The first time was an accident. I didn't mean to kill him, but my hands were too big on his throat, my grip too hard. I was lost in this heat, this perfect cadence of movement that was so riveting to me. It was animalistic, like I wasn't making love to Kenny McCormick, but mating him like a wild beast would. I was hardly thinking about if it hurt too much, and before I realized it... he was gone.

I looked down at him when I was finished and saw an empty, used body; blue eyes that were void of light. I can't remember if he'd been trying to get me to stop. I doubt I would have heard his choked voice begging me to let go, or his weak hands clawing at my own. All I knew for sure was that Kenny was dead, and I had just committed my first act of necrophilia.

-

I was worried when he came back that he'd be upset with me, that he'd scream and shun me, say I murdered him, raped him, or at least show some sign of fear. But he showed up on my doorstep with a small wave, and asked if he was on time for movie night. Actually, he was early.

That night we had sex, and he asked me to choke him again.

I'd carried him off from the couch, our movie having long since been ignored as we found more interest in each other's mouths and necks. That's how it usually went. At least the nights we even bothered to take things to the bedroom.

I was already inside of him when he asked, just starting to pick up the pace, and things had been going almost romantically when he asked.

His arms around my neck gingerly, pulling me closer, moaning plentifully with each thrust of my hips. "Eric— ah, fuck, choke me..."

I nearly stopped short, and I had no response. He realized I /killed/ him last time, didn't he? I was scared, I didn't want to hurt him like that again.

"D-dude..." his voice managed to still sound chipper, despite being concerned, and slightly strained as I stayed still but entirely filling him, "I'll be fine. Do it... Do it for me..."

I agreed in the end, and my hands once again strangled the air out of his throat. I was more careful this time, but as I forced myself to be aware, I saw things in him that I hadn't seen before.

The way his mouth stayed open in an airless gasp, the way his eyes fluttered opened and closed, how his face turned red and his head thrashed side to side even though he didn't want me to relent. And I didn't. I kept my grip on him, punishing as I slammed into his body over and over. My fingers clenched just a bit tighter with every thrust, and eventually I noticed tears rolling down his cheeks. At that point, I closed my eyes to finish.

He'd already gotten off sometimes before I did, so I let go of his neck, and put my hands beside his head on the pillows, leaning down carefully so as not to crush that tiny body. I kissed his cheek, and his neck, and I might've kept going to give him a hickey if he didn't interrupt me first.

With a sore, meek voice, he asked, "why didn't you kill me?"

"Kenny... I don't want to murder you."

"It's not murder!" he assured me hurriedly, "not if I'm asking for it, for kinks, right? You did it yesterday."

I frowned at him and sat up. "That was an accident. And nobody fucking kills their partner for kinks." I was angry at the thought of him dying. I miss him when he's gone and I get scared one day he won't come back, but something about his request secretly intrigued me.

"But I'm not like most people," he continued, "maybe if other people were like me, dying would be their kink, too."

I sighed and ran a hand through my sweat soaked brown hair. "Maybe next time," I said, just to quiet him, "go to sleep."

"No. Now."

We had a staring contest.

"Kenny..." I blinked.

"Eric." He still didn't blink.

I felt my eyebrows furrow and with a slight frustration I grabbed Kenny's neck with both hands. "Is this what you want?" I asked him, venomously. He didn't answer; he was choking. I let him choke and wheeze for air, for I don't know how long, until he stopped moving under me entirely. It took me a moment to remove my hands, and I stared at his red face. His eyes were popped. "Shit, Ken..." I bit my lower lip hard. I killed him knowingly this time. I watched the life drain from his eyes. And I sort of enjoyed it. It made me feel powerful. I smiled wryly and ran my fingers through his beautiful blond hair. He'd be back. "If you want my dick again, you'd better," I finished my thoughts out loud, "you little slut..."

I laid down beside the body, and pulled the still-warm corpse into my chest. I always wanted to cuddle with Kenny after we had sex, but just because he was dead, should that really stop me? The answer, evidently, was no.

All of our sex from then on was like that; I'd fuck his brains out, let him choke after we'd both released, and then cuddle his body. Sometimes I killed him prematurely by mistake. Sometimes I'd give the corpse a round two. Kenny knew I did this. He thought it was hot.

"You love this, you stupid, worthless fuckdoll," I barked at him one night. He was kicking more so than usual, possibly afraid that I'd kill him before he had a chance to orgasm. I guess he had a good reason to be, because he let out a long whine, and then his head lolled to the side. I didn't stop, I was lost in the pleasure. "Yeah, fuck yeah Kenny... Y-eah..." I thrusted into a loose hole, his muscles having released somewhat after his heart stopped. I shoved my fingers in alongside my dick to fill the space. He was already gone, but for some reason I felt dutiful to pleasure Kenny's prostate gland. I made sure I hit it, and even after I came and pulled out, I continued to finger him, until the corpse released.

-

"Did I come? After you killed me?" he asked the next morning, in the same tone as one would ask about the time.

"Yeah."

"Okay, cool." He stood on his toes to kiss me on the cheek, and that was the end of it.

-

Sometimes after abuse or trauma, people develop a fetish or a kink for whatever they were before perhaps exposed to, or forced into.

I guess after years of dying, I developed somewhat of a kink for being killed. And who else better to fulfil this desire than Eric Cartman? I knew he'd agree to do it, although he came around more hesitantly than I expected. Still, he's a willing partner, and now every time we bang he does it without question. He likes it too, I can tell. I never get to see his face after I'm dead, but I assume he feels good about it.

What /I/ like about it is feeling disposable. I'm into the name calling thing. I'm into the notion that I'm so disgusting that after he's done using me as a cumbucket, he can just kill me without a second thought. Because I've served my purpose. I was a good toy and got him off, but now I was dirty, and Eric couldn't have that.

I also like being devoid of breath. Gasping out but getting nothing. I like how my vision blurs, and I get lightheaded, and every time I cum it feels like I'm hitting the hardest orgasm of my life. And then, I black out. What a way to go, huh?

And having my life in the fat hands of somebody else is a fantasy that I've jacked off too way too many times.

Dying is easy. Being useless is easy. Taking cock, that's the easiest.

We don't really talk about this outside of the bedroom. There's no need to. Out in public, with our friends, nobody would ever know that nearly every night, Eric Cartman comes deep inside of me, and then disposes of me.

Writing all of this down... it excites me, honestly. I feel like I should go find him, now...

After all, it's movie night.