. I’m also gonna off him first, and I’m gonna make Kevin watch.

I think Kevin will be ready to die on my cock after I make him watch me kill Steve. He’ll feel responsible. Of course, that means I’ll have to make Steve’s death as painful as possible. I can’t fuckin’ wait.

It’s hit them both by now, worthless little fucks. They’re drooling, tongues protruding, eyes bulging, both of them—higher than kites. The coke may make it difficult for them to get off, but I can help them with that. A little breath control, a little pain, some manipulation of the nervous system and I can make these little punks cum no matter how much pain and fear they’re in.

So Steve is on his back on the bed—on the blood-and cum-soaked mattress. Kevin is bound to a chair and forced to watch. Steve’s arms are bound behind his back by a zip tie. He moans as I shove my engorged cock into his quivering asshole, but he’s still riding the coke train. He can’t resist, even if he wants to. It feels too good.

It’s about to feel a lot less good. Steve—or whatever the meat’s name is—is about to learn that I’m a lot less interested in getting him off than in getting myself off. That means that it doesn’t matter to me how much pain he’s in as long as it makes me cum.

In fact, the more pain he’s in, the more he’s gonna work my cock. And I’m gonna make sure Kevin sees it so he’ll know what to expect when it’s his turn.

Steve moans as I thrust the engorged head of my cock into his tender asshole. The pain is more than he’d anticipated. He’d wanted to be fucked; I can tell, but he didn’t know it would hurt this bad. I smile, knowing that it’ll hurt much more than this before I’m done.

They won’t admit it and may not consciously know it, but I’m giving them what they truly desire. They long for death; they show it by abusing their young, strong bodies. And they have a deep need for control or else they run wild like these two little shits. I can fulfill that need. The one thing they lack to complete their task on this planet—is me.

I am the missing father figure they’re yearning for, the adult male who can dominate them like the dogs they are and put them out of their misery. I’ll fill the void in their worthless souls by showing them just how worthless and empty they truly are.

And then I’ll fill that emptiness with cum.

Steve’s ass is so soft and smooth, it’s like fucking velvet. His eyes are wide with pain and shock; it’s clear that he never expected this. He’s on his back and his boots clamp tightly on my head. I can feel the soft leather on my ears as the meat stiffens in pain…

Kevin is squirming and trying to free himself from the chair. I can ignore him for the moment and focus on Steve. His eyes open wide and I can tell he’s about to scream. Good; I can stop that and show these pieces of shit that I’m not fucking around.

Steve inhales deeply, as if he’s about to scream. Before he can do that, I ram my knife into his throat. It’s a Ka-bar seven inch utility knife with a serrated edge. I stick it straight into his Adam’s apple and watch his face react to the pain.

His face contorts in agony as my blade punctures his larynx. I twist it, shredding the little fuck’s vocal cords, but I leave it in the wound. The hilt bobs in the air, matching the pace at which I’m fucking the meat. No matter how hard I make him work my dick, he won’t be able to cry out.

Kevin is conscious. I can tell that he’s watching, so he’s the one I speak to.

“How’s this look, fuckwad? Your buddy ain’t ever gonna speak again, not that it’ll matter. Neither one of y’all will need to speak by the time I’m done fucking you. Watch him die, asswipe. Whatever I do to him I’m gonna do worse to you. Watch him ride my cock until he dies, so you’ll know what I want you to do. Do it good and you won’t hurt as much. Watch, bitch, watch him die.”

The bedroom in this apartment is small. This mattress is already soaked with blood and cum. This is a nightmarish place to live your last moments, to suffer the pain that will be your last physical sensation on earth. The pain and fear that overwhelm Steve as I fuck him, as he tries to breathe with my knife embedded in his throat, must be unbearable.

“You wanted to get high?” I snarl into the teen’s tear-stained face. “How’s this feel, bitch? Are ya fuckin’ high enough? No? You’re fuckin’ loose, I can tell ya that, you worthless whore. Gotta tighten your ass up, bitch. Lessee what we can do about that.”

I yank my blade out of his throat and thrust it into the whore’s left flank. He writhes and massages the head of my cock, but Kevin doesn’t seem to be paying attention. I suppose I need to get a little more—dramatic, shall we say.

“Enough, you worthless fuckmeat,” I whisper into Steve’s ear. “You’re not gonna get me off. I’m gonna have to waste you just to get hard again. Maybe you’ll get my dick stiff as you die, fucker, but I doubt it. You really are a useless piece of shit.”

“Hey, dude,” I call to Kevin. “Wanna see something really fuckin’ hot? Watch this, asswipe, cause this is what I’m gonna do to you.”

As I say this, I grab a handful of Steve’s unruly black hair and jerk his head back. He gasps and grunts as this unexpected position makes it difficult for him to breathe. I could give a fuck; I yank Steve’s head back and slash his throat because I know that it’s gonna clench his sphincter around my cock.

Kevin stares wide-eyed as his buddy bleeds out on my cock. It takes a bit for Steve to die. I make sure both know what’s happening. The knife passes beneath Steve’s larynx. The tender flesh of his throat parts like it was butter. A fount of blood erupts from the punk’s throat. His eyes widen in shock—he’d thought he was gonna break into a car or two today, mug somebody, do whatever it took to get high. The muscular teen punk had thrown on his tight clothes and boots, prepared to break the law, but had no idea that it would lead to his agonizing death. He’d pulled on those tight cargo shorts and tied on his boots without realizing he was going to die in them.

“That’s it, you fuck, work my cock as your blood drains out. Come on, fuckmeat, you can do better than that. You’re dying, bitch, not taking a nap. I can make it hurt worse if I have to.”

Steve hacks up gouts of blood as he chokes and gasps. His sphincter spasms on my cock; a cockring that adjusts to the agony of my meat. He paws relentlessly despite the zip tie that renders his desperate flailing useless. His ass bucks and thrashes against my thick, swollen tool.

Suddenly, Steve’s dick begins to spasm. The meat’s brain has been deprived of oxygen too long. As his blood pressure drops, his consciousness fades and his struggles become more disjointed. The meat shudders and twitches and its cock, suddenly swollen, begins to expel seed. He’s not exactly shooting a wad; he’s just leaking a steady stream of semen. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it.

It feels so fucking good on my cock. Despair and fear—those who have never experienced it have no clue of the pleasure in store when these emotions are given full reign. But it’s over too soon. Steve has managed to give up his death load and escape my grasp without getting me off.

I’m very angry. I want to hurt someone very, very badly. Kevin is still awake. He’s the one I want to hurt; this cunt I’m fucking now is dogmeat.

I place my boot in Steve’s face—as always, I wear combat boots when I fuck; they give me a better purchase—and shove the meat onto the floor. “Fucking useless piece of shit,” I snarl at the corpse. “Couldn’t even make me fuckin’ cum.”

I stand in front of Kevin, my arms crossed and my legs spread. I’m nude except for my white socks and black combat boots. Blood glistens along my hard body as I look down into Kevin’s pleading, upturned face and hold the knife up. I can see it reflected in his huge, stunned eyes. On the floor behind me, visible between my legs, the huddled corpse of his buddy quivers, his boots making faint scuffling sounds on the floor.

The boy can’t bring himself to look at the knife—his eyes turn down and he’s confronted with my dick, engorged an angry red, dripping in readiness for him. He looks back up, and I can see in his face, that beautiful furry face with the huge brown eyes, that he knows what’s about to happen.

I cut him free from the chair. I leave the duct tape on his mouth, but I don’t bother to restrain him in any other way. I lead him to the bed by hand and lay him down before climbing on top of him. The mattress is still slick with Steve’s blood. I lift Kevin’s feet up as I had Steve’s, and placing his shoes on my shoulders, plug my cock up his ass. Kevin’s face clenches into a grimace as his cry is muffled to a loud grunt by the tape. He opens his eyes wide and they well with tears. I bend down and lick his tears as they run down his cheeks.

No, they’re not sweet. They’re salty.

I talk him through it. “You know what’s coming, boy,” I whisper as I stroke his face. “Your buddy couldn’t hack it. My fault, really, cutting his throat like that. I should’ve known he’d croak too soon. With you, it’s gonna take longer, at least a little.”

The meat flinches and turns his face away, excepting the sharp, cold pain of my knife. But that’s not what he gets. Remember that piece of duct tape that I’d put on the back of the chair? This is why. It goes over his nose.

He fights. They always fight, even the ones who’ve accepted the inevitable beforehand. They can’t help it; it’s physiological, part of the involuntary muscle system. The body fights to live under any circumstances.

Thank god it does; that’s what gets me off.

The meat—it doesn’t need a name anymore—reaches up, hands scrabbling desperately at its blocked-off orifices. The kid’s brown eyes grow larger still, revealing a world of hurt panic that nearly makes me as hard as the soft sponge-like texture of the fuckmeat’s rectum massaging my swollen tool.

I grab the boy’s flailing arms by the wrist, forcing them to the blood-stained mattress. The furry-faced twink bucks and jerks in a futile attempt to throw me off. I straddle him, feeling his thick, limp rod slapping against my belly with every thrust of my cock. I spit in the meat’s face as I sneer down at him.

“That’s it, boy. Good little death pig. Yeah, you’re getting’ it. Fuck yeah, does it hurt? I hope it does, you fucking piece of shit. My cock is killing you. I’m fucking you to death. Your buddy died to get my dick hard; now you’re gonna die to make me cum. Worthless little punks, had to waste two of ya to get off. Goddam, I’m going through meat like it was Kleenex. You better be worth it, fuckwad.”

The kid is shaking his head violently from side to side. His bright yellow sneakers drum against my back, my ass. His hands clench and unclench as I maintain my grip on his wrists; his chest heaves upwards, pressing against mine, sliding along on a thin film of sweat.

His eyes are no longer beautiful; they’re grotesque, bulging horribly from his purple face. There’s a bulge in the duct tape over his mouth as well, accompanied by a mewling sound; it’s his tongue, swelling but unable to protrude, backing up into his throat.

As the meat’s brain begins to die off from lack of oxygen, its dick starts to grow erect. I can feel it pressing into my belly, hard and hot. He’s finally giving in; I’ve brought him to the point of ultimate surrender.

“Die, you fucking bitch,” I scream, spitting into the meat’s face again, “die on my fucking cock. Make me cum, fuckmeat, die for me. I want your death throes to jack me off. Come on, you useless piece of shit, work my cock until I pump your guts full of spunk and throw you away like a used rubber.”

The embrace of death is hard and tight. He grabs me convulsively, entwining me with his arms and legs. His face is close to me; I can barely recognize the beautiful teen with the furry face and the brown eyes. Bloodshot and swollen, his eyes now convey nothing but the resignation of eternity. His lithe body, slick with perspiration, undulates beneath me and I suddenly feel a sticky warmth spread across my abdomen. The meat has unloaded his death wad all over my belly.

I moan and curse as I cum, fucking whore piece of shit fuck drain my load you worthless fuck oh god oh fuck you fucking shit meat…

The meat has stopped twitching by the time I come to. I have to yank my dick out of his ass; my spunk has dried to a crust inside the colon. He’s lying there on his back, arms at his side, legs spread, flaccid cock still lying thickly on his belly on top of a glaze of deathseed. The blood has drained from his face; it’s no longer black but a pale blue. His eyes have glazed to the point of opacity; he stares milkily into space.

God, I’d love to fuck him again, but I can’t take the chance. I gotta get rid of two of ‘em now, and it need to be done before they get stiff. It’ll be nearly impossible to dump them then.

Now, where the fuck am I gonna dump all this meat?

Meat Chronicles 3–Dicked Down Douchebag

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

I typically don’t hunt in the suburbs. There’s too much heat, too many people paying attention. Too many cameras, as well.

Of course, they’re also full of fuckable douchebags begging to be hurt.

Take this kid in front of me (please! But only if I can watch). I’ve been watching him for a while now. The back end of the mall parking lot is a great place to find little fucks like this.

He’s about twenty—just a couple of years out of high school. Still has lots of contacts in school, though, by the look of things.

Little piece of shit is a small-time drug dealer. He’s been hanging out in this back corner of the mall lot, selling out of his car. It’s far enough from the cameras at the entrance and obscure enough to avoid much notice. I just happened to be parked here already when he showed up. I was in the back of the van, so he must have figured it was empty.

I suspected this would be a good locale and I was right. My van is acting along the lines of a duck blind.

The boy pulled up a couple of hours ago. He’s in a red convertible—a Nissan 350Z. Rich kid. Undoubtedly still living with mommy and daddy.

Cocky and arrogant, he’s hot as fucking hell and he knows it. The type who got laid continually in high school. Even laid his buddies’ girlfriends—but since he was rich and had all the drugs, no one protested.

Now he’s out here, still peddling to the high school crowd. Some of the kids I’ve watched climb into his car aren’t old enough to drive themselves. They’re arriving on bikes and skateboards.

In between customers, he occasionally lounges against the rear of his car, glancing around casually. He’s not in the least worried about any consequences of his actions. Evidently mommy and daddy have paid his way out of any trouble he’s had in the past.

His hair, carefully spiked, gleams blue-black in the sun; it’s almost brighter than the thick chain of gold links around his neck. He’s wearing a tight gray sleeveless t-shirt that stretches across his amazing chest. His muscled arms bulge with tattoos so clichéd that the kid almost seems to be parodying a douchebag. I mean, who the fuck still does both tribal bands AND Chinese characters these days?

He’s got on white cargo pants and simple—but expensive—white leather skate shoes. I picture them kicking and jerking as the fucker dies and I’m instantly hard.

I’ve been considering how to approach the meat, but really, the simple, direct approach is usually best. I roll down my window and call out to him.

Piece of shit damn near jumps out of his skin. He still thought my van was empty. The realization that I’ve been watching his every move hits him like a ton of bricks. He’s not scared, though; he’s annoyed.

He calms down when I indicate I’m more interested in buying than reporting him. I beckon him over and unlock the passenger door. This is one transaction that doesn’t need to happen in his car.

I tell him I want weed. He doesn’t have any. He’s got coke. meth, heroin, and ecstasy.

I’m surprised. Weed is harmless, but this motherfucker is selling some pretty hard shit to some pretty young kids.

I’m gonna have fun punishing him. Don’t get me wrong; I’m no moral hypocrite. I’m a monster. My punishment will not fit the crime in any way, shape, or form.

It will, however, fit my dick perfectly.

I offer to buy his X and excuse myself, saying I keep my wallet in the back of the van. I do, and I get it. I also get the tire iron. Guess which one the little shit gets upside his head.

I drag the douche into the back, binding his hands behind him with a zip tie. I shove a rag in his mouth and slap duct tape over it. I cut off his pants, shorts and t-shirt. The boy is lying nude except for his socks and shoes—and his gold chain–on the plastic sheet on the floor of the van. There’s a small pool of blood forming from the cut in his scalp where I hit him. He isn’t going anywhere.

At least, not on his own. Stick with me, kid, yer goin ‘ places. I grin as I pull out of the parking space and head for the highway. The only place this kid was going with me was to take a dirt nap.

I liked the place I found last time and it’s only a couple of exits down the interstate. That’s one of the good things about industrial blight. Middle of a Sunday afternoon—that area will be deserted. Cops will be out after dark, mostly looking for vandals, but it’ll be nice and peaceful now. And so far they haven’t found the last sack of meat I left there.

I kinda suspect they won’t find it, either; at least not there. There’ve been a couple of severe storms and lots of flash floods since then. Wherever that little fucker’s corpse got washed to, they ain’t found it yet. Which means that neighborhood is still a safe killing ground, for at least one more playtime.

This time, I have even better luck. I spot a dark opening on the shady side of one of the abandoned warehouses. I pull in and find myself in a small loading bay attached to a much larger warehouse. The space is covered in graffiti and litter, but it’s so dark, I have to use my headlights to see it. I reverse into the space and kill the engine.

Clearly this place is party central at night. During the day, however, it’s as empty as the rest of the building. I have a nice secluded parking spot to kill an hour or two–and a douchebag.

I’m not sure why I’ve been so horny lately. It just seems to go in cycles. Recently I’ve had to find little nooks like this because I’m too impatient to get the meat back to the apartment. But I’m ready at any time; you never know when you’ll run across a prime cut of meat, waiting to be snatched up. Like this punk.

I lie next to him and stroke him, waiting for him to wake up. I’ve already stripped. I scrape the sole of my boot along the meat’s calf. I scrape something else along his smooth chest—an ice pick. Amazing how hard to find they are nowadays, with ice makers practically universal, even in cheap apartments. But they’re so versatile. I can stick them anywhere…

It’s twenty minutes before the meat starts stirring and moaning. I go ahead and mount the fucker before he’s fully awake. By the time he comes to, my erect cock is buried in his ass, my pubic hair flush against his smooth cheeks.

His large eyes—dark green, a beautiful shade—stare into mine in confusion. I’d hit him pretty hard; he may not remember getting into my van.

Well then, this is probably gonna be pretty traumatic for him. Downright terrifying, in fact.

And I’ll do my best to make sure it is.

“Hey there, dude,” I whisper to him, as I ream his hole brutally. My “whisper” has to be kinda loud for him to hear over his own muffled screaming. “How’s that feel, motherfucker? Ya like my cock tearin’ open your butthole, fuckwad? This is what happens when ya sell drugs to kids, bitch.”

I lean back, grab a fistful of his spiked black hair—the product in it “crunches” in my hand—and jerking his head back, spit in his face. Then I punch him in the mouth, hard, right on top of the duct tape, never missing a stroke in his ass.

“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t care what you’re selling to whom. But it is why I chose you to experience my personal tour of hell. You see, when your mangled, fucked-out, rotting corpse is finally found, everyone will already know what a scumbag you are. Even your rich mommy and daddy won’t be able to buy any public outrage about your murder. In other words, you punk-ass bitch, I can do what I want to you. You been sellin’ drugs to kids. No one’s gonna give a shit when I torture you to death.”

I hold up the ice pick. I always like to make sure the meat sees what I’m gonna stick into him. It helps him appreciate the situation, shall we say.

I run my other hand down the meat’s finely chiseled chest. A trail of black fuzz starts below his sternum and, growing in density as it moves down his flat, firm belly, finally merges with the dark cloud of his pubic hair.

His balls, large pale orbs, bounce against my crotch as I fuck him. His own dick, while not tiny, isn’t as large as the meat liked to imagine it is. Thick, but short, it quivers in response to the head of my dick massaging the meat’s prostate. In spite of himself, he’s growing hard.

And I know it’s in spite of himself because his attention is focused firmly on the ice pick. He’s imagining the pain that it could inflict. I really see no need to keep him in suspense, so I stick it into his left side, low down in the back. The steel shaft skewers the meat’s left kidney.

“Oh yeah,” I moan, as the meat writhes and grunts, “Work my cock, bitch. Let me feel how much it hurts. Remember, motherfucker, ain’t no one gonna care how many holes I stick in ya. You better work my tool good or I’m gonna hafta hurt you again.”

The kid looks up at me in panic. He can’t understand what is happening to him physically. I understand, of course; he’s going into shock. This was what I was aiming for.

As adrenaline overrides the meat’s voluntary nervous system, he loses the ability to resist. I yank the duct tape off, knowing he can’t cry out now, at least not loud enough to be heard outside the van. I notice some drops of blood on the meat’s lips; the little douchebag had been trying to grow some facial hair. I’d torn it out by the roots. He starts sticking his tongue out, trying to rid himself of the rag still in his mouth. It soon slips down the side of his tear-stained face.

But I’m done with the punk’s body. I turn my attention to his head, lying full length on top of the meat and kissing him, thrusting my tongue into his helpless mouth. As I do so, I slip the pick into place and slowly insert it.

The spot I’ve chosen is on the side of the meat’s neck—below the jaw, in front of the spine and behind both the carotid and the jugular. The fuck’s eyes widen in agony and he gasps for air raggedly as I slowly shove the pin-point tip of the ice pick through the base of his tongue from right to left.

“Fuck yeah, you worthless piece of shit, even your own parents are gonna hafta say you deserve this–in public. Getting’ grade-school kids hooked on the hard shit? I love it, dude. Fuckin’ Tea Party dickwads gonna wanta give me a medal for fucking you to death. So let’s make sure I deserve it. Let’s see how bad I can hurt you before you die, fuckmeat.”

I yank the pick back out of his throat. It’s time to try another approach anyway; the meat’s hole could use some tightening. He’s assimilated this pain and needs more.

I grab another handful of his hair and spit in his face again. His large green eyes look up at me in misery, pleading silently. His biceps bulge as he struggles against the plastic ties that bind his hands behind him, the tribal band flexing in the light.

I stab the shaft into his right ear. The sharp steel tip tears agonizingly though his eardrum, spearing the delicate, fluid-filled structures of the inner ear and filling the punk’s world with a sick sense of vertigo just before the shaft slides deep inside his skull.

I look deep into his eyes, fucking him steadily. I can see the damage I do reflected within the meat’s eyes–they dilate and well with tears. I can feel it clenching his sphincter involuntarily around the base of my cock, causing it to swell.

The little fuck stiffens as the thin shaft of metal burrows into his midbrain. This bit of tissue has several important functions that I’ve just shorted out. My fucktoy begins to twitch and convulse as he loses his fine motor control. The midbrain also controls temperature regulation. The meat starts dripping sweat.

I love a good fuck that lubes itself.

Again, I yank the pick swiftly out of the wound.

I kiss the boy on the lips, stroking his black hair, running my hand down the light stubble on his cheeks as I insert the ice pick into his right nostril. A quick, brutal, sensual thrust and I am rewarded with a faint crunching sound as the pick pierces the back of the sinuses to lodge within the frontal lobe.

This was where I give the meat a good time. Granted, the little fuck is wallowing in massive brain trauma, but the libido is located in the frontal lobe. It takes a little finding, though. I’m forced to grab the pick and wring it around viciously in the meat’s skull, mangling those sections of brain tissue that hold the personality and emotions. By the time I rake my cold steel tip through the pleasure center of the brain, I’ve ground the useless little bitch’s cerebrum to paste.

I know the moment I’d hit the right spot, though. The fuckwad’s rectum goes into spastic overdrive, massaging the swollen head of my dick. Worthless little drug dealer, getting’ grade-school kids hooked on heroin ‘cause the allowance mommy and daddy was giving him wasn’t enough—the meat spends the last few moments of his wasted and utterly useless life quivering and trembling on the end of my cock. He thought he’d been hot shit because all the high school boys looked up to him as a drug dealer and the chicks let him pop their cherries so they could get free coke. A small steel shank in his brain and my cock up his ass showed the motherfucker what a piece of useless shit he really was.

In the end, I think, that’s all he really wanted. Someone to control him, to show him what it was like to have every moment of your greatest orgasm carefully orchestrated. Someone who can guide you through pain and death to the most explosive sensation you’ll ever experience…

At any rate, the meat pumps what seems like a quart of cum out of his thick, short dork of a cock. As I spew hot loads of cum up his ass, the meat shudders uncontrollably as his brain shorts out and his body spasms; meat without any guiding program to control it, it milks my dick, making me cum violently.

As I cum, I curse the meat and keep mangling the brain, making sure I’ve completely fucked him over and destroyed the tissue inside his cranium. What’s left is still alive, technically. I haven’t touched vital areas in his brain stem. But I don’t think the motherfucker is gonna be around long.

I fall asleep right away. It happens a lot after I blow my load inside a meat puppet. It usually dies during the night. I’ll fuck it again before morning, but I’ll be fucking a corpse.

******************************************************************************

That didn’t happen this time. Not that I noticed any difference right away. I was surprised, however, to find a pulse. The meat was still just that, meat in a vegetative state, but it was still alive.

I’d fucked the meat—and cum in its guts—several hours earlier. I’d fallen asleep with my cock still stuck deep in the meat’s ass and could feel my own cum dried to a crust within the fucker’s colon. There was still some life within the meat, though. I could use it again.

I leaned back and started fucking the dealer’s cooling corpse again. His green eyes, milky in obsolescent death, gaze into mine, expressing Weltzschmertz so evocatively that I almost forget to end his life. I don’t, though. Just before I cum, I slash the fucker’s throat. As he gasps for air, gurgling unconsciously, his body trying to stay alive despite the obvious uselessness of the effort, his ass clamps down onto my cock in a last-ditch effort to retain control of his bodily functions.

As the useless drug dealer sink into death, the last sensation that filters through his ravaged brain is my semen being pumped into his intestines. He dies like the worthless little deathpig douchebag that he is, with my cum filling his guts.

That drainage ditch I used to dump the last meat sack is right around the corner. I think it’ll be a good garbage pit. Just a quick stop to take out the trash on the way home.

Meat Chronicles 2–Grab ‘n Go

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

It’s time. I’m out hunting again. But tonight I’m not fucking around.

It’s been weeks. I came too close last time. Got pulled over for having a tail light out, for Christ’s sake. I’d already dumped the meat. As far as I know, they haven’t found it yet—but when they do, they’ll have a record of my van in the area.

So I don’t have that van any more. I traded it at a used lot way out in the ‘burbs, then laid low for a while. And I won’t be using that dump site ever again.

I registered the new van in the name of my ex’s new boyfriend.

But it’s been too long. My balls are so full of cum they’re about to explode. I’m not playing any games tonight.

I’m grabbing the first punk bitch I see and fucking him to pieces.

I’m in one of the suburbs now; it’s closer to the city than where I dumped the last one. Run-down neighborhoods, mostly lower class white and Hispanic. It’s a long way from the apartment.

I’m too horny tonight. I won’t be able to control myself long enough to get back to the killing pit. I’m gonna end up tearing the meat to shreds in the back of the van; I’ve already lined it with plastic sheets–my mobile killing pit. Luckily, there’s a couple of half-empty industrial blocks on the other side of the highway. I can park there without being disturbed—at least, for as long as this will take.

I don’t think it’ll take long.

It doesn’t take long to find some meat. He rides up on a bicycle, stoned out of his gourd and offering to sell me a dime bag. He sticks his head in the window while I’m stopped at a stop sign. It’s past dark and no one is on the street. The timing is perfect.

I have just a moment to notice his appearance. Hair is a mop in a shade of dirty blond, partially covered by a ball cap worn backwards. Late teens, I’d say, no older than twenty. He’s got a large nose and a big grin. Combined with the long lashes of his blue eyes, they give his face a vulnerable look that begs to be hurt. He’s tall and thin but not scrawny. A simple white t-shirt stretches tightly across his chest, outlining large nipples resting on broad pectorals. Denim shorts show that his legs are covered with a light golden fuzz. He’s wearing dark blue hightop kicks with black laces.

I pop him in the face and put out his lights. As he goes limp, I manhandle him in through the open window, dragging him across both myself and the center console to stuff him in the passenger seat.

I roll up the window and accelerate through the intersection, leaving his bike propped up on its kickstand in the middle of the street.

The highway is behind me; I need to turn around. I make two rights to get on the next major cross street and so reach the industrial lots. I’d forgotten that this street had more lights. It takes me a couple more minutes than I expected.

The meat begins to stir. As he grows more awake, he starts to make more noise. I want him out till we get where we’re going.

At the next stoplight, I grab his hair in one hand—his cap is lying back in the road by his bike—and clip him in the jaw with the other. One swift sucker punch straight from the shoulder shuts him up good.

I’ve already scoped out this neighborhood. It’s what I do when I can’t actively hunt. I already know the perfect spot; it’s an empty lot between two abandoned factories. There’s a warehouse across the street that’s still functioning, but it’s closed on the weekends. There’s a security guard who never gets off his ass and since his guard shack is on the other side of the building, I figure I’m good.

I climb into the back of the van and strip until I’m wearing nothing but my rubber-soled combat boots. They’ll help me keep my traction on the plastic I’ve placed on the floor.

I drag the meat into the back and pull out my favorite knife, the Ka-bar. It’s seven inches of steel, partially serrated, and just looking at it makes me hard.

Using it makes me cum.

But I start slowly, cutting the punk’s shirt and shorts off. He starts moaning again as I’m slicing through the elastic waistband of his briefs, revealing a thick plug-like cock and large nuts like goose eggs resting in a nest of golden down.

Before he can fully awaken, I bind his hands behind him with a zip tie and slap a piece of duct tape over his mouth. My dick is already dripping in anticipation; I’m not waiting any longer.

I spit on my hands a couple of times and lube the head of my cock. I grab the bitch’s legs, prop his expensive kicks on my shoulders and shove my rod into his ass. His moaning increases in pitch and intensity. By the time he’s fully conscious, I’m plowing his ass mercilessly. His eyes suddenly focus on me as the center of his world of pain.

“That’s right, motherfucka, I’m all up in your ass–ha! Feel the burn, bitch, feel my cock tearing you open. Piece of shit small-time dime bag dealer—think you’re hot shit? Guess again, fuckwad. You’re gonna learn your place tonight. Your place is on the end of my dick and you’re gonna spend the rest of your life there.”

As I whisper, I lean forward and stoke the meat’s youthful, innocent face. His eyes are wide, but I don’t think it’s fear; not yet. He’s angry.

That means he won’t accept his place willingly. I have to teach him. I have to tenderize the meat.

“You think this is bad? It hurts when I stick my cock in ya? What if I stick something else in ya?” I hold up the knife. Matte black, the serrations catch the lights. It’s so clearly designed to cut and slice, to inflict maximum pain—it’s so fuckin’ sexy. “How about I stick this into ya, bitch, and see which ya like better—my long hard hot cock or my long hard cold blade? Does that sound fun? It does to me, fucker, it sounds hotter than fuckin’ hell. And I gotta promise for ya, meat—sometime before I off ya, you’re gonna cum. I may have to fuck your brain to do it, but you’ll blow a load before you die. Well, technically. It may be kinda hard to tell you’re still alive at that point.”  With this I leer into the meat’s face.

The boy’s eyes gaze up at me uncomprehendingly. He’s being raped, physically assaulted and traumatized. His brain isn’t really processing my words. He sees the knife, but he doesn’t understand what it means.

I help him understand what it means. I sink it up to the hilt in the punk’s smooth, firm belly.

His eyes, already wide, expand to saucers. His whole body tenses and shudders—holy fuck, the way his asshole tightens up and clenches my cock—as a loud squealing erupts from behind the duct tape.

“That’s it, pig, squeal as you die,” I smile down as him as I reach down and grind the knife into his abdomen. Seven inches of razor-sharp steel slash their way through the kid’s tender innards. Now his eyes are frantic; rimmed by dark circles of shock, they’re almost insane in their intensity.

He’s starting to understand. I don’t anticipate his reaction.

In retrospect, I should have. I mean, he’s a small-time suburban pot dealer. He’s soft. I thought he just looked vulnerable, but it turns out he actually is. He can’t handle pain.

He vomits.

I don’t realize what’s happened until I see his face turn red and fluid leak from his nose. He’s choking on his own puke.

Quickly, I pull him upright and rip the tape off his mouth. I grip his head tightly and turn it to the side, letting the stream of vomit spew harmlessly onto the plastic. His throat is clear, but not his nostrils.

I can fix that. I clamp one hand down over his mouth, hard, and punch him in the solar plexus. His head, still pointed to the side, expels a vast amount of snot.

I lean back, pulling him up with me by his hair. He struggles for air, gasping deeply, two, three, four times, then I plant the tape back over his mouth. His nose is clear.

“Bad pig,” I snarl. “No easy way out for you. You’re gonna suffer till I cum and the only thing that’s gonna make me cum is hurting you. Do you get it now, meat? You are only here so I can get off by hurting you. That’s your only purpose here, to make me spunk by dying in excruciating agony.”

My dick has remained firmly in the meat’s hole the entire time. I decide it needs some attention—some stimulation.

I thrust the knife into the bitch’s right side, just under the ribcage. The meat jerks to the left, trying to escape the burning tip of steel that tears through his intestines. I made sure to stay above the liver and spleen; I don’t want the little fuck bleeding out before I’m ready.

He thrashes violently, his brightly-colored kicks flailing around my head. I’m holding both ankles, though, leaving the knife stuck in the meat’s flank. Every time he tenses up and jerks in pain, he moves the knife within himself, causing even more pain—which make him writhe in agony and repeats the cycle.

I sit up on my knees, holding the fuckmeat’s legs, watching him twitch and massage my tool. But I’ve been waiting too long to remain this passive.

I yank the knife out, twisting it on the way to cause maximum pain, before I hold it in front of the meat’s face. His eyes are dilated with adrenaline as he goes into physical shock. He’s helpless and immobile, completely and utter under my control, his smooth, taut flesh mine to abuse and desecrate.

I hold the knife so as to make sure he can see his own blood dripping from it, shreds of his own guts caught in the serrations.

“Made up your useless waste of a mind yet, motherfucka? Which ya like, my cock or my blade? Gotta tell ya, dude, I’m having fun with both. ‘Course, right now, I’m havin’ more fun with the knife ‘cause your worthless pig hole is all stretched out already. You must be takin’ it up the ass every day, you fuckin’ whore. Little fuckin’ suburban shit thinkin’ he’s a bad-ass gangsta dealer. See where that got ya, fucker? Thought you were ready to play with the big boys? You’re gonna end up squealing your life out on my dick, you worthless little punk. I’m gonna blow my load into you and toss your sperm-filled corpse into a ditch for your momma to find. How’s that sound, meat? Fuck, yeah, sound pretty hot to me!”

Nothing like pain to tighten a loose hole. I slam the blade into the right side of the meat’s chest, slicing neatly though his bulging pec, between his ribs and burying the razor tip seven inches below in the fucker’s lung.

His entire body seems to contract and clench in agony. It’s like a fist grabbing my cock and squeezing, a fist of satin.

I lean over the meat. I spit in his anguished, tearful face. Twisting the knife slowly but brutally in the wound, I start whispering.

“How’s that feel, bitch? You’re dying. It’s too late for anything to save you; the only question is how long it’ll take you to actually die. And, of course, how painful it will be.”

I kiss the tip of his large nose and stroke his face, feeling the stubble that was so light it’s nearly invisible, as I ream and crank the blade into the boy’s chest, carving chunks of lung tissue.

“The answer is that it’s gonna be as painful as possible, you little fuck. Welcome to hell. The last few minutes of your life are gonna be worse than anything you could have imagined.”

I pull the knife out of his chest. His lung collapses almost instantly. His breathing grows labored and irregular; his face takes on a slight bluish tint.

Oh well. He’ll live long enough.

I’m ready. I want to ease my way into orgasm; I need to time this right. There’s a certain artistry in manipulating the meat to make it cum at the right time, despite the pain and fear. It involves increasing the stimulation in the central nervous system to the point of overload, accompanied by a certain amount of physical trauma to the system itself…

I tell him about it.

“Time for the finale, fuckwad. Ready for the big one? The big blast of horrific pain that’s gonna overload your brain and give you your last and best cumshot? No? Tough shit, bitch, I control your hot little body now. I’m gonna hurt you so fucking bad and you’re gonna spunk your biggest load ever anyway. Time to die, asswipe. Enjoy it, meat; this nightmarish agony will be the last thing you feel on earth and it’s gonna make me fill your jerking, twitching corpse with semen. Here we go, motherfucker!”

I press the tip of the knife against the underside of the meat’s jaw. The meat is turned to the side, eyes clenched closed, sobbing relentlessly. Not fighting. He’s finally submitted; deep within his terror, he’s eagerly awaiting my load and my blade, awaiting the ultimate release of his life and his seed.

I slowly increase the pressure on the knife. The boy grunts as I break the skin. “Shh,” I mutter, “Almost done. A little more pain and then it’ll be over.”

He shudders. It feels like a shudder of pleasure to me. His unruly blond hair, dark and rank with the sweat forced out by the torture the boy has endured, clings to his face, itself shiny with agonized perspiration.

The knife has punctured the jaw and is slicing upwards through the thick, muscular base of the tongue. I don’t have words to describe the sound he’s making. It blurs the fine line between agony and ecstasy.

The kid is starting to resist. He jerks and flails as he experiences a pain he’s never known was possible; a pain which he struggles vainly to escape. One last show of independence. I lean forward, one hand planted flat on his face, pinning his head to the floor as I continue to insert the knife into the punk’s head slowly—oh, so slowly…

The knife creeps upward, the tongue now utterly pierced and the steel tip of the blade spearing the soft palate at the roof of the mouth. A bit of force shatters the septum as the blade continues up through the sinuses.

The meat is still conscious, still aware of everything that’s happening. He feels the tempered razor edge tearing its way up behind his nose. He can tell when it passes behind his eyes as his optic nerves are severed and he’s plunged into a screaming blackness of indescribable suffering.

And he responds to it all by tightening his colon on my dick. Each millimeter of agony, of sharp steel slicing though tissue causes the meat to contract his sphincter around the base of my cock, to massage my thick, oozing head with uncontrollable convulsions of his rectum.

I’m ready.

“Die, motherfucker,” I snarl as I push the knife further into the fuckmeat’s head. I hear the crunching of the blade shattering the cranial cavity behind the orbit of the eye. The meat hears it, too—it must be deafening in that howling vortex of pain and panic, the sound of death that he has been both dreading and desiring his entire wasted life.

As my long hard blade slides into the punk bitch’s cerebrum, his personality is gone. Whatever happens with his body, this kid, whatever his name was, is gone.

This is what I wanted. A jerking, twitching puppet of meat dancing on my cock. As it spasms, the sphincter tightens even further on my dick. The convulsions caused by massive brain trauma make the meat’s hips buck and twerk like a stripper. The fuckmeat’s dying convulsions are jacking me off.

Just before I cum, the meat goes rigid. His knees lock together, clamping my head tightly in the soft leather embrace of his blue kicks. His fireplug cock rises like a cobra and begins spitting hot venom. A jet of cum rises between us to fall, splattering the punk’s face and bleeding chest. Semen pools in the dilated, unseeing eyes, matting those long, seductive lashes.

It’s too much; I’ve waited too long not to enjoy this moment. I don’t understand how I can unload so much spunk inside the little fuck’s ass without having it leak out his mouth. As I shoot I find myself screaming curses at the meat while cranking my blade in great circles within the corpse’s cranium, grinding the brain to hamburger.

I don’t know how long it takes me to recover after I cum. I lie there for a while, stoking the meat as it cools and stiffens. When I get up, I roll the meat in the plastic that covers every surface. Glad I kept my boots on; it’s slippery in here.

After I get dressed, I drive away from the highway. I kept my promise to the meat, too, tossing his body in a drainage ditch on the west side of the industrial area.

I’m sure that once they find him, they’ll notify his momma.