fresh coffee and a guest

Fresh coffee and a guest

The scent of fresh coffee inflated the room, veined the musty air with something spicy and ful.
But it couldn’t hide the musky smell wich striked me in my bedroom.
Sex.
It was combined with another scent, darker, and in one way, more familiar.
The expensive sheets where tangled up, and lay at the foot of my bed.
Must have happend last night.
There hung a sweaty air, wich misted up the windows, so I opened them.
The freezing morning air swept in my face, sobered me up, even hurt me.
I thought for a moment that it froze my upper skin texture.
It was snowing outside.
Thick flackes, white, virginal flackes of snow fell down on the grey stones, far down.
My nipples pulled painfully hard together.

Call me Izmael.
And although it is pretty unusual, I have got a guest today.

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Izmael looked at the boy’s face.
It was hidden by shadows and the halflong, dark hair, but he could stil see the thin threath of saliva wich leaked out of his mouth. Izmael licked it away. It was sweet of liquer.
They laid there for a long time, quiet listening to the night and their own breathing.
The boy had a magnificent, red gullet wich had greadely swallowed all of Izmael’s sperm.
And Izmael had thrusted deep in the his intestines, in a exquisite, exhausting rhythm, and perforated him, time after time after time.
But the boy was tired now, his chest went up and down irregular and his sweat marinaded the air in a not total unpleasant way.
For him, this evening had already ended. But Izmael was hungry, for much, much more.
And so he rolled the boy back on his stomach, to spread his legs and his magnificent cheeks.
There was the tempel of his earlier pleasure, in a small, pink rosebud, wich was still a bit sore and red. But he didn’t desired that, not now.
He bit the boy’s shoulder, first soft, then much harder, a bloody red smile was left there and thick, pink threads of spit bound them together. The boy moaned loud.
‘Mine’ thought Izmael while he grasped under his bed, and there he found what he had hidden earlier on the night for beautiful, blue eyes. An awl, wich shimmered in the soft light as a jewel.
Izmael kissed softly the boy’s head and spreaded the legs a little bit further.
Then the awl infaded suddenly, all his awesome cool and silver length disappeard in the soft and receiving intestinal tract.
Stainless steel met a burning, ripping, bleeding orgie of mutilated flesh.
The boy screamed hard and tried to resist, but Izmael threw al his weight on the smaller body to hold it. And then the awl was pulled back savagely.
A blend of blood and shit was dripping from the boy’s rear.
He tensed up and stopped to struggle.
Izmael looked fascinated at the mixture wich quickly gained ground, the mattrass coloured bright-red, but some pieces were to solid to be absorbed, and remained laying on the fabric.
Izmael dragged the wounded boy then to his bathroom.
He laid him in the bathtub, were the boy immediately curled op, in shock.
Izmael wrapped the thin wrists and ankels thight up, in a thick, brown rope.
He pulled the thin, breakable bones roughly together. The boy sobbed.
Izmael grabbed the knife, wich lay on a shelf in the small medicin chest.
He was breathing very fast and irregular
The boy stared for a moment terrified at the sharp blade and shut his eyes tightly.
Izmael caressed the soft skin on his face for a wile, and then repeaded the movements with the knife.
For a while, the boy thought not to feel a single thing, a blessing, but then the pain hit him, fierce biting and gnawing at his entrails. He wanted to scream, but instead, he threw up.
The vomit runned out of his mouth, hot and sour.
Izmael stroked his forehead and continued paying attention to his body
This time he made deep cut from the chest to the crotch.
The boy could see the layers of his fat and other tissues.
Warm blood splashed in the tub, a rancid colour of brown red.
It also rised in the mouth of the boy, the golden, metal flavour of blood mixed with the older flavour of vomit, to create a taste as rich as life itself.
His head was spinning, and trembling fingers were exploring his wound, spreading him fainfully far open.
Then Izmael´s dick slipped in the boy´s wounded inside, hot and forcing, deep thrusting till he reached the unwilling heart of his humanity.
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It even has something poetic, I think, grease their insides in with your own sperm, and them cut them open to see where it has travelled.

Wonder if he uses milk and suger, you see, last night we didn´t had any coffee.
I sipped from my cup, and then entered the bathroom.
My guest was where I left him, neatly curled up in the bathtub like a foetus.
Wide awake.
I put his coffee on the porcelain ledge.
He could drink of that later.
We had all the time.
I seized a dark wooden stool from a corner and sat down.
Then I glanced in the bathtub.