M
m3m1
Guest
Y’know, there are some times when I have no interest in hunting. I can be distracted just as much as anyone. I can have other things on my mind.
But when fresh meat falls in your lap, what are you supposed to do? Say no? Fuck that.
This one happened because of a red light camera. There’s a new one installed at an intersection near one of my hunting grounds. I go out of my way to avoid going through that intersection now, just in case.
Sometimes, though, I do need to go that way. This time, I took a shortcut; an alleyway behind a run-down strip center on the corner. It was late, but there was still some traffic. I turned out my headlights as I swung behind the building; no sense in letting anyone see me.
The boy was about two-thirds of the way down the alley. He was locking the back door of one of the businesses—a head shop, I think—when I caught sight of him.
I had a clear view; he was standing under the only working light in the alley. No older than twenty-five, if that. Baseball cap on his short, spiked red-gold hair. Tight skinny jeans and a dark red t-shirt, white hightops with untied blue laces. His left arm was a tattooed sleeve.
I stopped and shut off my van. He hadn’t heard me and I had been in the shadows with no lights on—he didn’t know I was there. He fired up a joint the moment the door was locked and got busy getting high.
I switched the interior light off before opening the door. I was able to approach the kid in such a way that a trash bin was between us for much of the time. I within a yard of him before he realized he wasn’t alone. He’d finished the jay and was about to go; he already had one foot on his board.
I came at him from behind. He must have heard something because he started to turn but I was on him so fast he never saw me coming. I put out his lights with a quick right to the jaw and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.
I dragged him back to my van and piled him into the back. There was no need to move; no one could see me between the building and the back wall without coming down the alley. And there was no reason for anyone to come down the alley. The few occupied spaces were all closed for the day.
I cut the skate punk’s jeans off with a utility knife. There was a tattoo that rose on his right calf and blossomed into curlicues. I cut his shirt off, too, running my hands over his smooth, firm chest and belly and twisting his nipples viciously. Little shit was going commando. His thick hog ran limply along his thigh.
He moans and his eyelids flutter—he’s starting to regain consciousness. Good. I want him awake; I want him to know, to experience everything that’s going to happen to him. But first…
I’ve already gotten undressed myself. I could fuck him with my clothes on, of course, but that can leave trace evidence—to say nothing of the mess itself—so I choose not to.
His moaning becomes louder as I prop his shoes on my shoulders and stuff the thick mushroom head of my cock into his tight hole. He’s not fully awake but he’s starting to resist. That’s ok; I expect him to resist. It’s part of the fun. He’ll come to accept his role in time. I just need to teach him to submit.
I have a tool for that. It’s a very simple loop of wire with the ends attached to a thick length of sawed-off wooden dowel. A garrote, but not like my usual ones—this one, the wire, has some bite. This is gonna hurt wicked bad.
The thought gets me so horny I slam myself full-length into the fuckmeat. He opens his eyes wide—they’re green, I hadn’t seen them before—and gasps. I don’t give him the chance to scream, though. I’m already tightening the wire down.
I don’t choke him off, though, not yet. He glares at me, rage masking pain and fear. His breathing is constricted and labored but not interrupted. He plants his left hand on my chin and pushes hard while his right claws at the wire. He jerks and twists under me, trying to get free from the penetrating pain in his rectum.
“Fuck yeah,” I moan, “that’s it, fuckmeat. Keep fighting it, keep working my dick. Goddam, bitch, you ain’t never let anyone up inside you before. You wanted to, though. You’re gonna love this, you worthless little fuck. I’m gonna show you what a real man does with a useless fuckhole like you.”
I hold him down with one hand placed in the center of his chest. I’m holding the handle of the garrote in the other hand. I don’t twist it often—I want him to strangle slowly. My cock spears his ass to the floor. The last thing he’s gonna see as he dies (besides my face snarling at him) will be the roof of my van.
I don’t twist the wire often, but I do twist it. He becomes more frantic with each revolution of the handle. He flails his hands and grabs at my face briefly, but I’m both bigger and stronger than he is. He’s completely helpless. Panic will set in once he realizes this fact.
His eyes, bloodshot from the weed, stared into mine with mute pleading, the look in them conveying the confusion common with dying fuckmeat. Experience has taught me patience. He will not accept his purpose as a receptacle for my semen until a certain proportion of his brain has died. Only then will things become clear to him. But I must tell him, educate him on this point.
“My purpose now is to guide you,” I whisper to him, “to the point of brain death, to your fulfillment, to the highest and best use of your body. I’m gonna manipulate you physically so that your death throes make me cum—so I can properly anoint you with my seed as you achieve your reason for being and so leave this world.”
One more twist of the handle and his air is gone for good. His eyes bulge frantically and he claws furiously at my face. I tighten down harder on his neck and the wire breaks the skin. He grabs at his throat, smearing the blood. His chest heaves in a desperate attempt to breathe, the effort making his ass rock up and down on my dick.
Slowly but inevitably, I feel something press into my abdomen. The meat is getting hard. This is a good sign, but it doesn’t mean acceptance. This is a physiological effect from the lack of oxygen; the only thing unusual is how quickly it’s happened. Normally the meat is much closer to death before he gets hard.
This one must want it bad. I grin as I slam my cock into his writhing colon. I’ll make sure he gets it bad. I’ll make it as bad for him as I can.
I loosen the wire for a moment. For one breath; that’s it. I want to string this out for as long as I can.
“Still with me, punk? Good. Let’s play a game. Let’s see how long I can keep you dancing on my dick. At some point, we’ll cross a line and your brain will be irreparably damaged. You’ll convulse uncontrollably and that’s when I’ll reward you with my load. But I wanna see how long I can keep you going before we get there.”
I twist the wire a couple more times. More blood flows from the thin slit encircling the skater’s neck. His face darkens as he paws at his throat, his fingers slipping in the blood. He slides around under me on a cold, slick sweat that has spontaneously oozed out of him, coating his hard, smooth body and darkening his hair.
I loosen the garrote to allow him another gasp and then close him down again. His lips swell and part as his engorged tongue protrudes. Streamers of drool run from the corners or his mouth. I lean over him to watch blood vessels hemorrhage in his beautiful green eyes with the long dark lashes.
“Fuck yeah, asshole; you know how to die good. I’m so fucking glad I found you. You’ve wanted this so much, haven’t you? You’ve wanted a real man to come along and choke you out, to spurt a burning wad of cum up your ass as you gag and spasm and shoot and die. Only thing you’re any fuckin’ good for, faggot, ain’t it? You’re gonna rot like the fucking garbage you are, motherfucker, with my load inside ya.”
He’s in full crisis mode now. I’ve seen this before. I think the oxygen in the meat’s bloodstream drops below a certain level or something. His feet are hammering at my ass, his hightops scraping at my legs and back. His arms are straight out and rigid, his hands clutching my cheeks, fingers digging painfully just below my eyes. I’m looking directly into his face. I can see the light start to fade from his eyes. I loosen the wire. The meat inhales raggedly.
“Not yet, fuckwad. You ain’t gettin’ out of it yet. You haven’t earned my load yet. You gotta work my dick better than that, motherfucker. You want the pain to end? Make me cum, bitch, that’s your only way out. This agony will only end with your death and you don’t deserve to die till you make me cum.”
I clamp down on his neck again. I kneel on the floor of the van and pull him up so that I can look him in the face. His eyes have hemorrhaged so severely that’s there’s no white left. They bulge grotesquely, showing the inescapable horror of his last moments alive. His face is back and almost unrecognizable, his purple tongue protruding obscenely.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. His brain is dying; he’s unable to reason, only to feel. He can feel his purpose now. His cock is as swollen and purple as his tongue. His face is slick and shiny with snot and tears and frothy drool; the head of his dick is slick and shiny with precum.
The punk’s hands no longer snatch at my face. The frenetic pace has slowed and now he caresses me. I can feel the gratitude in each stroke; I have made him aware of his place in the universe. All he needs to complete his existence is my seed. He’s nearly there; he just needs some encouragement.
“Die, you fucking useless punk. Let go and let your body take over. Thrash and die on my cock, you little fucking faggot. C’mon, bitch, I wanna feel you die. That’s it, fuckwad, ride my cock to your grave.”
He’s jerking spasmodically, the bicep on his left arm twitching under the colorful tattoo. His legs tighten at my neck, the heels of his loose hightops digging into the back of my neck as I bend the dying meat double.
I can feel the muscles of his colon ripple as he loses control of his bowels. The velvety feel of his rectal lining flowing against the sensitive head of my cock is addictive. This is how I know what I’m doing is right; how could something as intense as this not be a religious experience?
That’s when it happens. The meat reaches epiphany. He jerks and spasms, head thrown back and eyes rolled back to show nothing but blood-streaked white. Foam bubbles from the corners of the thick blue lips. There’s a massive twitch and a stream of semen erupts convulsively from the meat’s straining purple rod. It splatters on my chest and my chin, then jets up to fall in thick creamy gobs on his black congested face.
This is what I’ve been waiting for. He’s reached the critical point; his brain is so damaged that he could never again be functional. This is why I jumped the skate punk as he left the head shop; I wanted to feel his sphincter tighten around the base of my dick like a cockring as he succumbs to brain death. He never had a chance to escape. I chose him at random to receive my seed and my revelation of his purpose.
“This is it, fuckmeat. This is why you’re here. Take my load, you fucking death pig. You want it. If there’s enough of your left to be able to understand me, you want my cum burning in your guts before you go. I know that because you’ve already blown your own wad like the fucking choke whore I knew you were. I’m gonna fuckin’—fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
I shoot a stream of semen into the meat’s guts, hosing his intestines with my cum. He gives me one last embrace, clenching me in a final dying spasm that tightens his sphincter around my cock again, forcing another load of seed to discharge convulsively from the corpse’s dick as I shoot my last load uncontrollably deep into his intestines.
I hold him for a while and tell him how much I love him and how grateful I am that I was chosen to show him his proper place in the scheme of things. I kiss him, thrusting my tongue into his mouth, forcing my way past his own swollen tongue. I stoke the flaccid muscles in his tattooed arm; I lower his legs to my side and run my hands down his firm thighs.
Later, I dress myself. I start my van and move it slowly forward. I park at the trash bin long enough to drag the meat out and throw it in. I make sure to go back and grab the punk’s cap and skateboard, both outside the head shop where I’d found him. I throw them in as well. Truck should be around in the morning; it should be several days before anyone notices this worthless little shit was missing.
Like I said, I wasn’t hunting—but when there’s a nice piece of meat right in front of me, I’m not gonna ignore it. I mean, I’m no saint.
But when fresh meat falls in your lap, what are you supposed to do? Say no? Fuck that.
This one happened because of a red light camera. There’s a new one installed at an intersection near one of my hunting grounds. I go out of my way to avoid going through that intersection now, just in case.
Sometimes, though, I do need to go that way. This time, I took a shortcut; an alleyway behind a run-down strip center on the corner. It was late, but there was still some traffic. I turned out my headlights as I swung behind the building; no sense in letting anyone see me.
The boy was about two-thirds of the way down the alley. He was locking the back door of one of the businesses—a head shop, I think—when I caught sight of him.
I had a clear view; he was standing under the only working light in the alley. No older than twenty-five, if that. Baseball cap on his short, spiked red-gold hair. Tight skinny jeans and a dark red t-shirt, white hightops with untied blue laces. His left arm was a tattooed sleeve.
I stopped and shut off my van. He hadn’t heard me and I had been in the shadows with no lights on—he didn’t know I was there. He fired up a joint the moment the door was locked and got busy getting high.
I switched the interior light off before opening the door. I was able to approach the kid in such a way that a trash bin was between us for much of the time. I within a yard of him before he realized he wasn’t alone. He’d finished the jay and was about to go; he already had one foot on his board.
I came at him from behind. He must have heard something because he started to turn but I was on him so fast he never saw me coming. I put out his lights with a quick right to the jaw and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.
I dragged him back to my van and piled him into the back. There was no need to move; no one could see me between the building and the back wall without coming down the alley. And there was no reason for anyone to come down the alley. The few occupied spaces were all closed for the day.
I cut the skate punk’s jeans off with a utility knife. There was a tattoo that rose on his right calf and blossomed into curlicues. I cut his shirt off, too, running my hands over his smooth, firm chest and belly and twisting his nipples viciously. Little shit was going commando. His thick hog ran limply along his thigh.
He moans and his eyelids flutter—he’s starting to regain consciousness. Good. I want him awake; I want him to know, to experience everything that’s going to happen to him. But first…
I’ve already gotten undressed myself. I could fuck him with my clothes on, of course, but that can leave trace evidence—to say nothing of the mess itself—so I choose not to.
His moaning becomes louder as I prop his shoes on my shoulders and stuff the thick mushroom head of my cock into his tight hole. He’s not fully awake but he’s starting to resist. That’s ok; I expect him to resist. It’s part of the fun. He’ll come to accept his role in time. I just need to teach him to submit.
I have a tool for that. It’s a very simple loop of wire with the ends attached to a thick length of sawed-off wooden dowel. A garrote, but not like my usual ones—this one, the wire, has some bite. This is gonna hurt wicked bad.
The thought gets me so horny I slam myself full-length into the fuckmeat. He opens his eyes wide—they’re green, I hadn’t seen them before—and gasps. I don’t give him the chance to scream, though. I’m already tightening the wire down.
I don’t choke him off, though, not yet. He glares at me, rage masking pain and fear. His breathing is constricted and labored but not interrupted. He plants his left hand on my chin and pushes hard while his right claws at the wire. He jerks and twists under me, trying to get free from the penetrating pain in his rectum.
“Fuck yeah,” I moan, “that’s it, fuckmeat. Keep fighting it, keep working my dick. Goddam, bitch, you ain’t never let anyone up inside you before. You wanted to, though. You’re gonna love this, you worthless little fuck. I’m gonna show you what a real man does with a useless fuckhole like you.”
I hold him down with one hand placed in the center of his chest. I’m holding the handle of the garrote in the other hand. I don’t twist it often—I want him to strangle slowly. My cock spears his ass to the floor. The last thing he’s gonna see as he dies (besides my face snarling at him) will be the roof of my van.
I don’t twist the wire often, but I do twist it. He becomes more frantic with each revolution of the handle. He flails his hands and grabs at my face briefly, but I’m both bigger and stronger than he is. He’s completely helpless. Panic will set in once he realizes this fact.
His eyes, bloodshot from the weed, stared into mine with mute pleading, the look in them conveying the confusion common with dying fuckmeat. Experience has taught me patience. He will not accept his purpose as a receptacle for my semen until a certain proportion of his brain has died. Only then will things become clear to him. But I must tell him, educate him on this point.
“My purpose now is to guide you,” I whisper to him, “to the point of brain death, to your fulfillment, to the highest and best use of your body. I’m gonna manipulate you physically so that your death throes make me cum—so I can properly anoint you with my seed as you achieve your reason for being and so leave this world.”
One more twist of the handle and his air is gone for good. His eyes bulge frantically and he claws furiously at my face. I tighten down harder on his neck and the wire breaks the skin. He grabs at his throat, smearing the blood. His chest heaves in a desperate attempt to breathe, the effort making his ass rock up and down on my dick.
Slowly but inevitably, I feel something press into my abdomen. The meat is getting hard. This is a good sign, but it doesn’t mean acceptance. This is a physiological effect from the lack of oxygen; the only thing unusual is how quickly it’s happened. Normally the meat is much closer to death before he gets hard.
This one must want it bad. I grin as I slam my cock into his writhing colon. I’ll make sure he gets it bad. I’ll make it as bad for him as I can.
I loosen the wire for a moment. For one breath; that’s it. I want to string this out for as long as I can.
“Still with me, punk? Good. Let’s play a game. Let’s see how long I can keep you dancing on my dick. At some point, we’ll cross a line and your brain will be irreparably damaged. You’ll convulse uncontrollably and that’s when I’ll reward you with my load. But I wanna see how long I can keep you going before we get there.”
I twist the wire a couple more times. More blood flows from the thin slit encircling the skater’s neck. His face darkens as he paws at his throat, his fingers slipping in the blood. He slides around under me on a cold, slick sweat that has spontaneously oozed out of him, coating his hard, smooth body and darkening his hair.
I loosen the garrote to allow him another gasp and then close him down again. His lips swell and part as his engorged tongue protrudes. Streamers of drool run from the corners or his mouth. I lean over him to watch blood vessels hemorrhage in his beautiful green eyes with the long dark lashes.
“Fuck yeah, asshole; you know how to die good. I’m so fucking glad I found you. You’ve wanted this so much, haven’t you? You’ve wanted a real man to come along and choke you out, to spurt a burning wad of cum up your ass as you gag and spasm and shoot and die. Only thing you’re any fuckin’ good for, faggot, ain’t it? You’re gonna rot like the fucking garbage you are, motherfucker, with my load inside ya.”
He’s in full crisis mode now. I’ve seen this before. I think the oxygen in the meat’s bloodstream drops below a certain level or something. His feet are hammering at my ass, his hightops scraping at my legs and back. His arms are straight out and rigid, his hands clutching my cheeks, fingers digging painfully just below my eyes. I’m looking directly into his face. I can see the light start to fade from his eyes. I loosen the wire. The meat inhales raggedly.
“Not yet, fuckwad. You ain’t gettin’ out of it yet. You haven’t earned my load yet. You gotta work my dick better than that, motherfucker. You want the pain to end? Make me cum, bitch, that’s your only way out. This agony will only end with your death and you don’t deserve to die till you make me cum.”
I clamp down on his neck again. I kneel on the floor of the van and pull him up so that I can look him in the face. His eyes have hemorrhaged so severely that’s there’s no white left. They bulge grotesquely, showing the inescapable horror of his last moments alive. His face is back and almost unrecognizable, his purple tongue protruding obscenely.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. His brain is dying; he’s unable to reason, only to feel. He can feel his purpose now. His cock is as swollen and purple as his tongue. His face is slick and shiny with snot and tears and frothy drool; the head of his dick is slick and shiny with precum.
The punk’s hands no longer snatch at my face. The frenetic pace has slowed and now he caresses me. I can feel the gratitude in each stroke; I have made him aware of his place in the universe. All he needs to complete his existence is my seed. He’s nearly there; he just needs some encouragement.
“Die, you fucking useless punk. Let go and let your body take over. Thrash and die on my cock, you little fucking faggot. C’mon, bitch, I wanna feel you die. That’s it, fuckwad, ride my cock to your grave.”
He’s jerking spasmodically, the bicep on his left arm twitching under the colorful tattoo. His legs tighten at my neck, the heels of his loose hightops digging into the back of my neck as I bend the dying meat double.
I can feel the muscles of his colon ripple as he loses control of his bowels. The velvety feel of his rectal lining flowing against the sensitive head of my cock is addictive. This is how I know what I’m doing is right; how could something as intense as this not be a religious experience?
That’s when it happens. The meat reaches epiphany. He jerks and spasms, head thrown back and eyes rolled back to show nothing but blood-streaked white. Foam bubbles from the corners of the thick blue lips. There’s a massive twitch and a stream of semen erupts convulsively from the meat’s straining purple rod. It splatters on my chest and my chin, then jets up to fall in thick creamy gobs on his black congested face.
This is what I’ve been waiting for. He’s reached the critical point; his brain is so damaged that he could never again be functional. This is why I jumped the skate punk as he left the head shop; I wanted to feel his sphincter tighten around the base of my dick like a cockring as he succumbs to brain death. He never had a chance to escape. I chose him at random to receive my seed and my revelation of his purpose.
“This is it, fuckmeat. This is why you’re here. Take my load, you fucking death pig. You want it. If there’s enough of your left to be able to understand me, you want my cum burning in your guts before you go. I know that because you’ve already blown your own wad like the fucking choke whore I knew you were. I’m gonna fuckin’—fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
I shoot a stream of semen into the meat’s guts, hosing his intestines with my cum. He gives me one last embrace, clenching me in a final dying spasm that tightens his sphincter around my cock again, forcing another load of seed to discharge convulsively from the corpse’s dick as I shoot my last load uncontrollably deep into his intestines.
I hold him for a while and tell him how much I love him and how grateful I am that I was chosen to show him his proper place in the scheme of things. I kiss him, thrusting my tongue into his mouth, forcing my way past his own swollen tongue. I stoke the flaccid muscles in his tattooed arm; I lower his legs to my side and run my hands down his firm thighs.
Later, I dress myself. I start my van and move it slowly forward. I park at the trash bin long enough to drag the meat out and throw it in. I make sure to go back and grab the punk’s cap and skateboard, both outside the head shop where I’d found him. I throw them in as well. Truck should be around in the morning; it should be several days before anyone notices this worthless little shit was missing.
Like I said, I wasn’t hunting—but when there’s a nice piece of meat right in front of me, I’m not gonna ignore it. I mean, I’m no saint.
