michael antony
Forum Regular
one for leatherdude: "Not Much Upstairs" (shooting, leather, corpse handling)
This is a story idea I worked out last year after sharing my shooting fantasies with leatherdude for a while. It's not really finished, but it's at a point where I think I can share it here...
----------------
"Not Much Upstairs"
Michael didn't have much upstairs, but God, was he bangin'.
I'm up at Max's country place out of town, the place he opens up for special private parties, and I'd just spent the last three hours finding out why Max kept that selfish, troublemaking bitch around for so long.
I totally understood now why Max was able to look the other way while Michael cockteased Max's friends for coke at parties, and went slutting around behind his back while he was out of town on a score -- because Michael was always the hottest bitch in the room, and he knew how to please Max the way he loved to be pleased.
God, what a slinky hottie -- classically beautiful, Michael was smooth and tight, a slim, lean six-footer with a perky, flexible ass, sleek thighs that went on forever, and slinging a naturally heavy and thick seven inches. His ash brown hair flowed past his shoulders and framed a boyish, handsome face with deep hazel eyes and a delicate, sensuous mouth.
Michael had a classic body, an ass made for fucking, a mouth made for sucking -- and a really bad attitude. Of all the personal fucktoys that Max ever kept around, Michael had to be the greediest, the most impetuous, the most conceited, and the most dangerous. The sneaking around with Max's friends -- like that Atlantic City guy who owns the 3000 Club -- was the least of the trouble he caused for Max's outfit. The affairs and the coke-whoring at parties were nothing compared to the trouble Michael was planning for me tonight -- and tonight he was dressed to make trouble: black leather cuff boots with four-inch heels, skin-tight jeans that showcased every curve and swelling of his cock, ass and thighs (with no underwear), and an equally tight polished leather jacket (with no shirt).
He was here to get my cash for another 10 grand worth of coke that he'd skimmed off of Max's shipments. Stupid little whore, did he really think Max wouldn't have noticed that shit going on -- especially for the past six months that he was bringing it to _me_, and I was nailing him every week when he showed up to drop off more? A while back he'd started hitting on me for lines at Max's parties -- like he does with pretty much all of Max's friends, just because he can -- and one night he must've decided he really liked me, because about half an hour later I had that cute little ass wired up and was tearing it in half in a clearing in the woods near Max's patio. Of course, when a dumb, horny bitch like Michael gets that coked up, you're going to hear everything about everything... including his haughty bragging about how much he was cutting out of Max's incoming shipments and how much he was making off of it.
Dumb slut. He didn't even bother to check me out first before getting me involved -- didn't find out how how I knew Max, where I came from, how long I'd been in town -- no, just high and stupid and bragging about ripping off Max to some stranger who got him high and fucked him at a party.
He must've found out that Max was on to him because here he was, meeting me way out here just to make this one drop, and thinking he could use his body to get what he wanted -- as usual. Play fast and loose, get in trouble, fuck and suck your way out of it -- that was pretty much it to Michael. It worked all those times before, why not now?
We'd just had a pretty intense conversation about my getting him out of trouble about twenty-some minutes ago, right after he'd spent the afternoon showing me what my money could get me...
...Michael stepped out of the shower and toweled off. He got as far as pulling on his boots and getting his pants halfway up before he stood up and strutted across the room to me. His cock swayed and bounced provocatively as he strode toward me and leaned on the dresser as I was getting into my pants, giving me a trashy, hot cock and thigh show as he caught my gaze.
"So, babe, how did you like the free sample?"
"You're offering more? I thought you were Max's property."
Michael stepped closer. "Maybe he doesn't satisfy me anymore."
"Did _I_ satisfy you?"
Michael snatched my hand, pressed it around his cock. "What do _you_ think?", he moaned softly. "I may be Max's boy now -- but what if I want to be _your_ boy...?"
"Think I can afford it?" I asked.
Michael's eyes flashed at me for a moment as I felt his cock swelling in my hand.
"Fuckin' whore," I growled. "Is this some kind of joke?"
Michael smiled coldly. "Does it feel like I'm joking?" I squeezed his cock gently as he began to harden.
I tightened my grip on Michael's cock, pulled him to me and kissed him deep and hard, then stuffed his meat back into his jeans, and lightly pushed him back. "I'll think about it."
"Don't think _too_ long," Michael replied, "a lot of Max's friends can afford me, too, babe."
Michael went back into the bathroom and finished dressing.
I finished dressing, poured myself a shot and got an eyeful of Michael as he left the bathroom and walked across the bedroom to where his bag lay on a table. I looked him up and down from across the room. What classic hotness. No wonder Max put up with so much shit from this boy.
Michael turned to me. Our eyes locked again. _My_ boy, now? I was sorely tempted, in spite of what Max warned me about earlier.
"So... you're really serious about that offer? About dumping Max?"
"Absolutely. You still thinking about it?" Michael turned to glance at the .380 auto nestled in his bag.
I turned casually to open a drawer in the dresser and discreetly noted the location of my .45 in the drawer.
"No, I believe I've thought plenty."
"So, babe, what _do_ you think?" asked Michael. I paused to admire Michael's ass in the dresser mirror -- and saw the .380 coming out of the bag. My original plan went out the window. Time to improvise.
In a single move, I drew the .45 from the drawer and dove onto the bed as Michael came around, out of his line of fire as he fired the only shot he'd get off. That same instant I had the .45 up and popping, squeezing the trigger instinctively, repeatedly, peppering Michael's sleek torso with lead, little volcanos of blood popping and bursting from his jacket. Michael's back arched and his hips bucked as he danced to the sound of my .45, grunting and moaning almost orgasmically as the big jacketed slugs pounded him. He was probably dead on his feet after my second shot caught him, but I couldn't stop firing, nearly emptying my clip into him. Normally I'm much more disciplined, often using only two slugs at most, but I was really pissed off about almost letting this stupid little whore get the drop on me.
After what seemed like forever, I finally stopped shooting. Michael's body, no longer held up by the force of my bullets ripping through it, dropped to the floor like a sack of cement.
I stood up, took a deep breath, tried to relax and let the silence settle in.
I stepped cautiously toward Michael's body, my .45 still leveled at his ribs. I reached out with a booted foot and gently slid the .380 away from Michael's outstretched right hand, then stepped back for a few moments while Michael had his final orgasm, post mortem; his hips twitched lightly, his flanks and ass shuddered gently and provocatively as he blew his last load down the leg of his jeans, and then finally relaxed forever. I shoved a boot under his gut and kicked roughly a couple of times. Michael's ass and hips rocked and quivered sensuously a few times and fell still.
Max's little problem was finally dealt with, cooling face down in a provocative, awkward sprawl, left arm stretched forward, right arm flung lazily to the side. One leg lay flexed slightly forward, crossing the other at the ankle, thrusting the hips and ass up toward me. That was just like Michael -- I'd just blown five holes in him, and he was still giving me an ass show.
I stepped over the body and back across to the nightstand and fished out my phone. I rang Max on the secure line...
"Max? Hey, Tanner, here. I'm finished with Michael... finally. Thanks again for the use of this boy. I can see why you kept him around as long as you did. What a tight, hot bitch...took all the cock I could give him, and he still wanted more..."
I walked slowly back across the room. "So, can he come to the phone?" asked Max.
I casually nudged Michael's corpse with my boot as Max and I discussed him as if talking behind his back. "No, sorry... he's relaxing in the bedroom right now."
"OK, no problem... long as you've treated him right." replied Max.
"I treated this boy just fine," I said wryly, as I planted a boot astride Michael's lifeless ass.
"Knew you would." laughed Max. "Oh, yeah, and don't forget the pictures."
"A pleasure, believe me," I smiled. "So, look, Max," I continued, "nothing personal, but we need to renegotiate this contract and get me some hazard pay. This little fucktoy of yours had a piece in his bag, and tried to use it on me. How did he get it?"
Max paused at the other end of the line. "Fuck if I know, Tanner. I know _I_ wouldn't have bought a gun for that dumb slut no matter how much he bitched. It's bad enough he was using his body on my friends, you think I'd let him pack a _gun_?"
"OK, Max, OK. Relax. Everything did end up OK for us..."
"Yeah... for us." I could just see Max smiling at the other end. "Let's talk after you wrap it up over there."
"Sounds good, Max. We can grab a drink tomorrow, then... oh, hey, can I give you some advice...?" I prodded Michael's corpse again, harder, to make his ass shake. The fresh carcass was still soft and limp, and rocked and quivered with each prod or nudge. "If you're going to insist on toting these little party sluts around with you, you ought to check them out a little better. Find out who their friends are. Find out how many of your big-shot friends passed him around before he got to you. Find out something besides their dick size."
I hung up, and my attention returned to the lean, sleek bitch cooling at my feet. His jacket was spattered with a fine mist of blood from the jagged, puckered-out rips in the leather where my slugs had exited his back. A small red pool spread slowly beneath him as his entry wounds bled out onto the floor. I looked him slowly up and down for a few moments, then buried a boot under his gut and kicked hard. The limp, heavy corpse flopped over loosely and sloppily, like a big broken doll.
I paused again to drink Michael in. I couldn't blame Max for throwing his reason out the window while he sugared this punk up. I probably would've done the same. Even now, bullet-riddled and lifeless, Michael's body commanded my attention and desire. Somehow, he looked even hotter dead than alive. Blood still welled up in the five neat punctures scattered across the front of Michael's tight leather jacket. Still swollen and heavy from the afternoon's sex, his cock strained against his skin-tight jeans, forming a tantalizing perfect impression in the denim, a dark stain spreading from the tip, the heavy musty smell of Michael's last load drifting up to me. His face was blank, his jaw slack, lips slightly parted. His eyes still sparkled; slightly crossed, they stared into the ceiling with a vacant, heavy-lidded gaze. His expression seemed almost diffident and aloof, as if he didn't care that he'd just taken a chestful of lead.
I couldn't help smiling to myself. Michael tried to use his body to get what he wanted from me, except I was one of the few guys who wouldn't fall for it... and now, that body belonged to me. Michael was finally going to give up that ass on someone else's terms.
I reached down and grabbed Michael's corpse by the ankles. His fine leather boots felt good in my hands -- I could tell Max was really spoiling this bitch. I dragged the body towards the center of the room where I'd have more room to search it. Michael's arms flopped back and trailed behind him, his torso leaving a slick, smeared trail from the still-bleeding exit wounds in his back.
Reaching the center of the bedroom floor, I dropped Michael's legs and kicked them apart. I knelt over the corpse, taking another opportunity to pause and admire, then reached down and started with the jacket, frisking quickly but methodically, my hands coolly exploring now-familiar territory. Finding the outer pockets empty, I roughly unzipped Michael's jacket and threw it open, exposing his shirtless torso. Exquisite. These tight, sleek, pretty party boys were always my favorite -- hot, horny, stupid, and disposable.
I paused a moment to check out my work. Five big, perfect, clean entries perforated Michael's flesh -- two in the chest, one in the ribs, two more in the upper abdomen just above the navel. Not as tightly grouped as I would've liked -- I normally aim high center mass -- but considering the circumstances, they did the job. I searched the inside pockets of Michael's jacket; finding nothing, I pulled the jacket closed, partially zipped it up, and shifted my attention to Michael's pants pockets.
The skin-tight jeans made searching the pockets difficult in more ways than one. I fought distraction as I shoved my hand into the left front pocket; the pocket was empty, but I couldn't help hardening a bit as I inadvertantly felt Michael's still heavy and engorged cock pressed against the fabric.
Finding his front pockets empty, I grabbed a couple of fistfuls of denim and leather and rudely threw the corpse over ass-up. God, this boy was amazing -- Max may have a weakness, but at least he has taste. Searching Michael's back pockets was even more distracting. It was virtually impossible to shove my hands all the way into the pockets to do a proper search without getting a handful of that sweet, firm ass. It still felt fine, too -- still supple, tight and satisfying. Finding nothing in Michael's pockets, it was time to get him downstairs to do the strip search and cavity search, then get him ready for Max. I felt a strange anticipation as I stripped off my street clothes -- I'd need them for the trip out -- and got into a pair of old swim trunks and deck shoes to haul the corpse to the basement.
I'd hunted deer often when I was younger, and had always enjoyed handling fresh kill -- the feel and smell of blood and newly-dead flesh; feeling the weight of a fresh carcass over my shoulder, a feeling of victory, of taking ownership. It was a special feeling that never left, and came back even stronger when I started hunting men -- especially beautiful ones. As they go, Michael was a fairly big dude, a well-built 170 pounder -- about the size of a young deer -- but no problem for a guy my size and strength. I'd hauled much bigger bucks out of the woods before. Grabbing a shoulder and a thigh, I snatched the corpse off the floor, tossed it easily over my shoulder, and headed out the back of the house toward a long secluded path leading to the back basement door. I took the walk slowly, to enjoy the old feelings coming back as I felt Michael's sleek, toned thighs through the tight denim, the weight of his body draped across my shoulder, the feel of his bloodied leather pressed against my bare skin. In time with my steps, Michael's head bobbed lazily, his long hair swishing like a horse's tail, occasionally brushing the small of my back; his arms swayed and flopped, his hands now and then bouncing off my ass. Dead almost twenty minutes, and this rotten little slut was still cockteasing me. Too fucking much, bitch. My anticipation grew stronger as I approached the basement door.
The lights were out on the back of the house around the lower basement door. The moon was full that night, bathing the small patch of lawn around the door in a crisp glow. Arriving at the door, I hefted the kill from over my shoulder and rudely tossed it to the ground like a sack of topsoil. The carcass bounced sloppily, rocking and quivering before coming to rest in a broken, awkward sprawl.
I punched in the combination for the door and pushed it open to enter a small anteroom with a couple of stainless steel tables and another door leading to the main room. I returned to the lawn, snatched the corpse by the ankles, dragged it into the anteroom and locked the outer door. With the basement sealed off, it was safe to turn up the lights.
Michael's corpse splayed on the tiles, arms flung out above his head, as if permanently in surrender. The effects of my .45 and the next twenty minutes of prodding and manhandling gave the corpse a nightmarish but irresistable allure. The bleeding from his mouth and nose had stopped, leaving thin, dark trails across his face. Blood still leaked from the wounds in his back and glistened in the hits on his chest, ribs and gut. His sleek, long hair was thrown crazily about his face, and fresh blood still glistened on Michael's leather jacket, now sloppily arranged about his torso in the classic dishevelment of sudden, brutal death -- and it made him even hotter.
Half an hour ago, this corpse had just finished giving me the greatest afternoon of sucking and banging I ever got. We traded trash talk over a couple of shots after we showered. I watched him dress. We toyed with each other. Then, he got serious. He really did want to dump Max, he really was offering me first chance at being his new "owner", and thought he could just do it on the quiet. That's right, the boyfriend of Max Coyne, A-list mobster, fucktoy for at least two of Max's partners at the same time, one of the most notoriously ill-behaved gangster's boyfriends around -- and this bitch really loved his reputation -- actually thought he could pull this caper on Max with me, then just give me some head and ass, take his money and leave without anybody in Max's organization paying attention. And, then he actually offered me a piece of that action, with a straight face... and thought he could back it up with his body.
Dumb slut -- half an hour ago sensual, beautiful, talented, impetuous, conceited, greedy, dangerous. Now, fresh meat.
This is a story idea I worked out last year after sharing my shooting fantasies with leatherdude for a while. It's not really finished, but it's at a point where I think I can share it here...
----------------
"Not Much Upstairs"
Michael didn't have much upstairs, but God, was he bangin'.
I'm up at Max's country place out of town, the place he opens up for special private parties, and I'd just spent the last three hours finding out why Max kept that selfish, troublemaking bitch around for so long.
I totally understood now why Max was able to look the other way while Michael cockteased Max's friends for coke at parties, and went slutting around behind his back while he was out of town on a score -- because Michael was always the hottest bitch in the room, and he knew how to please Max the way he loved to be pleased.
God, what a slinky hottie -- classically beautiful, Michael was smooth and tight, a slim, lean six-footer with a perky, flexible ass, sleek thighs that went on forever, and slinging a naturally heavy and thick seven inches. His ash brown hair flowed past his shoulders and framed a boyish, handsome face with deep hazel eyes and a delicate, sensuous mouth.
Michael had a classic body, an ass made for fucking, a mouth made for sucking -- and a really bad attitude. Of all the personal fucktoys that Max ever kept around, Michael had to be the greediest, the most impetuous, the most conceited, and the most dangerous. The sneaking around with Max's friends -- like that Atlantic City guy who owns the 3000 Club -- was the least of the trouble he caused for Max's outfit. The affairs and the coke-whoring at parties were nothing compared to the trouble Michael was planning for me tonight -- and tonight he was dressed to make trouble: black leather cuff boots with four-inch heels, skin-tight jeans that showcased every curve and swelling of his cock, ass and thighs (with no underwear), and an equally tight polished leather jacket (with no shirt).
He was here to get my cash for another 10 grand worth of coke that he'd skimmed off of Max's shipments. Stupid little whore, did he really think Max wouldn't have noticed that shit going on -- especially for the past six months that he was bringing it to _me_, and I was nailing him every week when he showed up to drop off more? A while back he'd started hitting on me for lines at Max's parties -- like he does with pretty much all of Max's friends, just because he can -- and one night he must've decided he really liked me, because about half an hour later I had that cute little ass wired up and was tearing it in half in a clearing in the woods near Max's patio. Of course, when a dumb, horny bitch like Michael gets that coked up, you're going to hear everything about everything... including his haughty bragging about how much he was cutting out of Max's incoming shipments and how much he was making off of it.
Dumb slut. He didn't even bother to check me out first before getting me involved -- didn't find out how how I knew Max, where I came from, how long I'd been in town -- no, just high and stupid and bragging about ripping off Max to some stranger who got him high and fucked him at a party.
He must've found out that Max was on to him because here he was, meeting me way out here just to make this one drop, and thinking he could use his body to get what he wanted -- as usual. Play fast and loose, get in trouble, fuck and suck your way out of it -- that was pretty much it to Michael. It worked all those times before, why not now?
We'd just had a pretty intense conversation about my getting him out of trouble about twenty-some minutes ago, right after he'd spent the afternoon showing me what my money could get me...
...Michael stepped out of the shower and toweled off. He got as far as pulling on his boots and getting his pants halfway up before he stood up and strutted across the room to me. His cock swayed and bounced provocatively as he strode toward me and leaned on the dresser as I was getting into my pants, giving me a trashy, hot cock and thigh show as he caught my gaze.
"So, babe, how did you like the free sample?"
"You're offering more? I thought you were Max's property."
Michael stepped closer. "Maybe he doesn't satisfy me anymore."
"Did _I_ satisfy you?"
Michael snatched my hand, pressed it around his cock. "What do _you_ think?", he moaned softly. "I may be Max's boy now -- but what if I want to be _your_ boy...?"
"Think I can afford it?" I asked.
Michael's eyes flashed at me for a moment as I felt his cock swelling in my hand.
"Fuckin' whore," I growled. "Is this some kind of joke?"
Michael smiled coldly. "Does it feel like I'm joking?" I squeezed his cock gently as he began to harden.
I tightened my grip on Michael's cock, pulled him to me and kissed him deep and hard, then stuffed his meat back into his jeans, and lightly pushed him back. "I'll think about it."
"Don't think _too_ long," Michael replied, "a lot of Max's friends can afford me, too, babe."
Michael went back into the bathroom and finished dressing.
I finished dressing, poured myself a shot and got an eyeful of Michael as he left the bathroom and walked across the bedroom to where his bag lay on a table. I looked him up and down from across the room. What classic hotness. No wonder Max put up with so much shit from this boy.
Michael turned to me. Our eyes locked again. _My_ boy, now? I was sorely tempted, in spite of what Max warned me about earlier.
"So... you're really serious about that offer? About dumping Max?"
"Absolutely. You still thinking about it?" Michael turned to glance at the .380 auto nestled in his bag.
I turned casually to open a drawer in the dresser and discreetly noted the location of my .45 in the drawer.
"No, I believe I've thought plenty."
"So, babe, what _do_ you think?" asked Michael. I paused to admire Michael's ass in the dresser mirror -- and saw the .380 coming out of the bag. My original plan went out the window. Time to improvise.
In a single move, I drew the .45 from the drawer and dove onto the bed as Michael came around, out of his line of fire as he fired the only shot he'd get off. That same instant I had the .45 up and popping, squeezing the trigger instinctively, repeatedly, peppering Michael's sleek torso with lead, little volcanos of blood popping and bursting from his jacket. Michael's back arched and his hips bucked as he danced to the sound of my .45, grunting and moaning almost orgasmically as the big jacketed slugs pounded him. He was probably dead on his feet after my second shot caught him, but I couldn't stop firing, nearly emptying my clip into him. Normally I'm much more disciplined, often using only two slugs at most, but I was really pissed off about almost letting this stupid little whore get the drop on me.
After what seemed like forever, I finally stopped shooting. Michael's body, no longer held up by the force of my bullets ripping through it, dropped to the floor like a sack of cement.
I stood up, took a deep breath, tried to relax and let the silence settle in.
I stepped cautiously toward Michael's body, my .45 still leveled at his ribs. I reached out with a booted foot and gently slid the .380 away from Michael's outstretched right hand, then stepped back for a few moments while Michael had his final orgasm, post mortem; his hips twitched lightly, his flanks and ass shuddered gently and provocatively as he blew his last load down the leg of his jeans, and then finally relaxed forever. I shoved a boot under his gut and kicked roughly a couple of times. Michael's ass and hips rocked and quivered sensuously a few times and fell still.
Max's little problem was finally dealt with, cooling face down in a provocative, awkward sprawl, left arm stretched forward, right arm flung lazily to the side. One leg lay flexed slightly forward, crossing the other at the ankle, thrusting the hips and ass up toward me. That was just like Michael -- I'd just blown five holes in him, and he was still giving me an ass show.
I stepped over the body and back across to the nightstand and fished out my phone. I rang Max on the secure line...
"Max? Hey, Tanner, here. I'm finished with Michael... finally. Thanks again for the use of this boy. I can see why you kept him around as long as you did. What a tight, hot bitch...took all the cock I could give him, and he still wanted more..."
I walked slowly back across the room. "So, can he come to the phone?" asked Max.
I casually nudged Michael's corpse with my boot as Max and I discussed him as if talking behind his back. "No, sorry... he's relaxing in the bedroom right now."
"OK, no problem... long as you've treated him right." replied Max.
"I treated this boy just fine," I said wryly, as I planted a boot astride Michael's lifeless ass.
"Knew you would." laughed Max. "Oh, yeah, and don't forget the pictures."
"A pleasure, believe me," I smiled. "So, look, Max," I continued, "nothing personal, but we need to renegotiate this contract and get me some hazard pay. This little fucktoy of yours had a piece in his bag, and tried to use it on me. How did he get it?"
Max paused at the other end of the line. "Fuck if I know, Tanner. I know _I_ wouldn't have bought a gun for that dumb slut no matter how much he bitched. It's bad enough he was using his body on my friends, you think I'd let him pack a _gun_?"
"OK, Max, OK. Relax. Everything did end up OK for us..."
"Yeah... for us." I could just see Max smiling at the other end. "Let's talk after you wrap it up over there."
"Sounds good, Max. We can grab a drink tomorrow, then... oh, hey, can I give you some advice...?" I prodded Michael's corpse again, harder, to make his ass shake. The fresh carcass was still soft and limp, and rocked and quivered with each prod or nudge. "If you're going to insist on toting these little party sluts around with you, you ought to check them out a little better. Find out who their friends are. Find out how many of your big-shot friends passed him around before he got to you. Find out something besides their dick size."
I hung up, and my attention returned to the lean, sleek bitch cooling at my feet. His jacket was spattered with a fine mist of blood from the jagged, puckered-out rips in the leather where my slugs had exited his back. A small red pool spread slowly beneath him as his entry wounds bled out onto the floor. I looked him slowly up and down for a few moments, then buried a boot under his gut and kicked hard. The limp, heavy corpse flopped over loosely and sloppily, like a big broken doll.
I paused again to drink Michael in. I couldn't blame Max for throwing his reason out the window while he sugared this punk up. I probably would've done the same. Even now, bullet-riddled and lifeless, Michael's body commanded my attention and desire. Somehow, he looked even hotter dead than alive. Blood still welled up in the five neat punctures scattered across the front of Michael's tight leather jacket. Still swollen and heavy from the afternoon's sex, his cock strained against his skin-tight jeans, forming a tantalizing perfect impression in the denim, a dark stain spreading from the tip, the heavy musty smell of Michael's last load drifting up to me. His face was blank, his jaw slack, lips slightly parted. His eyes still sparkled; slightly crossed, they stared into the ceiling with a vacant, heavy-lidded gaze. His expression seemed almost diffident and aloof, as if he didn't care that he'd just taken a chestful of lead.
I couldn't help smiling to myself. Michael tried to use his body to get what he wanted from me, except I was one of the few guys who wouldn't fall for it... and now, that body belonged to me. Michael was finally going to give up that ass on someone else's terms.
I reached down and grabbed Michael's corpse by the ankles. His fine leather boots felt good in my hands -- I could tell Max was really spoiling this bitch. I dragged the body towards the center of the room where I'd have more room to search it. Michael's arms flopped back and trailed behind him, his torso leaving a slick, smeared trail from the still-bleeding exit wounds in his back.
Reaching the center of the bedroom floor, I dropped Michael's legs and kicked them apart. I knelt over the corpse, taking another opportunity to pause and admire, then reached down and started with the jacket, frisking quickly but methodically, my hands coolly exploring now-familiar territory. Finding the outer pockets empty, I roughly unzipped Michael's jacket and threw it open, exposing his shirtless torso. Exquisite. These tight, sleek, pretty party boys were always my favorite -- hot, horny, stupid, and disposable.
I paused a moment to check out my work. Five big, perfect, clean entries perforated Michael's flesh -- two in the chest, one in the ribs, two more in the upper abdomen just above the navel. Not as tightly grouped as I would've liked -- I normally aim high center mass -- but considering the circumstances, they did the job. I searched the inside pockets of Michael's jacket; finding nothing, I pulled the jacket closed, partially zipped it up, and shifted my attention to Michael's pants pockets.
The skin-tight jeans made searching the pockets difficult in more ways than one. I fought distraction as I shoved my hand into the left front pocket; the pocket was empty, but I couldn't help hardening a bit as I inadvertantly felt Michael's still heavy and engorged cock pressed against the fabric.
Finding his front pockets empty, I grabbed a couple of fistfuls of denim and leather and rudely threw the corpse over ass-up. God, this boy was amazing -- Max may have a weakness, but at least he has taste. Searching Michael's back pockets was even more distracting. It was virtually impossible to shove my hands all the way into the pockets to do a proper search without getting a handful of that sweet, firm ass. It still felt fine, too -- still supple, tight and satisfying. Finding nothing in Michael's pockets, it was time to get him downstairs to do the strip search and cavity search, then get him ready for Max. I felt a strange anticipation as I stripped off my street clothes -- I'd need them for the trip out -- and got into a pair of old swim trunks and deck shoes to haul the corpse to the basement.
I'd hunted deer often when I was younger, and had always enjoyed handling fresh kill -- the feel and smell of blood and newly-dead flesh; feeling the weight of a fresh carcass over my shoulder, a feeling of victory, of taking ownership. It was a special feeling that never left, and came back even stronger when I started hunting men -- especially beautiful ones. As they go, Michael was a fairly big dude, a well-built 170 pounder -- about the size of a young deer -- but no problem for a guy my size and strength. I'd hauled much bigger bucks out of the woods before. Grabbing a shoulder and a thigh, I snatched the corpse off the floor, tossed it easily over my shoulder, and headed out the back of the house toward a long secluded path leading to the back basement door. I took the walk slowly, to enjoy the old feelings coming back as I felt Michael's sleek, toned thighs through the tight denim, the weight of his body draped across my shoulder, the feel of his bloodied leather pressed against my bare skin. In time with my steps, Michael's head bobbed lazily, his long hair swishing like a horse's tail, occasionally brushing the small of my back; his arms swayed and flopped, his hands now and then bouncing off my ass. Dead almost twenty minutes, and this rotten little slut was still cockteasing me. Too fucking much, bitch. My anticipation grew stronger as I approached the basement door.
The lights were out on the back of the house around the lower basement door. The moon was full that night, bathing the small patch of lawn around the door in a crisp glow. Arriving at the door, I hefted the kill from over my shoulder and rudely tossed it to the ground like a sack of topsoil. The carcass bounced sloppily, rocking and quivering before coming to rest in a broken, awkward sprawl.
I punched in the combination for the door and pushed it open to enter a small anteroom with a couple of stainless steel tables and another door leading to the main room. I returned to the lawn, snatched the corpse by the ankles, dragged it into the anteroom and locked the outer door. With the basement sealed off, it was safe to turn up the lights.
Michael's corpse splayed on the tiles, arms flung out above his head, as if permanently in surrender. The effects of my .45 and the next twenty minutes of prodding and manhandling gave the corpse a nightmarish but irresistable allure. The bleeding from his mouth and nose had stopped, leaving thin, dark trails across his face. Blood still leaked from the wounds in his back and glistened in the hits on his chest, ribs and gut. His sleek, long hair was thrown crazily about his face, and fresh blood still glistened on Michael's leather jacket, now sloppily arranged about his torso in the classic dishevelment of sudden, brutal death -- and it made him even hotter.
Half an hour ago, this corpse had just finished giving me the greatest afternoon of sucking and banging I ever got. We traded trash talk over a couple of shots after we showered. I watched him dress. We toyed with each other. Then, he got serious. He really did want to dump Max, he really was offering me first chance at being his new "owner", and thought he could just do it on the quiet. That's right, the boyfriend of Max Coyne, A-list mobster, fucktoy for at least two of Max's partners at the same time, one of the most notoriously ill-behaved gangster's boyfriends around -- and this bitch really loved his reputation -- actually thought he could pull this caper on Max with me, then just give me some head and ass, take his money and leave without anybody in Max's organization paying attention. And, then he actually offered me a piece of that action, with a straight face... and thought he could back it up with his body.
Dumb slut -- half an hour ago sensual, beautiful, talented, impetuous, conceited, greedy, dangerous. Now, fresh meat.
