- Joined
- Jan 13, 2012
- Messages
- 6,470
- Location
- Cannibal Heaven
I love the smell of death. A man dies by my hand, and my senses go wild. Yes, my dick erupts, spewing huge globs of cum, but it is the taste, the sound, the sight, the smell of the man as he dies which produces this eruption. Many men jerk off alone, or have sex with a partner, in order to satisfy their sexual needs. Me, I need more. I need a beautiful man and I need to kill him. Viciously. Painfully. Bloodily. Anything less is nothing. There is no sexual gratification without death.
I feel death as I slide a knife through his smooth, young skin, opening his body so I may reach what lies beneath. I feel his guts, his heart, his bones as my hand moves randomly inside him. Yes, I feel death.
I see terror in his eyes, when he realizes his fate. I see his face contorted as I rip at his body with sharp objects, and my teeth. Yes, I see his death.
I hear death in his screams as I nail his feet and hands to my cross. As I axe off his fingers, toes, hands and feet. As my skinning knife slowly strips off his skin, exposing raw, bloody meat. As my fingers gouge his eyes, leaving them dangling on his cheek. As I run an old Civil War sword into his ass and out his belly. The gurgle from his throat as my teeth clamp down on his Adam’s apple. Yes, I hear the sounds of death.
I taste death as blood spurts from his wounds. From his mouth when I rip out his teeth. From his chest when I slice off his nipples. And from his crotch as my mouth gnaws at his cock and balls. I taste death as I eat his flesh, his organs, and chew on his bones. Yes, I taste death.
I smell death. The acrid scent of piss and the foul stink of shit when fear makes him lose control of his bladder and bowels. The tangy smell of blood from the first rivulet to the huge puddle under his body. The smell of blood that creates my need to lick, to drink, to slurp the sweet elixir of my being.
Yes, I love the smell of death. From the moment I choose my victim, my olfactory senses are aroused. Each man has a distinct body odor. I smell his breath and body when our lips first touch. I smell his unconscious being as he lies immobile from the drug in his beer. I smell his nakedness as I hang him from the rafter in my play room. I smell his confusion when he awakens, and the fear as he realizes his fate. I smell him throughout the long, slow process of his demise. Every man smells differently. His skin, his blood, his flesh, his innards, his piss, his shit, his eyeballs. I smell his lifeless body, freshly killed. Or the fetidness of his day-old corpse, which I sometimes lie beside.
I remember every man I have killed by recalling his unique smell. Fond memories for the nights when I lie alone in bed, hand on cock, horny, wishing, dreaming of a new man to kill, shooting huge globs of cum into the air and onto my chest and face. Remembering the smell of death rejuvenates me, and propels me into the night to search for more.
I feel death as I slide a knife through his smooth, young skin, opening his body so I may reach what lies beneath. I feel his guts, his heart, his bones as my hand moves randomly inside him. Yes, I feel death.
I see terror in his eyes, when he realizes his fate. I see his face contorted as I rip at his body with sharp objects, and my teeth. Yes, I see his death.
I hear death in his screams as I nail his feet and hands to my cross. As I axe off his fingers, toes, hands and feet. As my skinning knife slowly strips off his skin, exposing raw, bloody meat. As my fingers gouge his eyes, leaving them dangling on his cheek. As I run an old Civil War sword into his ass and out his belly. The gurgle from his throat as my teeth clamp down on his Adam’s apple. Yes, I hear the sounds of death.
I taste death as blood spurts from his wounds. From his mouth when I rip out his teeth. From his chest when I slice off his nipples. And from his crotch as my mouth gnaws at his cock and balls. I taste death as I eat his flesh, his organs, and chew on his bones. Yes, I taste death.
I smell death. The acrid scent of piss and the foul stink of shit when fear makes him lose control of his bladder and bowels. The tangy smell of blood from the first rivulet to the huge puddle under his body. The smell of blood that creates my need to lick, to drink, to slurp the sweet elixir of my being.
Yes, I love the smell of death. From the moment I choose my victim, my olfactory senses are aroused. Each man has a distinct body odor. I smell his breath and body when our lips first touch. I smell his unconscious being as he lies immobile from the drug in his beer. I smell his nakedness as I hang him from the rafter in my play room. I smell his confusion when he awakens, and the fear as he realizes his fate. I smell him throughout the long, slow process of his demise. Every man smells differently. His skin, his blood, his flesh, his innards, his piss, his shit, his eyeballs. I smell his lifeless body, freshly killed. Or the fetidness of his day-old corpse, which I sometimes lie beside.
I remember every man I have killed by recalling his unique smell. Fond memories for the nights when I lie alone in bed, hand on cock, horny, wishing, dreaming of a new man to kill, shooting huge globs of cum into the air and onto my chest and face. Remembering the smell of death rejuvenates me, and propels me into the night to search for more.
