Fantasy Scenario 12

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

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

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

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

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

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

This whore is gonna die in front of the fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can fix that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy Scenario 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What comes next, he probably won’t want.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not good enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy Scenario 9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s see if that hallucinogen has helped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meat Chronicles 14–Back Alley Boys

On June 27, 2015February 8, 2017 By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles1 Comment

He knows I’m following him; he can’t help but know it. It might not have been obvious out on the main drag, but he glanced back once on the side street. Evidently he liked what he saw—he nodded his head and turned down an alley.

Naturally, I’m gonna follow. My dick has been tingling all day. Time to find a bitch and make some meat.

They haven’t found that last kid yet. I’m safe hitting up the bar scene again. As it so happens, I don’t need to; at least, I don’t need to go inside. Sometimes the prey strolls right into the trap.

I’m walking slowly, looking around, appraising the goods on display on the street, when a loud blare of music lets me know an exterior door of one of the dance clubs has opened. Hearing footsteps behind me, I slow to allow him to pass.

We check each other out simultaneously. I’m in a gray jersey wifebeater, showing off my chest and arms. My jeans are tight and worn and are tucked into a pair of charcoal-gray leather ropers. My thick black leather belt has metal studs that catch the light; I can see him looking.

He’s got a stamp from the club, so he’s over twenty-one, but he looks much younger. That’s why I trust the stamp; I bet they carded the shit outta him.

It’s a warm night and he’s taken his shirt off and looped it in his belt. He’s slim and smooth, with just enough musculature to hint at manhood as opposed to boyhood. He’s a peroxide blonde, his hair sculpted with massive amounts of some product. His eyebrows and the slight down of hair on his lower arms showed that his true shade was a darker color. Stupid little shit; it’s probably a beautiful golden color; why fuck it up?

He’s wearing bright red cotton shorts that end mid-thigh and are so tight he probably needed Vaseline and a shoehorn to get them on. They circle his taut firm thighs and cling to his ass—and seem to have been specially-made to include accommodation for his cock; it bulges in front like he’s got a snake in his front pocket.

His calves show the same golden haze that appears on his lower arms. He’s wearing Nike Cortez running shoes—they look like black leather ankle socks, but I can see the white socks inside. I have just a moment to note that his face is clear-featured, his eyes a bright emerald green—and he’s passed, going ahead of me. That’s when I decide to follow.

He’s ducked behind that dumpster, further up the alley. This block isn’t part of the club scene; in fact, these businesses are barely hanging on—there’s a derelict dry cleaners, an unsanitary-looking tortilla factory…

They’re all closed and empty at this hour. So either this kid is waiting to jump me, or he wants me to fuck him back here. And if it’s the former, he’d better have some help, ‘cause I can put him down with no problem.

And I will.

I unzip my fly and let my dong flop out. I step around the dumpster and there he is, assuming the position. He’s dropped his shorts and stepped out of them, standing in front of me, nude except for his shoes, hands up against the cinderblock wall, slightly stooped so that his puckered hole faces me directly.

This is the first time in quite a while that the meat has surprised me. I know by now who truly wants the sexual experience I can provide. There are signs. I knew this cunt was a deathpig the moment I laid eyes on him; he’s been aching to be put down for a long time.

But, even with as much experience as I have with this by now, I still didn’t expect him to want to die behind a dumpster. This bitch wants to go out like a cheap fucking whore in a stinking alleyway.

I don’t bother to undress any further; there’s no need. The punk is posed to receive anonymous sperm, his hole gaping, waiting for my cock. He doesn’t wait long; I mount the slut like a stallion covering a mare, shoving the full length of my engorged rod deep into the twink’s straining ass.

He exhales all at once, in sheer pain, and croaks like a frog trying to inhale as my dick sinks deeper into his rectum. He rises up on his toes, his thighs quivering in strain, his tight black sneakers scuffling at the toes on the filthy pavement.

No one is in this neighborhood at this time of night—as this piece of shit damn well knows—but I still don’t want to take a chance. I clamp one hand tightly over his mouth as I grip his waist with the other. I pace my thrusts to allow the slut some time to loosen up, reaming him deeply but slowly, letting his fuckhole stretch out.

After a while, his colon stops fighting and accepts my tool. The meat calms visibly, responding to my thrusts, his lean, smooth body slick with sweat but no longer shuddering. He starts backing his ass up on my dick in anticipation of my rhythm. It feels good.

For now. But soon it won’t be enough. That’s what this cunt is hoping for—someone for whom a quick back-alley fuck isn’t enough. Someone who’ll go all the way. Someone who’ll use him and dispose of him like the fucking faggot garbage he is.

Guess it’s lucky he found me; otherwise he coulda been looking for a long time. Maybe he needs a hint how lucky he is. I reach into my right front pocket and pull out a yard-long piece of braided nylon cord and drape it over the meat’s neck, letting the loose ends dangle in front of his chest.

“Dude, what’s this sh—“he starts.

“Shut up!” I snarl and start pumping his ass faster. He grunts, but he shuts up. He’s loving this. Worthless cunt, letting every guy he can find spunk inside him. He’s little more than a living condom—and soon he won’t even be that.

He’s moaning—not a steady sound, but the “uh-uh-uh” of repeated blows to the body, underscored by the slapping sound made as my scrotum smashes his like a billiard shot. He’s happier than a pig in shit.

Now it’s my turn. Reaching down in front of the slut, I grab the end of the cord on the right with my left hand and the one on the left with my right. Bringing my arms back and up, I loop the cord around the cunt’s neck and pull tight. As I take up the slack in the cord, I wrap it around my hands to gain traction and keep it taut.

It takes the meat a moment to realize what’s happened. Stupid little fucks never do seem to recognize the beginning of their greatest sexual experience, even when they’ve been striving for it from the moment they became sexually aware.

That’s why I’m here. I have control. I’ll put the punk down the way he wants it, no matter how hard he fights. After all, he doesn’t have my discipline. He can’t be expected to override the biological imperative to stay alive. I’m here to guide him to orgasmic death, to use him and abuse him and leave him in the gutter like the worthless used cumrag he is.

He stands up straight—he’s moving his hips forward, trying to pry himself off my cock. I throw myself forward, slamming him against the rough cinderblocks.

“Uh-uh, cunt, you ain’t gettin’ off the ride yet,” I whisper into his ear, his head pressed painfully against the alley wall. “It’s time to get what you been askin’ for. So I choke you out like you’ve always wanted and in return, when you die, you do it on my cock so I can enjoy every last second of you kicking away your useless life. Sounds like a deal, yeah? Fuckin’ works for me!”

I yank the cord brutally round the whore’s neck, sinking it in below the surface of the skin. The kid’s hands claw desperately at his throat with no effect. He’s starting to fight now. His ass slaps against my crotch as his pelvis bucks in fear.

“Enough, you fucking cocksucker!” I snarl and slam him forward into the wall, hard. He’s stunned and goes limp momentarily. He’s help upright by the cord around his neck and my dick forcing him to the wall.

Once the effects of the blow to the head wear off, the boy starts thrashing again. I’m pressing him too firmly against the rough, graffiti-scarred cinderblock for him to be able to do any more than pump his ass along my thick shaft. His hands claw and scrabble at the wall; he’s not able to reach me behind him.

“Oh fuck yeah, cunt, fight it,” I moan into his ear. “Keep kicking, bitch. It’s so tofucking hot, feelin’ ya die on my cock. The harder you fight to stay alive, the more your ass massages my dick. Oh yeah, you love it, you fucking pig—here, lemme grind your hard cock into the wall, you worthless fucking whore.”

I’m ramming my rod into his fluttering hole, slamming him brutally into the wall. I’m jerking the cord taut around his neck; as I strain, it puckers his skin and sinks in deeply. His thrashing becomes more frantic, more mindless. His tight black shoes drum heavily on the pavement as his hands beat desperately at the wall in an instinctive attempt to escape.

“Whoa, there, cunt. Just enjoy it. Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna let ya go. This is why ya wanted me, after all—you knew I’d take control of you and keep control of you all the way to the end. You got your wish, bitch. So kick and scratch as hard as much as ya want, you’re still dying on my dick. They’re gonna find your stiff cum-filled corpse behind this filthy dumpster, you worthless whore, right where you belong.”

He turns his head to the side and I can see that beautiful face distorted and swollen, his bulging eyes glaring frantically straight into nothing at all. As his hands slap lightly against the wall and slowly slide down, only to be heaved back up convulsively with another slap, a low bubbling sound emerges from his mouth, where foam oozes out past his thick black tongue. His hair is still in place but the rest of his body is covered in a slick sheen of warm sweat.

His brain is shutting down from lack of oxygen. His metabolism is crashing; that’s why he’s sweating. This is my last moment to put him in his place; at any moment, a critical part of his cerebrum may fail and he’ll be past understanding my words.

“Give it up, you fucking faggot whore,” I snarl in his ear. “Milk my fuckin’ load outta my aching shaft, cunt. You’re gonna cum and die just like ya wanted, you punk-ass bitch, now gimme what I want and work my fuckin’ cock!”

He’s been without oxygen for so long that I’m surprised—again—that he obeys. A tiny spark of life in his fuckpig soul shoots his hips backwards one last time. His legs lock up rigidly, cramps caused by his dying nervous system rippling in waves under his smooth skin—and deep into his intestines. His entire body convulses in what almost feels like a slow-motion wave, generating a suction effect in his rectum.

I try to hold off as long as I can. My arms shudder and tighten with the tension and there’s a faint cracking sound as the boy’s larynx is crushed by the cord. Just before I give a loud, growling grunt of orgasm, I hear a splattering sound as the whore’s worthless spunk splashes the wall in front of him. I shoot violently, a continual stream of semen injected into the kid’s guts at high pressure.

Gasping in relief, I unwrap the cord from the meat’s neck and shove it back in my pocket. His shirt is lying next to me on the ground—I use it as a cumrag and shove it in my pocket, zipping my dripping hog back into my tight jeans. No sense in leaving too much evidence around. Not like there isn’t plenty already, but the cops really won’t care. Just another faggot whore wasted in an alleyway by a trick. They don’t really investigate these things.

So I go, leaving the kid exactly as he’d wanted. Huddled face-down, cum-filled ass in the air, shorts around one ankle with his leather sneakers splayed. Used and discarded in a garbage-strewn alley.

Little cunt was damn sure lucky I found him

Meat Chronicles 13–Snuff of Sam

On June 27, 2015February 8, 2017 By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

He says his same is Sam and I’m suddenly a believer in love at first sight. I’ll admit my taste isn’t for everyone, but I think he’s adorable.

He’s in his early twenties and very short—I don’t think he’s more than five foot four. He has a thick unruly mop of jet-black hair. The broad swath of facial hair sweeping down from his temples to merge with his goatee is the same shade. There’s an element of excess about his face—his dark eyes, his nose, his lips; all are large. It gives him an air of vulnerability.

He wants to be hurt.

I usually don’t go to the bars. Most of the twinks bouncing around in these places come from a high enough social stratum that they can’t be killed with impunity. It’s easier to stick with whores or the criminal element. But I was drawn in tonight…

I’d been driving by on my way to the side street where the rentboys hung out when I saw him and knew I had to have him. He was lounging down the sidewalk with a black polo shirt around his slim torso, the shallow rise of his pectoral clear in silhouette. His hands were in the pockets of his tight khaki-colored jeans that didn’t quite come up to the hem of the shirt so that he flashed the top of his ass with each step of his gray canvas sneakers.

By the time I find a place to park, he’s disappeared into one of the clubs; I’d been careful to note which one. It takes about fifteen minutes inside the welter of thumping music and flashing lights to locate the kid.

He’s out on the dance floor. I walk along the edge, tracking my prey, avoiding contact with as many other people as possible, minimizing possible witnesses. He doesn’t seem to be with anyone in particular, so I wait for him to head back to the bar. Once he does, it’s easy enough to strike up a conversation.

Dude is horny; I can tell by the pole he’s sporting in his groin. Lust gleams in his eyes as they roam over my body and I know I can have him anytime I want. I suggest a quick fuck and he agrees. He lives alone, right around the corner—perfect. I don’t want to be seen leaving with him so I tell him I need to get something out of my car. I’ll go out the back way and meet him at the corner.

And I actually do want to get something from my car; it’s a spare three-foot phone cord. It’s handy to have around, especially when I thread it through the holes drilled in each end of a one-foot section of broom handle, as I do now. A working garrote from a pair of items that appear totally innocuous when viewed separately.

He’s waiting for me at the corner. He’s much like a puppy in his eager anticipation; he’s practically wagging his tail. His eyes travel the length of my body again, pausing only when he gets down to my black combat boots. He looks up at my face again, his large dark eyes sparkling behind the bang of black hair falling over his forehead. He’s already panting.

Little cocksucker wants it bad. He’s gonna get bad, too—even worse than he imagines.

I follow him into the dark maze of ill-lit streets and cheap, dilapidated apartment blocks. His place is the last one on the west side of the side street, where it dead-ended at a disused set of train tracks. A pair of two-story buildings in pink stucco with the depressed air of an all-bills-paid complex, it has nothing but efficiencies and one-bedroom apartments. Sam lives in one of the former—end building, ground floor, in the back by the parking lot.

It’s more squalid on the inside than it had been on the outside. Much of the floor space is taken up by a large mattress sitting directly on the floor. A small TV stands on a wooden TV tray in one corner. There really isn’t much else in the way of furniture; the kid lives like a pig.

Well, that’s ok. He’s gonna die like one, too.

Dirty clothing is strewn about the floor. There had been sheets on the mattress at one point, but they’re twisted and askew and barely cover a third of the surface. There’s a pervading funk of smoke and mansex that thickens the air almost visibly.

Sam’s a slut, but not a whore. He doesn’t sell himself; he gives himself away for free. The whole place (what little there is of it) is littered with used condoms and empty popper bottles mixed among the rank white socks, sneakers and boots scattered across stained carpet. The alcove that serves as a kitchen is dark—I’m not certain the cunt even eats here; I think he just uses this place to sleep and to fuck.

More of the latter than the former, by the looks of it.

He’s already slipped out of the black polo, revealing his smooth, slim torso with just a hint of muscle—just enough swelling of pectoral to avoid looking scrawny. The same is true of his arms, his firm skin with the finest down of honey-brown fur on his forearms, but silky above the elbow where he has a rainbow flag tattooed on his right shoulder.

He kicks off his sneakers but leaves the socks, which just cover his feet and end below the ankle. It takes but a moment for him to wriggle out of his low-rise jeans (of course the little slut was commando underneath) and I’m surprised by the elaborate tramp stamp that comes to a point just above the crack of his tight, smooth ass. He’d been flashing enough skin before, the little fucking cunt; how had I missed that?

I don’t bother to undress. I want to avoid as much exposure as possible in this pig sty. I’m wearing a tight white wifebeater and skin-tight, faded jeans that I’ve deliberately shrunk so that they cling to every nuance of my muscled legs. They’re an old pair of button-fly, so it’s easy enough to start with the second button down. They stay tight around my waist as I reach in, nearly bending my swollen cock double in order to pry it from its confines.

Sam bends over, his sweet, smooth boy-ass pointed straight at me. I’d love to jump him now and plug that hole with my dick, but I have other plans.

“Hold up, bitch,” I snarl. “Uh-uh. Move over.”

I lie down on the mattress, stretching myself out full length, my cock standing straight up, stiff, glistening, intimidating.

“Sit on it, slut,” I tell him abruptly. His own dick is fully erect and quivers in front of him, and suddenly I get it.

He is a dog; his tail is wagging in front instead of behind him.

Ok. I can put this bitch down.

He stands over me, looking down with a curious mix of anticipation and anxiety. It’s gonna hurt like fuck and he knows it. He wants it, but he fears it at the same time. Ok, Sam, we’ll make this the test.

If you chicken out and say no, I’ll leave. You’ll walk away without knowing how close you came.

If you sit on my dick, you fucking slut, you want all the pain I can give you. You want it, all the way to the end. Your choice. I’ll just sit here with my hard dripping cock out and let you make the choice, fuckmeat.

Damn, Sam is damn near drooling. He’s completely focused on my dick as he squats, lowering his pink quivering asshole down over the head of my rod. I haven’t used any lube—and he knows that. But he continues to lower himself, moaning the moment my thick, throbbing head, now moistened by precum, parts his puckered sphincter. He slides down my engorged shaft, his asshole gripping me like a rubber band sliding along my tool, his groan rising into a wail as he continues to impale himself on my cock.

He sits on my dick, his knees at my sides, his legs pressing against my hips. His thick, bobbing dick slaps against my taut belly. I place my arms over his legs and reach into my left pocket, pulling out a zip tie. Sam is too occupied with my cock to notice until I grab his wrists and bind his hands together.

I don’t think he ever noticed the garrote. I’d put it in my back pocket; it stuck out by quite a bit, but he’d never gotten a good look. As he looks down (rather confusedly) at his unexpectedly constricted hands, I slip it out and make sure he gets a good look now.

“Wh-what’s up, man? What ya doin?” he asks nervously.

I smile up at him. He’s so cute when he sweats. “Shhh,” I whisper, “you’re gonna like this. I’m gonna give you what you’ve always wanted. I’m gonna give you the ultimate orgasm. The most intense load of your life. Ya want it, cunt?”

He looks down at me, gasping, confused, unable to decide. The meat knows exactly what I’m saying. He wants this; he really does. The way he’s living shows it.

He’s not living. He’s fucking dude after dude, hoping one of them will show him mercy and put him down. I think he’s found his man.

His eyes—in the light, I can see them, huge and hazel-colored. The one lamp is on the floor just behind my head; I can see him perfectly. His eyes slide along my muscled body; as he licks his full, red lips, I can see his head nod almost imperceptibly…

Yeah, I thought so. Fucking little deathpig cunt. I knew it. I quickly slip the cord over his head—these pieces of shit end up changing their minds too soon. They know what they want, but they lack the courage to follow through. They have to be guided down into death. They want it, but they fear it; they need a man who has big enough balls to take command of the situation and give them the needed control.

I quickly spin the handle, soon tightening the cord into his neck. As it sinks in, he closes his eyes in a grimace and flinches. His erect cock twitches on its own, slapping against my belly. The meat suddenly reaches up, bringing both hands up to his throat simultaneously.

I’ve taken up enough of the slack in the garrote to hold it securely with one hand. I grab the plastic tie binding the pig’s hands, jerking his arms back down.

I have very strong hands. I can twirl the broom handle with one hand, like a baton, cinching the cord more deeply with each twist. I exert a downward pull on the handle as well, matching it to my downward pull on his wrists. The kid is kneeling, squatting on my dick, and I’m pulling him down onto it with such force he can’t rise up and throw himself off me.

I give the handle another mighty jerk, bending the meat over so that his red, swelling face is hanging right over me. I let go of his wrists and reach around, grabbing his sweaty, heaving back in a bearhug and pulling him down hard onto my shaft. I draw my knees up behind him, my boots finding the needed traction on the mattress as I began to launch my rod up into the meat’s quivering fuckhole.

He’s grasping at my hand, the one holding the handle, making it hard for me to tighten the cord. “Enough, you fucking cunt,” I sneer, “stop playing hard to get, you slut, you know you want this. Now shut up and take it, bitch. Relax and enjoy it, pig, cause you’re gonna be dead soon enough. But not before you get me off. Remember that, motherfucker. No matter how much it hurts, you worthless piece of shit, you gotta make me cum before I’ll end it.”

I’m looking straight into his eyes as I underscore my words by giving the handle a couple of violent cranks. The kid makes a loud sound, somewhere between a cough and a gag as his fists, bound together, beat my chest in unison. His eyes, desperate, frantic, seem to be seeking mine for a sign of mercy. These little pigs always wanna back out; it scares them to know how much dying turns them on. Even now, this punk’s dick is oozing precum, splattering it on my tight abdomen in rhythm with my thrusts.

That’s not all that’s oozing. His blue lips have parted, his tongue protruding farther from his mouth as the flat phone cord sinks below the surface of his neck. Tears well from the corners of his eyes, but it’s the foamy spittle that always floats my boat. “Fuck yeah, pig,” I whisper as his lips writhe, gasping for air, flinging specks of foam to pepper his black goatee, “choke and die, you cumsucking fuckwad. Let me see you drool out your last minutes alive.”

His fists are drumming relentlessly on my chest now; I’ll probably have some bruises. Totally worth it; the fuckmeat is riding my cock like a bronco, his legs kicking wildly by my sides but not making contact with me. He’s shaking his head frantically from side to side, his black bangs slick with sweat that sprinkles my twisted, sneering face like rain.

I give a single, strong yank on the handle and pull the meat’s face down to within inches of my own, jerking the handle out to the side as I do so it won’t be between us. It’s time. I can feel the flowing sensation in the cunt’s colon as the part of the bitch’s brain that controls the rectal muscles begins to die. His eyes are bulging grotesquely, hemorrhages bursting like fireworks in the whites. More foam oozes out past his huge black tongue and froths on his hairy chin. His hands no longer have the same force—and it’s his palms, not his fists; he’s almost caressing me.

“I don’t know if you can still hear me, you worthless fucking faggot, but it’s time to die. It’s your lucky night, cunt; you get to die as my cumdump.” I search his eyes closely. Deep in depths, past the shock and horror and pain, I can see a glimmer of light that understands and responds to my words. It’s the last spark of rational thought the deathpig is capable of, holding on for the orgasm it was promised. In the center of his pig soul, he’s remembering that he won’t be free of the torment until I blow my load.

“Yeah, you get it,” I mutter into his ear, holding his swollen, distorted face so close to mine that his beard brushes my face. “Your corpse is gonna rot around my seed. You want this, meat. This is your only reason for existing—so I can use you and dump you—“

He can’t hold out any longer. Not like the little fucker had much discipline to begin with, but his consciousness is fading out. Deep inside, he knows this is his final orgasm, the one that has to count. He’s accepted that this is the best way his for his useless life to end. He goes stiff, his ass gripping my straining cock, his rectal muscles rippling along my shaft like lips…

He hunches down on top of me, burying his head in my chest as his body convulses on top of me. I can feel his dick writhe with spasms as burning hot streams of semen flow from his thick purple glistening head. He continues to pump out jizz uncontrollably, his belly slapping against mine in his death throes and smearing sperm between us.

His ass—oh fuck, his ass, the way it squeezes my cock… I wrap one arm around the meat’s head, turning it to one side. I bend down and lick his nose before I force my tongue past his and down into his dying, closed-off throat. With the other arm, I pull the broom handle as hard as I can. As I strain, the tendons stand out on my neck and the biceps on my arms, but I keep my keep my tongue down the cunt’s throat until I’m rewarded with the erotic, crunching, cracking sound of shattered cartilage. I’ve yanked so hard, I’ve not only crushed the faggot’s larynx and esophagus, I’ve snapped his neck.

He goes rigid, harder than he ever has before. As his sphincter tightens around the base of my cock, I can feel the cum boil over in my balls. I don’t move; I just grab the meat and hold on as I spew semen repeatedly into the corpse’s guts, filling his intestines with sperm. As his he flops forward, my tongue still down his throat, he blows one last death load between us and sinks into the blankness of permanent brain death.

I push the meat off of me and stand up. The kid—what was his name? Sam?—is sprawled on his back, legs spread. Somewhere in his death struggle, the punk had kicked off one of his ankle socks; the one still left was twisted around. His hands are still bound in front of him. His face is black, distorted, and almost unrecognizable, his beard and goatee still full of the meat’s drool.

I stuff my cock back in my jeans and leave the scummy little apartment. Bad as this shithole stinks, he’ll be completely rotted before anyone notices the stench. And that’s exactly what the worthless little cunt deserves…

Meat Chronicles 11–Emo Slut

On June 27, 2015February 8, 2017 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 10–Nothing Like a Good Screw

On June 27, 2015January 26, 2017 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 9–Hands-On Solution

On June 27, 2015January 26, 2017 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 8–Shanks for the Memory

On June 27, 2015January 26, 2017 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 6–A Cut Above

On June 27, 2015January 26, 2017 By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles4 Comments

Been a while since I’ve been out hunting. I’ve had some shit to deal with. Not very fun. But ya gotta do what you gotta do. But tonight I’m free. And speaking of what ya gotta do…

My dick is tingling. I need to stick it in some meat, but I gotta find some first.

Luckily, I never have to look far.

I’d stopped off at a convenience store when I spotted him. Young, about eighteen or so. He’s wearing a black and white check sleeveless shirt with white cargo shorts. His sneakers are black, white, and red and come up over his ankles.

He’s slightly shorter than I am. The sides of his head are shaved, with short gold fuzz on the top. He’s slim, but muscles bulge on his arms and furry legs–to say nothing of the enormous bulge in his crotch. He’s got a strong jaw, narrow blue eyes and a propensity for shoplifting.

I can see it while we’re both at the register. He buys a pack of gum and slips a pack of cigarettes out of the counter rack while the clerk is working the register. I watch as he leaves; he’s riding a bike. He heads west down the street.

I leisurely make my purchases. I’m in no rush; I can catch up to him. And I want to do it away from here, where we’re both on the security footage.

I exit the store lot heading north and circle the block. When I get back onto the main street, he’s still ahead of me, but not by much. Suddenly, he veers off in a strip center parking lot.

It’s a large center with a department store and a supermarket. Large parking lot with plenty of cars. If I can snatch him at the back end of the lot, I’ll be far enough away from the cameras up at the entrances…

He obliges by circling his bike at the back end of the lot. I pull into a spot a couple of rows away, where I can keep an eye on him.

He’s lit one of his stolen smokes. I think he’s sizing up parked cars to break into; he appears to get peering into windows as he rides by, his head turning this way and that, the sunlight glinting off his short golden hair.

An image of the boy screaming and writhing on my cock flashes across my mind and I have to grip the steering wheel and breathe deeply for a couple of minutes.

He’s moving my way. Good. And he’s clearly trying to break into cars. He’s trying the doors, but not finding any open–wait, there’s one. He’s inside. And right back out, empty-handed. Luck of the draw, I guess, but I’m relieved. He’s moving my way again.

I picked a good parking spot. There’s a Lexus next to me. When I look out my passenger window, I can see packages on the back seat and an iPad in the front. Even if the car is locked, he’s gonna want to take a bit to try it out. And that’s when I’ll get him.

The little fuck is getting sneaky. Every time he spots someone walking out to their car, he pedals off and rides around in big, lazy circles until they’re gone–then he’s right back at it.

Hang on, he’s noticed the Lexus. He’s coming over–perfect. He dismounts, leaving his bike on the median between the rows of cars. I watch as he approaches the Lexus. As he bends down to look in the window, his shorts ride up, stretching tautly over his ass.

I wait till he moves around to the driver’s side. As he tries the handles, I slide the door of my van open, carefully and silently. Once I have enough room to swing my arm. I go upside the punk’s head with my tire iron. He grunts and drops, and I quickly grab him under his arms and drag him into the back of my van.

He’s breathing deeply and bleeding from a cut in his scalp. I’m not worried about him; he’ll be out till I get back to the apartment. If I have any worry at all, it’s that I hit him too hard and he might not wake up.

Not that that changes anything. I’ll still fuck him and waste him, but it wouldn’t be as much fun. But I don’t think I’ve caused any permanent damage.

At least, not yet.

It was early evening when I caught the meat; it’s dark by the time I get to the apartment. As usual, most of the exterior lights are out and there’s no one around to see me drag the kid into my unit. I bypass the living room and toss him directly onto the blood-stained mattress. He’s still out as I cut him out of his clothes, leaving him nude except for his sock and shoes.

I sit beside him for a bit, fondling his firm, smooth flesh, running my hands over his flat belly and his broad chest, playing with his nipples, before I grab the long tube of meat dangling between his legs. It’s a thick, veined root emerging from the cloud of honey-colored pubic hair. The same fine, golden fur runs down his muscular legs–I slide my hands down them, all the way to the top of his sneakers as my dick gets hard.

I’m ready to fuck the meat now, but I need to make a couple of preparations first. I flip the boy over and bind his hands behind him with a zip tie. I leave him lying in his belly; I’m gonna fuck him from the back.

But I still want to see his face as I rape and kill him, so I prop a mirror against a chair at the head of the bed. Now, I’ll get to look into his eyes as he dies. Sexy little fucker. Can’t wait to start hurting him…

He’s gonna scream. I like it when they scream; it makes my dick so much harder. But even though I know none of the other units in this building are occupied, I still can’t take the chance. I pick up the slashed remains of the kid’s briefs and stuff them into his mouth. He’s stirring and moaning, staring to waken–I got them in just in time.

Now I can set out my toys.

I have a low table set next to the head of the bed. Not only can I reach it easily, it’s right in the meat’s line of sight. He gets to see every sharp object I’m gonna stick into him; I’ll make damn sure he does.

First up is my knife with the serrated blade, my favorite. I’ll off the meat with it, but I’ll have a little fun first. I had some trouble deciding between the staple gun and the nail gun, but eventually decided on the latter. There’s an outlet on that side of the room, so it’ll be easy to use. Plus, I’m almost out of staples.

I have lots and lots of nails.

The meat is becoming more active. I need to start.

I mount him from behind, feeling the fine hair on the backs of his legs press against mine. My cock is already engorged and dripping; I take a moment to position myself, then shove as hard as I can. There’s a brief, intense pressured, then I can feel it give. The meat’s sphincter tears and I can feel blood lubricating my shaft as it sinks full-length into the kid’s ass.

He screams. It’s muffled by the underwear gag, but it’s definitely a scream. I lie flat on top of the boy and grab his head with both hands, turning it so I can whisper in his ear–and so he can see the table with the toys.

“Fuck yeah, you piece of shit, does that hurt? No, not enough? Ok, bitch, there’s more coming. See all that shit on the table? I’m gonna stick it all into you. The more you jerk and squeal like a little fuck pig, the better it feels on my dick. So get ready for a hard ride, fuckwad, it ain’t over till I cum. And the more pain you’re in, the sooner I shoot. Got it, meat? This is hell and you’re about to get fucked to death. Now let’s start this off right.”

I pick up the nail gun. I spent a little extra for this model, but it’s worth it; it’s so lightweight I can use it with one hand. That’s handy when you have meat to control.

After all, sometimes the meat resists, like this kid. He’s fighting me, struggling and squirming as he tries to crawl out from under the agonizing onslaught of my dick–not that he’s getting anywhere, of course, but it’s pissing me off.

And that’s bad news for the meat.

“Goddam bitch, ya like squirmin’ around? Let’s see ya squirm some more, motherfucker.”

I hold the meat down with my hand on his head, place the nail gun on his back and gently pull the trigger. The gun fires with a loud metallic punch and the meat jerks violently, his rectum closing up on my rod.

“Fuckin’ A, that’s what I’m talkin’ about! Shake that ass, fuckmeat. Work my dick!”

The mirror is perfect, just the right spot. I can see the meat’s face, flushed red up to his scalp, tightly drawn in pain. His clenched teeth and slitted eyes show how much it hurts.

“Ya think that’s bad? We’re just getting started. You’re gonna hafta be in a lot more pain than that to get me off, you worthless fuck. Gonna be a long night.”

The head of a single nail protrudes from the boy’s smooth, hard back, a thin trickle of blood winding away to spill down his side. His back is an open canvas, waiting for me to create art with steel and flesh and blood.

I move the gun slightly and fire again. The meat twists and writhes; this nail shatters a rib and doesn’t go in quite as far. “Damn, fuckpig, that’s gotta hurt. Let’s see if it can hurt more.” Using my fingers, I slowly push the nail into the wound. As it slides smoothly in, the boy’s pelvis rises and falls, massaging my dick.

“Now you’re getting it, meat. Your ass feels good on my cock–but not great. Think you need a little more incentive…”

I work the fuckmeat over. In quick succession, I fire five nails at random into the kid’s back as I work out the rhythm. The meat bucks his hips backs as a reflexive reaction to the pain, so I fire a nail, then thrust forward as the fuckpig pumps backward. I get a long, smooth stroke that plunges my swollen mushroom tip deep into the meat’s satiny colon. Fire and fuck, fire and fuck…

I grin at the sobbing teen. “Guess I picked a good fucktoy. Keep working it, you piece of shit, I ain’t done yet. I’m gonna ream you out and throw your torn, bleeding corpse in the garbage. Alive, you’re a worthless little thief. Dead, you’re gonna make a good cumrag. You’re useless for anything but fucking and killing.”

His face, smeared with tears and snot, is reflected back to me from the mirror. It’s contorted with fear and pain. His jaw is working as if he’s trying to speak–and I’m sure he is, most likely to plead and beg–but the briefs I jammed down his throat are preventing him from making any audible sounds.

I hunch down over the kid, feeling my chest slide over his sweaty back. I hold the nail gun against his side while I reach my hand underneath him to grab his thick cock. I press the gun hard into his right side and fire. As I do, I feel his dick jerk and swell in my hand.

“That’s what I thought,” I whisper into the boy’s ear. “Little fuckin’ pain pig, ain’t ya? I could see it in your face. You like gettin’ hurt, bitch. It gets you off. You’ll snivel and blubber, but it makes you hard to have a real man on top of you, plowing your ass as you submit to the erotic agony. Yeah, you love it. Don’t worry, fuckmeat, I’ll make sure you’re in pain you never dreamed possible. I’m gonna hurt you so bad you’ll scream and die–and blow your load like a good fuckpig.”

The nail gun is small, but my nails aren’t. They’re a good three inches long. If that doesn’t sound like much, imagine a steel spike inserted three inches deep from the surface of your skin.

The meat doesn’t have to imagine it.

I fire a series of nails into the punk’s right side, below the rib cage, filling his intestines with holes. Each blast of the gun causes the meat to tense his muscles in misery and squeeze my rod. I almost don’t have to pump his hole; I can work his rectum just by torturing him.

The meat is shuddering under me, making a high-pitched whine as he struggles to free himself from the ordeal he’s undergoing. It’s hopeless, of course; my huge tool is pinning him to the mattress as if he’d been impaled.

“Shut up, fuckmeat. Quit fighting it. You want this. You love my hard cock and hard steel inside you, you fucking whore, don’t ya? You went out looking for trouble and you found it. Too late to stop now, motherfucker, you’re gonna ride my dick all the way to the end as you choke on your own blood. Shit, dude, you’re hard already. Goddam pig. There’s more where that came from.”

His struggles become more violent. I can feel his hands, pressed between our bodies–he’s clenching and unclenching his fists in desperate futility. I move the gun to his left side and continue to hit the trigger. Now I’m spearing his spleen and liver.

Suddenly, the kid tries to fight back. I can feel him bucking and twisting, trying to rise up on his knees, despite having his arms bound behind his back and my weight on top of him. I clock him on the back of the head with the nail gun, hard.

“Lay still, asswipe, I ain’t done with you yet. Just keep still…” I fire another nail into the meat, shattering another rib. “Goddam, that’s it, motherfucker. Keep milking my rod, boy. Feels so fucking good to hurt you, bitch.”

I reach under and grab his cock again. It’s fully erect now; my hand, sticky with the meat’s precum, slides along the veined shaft. His balls, huge and soft to begin with, have shriveled to hard wrinkled walnuts. Little fucking pain pig is gonna shoot soon.

I’m surprised; most of the time, the meat doesn’t react until it’s in the extremity of its death throes. Excruciating pain makes this one horny. I love it.

By now, we’re both sweating and breathing heavily. An audio recording would sound like ordinary sex.

If you edited out the metallic clank of the nail gun, that is. And the agonized bleating of the fucktoy.

I run my hand along the kid’s flanks, slick with the cold sweat of torment. His golden hair is dark with sweat as well. It trickles down his forehead to merge with the tears on his face. I catch his expression in the mirror–still contorted with pain and effort, eyes shut hard, streams of drool leaking from his blocked mouth. His eyes open and catch mine in the reflection.

His eyes are blue, huge and beautiful, with and expression of anguish and despair so erotic I almost blow my load. Gorgeous little punk, wasting his beautiful body until I grabbed him and put it to its best use. But his struggles are slowing and his colon isn’t stroking my rod as firmly as it had been. I think the meat is wearing out.

“Fuck, whore, you’re getting loose on me. You’ll never get my spunk like that. Guess I need to tighten your hole up. I know how much you fucking love getting shit stuck in ya, meat, but I don’t think you’re enjoying the nails any more. Think it’s time to turn the pain up to eleven. Whaddaya think, fuckwad, sound like a plan?”

I toss the nail gun to the side and pick up the knife. I hold it down in front of the teen’s face so he can see what’s coming for him.

“If the nails made you hard, you worthless fucking pain slut, this’ll make you cum so hard you bleed. It’s a Ka-bar utility knife. Look at it, motherfucker. Ain’t it sexy? See these serrations on the blade? When I stick this in you and twist it, those little pieces of metal are gonna shred your guts to hamburger. Ready for it, punk? No? Tough shit!”

I start thrusting my cock into his ass, pounding it mercilessly. The teen moans and writhes under me, but his eyes are fixed on the mirror, where he can see my upraised arm holding the knife. He has a fraction of a second to brace himself before I plunge it into his back.

It slips between his ribs, sinking like butter. It works, too. The fuckmeat goes completely rigid in his suffering. His asscheeks grasp my cock like a fist, his soft, creamy innards caressing the throbbing, oozing head of my tool. As I promised, I twist the knife brutally in the wound before jerking it back out.

The meat thrashes in agony. His eyes, wide and ringed with shock, stare frantically into mine as he tries to process the wave of agony sweeping over him. He’s sweating even more now; it runs off his body and makes a wet spot on the mattress.

It’s not the only thing making a wet spot. The punk’s dick is leaking. Throughout the entire ordeal, I manage to keep one hand underneath, jacking the meat. I want to make sure he stays hard; they usually go soft once the knife is used.

Not this fucker, though. He really is a masochistic little death pig. For all his crying and moaning, he’s enjoying this on some deep level. The fear of impending death—to say nothing of the pain itself—is not having any noticeable effect. I stab him again in the back and then in the side, reaming and twisting the knife each time. The meat shudders and trembles against me as I keep fondling his swollen shaft.

“It’s time, fuckmeat. I can feel my cum starting to boil in my balls and I’ll bet yours is too, you useless fucking whore. Get ready for it, motherfucker, I’m gonna cut your cut your throat wide open. I’m gonna fuck you as you die and fill you full of my sperm as your life drains out along with your blood. You want this. You know you do. You know you’re a fucking worthless piece of shit and you love being treated like it. You’re useless for anything but raping and killing and you’re gonna cum like a worthless piece of shit when I slash your throat because you know that’s all you deserve, motherfucker. Get ready to shoot the most intense wad of your short, wasted life, bitch.”

I sit up on my knees. Grabbing the kid by his chin, I pull him up with me. Our hard bodies slide against each other, lubed not only by sweat but by blood. The punk is yanking his head around, trying to break free of my grip on his jaw. Stupid fuckwad, must be an instinctive reaction. The boy wants it—my knife, my load, everything.

The long, hard, dripping cock I see bobbing in the mirror tells me so.

“Shhh,” I whisper in his ear. “Let go. It’ll be over soon. Enjoy it while you can. Feel the razor edge against your tender flesh? Picture it slowly slicing through, those sharp serrations starting to saw into your trachea—that’s a rubbery bit, so it’ll take some time. You’ll get to enjoy that. At some point, I’ll reach the jugular and the carotid. If I leave the knife in your neck, I may be able to stretch it out a little. Make it so that you don’t bleed out as much as you drown in your own blood. Sound fun? Sure the fuck does to me. Fuck yeah, bro, let’s get the party started!”

I dig my fingers into his face as I lift his chin. I’ve got an excellent view in the mirror. I move the blade up and down his neck, looking for just the right spot. I stop right on the bulge of the Adam’s apple.

And start sawing.

The high-pitched squeal the teen makes really is that of a pig. He grimaces, lips pulled back, revealing his briefs still wadded in his mouth. With his bound hands between us, his fingers scrape and claw at my belly.

There’s resistance on the blade as I cut through the larynx. It’s a tough piece of cartilage, and it took me a good fifteen seconds to slice through it—long before I could reach any major blood vessels.

The meat liked pain—and he got it. And I made sure he knew it.

“What’s it feel like, meat? Does it burn? Does it hurt your sorry ass good? Yeah? Ya liking that, you sick fucking death pig? Fuck yeah, you must be. God, your ass is jacking me off so good right now. This is why, fuckmeat. This is why I do this. This is why you have to die, so I can feel it on my cock. You’re no good for anything else, you fucking piece of shit, so you may as well make me cum as you die!”

And he does. He gets it. As the resistant tissue gives way to softer flesh and his trachea parts as if it’s been unzipped, the meat gives a last, despairing squeak and starts gargling blood. Pink foam bubbles past the knife out of the wound.

The meat has gone utterly stiff. I don’t know how he does it, but in the throes of orgasmic death, he’s creating suction in his colon. At the same time, I can see in the mirror a fountain of jizz rising from the fuckpig’s straining, purple cock. There’s no penile spasm; it’s just a steady jet of semen shooting up and splattering back on the dying teen’s face and chest, where it turns the blood pink.

Oh my god, the way his ass sucks my dick dry… It’s incredible. It seems to go on forever, my seed flowing into the dead kid’s ass as I curse him and keep sawing at his throat.

At some point, I become aware of myself again. I’m still kneeling on the bed. My cock is still spasming, but nothing is coming out. It isn’t in the meat anymore; at some point, the meat has fallen back down on the bed. But I haven’t let him go…

And then I get it. My knife is in my right hand. The meat’s head is in my left. I’d cum so hard, I didn’t realize I’d just kept sawing until I’d decapitated the meat.

Man, I’m tired. I shove the meat onto the floor and jump into the shower. After I finish, I fall asleep on the couch.

When I awake, it’s the early hours of the morning. I’m hard again. No idea how that happens; I thought I’d spewed out several days’ worth of spunk. But here I am, ready to go again.

I stroll back into the bedroom to get the meat and find myself disappointed. I’d wanted to fuck it again, but it has landed badly, with the legs splayed. Rigor mortis has set in and it’s kinda unfuckable.

But the head is still there. I pick it up and go back out to the couch.

I sit down and, opening the mouth, remove the blood-soaked briefs still crammed in the back of the throat. The huge blue eyes are open and a little cloudy; they’d rolled slightly up.

I position the open mouth over my erect dick and lower it. I spend a few minutes literally skullfucking the dude, using his head as a jackoff toy. If I hold the head just right, the eyes are looking directly into my own.

As I blow my wad, I spit into the boy’s blue-tinted face, calling him a fucking piece of shit whore and watching my load ooze out of the ragged stump.

I put the head in a garbage bag. The rest of the meat goes in another and they both go into a plastic tub and then out into my van. Eventually, the body will end up in the landfill and the head—I dunno, maybe into the river.

Doesn’t matter, really. Just a rotting piece of meat.