M
m3m1
Guest
The cops were conducting sting operations in this neighborhood last week; it’s been a real pain in the ass. So hard to find lost souls—they’re afraid to come down here and there are fewer dealers on the street to lure them. They’ll be back, of course; it just makes them harder to find at the moment.
I’ve been driving around all morning with no luck. It’s nearly one before I find an opportunity. A man standing beside a pickup in a motel parking lot.
It’s a cheap, filthy place that has more or less evolved into an open marketplace for whores and dealers. I’ve never taken anyone from there because it’s far too crowded and therefore risky. But the cops cleared it out last week as well. That’s why I noticed the guy with the truck; the parking lot was otherwise empty. There hadn’t been any legitimate guests here in two decades at least.
I pull over and took a closer look. He’s older than my usual fuckmeat---say, early thirties. A true lost soul can be any age, but the older they are, the harder time I have saving them. They’re more wary and offer more resistance. They tend to be more tolerant of the drug, which limits my time. In short, they’re harder to control. But being controlled is what saves them.
He looks like he could be trouble. He has a hard, lean face. His eyes are narrow; along with his tight jaw, it makes him look mean. He’s tied a red bandanna on his head. His white sleeveless shirt and his baggy jeans are stained and dirty, as are the work boots he’s wearing. Clearly a laborer of some kind, maybe construction. Looking for a little hit on his lunch break.
Definitely trouble; not sure if I want to mess with him. But then he turns to the side and readjusts his bandanna. He’s shaved his head—but the sides of his shirt are gored and I catch a glimpse of a firm, wiry chest covered with hair. I want that body jerking and twitching underneath me.
I pull into the parking lot and start my usual routine. I can tell he’s suspicious, so I hint that it’s safer to come with me—I live in the neighborhood so the cops won’t stop me. He finally agrees and gets in. He’s been working hard and a sheen of sweat is still visible on his skin. I ask him what kind of work he does. “Install drywall, mostly,” he says quietly and turns away. Silent type. That’s okay. That’ll make it even hotter when he begs for his life.
Another complication when we get back to my place—he just wants to buy the heroin and go. I have to insist that he try a sample first. I tell him I’ll make it light so he can still drive; in fact, I make it stronger. He hits it and slumps back on the couch, looking at me, not at all unconscious. He can only move feebly and he slurs his speech, but he’s awake.
I sit next to him and pull off his shirt, running my hands over his sweaty, hairy chest. “Wh’ th’ fuck ya doin?” he mutters. He’s trying to push me away. He’s a bit more awake than I’d like; I need to make sure I don’t over-complicate this. It’s easier to handcuff his arms behind him than to tie them. I’m able to remove the rest of his clothes and slip his boots back on without any further interference. I leave the room for a moment, returning with a plastic bag containing a roll of duct tape.
While I was gone, he managed to get to his feet. I push him back down onto the couch and lay him out lengthwise before I get on top of him. “Get offa me, fuckin’ fag,” he mumbles.
I lift his head up just enough to slip the plastic bag over it, being careful not to disturb his bandanna. I seal the bag by wrapping tape around his neck several times. It’s completely air-tight.
I watch as he starts to asphyxiate. The bag is only slightly larger than his head; it contracts each time he inhales, covering his face tightly in the vacuum.
It’s transparent, so I can watch each tortured gasp for air.
As the bag inflates on the exhale, I stuff my cock up his ass. There’s a lot of resistance in his unused fuckhole, but that doesn’t stop me. And the bag doesn’t stop me from hearing him cry out. “Every scream you make burns more oxygen,” I tell him.
He stares at me in horror, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He starts pleading with me, but he has to gasp between each word, “Please…air…god…air…pl-please…” His voice, barely audible, is more strained and breathless with each word.
He shakes his head from side as he desperately tries to twist out from under me. His boots dig into the cushions of the couch, seeking traction. I’m holding him tightly as his gyrations grind my cock into his ass. Oh god, it feels fantastic. The fuckmeat feels moist and slippery from sweat; it’s soaking his pits and beading his forehead. His face is pulled back in an agonized grimace, his mouth wide open with the bag forming a slightly concave seal. At random, there’s a squeak when he manages to break the seal for a moment—not that he’s getting any oxygen.
He’s dying. His struggles have become mindlessly violent. It’s a purely physical, instinctive action; his body is trying anything it can to reach air. He’s jerking his head and craning his neck, attempting to reach the oxygen locked just beyond the thin film covering his purple face. Sweat and tears run down his cheeks. The look of terror and disbelief he gives me as his tight hole massages my swollen dick…
And at last he understands. As the damage to his brain builds up, he starts pumping his ass smoothly on my rod. His thick tool swells in anticipation of oncoming death. He’s taking short, swift breaths now, quickly sucking the bag in but just barely inflating it as he exhales. His boots drag over me as he draws his legs in with his final spasms. Then the convulsions set in and he’s bouncing his ravaged hole on my cock so hard I can’t hold my load back. At the last second, his rectum grips me so tightly that it hurts. As I hose his insides down with cum, he’s firing huge wads aimlessly, spattering us both. Pearly balls of spunk dot his chest fur and ooze down the bag on his face. His orgasm is the last thing his dying brain is capable of; his life flows out of him with his semen.
He’s still quivering when I drag him to the bed. I fall asleep holding his beautiful firm dead meat in my arms. He’s still wearing the bag. As I drift off, I stroke his face through it.
I wake up in the middle of the night and take my fucktoy into the bathroom. Almost time to take him apart and throw him out, but I can’t bear to part with the corpse yet. I remove the bag and prop him on his knees in the tub. I sit on the edge facing him; his back is against the far side. I put one hand on the top of his head to hold it up as I piss all over him. The stream splashes on his face and into his mouth. It runs down his chin to mat his chest and belly hair before it drips off his balls.
Once I’ve emptied my bladder on the fuckmeat, I get hard again right away. Good thing I’ve got nice open mouth just inches away. With one hand on top of his head and the other under his jaw, I’m able to give the meat a nice hard throatfuck. I leave a final load of spunk on his swollen lifeless tongue.
I’ll end up distributing him in various dumpsters. Think I’ll leave his truck at the motel; it won’t be connected with me. I’m pleased with today’s work. I don’t save this type of soul very often. But he had been truly worthy of the death and the seed that I gave him.
I’ve been driving around all morning with no luck. It’s nearly one before I find an opportunity. A man standing beside a pickup in a motel parking lot.
It’s a cheap, filthy place that has more or less evolved into an open marketplace for whores and dealers. I’ve never taken anyone from there because it’s far too crowded and therefore risky. But the cops cleared it out last week as well. That’s why I noticed the guy with the truck; the parking lot was otherwise empty. There hadn’t been any legitimate guests here in two decades at least.
I pull over and took a closer look. He’s older than my usual fuckmeat---say, early thirties. A true lost soul can be any age, but the older they are, the harder time I have saving them. They’re more wary and offer more resistance. They tend to be more tolerant of the drug, which limits my time. In short, they’re harder to control. But being controlled is what saves them.
He looks like he could be trouble. He has a hard, lean face. His eyes are narrow; along with his tight jaw, it makes him look mean. He’s tied a red bandanna on his head. His white sleeveless shirt and his baggy jeans are stained and dirty, as are the work boots he’s wearing. Clearly a laborer of some kind, maybe construction. Looking for a little hit on his lunch break.
Definitely trouble; not sure if I want to mess with him. But then he turns to the side and readjusts his bandanna. He’s shaved his head—but the sides of his shirt are gored and I catch a glimpse of a firm, wiry chest covered with hair. I want that body jerking and twitching underneath me.
I pull into the parking lot and start my usual routine. I can tell he’s suspicious, so I hint that it’s safer to come with me—I live in the neighborhood so the cops won’t stop me. He finally agrees and gets in. He’s been working hard and a sheen of sweat is still visible on his skin. I ask him what kind of work he does. “Install drywall, mostly,” he says quietly and turns away. Silent type. That’s okay. That’ll make it even hotter when he begs for his life.
Another complication when we get back to my place—he just wants to buy the heroin and go. I have to insist that he try a sample first. I tell him I’ll make it light so he can still drive; in fact, I make it stronger. He hits it and slumps back on the couch, looking at me, not at all unconscious. He can only move feebly and he slurs his speech, but he’s awake.
I sit next to him and pull off his shirt, running my hands over his sweaty, hairy chest. “Wh’ th’ fuck ya doin?” he mutters. He’s trying to push me away. He’s a bit more awake than I’d like; I need to make sure I don’t over-complicate this. It’s easier to handcuff his arms behind him than to tie them. I’m able to remove the rest of his clothes and slip his boots back on without any further interference. I leave the room for a moment, returning with a plastic bag containing a roll of duct tape.
While I was gone, he managed to get to his feet. I push him back down onto the couch and lay him out lengthwise before I get on top of him. “Get offa me, fuckin’ fag,” he mumbles.
I lift his head up just enough to slip the plastic bag over it, being careful not to disturb his bandanna. I seal the bag by wrapping tape around his neck several times. It’s completely air-tight.
I watch as he starts to asphyxiate. The bag is only slightly larger than his head; it contracts each time he inhales, covering his face tightly in the vacuum.
It’s transparent, so I can watch each tortured gasp for air.
As the bag inflates on the exhale, I stuff my cock up his ass. There’s a lot of resistance in his unused fuckhole, but that doesn’t stop me. And the bag doesn’t stop me from hearing him cry out. “Every scream you make burns more oxygen,” I tell him.
He stares at me in horror, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He starts pleading with me, but he has to gasp between each word, “Please…air…god…air…pl-please…” His voice, barely audible, is more strained and breathless with each word.
He shakes his head from side as he desperately tries to twist out from under me. His boots dig into the cushions of the couch, seeking traction. I’m holding him tightly as his gyrations grind my cock into his ass. Oh god, it feels fantastic. The fuckmeat feels moist and slippery from sweat; it’s soaking his pits and beading his forehead. His face is pulled back in an agonized grimace, his mouth wide open with the bag forming a slightly concave seal. At random, there’s a squeak when he manages to break the seal for a moment—not that he’s getting any oxygen.
He’s dying. His struggles have become mindlessly violent. It’s a purely physical, instinctive action; his body is trying anything it can to reach air. He’s jerking his head and craning his neck, attempting to reach the oxygen locked just beyond the thin film covering his purple face. Sweat and tears run down his cheeks. The look of terror and disbelief he gives me as his tight hole massages my swollen dick…
And at last he understands. As the damage to his brain builds up, he starts pumping his ass smoothly on my rod. His thick tool swells in anticipation of oncoming death. He’s taking short, swift breaths now, quickly sucking the bag in but just barely inflating it as he exhales. His boots drag over me as he draws his legs in with his final spasms. Then the convulsions set in and he’s bouncing his ravaged hole on my cock so hard I can’t hold my load back. At the last second, his rectum grips me so tightly that it hurts. As I hose his insides down with cum, he’s firing huge wads aimlessly, spattering us both. Pearly balls of spunk dot his chest fur and ooze down the bag on his face. His orgasm is the last thing his dying brain is capable of; his life flows out of him with his semen.
He’s still quivering when I drag him to the bed. I fall asleep holding his beautiful firm dead meat in my arms. He’s still wearing the bag. As I drift off, I stroke his face through it.
I wake up in the middle of the night and take my fucktoy into the bathroom. Almost time to take him apart and throw him out, but I can’t bear to part with the corpse yet. I remove the bag and prop him on his knees in the tub. I sit on the edge facing him; his back is against the far side. I put one hand on the top of his head to hold it up as I piss all over him. The stream splashes on his face and into his mouth. It runs down his chin to mat his chest and belly hair before it drips off his balls.
Once I’ve emptied my bladder on the fuckmeat, I get hard again right away. Good thing I’ve got nice open mouth just inches away. With one hand on top of his head and the other under his jaw, I’m able to give the meat a nice hard throatfuck. I leave a final load of spunk on his swollen lifeless tongue.
I’ll end up distributing him in various dumpsters. Think I’ll leave his truck at the motel; it won’t be connected with me. I’m pleased with today’s work. I don’t save this type of soul very often. But he had been truly worthy of the death and the seed that I gave him.
