Novel P. 12


The jacking attacker had a nick name he liked to call himself. No one had ever jacked off on so many living bodies. No one had ever jacked off on so many dead bodies. And those were what he loved. Of all the jack offs, all the rapes, those were his favourite of all. The dead bod ones. So that’s what he was. The “Dead Bod Man”.  The best fucker of dead bods ever.

The “Dead Bod Man” had knocked Holden out cold. He had damn near killed him. In a heap, on the floor, he looked not like a champion writer, but a broken victim. There was no way that guy was moving for hours. The “Dead Bod Man” took down his pants, and started jacking very hard, just like he wanted to do if it was Fionae. He was squeezing his dick to the point where it bled, and jacking unbelievably hard. And then he came all over Holden’s face, and hair. He shot some first over Holden’s nice and eyes, and then over his hair, dangling above his forehead. The Great Writer, humbled, embarrassed, made nothing.

He wasn’t done with Holden. He went to the kitchen area of the office, found the bottles of wine, and beer. And drank them. Two bottles of wine, three beers, done. Like that. Almost in a minute. Then he went back over to Holden. This time his pants came clean off. And then he kneeled down, spread Holden out, as if he were lying on a very narrow bed, and then he turned him on his back. He grabbed Holden pants and ripped them down his legs. And the same with his boxers. And then he stuck his dick in Holden’s butt. And then he fucked him as hard as he could, while Holden was unconscious. The Dead Bod Man, on top of Holden, raping him, while no one could do anything about it. 

This was one of his main two prey. He had followed Holden and Fionae all day. And although he preferred women to jack on and fuck, he was more than happy with this one. As the boyfriend of Fionae, no one man had ever obsessed him more. The Dead Bod Man tried to ravage Holden’s butt with all his might. Then he stood up, and jacked as hard as he could. Then he kicked Holden over onto his front, and jacked into his face one more time. “And I am fucking gay. At least a little!” He shouted as he ejaculated onto Holden.

If Holden were awake, this would be the most scarring experience possible. But he was not, and he would not remember. But the pain in his asshole, the feeling of semen on his face, would sting in his memory for ever. Those would be undeniable signs of the fact he had been raped. They were in the future. 

The Dead Bod Man went out of the office and into the hallway. He went in each and every office on the floor, and personally jacked off on every desk on the floor. It was a dirty mess, for a bunch of losers that cleaned this building to clean up. It was not his problem at all. 

When he returned into the room, Holden was still lying on the floor, unconscious. The Dead Bod Man went to find some supplies to pack Holden up and bring him back to his hideout. 


Holden had been knocked out cold for an hour now.  To the Dead Bod Man it seemed he would be out all night. But the reality was he was coming around. In just a few minutes Holden would be awake. Somehow the stalker killer had overestimated the strength of his blow, and Holden was recovering consciousness. Would the stalker return before Holden awoke?

Two minutes later, Holden awoke. His left eye opened slightly, and he saw he was on the floor. Next, he opened both his eyes, just slightly, and he saw the dead bod man coming back. He closed them again. He noticed he was not tied up. He had a chance to get out of this. The Dead Bod Man had a large garbage bag to put him in, and he was coming his way. The Dead Bod man leaned over and started trying to scoop Holden into it. He was not armed. This was Holden’s opportunity. He opened his eyes quickly, and struck the Dead Bod Man on the head. Although it was not with a laptop, it was payback. The Dead Bod Man staggered back, and Holden started to get to his feet. He battled against his feeling of wooziness, trying as hard as he could to not fall over. There was an unbearable pain in his ass. It felt damage, and he wondered if he would be able to poop. But there was no times to worry right now. He reached out and punched the Dead Bod Man right in the head. The blow was substantial, but the Dead Bod Man caught Holden’s hand. He twisted Holden’s arm, and then he took one hand away from his grip, reached for a lamp, and swung right at Holden’s head. The impact this time could be catastrophic, and the Dead Bod Man’s aim was dead on. Holden ducked, his butt hurting tremendously, and he swerved out as well. He moved to the left, and the Dead Bod Man’s crushing blow missed. The laptop was there. Before the Dead Bod Man could guess it, he grabbed it, and slammed it down on his head. 

The Dead Bod Man’s eyes closed, and he collapsed onto the ground. 

Holden looked down at what he had done. But in a second he knew there had been no choice he had. It was okay. That was a serial killer. Right away he thought he needed to save himself. He needed to get the Dead Bod Man all tied up, fully under control, or he needed to get out of there. The killer was so uncontrollable, there was nothing you could do about it almost. He would obviously escape. So Holden decided he would just run. He left the office, running. He ran down the stairs, and out onto the street. He started walking. He walked a few blocks, found a cab, and started making his way home. 

When Holden arrived home, he headed right to the shower. He began washing himself of everything the Dead Bod man had done to him. He had left his Semen, he had left blood, he left emotional scars that would last a lifetime. Standing in the beam of the shower, Holden began crying. And he cried, for ten minutes. Then he washed the tears away from his face, and stepped out of the shower with his eyes fairly red.

Popular Posts