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- Jan 13, 2012
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- Cannibal Heaven
During the night, the villagers heard men and vehicles in the streets. Not unusual in this town caught between rival cartels. Los Viciosos to the north; Los Guapos to the southwest. Neither gang bothered the villagers much, but the town was often their dumping ground. Once again, as the sun rose on another blisteringly hot morning, the town awoke to see a pile of body parts in front of the cantina. They ventured out, slowly, hesitantly. The heap of chopped flesh was larger than usual, perhaps nine or ten butchered men this time. All unrecognizable. As the town constable called the national police on his cell, the townspeople milled about, conversing softly among themselves, commenting on the size of the pile, and taking pictures to sell to news organizations and gore porn sites. Suddenly, a low moaning sound could be heard coming from the dead. And the bloody pile of body parts began to quiver and vibrate. They all let out a shout of fear and ran. What was this?
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It began a few days before, in another town, when Los Guapos took over a saloon to celebrate the eighteenth birthday of El Bonito, the young brother of the gang’s leader, El Guapo. Guapo was only twenty-two but had garnered a reputation for vicious cruelty. He was extremely handsome and muscular, very vain about his looks. His headquarters had numerous mirrors so he could admire his image. When an enemy fell into his clutches, Guapo would slowly, meticulously kill him, in such a vile way that the body could never be identified. Face removed. Organs removed. Limbs removed. Identity removed.
Guapo’s pride and joy was his young brother. The boy’s looks were even more striking than his own. Six feet two, tall for a Mexican, with almost gringo features, and stunningly beautiful. Not just handsome, but beautiful. El Bonito, the pretty one. In fact, his boyish beauty could be considered somewhat feminine, although no man would ever say that out loud. Nor would anyone admit they knew that the boy favored other boys more than girls. No. No one ever commented on that, for Bonito was even more vicious than his older brother. Even from a very young age, his methods of killing were legendary. Still, rival gangs derisively called him La Bonita, el Maricón.
The cartel celebrated Bonito’s official coming of manhood by getting very drunk and fucking several women. When they left, the proprietor gave them two jugs of his best tequila to celebrate the occasion. Two hours later, they were back in their headquarters, getting drunker and drunker on the tequila. Another hour and they were all sprawled on the floor passed out. It was then that Los Viciosos walked in. The tequila had been drugged. Los Viciosos calmly tied their rivals up, placing each man in a different position. Los Guapos were fucked. Definitely fucked. Bonito’s party was over, but Los Vicioso’s party was about to begin.
Nine Guapos. Slowly reviving from their stupor, discovering themselves naked and tied painfully into chairs and onto posts. Bonito hanging by his wrists from a beam. And Guapo himself, draped over a wine barrel, his ankles and wrists spread wide and fastened to the wooden floor. The wooden floor, stained red and crusted from days and nights of bloody mayhem. Curses from the Guapos were met by laughter from the Viciosos.
I stood behind Guapo and poked my rifle into his butthole. “It is over, Guapo.” “Fucker!!!”, he shouted. “Yes, Guapo, I’m a fucker. And you are, what? A fuckee?” My rifle moved in and out of his hole, the sight ripping his puckered skin, drawing blood. “I will kill you, Javier!” “No, Guapo, I will kill you. But first, I will fuck you” I stood where he could see me in the mirror and slid my pants down. “Look, Guapo. My dick is hard thinking of you, stretched out in front of all our men. I’ll bet your gang has never seen you get fucked—maybe Bonita getting fucked, but not you. Let’s you and me put on a show for them.” I rammed my dick into his butt, draping myself across his muscular back, and pumping hard. I could hear him gasp in pain, or was it from embarrassment? I felt his sweat and breathed in his musky manhood. After I came in his asshole, I turned to my gang and said, “Fuck him. All of you”. And they did. One by one. All of them. Even little Luis, El Hijito, who I didn’t think was old enough to cum. Twelve men fucked Guapo roughly. When they had finished, I turned to one of his gang and told him to fuck his boss. The man refused. I kicked him in the face and my men tied him to a metal pole, lifted him, and set the pole horizontally above a fire pit. The fire was lit and the man slowly roasted above the flames, screaming as his brown skin roasted and eventually slid off his body like melted butter, sizzling as it dropped into the flames.
I turned to another of Guapo’s men. “Fuck your boss.” He nodded hesitantly as he was released from his bonds. He worked frantically to get his dick hard, not an easy task when scared to death. When he finally succeeded, he plunged his cock into Guapo’s ass and fucked his boss. Guapo glared up at me with more hatred in his eyes than I had ever seen in a man. Five more of his followers mounted El Guapo and filled his bleeding hole with cartel cum.
The Guapos were tied up again, and El Guapo was lifted off the barrel and wrapped securely in a heavy wooden chair. “Guapo, you sit in this big chair, like a boss lording it over your subjects. But you sit naked in a puddle of cum blood leaking from your butthole. How embarrassing.” With pruning shears, I cut off one of Guapo’s fingers. “I will dip this finger into your discharge and mark the first man for death.” As I brought my red finger up, I could hear Guapo’s men screaming for mercy. I walked in a circle, looking at each, then stopping in front of Bonita. “Ah, the pretty fairy. Hey, Guapo, your brother watched you getting fucked by eighteen men and a rifle, and wished it was him instead. But no, he will not be so lucky. No dicks up his ass today. He’ll just hang here for a while so he can admire his looks in the mirrors. Hard smooth brown body. Rippled abs, bulging biceps, pretty face, smooth-shaved pussy accentuating his huge cock. Yes, such a pretty face.” As I said these words, my cock hardened in my pants. My fist slammed into his mouth, cutting his lip. He jerked back and a rivulet of blood ran slowly to his jaw and dripped onto his chest. He let out an expletive in defiance, loud, belligerent, threatening, but his fear came through instead.
I turned to one of Guapo’s men, Mario, a short chubby guy bound to a post, and put the bloody finger to his forehead. “Ah. Number one! Little Luis, it’s time you killed your first man. See what you can do with fatty here.” Luis stood open-mouthed. He never thought he’d be given a man’s job at such a young age. He grinned widely and began to punch Mario, but except for a couple blows to the nuts, he didn’t do much damage. One of my men tossed a hammer and laughed, “Bones, Luis. Break some bones!” Luis picked up the hammer, looked up at his terrorized victim, and smashed it down on a foot. Almost simultaneously we heard a crack followed by a scream of pain. Luis turned to look at us, all cheering for him. Wide-eyed and grinning, he turned back to Mario and began to pummel him with the hammer, beginning with the feet and working his way upward. Feet, ankles, shins, knees, hips. Bones shattered. Mario screamed and thrashed, but was so tightly bound he could barely move.
Luis had been with us long enough to pick up some killing skills. He smashed at Mario’s shins until they completely shattered, and his feet hung loosely, suspended only by muscle and skin. Then both kneecaps were shattered into many pieces. By the time Luis smashed into his hip bones, Mario had passed out. But Luis was on a mission to prove my faith in him was justified. He moved on to the ribs. Cracking each one into several pieces. When a couple of them popped through the skin, Luis hammered them back in. He walked behind the post and whacked at wrists and elbows. The kid was almost in a frenzy, pounding and smashing at bone. He was short and had some trouble cracking the shoulders. Suddenly, he stopped. He looked up at Mario’s head and considered his course of action. Then, just as suddenly, he swung the hammer into Mario’s mouth. Teeth and blood spewed down on him as he drove the steel hammer into the mouth and jaw, nose and forehead. From his low angle, Luis pounded relentlessly, pulverizing Mario’s face until finally stopping, his arm weary. From forehead to jaw, the man’s face had disappeared, replaced by a bloody mush of tissue and bone fragments. Luis smiled triumphantly as we cheered. He knew he had become a man that day.
I dipped the finger into Guapo’s blood puddle and touched it to the forehead of another man who was suspended by his wrists. “You are Jhonny. Right?” The man nodded. “Antonio. Jhonny is yours.” We all knew Antonio’s preferred methods, and settled back for a lengthy session. El Maquinillo, we called him. The Razor. He killed his victims slowly, cutting off bits of flesh with a straight razor. Surface wounds, not too deep, not too painful. But very bloody.
He touched the razor to Jhonny’s chest. He squealed in terror. “Where shall we start, hombre? Chest or belly? Face or dick?” Antonio held the blade close to Jhonny’s eye. He smiled as the man tried to pull his head back, away from the sharp edge, emitting a high pitched bleat of fear. Antonio cut into the brow, and a slow dribble of blood ran into his eye and down his cheek. He pulled Jhonny’s head back and cut into his gums. So, as Antonio’s blade scraped and scratched and nicked, Jhonny would taste the blood that was seeping elsewhere from his naked body.
Antonio labored for over an hour. Jhonny felt each cut, each small gouge, but not the great pain Mario had felt from Luis’s hammer. No. Little real physical pain, but great mental anguish as he saw his image in the mirror, witnessed his entire body from scalp to toes turn crimson, glistening in the lights, hearing the moans of his mates and the derisive catcalls from his captors. His blood seeped slowly from his skin, ran down his torso and legs, to drip from his toes into a widening puddle beneath his feet. That some of his wounds stopped bleeding did not concern Antonio. Jhonny hung by his wrists, a whimpering red mass of lacerated flesh, two white eyes peering out of the quivering carnage. Antonio stepped back. Considered his victim. Nodded. His art piece was complete. It needed only his signature. His razor sliced into those eyes. A feeble, hoarse attempt at a scream. Jhonny would hang in the air for hours, alive, passing in and out of consciousness, unrecognizable noises emanating occasionally from his mouth and rectum, visible to Guapo and Bonito, a living slab of rare beef.
I turned to the remaining three of Guapo’s gang. They were crying in fear. Pitiful. “Take them.” My men threw the three onto the floor and began to chop at their naked bodies. “Slowly! Make them feel the caress of your knives. Make them feel your joy. Make them feel their death. They will never die again, so make them feel it for as long as possible.” As my men knelt over the three, I walked to where Bonito had been hanging by his wrists for hours. His hands and fingers had turned a very dark blue. “Enjoying your birthday party, Maricón? Best one ever, right?” As I spoke, I ran my hand up and down his muscular back, and over his smooth bubble butt. “You like boys? I have a few who would love to fuck you on your birthday.” I moved in front and caressed his hard pecs and six packs. Cupped his balls, and fondled his long cock. “If we were alone,” I whispered, “I would take you to my bed. Oh yes, I like boys, too. And you are a god I could worship. I would make such love to you as I cut you to pieces. But, unfortunately for me, that is not to be. You will never know my love. My men have intruded on your birthday party, and they plan to enjoy your body today. Fucking? Sucking? Si, Bonito, we all plan to enjoy your body today. Your brother will watch and you will feel our enjoyment.” I squeezed his nuts. He let out a howl of pain so loud and anguished that my men stopped their mutilations on the floor and looked up in surprise. I held my iron grip on his huevos, twisting, squeezing as he begged me to stop. When I did, he was heaving in pain, gasping, his voice an octave higher, a shrill high-pitched whine. “Be back soon,” I said, patting his smooth, round butt.
I looked at Guapo and winked. “I’ll remember your brother’s birthday for years. A day for great celebration.” Guapo glared at me with pure hatred and spit, but he couldn’t hide the fear lurking in his eyes.
The three amigos became thirty pieces of bloody body parts. My men did well at keeping them alive, conscious and aware of hideous pain. The room cabin became silent as we looked over the pile of gore resting in a wide puddle of blood. The man Luis had hammered to death lay next to the pile. Jhonny still hung, moaning, dripping, occasionally twitching. “Rest. You have all done well. These last two will be mine.”
I looked into the pile and picked up an arm with the hand still attached. I swung it into Guapo’s face. Over and over, the dead bloodied hand smacked his face. A finger scratched his eye. When I stopped, his face was smeared with blood and he was blinking the eye to lessen the sting. “Maybe I should shove this up your ass. You might like it as much as your brother does.”
I ordered my men to reposition Bonito. They brought him down to a kneeling position, hands tightly bound behind his back, and a rope around his chest, fastened in back to another rope attached to the beam, holding him in a kneeling position. I picked a leg from the pile and began to beat him with the foot. Head, face, sides, belly and an occasional kick into his nuts, but mostly his face. When I stopped, I knelt in front of him, leaning close to his bruised face. “I want you to blow me but not til I fix your mouth.” I ordered my men to hold him securely and pull his head back forcing his mouth open. He was helpless as I reached into his mouth with pliers and pulled out a tooth. His scream filled the room. Then another, and another. He lost the strength to fight as I continued pulling, prying his teeth from his mouth. Finally, 28 teeth lay on the floor between his knees. (I couldn’t get to the rear ones.) Bonito sobbed hysterically as blood dribbled over his lips and onto his thighs.
I stood over him, loosened my belt, dropping my jeans, and stroked my cock. It was rigid and bouncing with anticipation. Simultaneously, I rammed it into his throat and pulled his head tight to my groin. Held it there. He began to gag. Still held it tight. He began to choke. Still held it tight. I felt his vomit regurgitating, mixing with blood, warming my cock. Then I began to fuck him. As my dick relentlessly pounded deep into his throat, red puke oozed from his mouth and trickled off his chin onto his chest. Bonito gagged, struggling to catch a breath, but I would not let up until, suddenly, my cock burst and cum flooded his gullet. Exhausted, I pulled his head tight to my crotch, letting my dick slowly relax and pull back from his throat. Still panting, I pulled loose and looked down. My dick was covered with blood and vomit. His mouth dribbled blood and vomit. And the boy was sobbing. “Happy Birthday.”
I told my men they were free to fuck Bonito’s face. As often as they wanted. And and for as long as they could keep their dicks hard. One after the other. No respite. Twelve virile and horny young men. They might keep their round robin going for hours. Antonio was first. He stripped naked. His engorged dick rammed into the blooded mouth. Grabbing Bonito’s ears, he pounded hard and deep for several minutes until he could no longer hold back, and spewed a flood of cum deep into the boy’s throat. Another jumped in to fuck the soft, warm, toothless mouth. Then another. Then Domingo. El Enorme. His gargantuan dick stretched Bonito’s mouth so that the skin split at one corner. As he pumped, Bonito’s head flopped back and forth. His eyes rolled. His face reddened. He gagged. He fought for air. Until Domingo finally emptied his nuts into the boy’s deep throat. When the huge dick pulled out of his mouth, he gasped, breathing heavily, trying to clear his throat. But another dick was ready and rammed into his mouth. On and on, twelve men fucked Bonito’s mouth, even little Luis who had to stand on a woodblock to get it in. Luis was overjoyed to take part, and thrilled to have sex for the first time. Almost as exciting as hammering Mario to death.
Young men have stamina. Antonio started the parade again. Bonito’s mouth was fucked twelve more times. The tears had stopped. His face was blank. His mouth didn’t try to close. Just remained open and ready for any new dick, like a drunken cunt. He choked and gagged. Puked himself out. But the constant pumping of twelve cocks rubbing against his gums kept the blood flowing. The men did two more rounds before they decided they’d fucked enough. Twelve men, four times each, plus me….Bonito’s was face-fucked 49 times. When he realized we were finally done, his head flopped forward, chin on chest, and he sobbed uncontrollably. One of his ears had been mostly torn away. I looked at Guapo who, in spite of himself, was crying softly.
I had my men tie Bonito’s feet and stretch them out so he was suspended horizontally by the rope around his chest, and his ankles, spread-eagled. I stood beside him. One hand tugged at his torn ear. The other, fisted, sild in and out, knuckles twisting against his bloodied gums. “Congratulations. We all appreciate getting our blow jobs. You seem to have lots of experience sucking cock. But we know you like getting fucked, too. So we’ll give you a special birthday fuck.”
I held up a baseball bat, an old one, with a rough, splintered barrel. Someone had pounded a couple nails into it to hold it together, but the nail heads still protruded a bit. Useless for baseball but perfect for fucking a bad boy’s hole. I touched the bat to his dry, exposed butthole and pushed. No lubricant for Bonito. He screamed as I rammed it in. He cried. He blubbered. He’d never had a fuck like this before. The bat fucked him, over and over, in and out. For ten minutes I watched the rounded end punch against his belly from beneath his skin. The splintered bat with its nails ripped at his colon. When I pulled it out, the barrel was slick with a mix of blood and shit. I shoved into his mouth, rubbing the rough barrel against his tender gums. He gagged on the taste of his shit, and squealed in pain as the splinters tore at his gums. When I stopped, blood drizzled from his mouth and oozed from his torn hole.
“Luis, bring me all the dicks and balls.” Luis gathered the parts that had been cut from our dead rivals, even slicing off Jhonny’s, who still hung from the ceiling, still living, though barely. “Shove them all into his ass.” Luis had little trouble pushing the six sets of polla y huevos through the hugely stretched butthole. I used the bat to shove them deep into Bonito’s cavity, but it got so tightly packed that the last ball sac kept sliding back out. I broke the bat and wedged a splinter in sideways to keep any from slipping out.
I cut his feet free and they dropped to the floor, so he hung only by the rope around his chest. I knelt, straddling his legs which were stretched out on the floor. “Pretty boy. You could watch yourself in the mirrors. Sucking forty-nine dicks. Fucked by a baseball bat. Your ass stuffed with cartel cocks. Homo Heaven, si? And look in the mirror. You can still see your beauty, can’t you. The prettiest kid in the state. Well, no more.” I took my finger and poked it into his right eye. Its sharp fingernail scraped and cut the white orb. Jab. Jab. Jab. Twist. Cut. Then, digging deep, I popped the eyeball from its socket, leaving it to hang loosely by the optic nerve against his cheek. Despite the obvious pain, only a few whines issues from Bonito’s lips. He was fading. I gouged out the second eye and called, “Antonio. It’s time. Be quick.”
Antonio was ready with his blade. He leaned in and began the delicate process of removing Bonito’s face. He was an expert at skinning men. I’ve seen him remove the skin of an entire body, while keeping his victim alive until the end. In moments, the boy’s face lay spread out on his chest. Where there had been beauty, there was now a red, oozing mass of cartilage and bone. A loud, anguished groan from Guapo’s lips. His keening grew louder and louder. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Deep agonizing sobs interspersed with his wails of grief. His keening grew even louder as he watched me slice off his brother’s cock and stuff it into his bloodied, toothless mouth, pee hole triumphantly protruding, as if winking at Guapo. Then his nuts inserted into two empty eye sockets. Two cuts from my razor-sharp machete and I was holding Bonito’s head in my hands. I set it in Guapo’s lap. He was too tightly bound to shake it off, and turned his head to the ceiling so he couldn’t see it.
My machete made quick work of Bonito. Wrists, elbows, shoulders, ankles, knees, thighs—all severed. Twelve pieces lay on the floor next to the boy’s torso. Guapo was screeching, out of his mind with agonized torment. His body quivered as his anguished howling grew louder. It was time. I signaled and two of my men lifted Bonito’s torso above Guapo’s head. I made one quick cut and the bowels dropped from the belly onto Guapo’s head. And the torso was laid over the head, enveloping it in the soft, wet, warm, young dead belly. Guapo’s cries were muffled as his brother’s guts slipped into his mouth.
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The townspeople hesitantly pulled apart the pile of mutilated legs, arms, heads and torsos. They had had to remove many such piles, tossing the dead into pickup trucks to be taken to the morgue in a nearby town. But this was different. Someone was still alive here. The pile moved. Groaning was coming from underneath the mangled mess. As they disentangled the heap, they uncovered a man. Alive, but out of his mind, irretrievably lost, insane, babbling incoherently. Covered with blood and gore, his face was not immediately recognizable. Then a shout of recognition, followed by a loud cheer of relief and joy.
“El Guapo!”
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It began a few days before, in another town, when Los Guapos took over a saloon to celebrate the eighteenth birthday of El Bonito, the young brother of the gang’s leader, El Guapo. Guapo was only twenty-two but had garnered a reputation for vicious cruelty. He was extremely handsome and muscular, very vain about his looks. His headquarters had numerous mirrors so he could admire his image. When an enemy fell into his clutches, Guapo would slowly, meticulously kill him, in such a vile way that the body could never be identified. Face removed. Organs removed. Limbs removed. Identity removed.
Guapo’s pride and joy was his young brother. The boy’s looks were even more striking than his own. Six feet two, tall for a Mexican, with almost gringo features, and stunningly beautiful. Not just handsome, but beautiful. El Bonito, the pretty one. In fact, his boyish beauty could be considered somewhat feminine, although no man would ever say that out loud. Nor would anyone admit they knew that the boy favored other boys more than girls. No. No one ever commented on that, for Bonito was even more vicious than his older brother. Even from a very young age, his methods of killing were legendary. Still, rival gangs derisively called him La Bonita, el Maricón.
The cartel celebrated Bonito’s official coming of manhood by getting very drunk and fucking several women. When they left, the proprietor gave them two jugs of his best tequila to celebrate the occasion. Two hours later, they were back in their headquarters, getting drunker and drunker on the tequila. Another hour and they were all sprawled on the floor passed out. It was then that Los Viciosos walked in. The tequila had been drugged. Los Viciosos calmly tied their rivals up, placing each man in a different position. Los Guapos were fucked. Definitely fucked. Bonito’s party was over, but Los Vicioso’s party was about to begin.
Nine Guapos. Slowly reviving from their stupor, discovering themselves naked and tied painfully into chairs and onto posts. Bonito hanging by his wrists from a beam. And Guapo himself, draped over a wine barrel, his ankles and wrists spread wide and fastened to the wooden floor. The wooden floor, stained red and crusted from days and nights of bloody mayhem. Curses from the Guapos were met by laughter from the Viciosos.
I stood behind Guapo and poked my rifle into his butthole. “It is over, Guapo.” “Fucker!!!”, he shouted. “Yes, Guapo, I’m a fucker. And you are, what? A fuckee?” My rifle moved in and out of his hole, the sight ripping his puckered skin, drawing blood. “I will kill you, Javier!” “No, Guapo, I will kill you. But first, I will fuck you” I stood where he could see me in the mirror and slid my pants down. “Look, Guapo. My dick is hard thinking of you, stretched out in front of all our men. I’ll bet your gang has never seen you get fucked—maybe Bonita getting fucked, but not you. Let’s you and me put on a show for them.” I rammed my dick into his butt, draping myself across his muscular back, and pumping hard. I could hear him gasp in pain, or was it from embarrassment? I felt his sweat and breathed in his musky manhood. After I came in his asshole, I turned to my gang and said, “Fuck him. All of you”. And they did. One by one. All of them. Even little Luis, El Hijito, who I didn’t think was old enough to cum. Twelve men fucked Guapo roughly. When they had finished, I turned to one of his gang and told him to fuck his boss. The man refused. I kicked him in the face and my men tied him to a metal pole, lifted him, and set the pole horizontally above a fire pit. The fire was lit and the man slowly roasted above the flames, screaming as his brown skin roasted and eventually slid off his body like melted butter, sizzling as it dropped into the flames.
I turned to another of Guapo’s men. “Fuck your boss.” He nodded hesitantly as he was released from his bonds. He worked frantically to get his dick hard, not an easy task when scared to death. When he finally succeeded, he plunged his cock into Guapo’s ass and fucked his boss. Guapo glared up at me with more hatred in his eyes than I had ever seen in a man. Five more of his followers mounted El Guapo and filled his bleeding hole with cartel cum.
The Guapos were tied up again, and El Guapo was lifted off the barrel and wrapped securely in a heavy wooden chair. “Guapo, you sit in this big chair, like a boss lording it over your subjects. But you sit naked in a puddle of cum blood leaking from your butthole. How embarrassing.” With pruning shears, I cut off one of Guapo’s fingers. “I will dip this finger into your discharge and mark the first man for death.” As I brought my red finger up, I could hear Guapo’s men screaming for mercy. I walked in a circle, looking at each, then stopping in front of Bonita. “Ah, the pretty fairy. Hey, Guapo, your brother watched you getting fucked by eighteen men and a rifle, and wished it was him instead. But no, he will not be so lucky. No dicks up his ass today. He’ll just hang here for a while so he can admire his looks in the mirrors. Hard smooth brown body. Rippled abs, bulging biceps, pretty face, smooth-shaved pussy accentuating his huge cock. Yes, such a pretty face.” As I said these words, my cock hardened in my pants. My fist slammed into his mouth, cutting his lip. He jerked back and a rivulet of blood ran slowly to his jaw and dripped onto his chest. He let out an expletive in defiance, loud, belligerent, threatening, but his fear came through instead.
I turned to one of Guapo’s men, Mario, a short chubby guy bound to a post, and put the bloody finger to his forehead. “Ah. Number one! Little Luis, it’s time you killed your first man. See what you can do with fatty here.” Luis stood open-mouthed. He never thought he’d be given a man’s job at such a young age. He grinned widely and began to punch Mario, but except for a couple blows to the nuts, he didn’t do much damage. One of my men tossed a hammer and laughed, “Bones, Luis. Break some bones!” Luis picked up the hammer, looked up at his terrorized victim, and smashed it down on a foot. Almost simultaneously we heard a crack followed by a scream of pain. Luis turned to look at us, all cheering for him. Wide-eyed and grinning, he turned back to Mario and began to pummel him with the hammer, beginning with the feet and working his way upward. Feet, ankles, shins, knees, hips. Bones shattered. Mario screamed and thrashed, but was so tightly bound he could barely move.
Luis had been with us long enough to pick up some killing skills. He smashed at Mario’s shins until they completely shattered, and his feet hung loosely, suspended only by muscle and skin. Then both kneecaps were shattered into many pieces. By the time Luis smashed into his hip bones, Mario had passed out. But Luis was on a mission to prove my faith in him was justified. He moved on to the ribs. Cracking each one into several pieces. When a couple of them popped through the skin, Luis hammered them back in. He walked behind the post and whacked at wrists and elbows. The kid was almost in a frenzy, pounding and smashing at bone. He was short and had some trouble cracking the shoulders. Suddenly, he stopped. He looked up at Mario’s head and considered his course of action. Then, just as suddenly, he swung the hammer into Mario’s mouth. Teeth and blood spewed down on him as he drove the steel hammer into the mouth and jaw, nose and forehead. From his low angle, Luis pounded relentlessly, pulverizing Mario’s face until finally stopping, his arm weary. From forehead to jaw, the man’s face had disappeared, replaced by a bloody mush of tissue and bone fragments. Luis smiled triumphantly as we cheered. He knew he had become a man that day.
I dipped the finger into Guapo’s blood puddle and touched it to the forehead of another man who was suspended by his wrists. “You are Jhonny. Right?” The man nodded. “Antonio. Jhonny is yours.” We all knew Antonio’s preferred methods, and settled back for a lengthy session. El Maquinillo, we called him. The Razor. He killed his victims slowly, cutting off bits of flesh with a straight razor. Surface wounds, not too deep, not too painful. But very bloody.
He touched the razor to Jhonny’s chest. He squealed in terror. “Where shall we start, hombre? Chest or belly? Face or dick?” Antonio held the blade close to Jhonny’s eye. He smiled as the man tried to pull his head back, away from the sharp edge, emitting a high pitched bleat of fear. Antonio cut into the brow, and a slow dribble of blood ran into his eye and down his cheek. He pulled Jhonny’s head back and cut into his gums. So, as Antonio’s blade scraped and scratched and nicked, Jhonny would taste the blood that was seeping elsewhere from his naked body.
Antonio labored for over an hour. Jhonny felt each cut, each small gouge, but not the great pain Mario had felt from Luis’s hammer. No. Little real physical pain, but great mental anguish as he saw his image in the mirror, witnessed his entire body from scalp to toes turn crimson, glistening in the lights, hearing the moans of his mates and the derisive catcalls from his captors. His blood seeped slowly from his skin, ran down his torso and legs, to drip from his toes into a widening puddle beneath his feet. That some of his wounds stopped bleeding did not concern Antonio. Jhonny hung by his wrists, a whimpering red mass of lacerated flesh, two white eyes peering out of the quivering carnage. Antonio stepped back. Considered his victim. Nodded. His art piece was complete. It needed only his signature. His razor sliced into those eyes. A feeble, hoarse attempt at a scream. Jhonny would hang in the air for hours, alive, passing in and out of consciousness, unrecognizable noises emanating occasionally from his mouth and rectum, visible to Guapo and Bonito, a living slab of rare beef.
I turned to the remaining three of Guapo’s gang. They were crying in fear. Pitiful. “Take them.” My men threw the three onto the floor and began to chop at their naked bodies. “Slowly! Make them feel the caress of your knives. Make them feel your joy. Make them feel their death. They will never die again, so make them feel it for as long as possible.” As my men knelt over the three, I walked to where Bonito had been hanging by his wrists for hours. His hands and fingers had turned a very dark blue. “Enjoying your birthday party, Maricón? Best one ever, right?” As I spoke, I ran my hand up and down his muscular back, and over his smooth bubble butt. “You like boys? I have a few who would love to fuck you on your birthday.” I moved in front and caressed his hard pecs and six packs. Cupped his balls, and fondled his long cock. “If we were alone,” I whispered, “I would take you to my bed. Oh yes, I like boys, too. And you are a god I could worship. I would make such love to you as I cut you to pieces. But, unfortunately for me, that is not to be. You will never know my love. My men have intruded on your birthday party, and they plan to enjoy your body today. Fucking? Sucking? Si, Bonito, we all plan to enjoy your body today. Your brother will watch and you will feel our enjoyment.” I squeezed his nuts. He let out a howl of pain so loud and anguished that my men stopped their mutilations on the floor and looked up in surprise. I held my iron grip on his huevos, twisting, squeezing as he begged me to stop. When I did, he was heaving in pain, gasping, his voice an octave higher, a shrill high-pitched whine. “Be back soon,” I said, patting his smooth, round butt.
I looked at Guapo and winked. “I’ll remember your brother’s birthday for years. A day for great celebration.” Guapo glared at me with pure hatred and spit, but he couldn’t hide the fear lurking in his eyes.
The three amigos became thirty pieces of bloody body parts. My men did well at keeping them alive, conscious and aware of hideous pain. The room cabin became silent as we looked over the pile of gore resting in a wide puddle of blood. The man Luis had hammered to death lay next to the pile. Jhonny still hung, moaning, dripping, occasionally twitching. “Rest. You have all done well. These last two will be mine.”
I looked into the pile and picked up an arm with the hand still attached. I swung it into Guapo’s face. Over and over, the dead bloodied hand smacked his face. A finger scratched his eye. When I stopped, his face was smeared with blood and he was blinking the eye to lessen the sting. “Maybe I should shove this up your ass. You might like it as much as your brother does.”
I ordered my men to reposition Bonito. They brought him down to a kneeling position, hands tightly bound behind his back, and a rope around his chest, fastened in back to another rope attached to the beam, holding him in a kneeling position. I picked a leg from the pile and began to beat him with the foot. Head, face, sides, belly and an occasional kick into his nuts, but mostly his face. When I stopped, I knelt in front of him, leaning close to his bruised face. “I want you to blow me but not til I fix your mouth.” I ordered my men to hold him securely and pull his head back forcing his mouth open. He was helpless as I reached into his mouth with pliers and pulled out a tooth. His scream filled the room. Then another, and another. He lost the strength to fight as I continued pulling, prying his teeth from his mouth. Finally, 28 teeth lay on the floor between his knees. (I couldn’t get to the rear ones.) Bonito sobbed hysterically as blood dribbled over his lips and onto his thighs.
I stood over him, loosened my belt, dropping my jeans, and stroked my cock. It was rigid and bouncing with anticipation. Simultaneously, I rammed it into his throat and pulled his head tight to my groin. Held it there. He began to gag. Still held it tight. He began to choke. Still held it tight. I felt his vomit regurgitating, mixing with blood, warming my cock. Then I began to fuck him. As my dick relentlessly pounded deep into his throat, red puke oozed from his mouth and trickled off his chin onto his chest. Bonito gagged, struggling to catch a breath, but I would not let up until, suddenly, my cock burst and cum flooded his gullet. Exhausted, I pulled his head tight to my crotch, letting my dick slowly relax and pull back from his throat. Still panting, I pulled loose and looked down. My dick was covered with blood and vomit. His mouth dribbled blood and vomit. And the boy was sobbing. “Happy Birthday.”
I told my men they were free to fuck Bonito’s face. As often as they wanted. And and for as long as they could keep their dicks hard. One after the other. No respite. Twelve virile and horny young men. They might keep their round robin going for hours. Antonio was first. He stripped naked. His engorged dick rammed into the blooded mouth. Grabbing Bonito’s ears, he pounded hard and deep for several minutes until he could no longer hold back, and spewed a flood of cum deep into the boy’s throat. Another jumped in to fuck the soft, warm, toothless mouth. Then another. Then Domingo. El Enorme. His gargantuan dick stretched Bonito’s mouth so that the skin split at one corner. As he pumped, Bonito’s head flopped back and forth. His eyes rolled. His face reddened. He gagged. He fought for air. Until Domingo finally emptied his nuts into the boy’s deep throat. When the huge dick pulled out of his mouth, he gasped, breathing heavily, trying to clear his throat. But another dick was ready and rammed into his mouth. On and on, twelve men fucked Bonito’s mouth, even little Luis who had to stand on a woodblock to get it in. Luis was overjoyed to take part, and thrilled to have sex for the first time. Almost as exciting as hammering Mario to death.
Young men have stamina. Antonio started the parade again. Bonito’s mouth was fucked twelve more times. The tears had stopped. His face was blank. His mouth didn’t try to close. Just remained open and ready for any new dick, like a drunken cunt. He choked and gagged. Puked himself out. But the constant pumping of twelve cocks rubbing against his gums kept the blood flowing. The men did two more rounds before they decided they’d fucked enough. Twelve men, four times each, plus me….Bonito’s was face-fucked 49 times. When he realized we were finally done, his head flopped forward, chin on chest, and he sobbed uncontrollably. One of his ears had been mostly torn away. I looked at Guapo who, in spite of himself, was crying softly.
I had my men tie Bonito’s feet and stretch them out so he was suspended horizontally by the rope around his chest, and his ankles, spread-eagled. I stood beside him. One hand tugged at his torn ear. The other, fisted, sild in and out, knuckles twisting against his bloodied gums. “Congratulations. We all appreciate getting our blow jobs. You seem to have lots of experience sucking cock. But we know you like getting fucked, too. So we’ll give you a special birthday fuck.”
I held up a baseball bat, an old one, with a rough, splintered barrel. Someone had pounded a couple nails into it to hold it together, but the nail heads still protruded a bit. Useless for baseball but perfect for fucking a bad boy’s hole. I touched the bat to his dry, exposed butthole and pushed. No lubricant for Bonito. He screamed as I rammed it in. He cried. He blubbered. He’d never had a fuck like this before. The bat fucked him, over and over, in and out. For ten minutes I watched the rounded end punch against his belly from beneath his skin. The splintered bat with its nails ripped at his colon. When I pulled it out, the barrel was slick with a mix of blood and shit. I shoved into his mouth, rubbing the rough barrel against his tender gums. He gagged on the taste of his shit, and squealed in pain as the splinters tore at his gums. When I stopped, blood drizzled from his mouth and oozed from his torn hole.
“Luis, bring me all the dicks and balls.” Luis gathered the parts that had been cut from our dead rivals, even slicing off Jhonny’s, who still hung from the ceiling, still living, though barely. “Shove them all into his ass.” Luis had little trouble pushing the six sets of polla y huevos through the hugely stretched butthole. I used the bat to shove them deep into Bonito’s cavity, but it got so tightly packed that the last ball sac kept sliding back out. I broke the bat and wedged a splinter in sideways to keep any from slipping out.
I cut his feet free and they dropped to the floor, so he hung only by the rope around his chest. I knelt, straddling his legs which were stretched out on the floor. “Pretty boy. You could watch yourself in the mirrors. Sucking forty-nine dicks. Fucked by a baseball bat. Your ass stuffed with cartel cocks. Homo Heaven, si? And look in the mirror. You can still see your beauty, can’t you. The prettiest kid in the state. Well, no more.” I took my finger and poked it into his right eye. Its sharp fingernail scraped and cut the white orb. Jab. Jab. Jab. Twist. Cut. Then, digging deep, I popped the eyeball from its socket, leaving it to hang loosely by the optic nerve against his cheek. Despite the obvious pain, only a few whines issues from Bonito’s lips. He was fading. I gouged out the second eye and called, “Antonio. It’s time. Be quick.”
Antonio was ready with his blade. He leaned in and began the delicate process of removing Bonito’s face. He was an expert at skinning men. I’ve seen him remove the skin of an entire body, while keeping his victim alive until the end. In moments, the boy’s face lay spread out on his chest. Where there had been beauty, there was now a red, oozing mass of cartilage and bone. A loud, anguished groan from Guapo’s lips. His keening grew louder and louder. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Deep agonizing sobs interspersed with his wails of grief. His keening grew even louder as he watched me slice off his brother’s cock and stuff it into his bloodied, toothless mouth, pee hole triumphantly protruding, as if winking at Guapo. Then his nuts inserted into two empty eye sockets. Two cuts from my razor-sharp machete and I was holding Bonito’s head in my hands. I set it in Guapo’s lap. He was too tightly bound to shake it off, and turned his head to the ceiling so he couldn’t see it.
My machete made quick work of Bonito. Wrists, elbows, shoulders, ankles, knees, thighs—all severed. Twelve pieces lay on the floor next to the boy’s torso. Guapo was screeching, out of his mind with agonized torment. His body quivered as his anguished howling grew louder. It was time. I signaled and two of my men lifted Bonito’s torso above Guapo’s head. I made one quick cut and the bowels dropped from the belly onto Guapo’s head. And the torso was laid over the head, enveloping it in the soft, wet, warm, young dead belly. Guapo’s cries were muffled as his brother’s guts slipped into his mouth.
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The townspeople hesitantly pulled apart the pile of mutilated legs, arms, heads and torsos. They had had to remove many such piles, tossing the dead into pickup trucks to be taken to the morgue in a nearby town. But this was different. Someone was still alive here. The pile moved. Groaning was coming from underneath the mangled mess. As they disentangled the heap, they uncovered a man. Alive, but out of his mind, irretrievably lost, insane, babbling incoherently. Covered with blood and gore, his face was not immediately recognizable. Then a shout of recognition, followed by a loud cheer of relief and joy.
“El Guapo!”
