Trucker 1–Trucker v Marine

He sat in the cab of the parked semi. He’d left the lights off; he was sitting in the darkness looking out into the cold hazy night.

He’d pulled his rig all the way around to the far end of the truck stop lot, up by the chain-link fence at the edge of the property. He didn’t know yet if he’d be using his sleeper cab tonight or not. Maybe he’d find someone to fuck who had his own place. Either way, it didn’t matter, but there was more privacy out here on the edge.

And the fence helped. One of his earlier toys had managed to get out of the cab. It’d been in a different state, but he’d been at the edge of the lot that night too. The kid hadn’t been able to get past the fence before he’d been caught.

The Trucker smiled grimly. The punk had pissed him off, having to be chased down like that, but he’d paid. Oh yes, he’d paid. He’d squealed for mercy in agony before it was over…

A rush of lust flowed over the Trucker’s body at the memory. He took a deep, shuddering breath and regained his composure. Slipping out of the driver’s seat, he drew the curtain that partitioned off the sleeper compartment and turned on a light off to one side, giving himself one last glance in the small mirror.

A well-built man with sky-blue eyes staring out of a hard face looked back at him. Hair in loose black curls tumbled almost to his shoulders; his thick goatee was the same dark shade. He was broad-shouldered and handsome in a hard, craggy way that managed not to draw attention to his face.

In other words, he had the perfect face for a serial killer. Good enough to draw in victims without being so striking that it impressed itself on the memory of any possible witnesses.

Well, it was good enough, at any rate. He flicked out the light and returned to the driver’s compartment. He was clean and fully dressed and had already located the nearest bar by way of an app he’d been using for a couple of years. Luckily, it was less than a mile from here; he could actually see the place from here.

It was on a side street just off the highway exit, so it was literally just around the corner from the truck stop. From here, the Trucker could see the lights out front, but he could also see a long, low structure in the back. It looked like a motel.

First time he’d seen a fag bar with a motel attached. Not a bad idea, though; bet the place made a killing.

Maybe he needed to make sure it did make a killing.

He opened the cab door, but only used a single step or two before he leaped to the ground, his scuffed, worn ropers contacting the tarmac with a loud thump. The moment they did so, the Trucker reached into his faded denim jacket and extracted a pack of smokes from an inside pocket. That pocket was the main reason he’d held onto the jacket, worn and stained as it was. Most denim jackets don’t have inside pocket—it was useful. For—surprises.

His tight jeans were also faded and worn; they cradled his firm ass, leaving nothing to the imagination. Good thing the bar was close. They wouldn’t keep the cold out for long, nor would the thin, clean white cotton t-shirt he wore under his jacket. The outside temperature was just above the freezing point—not too cold, but cold enough to discourage loitering, especially when combined with the steady wind. Good thing it was dry, or else getting outta here would be a bitch.

And the Trucker’s plans involved a relatively easy getaway. They always did; it was why he chose the occupation to begin with. He was usually several counties away—if not several states—by the time his playmates were found.

Lost in the pleasant memories of past pleasures, the Trucker reached the end of the lot and wheeled about, heading towards the corner. He usually hunted twinks, but tonight, he was in the mood for someone with some fight in him. He wanted a faggot slut who’d give him a workout; someone who’d put up a fight before being put down. There was a military base nearby—next town up the highway, he thought it was; maybe he’d be lucky and stumble on a hot little army boy…

He paused for a last look back at his rig, just to keep an eye on it. Not that he was worried; it was a load of cheap imported textiles. Not fragile, not perishable, and certainly not valuable enough to draw unwanted attention.

It was cool. He released the concern from his mind as he prepared for the hunt.

There were several bars along this stretch of road. Most were straight strip clubs; some were just cheap dives. The proximity of the highway, the truck stop, and the military base all brought in a booming trade to this tiny little town, and the exchange of money for sex was exploited to the fullest.

The Trucker noticed several bars advertising rooms for rent on a nightly or hourly basis. Seemed that the standard business model in town was to buy a long lot, build a bar in front and a row of very basic motel rooms in the back. Serve cheap booze and charge a high hourly rate for the rooms.

Seemed like it was a successful model, at that.

Well, it explained what he’d seen behind the gay bar; it was indeed a motel. Maybe he wouldn’t be returning to his rig tonight, after all.

The industrial dance music was overpowering the moment he opened the door. A beefy dude in a tight black t-shirt stepped up; SECURITY was stenciled across his burly chest. “Cover’s five bucks, stud,” he said flatly.

“Are you shittin’ me?” snapped the Trucker—before reaching ruefully for his wallet. Don’t make a scene. Don’t make them remember you.

A cover charge for this shithole! Oh well, it was ok. Someone would pay. The Trucker smiled gently at the bouncer. Someone would pay for the indignity of the cover charge.

The inside was a haze of smoke and lights. At least this wasn’t one of those pansy-ass places that banned smoking in bars. The Trucker plucked another Red from the pack and lit it, leaning back against the outer wall and watching the boys at play.

There were several twinks on the dance floor who caught his eye, but they were slobbering over other twinks—and anyway, he really wasn’t in the mood for that. Not tonight. But the place seemed to be filled with local small-town boys and older truckers. Maybe a couple of military dudes, but they seemed to be sticking together. Nothing else was—

That was when the Trucker saw him, over on the far side of the dance floor, rockin’ out all by himself. A Marine. Well, he was wearing Marine combat fatigues, and there were enough military dudes near him to call him on it if he was fake. And even from this distance, the Trucker could spot the tiny beads of light reflecting off the chain holding the Marine’s dog tags.

He was young—no more than twenty-one or –two. It was hard to get a glimpse of his face under the circular flat-topped cap; all that was visible beneath the low desert camo brim was a pair of full lips, almost pouting.

Almost begging to be hurt, the Trucker thought.

It was an interesting look—the kid didn’t want anyone to know who he was, but he didn’t mind them knowing what he was; his combat fatigues made his military status clear. An olive-green t-shirt clung to the boy’s slim but muscled torso, darkening in spots where sweat had soaked through. The kid was giving himself a good workout dancing, given the thick soled lace-up combat boots his camo trousers were bloused into. The pants themselves were slightly baggy, but the Trucker could still get a good idea of the boy’s firm legs moving within them.

He watched the kid dance with various guys out on the floor. The Marine seemed to be almost aggressively horny, grabbing at every guy within reach. He kept getting shot down, though; there was something demeaning about his desperation that turned most dudes off.

It didn’t turn the Trucker off, it got him hard. He could put that desperation to good use. He’d give the Marine a whole new sense of desperation before morning.

The Trucker gave a slight dry chuckle; he was anticipating getting his five bucks’ worth outta the kid—and then some.

He circled the floor impatiently, like a shark sensing fresh blood. The place was packed—it was Saturday night, so it was naturally busy. And actually, it was already well past midnight.

The Trucker needed to work fast. The hours had been posted outside; the bar closed at two in the morning. That left just over an hour for him to lure the little fuck in and put him down. And he wanted to put the Marine boy down, hard. His impatience getting the better of him, he glanced angrily in the kid’s direction—

–and made immediate eye contact. The punk had been getting tired. He was worn out. He’d been flaunting his ass all night, frantically searching for a hot top to plow his hole before his furlough ended tomorrow morning.

The Marine had only been given a forty-eight hour leave; he’d spent the first day visiting his family. He didn’t see them often and they expected it; he’d been a major punk as a teen and had ended up being given the choice of the military or jail. He’d chosen the former.

He liked it. He especially liked being told what to do. Every command, every order, sent a thrill through his body that seemed to quiver the base of his cock. He had trouble not creaming his jeans when his drill sergeant snapped at him.

But he couldn’t play on base. It could be done, sure, but his family lived in town. It’d get around. So he’d take his occasional leaves, run down the highway to the truck stop exit, and book a room behind the gay bar.

Then he’d go out looking for someone to humiliate him like his drill sergeant while fucking him. It was a surprisingly difficult role to fill—most of the tops he found weren’t alpha enough to treat him the way he wanted to be treated. But on rare occasions, he did find what he was looking for. And when he did, he let his inner pig out to play.

But this time, he was striking out. Damn, the bar was gonna close in an hour. And his leave was up as of eight in the morning. That was what—six, seven hours?—to find a fuck memorable enough to keep him beating off till his next furlough. He needed to act fast

That was when he looked up, in utter sexual hopelessness, his huge hazel eyes catching the piercing glare of a man staring at him from just off the dance floor. The dude was taller than him and older, maybe mid-thirties. Very well-built and showing it in tight, faded jeans held by the thick brown strap of a distressed leather belt with a large buckle.

The man’s black hair was long, with a slight curliness, a sharp black goatee circling his mouth and covering his strong jaw with stubble. Under a denim jacket as faded and worn as his jeans, his white t-shirt had become transparent in the spots where sweat had soaked through, revealing dark fur on the man’s chest. The brown leather roper boots on his feet were as scuffed and worn as his belt.

This dude was the real thing; the Marine could feel it immediately. This was what he’d been looking for. He felt that old thrill running through him, straight from the base of his erect tool, as he looked up and caught the erotic look of contempt from—

–the Trucker, noticing he’d gotten the boy’s attention, jerked his head in command and wheeled about. Turning his back to the Marine, he went to the bar. The boy would follow. The Trucker knew for sure. He’d seen it. In that momentary flash of the eyes, he’d seen enough of the pig in the Marine’s soul to know how this night would play out.

He checked his watch and began calibrating. This place would close in an hour. He’d stay chatting and drinking till then, getting the punk well lubricated. No one was leaving now; they’d be unremarked in the crowd that was pushed out the door at closing. They’d get a room here. Let’s see—he’d already slept at the truck stop for a good eight hours. So—in the room by two, play with the kid for a bit before putting him down, say half an hour—no, he’d been through basic training, so he might be able to fight it out a little. Say forty-five minutes to fuck and waste him. Back at the rig by three, three-ten, out on the highway by three thirty, no one finds the body till eight at the earliest—doubt the maids come around that early, but ya never know, gotta take everything into account…

That would put him in the next state before the earliest the body could be found. Perfect.

“Hey,” came a voice from behind him, hesitant, eager, uncertain, vulnerable. The Trucker’s cock stiffened even further as he grinned to himself before turning slowly to face the Marine. He turned slowly, his cold eyes sliding over the Marine’s trim, tight body. The boy was still winded after dancing, his slim, firm chest heaving, the olive t-shirt plastered to every curve by sweat.

The punk’s hazel eyes flashed briefly up at the Trucker’s, then turned away shyly, a faint blush rising on his downy cheeks. He ducked his head, just enough for the brim of his round camo cap to cover his eyes. All the Trucker could see of the kid’s face was his tremulous, eager grin.

He smirked. This was gonna be easy. The fucker wanted to be used; he wanted to be used hard. Good. He’d be in hog heaven before he realized he was getting slaughtered like a pig.

The Trucker remained silent for a moment, watching the kid tremble as he waited for a response. Just before the marine could turn away, crestfallen at another failure, the Trucker spoke up laconically. “Whaddaya drinkin’?”

The Marine looked up, his face instantly beaming. “Whatever beer they got on tap. I don’t care.”

The Trucker got two draft beers from the bar and commandeered a small table. The beer was weak and watery, as he knew it would be. Even the kid was unimpressed. “I got a bottle of Jack back in my room for later. It’s yours anytime you wanna come back and fuck me. I’d kill for your load, dude; just sayin’.”

The Marine was ready. He clearly wanted to get fucked, now. But there was still at least a half hour before closing, when he and the boy would be lost among dozens of others in the mass exodus for the hotel rooms and a night of strenuous fucking. He had to fill the time somehow; he damn sure wasn’t drinking any more off this horsepiss beer.

“What ya looking for?” he drawled at the kid. And that was all he needed to do. The Marine spent the next half-hour proudly divulging his entire sexual history along with his favorite activities. The Tucker smiled and nodded the entire time, never listening to a word. After all, the fucker would be dead within an hour; no one gave shit about what he wanted.

“Last call!” yelled the shirtless, buff bartender. He was in a hurry and clearly had plans of his own. “C’mon, ladies, time to swallow! Ya don’t have to go home, but ya can’t stay here!”

The Trucker stood up as the interior lights came up. He aimed his face down, not making eye contact with anyone else in the crush heading to the door. The kid had bounced to his feet and grabbed the Trucker’s hand. The Trucker looked down in disgust at the pig touching him without permission as the punk dragged him out the door and around the corner towards the motel. “C’mon, man, we’ll crack open that bottle of Jack I got and you can stick your cock in me!”

The Trucker jerked his hand out of the Marine’s. The kid faltered momentarily but continued towards his room once he saw that the Trucker was still following.

For his part, the older man was seething. The kid would pay for grabbing his hand. That and the cover charge.

Kid had a lot to answer for. The Trucker wondered if the boy would last long enough to pay the debt in full. Oh well—if not, it’d still be a fuck of a lot fun trying.

The punk’s room was the one on the right end; at least, that was the one he staggered towards. The Trucker noticed that not all the rooms were occupied; the window on the one that abutted the Marine’s had the blinds open on an unlit room. That was good.

From the Marine’s point of view, it was bad—or at least extremely unlucky. It was extremely unlikely, however, that he would be in a position to appreciate the point when the time came. He was drunker than he’d thought; even that weak beer had had some effect. It didn’t matter; he was young enough and strong enough to get hard no matter how drunk he got.

He did have some other performance issues, though. The door key fought with him, in collaboration with the recalcitrant lock. Frustrated, he finally managed to get the door open when he was least prepared for it, losing his balance and stumbling across the floor to land face down on the bed in the dark. He giggled drunkenly and pushed himself up off the bed as the lights came on and he heard the door close behind him.

He could also hear all three locks engage—the handle knob, the deadbolt and the chain lock—but failed to see any significance in it.

He turned and saw the Trucker leaning against the door, appraising his body coldly, one hand rubbing the thick tube outlined in the crotch of his jeans. The Marine grinned. This was gonna be a good one, he could tell. This one was gonna hurt him the way he liked it. He opened the top drawer in the decrepit chest against the wall and retrieved the bottle of Jack, already open but still three-quarters full.

“Toss it here, bitch, and strip,” snapped the Trucker, “and keep your boots on. You’re gonna need some traction when I fuck ya.”

The Marine’s dick stiffened even further at the order. He tossed the bottle to the Trucker (who caught it one-handed, opened it and took a deep swig) as he sat on the end of the bed and undid the blousing straps around his ankles. Once they were off, the wide cuffs of the fatigue pants opened up and he was able to slip them off right over his boots.

As he did, he kept glancing up at the Trucker. The older dude had shrugged off his jacket and laid it over the back of a chair. With a fluid motion, he reached down and pulled his white t-shirt up over his head, shaking his long black hair free.

The Marine paused for a moment of lust, looking at the top’s beautifully sculpted chest and abdomen, covered in wiry black fur. With his shirt off, the smell of his sweat and pheromones overpowered the small room. The Trucker compensated by lighting another smoke. He took a deep drag before picking the bottle back up and tossing back another mouthful. Then he noticed the audience.

“Get it off, slut. I ain’t banging ya till yer nude; pigs don’t wear clothes.”

The Marine’s shirt came off quickly, his lithe torso slick with perspiration. His boxers gave him more difficulty; they hung up on his erect cock. Soon, though, they were off. And instinctively, the Marine knew what to do.

He stood to attention in front of the Trucker, boots firmly planted side by side, throbbing shaft jutting out in front, slim, muscled body unencumbered by anything but the dog tags dangling in the center of his chest.

He’d kept his camo cap on, though. It didn’t matter; the Trucker wasn’t looking for oral tonight. He had free access to the parts of the little shit’s body that he wanted to fuck; that was what was important.

The Trucker took another drag, exhaling the cigarette smoke directly into the boy’s face, smiling as the fucker flinched and grimaced. Oh dear, if that bothered him, he was gonna find tonight extremely unpleasant, to say the least.

He took another swig of Jack and another drag, letting the kid just stand. Punk didn’t seem to mind; even now, there was a transparent bead of precum welling on the kid’s thick purple head…

“Here,” he said abruptly, thrusting the bottle at the Marine, “drink up. A toast, bitch. Suck it down, cunt; let’s see how good you can swallow. A night to remember.”

The youth reached out hesitantly, taking the bottle in spite of feeling drunk enough already. He didn’t want to black out. But that was the point: a night to remember, at least until the next time he could get his hole plugged. So sure, what the fuck. Even if he’d been sober, he was too uneducated to associate the phrase with a disaster that took the lives of the majority of those involved. He tipped the bottle up and slammed back a hefty amount of booze. “A toatht,” he slurred happily, “a night to remememberer…”

“Turn around and bend over,” growled the Trucker, “now. Stand here at the foot of the bed, place your hands on the mattress and keep you back straight or I’ll beat the fuck outta you. Got that? No matter how hard I plow you, you’re gonna keep your back flat and level. If you don’t, you’ll knock my ashtray off.

And if you knock my ashtray off, the only thing I’ll be able to do with my smokes is stub them out on your ass. So keep your back flat and still or I’ll grind burning embers into your tender cheeks. Got it, Private Fuckwad? It’s time for drill, soldier, and you’re the one gettin’ drilled.”

With that, the Trucker unzipped his fly, letting his long thick cock flop out. A couple of quick strokes and the swollen purple shaft stood erect and waiting. The Marine was trying to keep still and failing; even his puckered pink fuckhole was quivering with excitement.

The boy jerked when the Trucker dropped the cold glass ashtray onto the small of his back—jerked, but not enough to dislodge the ashtray. The Trucker grinned. He’d have the little fucker jerking harder than that soon enough. In fact, now.

Without any warning, he grabbed the Marine’s hips and brutally thrust the bulbous head of his dick ruthlessly past the punk’s straining ass muscle. The kid gave a loud wordless wail, his boots flexing as he instinctively rose up on his toes and tried to tilt his rectum to allow for easier entry.

As he did, he could feel the ashtray starting to slide. The agony of the forced fuck was making him sweat. The few drops running down the hairy crack of his ass did nothing to lube the massive veined member ripping open his poor abused boycunt, but it did a helluva job for the ashtray.

The Marine found himself arching and writhing, shifting his back to keep the ashtray on, shuddering with pain as the Trucker’s cock tore his rectal lining; it felt like someone had shoved a billiard ball up his ass. He began whimpering and moaning.

The Trucker took another drag off his cigarette, then flicked the ashes onto the boy’s back. He didn’t aim for the ashtray; he had no intention of using it. It was there to give the slut something to fail at.

He noticed that the kid had ducked his head down, pressing his forehead into the mattress as a form of support. It was the sound that caught his attention—or, rather the lack of it. Soldier boy’s dog tags had been hanging down and jingling on their chain during the entire fuck, but when the kid lowered his head, they came to rest on the mattress. “Hey, bitch, get yer fuckin’ head up!” he barked. The Marine lifted his head obediently, his desert camo cap coming off and revealing his buzz-cut red-gold hair. He bent his neck back, turning his tear-stained face to the ceiling.

The Marine was in his own private world where the pain and the pleasure of the brutal assfuck merged into a steady glow. He could feel the older man grunting and pumping, behind him, inside him. He could feel the dude’s jeans, worn smooth with use, pressing up against the smooth taut backs of his thighs, flexing with each thrust up his ass. He could feel the stud’s pubic hair, curly and wiry as his chest hair, scraping the sensitive skin of his asscheeks like steel wool. He shifted his feet outward to accommodate more dick, feeling his combat boots knock up against the Trucker’s ropers as he carefully balanced the slick ashtray darting across his smooth back.

The slut was getting used to it, the Trucker thought. His sphincter has relaxed. He’d been hurt, but the worthless pig had enjoyed it.

If the pig enjoyed it, the Trucker didn’t. About time for him to have some fun. Let’s see—first thing to do is take care of that ashtray…

It wasn’t difficult; all he had to do was time an extra-deep thrust to the right point. He made sure the fucktoy bucked backwards in reaction; that flipped the ashtray up over his shoulder and let it land within his field of vision on the bed.

The Trucker hoped the whore would notice that it hadn’t been used. “Oh shit, cunt, you done fucked up now. I still got a lit cig I was just about to put out. Guess what happens now?”

The Trucker ground the smoldering butt slowly into the kid’s twitching asscheek. The Marine screamed uncontrollably as the small spot of flesh began to blacken and smoke. Without pulling his cock out of the young punk’s ass or removing the still-glowing stub of cigarette, the Trucker threw himself forward, forcing the unfortunate slut down onto the bed and shoving his face down into the mattress.

He held the position for a good forty-five seconds or so, even after the butt had gone out, sighing in pure erotic pleasure as the flailing youth pumped his ass in agony and fear along the top’s throbbing shaft. One hand on the boy’s ass, the other splayed in the short red hair, forcing his head down, in complete control of the useless fucking squealing pig.

The Marine was learning that, while a little of what you like does you good, a lot’ll kill ya. Despite the pain, he’d enjoyed the merciless fucking. This, though—this was a-whole-nother level.

A hot, searing pain on his ass. He screamed involuntarily, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the Trucker curse. He knew, somehow, when his face was buried in the bedding, that it was to shut him up, not smother him.

This sick fucking psycho was gonna hurt him bad. But he wasn’t gonna kill him. That shit couldn’t happen to him; he was a Marine after all.

Suddenly, the pressure on the back of his head was gone; he could lift his head—he could breathe again. There was still a searing spot of pain on his ass, but he was too busy gasping for air to be able to scream. And by the time he got his breath back, he had other things to occupy him.

The Trucker grabbed the gasping fucktoy roughly by the shoulder, twisting him around. Keeping the boy impaled on his stiff cock the entire time, he grabbed the kid’s legs as well and managed to completely flip him without letting him off his dick. He was now staring down into the punk’s face.

The Marine was taken by surprise; before he could react, he was flat on his back with his legs spread; his eyes focused on his desert combat boots now hanging in the air past the alpha stud’s shoulders—what the fuck is going on here, what’s he doing now, oh fuck, that snarl of hate and lust oh my god what’s he gonna do…

Before he could say a word, the older man’s face contorted terrifyingly in rage and his hands clamped tightly around the Marine’s throat, squeezing with a force the poor boy wouldn’t have believed possible.

He fought. Oh god, how he fought. The Trucker knew he’d picked a good one; even if the worthless cunt hadn’t picked up anything else in the military, the physical training had made him hard to kill—and that made him a good fuck.

“Ok, you little cocksucker, it’s time to get what you came for. You wanted my load, right? You said you’d kill for it, remember? Will ya die for it? Cause that’s what it’s gonna take, motherfucker. You gotta die on my cock to get my cum. What’s that? You don’t want it that bad? Tough shit, cunt. The cancellation penalty’s even worse.”

He leaned forward and spit into the boy’s confused, tear-stricken face. It was obvious that the kid had no idea that he’d been targeted by a serial killer; despite detailed training in the military, the punk was so paralyzed by terror that he was unable to defend himself coherently.

He was young and strong, though, and his slim, lithe, sweat-slicked body thrashed violently on the bed as suffocating panic set in. The bitch flailed his arms desperately, sending the ashtray flying onto the floor with a loud clunk. His boots kicked frantically in the air as his bulging eyes peered up uncomprehendingly out of his blackening face into the leering, contempt-filled eyes of his killer. His dog tags jingled briefly as they skittered across his sweat-soaked chest before sliding off into his reeking armpit.

His hands clawed furiously at the Trucker’s chest, catching at the fur, tracing with frantic, erotic desperation the slick, firm muscles flexing, flexing to end his worthless life. He somehow realized the futility of grasping ineffectually at sweat-lubed skin and transferred his attention to his attacker’s face—but the alpha stud was experienced at putting whores down; he knew to expect the panicky gouging and dodged his head to one side while repositioning himself so that he could pin the fuckhole down with one arm crushing his esophagus.

With his other arm free, he began punching the Marine in the face, delivering shattering roundhouse blows with all the force his rage could muster.

“Quit fightin’ it, you useless faggot cunt. This is all you’re good for, you fuckin’ pansy Marine wanna-be. You thought you were a soldier, you worthless fuck? You ain’t dyin’ to serve your country, fuckwad, you’re dyin’ to serve my dick. How ya like that, huh? Take it, you fuckpig, take the pain. You know you love it and deserve it, you fuckin’ worthless homo cocksucker. Guess what your CO is gonna think of ya when they find your used, reamed-out, cum-filled corpse in this faggot fuckhole, yeah? Bet the thought just makes you wanna cum, worthless cum-sucking homo pig!”

Under a hail of pain and brutal physical impact, the Marine could hear and understand the Trucker’s words. They were the last words he was capable of understanding; at the moment they were said, he’d been without oxygen for over two minutes.

His thoughts were a jumble of random sensations jelled into a solid state of terror. His dying mind seemed to have broken into multiple compartments; the final fragmentation of a psyche confronted by horrifying, agonizing, yet phenomenally erotic death…

…because in one compartment, the Marine felt huge throbbing waves of heat originating in his puckered ballsack and flowing up the shaft of his cock, rendered so extraordinarily sensitive by approaching death that the slightest touch had the force of an electrical shock…

…and in another compartment, the Marine felt the terror and confusion of the sudden, random brutality of his death; just half an hour ago, he’d been surrounded by dozens of hot studs in the bar, any one of whom he’d have gladly blown—how did he go from that to getting raped and strangled in so short a time…

…and yet another compartment was flooded with the exquisite agony of death, the explosive, imperative pressure in his chest, the swelling torment of his head as his face turned black and blood vessels ruptured throughout his eyes and face…

…but the Trucker looked down on it all, and moved by the youth’s obvious terror, took a moment to ease the horror of death by driving another blow into the faggot’s grotesque, distorted face.

As he wrapped his other hand back around the fucker’s throat, applying bear-trap pressure to the dying kid’s windpipe, the Trucker watched the punk’s slime-covered tongue force its way past the swollen blue lips, thrust agonizingly out of the youth’s mouth accompanied by streams of foamy drool that seeped down the Marine’s death-contorted face.

The rational part of the punk’s brain began to fail from oxygen deprivation, but physical sensation continued to transmit; the Marine could still feel the Trucker’s huge hog plugging his colon and fucking his guts, even if the boy’s brain was too damaged to understand what he was feeling. As his universe collapsed into a constricting ring of blackness and pain, the Marine’s slick, smooth, muscled limbs thrashed convulsively; while his boots drummed mindlessly on the marble-like muscles of his killer’s back, his hands and arms flailed wildly on the bed. One random swing of his arm sent the bottle of Jack flying off to shatter against the wall.

Suddenly the Marine went stiff. It was the last convulsion of a slow, painful, brutal death, the final tightening of all muscles. It was what the Trucker had been holding on for; it was why he did this. The combination of the death spasm in the fucktoy’s sphincter and the convulsion in the lower intestine—it was like a spontaneous suction on his swollen shaft, with the ass muscle working as a cock ring—oh fuck, he was almost there—

The dying punk suddenly gave a violent convulsion under the Trucker. As he did so, the Trucker felt the hard burning shaft of the dying Marine’s cock begin to throb and pump; burning streams of semen erupting in a violent, desperate death orgasm as the Trucker felt the motherfucker’s esophagus collapse beneath his hands, the cartilage yielding with a satisfying crunch that added to the force of his orgasm when the older dude pumped the dead fucktoy’s ass full of hot cum.

The Trucker’s hard, muscled body locked up as firmly as the corpse of the younger boy thrashed violently under him, the alpha top nearly paralyzed and only able to emit a low, rough growl as he pumped his spunk uncontrollably up the dead Marine’s reamed-out cunt.

The Trucker spent the next few minutes gasping and trembling, his cock still buried in the corpse, feeling his balls drain of sperm. After he caught his breath, he pulled out of the still-twitching Marine, admiring the black face on the corpse, swollen almost unrecognizably.

The Trucker lit another smoke as he looked down at the body. Fuck, he was still hard. And the stunned look of horror on the corpse’s face was too irresistible.

Before he was aware of it, the Trucker was back on the Marine, violating the body, shoving his engorged shaft past the slimy, swollen tongue into the crushed throat.

The Trucker skull-fucked the corpse for several minutes before spilling so much seed that it overflowed the Marine’s crushed throat and mouth, pearly white streams oozing out the corpse’s nose.

He’d kept casually dragging on his smoke the entire time; when he was done, he ground the butt out on the whore’s forehead before stepping into the bathroom and soaking a towel to wipe the glaze of the dead Marine’s cum off his chest, where it was matting the fur.

Returning to the room, the Trucker pulled the white cotton t-shirt down over his massive furry chest; it instantly glued to him with a transparency due to the sweat from his recent workout. Picking up his denim jacket, he approached the bed.

The faggot Marine slut was still twitching and quivering on the bed. There was a small dark burn mark on his forehead where the Trucker had put out his butt, almost invisible against the throttled, blackened skin. The older dude grinned down at the corpse, hoping the homo pig had enjoyed his last few nightmarish minutes on earth.

He turned and walked towards the door, unfastening the multiple locks. As he opened the door, he glanced at his watch—2:42. Perfect. He’d be out of the state before the body was found. He took one last glance around the room to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

As his eyes rested on the convulsing corpse, a glint of light caught the Trucker’s eye. He returned to the bed to notice the Marine’s dog tags catching the light. With one deft motion, he reached down and jerked the chain off the corpse’s neck.

Slipping the dog tags over his own head, the Trucker smiled grimly as he fastened he denim jacket and headed back towards his truck. These cheap-ass textiles ain’t gonna deliver themselves, ya know. And there are so many bars and small towns and truck stops out there.

The Trucker chuckled as his worn ropers thumped across the motel’s tarmac. It was a big country. A veritable buffet of sex and death, just waiting for him…

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