Mac and Bill are back...

[m3m1]

The kid’s hand fumbled in his crotch as he rang the doorbell. He was hard as a rock and his tight faded jeans had bent the rigid pole tenting in his crotch. He was seventeen—the age when boys have a constant boner.

Holding the pizza box in one hand, he pulled off his cap and scratched in his dirty blond hair. His tight sneakers shuffled on the porch as he waited for the door to open. He didn’t wait long.

The man who opened the door loomed over him. Tall and very well muscled, he was in his mid-thirties, with a cold, emotionless face and buzz-cut black hair. He was dressed much like the delivery boy, in tight faded jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt.

“Got your pizza, dude. Where do ya want it?” the kid drawled. He stepped inside the house and noticed right away that it was empty. Except for a couple of boxes stacked in the room to the left of the door, all he could see of the ground floor looked vacant. The ceiling lights were on and the blinds were shut.

“Just put it on top of those boxes,” the man said gruffly. “Just moving in.”

“Sure, dude,” the kid said, moving toward the boxes. “It’s $13.95, and I can take—“

In a split second, the man had closed in on the kid, wrapped a nylon cord around his neck and cut off his air.

The delivery boy shouted in shock, his cries reduced to random syllables by the cord. “Gah! Ig! Uck!”

Then the only sounds are the labored breathing of the killer and the frantic flailing of the victim’s limbs.

The kid fights. He doesn’t want to die. But he’s young and soft and has no idea what’s happening to him. He’s helpless in the arms of a professional hardman and has no choice but to submit, even to the point of death.

His arms claw desperately in front of him, seeking help that isn’t there. The pain, the horrible pain in his chest and his throat is overwhelming and he’s almost mindless in his panic. As his muscles clench in a last fight-or-flight reflex, his dick strains rigidly, his balls red and swollen. More agonized grunts erupt past the teen’s purple lips and protruding tongue. “Ng! Ng! Guh!”

“Shut up, you little fuck,” the hardman snarled in the boy’s ear. He drags the kid roughly into the rear part of the house. The kid’s leather sneakers beat uselessly on the floor; he’s getting weak and his struggles are fading.

The boy reaches up to grasp the arms that are holding the cord. His hands flutter across the hard, tensed muscles relentlessly choking his life out. The dying teen’s bloodshot eyes are losing focus and glazing over.

Suddenly the kid starts jerking, violently and convulsively. His dying brain is losing control and sending scrambled signals. Along the way, a dark circle appears in the boy’s crotch, growing larger with each second. The punk is shooting his wad as he dies. He can’t feel it; his brain is too damaged. He shoots his load uncontrollably as a physical reflex..

The killer drops the corpse on the floor. It’s useless meat now. He picks up the kid’s cap and pizza box and digs through the boy’s pockets for his key. He turns out the light as he leaves.

Silence settles in afterwards. There’s an occasional gurgle and twitch from the corpse but these fade over time. Rigor sets in and the teen’s dull blue eyes cloud.

 

[m3m1]

Mac responded quickly to Bill's knock. “How'd it go?” he asked.

“Fucker kicked a little,” Bill growled. “But it worked fine. Car's a fifteen-year-old POS, but it's got the sign. His cap has the company logo, so I took it too. It's in the car with the pizza. Ready to roll?”

Mac chuckled. “Yeah, we need to get a move on or they'll be expecting it for free,” he said. “Just be grateful these fucking morons are so predictable. Ordering pizza from the same place every Wednesday. Whoever they are, they're amateurs.”

The target location was not far away. The house was set back off the road. They'd done some recon and knew that there'd be one guard outside and one just inside the front door.

As usual, they didn't know who the main target was or why. They were there to do a job, a job they were good at. A job they enjoyed.

Bill had enjoyed killing the teen delivery boy just for his car and pizza box, but it had been Mac's idea to order a pizza at an abandoned address to kill the driver and use his car to infiltrate the target location. Worked like a charm.

Mac was in a commando blackout suit, all black, with rubber soled combat boots; he even had black greasepaint to ensure his face wasn't visible beneath his black ski cap. In the shadows, he was practically invisible. He hid in the back seat of the dead kid’s car on the way.

Bill pulled up at the curb and got out. The guard stepped off the porch and approached him. Bill’s silenced .38 was hidden under the pizza box. The guard never saw it.

The guard was the typical free-lance merc. Late twenties, very fit, long, slightly curly hair. Dressed casually in tight black jeans and a t-shirt. There was a pair of tightly-laced black and white leather sneaker on his feet. He was hungry; he never saw death coming at him.

Bill’s gun made a slight coughing sound. The merc punk grunted as the slug punched through his abdomen. He sank to his knees with a gasp, looking up at Bill with a helpless, pleading look on his face. He didn’t know what had happened; he only knew that something was very wrong and he was in terrible pain.

He didn’t seem to catch on even when Bill tossed the pizza box aside and fired again. The second bullet punctured the guard’s left lung. A deep, primal grunt was forced past the man’s vocal cords as his chest was compacted by the impact. He collapsed in a heap with that taste of his own blood in his mouth, still not realizing that he was dying.

Bill thought it was a shame he couldn’t send this one off right. He and Mac usually arranged things so that their victims blew their loads before—or even better, at—death. But there was another hardman waiting just inside the door, so this needed to be quick. This fucking punk was small-time, a boy pretending to be a man. Bill ended the game by popping a cap into the boy’s brain. His leather shoes kicked violently, then the corpse quivered in its death throes. Man or boy, thought Bill, they die same. They all go out kicking at the end.

Mac had crept silently from the back seat of the car and managed to reach the front door before Bill had fired his second shot. As he’d suspected, they never actually closed the door; it was kept open slightly for the inside guard to see what was going on outside. Sounded like the guy was just realizing that something wasn’t right. Mac flew into action—time for a shock kill.

The idea of the shock kill it to inflict such trauma on the opponent’s body that he is incapable of reaction; he goes into instant shock and is helpless to defend himself or alert others. Mac and Bill had refined this technique to the point that they could usually induce an involuntary orgasm by extremely accurate placement of their weapons.

In this case, Mac found the guard standing right at the door. He elbowed the door open, grabbed the hardman’s shirt and brought his knife up to his neck.

A quick jab thrust the cold jagged steel into the mercenary’s throat. The guard grabbed hold of Mac as his larynx was shredded by the vicious blade. His body stiffened; his legs tensing in his jeans and his boots scuffling on the floor.

Mac twisted the knife in the guard’s throat, slicing the tissues into hamburger. He ripped the shank brutally out of the guy’s windpipe, doing even more damage. The next thrust would be the master stroke.

Mac quickly raised the knife and rammed it up through the base of the guard’s skull. As the blade penetrated deep into the helpless man’s cerebellum, it slashed through the pleasure center of the brain. Mac could feel the guy’s dick as a stiff, warm ridge as the dying man’s body arced forward and pressed tightly against him. The convulsions induced by the massive brain trauma caused the merc’s body to twitch and jerk against Mac, humping the punk’s hard rod until it began to ooze sperm uncontrollably. Mac let the corpse slid slowly down that wall. Its jeans were so tight that the spasms of the dying cock could clearly be seen.

They were inside.

End of Parts 1 and 2

 

[small_dot]

Been seriously looking forward to your return. Extremely well written, such a pleasure to read. Thank you!

 

[HangTime]

Hot story, Matt! Hope to see part 3 very soon! Welcome back, my friend!

 

[m3m1]

Thanks, guys, really appreciate the support. Stick around; there'll be more to come. May go back and continue some of the older stories too.

 

[OhSiris]

Wow - great stuff!

 

[VinnieG]

Excellent story as usual. Glad to see a new one!

 

[m3m1]

Mac and Bill are back, part three

Bill dragged the dead merc into the bushes and left the lifeless meat hidden away. Mac waited for him to finish and get inside before closing the door behind him.

Now it was time to clean house.

The entryway was small. It was a hall leading to the back of the house, terminating in a door. On the right side was the staircase to the second floor. Further down the hall were openings into rooms, one on each side. There was noise and commotion coming from the opening on the left.

Mac crept down the hall and peered into the room. He looked back at Bill with an expression of amused contempt on his face. Bill took a look himself. He saw what Mac had seen and turned to him with a grin.

Professional hardmen at the door, teen punks in the living room. Three of them, playing a video game. Bill took another look. “Dude, I just owned your ass!” one of the kids shouted at another. He had long dark hair with blond highlights. He had on a tight black t-shirt that emphasized the muscles of his chest. His black jeans did the same thing for his thighs. He was wearing gray suede hightops His belt was formed of links of metal and there was a chain running from a belt loop to his wallet. The kid he was yelling at was younger, no more than seventeen, if that. His dirty blond hair was shorter and the body enclosed in the white t-shirt and blue jeans was slimmer. He wore a simple but very tight pair of white leather sneakers.

The third punk had been loading and hitting a bong while this ownage had occurred. He was slightly more developed than the other two, with a broad muscled chest displayed in a black Metallica t-shirt. He had a red bandanna tied around his head but his black hair hung down behind. He wore old, faded jeans and a pair of black harness boots. He took a lung-busting hit off the bong and handed it to the owned kid.

Mac and Bill huddled. The youngest, they decided, would be the easiest to crack. Once they tenderized him, he’d talk. Time for a little shock and awe.

It was quick and brutal. Bill stepped into the room. The kid who had been speaking saw him first. Reaction times were slow since they were all stoned. The kid just stared at Bill, mouth agape. His brain couldn’t process the signal fast enough—and then it couldn’t process anything at all. Bill’s silenced .38 spat twice, giving the kid a hot lead facial. The boy gave a deep mortal grunt as a small neat hole formed under his left eye and another appeared on his forehead at the same time.

The punk fell backwards, kicking and convulsing violently as bullet fragments carved channels in his brain. Shards of metal ricocheted of the inside of his skull to further increase the trauma. The boy writhed and twisted, a mindless chunk of meat agonizingly kicking away its last few seconds on earth.

The younger kid was frozen in terror. Bandanna boy stood up, uncertain of what to do. Mac solved that dilemma for him. Grabbing the punk’s hair right through his bandanna. Mac locked the kid into place and rammed his K-Bar military knife straight through the boy’s ear canal into his brain.

Seven inches of cold sharp steel penetrated the kid’s gray matter. There was a physical reaction to the massive brain trauma. And Mac, using pinpoint precision, was able to control that reaction.

The punk shuddered in Mac’s arms as Mac slowly skullfucked the knife in his head. “Watch this,” Mac said, turning the helpless kid towards both Bill and the younger boy, “Little fucker’s just a brain-dead meat puppet. Watch me make him shoot a wad.”

He twisted the knife in the boy’s skull slightly, nicking the pleasure center of the brain. Then he reamed the blade in hard. The kid gave a reflexive cry, muffled by Mac’s gloved hand tightly clamped over his mouth. The body arced backwards, thrusting the groin towards Bill and the other youth. A thick ridge was obvious in the groin and before their eyes; a dark stain was spreading from the end of the ridge, glistening on the surface of the denim.

“Fuck yeah!” cried Bill. “What about you, you little fucker, ya ready to get a cold hard tool fucked into your brain too?”

The remaining teen was gasping and staring at the quivering remains of bandanna boy, eyes wide with shock. “Oh fuck,” he moaned repeatedly, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Please, don’t. Please don’t kill me…” He broke off and started weeping openly.

“Then talk. How many others? Where are they? Tell us and maybe we won’t kill you. But if you don’t tell us, we will kill you. How’s that for a deal?”

“There’s-there’s Paul outside and Ricky at the…at the door,” the kid sobs, “and-and I know there’s th-th-three guys upstairs, including Carl. He’s who-who you want, please, oh god, please, he’s the big guy, I’m nobody, dear god please don’t fucking kill me—“

He started sobbing again. The video game was still running and covered some of the sound.

Bill turned to Mac. “Sounds like what we needed. We wanna keep this piece of shit around for any reason?”

“Nothing I can think of,” responded Mac, “Might as whack the fucker.”

The kid began bawling and begging, “Oh please, please, please…” As the knowledge that his life was about to end in terrible pain and futility overcame him, the teen began to babble in terror. “Ohpleaseohpleaseitoldyouwhatyouwanteddontkillme—“

He fell to his knees, his right hand held up to shield him from the death blow. It was useless. Bill fired once. The bullet punctured the boy’s hand before it pierced his abdomen and tore a gaping hole in the youth’s smooth hairless back. The punk exhaled forcefully as the air in his lungs was expelled by the impact.

At the same moment, Mac stepped forward, placing himself directly in front of the stunned boy. The kid looked up at him in a daze. Mac reached down, knife in his hand, and slashed the boy’s throat.

“Fucking traitor bitch,” snarled Mac in the dying youth’s face, “You talked. Your partners are gonna die because of you. You don’t deserve a final load of cum. You’re a fucking bitch and you’re dying like one. Here’s a final blessing, you fucking worthless loser.”

Mac unzipped his fly, and eased out his thick, uncut, semi-hard cock. Bill is right beside him, cut, not as long, but thicker.

They both pissed on the bitch who talked. The kid stared up at the pair of cocks hanging over him, urine diluting the color of the blood flowing from the gash in his throat. The blood bubbled and foamed as the dying teen tried to exhale. The boy gasped in agonal respirations, bleeding out his worthless life as his killers expressed their contempt for his attempt to act like a man. The punk ended his bitch life gargling and drowning in his own blood in a shower of piss.

--End of part three

 

[m3m1]

Mac and Bill are back, part four

Mac crept slowly up the staircase, testing each step to make sure there would be no sound. Behind him was Bill, putting his leather hightops directly into Mac’s boot prints so that he only stepped on a spot that had already been cleared.

After wasting the kids downstairs, Mac and Bill had a better idea of what was going on. They never asked questions, but this was a scenario they’d run across before. Amateur mercs and juvenile delinquents in a suburban house added up to one thing: a relatively low-level drug dealer was being taken out.

Who wanted him taken out and why were unknown and didn’t really matter anyway. What mattered was that Mac and Bill now knew what to expect. Three guys upstairs, including the primary target, Carl. None of them would be professionals. In fact, it was likely that two of them would be teen punks—runners and street dealers recruited to guard their employer.

Mac paused at the top of the stairs. Bill was right behind him. They both were relying on their hunting skills, listening carefully for the sounds of their prey. The landing was small and square. It was also empty. There was a door on each side. The one on the left was closed. The one on the right was not and the sounds of a conversation came from the doorway.

“Hey, Ryan, got any more of that weed or did you give it all to Andy?”

“Nah, brah, I got more. But I only got one paper left. Here, you roll a jay and I’ll go get more. If Andy don’t have any, Josh will.”

Ryan staggered out of the room and stumbled toward the staircase. From his point of view, Mac was in plain sight—but Ryan was far too high to notice him.

Ryan was about nineteen and was stoned to the point of being completely goofy. He wore tight gray jeans with skate shoes laced tightly on his feet. He was putting a green t-shirt on over his well-developed chest. There was a huge grin on his face. His eyes were completely bloodshot and he had a large nose that somehow made him look vulnerable. He was settling a white ball cap on his head after he’d pulled his shirt down.

The kid made it all the way to the staircase without noticing death crouching in the shadows. It wasn’t till he actually started down the steps that he realized something was wrong.

And be then it was too late. Mac was already on him, reaming his knife into the teen’s hard body.

He’d popped up and grabbed Ryan by the back of the head, pulling the boy tightly towards him. At the same time, he brought his 9” commando knife up and rammed it hard into Ryan’s chest. The kid gasped loudly as the serrated blade pierced his left lung—more of grunt than a gasp, since the force of the steel shaft in his chest forced the air out of his lungs.

Bill moved past the spot where Mac was holding the teen punk in the hard grasp of death. The sounds could have been heard by the boy who was still in the room and Bill needed to take him out quickly, before the target—who was presumably on the other side of the closed door—was alerted.

Mac was still embracing Ryan, holding him close, staring into his eyes. He twisted his knife into the boy’s chest, watching the agony he was eagerly inflicting. The kid struggled violently, trying to break free of the muscled arms that held him relentlessly in the world of pain he had suddenly wandered into.

Ryan looked into Mac’s face, dazed and confused. He didn’t know what was happening. There was some dude in front of him, snarling in contempt, holding him helplessly. And there was pain, my god, there was pain that seared him with each breath.

Mac ground the knife into Ryan’s chest, shredding lung and muscle tissue, before yanking the knife brutally out of the wound. The sheer viciousness of the knife being ripped from his body forced another agonized grunt from the dying pothead.

Bill, in the meantime, was crouched beside the open doorway. He was still in his tight jeans and t-shirt, in the guise of pizza delivery. He even still had the dead delivery boy’s cap on.

As he suspected, the commotion on the landing—quiet as it was—had attracted the attention of the boy in the room, and he came to investigate.

He was slightly older than Ryan, in his early twenties. Like Ryan, he had on a white ball cap, but his was on backwards. There was a light goatee on his broad face and his eyes were as bloodshot as his friend’s. The hightop shoes that showed at the end of his long muscled legs were of a dark brown suede. He too had on skinny jeans and a t-shirt and he was clearly just as stoned as Ryan.

The sight of his buddy getting punk-fucked with a sharp blade stunned the kid. He froze in place and opened his mouth to shout. Bill didn’t give him a chance. He popped up from his stance beside the door and grabbed the boy with both hands, reaching around the kid to place his left hand on the boy’s right shoulder. Bill then reached behind the kid’s head with his right hand to grab the punk’s chin from the left. All he had to do then was pull his arms violently back into place.

Instantly, the kid’s head was twisted backwards through more than 180 degrees. Even though the punk’s body was facing away from Bill, his eyes were staring with horror directly into Bill’s. The sound was that of a dry branch breaking—but it went on for much longer, with a shattering effect.

The kid went completely rigid in Bill’s arms. His red eyes were wide with pain and panic, the panic of someone who knows that something is terribly wrong but doesn’t know what. The kid was too high to know that his neck was broken; he only knew that he couldn’t breathe and that some muscled dude was holding him so he couldn’t get away.

Then everything started to get bright and fuzzy. There was a ringing in his ears, but he couldn’t feel anything below his neck. The dying punk had a hard-on that was leaking semen into his shorts, but he couldn’t feel it.

As everything faded into a blaze of white as the useless kid gave up his life, he reflexively blew a massive wad. He never felt it, though. The last thing he was aware of was Bill’s cold , hard face looking into his own.

Ryan put up more of a fight. In the end, of course, it was just as futile. Mac put him down.

Mac forced the kid up against the wall, holding him in place by clamping one leather-gloved hand over the boy’s mouth and pressing his head back against the wall. He rammed his blade into the kid repeatedly, plunging the hard cold steel into Ryan’s firm chest and stomach.

The boy fought Mac as best he could. His arms were fairly strong too and he was trying to break free from the merciless grip of pain and death. His face contorted in agony with each thrust of the knife as he twisted and writhed in his futile attempt to escape.

Mac realized that Ryan was on his way out and decided to send him off right. He spun the youth around and slammed him face-first into the wall, momentarily stunning the teen punk. Then he bent the kid’s head forward and forced the razor-sharp tip of his knife into the back of Ryan’s neck at an upward angle.

The blade punctured the base of the kid’s skull with a crunching sound and slid into his brain like a hot knife through butter. Ryan went rigid with instant brain trauma, involuntarily inhaling with a loud gasp. Mac leaned against the boy, pressing him against the wall and feeling the quivering of his damaged nervous system.

Once again, Mac had managed to take a tough punk and turn him into a spunking meat puppet. Ryan’s cock spewed a solid stream of cum for nearly a minute and a half as Mac worked the serrated blade of his knife into the boy’s brain stem. As the corpse—brain dead but still upright and ejaculating—jerked and twitched against his groin, Mac moaned quietly and shot his own wad. When he was done, he jerked his knife out of Ryan’s head and left the dead meat to sink to the ground.

Bill grinned at Mac; he knew exactly what had happened and had enjoyed watching. But there was still some unfinished business.

They turned to the closed door. Time to take of Carl.