michael antony
Forum Regular
- Joined
- Dec 23, 2011
- Messages
- 334
- Location
- wash dc
Nothing gets me horny like full auto, especially light machine pistols. I usually love dancing to a large-caliber automatic pistol, like stustustugoo's big black Desert Eagle -- but every once in a while, I love the idea of taking a quick, light burst from a Scorpion or Glock.
I also don't usually like to imagine being killed naked, because the frisking and stripping is one of my favorite elements of the scene -- but every now and then, I like to imagine myself as a dancer at an exclusive gay gentlemen's club, the Owner's bitch, the star of the show, gunned down along with my assistant in my dressing suite just after working a late-night VIP party...
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I'd just come off stage only ten minutes or so before, and was still wearing my stage gear: tall, tight, thigh-high leather boots with four-inch heels, over-the-elbow leather gloves, and a polished leather collar with a gold tag with the logo for Max's club etched onto it. My skin was still sweaty and glistening, my hair tousled, and my cock still fat and hard from the arousal of performing. Arne handed me a martini while we waited for what I was told was one of Max's out-of-town big-shot friends.
Even in my posh dressing suite, at the end of a long hallway from the main party room and private stage, we could hear the savage dance beat pounding, the kind of beat that I'm such a whore for. I stepped away from the coffee table and started working my hips while Arne watched and touched himself.
A sharp knock on the door grabbed our attention. The door swung open and Dario, Big Max's chief bodyguard, escorted you in, introducing you as a video producer friend of Max's and that I'd been instructed to give you the "full tour" of Max's top dancer.
Dario stepped out and closed the door.
The beat at the party kicked up a notch, and got hard. You smiled an odd smile. "So, are you ready to dance for me...?"
I locked my eyes on yours and strode toward you from across the room with the attitude of a bitch who's motherfucking hot and knows it. My heavy, swollen cock bounced and swayed with each step. "Always ready, babe," I purred.
You took a few steps back. Your smile grew wider. Your eyes suddenly turned ice cold.
"Well, let's go, then..." You deftly slipped the Scorpion out from under your coat "...stupid little whore...!"
You raked my torso up and down with a couple of short bursts. My body twisted and spun from the impact of the slugs, thrashing and bucking, dancing to your gun.
You swung the gun towards Arne, who was backing down the bedroom hallway looking for somewhere to run, as I died on my feet and toppled over face-down on the living room floor. The dance beat at the party was really slamming now, no chance of anyone hearing the gunfire. A tight burst across the chest stood Arne up against the wall for a moment before he dropped into a twisted heap in the bathroom doorway.
You checked Arne's body over quickly... but found yourself lingering over mine. You watched this body dance tonight, in this crazy hot gear, strutting his goods like he owned the place, like he was the hottest bitch in the room -- and he was. He was the hottest bitch in the room, and knew it, and acted like he knew it, and showed off like he knew it. Trouble was, I also thought that being the hottest bitch in the room meant that I could get away with pretty much anything behind Big Max's back.
So, you just shot the hottest bitch in the room. The idea hardens you almost instantly as you look down at my still-warm corpse. Big Max Coyne's million-dollar boytoy, top attraction at Club Max, elite entertainer, $1000 per hour by invitation only, splayed face down, back slightly arched, ass thrust upward, blood spattered like red lace from the rough and jagged line of wounds in his back... now a million-dollar corpse.
I also don't usually like to imagine being killed naked, because the frisking and stripping is one of my favorite elements of the scene -- but every now and then, I like to imagine myself as a dancer at an exclusive gay gentlemen's club, the Owner's bitch, the star of the show, gunned down along with my assistant in my dressing suite just after working a late-night VIP party...
--------
I'd just come off stage only ten minutes or so before, and was still wearing my stage gear: tall, tight, thigh-high leather boots with four-inch heels, over-the-elbow leather gloves, and a polished leather collar with a gold tag with the logo for Max's club etched onto it. My skin was still sweaty and glistening, my hair tousled, and my cock still fat and hard from the arousal of performing. Arne handed me a martini while we waited for what I was told was one of Max's out-of-town big-shot friends.
Even in my posh dressing suite, at the end of a long hallway from the main party room and private stage, we could hear the savage dance beat pounding, the kind of beat that I'm such a whore for. I stepped away from the coffee table and started working my hips while Arne watched and touched himself.
A sharp knock on the door grabbed our attention. The door swung open and Dario, Big Max's chief bodyguard, escorted you in, introducing you as a video producer friend of Max's and that I'd been instructed to give you the "full tour" of Max's top dancer.
Dario stepped out and closed the door.
The beat at the party kicked up a notch, and got hard. You smiled an odd smile. "So, are you ready to dance for me...?"
I locked my eyes on yours and strode toward you from across the room with the attitude of a bitch who's motherfucking hot and knows it. My heavy, swollen cock bounced and swayed with each step. "Always ready, babe," I purred.
You took a few steps back. Your smile grew wider. Your eyes suddenly turned ice cold.
"Well, let's go, then..." You deftly slipped the Scorpion out from under your coat "...stupid little whore...!"
You raked my torso up and down with a couple of short bursts. My body twisted and spun from the impact of the slugs, thrashing and bucking, dancing to your gun.
You swung the gun towards Arne, who was backing down the bedroom hallway looking for somewhere to run, as I died on my feet and toppled over face-down on the living room floor. The dance beat at the party was really slamming now, no chance of anyone hearing the gunfire. A tight burst across the chest stood Arne up against the wall for a moment before he dropped into a twisted heap in the bathroom doorway.
You checked Arne's body over quickly... but found yourself lingering over mine. You watched this body dance tonight, in this crazy hot gear, strutting his goods like he owned the place, like he was the hottest bitch in the room -- and he was. He was the hottest bitch in the room, and knew it, and acted like he knew it, and showed off like he knew it. Trouble was, I also thought that being the hottest bitch in the room meant that I could get away with pretty much anything behind Big Max's back.
So, you just shot the hottest bitch in the room. The idea hardens you almost instantly as you look down at my still-warm corpse. Big Max Coyne's million-dollar boytoy, top attraction at Club Max, elite entertainer, $1000 per hour by invitation only, splayed face down, back slightly arched, ass thrust upward, blood spattered like red lace from the rough and jagged line of wounds in his back... now a million-dollar corpse.
