The Tell Tale Heartthrob
By now the story is all over the press. How I killed an innocent man in cold blood, dispatched him in the night with an axe, chopped his body up and buried it beneath the floorboards.
You may think me mad. You may also believe that like some unhinged narrator out of Poe, I did this heinous act because his pale blue eye incited me.
On both counts you would be completely correct. But there is more to the story than has been reported.
My life with Bertram Hustle was a stormy one. Being the live-in partner and occasional Brony slave of one of the biggest dicks in gay porn is not a job for the timid or pain-averse. Often he would go in without lube just to hurt me, ramming my tender asshole until it bled. On several occasions I had to be admitted to the ER while Bertram drove around in circles in the parking lot, shouting with a megaphone: “Chris Parker loves it when I hurt his asshole.”
On that count, Bertram was also quite correct.
So you may be asking why in the world I did it, if it wasn’t the pain, the humiliation, the bleeding or the spunk in every orifice, including some he created by gashing me in the bellyguts and cheeks. Why did I take an axe and give him 40 wacks after he whacked off in my face?
The truth? But take care, gentle reader, when you seek the truth. Sometimes a lie is far gentler. As Emily Dickinson so wisely put it, tell the truth but tell it slant. And not as in bent dick inserted with extreme prejudice into my raw rectum.
So back to the pale blue eye bit. The truth is that the eye did bother me. A whole fucking lot. He used to stare at me across a crowded room after we’d had a lover’s tiff, and the sight revulsed me on some primordial level. I grew to associate him with that eye, which was clouded over, until all I thought of when I thought of Bertram was that horrid ocular organ. That nasty thing.
I would go home and even when he was away on business I would find the eye haunting me. It would manifest floating near the ceiling and wake me up in the middle of the night. It even managed to bond with my webcam and when I turned on my laptop, the pale blue eye would stare at me steadily.
I never got used to that.
I confronted Bertram on the matter once, and he freely admitted to sending his pale blue eye out from his astral body to drive me insane. He thought it was hilarious that one day I would murder him just to stop the pale blue eye.
But it wasn’t just that. The man was gorgeous. A hunk. Ripped. Washboard abs, six-pack. And I loved his cock, a massive 10 inches with a thick circumference I couldn’t quite measure even with tape because I’m mentally challenged when it comes to numbers.
I felt quite at home and secure in the universe when he clamped his hands around my neck and pressed my head closer to him so my lips could fully engulf his turgid shlong. When he came it was a geyser, a hurricane…”here come the warm jets,” I thought, and thanked Brian Eno for his album Music For Airports.
When he rammed me in the ass it was all I could do not to whimper or scream out, but the pain always transformed into long waves of pleasure that pulsed out from my prostate gland and curled my toes and caused my balls to convulse with the sweet, sweet juice. Often times I would cum so hard I drenched the sheets. He liked to tie me up and watch him fuck other guys. I enjoyed that as well. Anything for a taste of that delicious dick, or his amazing asshole that I loved to felch for hours.
In the end, I may have just loved him too much to allow him to live. The pale blue eye did play a crucial role, naturally, but it wasn’t the whole picture.
But there’s another possibility. Maybe I’m just a psychopath who doesn’t give a shit.
Am I? A psychopath? Well, the prison shrink thinks so. So does my cell block warden, who puts me in solitary on the regular.
In the hole, without any human contact, in the dark, where I spend most of what’s left of my “wretched” existence (although to tell the complete truth, I’ve never been happier!) I relive the precipitating events of that wonderfully terrible day.
Bertram had just completed primary shooting on a big-budget porno called “Cream Pie Bronies.” One thing you’ll need to know about the late gay porno star is that he had many rounds in the chamber, a fact he was legendary for. After a full day of shooting wads into unlubed asshole, he was raring to go when he got home, and I was loving it. Also hating it, because I’m a bit bipolar.
Truth be told, I’ll never fully understand myself because I also have dissociative identity disorder and schizophrenia.
He tried to force my head down onto his rigid tool, but something snapped inside me this time. Because his knob had a pale blue eye on it too!!! How could I deep-throat that object of horror, that wretched symbol of all that was uncanny? I couldn’t, and neither could you.
First I bit the thing off. It’s much harder than you would think to bite off a man’s weiner, and it was only because I had a secret spring-loaded razor blade implant that I accomplished that act. Bertram immediately began to scream that I had mutilated him and ended his porn career, so I simply socked him in the throat, then when he was burping up blood, punched him in the head so hard he was thrown to the floor and lay there, making pathetic mewling noises and mumbling something about taking him to Urgent Care.
I’d had enough. Of course I was as hard as a rock, and all my pent-up rage, aggression and horniness came out in a cum-wad as thick as mayonnaise. I spurted on his bloody head as I kicked it, then went to the utility closet where we kept an axe for the kindling, came back and began to deliver the blows.
The sweetness was real, a humming eternity of relief and release. I found myself cumming over and over again as I hit him, severed his head from his shoulders, then crouched and began to drink from his spouting stump.
Only I could still see that pale fucking blue eye floating above the stump.
Jesus wept, I thought. Would I never be rid of this gorgeous hunk o’ man candy, his tree trunk thighs, his golden asshole that tasted like musty wine?
It was then that the thought came to me: chop him up a little bit more and bury him beneath the floorboards. And so I did.
In my mad fit I raised the suspicions of the neighbors, and they summoned the po-po. They broke down my door and burst in on the sight of me furiously wanking it over the area of the floor that covered his Burroughsian cut-up o’ flesh.
“I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me,” I told the incredulous pigbots. “Jeebers is muh witness.”
So convincing was I that they were about to leave when all of a sudden I heard this loud throbbing sound, as of the main vein of my superfuckinuberhottie deceased bff, Bertram Hustle. I put my hands over my ears, but the sound was in my head.
Finally I just burst out with it. “Okay, it was me, I did it! But I was provoked. And yes, it was that pale blue fucking eye I wound up seeing everytwhere, and I mean everyfuckingwhere, but it wasn’t only that.
It was the hotness, and the throbbing of his still turgid, still erect, still cum-dribblin’ TOOL that I’d spat out and separately buried beneath the floorboards.
And, of course, that fucking EYEBALL of his. Yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to scrub my brain of that image.
I’m set to be executed at dawn.
I pray for oblivion.
–Prisoner Number 16785, Federal Penitentiary, California
Horror Sleaze Trash 