L*st and Death

The thought of punishing the arrogant bastard sent a tremor down Miller’s spine. Just the image of rubbing his fully erect cock against that idiot’s sleeping face sent a chilling thrill coursing down from the base of his skull to the tip of his tailbone.

Miller looked down at the man’s face as he undid his belt buckle. His erection was already flushed and swollen like a sausage packed full of meat, pulsing with blood as the corpora cavernosa expanded and the veins choked off return flow. He slithered the throbbing thing toward the man’s bare soles, gently brushing it across them.

Groaning at the dry yet tender texture of the soles, Miller leaned in and grabbed the waistband of the man’s pants. In one swift motion, he stripped off both the pants and underwear. What he found underneath was a clean, hairless cock.

“...Hah. Not bad.”

The glans was fully exposed, likely circumcised. Though the man’s build was slender, the volume and length were more than satisfactory—enough to toy with, maybe even a bit of a lucky find.

Hot breath flaring from his nose in anticipation, Miller slid his hand into the man’s groin. As his fingers traced further inward, brushing along the neat shaft, the homeless man suddenly gripped Miller’s doughy wrist with force.

His eyes snapped open. He looked up at Miller with a face twisted in shock. Too stunned even to scream, his eyes darted in panic—down to his own naked body, to Miller’s hand draped over his groin, then finally to the grotesque, engorged flesh of the fat man looming over him.

“F-fuck! What the—what the fuck is this?!”

Miller froze as well. So the bastard had thrown up the drugged milk and come to before he could do anything. But it didn’t matter. Once that second dose he’d shoved down the guy’s throat kicked in, he’d be knocked out for ten more hours—easy.

“Aaagh! Aaaaaagh!”

“Shh, the more you struggle, the rougher I’ll get.”

“Fuck! Get that disgusting thing away from me!”

Miller was disappointed. He had wanted fear. But instead, the man was angry—furious, offended. This wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for. It ruined the mood.

“Sweetheart, be quiet and I’ll be gentle.”

“Don’t fucking touch me! Fuck off!”

“Aww, don’t like gentle? Bzzt bzzt~”

Miller cooed like someone trying to calm a whining puppy, feigning cluelessness. But as the man kept resisting, Miller started to lose his patience. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, to bruise up that doll-like face a bit.

“Troublesome, but I guess I’ll have to—ARGH!”

Just as he raised one of his meaty paws to slap the man, stars exploded in his vision. His world went black. It was like a chair had flipped out from under him—his whole body toppled backward. He barely managed to brace himself, hand awkwardly twisting behind him as he hit the ground.

“GRAAAAH!”

“You sick—disgusting—fucking piece of shit!”

Siron had driven his knee up into Miller’s jaw. He scrambled to grab his pants and threw them on, then climbed onto the bed, crouched and ready to strike. That disgusting pig had definitely tried to rape him. Siron’s heart pounded like a drum, echoing in his ears. This was life or death.

Using the bedframe for leverage, he launched himself downward, smashing his heel directly into Miller’s groin.

Thud!

A weighted blow, right to the crotch. Miller let out a pig-slaughtering shriek and convulsed.

The feeling of that disgusting cock under his sole was exactly as it sounded—disgusting. Siron would have rather stepped in shit. But rage had overridden every bit of reason. He needed to break that revolting sausage in half and rupture the bastard’s balls.

“AAARGH! STOP! FUCK!”

“You sick! Perverted! DISGUSTING—TRASH!”

But then Miller began to fight back. He lunged with deadly force. Just as Siron prepared to strike again, summoning every ounce of strength into his toes, Miller grabbed his ankle. The grip was terrifyingly strong. Siron struggled, but it was like being caught in a bear trap.

“Let go! LET ME GO! Lewis! Where the fuck are you—LEWIS!”

Siron stomped at Miller’s face, grinding his heel into his nose and eyes like he was stomping mud. Miller’s grip finally loosened, and Siron bolted into the hallway. Lewis would be outside. Lewis could knock this disgusting meat pile flat in one punch.

But Miller wasn’t done. He chased Siron down, grabbed a handful of his hair, and slammed his head into the wall.

“FUCK! Let go! It hurts! UGH—LEWIS! WHERE ARE YOU, LEWIS!”

Fireworks exploded behind Siron’s eyes. This was it—he was either going to die or be raped to death.

Get it together! You’re really gonna die just screaming for Lewis?

If life was a movie, this wasn’t a thriller—it had to be an action film. He couldn’t be the random victim who got slaughtered by the killer in the first ten minutes. He had to be the hero who beat the shit out of the bastard.

He was his grandmother’s hardened grandson, toughened by her iron palm. A black belt at Hanmi Taekwondo. A student of stunt performance who’d completed a full 3-month action school course back in Korea. There was no reason he couldn’t pulverize this bloated ham hock like a clove of garlic.

First, he had to create distance.

Using the wall for momentum, Siron spun halfway around and drove his heel into Miller’s solar plexus.

Crack!

Miller stumbled, winded, reeling backward.

Siron didn’t let up. He twisted mid-air, letting the remaining momentum drive his leg into a powerful roundhouse kick—smashing Miller’s jaw. Siron felt the joint pop clean out as the shock rattled up his foot.

After a stunned moment of silence, Miller collapsed stiffly like a falling log. His head smacked the wall with a sickening CRACK. It sounded fatal. The bastard lay still, unmoving, like a corpse.

“...Did that actually work?”

Siron whispered in disbelief, momentarily forgetting to breathe. He hadn’t expected the kick to land that hard. He’d never imagined he could do that much damage.

“...Taekwondo supremacy, huh.”

Lost in a sudden rush of patriotic catharsis, Siron stared down at Miller’s unconscious body for a beat too long. Then he shook it off. No time to gloat. He turned and sprinted down the hallway.

But by the time he reached the stairs, his legs gave out. He staggered. Tried to grab the railing. But his body was already collapsing, slow and heavy.

Why am I dizzy?

He was sure the drug had worn off—yet the same dizzying wave and crushing drowsiness came back.

“Fuck... not again...”

Like starlight burned onto a long-exposed camera sensor, glowing trails filled his vision, stretching time out like molasses. His eyes began to close against his will. The trailing lights swallowed everything. His body sank, and darkness claimed him.

BANG BANG BANG!

The violent knocking jolted the Millander Shelter’s caretaker awake. He didn’t bother turning on the light. Peering between the blinds, he checked outside. 4 a.m. Still dark. But there they were—two men already starting their morning.

They were self-proclaimed “relocation volunteers,” supposedly here to transfer homeless clients somewhere else. A Greyhound-branded bus waited behind them on the roadside.

“Weren’t you supposed to come in the morning? What’s with the early bird routine?”

Grumbling, the caretaker started to pull away from the blinds—

—and froze at what he saw.

A black sedan was parked a few hundred meters down, on the shoulder of the road.

Joseph Miller’s car.

“...Goddamn it. He’s still here?”

He was supposed to have left at midnight. That pathetic pervert had clearly climbed into bed with the homeless guy.

“Shit.”

Panicking, the caretaker rushed from the window toward the second floor—only to find the “homeless man” collapsed, bloody.

He was shirtless. Barefoot. Looked like he’d fled during some assault and passed out in the hallway.

BANG BANG BANG!

The knocking got more urgent. Heart racing, the caretaker charged upstairs.

And there he found Joseph Miller in far worse condition.

The pig lay sprawled out on the floor, bottom half grotesquely exposed, his face covered in blood. His cock was an utter disaster—bruised blue, balls swollen like balloons, one prick of a needle away from exploding in a vile mess.

Normally, the caretaker might’ve laughed at such a sight.

But not now. Not with the volunteers standing right outside.

You should’ve just fucked around like usual and left it at that, you idiot.

Dragging Miller’s limp body into the room, the caretaker slammed the door shut. Then he gathered the homeless man’s shirt and shoes and dashed back down. He got the guy dressed, pulled on his shoes, and hoisted him over one shoulder before carrying him to an empty room on the first floor. Laying him flat on the bed, he wiped his bloody hands on the wall in a lazy circular smear.

“You’re early.”

Feigning a yawn, the caretaker greeted the two volunteers. Both were medium height, stocky, and had dangerous looks in their eyes.

“If you made us wait any longer, we would’ve kicked the damn door down.”

“S-sorry. My apologies.”

“The homeless guy?”

“He made a fuss about leaving in the middle of the night. We had to sedate him. This way, please.”

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