Tag: twink

Meat Chronicles 5–Doublecunt Cum

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, this is still gonna hurt like fuck,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then I’ll fill that emptiness with cum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, they’re not sweet. They’re salty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meat Chronicles 4–The Wages of Sin Are…

On By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles1 Comment

I’m back hunting in the suburbs. I’ve had good luck at malls, especially the extreme ends of the parking lots, so I figured I’d try a different one this time. I park in the shade, step into the back of the van, and wait to see what develops. I ain’t offin’ this one in the van, though.

Whatever I catch is going back to the apartment. I have something new I want to try. And anyways, I need to lay off that industrial park for a bit. Something washed up in a creek several miles downstream of the drainage canal, and I think it’s one of mine.

It isn’t long before something catches my eye. There’s a punk wandering through the lot, peering into the cars. I see him try to open a car door surreptitiously, glancing around to make sure no one’s looking. He can’t see deep enough into the van to see me.

He’s about eighteen or nineteen, with a broad face and large blue eyes. He’s not very tall—not quite six feet. He’s wearing a black baseball cap worn backwards; in the gap above the cap’s band on his forehead, golden hair about an inch in length stands out.

He’s got on a blue t-shirt with the red Superman symbol on the chest. Below his jean shorts I can see thick, strong legs covered with a golden fur, a finer and curlier version of the hair on his head. Underneath the golden haze a dragon tattoo on his left calf flexes with every movement of that muscle. His blue-and-white hightop sneakers dance nervously on the hot pavement as the kid keeps turning and looking around.

He was two rows out when I first noticed him, but he’s closer now. This is perfect; the meat is coming to me. All I have to do is bait the trap—and make sure it’s not too obvious a trap.

I set my wallet on the dashboard, lock the doors, and roll down the passenger window about three to four inches before retreating to the darkened rear of the van. I don’t have to wait long for him to notice it, but it seems to take him a while to decide to go for it.

He paces the length of the van a couple of times. I even hear him try the rear doors, but they’re secure. I can’t tell if he’s suspicious of the open window or is just too oblivious to notice it.

Turns out to be the latter. As soon as he sees it, his arm is in the window. He has to go up on his toes to get it in all the way to the elbow, but once he does, he’s able to unlock the door immediately. In a flash, he’s in the passenger seat and scrabbling madly for the wallet.

He’s so intent on his work that he never sees me coming. I take him by surprise, slamming his face into the dashboard, feeling the satisfying crunch of the little shit’s nose being broken. I draw back and he sits up, shaking and gasping, blood streaming from his nose, his cap remaining on the dash. He turns and looks in my direction, but I’m not sure he actually sees me. Doesn’t matter. A rabbit-punch to the jaw and his lights are out.

They stay out, too, which is good. I need that to get him into the apartment. He gets dumped into a large plastic tub with a lid, then takes a short ride on my dolly. I wheel him straight back into the bedroom and empty him out there. I can use this setup to get the meat back out for the garbage run, as well.

I cut off his shorts, boxers, and shirt, leaving him with nothing but his socks and shoes. Now that he’s ready, he can go on the table. I put a lot of time into building this thing; I hope it works well.

The basis for it is a rough plywood rectangle, about three feet wide and four feet long. The meat goes on it on his back, his ass hanging slightly off one end so I can fuck him. Just below the other end, I’ve drilled two holes, five or six inches apart. A length of nylon cord snakes out of one, forms a loop, and vanishes down the other. This cord is firmly attached to the underside of the table on the left side. It’s guided to and away from the holes by a series of metal hasps, also bolted to the underside.

The cord ends up on the right side, just by my hand, where’s it’s connected to a spindle on a ratchet gear that I can crank. In other words, it’s a fuck table with a built-in garrote that I control by a crank. I’ve even got restraining straps for his arms and legs.

Fuck yeah, I’m gonna dominate this worthless fucking thief.

Like I said, I’ve been having some control issues lately. I’m not waiting for the blond bitch to wake up. I strap him in, hock up a huge wad and spit it onto his pink puckered virgin hole, and insert my thick purple head, already oozing in anticipation. I can feel the resistance of his sphincter, unused to being stretched to such a diameter.

I’ve already loosened the cord to allow his head under it. Now I tighten it until it’s flush with his throat—just lying across it, really, not actually tight.

It takes a couple of minutes for him to awaken. That’s fine; I keep fucking him, waiting for him to come around. After all, I’m probably gonna be fucking him later on, too, after he’s dead. He won’t be moving any more then than now.

But now I want him awake. It’s not enough that he suffer. I want him to know exactly what’s happening to him—and why. I’m so excited that when he starts stirring, I can’t control the huge, sharklike grin that breaks out on my face.

He bats his long, dark lashes confusedly, staring at my face. He jerks his arms and legs, only to find the former held to his sides by a leather strap around the wrists and the latter spread wide to receive my cock with leather straps just above the knee. Below the knee, his legs are free to flail, his bright new sneakers kicking uselessly at the air…

Not yet, not yet. Control, goddammit!

I lean down over the meat, stroking his swollen nose. Caked blood trails from both nostrils. He’s gasping and making a low keening sound. More of a whimper than a moan, really.

He may whimper now, but his world ends with a bang.

“Hello there, you sorry little fuck.” I spit down into the meat’s tearful, bewildered face before I start talking again. “Picked the wrong car to break into, dintcha? You ain’t got no idea how wrong, but you’re gonna learn. Gotta tell ya though, dude, it’s gonna hurt a little.” I tweak the punk’s broken nose; he cries out in pain. “In fact, you piece of shit, it’s gonna hurt like fucking hell.”

I stroke his dragon tattoo with my left hand as I turn the crank with my right. The cord grows taut and starts to sink into the flesh of the meat’s neck. I stop before I completely cut off his air, though.

I want to enjoy this a bit. I can stand still for a few minutes as the meat struggles. He can breathe, but it’s requiring a lot of effort. As he fights for air, his sphincter tightens and his colon constricts, massaging my shaft. It would be so easy to blow my load now, but the meat is nowhere near ready. I have to maintain control of myself in order to maintain control of him. I have to hold out long enough to inflict a certain amount of brain damage…

In the meantime, the meat is trying to scream—without much luck. His deep, labored breathing is accompanied by gagging, choking sounds. Already, I can see his face turning red. He’s still getting air, but not enough. He’s being strangled very slowly.

“Hey, dude, how much ya get from breaking into cars? Was it worth it? Worth getting’ your ass plugged while I choke the life outta ya? Bet ya though only chicks got raped and strangled. Get ready for this, you worthless fuck, ‘cause it’s gonna hurt worse than you can imagine. I’m gonna make sure it does, ‘cause that’s the only way I’m gonna cum.”

His eyes, wide, clear, eloquent in horrified confusion, stare into mine. He looks like he’s trying to speak. I can make out the word “please” on his writhing lips as he spews spittle in a frantic attempt to beg for his useless life.

“What’s that, bitch? Still don’t get it, do ya, ya worthless fuck? You’re gonna die so I can cum. It’s that simple. Here, lemme show ya.”

I twist the crank mercilessly. The cord sinks so deep it nearly vanishes. There’s a cracking, crunching sound as the esophagus collapses; its cartilage shattered beyond repair. The damage is reflected in the blond punk’s face as more blood leaks from his nose.

His face darkens as the tip of his tongue parts his lips, accompanied by a froth of drool. More of this foamy drool is pushed out as the tongue extrudes, bubbling over his blue, swelling lips.

The meat convulses helplessly, his torn, ravaged rectum fluttering along the surface of my engorged tool. His balls contract as his own thickly-veined dick responds to asphyxia, rising and glistening as precum drips involuntarily.

His eyes, huge and desperate, bulge frantically as the pressure builds above the cord that has now sunk back nearly to his spine. His skin and eyes grow darker as I watch, as blood vessels rupture until the meat’s face is black and unrecognizably contorted. As I’d hoped, his shoes are kicking and flailing in the air. His broad, smooth, well-muscled chest is slick with deathsweat; the odor of it wafts from his pits.

He’s almost gone. There’s only a few more seconds until his brain is so damaged that he’ll never be a functional being again. A few more seconds before I perform a miracle and make meat into a vegetable. There’s just enough left of him to understand my words.

“Do you get it now, fuckmeat? See what a worthless little fuckwad you really are? Ain’t no one gonna miss you when you’re gone, bitch. You’re a fuckin’ thief. I don’t give a shit what the fuck you do, meat, but bein’ a thief is what got ya here, you stupid little shit. If you’d been a good little boy, you wouldn’t be choking to death with my cock pluggin’ your ass.”

His eyes had been losing focus and drifting, but as I speak, they turn and orient themselves on me. I can tell his brain is still functioning enough to understand my words, and his eyes well enough to see me despite the excruciating pain of the swelling and hemorrhages. His convulsions slow as his body strains futilely against its bonds, a single rigid clenching of everything. My god, the way his ass sucks down my cock…

“Let go, you useless fuck,” I snarl into the dying kid’s face, “you want this. You know it. Give up and let it happen. You worthless little pig, you wanna give me your load as you die. You can’t help it, I’m gonna get it whether you like it or not, but we both know this is what your sick little fucking soul has always wanted. You were out prowling the mall, looking for someone like me to find you and give you the best fuck, the most intense orgasm possible. You’re gonna cum when you die, fuckmeat, and that’s gonna make me cum too. The last thing you’re gonna feel is the hot splash of my spunk in your guts as your shudder and shoot and die. Stop fighting and let it happen. You’ve always wanted a man to hold you down and control you till you cum and die. It’s your lucky day, meat.”

He hears me and he understands. I know he understands because there’s a massive spasm that visibly runs along the meat’s dick and results in a fount of semen. He gets it. He relaxes, surrendering to death, allowing himself this ultimate orgasm as the last physical sensation of which he’s capable.

His ass clenches as well, gipping my cock tightly in a velvet glove of soft rectal lining, squeezing and rippling. It’s too intense for me to resist. Before I’m aware of my actions, I’m screaming and spitting on the meat as I blow my load deep inside his dying asshole. I’m lying flat on top of him, feeling him arch and twist, his hot, smooth, sweaty skin sliding across mine. The firm flesh inside his thighs caresses my flanks as his legs kick and tremble. I pump the bitch full of cum, cursing uncontrollably, as darkness overwhelms me.

When I come to, I find that I’m still hard. I couldn’t have been out long.

On the other hand, the meat is still jacking my dick. The fuckwad isn’t completely dead yet. It’s still convulsing; the aimless thrashing caused by massive trauma to the brain, but it massages my still-sensitive shaft beautifully. I look down into the meat’s face—bloated, black, every inch expressing the unspeakable agony of the garrote. Its eyes had rolled back into its head, only blood-streaked white showing beneath the half-open lids.

Its taut, firm body kept bucking and jerking on my cock. I found myself moaning, pawing at the meat, running my hands down its slick muscled flesh. I can feel a burning sensation in the head of my dick; I can tell I’m going to shoot again.

The meat is fading fast. Time for me to commit one last act of brutality on this hot little teenage punk. One last blast of pain to send him off right. Christ, the pain in the head of my dick; I’m gonna blow…

As I shoot, I crank the cord one last time. The meat’s neck snaps with a sound like a branch breaking. The corpse goes rigid one last time, encasing my cock, milking the last drop of semen out of me like a greedy little deathpig.

I stand up, my back aching. I’ve gotten a lot of exercise. Excellent piece of meat, but it’s completely fucked out now. I need to get it into the tub before it gets stiff and unwieldy. I also need to find a new dumping ground.

Good thing that tub is airtight. Depending on how long it takes me to find a dump, the meat could get pretty ripe before I’m done with it.

Meat Chronicles 3–Dicked Down Douchebag

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It will, however, fit my dick perfectly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love a good fuck that lubes itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meat Chronicles 2–Grab ‘n Go

On By m3mayhemIn Meat ChroniclesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t think it’ll take long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Using it makes me cum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He vomits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh well. He’ll live long enough.

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

I tell him about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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