Tag: strangle

Meat Chronicles 11–Emo Slut

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

It’s been a while since I’ve been hunting. There was a big fuss when they found my last two. Seems one of the worthless little junkies was related to some suburban alderman. I‘ve needed to lie low a bit.

I’m still staying away from the ‘burbs for a bit. Gonna run down to the ghetto and look for a rentboy; there’s never any outcry when a hustler turns up snuffed.

It’s a hot summer night and there are lots of boys out. Lots of whores, too. Might sound like a kid in a candy shop, but I can’t have any. There are too many witnesses out here on the main drag. I have to turn down the side streets.

I’ve done this before. For some reason, I always turn west off the strip. Tonight, on a whim, I turn east. I haven’t been back here in years; it used to be kinda a rough neighborhood.

It still is. There are more gaps in the rows of crumbling old houses, cut into shoddy apartments. More rubble-strewn vacant lots and fewer streetlights. Otherwise it’s exactly as I remembered it.

The further east I go from the bar district, the fewer people are out on the streets. Within three blocks, I don’t see anyone at all. Goddammit. I need to turn around and head west.

I take the next left and as I make the corner, my headlights swing across a boy on the sidewalk. I pull to the curb. He’s a whore; I can tell just by looking.

He’s wearing a ball cap backwards—looks like it’s made of gray suede. Dangling out from under it is a long fringe of straight black hair, long bangs nearly obscuring his large dark eyes, emo-style.

He isn’t wearing a shirt. He’s slim but with some definition—his torso looks like photos I’ve seen of a certain punk-ass pop star bitch I’d love to spend an hour or two with. It’s humid and beads of sweat glitter in the shadows on his chest and highlight the biceps on his smooth arms.

He’s wearing baggy jeans halfway down his ass. The look has never done anything for me but I can see his skin-tight boxers underneath, the waistband bisecting his flat, firm abdomen a good four inches above his thick but loose leather belt. On his feet are thick-soled skate shoes, large white laces untied and flopping loose.

As he approaches me, I can see a bulge forming in his groin—just below his belt; if his pants were any lower, he could use the waist as a cockring. There’s a streetlight about fifty yards away. It gives enough light for me to catch a twinkle from the studs in his ears. There’s a large, ornate cross tattooed on his left shoulder.

He hocks and spits as I roll down the window. Idly scratching at his dick, he leers in at me. “You can blow me for twenty,” he drawls. “For fifty, I’ll knock ya around. For one fifty, I’ll blow you. ‘Course, I’ll take it in kind, too. Crack or powder. You got black tar, you can do what you want to me. But you gotta gimme some first.”

Wow. Hardcore street cunt. This little shit is flat-out offering to get punkfucked for drugs.

I grin. “Guess it’s a lucky night for both of us. I got some tar back at my place. And I got a J here to get us there.”

His eyes light up and he immediately grabs for the door handle. He doesn’t look like a heroin junkie. Either he hasn’t been doing it long or has trouble getting it; probably a combination of the two. At any rate, he’s excited enough not to question what I’m doing to him until it’s too late for him to get away.

I don’t have any heroin. I won’t need it. The joint I hand him is laced slightly with a ground-up sedative. I think it’ll be enough. He’s a cheap street whore who’s probably had to fight out of some bad situations before, but he’s shorter, smaller, and nowhere near as built as I am. There’s enough to take the edge off him, at least. From there, I’ll have no problems putting the bitch down.

He leans back in the passenger seat. As he tokes away, he pops in earbuds attached to his cheap phone. Soon I can hear the faint sound of gangsta rap bouncing off his deadened eardrums.

He’s already kinda limp when we get back to the killing pit. I still haven’t even decided how I’m gonna off the little cunt and he’s already climbing out of the van and staggering behind me in the treacherous darkness of the sleazy apartment parking lot.

Once we’re inside, he turns to me—actually, it’s more like he swings in a wide half circle. “Where’s the shit, dude?” he says. I’m kinda surprised his speech isn’t more slurred—he must have a higher tolerance than most of the meat I find. But then, I haven’t sunk quite so low on the food chain as this before.

He’s hot, though. I’m gonna snuff him in his prime. I wouldn’t give him more than a year before his looks are gone and he’s literally worthless. And since he’s a cheap skank, he’s likely to end up on meth, the bargain-basement of drugs. That shit’ll eat you up from the inside out. If that happens, he won’t last six months. Worst-case scenario—he ends up in an alley, huffing paint behind a dumpster.

So really, I’m doing the little slut a favor. He’d thank me if he knew. But he’ll never know, of course; he’s just a useless little whore without much of a brain, anyway.

“In there,” I reply, nodding towards the bedroom. “But strip out here first.”

He shrugs. “Ok, dude. Tell ya what, you throw in some points and I’ll let you fuck me.” He unbuckles his belt and his jeans fall to the floor. They’re so large he can literally step right out of them.

He stands before me in gray. His cap, his skate shoes, his boxers that (in contrast to his jeans) are so tight they look sprayed on—all are gray. Not only can I see his balls, large gray sacks stretching the material between his legs, I can see some of the veins running along his thick hog; they must be huge.

“Get them off, too,” I snap. “You can keep the shoes.”

“And the cap?” he asked.

“You can keep that, too. Won’t stay on long, anyway, with what I’m gonna do to you.”

He peels off the boxers, his massive dong springing free and bobbing in front of him. I nod towards the bedroom door. He gets it. He goes in and I follow.

The room is dark as he enters and I keep it that way. He’s too fucked up to really care, so he keeps walking until he stumbles into the bed and falls on it. He flounders for a moment before I’m on him, dragging him to the head of the bed and handcuffing him to the headboard. Only then do I turn on the only light in the room and reveal the slaughter room, the blood- and sperm-stained mattress he’s lying on.

He looks around dazedly, trying to figure out what’s going on. His normally sharp street sense, dulled by the drugs, takes a moment to register the surroundings. I can tell when it finally sinks in; his eyes grow wide and the expression of fear is both unmistakable and erotic. He inhales deeply in preparation for a scream. I punch him twice, hard as I can, driving my fist like a jackhammer into the cunt’s firm but unsuspectingly yielding belly, then into his jaw.

He exhales in a mighty grunt, followed by another as the blow to his face registers. Just to make sure, I slam another one into his solar plexus, leaving him writhing in agony on the crusty mattress.

As pain curls him into a fetal position, I slip off my t-shirt. My jeans are tight around my legs and my ass. It fells good and I don’t feel like taking them off or removing my black leather harness boots. I simply unzip my fly, letting my cock flop out like a length of bratwurst, gleaming and oozing with precum at the thought of the suffering I was about to inflict on this slutboy.

As the punk rolls about in pain, desperately trying to breathe, I kneel between his legs and grab his right ankle. Gipping him tightly, I start slipping the thick flat white shoelace free from his jerking skate shoe. The moment it’s out, I grab his left ankle and do the same.
The laces are about ¼’ wide and about 18” long. They’re not really long enough for me to get a good grip, but the laces from his skate shoes are good enough to choke him with. I slip them behind his head and pull them tight.

He bucks and jerks as his air is cut off. My long cock, not yet fully hard, brushes against his taint as his pelvis flails. His arms pull frantically—and vainly—at the handcuffs chaining him to the headboard. He bends his back, thrusting his flat smooth abdomen upwards as his large velvety balls slap against my belly.

Straining his arms, the emo cunt tries to pull himself up towards the headboard, planting his laceless shoes on the bed for leverage. He succeeds in getting enough slack to bend his arms, letting him swing at my head with his elbows.

I’m not taking that shit. I yank violently on the laces. They sink deeper into his neck; his being to bulge—then they snap.

The whore inhales, a deep, sobbing gasp. Angry red lines still twist about his neck where the laces had dug in. He relaxes visibly, the desperation fading out of his struggles. I’m pissed. Grabbing the slut’s ankles, I drag him back into position lower down on the bed. He begins to beg in a ragged, rasping croak.

“Fuck, don’t, man, don’t kill me—oh fuck, please don’t, do whatever you want to me, anything, dude, just please don’t kill—uhh!”

I shut him up with a blow to the face, a piledriver straight from my shoulder into his jaw. After his grunt of shock and gasp of pain, he turns his face to me.

His full lips are swollen and bleeding. His straight black hair is plastered to his forehead by a slick film of sweat. His large dark eyes are wide with the awareness of how completely he’s in my control. I can do whatever I want to him and kill him anyway, and he knows it.

Time for him to realize I know it, too.

“Ok, here’s what’s gonna happen, you piece of shit. You’re gonna die tonight like the fucking whore you are, riding my hog as you kick away your last few minutes on earth.” I grin down at him as I lean over, gripping his legs behind the knees and throwing his shoes up on my shoulders. “Ya ready for it, meat? Ready for the last cock you’re ever gonna have slammed up your reamed-out hole? No? Tough shit, you fucking worthless slut, cause you’re getting’ it anyway.”

I hock and spit the same way he’d done when he approached me—except mine was for lube. And it was all the lube there was gonna be. I just wanna make sure I’m comfortable. I could give a shit about the meat; he’s only here to die.

I shove my fat, dripping head in, feeling it push forcibly past his sphincter. His groan rises into a shrill scream. I don’t want too much noise, so I pop him in the face again and he quiets into a subdued moaning. I shove in another inch and he begins to build into a squeal. This time, I bust his nose, feeling it crunch under my knuckles.

I shove in another inch. His moaning and snuffling rises in volume, but not to unacceptable levels. Little bitch is starting to learn his place.

Let’s see how well. Enough inching in. I plunge the rest of my dick into his hole in a long, sustained thrust, feeling his tight asshole being stretched out of shape around the base of my cock, skin splitting, making the whore bleed. And scream.

Good. I punch him again. “Shut up, you useless pussyboy. Take my cock, slut and learn to love it, cause it’s gonna love you to death. When you die, I’m gonna hose your guts with cum.”

I rise up on my knees. His legs remain thrown up over my shoulder; I can feel them trembling. He’s clenched his muscles so tightly in the agony of having his ass split open that his thighs and calves have locked in a cramp. Much as he might want to, he can’t stretch them far enough to get them off of me; he’s stuck there.

I look down at him, his snot- and blood-smeared face, tears trickling down from the corners of his huge eyes—eyes that look so innocent even though they’ve seen every perversion under the sun…

I start unbuckling my thick brown leather belt. “Little piece of shit broke your own laces, huh? Bad move, dude, seriously bad. See, now you’re gonna have to deal with whatever I can improvise and it looks like it’s gonna be my belt. Now, you’da ended up just as dead with the laces, but they’d have hurt less. I’m gonna fuck you up so bad with this belt you’re gonna welcome death as a merciful escape from your own private hell. You think it hurts when I stick my dick in ya? Wait’ll you see what it takes to make me cum, whore.”

I’m a sick and cruel bastard, I know, but this worthless little street tough isn’t worth anyone’s sympathy. And I love raping their minds as much as their assholes.

Which gives me an idea; I may try that literally at some point…

But not now. The kid is where I want him. He lies still, quivering and sweating in physical and mental shock. His hard, lean body is my toy, waiting for me to use it as I wish. Beads of sweat trail across the elaborate cross tattoo on his shoulder. From between his swollen, parted lips comes a faint keening sound, somewhere between a moan and wail.

Grabbing a handful of his hair, I raise his head to slip the belt behind it. He must know what’s coming, but he doesn’t resist. I’m a bit surprised how acquiescent he is; I’d’ve thought a cheap junkie hustler would put up a fight. After all, these types will go into any situation, no matter how sketchy, for the sake of their high. They have to have a certain innate sense of danger to survive long.

Of course, this one won’t survive long. Maybe that proves the point.

I slip the belt back through the buckle, pulling up into a simple loop around the kid’s neck. As I tighten it around his throat, I slip the buckle around to the front so that it’s placed directly over the Adam’s apple.

“Time to get down to business, fuckmeat. Don’t worry, dude you don’t have to do much, just lie there and die in nightmarish pain. And, see, I don’t have to do anything either, cause as you die you’re gonna work my cock like a good little whore. You might even get off yourself, but your brain will probably be too damaged for you to enjoy it. But this way we both win. I get a load of spunk milked outta me by a dying cumpig and you get the death you deserve, you fucking slut.”

I wrap the belt around my right wrist and place my left hand on the cunt’s jaw. I pull towards me with my right hand and push away from me with my left, maintaining a rhythmic pumping in the whore’s ass the entire time.

The belt tightens instantly, cutting off all sound from the whore. He’s registered his last protest. From now on, he dies in silence; mute, unable to cry out in pain or fear. He can only communicate with his body. And he makes his message clear right away.

He fights, oh my god, how he fights. Fuck acquiescence, this kid doesn’t wanna die, judging by the way his body twists and writhes under me. The loud rattling of the handcuffs testifies to the frantic flailing of his arms. I can feel his belly slide under mine, friction eased by a sheen of slick perspiration.

His agony is beautiful. It gives meaning and purpose to his useless, wasted life. This is his reason for existing, his raison d’etre. He was born just so that I could drain my seed into his corpse.

The steel buckle sinks below the surface of the skin, compressing the larynx into the back of the esophagus. My left hand is clamped over the kid’s face, fingers spread so I can still see the look in his eyes…

He’s in excruciating pain, his eyes swelling and protruding from their sockets. I can see the skin on his face darken with each passing second. I remove my hand from his face, slipping it down to his throat, just above the belt. I continue to apply a string downward pressure, just as I continue to pull up on the belt, as brutally as I can.

“How’s that feel, motherfucker? Hurt enough for ya, bitch? How ya like dying? Feels pretty fuckin’ good to me, cunt, I gotta tell ya. You’re jackin’ me really good, whore. See, this is what all of ya really want; it’s why you’re out there on streets. You want an alpha male to come and fuck ya to death. Well, guess what, you cockpig—it’s your lucky night.”

His face is growing distorted as the pressure builds above the constriction in his throat, but I can still make out an expression of denial and disbelief. He’s getting away from me by retreating mentally. I need to bring him into reality.

I sit up on my knees again. My jeans tighten around my ass as I pull up, but even though my dick pulls back out of the whore’s ass, it’s long enough that the head still stays inside his rectum. I’m far enough down the bed that my boots dangle over the end.

The leather belt is still wrapped around my right wrist. I lean back, pulling my arm tight as I do. The slut’s head rises off the bed, pulled up by his neck as I yank on the belt. His arms, cuffed to the headboard over his head, twist behind him as he rises.

I keep pulling, staring deeply into the boy’s eyes, waiting for the moment he comes back to me. I know it when I see it.

“Fuck yeah, you piece of shit, you don’t get to take an easy way out. Suffer, motherfucker, feel every second of the pain I give you. It keeps your ass tight. As long as you can do that, you live. The moment you stop, you’re useless to me and I make you into meat. Understand, you worthless rentboy scum? Take the pain, bitch, or die. Your choice. I’m willing to bet you’ll take all I can give you and more, just to keep clinging to another second of your wasted life. I hope so; fucks like you always make me cum so hard when you fight the inevitable…”

I violently yank the belt, pulling the meat close to me. There’s a sound like the ripping of gristle as his shoulders pop out of joint and the tendons tear apart. His eyes, even bulging as they are, swell to the size of hubcaps in horror; he’d be screaming in agony if he could push air past his throttled larynx.

“That’s it, bitch, now you’re working my dick like a good little whore. See how easy it is with the right motivation? I can do this all night. Sounds like fun, huh, you slut? Was this what you wanted when you went out tonight to get fucked? Isn’t this what you’ve truly desired in the depths of your disgusting fucking pig soul?”

His face, black and puffy, stares back at me, his protruding, bloodshot eyes locked helplessly onto mine. He can hear me; he knows what I’m saying. I think he’s turned on; at any rate, his cock is erect and glistening. It pokes into my belly; he’s up against me at an angle that makes it stick into my abdomen like a heated metal bar.

His legs thrash violently, slipping off my shoulder to kick aimlessly at the mattress. His physical condition is so extreme that it overrides his leg cramps, tearing muscle tissue in the process. As he flails, the right skate shoe flies off, ricocheting off the far wall and landing in the middle of the floor. The left shoe stays on. It continues to kick at me as his rank right foot, scraping at the mattress, soon frees itself from its reeking sock and I can see his toes curl as he dies.

As damage from lack of oxygen progressively destroys his brain, the cunt’s ass convulses along with the rest of his body controlled by his increasingly unstable nervous system. I can feel it spasm, the seizures flowing along my shaft like—god, there aren’t words. He’s dying on my dick. These are the last seconds of his life and he’s still working my dick like the fucking cumwhore deathpig that he is.

I stop the mindfuck. He has no mind left to fuck. He’s nothing but spasming, jerking meat, squeezing my cock in his death throes. Drool oozes down his chin and drips onto his chest, forced out of his mouth in a bubbling froth by his thick, black tongue, protruding from between his lips. The tip wriggles in an obscene manner; the fucking piece of shit is such a whore that he’s coming onto me in the extremes of death.

I’m ready to end it—ready to blow my load. But the slut hasn’t earned it yet. He’s worked hard and given his all, but his worthless fucking hustler all wasn’t good enough to deserve my wad. I need one last physical reaction out of his fucked-out meat.

I yank up on the belt as hard as I can. Simultaneously, I bring my left hand up, driving my hand directly back into his face. Fuckin’ A, it’s exactly what the slut needed.

As his head snaps back under the force of my blow, the belt tightens around his neck, jerking forward and rupturing his vertebrae. At the same time, his larynx collapses into his esophagus with a loud cracking sound, like a large tree limb breaking.

It’s massive, fatal trauma to the central nervous system, and his entire musculature reacts in a death agony. As his torn sphincter tightens uncontrollably around the root of my dick like a cockring, his own dick suddenly rises up like a cobra. I can see it spasm visibly as it expels a phenomenal amount of semen in thick, ropy strands, shooting up to splatter and mat the hair on my chest. Before too long, my hard pecs, straining in the effort to waste the whore, are covered in his cum.

At the same time, I can see he finally knows his place by the way his colon vacuums the seed out of my tool like a Hoover. He’s nothing but an emo-style meat sack designed to hold my load and he’s finally realizing that. I had to destroy his brain to show him. It’s a shame that it’s the last thing he learns, but it had to happen at some point. As I fill his rectum with a boiling froth of spunk, I’m giving him the best exit he could have from his wasted life; after all, he’d probably die of an overdose soon enough, after a brief, unpleasant, degrading life.

At least I didn’t lengthen his suffering when I gave him a brief, unpleasant, degrading death. It’s what he’d have wanted, anyway.

Like most guys, I fall asleep after blowing a load. I as I drifted off, I marked the corpse as my territory by leaving my dick in its ass, letting my sperm continue to leak into the colon.
.

After a couple of hours, I woke back up, stiff as a board. There must be something wrong with me; maybe I produce too much testosterone. All I know it that I still wanted to claim the dead whore.

After freeing his hands from the cuffs, I drag him off the bed by the belt, pulling his flaccid body across the floor to the closet. I let the meat slump to the floor as I opened the door, but it wasn’t there long. I lifted it by the belt, grunting in effort, as I looped the thick leather strap over the hanger bar. I pulled the belt back after it crossed the bar, lifting the body up and, in effect, hanging it. I pulled the belt back out the closet door—the body hanging on the other side of the bar, facing away from me.

I’d thought this out beforehand. There’s already a nail hammered into the doorframe. I didn’t know it was gonna work out like this with this particular whore, but I’ve done this before.

Anyway—I pin the belt to the frame by the nail, sticking through one of the holes on the belt. The whoremeat is left dangling. The meat was slightly shorter than me, so his asscunt is right at the level of my hard cock as he dangles several inches off the ground.

I fuck his dead ass for several minutes. As his legs flop limply against mine, his other shoe comes off. His feet, one in an ankle sock and one bare, now kick in the air as I bang the corpse’s hole.

I grip his cold, firm thighs, my nails digging into his helpless, vulnerable flesh as I cry out and spew another load into his slowly stiffening ass.

I pull out, dripping, and stagger back to bed, seeking sleep. The street cunt can hang around like an old salami; I’ll take out the trash tomorrow.

Meat Chronicles 9–Hands-On Solution

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

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

I do my little part to keep the population down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just the thought gets me hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meat Chronicles 1

On By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles1 Comment

I’m not telling you my name or anything else that can identify me. You don’t need it. And if it gets out, my fun will stop. I’m not ready for that to happen.

I’m a hunter. I hunt young men, and when I catch them, I kill them. I fuck them, too. If I can, I fuck them while killing them. If not, I fuck them after killing them. During is much more fun, though. The way they struggle with my cock buried inside them…

I’ll tell you about my fun, but it has to stay between us. I’ll give you all the details of each erotic, agonizing kill. As long as it’s kept quiet, I’m pretty good about selecting fuckmeat that isn’t going to be missed–runaways, rent boys, drug addicts and even some dealers.

Really, if the police knew, I’d think they’d thank me. The fuckmeat won’t thank me. It just screams. And that gets me so hard.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

I’ve rented a ratty little apartment under an assumed name. The complex is run down and my unit is the only one occupied out of the six in this building. This whole place will probably be condemned in a year or two.

Which makes it a perfect killing pit. There’s no one close enough to hear the meat scream.

I don’t have much in the way of furnishings. The living room is fully furnished since that’s what the meat sees when he walks in. It’s my place to make him relaxed–or drug him, if I have to–before taking him into the bedroom.

There’s lots of plastic in the bedroom. A lot of bodily fluids get spilled there.

The bedroom has a mattress on a frame and a couple of chairs. There’s a small table with a cabinet underneath; it holds my toys. The only other item in the room is an adjustable metal frame, consisting of both horizontal and vertical bars. It’s very useful for securing the meat in the right position. Every surface is covered with painter’s plastic. It’s amazing, the way blood gets everywhere.

It’s taken a while to get everything set up, but it’s all finally ready. All I need now is fresh prey. Time to go hunting.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

He looks like he’s in his early twenties. Thin, but not scrawny–he’s got some muscles. I can see strands of black hair peeking out under his knit cap; his hair is probably shoulder-length.

He’s wearing a black wifebeater that shows off his firm biceps and smooth arms. He’s also got on a tight pair of skinny jeans and lace-up work boots. His pale face highlights his black goatee and the faint stubble that darkens his cheeks.

Not sure what he’s doing here at this late hour. There are several options. I’ve picked up boywhores in this neighborhood before, but this kid seems a little too edgy for that. He’s probably looking to score drugs. I imagine he’d take a BJ if someone offered money to give him one, but I don’t think I’ll need to go to that length.

He’s on a side street, at a corner where an access alley meets the street. I’m in my van down the block, watching. I don’t want to be seen picking him up, so I circle the block and come up through the alley behind him. I stop before I reach the street, but the kid has heard me. He comes back into the alley–perfect. We can’t be seen from the street.

“Hey, dude, ya looking for somethin’?” I set the trap. And it works. He wants anything he can get his hands on. Coke, weed, meth, you name it, he wants it. Sounds like an unpleasant mix to me–but nowhere near as unpleasant as he’ll find my plans for him are.

I tell him I can sell him some weed. I’ve actually got everything he’s asked for and more; I keep a small amount of several different drugs available for situations like this. And every single gram is mixed with a prescription pain med. Keeps the rough trade nice and docile without causing flat-out unconsciousness.

I don’t want him knocked out. I don’t simply want to rape him and waste him. I want to rape his mind, too. I want him to know exactly what’s happening as I fuck him and kill him. I want him frantic with pain and terror…

Ok, need to calm down a bit. Not at the apartment yet. God, I wanna hurt this little fuck so bad.

He’s quiet. I think he’s already high; I likely won’t have to drug him much. His eyes are bloodshot and he’s got a big goofy grin on his face. I glance at his crotch, noting the long, thick bulge in his jeans. This is gonna be fun. He stirs, shuffling his boots on the floor mats as if in eager anticipation of his coming death.

Most of the outside lights at my apartment don’t work. That’s good. No one sees him get out of my van and follow me inside.

The kid–somewhere along the line he told me his name, like I give a shit–settles on the couch while I excuse myself, telling him I’m getting a sample so he’ll know what he’s getting. Little fuck has no idea what he’ll be getting, but he’ll learn soon enough.

The “sample” is kept in the bedroom, in the cabinet with my toys. I load a bowl of my special blend and take it out to the kid, declining his offer to share. I smoke myself, but not this shit; in fact, I cut it a little with some good stuff so it doesn’t knock his ass completely out.

He only takes a couple of hits before he drops the pipe, sagging down onto the couch with his grin growing wider and goofier. He looks up at me, smiling, his red eyes half-lidded and his jeans outlining every contour of his cock. My own dick is straining with impatience. I sit next to him and start fondling him, running my hands over his flat belly and his firm legs.

“What you doin’?” he slurs, the grin never leaving his face. “Ain’t no faggot. Get off.”

But the tone is lackluster and he doesn’t resist physically. On some level he may want this. In fact, he may want all of it, every screaming moment of agony that he’s about to experience.

Time to find out. I drag him to his feet and push him, stumbling, into the bedroom.

Once inside, I snatch off his cap, revealing his long, slightly wavy black hair. He giggles but starts resisting as I pull his shirt off. I silence his protests by retrieving a knife and a pair of handcuffs from my toy cabinet. I’m not planning on using the knife on him, but the boy goes silent as he starts to realize that this may not end well for him.

After cuffing his hands behind his back, I push him down on the bed and cut his jeans off with the knife. He’s gone commando; once the jeans are gone, the only things he’s still wearing are his boots and socks. After revisiting my toy cabinet momentarily, I climb on top of the boy and pin him to the mattress with my hand on his throat.

“Ok, you little fuck, here’s what’s gonna happen,” I snarl at him. “I’m gonna stick my dick as far up your ass as I can. I’m gonna hurt you. Don’t scream. If you scream, I’m gonna hurt you even worse.”

Of course he’s going to scream; he won’t be able to help it. It’s all part of the fun. He’s going to struggle to avoid crying out and I’m gonna get off watching him do it.

I jerk the punk’s legs up and press them back to his chest, gripping his ankles just above the boots. The kid starts whimpering as I hock up a wad of phlegm and spit on his quivering pink hole. “Shut up, bitch,” I snap, “this is the only lube you’re getting. Keep your mouth shut–and hold on. This is gonna hurt like all fuck.”

I stare into his face as I stuff my engorged mushroom head into his virgin fuckhole. He tenses up, arching his back and biting his bottom lip. I feel intense pressure on the tip of my cock, then a spurt of moisture and the pressure eases. I’ve torn him open. Tears well from his eyes. The sound he makes–well, I guess it’s not technically a scream, since he doesn’t open his mouth, but it’s the most agonized moan I’ve heard in a long time.

I part his legs, lying between them on his belly. His face is an inch from mine as I grab a fistful of his hair with my left hand, stare him in the eyes, and start whispering. As I speak, my right arm drops to the floor beside the bed, where I retrieve the toy I’d taken from the cabinet. It takes some skill to do this while steadily fucking the bitch, but then, I’ve had some practice.

“Fuck yeah, nice and tight. Off to a good start. Get settled in, fuckwad, ‘cause you’re gonna be here a long time. The rest of your life, in fact.”

His red eyes, wide with uncomprehending fear, stare into mine. I think they’re blue. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that he doesn’t get it. Good; I get to explain it. Rough trade usually takes some tenderizing–that’s some tough meat. I find that nothing seasons them like being told how they’re gonna die, once they’re helpless to escape it.

“If you think you’re here so I can rape you, fuckmeat, think again. Oh, I’m gonna rape you, all right. I’m gonna blow a load deep inside ya. And you’re gonna blow a load, too. No shit, meat, I’m gonna make sure you have some fun. In fact, you won’t be able to help it.”–here I hold up a two-foot length of plastic clothesline–“Ya see, your useless brain will probably already be dead by that point, so I doubt you’ll even know it’s happening.”–I raise his head and slide the plastic cord underneath his neck, but he’s still not getting it; his ass is tightly clenched, fighting against every inch of my cock–“Like I said, you’ll be here for the rest of your life. That’ll only be for a few minutes, but I’m gonna make sure those minutes last a long, long time. By the end, you’ll welcome death.”

I cross the cord in front of the fuckbitch’s neck and jerk it tight. The boy’s whimpering stops instantly as his air is cut off. His bloodshot eyes widen in fear–he finally understands that he’s gonna die.

Now I have to hold him tightly for a bit while I ride out his panicked thrashing. It’s a little like riding a mechanical bull. He jerks and bucks wildly, doing his damnedest to inhale. His ass rocks against my groin, his smooth rectum sliding along my swollen shaft.

“That’s it, you worthless little fuck, work my dick. That’s why you’re here. You’re dying because it feels good on my tool. I don’t give a shit who you are; I just want you to die on my dick.”

I lie flat on top of him again. I can feel the silky smoothness of his inner thighs as his legs flail frantically against my flanks. There’ll be bruises on my ass tomorrow from the drumming heels of the kid’s work boots. I tighten the cord and transfer both ends to one hand so I can stroke the stubble on his darkening cheek with the other hand as I start whispering again.

“How’s that feel, meat? Ya havin’ fun yet? Must hurt like fuck, not being able to breathe. That pain in your chest is gonna get worse. You’re gonna be in horrible agony by the time you die and that’ll make you massage my shaft even harder. I can’t fuckin’ wait. C’mon, fuckmeat, thrash and die.”

His eyes start to bulge, changing to a deeper shade of red as pinpoint hemorrhages burst deep in the whites. The tears leaking from the corners run across his face to blend with the snot oozing from his nose.

“Bet it’s starting to get dark around the edges for ya, you little shit. You’re gonna die very soon. I’m gonna fill your corpse with cum and throw you out like garbage to fester and rot with my seed inside you. Your family and friends will never know that you ended your wasted life as a fucktoy, a sack to hold my spunk. I’m gonna blow a load, dump your body, and forget you ever existed, you piece of shit. You’re nothing but a cumrag to me. And the more pain you’re in, the better time I have. Saddle up, bitch I’m gonna ride you to death.”

God, it feels good to lie on top of him as he writhes in terror and pain. His face is contorted into a rictus of agony, white froth erupting from the corners of his mouth, squeezing out past his purple, protruding tongue. The meat shakes his head wildly from side to side, still futilely seeking escape from the crushing pain in his neck and chest. He knows by now that there is no escape; this will only end in his death, but the physical demands override logic. He has to fight; he can’t help it. And every moment of his struggle massages my cock, stroking me closer to orgasm. And then, he starts to slow…

“C’mon, fuckmeat. You’re young and strong, you should be good for a few more minutes of fucking. You’re dying, not going to sleep. Maybe some pain will remind you–”

I rise up on my knees, pulling the meat up with me by the cord. I draw back and drive a blow into the meat’s face, straight from my shoulder. His nose crunches under my fist as his head rocks back from the force of the impact. Still holding the cord tight, I lower him back down, watching blood trickle from his nostrils. I grin down at him as I repeatedly slam my fist into his face, each blow resonating through his body and vibrating his ass along my dick.

“Now you’re getting it. The more pain you’re in, the better a fucktoy you are. Your tight little hole is milking my cock good, fuckwad. Damn, bitch, I can tell you’re feelin’ it; your hard fucking dick is poking me in the belly.”

It is, too. It’s a sure sign the kid is close to death. His cock, straining and erect, is leaving shining trails of precum as it bobs and sways against my furry abdomen. His massive scrotum has contracted into a firm, wrinkled mass as it prepares to ejaculate in a desperate attempt to save some of the dying punk’s genetic material. It’s a last-ditch physiological response, utterly beyond the meat’s control.

And that’s a good thing, ’cause the motherfucker is just about brain dead. As his body convulses erotically under me, it suffers reflexive reactions to systemic organ failure. A sheen of cold sweat glistens on the meat’s soft skin, helping him slide around on the bed. Trickles slip down his thrashing taint; I can feel the moisture at the root of my cock. It acts as lube for his ravaged, torn hole, but I think the punk is past the point of being able to appreciate it.

I’m ready. So is the meat; he’s just about reamed out. I need to get him tight again; one last overwhelming blast of agony to end the show. That’s why I use plastic clothesline; it can withstand a great deal of force. I pull as hard as I can on the cord, my biceps bulging, the tendons in my neck standing out with the strain.

The cord sinks into the meat’s neck so deeply it vanishes. I can hear cracking sounds as his hyoid bone snaps and the cartilage in his esophagus is crushed. His bruised and bleeding face swells and turns black as the pressure builds; drool runs down his cheeks and mats the hair of his goatee.

Suddenly, the meat goes rigid, his body snapping to attention. His sphincter clamps around the base of my dick, strangling my sensitized tool like I’m strangling him. As vital sections of his brain begin to die off, whole-body convulsions flow like waves through the meat’s slender frame, involuntarily pumping his colon along my cock.

Holy fuck, I’m gonna cum. Not yet. Not yet…

He shoots first, a jet of spunk which is quickly compressed into a layer of hot goo as the motherfucker’s belly–made rigid by violent spasms–grinds repeatedly against my own. His rectum collapses on my dick like a vacuum. As his ass ripples over the oozing head of my cock, I start cumming uncontrollably.

“Fuckin’ whore!” I scream, punching the kid repeatedly in the face. “Take it, you sack of shit! Take my cum in your guts, you dead fucking asswipe! Yeah, you worthless punk, suck up my load!”

He can’t hear me, of course; his brain is far too damaged to comprehend my words. And he probably can’t feel the blows to his face. Goddammit, I still want to hurt him. Even in the very last seconds of his short, brutal life, I want him to experience unspeakable agony as I fill him with semen.

Jesus fucking Christ, I’m still cumming. I’m empty; there isn’t anything shooting out of my dick but the shaft is still spasming deep inside the fucker. Little bitch drained me dry and milked every drop of cum out of my throbbing cock–but I’m disappointed.

The meat didn’t suffer enough. He died fighting and clawing for one last second of life, but it was still too quick. I need to be more creative. I’m sleepy–maybe something will come to me in my dreams. I drift into darkness, holding the quivering, cooling corpse tightly, stroking its sweat-soaked black hair.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

I awake in the middle of the night, hungry for cold meat. It’s nice to have some right here in bed with me. It’s stopped twitching. I fondle it, feeling the dried crust of sperm glazing its abdomen. There’s a dark wet spot between its legs; sometime after I passed out, the corpse voided its bladder.

I crouch over the meat’s chest, slapping its face with my thick, erect cock. I enjoy rubbing the head of my dick into the dull, milky eyes. When I get fully hard, I mount the face, forcing my rod into the mouth, thrusting the tongue (still black, swollen and protruding) aside as my shaft slides into the meat’s dry, closed-off throat. I bury my mushroom tip into the crushed mass of flesh blocking the airway.

God, it feels good, skullfucking the corpse. I roll onto my back and jack off with the dead boy’s head, clutching a handful of the meat’s hair as a handle. His half-open eyes have rolled back slightly–at this angle, they stare into my own. The meat may have died too soon, but he’s still hot as fuck.

I didn’t think I could generate that much sperm in so little time. When I cum, it backs up in the meat’s obstructed esophagus and fills his sinuses. As I pull my still-dripping head from between the corpse’s cold, blue lips, I can see a trickle of spunk seeping from his right nostril. Pearly drops of cum blend with flecks of dried spittle stuck in the meat’s dark facial hair.

I’ve fucked him out and used him up. All that’s left is a meatsack pumped full of semen at both ends. It’s still dark out; no one’s gonna see me dragging the corpse out to my van. I need to get moving; the meat is starting to get stiff and unwieldy. And I need to get it out before daybreak so I can make the run to the dump sometime in the morning.

After all, I gotta get this place cleaned up for the next one. Can’t have ‘em piling up like firewood.