M
m3m1
Guest
Oh my god. So many lost souls out today. Who among them deserves the love and death I can give? Who is the most worthy of my baptism of blood and semen?
That hot little Mexican kid over by that tree? Nah—he’s dealing. Too hard to get back to my place. I need a buyer for what I have to offer.
Ok, that one has promise. White kid, early twenties. Wearing a ball cap but I can see he’s practically a skinhead underneath. Razor-thin sideburns running down his cheeks to meet a near-invisible goatee. Cold, squinting eyes. Plaid button-down shirt worn open over a stained white t-shirt. Tight, faded jeans tucked into worn, scuffed work boots. Clearly looking to buy. Perfect.
I pull up and start the usual routine. Coke? Sure, I can hook you up. Friend will bring it, sample back at my place, blah blah blah.
He gets in. Quiet and kinda nervous—doesn’t offer his name. Wonder if it’s his first time buying. His button-down shirt has short sleeves and I can see his arms. There’s a couple of recent tracks but no old scarring. A new convert then, thinking he was being a man by buying his own drugs.
I grin to myself. He’s gonna die like a man, slowly and painfully, as I choke the life out of him. And somewhere within, he’s gonna realize his only worth is as fuckmeat and he’s gonna give me his seed in his gratitude as he slides into eternity…
Don’t get carried away. Almost home; wait till he’s too drugged to notice. Don’t give the surprise away too soon.
Once inside, I tell him I’ll load his sample myself. It’s strong, I say, and I don’t want him flopping on me. There’s a puzzled look on his face and I realize he’s so new at this that he doesn’t know the term for overdosing. I explain and he agrees, saying, “All right, but don’t try nothing weird on me. I can fuck you up bad if I hafta.”
I really don’t want him to OD. It’s heroin I’m giving him, not coke. He’s not used to it, clearly, and I want to take my time with him—there. Just a tiny amount should be enough to make him tractable.
He’s already tied off his left arm when I hand him the syringe. He’s learned enough to flush back the needle after inserting it; the flow of blood back into the syringe proving he’s hit a vein.
He removes the needle and instantly slumps back on the sofa. I carefully pick the syringe up off the floor and dispose of it before sitting down beside him.
He’s turned to me, so high he can barely keep his eyes open. He’s drooling, a slight froth running from the corner of his mouth. Fear is on his face; coke has never done this to him and he doesn’t know what’s happening.
“It’s okay,” I say soothingly, stroking his taut, hard body, “just let what’s gonna happen, happen. I’m gonna hurt you bad, but in the end you’ll be happy. I always make my fuckmeat happy before they die.”
His eyes widen slightly and he gives a pathetic moan. The drug has made his breathing weak and shallow; he doesn’t make much noise. His hands batter limply at my chest. I won’t even have to bind him. He’s completely in my power, to do with as I wish.
But what’s getting me hard is that he’s just awake enough to realize it.
I slowly strip off his clothes, ignoring his faint attempts to resist. After removing his cap and shirts, I pull off his boots and jeans, revealing his tender ass and thick cock. Then I slip his boots back on. “There you go,” I tell him, “now you can die with your boots on.”
He’s lying back on the couch, his face turned slightly away from me. But from the corner of his eye, he’s watching me frantically, his hands pawing ineffectually at my face. “Time to rock and roll, motherfucker. This thick hog’s goin’ in your ass.”
I lay him flat on his back on the couch, propping his head up on the armrest. I easily force his legs apart, sinking my shaft into his pulsing fuckhole. It feels like a rubber band around my dick; no one’s been up there before. I slammed myself into him, feeling flesh tear as I penetrate his rectum. Low guttural sounds emerge from his throat as his face is drawn into a rictus of pain.
He instinctively wraps his muscled legs around me; I can feel his boots scuffling on my ass. He’s pawing at my chest and face, doing his sad best to resist. “Shh,” I whisper to him, “stop fighting it. You know you want this cock up your ass. You know when you’re out getting fucked up with your buddies, you want their dicks inside you. It hurts so good, doesn’t it? You know you like it, you fuckin’ bitch, now take my cock!”
Pain and confusion have spread over his face; he still doesn’t realize what’s really happening. I’m not even sure he fully understands that he’s being raped. Time to remove all doubt. I wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze.
Instantly his hands come up, plucking weakly at my wrists. I’m holding him down by his throat while I fuck him and I can see the erotic gleam of terror in his eyes. The concept of death has penetrated his drug-fogged mind and he scrambles to escape it. His struggles are hopeless; he’s pinned to the couch by the unbearable pressure on his throat and by the stabbing, searing agony in his rectum.
“Yeah, bitch,” I moan, “This is what you were looking for. This is why you went out today, so you could find a man who would give you what you deserve. All you’re good for is dying on my dick. Yeah, you piece of shit, I’m gonna use you and throw you away, you fuckin’ wad of garbage.” I spit in his face and his mouth.
He claws at my hands as gagging sounds erupt from his clenched throat. His eyes, wide and bulging, stare into mine, begging in desperation. Oh god, his pleading and fear and pain—it’s driving me on to hurt him more. I’m reaming him like a jackhammer now, plunging myself deep within his helpless ass, inflicting as much agony as possible. I’m so close to blowing my wad…
I squeeze my hands together with as much force as I can. I damn near shoot as I hear the sound of cartilage and bone cracking and feel his esophagus crushed in my hands. The fuckmeat’s face has turned a dusky blue and his gagging sounds have become intermittent but much more intense. I spit in his face again, my saliva lost in the foam flowing around his swollen tongue.
“Die, motherfucker. Shoot your worthless bitch wad and die. Die so I can fuck your sweet lifeless corpse. C’mon, you piece of shit, give me your death load. You always wanted a man to choke the cum out you. Gimme your hot dying spunk, you fuckin’ death pig…”
His struggles weaken as his brain dies. He’s not resisting me anymore; instead, his hands are caressing my face and my chest. I grip his neck more tightly, eliciting a final crunch, and his ass responds by tightening around my shaft like a hand. He arches his body upwards, pressing his smooth flat belly against mine. His boots dig into my back, holding me in a desperate dying grip.
He’s accepted my gift and embraced the death I’ve brought him. Spunk boils out of me, filling the fuckmeat with hot cum. His hard rod, pressed between our bellies, disgorges a steady stream of semen that splatters against the underside of his jaw and splashes my face. I’m vaguely aware of my own inarticulate cries as the fuckmeat writhes and jerks on my dick and showers me with cum.
It’s pitch black when I wake up. About twelve hours again, then. I’m stiff and sore and still on top of the corpse. I’m stuck to the meat by a glaze of dried cum and my hands are still wrapped around his throat.
Oh, such hot meat. His smooth body is now flaccid and limp and fit for love. The dull look of resignation in his cloudy eyes is irresistible. My pretty, sweet, helpless fuckmeat…
His tongue begs for my cock. I pull him lower on the couch to skullfuck him with more ease. I shudder as his dry, swollen tongue rasps against the rosebud on the underside of my oozing mushroom head. I pump his mouth hard, ramming my tool deep into his ruined throat. My sweet fucktoy, swallowing my entire dick without protest.
When I give him my second load, it’s with all my love. I had to hurt him, but only to perfect him. Now he’ll always be mine, even after his meat rots, and he’ll be beyond all pain.
As I drag him to the bathtub for dismemberment, I draw fresh inspiration from his dark twisted face. So many boys out there who need to be saved, to be made perfect. How lucky am I that I so enjoy my calling…
That hot little Mexican kid over by that tree? Nah—he’s dealing. Too hard to get back to my place. I need a buyer for what I have to offer.
Ok, that one has promise. White kid, early twenties. Wearing a ball cap but I can see he’s practically a skinhead underneath. Razor-thin sideburns running down his cheeks to meet a near-invisible goatee. Cold, squinting eyes. Plaid button-down shirt worn open over a stained white t-shirt. Tight, faded jeans tucked into worn, scuffed work boots. Clearly looking to buy. Perfect.
I pull up and start the usual routine. Coke? Sure, I can hook you up. Friend will bring it, sample back at my place, blah blah blah.
He gets in. Quiet and kinda nervous—doesn’t offer his name. Wonder if it’s his first time buying. His button-down shirt has short sleeves and I can see his arms. There’s a couple of recent tracks but no old scarring. A new convert then, thinking he was being a man by buying his own drugs.
I grin to myself. He’s gonna die like a man, slowly and painfully, as I choke the life out of him. And somewhere within, he’s gonna realize his only worth is as fuckmeat and he’s gonna give me his seed in his gratitude as he slides into eternity…
Don’t get carried away. Almost home; wait till he’s too drugged to notice. Don’t give the surprise away too soon.
Once inside, I tell him I’ll load his sample myself. It’s strong, I say, and I don’t want him flopping on me. There’s a puzzled look on his face and I realize he’s so new at this that he doesn’t know the term for overdosing. I explain and he agrees, saying, “All right, but don’t try nothing weird on me. I can fuck you up bad if I hafta.”
I really don’t want him to OD. It’s heroin I’m giving him, not coke. He’s not used to it, clearly, and I want to take my time with him—there. Just a tiny amount should be enough to make him tractable.
He’s already tied off his left arm when I hand him the syringe. He’s learned enough to flush back the needle after inserting it; the flow of blood back into the syringe proving he’s hit a vein.
He removes the needle and instantly slumps back on the sofa. I carefully pick the syringe up off the floor and dispose of it before sitting down beside him.
He’s turned to me, so high he can barely keep his eyes open. He’s drooling, a slight froth running from the corner of his mouth. Fear is on his face; coke has never done this to him and he doesn’t know what’s happening.
“It’s okay,” I say soothingly, stroking his taut, hard body, “just let what’s gonna happen, happen. I’m gonna hurt you bad, but in the end you’ll be happy. I always make my fuckmeat happy before they die.”
His eyes widen slightly and he gives a pathetic moan. The drug has made his breathing weak and shallow; he doesn’t make much noise. His hands batter limply at my chest. I won’t even have to bind him. He’s completely in my power, to do with as I wish.
But what’s getting me hard is that he’s just awake enough to realize it.
I slowly strip off his clothes, ignoring his faint attempts to resist. After removing his cap and shirts, I pull off his boots and jeans, revealing his tender ass and thick cock. Then I slip his boots back on. “There you go,” I tell him, “now you can die with your boots on.”
He’s lying back on the couch, his face turned slightly away from me. But from the corner of his eye, he’s watching me frantically, his hands pawing ineffectually at my face. “Time to rock and roll, motherfucker. This thick hog’s goin’ in your ass.”
I lay him flat on his back on the couch, propping his head up on the armrest. I easily force his legs apart, sinking my shaft into his pulsing fuckhole. It feels like a rubber band around my dick; no one’s been up there before. I slammed myself into him, feeling flesh tear as I penetrate his rectum. Low guttural sounds emerge from his throat as his face is drawn into a rictus of pain.
He instinctively wraps his muscled legs around me; I can feel his boots scuffling on my ass. He’s pawing at my chest and face, doing his sad best to resist. “Shh,” I whisper to him, “stop fighting it. You know you want this cock up your ass. You know when you’re out getting fucked up with your buddies, you want their dicks inside you. It hurts so good, doesn’t it? You know you like it, you fuckin’ bitch, now take my cock!”
Pain and confusion have spread over his face; he still doesn’t realize what’s really happening. I’m not even sure he fully understands that he’s being raped. Time to remove all doubt. I wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze.
Instantly his hands come up, plucking weakly at my wrists. I’m holding him down by his throat while I fuck him and I can see the erotic gleam of terror in his eyes. The concept of death has penetrated his drug-fogged mind and he scrambles to escape it. His struggles are hopeless; he’s pinned to the couch by the unbearable pressure on his throat and by the stabbing, searing agony in his rectum.
“Yeah, bitch,” I moan, “This is what you were looking for. This is why you went out today, so you could find a man who would give you what you deserve. All you’re good for is dying on my dick. Yeah, you piece of shit, I’m gonna use you and throw you away, you fuckin’ wad of garbage.” I spit in his face and his mouth.
He claws at my hands as gagging sounds erupt from his clenched throat. His eyes, wide and bulging, stare into mine, begging in desperation. Oh god, his pleading and fear and pain—it’s driving me on to hurt him more. I’m reaming him like a jackhammer now, plunging myself deep within his helpless ass, inflicting as much agony as possible. I’m so close to blowing my wad…
I squeeze my hands together with as much force as I can. I damn near shoot as I hear the sound of cartilage and bone cracking and feel his esophagus crushed in my hands. The fuckmeat’s face has turned a dusky blue and his gagging sounds have become intermittent but much more intense. I spit in his face again, my saliva lost in the foam flowing around his swollen tongue.
“Die, motherfucker. Shoot your worthless bitch wad and die. Die so I can fuck your sweet lifeless corpse. C’mon, you piece of shit, give me your death load. You always wanted a man to choke the cum out you. Gimme your hot dying spunk, you fuckin’ death pig…”
His struggles weaken as his brain dies. He’s not resisting me anymore; instead, his hands are caressing my face and my chest. I grip his neck more tightly, eliciting a final crunch, and his ass responds by tightening around my shaft like a hand. He arches his body upwards, pressing his smooth flat belly against mine. His boots dig into my back, holding me in a desperate dying grip.
He’s accepted my gift and embraced the death I’ve brought him. Spunk boils out of me, filling the fuckmeat with hot cum. His hard rod, pressed between our bellies, disgorges a steady stream of semen that splatters against the underside of his jaw and splashes my face. I’m vaguely aware of my own inarticulate cries as the fuckmeat writhes and jerks on my dick and showers me with cum.
It’s pitch black when I wake up. About twelve hours again, then. I’m stiff and sore and still on top of the corpse. I’m stuck to the meat by a glaze of dried cum and my hands are still wrapped around his throat.
Oh, such hot meat. His smooth body is now flaccid and limp and fit for love. The dull look of resignation in his cloudy eyes is irresistible. My pretty, sweet, helpless fuckmeat…
His tongue begs for my cock. I pull him lower on the couch to skullfuck him with more ease. I shudder as his dry, swollen tongue rasps against the rosebud on the underside of my oozing mushroom head. I pump his mouth hard, ramming my tool deep into his ruined throat. My sweet fucktoy, swallowing my entire dick without protest.
When I give him my second load, it’s with all my love. I had to hurt him, but only to perfect him. Now he’ll always be mine, even after his meat rots, and he’ll be beyond all pain.
As I drag him to the bathtub for dismemberment, I draw fresh inspiration from his dark twisted face. So many boys out there who need to be saved, to be made perfect. How lucky am I that I so enjoy my calling…
