Caleb's Boy


A man is a tasty morsel.
Elite Member
Jan 13, 2012
Cannibal Heaven
Once a day, I take my boy for a walk in the woods. For exercise. You see, his life is mostly sedentary, spending most of his time in his cage. Exercise keeps his body toned. So, usually at about 10 AM, I take him for a walk. I lead him through the forest, naked, with a leash tethered to a fish hook in his cockhead. He follows meekly, even when we leave the dirt path and venture into the brush. At first, he would whine as his bare feet trudged over rocks, twigs, and dead branches. Or when thorny brush ripped at his smooth young flesh. Now his feet are tough and callused, and his skin is heavily scarred. About an hour from the cabin is a clear pond where I like to swim. I tie his cock hook to a small tree. He stands patiently, like a pony, while I paddle around in the pond. We return to the cabin.

The boy has been with me for about nine months now. I found him In the Personal Ads on CDG. He wanted to be killed. Period. No preference as to how, where or when. When I picked him up in the designated meeting place, he wore only jeans, tee shirt and sneakers. Carried nothing with him but his wallet. He sat quietly in my Tacoma pick-up, neither of us speaking during the three hour drive to my forest cabin. Once inside, I told him to strip. He had a cute face, wore glasses, and had short thick black hair. Didn’t look like he even shaved yet. His body was smooth and firm, but not filled out. “Are you legal?” “Yes Sir. I turned eighteen two weeks ago.” I pointed to the fire blazing in the fireplace.” “Throw your clothes in there. And your glasses and wallet.” He did as instructed. “ Fine. There is now no evidence of your existence except for the body standing before me. And you want that body to die, am I right?” “Yes Sir.” “O.K. The body will die at my discretion, at a time, place, and method of my choice.” “Yes Sir.” “No need to answer me. From this moment you will not speak. You will do what I tell you. You will never object. From time to time, you may utter involuntary sounds as the result of what I do to you, but you will not speak words. Even nodding your head is unnecessary for your approval or disapproval is irrelevant.”

“That is your home.” I pointed to a steel cage, three feet by seven feet, six feet high. You have two blankets, although it won’t get cold in here. One small pillow. A shit bucket you will empty once a day. A bowl for water. And a tin plate for the food I give you twice a day. Now come here.” I grabbed his head and pulled it to me, kissing his lips, long and hard. As he began to respond and kiss back, I bit hard into his lower lip. He made a high-pitched sound as my teeth broke his skin. I tasted blood, continuing to grind my teeth into his lip. He struggled against me, pushing at my body. When my teeth released him, he put his hand to his mouth and squealed, “Ow, Ow, Ow” I punched him in the face and threw him into the cage.

He lay on the floor, holding his mouth, crying. “I told you to shut up. And I’m telling you now you are never to resist anything I choose to do to you, or with you. Understand?” He nodded furiously, tears streaming, moaning in pain. “You gave yourself up. To me. To die. And you will die. But I will play with you first, and you will suffer. Now, show me your mouth.” He pulled his hands back, revealing a half-inch tear in his lip. Blood was running off his chin onto his smooth chest, dribbling onto his cock. “Alright. Now go to sleep.” I locked the cage and went into the next room, where I could watch through a two-way mirror. The lights remained on, as they would 24/7. He looked around for something to stop the bleeding. Nothing. He grabbed the blanket and pressed hard to his torn lip. On the speakers, I could hear him sobbing. In pain? In fear? Regretting his decision? No matter. He was mine. I went to bed.

And so it began. He did not die, but rather suffered pain. Some severe, like broken bones. Mostly minor, like knife cuts and bites. When we went for our walks, I inserted a fish hook for my leash. Nipple, nose, dick, cheek, tongue, ear, wherever. At the end of the day, I usually cut the hook and slid it out easily. But many times I just ripped it out to watch the blood and lick the ripped skin. I like the taste of blood and flesh, if I hadn’t already told you. We had a table he climbed up on and lay, waiting for whatever torment would come. Usually small cuts opening his skin for me to gnaw at.

I chopped off his thumbs and fingers, leaving only the pinkies so he could maneuver his food. Although I fed him the same food I ate myself, eating wasn’t easy after I knocked out or broke most of his teeth. Flattened his nose, too, with my fist. There wasn’t an inch of his body I hadn’t sliced with my knife. From face to feet, he was a mass of lumpy, discolored scarred flesh. Both nipples were gone, ripped from his chest. One eye gone, too, after getting caught on a branch during one of our walks. Both ears, after being fish hooked so many times that I just cut them off. He still had all his toes so he could walk with me daily. The soles built up a thick layer of calluses which I would periodically chew off and eat. For weeks after, his feet were extremely sensitive on our walks, until new calluses grew. Sometimes when I ate from his body, I made him eat pieces, too. Like I said, he ate what I ate.

On our walks, I would often punch him off his feet, or push him into the prickly bush or down a rough, rocky hill. His body got fucked up a lot out doors. Every couple weeks, I’d let him drop into the pond with a bar of soap and wash himself. Actually, I love the stink of an unwashed man and would have enjoyed never letting him wash. But his bath cleaned off the dirt and crusted blood, so I could enjoy looking at how fucked up his body had become. In just a few months, his smooth eighteen-year-old body had become a mass of scars, open cuts, flaps of skin, and lumpy bruises. So lovely to look at, to touch, to kiss. I bit into many healing wounds to open them up again. Flaps of skin ripped from his body with my teeth. His hair grew to his shoulders, long enough for me to grab it and swing him in the air and into bushes. I pulled some out by the roots. He took it all, stoically submitting to my whims. A meek pussy. Waiting to die.

After a couple months, when I realized he had no intention of trying to get away, I brought a cot into the room and had him sleep with me. I held him lovingly in my arms as I chewed pieces of flesh from his body. I held him lovingly in my arms, feeling him shudder with pain. I held him lovingly in my arms as his blood coagulated and his skin stuck to mine. I held him lovingly in my arms as he yielded his blood and flesh to my whims. I held him lovingly in my arms as he often cried himself to sleep. I held him lovingly in my arms inhaling his stink.

I finally got bored with him. I’d done everything with him that I wanted, and there was no more soft young unspoiled flesh to chew. When he first arrived, I had made him dig his grave but so much time had gone by he probably thought he’d never be in it. Now I said “Boy. You’ve been here too long and I’m tired of you. Time to make good on our bargain.” His expression, usually hangdog and sad, changed a little. Was it hope? Relief?

I stood him by the grave, walked behind him, and swung a baseball bat into the back of his skull. No warning. No time for him to have last thoughts. Just, WHACK. His head split open, pieces of brain flew into the air, and his body fell awkwardly into the hole. Easy peasy. Covered him up and drove back to the city an hour later. I was tired of the country and wanted more action. And fresh meat.