An assassin who really enjoys his work, tale

[Luis Adam Bree]

The driver took the sight in as he walked towards him, slinging a
bag over his shoulder. An imposing figure, with broad shoulders and a v-shaped torso covered just by leather harness.
The bulging of his muscle mass actually accentuated his male allure: long hair
bounced down, loose and unrestrained. His crotch was far too large
for the leather pants attempting to cover them. From what he knew of Steve, the driver didn’t
doubt for a moment that this was deliberate. He habitually used his
sex appeal as a weapon. He knew what he looked like and he knew
the effect it had on people.

He winked as he got in the car. "Close your mouth, Love," he told
him with a wry grin, "you’ll let the flies in."

The driver smiled back. His mouth wasn’t open but he didn’t
contradict him. He knew what he meant and it was pointless to deny
he’d enjoyed the sight, the bulge in his trousers was as blatant as was his physique.

He told him. "Sorry to bug you on a day off but when her Majesty calls..." he apologised.
"Besides, you’ll enjoy this one."

Steve grinned, despite himself. "Private room?"

"You can take as long as it takes," he assured him. "Ms T knew it was a job for you."

After a short journey the car pulled up outside a tower-block. "Standard drill," he told him.

"Sure thing," he agreed. "OK, this is it. You want the eighth
floor. He’s on the ninth, but the flat directly below him is empty.
You can get out to the balcony and climb up one. It’s number four-five-five."

He nodded.

"There’s a gun in the glove-compartment," he added.

Steve just looked at him as though he was stupid. The driver simply shrugged.

"Have you ever known me to use one? I disapprove of handguns," he
told him. "Besides, where am I going to put it." He gestured to
his outfit, which quite obviously didn’t have pockets.

"You’re going in like that?" he asked instead, his voice sounding incredulous.

"I like to be comfortable while I work," he told him.

"Don’t you think you’re going to be just a little bit conspicuous. I
can see it now, Crimewatch: ‘a massive bodybuilder, Caucasian,
blond hair, big crotch, wearing a leather pants’ so tight that seem as a second skin.
I mean, it’s not the sort of thing people are going to forget seeing."

Steve giggled. "I wonder where they’d find someone to play me in the reconstruction."

"A least borrow my coat," he offered.

He glanced over to the back seat at the long leather coat and was
actually tempted for a few moments. Then he grinned: "Na. I’d split it in half the second
I reached up to scratch my nose."

The driver watched him go, two black buttocks and a multitude of
muscles rolling across his shoulders and down his back. He sighed
lustfully to himself then pulled the car away.

Steve reached the main door and saw it was a block with security
opening, you could only get inside the block if someone in one of the
flats buzzed you in. Unless you were as adept at B and E as was Steve.

The doorbell panel was a metal block embedded into the wall besides
the door. It jutted out a little over an inch. That was enough.

First he checked there was no one about, inside or out, peering
through the high, narrow window, then he went to work. He brought
his elbow down hard onto the lip of the panel, buckling it a little
at the rim. It was enough for him to sink strong fingers beneath and
rip the front plate right off.

It came away, but only reluctantly, long screws popping out of their
casings one by one. The metal panel itself was thick but still bent
rather than come free. Superior strength won out however and the
bulked plate was soon hanging by a torn thread of metal.

He knew that all door locks such as this were designed to fail-to-
safe, it was basic fire regulations. All he had to do was damage the thing.

A heavy fist sank into the innards, cracking the single silicon sheet
and mashing wires and components. A spark and pop issued forth and
the smell of ozone snaked into his nostrils. He checked his
knuckles, licking the one minor scrape his vandalism had cost him.

Steve tried the door and it opened without protest. He walked over
to the lifts and pressed the call button. The doors opened on an
empty car and he stepped in, picking the eighth floor.

The hallway was quiet. He stepped to one corner, checking the door
number. Then wandered around to next one. He passed a large window
and caught the view for the first time - it was amazing at this
height. He looked down on what appeared like a living map of the
city. To survey the land like this gave him an incredible rush of
power. He could make out the shape of the distant railway, cutting
through city blocks like the perforation on a tax-form. A tiny
train, far more intricate and delicate than any child’s toy, rolled
like a shadow, weaving around and away towards the horizon.

He made a mental note to return with a set of binoculars at some
time, but now, there was business to be done.

The empty flat offered him no resistance whatsoever. He leaned his
weight against the heavy door then pressed a little muscle into the
action. The lock popped like it was plastic. He didn’t kick the
door in or shoulder it down, not wanting to attract attention or
leave a broken down door to alert people to an illegal presence.
Then he thought of the mangled panel at the main, front door. He
shrugged and carefully closed the door anyway.

Kicking past a heap of ignored mail and free newspapers, he tried
the abandoned rooms in succession until he reached the one that led
out to a balcony. He walked smartly up to the large widows, getting
another fantastic view, this time, a different angle on the city. It
was just as awesome and the effect on him was just as pronounced.

He tried the door to get onto the balcony. It too was locked. So
many locks, he thought to himself, and all they did was slow him
down a little. It just made the stalking more interesting - more fun.

He wrapped his hands around the door-handle, ripping it off with a
sharp yank. It was metal, the outer part of the door was plastic
with a metal structure within. The plastic casing came free with the
handle and he tore it away as one would a strip of wallpaper. It
gave him access to the lock. He simply eased his fingers around the
body of the lock and tore it free of the framework within the door.

Then he was on the balcony and taking in that view unencumbered.
The air was cold up here and the sudden chill against his skimpily
clad flesh felt good. Wind blasted against his body with surprising
force. He would have expected the bulk of the building to act as a
shield but if anything, the wind was worse.

He didn’t dwell on either the phenomenon or the view but set about
clambering carefully onto the railing that overhung the precipitous
drop. Crouching and still holding tight either side of his feet, he
stood on a two-inch thickness of metal with a balcony floor to his
left and a plummet to his right. Then a flex of his legs and he
pumped his form straight, standing up and reaching upwards to press
one hand hard against the ceiling - the floor of the balcony above.
Grateful of the support it offered, it was a moment or two before it
clicked in his head that he was now touching the destination: the
flat where his victim even now presided.

Steve turned his back to the drop, feeling the metal railing through
the soles of his trainers. He reached his hands up over the rim to
catch hold of the railings in the balcony above. He spaced them
adequately apart then lifted his body, pulling his entire form slowly
up until his head eased just a little over the rim, enough to see
into his balcony - into his flat.

The designs of the flats were all identical and he confirmed how
much space he would have to play with. The door onto the balcony
was glass within a frame - clear right down to the floor - but the
window gave him a good three feet from the floor where he would
obscured to anyone not either deliberately standing by the window
looking down or standing on the balcony itself.

Happy with this, he carefully lowered his body back down, feet
kicking the air gently until they once more made contact with the
railing below. His hands loosened their grip on the railings but
still kept hold of them, offering a necessary assist to balance.

Then he began. Gripping one bar of the railings in the balcony
above him, he twisted and pried at the metal. What with Steve’s
great strength, it took only a few seconds until the bar gave a
low clucking shudder. A small shower of brick dust coated him and
he coughed, blinking. Then he returned his attention to the bar, now broken off at
the base of the balcony.

The metal was a little warm from the stress. He simply bent the bar
to one side, then began working on the next. This time he was
careful not to stand directly below the fractured bar, in case any
more concrete showers were spilled. It didn’t take long to decimate
a large section of the railing, wide enough to fit his broad shoulders through.

He gripped the outer bars of the gap and raised himself again,
easily lifting his bodyweight up until he could see over the verge
of the balcony. Then higher and further, getting his chest and torso
through the gap. He twisted his body as he pulled himself up,
ensuring he kept down low, within the window’s blind spot.

Crouched, he now stood on the balcony of his intended. He reached
up to the door handle, the access into the flat itself. It too was
locked, merely one more minor obstacle in a series. None of which
had offered any hope of subduing him.

He risked a glance through the window, ready to leap forward. If he
saw him then stealth would have to be replaced by speed. He was
confident that he could be in and upon him within seconds, should it become necessary.

There was no sign of his quarry however.

He reached up for the handle and took a firm grasp. Bracing his
grip against the frame with one thumb, he exerted his strength and
the handle came free with a pop. He reached his thumb into the hole
left beneath the handle and eased a portion of the metal frame out like
a chef moulding pastry. He expanded on the whole, bending the metal
framework and snapping off lumps of plastic. He reached all fingers
into the exposed cavity and wrenched out what was left of the lock.

Then it was a matter of pushing the door until the catch popped with a small crunch.

He was in. Now it was just a matter of... A man walked absently
into the room. He saw Steve standing there and his jaw dropped.

He just stared at him, not knowing what to say. "What the fuck?"

Steve smiled at him - a cruel and chilling expression. "Hi," he crooned. "I’m from the Delphi Agency."

He stared a moment, stock still in shock at the intrusion, trying to take in the sheer size.
Then.suddenly, he acted, leaping to one side with urgent fear and desperation.. He reached
the sideboard, the end cupboard, and turned as he pounced towards him. He raised the gun - it
was already primed and waiting. He lifted it
and for a fractional moment it was actually aimed at him. Then Steve’s
hand was about his and the gun was forced upwards. His grip was
tight, crushing his fingers around the gun, pinning it within his grasp.

Steve held his hand in his own powerful fist, lifting his arm up and
harmless towards the ceiling. Slowly, Steve lifted the man up off the floor. He was shuddering
in pain, Steve’s grip crushing his hand. Steve regarded him a few moments, with a cool and
controlling confidence cool. He enjoyed the feel of the prey.

"Ah, I take it from your reaction that you’ve heard of us," he remarked.
His intended wasn’t listening, too busy wincing in pain, trying to
pry his hand free by clawing at his grip with his other. He enjoyed the feel of the prey.

"And also that you can guess why we were hired," he added. "You
know why I’m here. ..” Steve brought his free hand up under his prey’s chin, smiling evilly.
He wanted to savor this. “Rest assured, this little toy,” he squeezed, ” isn’t going to help
you." He continued squeezing as he said this. His victim’s pain erupted into pure agony and he yelled.

A wet crunching sounded as a hand was pulverised within his grip,
bones splintering and popping like a handful of Cornflakes. Continuing to smile, Steve ripped
the gun free, not releasing his grip. The pulped mess of his hand tore through fingers - streamers
of flesh, tendrils of wet meat. Muscle and fragments like shrapnel splattered free.

Steve lifted the gun up in front of his face; his hand a gory mess, coated as it
was with the remnants of his flesh. “You see this, dear?” Then Steve squeezed again,
fingers digging into the metal. Veins popped up all along his forearm - layered
muscles hardened beneath the skin. His biceps leapt up, hard and bulging. The
metal began to buckle. Before his very eyes, he
crushed the weapon as though it was no more solid than a beer-can.
Whatever doubts he had previously harboured about his current
situation were immediately alleviated. He truly was in deep trouble.

“P-please,” the man begged. “I’ll give you anything.”

“Of course you will, sweetheart.” Steve chuckled at the cliche. “That’s why I’m here...”

Steve absently cast the gun aside and turned his attention back to his intended
who just stood, still in a state of shock, his ruined hand cupped beneath the
opposite armpit. He met his eyes then dissolved into hysterical panic.

Steve turned back to him and grinned, menacing. Steve raised his hands
to him, pointing his thumbs forward. He began to stagger backwards
but Steve caught hold of his upper arms, sliding his thumbs into his
armpits. The thumbs sank deep into the flesh, hard and penetrating.

He gasped in pain as with an audible pop, the thumbs punctured and
ripped upwards into the joints. His fingers clawed, threatening to
tear his arms right off his torso. One look at his bulging biceps
and it was perfectly apparent that should he want to, he could do just that.

Then he released him , pulling his thumbs out of his flesh.
"I just winged you," he told him. "A little ligament damage, that’s
all, a few crushed nerves. Nothing a good micro-surgeon can’t repair."

The man hugged himself, gasping in pain and shock. His arms moved dully
and felt light. In fact, there was a certain clumsiness about his whole body. Without further warning, he collapsed.

Steve smiled and stalked slowly over to him, turning his body onto
his back with a toe. He stepped over him and slowly lowered his
body to sit astride him. He sat himself on the man’s thighs, in
preparation unfolding the useless arms from his chest and casting
them to either side where they fell like broken wings.
Slowly, possessively, Steve’s hands began caressing the guy’s chest,
roughly massaging his pecs. He assessed him with mock awe.

"Oooo, look at that," he cooed sardonically, licking his lips and digging deeper "Do you work out? Are you a - tough guy, too?"
The victim didn’t answer him. His eyes were shut tight, trying to blot out what was happening to him.

Leaning low over him, Steve took a careful grip on his shirt, then
tore it away in one clean rip. He discarded the two shreds and
assessed the torso beneath. He noted with amusement that his shoulders
bore the red finger marks where he had grabbed him, his armpits still bleeding.

“Well, it’s very nice,” Steve hissed, then began to hum.

His fingers began to caress, running over his naked chest. At
first he was gentle, his touch so light that he could scarcely feel
it. After a while he began to increase the pressure, a subtle hint
of the extreme to which he was heading. His fingers spread out wide,
encompassing as much surface area as possible before squeezing in,
fingers clawing his flesh.

And then he crushed him. His hands either side of his rib cage he
simply squeezed and the bone casing collapsed under the pressure.
Ribs popped, crunching together, a sickening, mangled sound. Air
rushed from his mangled lungs in a broken hiss and his body convulsed.

Steve reined himself in, managing to hold back from simply
pulverising him there and then. Instead of squashing him to a pulped
jelly, he stopped as soon as his bones began snapping, leaving him
with fairly superficial damage. Comparatively speaking.

If he had the breath to scream, he would be screaming.

Steve was watching him in heated joy; his pulse pumping excited blood
to every nerve-ending, stimulating his body into a state of hypersensitivity.
He moaned with the sheer pleasure of it.

"Look at me," he told him, wanting him to see , wanting him to see what he was doing to him.

His eyes, however, stayed tightly shut, preying that this wasn’t happening to him and that he would wake up at any moment.

"Open your eyes." Steve cooed. Still no response.

“Very well....” Steve stood , walked over to his sideboard and began searching through the draws.
He was perfectly confident to leave him unattended for a few moments, there was no way he could get away from him.

When he returned, retaking his position on top of him, he didn’t
even seem to notice the change. He leaned down and spoke in a dangerously seductive voice.

"Honey," he cooed. "Open your eyes now." Still nothing. "Last chance."

Steve grinned and sat back, checking his own body was pinning him
down sufficiently. Then he took his victim’s eyelid between his finger and
thumb and pulled it out, stretching the tiny flap of flesh away from
his skull. He reached down with his other hand, the one holding the
nail scissors he had recovered from his drawer, and neatly snipped the offending flap free.

He began squirming like crazy the moment he cut, bucking like a mule. His own body pinned him
and the waist, a simple hand against his chest held his torso down. His arms flailed uselessly
where he had effectively winged him. All he had the power to move was his head, which shook
and frothed. Madness and obscenities spilled from him and his shaking splattered a liberal spray
of blood from the one opened eye.

Steve laughed at his horror, relishing his agony and pain, relishing
the sense of power it filled him with. He took a few moments to
enjoy his work before leaning over him again. Holding his head still
by grasping his forehead and using the finger and thumb of that hand
to pluck his other eyelid up. A quick snip and the job was done.

Steve watched him howling. He took one eyelid a licked the blood off of it with relish. Then he placed the
flap of skin on his tongue as though it were some foreign delicacy and swallowed.

He was trying not to look at him, trying to shut out the horror, but
he couldn’t close his eyes. The eyeballs only moved so far and he
could see where they pointed, moving his grinning face above him.
He held his head tight, restricting his visual scope. Then he
showed him the other eyelid. He wrenched open his mouth, clamping
his jaw at full gape with his fingers, and placed the other eyelid on
his tongue. He then forced his mouth closed again and held it shut.

"Swallow," he ordered.

Self-cannibalism was too much for him, he couldn’t do it.

"Swallow," Steve ordered, lowering his face to his. "Or your nose is next."

To compound the threat, he opened the scissors and thrust them against one nostril.

With a shuddering wince, he swallowed. Steve watched with rapt attention, shuddering himself, though not in horror but in delight.
He cast the scissors away, no longer requiring them.

"Enough foreplay," he told him. "It’s time for you to earn your stripes."

Steve eased himself up from him, enough that he could get a grip on
his trousers and rip them off his body in much the same way his shirt
had gone. He’d caught his underwear at the same time and so he was
now naked except for his shoes and socks. He ripped these off of his feet in the
same manner, tearing the leather apart as though it were no more substantial than tissue paper.

He stood over him and began to undress himself. First he balanced
on one muscled leg, flexing them, narcisstically. Then he liftied the other to pull the leather pants free.
Swap - repeat - for the other, then he took off his leather harness. The motion pumped his unnaturally large
biceps and he held the pose a second, flexing and showing off. He continued undressing but made it into a strip-tease.

Both men watched this display, the one awe-struck despite the distraction of his own physical horror.

Further down, past rippling abdominal muscles, like cobble-stones, Steve dropped his over-stuffed codpiece and kicked it aside.

Steve stood naked above his intended, his unblinking eyes, lubricated now by
thin streams of blood instead of tears, taking in the amazing sight.

"Many men have seen the sight you’re now gazing upon," he told him.
"Most of them are now dead. Those that aren’t are only alive because
I deemed it so. Do you understand me?"

Having learnt the hard way to respond when first prompted, he nodded quickly.

"Good. Now, let’s see what you can do."

And with that, Steve was over him again. He balked as he retook his
position, his naked flesh repellent despite whatever sexual allure he
would have felt in other circumstances.

He cupped his intended’s flaccid dick in one hand, assessing him. He pulled a
face as if to say ‘not bad’ and then released him again. Steve grinned, then rammed his impossible
huge cock up into his anus. He gasped at the sudden intrusion, fighting against him.
He forced his cock through the clenching muscles and began to massage his prostate.
He screamed like a dead wounded beast, ripped in two by huge mass of hard flesh.

"Did you know you have an on switch?" he asked as his erection
throbbed into painful rigidity. "A little nerve back there that can be used equally for
pleasure or pain." He let out a sigh that could have been a wince of either.

Steve kept a slow fuck, he gasped in pleasure, using him like a pussy. He
found a comfortable place and began to ride, repeatedly impaling him. He ached for him
and forced his cok deeper and deeper inside.

Lying helpless beneath him, he had no option but to let it happen.
He hadn’t the strength to move, let alone retaliate. Despite the pain of the physical contact,
the viciousness with which he abused his body ensured only increasingly more savage agonies.

As he felt his orgasm approach, Steve pulled his hands free,
continuing the powerful rhythm with his hips. He grabbed his hands,
taking the good one and the pulped mess of the other, and placing them over his head. He
ground his hands against the floor, squeezing his fingers.

He pumped him with increasing ferocity, his senses beginning to blur
into purple heat. He felt the bones on his hands crumple in his grip, crushed against the
cold floor. He was gasping now, the cries sounding disconnected to himself from his
orgasming body. He filled his ass with a river of hot white cum.

When the fire began to descend he realised that his hands were still clutched within his fists.
Both were gory, pulped stumps, nothing within his grasp except a sack of
broken meat. He eased himself off of his still rigid pillar. Then he noticed that in the
passion of the moment he’d also broken his hips.

He seemed to have passed out but when Stevee grasped his throat, he saw the pinprick of
fear within his pupils. He obviously thought he had finished the torture and it was now
time to dispatch of him. Good.

Steve sighed appreciatively. "Only one thing makes me come harder than a good fuck," he told him.
"So tell me Honey, do you want to live through this?"

He nodded urgently.

He smiled down at him. "Then you better be good at blowjob. When I say good I mean very
good. I warn you, I normally sleep with women so I’m used to a very high standard."

He stroked his face with fake tenderness. Then he reached into his
mouth and grasped his tongue cruelly, tugging it out of his mouth to check it out. He thought
he was going to tear it out at the root and began to gag in involuntary apprehension.

"Relax, I'm just checking out the equipment. Never buy sight unseen."

He managed to contain himself. He released his tongue and stroked his forehead. "I’m sorry
Babe, it’s just not long enough. I get eaten by dykes on a regular basis. There’s no way you
can do it for me."

Steve wrapped one hand about the base of his skull, taking the other
and grasping his face, thumb and finger gripping his cheekbones. He
lifted his head a little and then slowly began twisting, as though to snap his neck.

"No," he pleaded. It was desperate, despite the weakness of his voice. "Please, no."

He paused the execution but didn’t release him. "I could give you a try," he admitted slowly.
"But that would mean... no, I don’t think so. It’s better like this. You wouldn’t want me
to do that to you."

He began applying force again, his neck actually creaking as he wrenched at the bone.

"No," he yelped. "Please. Anything. I’ll do anything."

Steve released him then. "Anything?" He tried to repress an evil smile. He failed. "OK.
If you're sure." He nodded.

"This is going to hurt," he told him. He eased his fingers into
his mouth and hooked his thumb beneath his chin, digging it up into the soft flesh.
He braced his other hand against his forehead, pinning his skull down against the ground.
Once he had a tight enough grip on his jaw, he tore it off.

The flesh of his face tore at the mouth, two flaps of meat slapping the ligaments and muscle
hanging loose. The thick roll of his tongue slopped forward and fell onto his collar.

Steve tossed the splatted, fleshy bone of his lower jaw aside, wiping the blood off and onto
his pecs as carelessly as a child drying their hands. He gagged at this new atrocity, trying
to scream protest but the thick muscle of his freed tongue blocked his windpipe and he began
choking.

Steve freed his airway and stroked him with sardonic tenderness. "I did warn you. Let’s see
what lengths you’re prepared to go to in order to save your own life."

He positioned himself over his deformed face. Taking his tongue and laying it over his
glistening balls.

Obediently, he began to comply, moving his tongue on them.

He grinned and arched himself towards him. His tongue licked him, working its way along his
bull-balls. Whatever his state, he was certainly making a concerted effort to please him.

Steve began to really heat up again, his endeavours genuinely working him up into a slow frenzy.
He found himself gasping, and before too long he was crying out with each eruption.

His tongue was like a dart, his wounded face buried between his thighs.
Steve turned his attention onto his head, watching him work. Through the blur of orgasm
he concentrated on his face, wanting to see his final expression.

When he begins squeezing, the tongue stops rooting around his balls. His muscles flex and harden,
thighs swamping his face. He begins gagging as he realises what’s happening, his head feels
like it's about to burst.

Steve cries out as his orgasms thud through him, increasing in ferocity. He flexes harder and
harder, no longer holding back but letting him have it all.

The first crack shudders through him and they both feel it. His eyeballs are bulging out of
the lidless sockets and with a sudden pop, one bursts out, splattering over his iron thigh.

The next crack sounds more like a crunch and is followed immediately by a wet and brittle
grinding. Without further resistance, the skull caves in. His scalp splits open and spills
his brain in a puddle between his knees. Then the pressure of his squeezing slaps his
knees together as his skull completely collapses.

Steve shrieks as an orgasm so savage it turns his senses white, thunders through his whole body.

He howls his way back down to earth and regards the pulped mess between his bulging thighs.
What’s left of his head could be put into a shoebox, but only if you had a scoop.

He shudders his way back off him, still quivering with heat.

"Oh, Honey, was that good for you too?" he manages to gasp. He
regards the oily grey mess. "Shit. I think I just fucked your brains out.
The power of a man is between his legs.....and in his legs"

His tongue was still around his balls and he tentatively reached his round bull balls
to grasp the severed end. He tugged it, loving the sensation of it slipping free from his body.

"You mind if I use your bathroom?" he asked the corpse. "No? Cool. I promise I won’t use up
all the hot water."

Steve found his legs were still a little shaky but knew a long hot bath would soothe that. He
picked up his clothes and began to explore his flat.

 

[lindier]

A story filled with sadism and lust. Good to read but not necessarily to experience.
You're a good writer mate. Thanks for posting the story.