M
m3m1
Guest
I can hear the whore moan. That's good; I'd thought I'd killed him for a moment there.
Of course, I plan on killing him later--but not till I'm ready. I really want to enjoy this.
He's about eighteen or nineteen, but looks a little older. He's clearly been living hard for some time, probably on the streets. His darting eyes and nervous hand movements betray a drug addiction. He wants this over but needs the money for his next bump.
He's beautiful. Long dark silky hair with blond highlights. Pale blue eyes with long lashes. He's wearing tight skinny jeans and a dark red t-shirt with black and white leather hightops.
I'd take him away from this, from the life of want and necessity, but he wouldn't come. This will only end one way for him. Down inside, it's what he truly wants, even if he doesn't realize it yet. He will, though. Before I'm done, before the heart stops beating and the semen stops flowing, he'll understand the gift I'm giving him.
He's jonesing badly, so it only takes an offer of twenty bucks to get him in my car. He starts babbling about the different things he'll do for me for various amounts of money. That's when I slug him in the jaw. As he stares at me in stunned silence, I grab his long hair and slam him face-first into the dashboard.
He goes limp, bleeding from his nose. There's also some blood leaking from his mouth; his lip is cut. But he's out good--so good, I was worried that I might have wasted him before I got to have any fun with him. It's good to hear him moan. It makes my dick hard.
When I get the fuckboy back to the shitty apartment I use as my killing pit, I take my time stripping his clothes off, fondling his hard, smooth, helpless body. He can't resist; he's still out. I slowly cut off his shirt and jeans. He won't need those again. Ever.
As usual, I leave his shoes on.
There's nothing else I need to remove. He's gone commando under his jeans, most likely so he can take it up the ass in some dark alley quickly, without trouble.
So now he's moaning quietly and starting to move. He's ready. But I'm not, not quite. I need to do something first.
And that something is to zip-tie his hands behind his back and lay him in the bathtub.
He's on his back. Before he can fully awaken, I've inserted myself into him. It works better this way; I don't have to fight him in order to fuck him. He'll be fighting for his life in a moment but by then, my engorged cock will be planted firmly inside the bitch.
He's awake now. Awake and very unhappy. He starts swearing and threatening me, trying to get free.
"Get off me, motherfucker! What, you got me in a fuckin' tub? What the fuck? Get off me before I fuck you up, bitch!"
I ram my dick into him. He cries out and starts cursing again.
"Goddammit, get fucking off, you weirdo! I'm gonna hurt you bad when I get outta here, fucker!"
I smile benignantly and whisper in his ear, "And what makes you think you're getting out of here?"
He goes quiet, staring up at me, his lovely blue eyes round with fear and his long hair disheveled by his struggles.
"Wh-what are you talkin' about, dude?"
I smile gently again, lean down over him, and turn the water on. Slowly.
It falls from the spout to the right of his head. He looks at me in silence for a couple of seconds while his drug-addled brain tries to sort out what this means.
When it hits him, it's like an explosion. There's instant panic as he starts thrashing violently. He slams his head into the side of the tub and flails uselessly with his legs, trying to work them under me so he can leverage me off him. But I'm gripping one of his legs with each of my arms, holding them apart as I continue to plow his ass. And with his hands bound underneath him, he can't move.
He starts screaming for help. Most of the units in this run-down dump are empty and I don't have any near neighbors, but there's no sense in taking chances. I let go of one leg long enough to pop him on the jaw again. The blow makes him grunt, but his cries subside to a terrified whimper.
I keep fucking him as the water gets deeper. He's been reamed out real good in his career as a rentboy, but the fear and the physical abuse tighten him up some. Not enough, but the water will take care of the rest.
The water has reached the level of his face. It feels warm on my thighs and makes an odd sucking sound as it's pumped into the fuckmeat's ass with each thrust of my dick.
Whoreboy has to lift his head out of the water now in order to keep breathing. It's a strain on his neck and he won't be able to keep it up long. He knows it, too, as he begs for his life.
"P-please, dude, don't do this. Don't kill me. Oh god, please don't. You can do whatever you want, you can fuck me for a week, just please don't kill me..."
"Shut up, fuckmeat," I snarl at him. "The sooner you die, the sooner I cum. That's what you're here for, to die on my cock. You're going to drown soon, but it'll take a few minutes. You're gonna struggle and convulse during those few minutes. Your body is gonna thrash and jerk as is tries to find more oxygen and that's gonna feel great against my dick. I'm gonna cum so fuckin' hard as you die, motherfucker."
He can't beg anymore; the water's too high. Even holding his head up, it's still above his mouth. He can only stare at me pleadingly as his tear-stained face turns to mine.
"Oh yeah, you punk faggot, that's it. You have no idea how erotic your fear and despair are. You're about to die, motherfucker, and that's so fucking hot. Even if I wasn't boning you, I'd still get off just watching you get whacked. Now just lay back and let go, whore and it'll be over soon. Shhh. Just accept it. Take my cock and die, fucker."
His head begins to shudder; the strain of holding it up is too much. And pointless, really, by now. The water has risen to the level of his nose and he can’t lift himself any higher, even by pushing back with his arms. He collapses back into the water.
I turn the tap off after a few seconds and let the surface of the water grow still. I’m not pumping him anymore; I’m just lying on top of him, my rod plugging his rectum. He’s very still himself, staring up at me. A small bubble rises from his right nostril.
I’m looking straight down at him, my hands pressing down on his shoulders, his legs wrapped tightly around my waist. He’d kicked and struggled well enough earlier; I’ll have bruises on my ass for days from the heels of his hightops.
He starts trembling underneath me. Fuckmeat has been holding his breath for a long time now and it’s starting to tell. As I look into his face, I can see a blood vessel rupture in the white of his right eye—then two in his left.
His trembling becomes more violent. Suddenly, a froth of bubbles erupts from his face. He’s let out the air he’d been holding. But he’d already exhausted all the oxygen in it; his body needs to take another breath immediately.
Now the only thing to inhale is water. I grip the whore’s shoulders and prepare for a ride.
The moment the water hit his lungs he bucks like a bronco under me. The reaction is extreme and involuntary; his body’s thrashing out in every way possible to reach air. As I clamp myself to the writhing meat, his rectum massages my cock with an almost fluid motion.
My fucktoy thrashes and wriggles like an eel. It takes a great deal of force to hold him down onto my dick. He’s young—and despite abusing his body for a couple of years, he’s still strong. It takes him some time to die, and he fights it as long as he can.
As the brain dies, there’s a progression of physical movement from voluntary to involuntary. I can feel the boy twisting under me as he fights to remain conscious, knowing that once everything fades away, it won’t be coming back. As he loses the battle, his deliberate efforts to save himself falter and become weak. Soon, they cease altogether and are replaced with the convulsions of irreversible brain damage—the involuntary movements.
This is when the meat starts to milk the cum out of my cock. Each seizure creates a suction effect in his rectum. It’s also at this point the whore shoots his first load; a cloudy jet muddying the water over his chest and face.
I wonder how far gone he is; I wonder if he can feel my hot wad burning inside his guts. I don’t really care, though; he’s just here to get me off as he dies. His dick, rock-hard and swollen purple in the warm water, sends spray after milky spray into the tub.
I can still see his face, though. His dull eyes are half-lidded; his hair floats around his head, the blond highlights glinting like lightning in a thundercloud. A thin trail of bloody foam flows from the meat’s open mouth.
Suddenly he clenches up on me in his final spasm, grinding his ass onto my cock as a vast white cloud erupts from his straining dick. I shudder and gasp as my balls drain into the dead whore’s ass—and by the time I finish unloading into his hole, he really is dead.
It takes me a few minutes to get my strength back. I pull the plug on the tub, climb out and sit, nude, on the bath rug, panting. While I rest, I look up at the pulley I’d hung over the tub and wondered if the fuckmeat had noticed it before he died. What’s that, fucker? What’s the pulley for? Silly faggot, that’s to drain your corpse.
Once I get my breath back, I get a ten-foot length of rope I’d bought some days earlier—longer than needed, but I figured better too much than too little, in this case. I feed it through the pulley and loop it about the meat’s ankles. I then hoist the meat up and tie the rope off on the faucet. I leave the meat there, hanging by the ankles, fingertips scraping the bottom of the tub.
After all, I don’t want him leaking water if I want to play with him again.
Of course, I plan on killing him later--but not till I'm ready. I really want to enjoy this.
He's about eighteen or nineteen, but looks a little older. He's clearly been living hard for some time, probably on the streets. His darting eyes and nervous hand movements betray a drug addiction. He wants this over but needs the money for his next bump.
He's beautiful. Long dark silky hair with blond highlights. Pale blue eyes with long lashes. He's wearing tight skinny jeans and a dark red t-shirt with black and white leather hightops.
I'd take him away from this, from the life of want and necessity, but he wouldn't come. This will only end one way for him. Down inside, it's what he truly wants, even if he doesn't realize it yet. He will, though. Before I'm done, before the heart stops beating and the semen stops flowing, he'll understand the gift I'm giving him.
He's jonesing badly, so it only takes an offer of twenty bucks to get him in my car. He starts babbling about the different things he'll do for me for various amounts of money. That's when I slug him in the jaw. As he stares at me in stunned silence, I grab his long hair and slam him face-first into the dashboard.
He goes limp, bleeding from his nose. There's also some blood leaking from his mouth; his lip is cut. But he's out good--so good, I was worried that I might have wasted him before I got to have any fun with him. It's good to hear him moan. It makes my dick hard.
When I get the fuckboy back to the shitty apartment I use as my killing pit, I take my time stripping his clothes off, fondling his hard, smooth, helpless body. He can't resist; he's still out. I slowly cut off his shirt and jeans. He won't need those again. Ever.
As usual, I leave his shoes on.
There's nothing else I need to remove. He's gone commando under his jeans, most likely so he can take it up the ass in some dark alley quickly, without trouble.
So now he's moaning quietly and starting to move. He's ready. But I'm not, not quite. I need to do something first.
And that something is to zip-tie his hands behind his back and lay him in the bathtub.
He's on his back. Before he can fully awaken, I've inserted myself into him. It works better this way; I don't have to fight him in order to fuck him. He'll be fighting for his life in a moment but by then, my engorged cock will be planted firmly inside the bitch.
He's awake now. Awake and very unhappy. He starts swearing and threatening me, trying to get free.
"Get off me, motherfucker! What, you got me in a fuckin' tub? What the fuck? Get off me before I fuck you up, bitch!"
I ram my dick into him. He cries out and starts cursing again.
"Goddammit, get fucking off, you weirdo! I'm gonna hurt you bad when I get outta here, fucker!"
I smile benignantly and whisper in his ear, "And what makes you think you're getting out of here?"
He goes quiet, staring up at me, his lovely blue eyes round with fear and his long hair disheveled by his struggles.
"Wh-what are you talkin' about, dude?"
I smile gently again, lean down over him, and turn the water on. Slowly.
It falls from the spout to the right of his head. He looks at me in silence for a couple of seconds while his drug-addled brain tries to sort out what this means.
When it hits him, it's like an explosion. There's instant panic as he starts thrashing violently. He slams his head into the side of the tub and flails uselessly with his legs, trying to work them under me so he can leverage me off him. But I'm gripping one of his legs with each of my arms, holding them apart as I continue to plow his ass. And with his hands bound underneath him, he can't move.
He starts screaming for help. Most of the units in this run-down dump are empty and I don't have any near neighbors, but there's no sense in taking chances. I let go of one leg long enough to pop him on the jaw again. The blow makes him grunt, but his cries subside to a terrified whimper.
I keep fucking him as the water gets deeper. He's been reamed out real good in his career as a rentboy, but the fear and the physical abuse tighten him up some. Not enough, but the water will take care of the rest.
The water has reached the level of his face. It feels warm on my thighs and makes an odd sucking sound as it's pumped into the fuckmeat's ass with each thrust of my dick.
Whoreboy has to lift his head out of the water now in order to keep breathing. It's a strain on his neck and he won't be able to keep it up long. He knows it, too, as he begs for his life.
"P-please, dude, don't do this. Don't kill me. Oh god, please don't. You can do whatever you want, you can fuck me for a week, just please don't kill me..."
"Shut up, fuckmeat," I snarl at him. "The sooner you die, the sooner I cum. That's what you're here for, to die on my cock. You're going to drown soon, but it'll take a few minutes. You're gonna struggle and convulse during those few minutes. Your body is gonna thrash and jerk as is tries to find more oxygen and that's gonna feel great against my dick. I'm gonna cum so fuckin' hard as you die, motherfucker."
He can't beg anymore; the water's too high. Even holding his head up, it's still above his mouth. He can only stare at me pleadingly as his tear-stained face turns to mine.
"Oh yeah, you punk faggot, that's it. You have no idea how erotic your fear and despair are. You're about to die, motherfucker, and that's so fucking hot. Even if I wasn't boning you, I'd still get off just watching you get whacked. Now just lay back and let go, whore and it'll be over soon. Shhh. Just accept it. Take my cock and die, fucker."
His head begins to shudder; the strain of holding it up is too much. And pointless, really, by now. The water has risen to the level of his nose and he can’t lift himself any higher, even by pushing back with his arms. He collapses back into the water.
I turn the tap off after a few seconds and let the surface of the water grow still. I’m not pumping him anymore; I’m just lying on top of him, my rod plugging his rectum. He’s very still himself, staring up at me. A small bubble rises from his right nostril.
I’m looking straight down at him, my hands pressing down on his shoulders, his legs wrapped tightly around my waist. He’d kicked and struggled well enough earlier; I’ll have bruises on my ass for days from the heels of his hightops.
He starts trembling underneath me. Fuckmeat has been holding his breath for a long time now and it’s starting to tell. As I look into his face, I can see a blood vessel rupture in the white of his right eye—then two in his left.
His trembling becomes more violent. Suddenly, a froth of bubbles erupts from his face. He’s let out the air he’d been holding. But he’d already exhausted all the oxygen in it; his body needs to take another breath immediately.
Now the only thing to inhale is water. I grip the whore’s shoulders and prepare for a ride.
The moment the water hit his lungs he bucks like a bronco under me. The reaction is extreme and involuntary; his body’s thrashing out in every way possible to reach air. As I clamp myself to the writhing meat, his rectum massages my cock with an almost fluid motion.
My fucktoy thrashes and wriggles like an eel. It takes a great deal of force to hold him down onto my dick. He’s young—and despite abusing his body for a couple of years, he’s still strong. It takes him some time to die, and he fights it as long as he can.
As the brain dies, there’s a progression of physical movement from voluntary to involuntary. I can feel the boy twisting under me as he fights to remain conscious, knowing that once everything fades away, it won’t be coming back. As he loses the battle, his deliberate efforts to save himself falter and become weak. Soon, they cease altogether and are replaced with the convulsions of irreversible brain damage—the involuntary movements.
This is when the meat starts to milk the cum out of my cock. Each seizure creates a suction effect in his rectum. It’s also at this point the whore shoots his first load; a cloudy jet muddying the water over his chest and face.
I wonder how far gone he is; I wonder if he can feel my hot wad burning inside his guts. I don’t really care, though; he’s just here to get me off as he dies. His dick, rock-hard and swollen purple in the warm water, sends spray after milky spray into the tub.
I can still see his face, though. His dull eyes are half-lidded; his hair floats around his head, the blond highlights glinting like lightning in a thundercloud. A thin trail of bloody foam flows from the meat’s open mouth.
Suddenly he clenches up on me in his final spasm, grinding his ass onto my cock as a vast white cloud erupts from his straining dick. I shudder and gasp as my balls drain into the dead whore’s ass—and by the time I finish unloading into his hole, he really is dead.
It takes me a few minutes to get my strength back. I pull the plug on the tub, climb out and sit, nude, on the bath rug, panting. While I rest, I look up at the pulley I’d hung over the tub and wondered if the fuckmeat had noticed it before he died. What’s that, fucker? What’s the pulley for? Silly faggot, that’s to drain your corpse.
Once I get my breath back, I get a ten-foot length of rope I’d bought some days earlier—longer than needed, but I figured better too much than too little, in this case. I feed it through the pulley and loop it about the meat’s ankles. I then hoist the meat up and tie the rope off on the faucet. I leave the meat there, hanging by the ankles, fingertips scraping the bottom of the tub.
After all, I don’t want him leaking water if I want to play with him again.
