Carlos strode quickly down the street, his big black boots thumping loudly on the warm pavement. Bystanders saw a muscular young man moving purposely in their direction and stood aside; there was something dangerous in the youth’s hard face.
They were reacting instinctively to a soul filled with hate.
It had happened again last night. His last night in. Two and a half fuckin’ years in that place and they got him again, just to add insult to injury.
His well-built body was boiling with rage. He’d been given back the clothes he’d worn when he went in—but that was two and a half years ago. Not much else to do in prison but work out—Carlos wasn’t the type to read a book—and he was much more developed than he’d been when he bought the clothes.
The navy blue sleeveless t-shirt clung to his broad chest as if it’d been painted on. A sleeve of tattoos, mostly geometric designs, covered his right arm from wrist to elbow, bulging along with his bicep. A large winged skull was inexpertly tattooed on the left bicep, clearly done inside. He’d always worn his jeans tight; he’d liked the admiring glances his huge hog got, but now the worn, thin denim not only highlighted his thick thighs but outlined the massive head of his tool.
The only thing that still fit right was his pair of black harness boots.
It was what he’d been wearing when he got popped for offin’ that faggot. It wasn’t like Carlos was a queer, man, he didn’t hang like that. But when he’d been down on his luck and needed a little money, some of them homos were good for a few bucks. And no one had to know…
At least not till that one had stiffed him. He’d actually swallowed the dude’s load, too, in the front seat of his car. Motherfucker was gonna pay for that—then the bitch said he didn’t have any money. Carlos was left gagging, still tasting the fuckwad’s smoky sperm, when he felt the rage take over.
He’d always been violent. This time he kept slamming the faggot’s head in his car door till he crushed his skull.
His lawyer had been good and the jury was sympathetic to the gay panic defense. Even with a record for assault, he still only got manslaughter two, five years. Prison overcrowding, the attorney advised him, would get him out in half that time. The lawyer had been right.
What he hadn’t told him was that the nature of his crime had proceeded him, as it always does. Some of the guards have access to the details. They gossip, exchange favors…and soon Carlos was marked as fresh meat. Perfect prison bitch.
He’d fought it, god, how he’d fought, but each time he was overpowered and raped. Each time, he was beaten and called faggot as his ass was painfully violated and violent felons forced their cocks into his mouth.
And yes, he’d worked out. And he’d fought back more. He’d gotten better at fending off the attacks, but if they jumped him from behind or enough ganged up on him, he still ended up moaning in a dark corner, bruised, oozing cum from multiple orifices.
Last night was the worst. They’d gotten the drop on him; one dude—a big, muscular black bull—had snagged him from behind with his forearm and choked him out; he woke up to violent reaming.
There’d been blood in his shorts again this morning.
That worthless fuckin’ faggot. If he’d just had the money he was supposed to, none of this woulda happened. But them goddam pansies always lie and cheat.
Someone needs to teach ‘em a lesson.
In addition to his clothes, he’d been given fifty dollars and a bus ticket downtown. The city council was still squalling about that practice but hadn’t managed to alter it yet, so Carlos soon found himself in a squalid neighborhood bordering the gay ghetto—his old stomping grounds, so to speak.
So here he was, moving purposely along the street, and he did indeed have a purpose. His current objective was hardware and there were plenty of pawn shops on this street.
His ultimate objective was money, of course, but he needed a way to get that. He already had a plan, one that—if he played it right—would get him some cash, some transportation, maybe a little more…and would also let him vent some of his seething anger.
A gun would be the most effective means of persuasion, but he’d literally just walked out of prison. There was no way he was gonna be able to buy even a .22. No, guns were not an option.
There’d be no difficulty in buying a knife, however. He had $50 in cash; he could get something perfectly adequate for far less than that in one of these shady little places. Carlos turned abruptly and walked into the closest one.
The guy at the register narrowed his eyes and stood up straight; he knew trouble when he saw it. He was sure this rough dude was gonna make a bee-line right for the handguns and was relieved to see the he was eyeing the blades instead.
As the muscled punk examined his options in edged weapons, the clerk scanned his chiseled face, mouth circled by a long black goatee. The clerk wondered if the guy had a shaved head; the Confederate flag bandanna he’d tied into a do-rag made it hard to be sure. He blinked to make sure his vision wasn’t faulty; the dude had the word “revenge” tattooed on the left side of his neck. The irregular spacing of the letters made it obvious that he hadn’t paid a licensed tattoo parlor for that thing.
The clerk really, really wanted this guy outta the shop. “Show ya somethin’?” he asked, moving forward, determined to flush him out. Much to his surprise, it appeared to be a normal transaction.
“Yeah, man,” the punk said levelly, “I wanna see this shank right here.” He pointed at the most wicked-looking knife in the case. The clerk bent down and, unlocking the back of the display case, extracted the knife.
“It’s a bowie combat knife,” the clerk said, reading the handwritten tag attached to the hilt with a loop of string. “Total length seventeen inches, blade length twelve inches. Stainless steel blade with double-serrated back edge.” He placed it on the counter between them. “Dude, this thing can seriously fuck someone up.”
The young man—he looked like a gangbanger to the clerk—grinned at the words. “How much?” he drawled. The price was marked on the tag; the clerk shoved it over. “Ten bucks? Sure, I’ll take it.” He’d been given two twenties and a ten; he handed over the ten and walked out with a vicious lethal weapon, no questions asked.
Stooping just outside the pawn shop door, Carlos hoisted the leg of his jeans and slipped the evil-looking shank into his right boot.
He finally felt free again. Now, he needed prey. Time to hit up his old hunting grounds.
The neighborhood had changed since he’d been inside. The piano bar where the rich old fat faggots hung out was gone; now it was some kinda hookah/vapor lounge. Carlos snorted disgustedly. He’d have been able to snag a soft and weak old homo there and get as much money as he needed. Damn.
Turning into a side street, he noticed sleazy dive bar where he’d picked up dudes in the past. It was dark, with strippers and a small dance floor, but most of the action was on the back patio. Might be worth a shot.
He should have known—middle of a weekday afternoon, the bar was dead. A rancid old troll sat on the far side, leering at the bartender and everyone else in the room—which consisted of exactly Carlos at the moment. Quickly ordering a beer, he grabbed the bottle and stepped out onto the covered patio, about sixty square feet surrounded by a privacy fence and filled with picnic tables.
To his surprise, the patio bar was open as well. Several of the tables were occupied—hustlers and tricks, mostly. A couple of strung-out twink couples looking around furtively before hitting glass straights. The sweet vanilla scent of crack wafted briefly in front of Carlos.
Sighing dispiritedly, he sat at a table near the bar, nursing his beer. Nothing worthwhile here but maybe if he held out long enough, something might show up—hopefully he could drag out his cash long enough.
The afternoon crept slowly by. The patio’s cover had ceiling fans; their lazy revolutions did little to combat the oppressive heat. Carlos’s thick, tattooed arms were soon shiny with sweat. He was getting hot, in several senses—the most influential of which was anger. He began to eye some of the other dudes on the patio, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t slip out and wait for one to leave alone, just to take the edge off things…
That was when Chad walked in. Carlos didn’t know his name at that moment, of course, but he soon learned it. Chad was friendly with the bartender, and Carlos was close enough to eavesdrop.
Most of the conversation consisted of bragging; Chad was evidently a mid-level whore. He was flirting with the bartender but was evidently more than the dude could afford. At the moment, he was describing how much cash he’d gotten paid for a sleazy photo shoot—which explained his clothing.
The hustler had a swimmer’s build with slim but firm muscles, his body lean without being scrawny. His face was shadowed with copper-colored hair, the same new-penny shade covering his goatee and beard. His eyes, slightly almond-shaped, were bright green rimmed with long dark lashes. Above the red scruff, the rentboy’s face was youthful; he was probably no older than twenty-one or –two, but he looked considerably younger. He got relentlessly carded—occasionally even here in his regular hangout, by new employees.
He detailed his spread to the bartender—he’d been paid $500 to dress up like a skate punk and let pics get taken as he stripped. The photog had even slipped him a little X to get him into the mood. Chad was still riding high and wanting to get fucked.
And since he’d come straight to the bar instead of going home first, he was still dressed the part. A white ball cap with the letters “L.A.” embroidered on it didn’t quite hide short hair the same bright red as his facial scruff. He wore an open sky blue short-sleeve dress shirt unbuttoned over a tight black t-shirt. The t-shirt had a smiley face with a blood-spattered bullet hole in the center of the forehead.
Chad had slipped on his tightest pair of skinny jeans for the gig; they were so revealing he’d only gotten them in black. The seam in the seat parted his smooth asscheeks perfectly; as the seam ran down to his groin, it massaged his bare taint. Even with the black shade of the fabric, it was clear to anyone who looked closely—and Carlos was looking closely—that the kid was commando under the thin layer of denim. The jeans clung tightly to his legs all the way down to his skate kicks, shiny red leather shoes with laces the same bright blue as his dress shirt.
“So what ya gonna do now?” the bartender asked. It should have been obvious; Chad had downed four shots of peach schnapps while gloating. At least he was honest. “Gonna get fucked up an’ get fucked, man…” he slurred.
The door to the bar opened and the inside bartender leaned out. “Hey, Jack, we gotta delivery comin’ in. Boss wants ya to handle it while I keep the inside runnin’. C’mon, man, they can come in for refills till ya get back.”
The bartender grinned sheepishly at Chad before slipping away. The slut had managed to get a fifth shot from him before he’d gone. Wheeling around on the barstool, Chad glanced around the patio and had already thrown back his shot before his sodden brain processed the information.
When it did, he focused instantly on Carlos.
Chad had always had a fascination with rough trade. It was a rarely-satisfied curiosity, though; Chad got fucked for money and most of the really dangerous-looking ones—the ones that made his seven-inch dick get hard when he looked at them—didn’t have the money. And if they didn’t pay, they didn’t play.
But right now, things were different. He was flush with cash—and not being the type to save money when his slim, youthful body was still so much in demand, he felt free to indulge himself. The fact that he was drunk didn’t impinge on his awareness at all; the alcohol had swept up over him all at once.
The dude at the table closest to him was staring at him. He had dark eyes, a black goatee, a body—holy shit, what a body—colored with tattoos. Chad felt almost embarrassed by his single tattoo—Chinese characters running down the inside of his right arm the last two ideograms visible just below the cuff of his shirt. He was such poser; he didn’t even know what it actually meant…
He somehow managed to get off the barstool without falling. Walking confidently towards the dude—that bandanna; was he a fuckin’ skinhead? He looks Mexican—Chad was utterly unaware of how badly he was staggering.
Carlos was, though. He grinned. Fuckin’ queerboy couldn’t hold his liquor, fuckin’ pansy-ass schnapps. This was gonna be almost too easy.
Good. He could take his time. He could make it hurt. He could inflict extended suffering on this faggot and wallow in the nightmarish agony he could wield.
Smiling warmly, he motioned Chad over. “Have a seat, man.”
The slim rentboy slid unsteadily into the chair, almost overbalancing himself. He slapped his red skate sneakers down hard onto the patio to keep from falling, his face beaming with a goofy grin the entire time. When he finally got planted to his own satisfaction, he glanced up into the rough trade’s face.
“I’m Chad,” he slurred. “Whass yer name? Whatcha into?”
“Carlos,” the well-built tough said quietly. “I’m looking for a bitch who can take my dick. That you?”
Chad’s shaft started to swell at the sound of Carlos’s low, deep voice. He tried to focus blurrily on the dude, but found himself shying away from the piercing stare in the cold black eyes. The rough guy was only about five years older than him at most, but there was something about him that seemed to assume control of the situation. High and drunk as he was, Chad new that this fella would be doing the driving, so to speak.
The thought got Chad even harder.
“Yeah,” he hiccupped, “yeah, thatss me. Won’t even charge ya, Carlosh. C’mon, stud, you can bang the fuck outta me back at my place—if yer up for it. Less go, dude, lessee if ya can give me what I want and make it hurt.”
In a more sober state, Chad would have spoken more clearly, but just as directly. He expected the guys who fucked him to be up to the task—and as more cocks got shoved up his hole, the bigger the task tended to be. The only thing unusual in Chad’s comment was the lack of financial settlement; he normally settled the fee before taunting the trick. But this one would be for fun, on his own time.
The patio had a one-way gate, exit only, which led to the parking lot in the rear. After some difficulty navigating the exit, Chad stumbled into the lot and began fishing for his keys. In his uncoordinated state, it took him a while to retrieve them, which was why he didn’t notice that it had taken several minutes for Carlos to follow him out. Long enough, in fact, that no one on the patio had realized they’d left together.
As he yanked the keys out of the pocket of his incredibly tight jeans, they snagged on the fabric and he dropped them. As he stood, swaying and looking dumbly down at them, Carlos swooped in and snatched them from the ground.
“I’ll drive, dude,” he muttered—little motherfuckin’ queer was way too trashed for Carlos to voluntarily sit in the passenger seat.
Chad shrugged. “Sure, whatevs, man—it’s that one there.”
He pointed to a white Mustang convertible with red pinstriping. The car was several years old and looked it; there were numerous small dings and scrapes but nothing major. Part of the roof had a duct tape repair. Carlos noted the car had paper tags.
Chad confirmed it. “Just bought it last week—whaddaya think, huh? Pretty sweet ride, huh? I can tell ya, it hauls ass.”
Carlos unlocked it with the fob and slid into the driver’s seat; Chad fell in heavily next to him. The car reeked of weed, french fries, and cheap floral air freshener. “Take a left out the lot,” Chad said uncertainly but surprisingly clearly, “and the next left—no, wait, right. Then second left. It’s the De Gama Apartments; you can park in the back.”
Carlos had them there within three minutes; the place was literally walking distance from the bar. Chad almost went to his knees crawling out of the passenger seat, but once upright, he was able to walk more or less in a straight line. Handing him back the keys, Carlos followed him into the open breezeway of the building to the immediate left. Chad’s apartment was first on the right.
Carlos found himself stepping into a dark, tiny efficiency apartment. The single window was covered with blinds and had a blanket draped over the brackets holding the blinds; it let in no light whatsoever—and very little in the way of sound.
Chad turned on the overhead light to reveal the fact that he lived like a pig. Carlos, long since used to a routine that had forced him to clean his cell on a daily basis, felt a thrill of disgust as he scanned the room.
It wasn’t that it filled with filth; but it was strewn with dirty clothing, much of it—judging by the smell—soaked with semen. The tiny alcove that served as a kitchen didn’t need a lot to make it look cluttered; the empty glasses and liquor bottles on the two square feet of countertop sufficed.
The obscured window looked into the breezeway; in front of it was one of the few quality items in the unit—a 40-inch LCD television (the other item was a laptop barely visible on the floor under a pair of used briefs). There was a cable box, a cable modem and an older Xbox on the lower level of the TV stand.
Opposite the TV was the bed with a nightstand on each side. Carlos had to blink at it a couple of times before he realized it was an unfolded futon; it doubled as a sofa. This dude was such a whore he never bother to put the bed away…
There was a cheap dresser next to the TV and past the kitchen were a couple of doors; presumably bathroom and closet. The entire place couldn’t have been more than four hundred square feet.
And it reeked. The funk of cigarette smoke, weed, incense, and sex was almost thick enough to be visible.
Chad chuckled drunkenly as he staggered forward and tried to smooth the twisted and stained sheets. After a few fraught seconds, he gave it up as a bad job and sat on the edge of the thin foam mattress. He glanced up at Carlos’s face, grinned, and started slipping off his blue dress shirt.
Tossing it on the floor, he stood up slowly. He haltingly pulled the black tee with the shot smiley face up over his head, swaying alarmingly as he did so. Carlos’s eye glittered as Chad revealed his leanly-muscled chest. This shirt went on the floor as well, just as Chad lost his balance and fell back into a sitting position on the futon again.
He didn’t notice the narrowing of Carlos’s eyes. The convict felt his cock straining in his jeans. Another thing he could feel was the knife; much taller than the boot he’d hidden it in, the hilt was pressing into the side of his lower leg, a slight sensation of discomfort that made him both angrier and harder. He shifted slightly and heard something crunch under his bootheel.
Looking down, he saw he’d shattered the case for one of the Xbox games—Call of Duty. As he glanced around, he noticed the floor littered with cases and discs, some partially hidden under clothes. Mixed with the games was a sizable collection of porn. Judging by the titles, the slut liked it rough and raw.
Chad hadn’t heard the sound—he’d flopped onto his back and was running his fingertips up and down his slim, smooth chest, humming contentedly. Carlos had been right in his assessment; he was drunkenly anticipating a long hard punkfuck by a hot, built gangbanger who could hold him down and ream him till he screamed.
That was exactly what he was gonna get—although when it happened, he wouldn’t be in a position to appreciate the gratification of his lust. Taking advantage of Chad’s preoccupation, Carlos slipped off his own tight t-shit. Quietly approaching the futon, he tossed it on the end table on the right side before Chad heard him and sat up.
He almost gasped at Carlos’s body. Sweat gleamed off his muscular chest like a sheen of oil. Across his left pectoral, just to the right of the large nipple, was another tattoo. This one was also inexpertly done but very detailed; a grim reaper figure that carried not a scythe but an AK-47. Under the figure was the phrase “Die, Motherfucker, Die!”
The wiry black fuzz that began on his broad chest thickened as it flowed down his washboard abs to his firm, flat belly. The dark trail was cut off by the jeans and thick leather belt at Carlos’s waist.
The con could see the effect he was having on the whore; Chad’s skinny jeans bulged in the crotch as his eyes light up with lust; drunk as he was, the ecstasy was still having some effect. He decided it was time to get started. Reaching his hand up to his neck, he unconsciously scratched at the tattoo that said “revenge”.
“C’mon, punk, let’s see what ya got. Show me your fuckhole, bitch. NOW, goddamit!” he barked.
For a split second, Chad’s face registered the same shock as if he’d been slapped. Then it vanished into a salacious grin as he scrambled to his feet. “Yessir,” he panted, unbuckling his belt and worming the skin-tight denim down his firm legs. His long dick—his moneymaker—flopped out stiffly, the slit at the tip of the swollen head glistening.
The jeans hit the floor on top of his bright red sneakers. As he bent to remove them, Carlos abruptly shoved him back onto the bed. “Just like that, bitch, I’m gonna plow your hole just like that. Stay there like a good dog.”
Chad remained on his back, panting with anticipation as Carlos unfastened the brass buckle on his leather belt. Unbuttoning and unzipping his crotch, he had to put in as much effort to get the jeans off as Chad had his; they were even tighter than the whore’s had been.
Underneath, he was bare; he’d gotten rid of the cheap thin skivvies the prison has issued him on his release. He’d stopped in the first public restroom he could find and tossed them in the garbage. Even though he tried to ignore it, he couldn’t help but notice the rust-colored stain of dried blood that had leaked from his violated ass. Now, as the image flashed across his mind again, a red fog of fury rose behind his eyes.
Out in front, his cock rose as well.
Chad had a big dick. Carlos’s was monstrous. Chad’s eyes opened wide; even in his drugged haze, the kid was aware of how much this would hurt. At the same time, seven inches of vein-wrapped flesh began to rise in his groin. It was gonna hurt—and that turned him on.
He wanted it rough, and he was gonna get it rough. In fact, it was gonna be fuckin’ brutal—starting now.
Carlos couldn’t wait anymore; mounting rage led to mounting and rape. Placing his hard, rough hands on Chad’s smooth inner thighs, he forced them apart and thrust his thick, muscled body between them. Both men has their jeans around their ankles. For Carlos, it was a matter of expediency. For Chad, it was a matter of bondage. The scary-looking dude was suddenly right on top of him and he couldn’t move his legs. He didn’t resist, though; so far, his most erotic fantasy was coming true.
Of course, he’d never noticed the knife rising out of Carlos’s boot. And the way he was positioned now, he couldn’t see it. The rough ex-con reached down to aim his dick up the slut’s fuckhole—but before he did, he moved his hand a bit lower and grabbed the hilt of the blade, just to make sure it was still in reach.
After all, he didn’t want to be searching for it later. Ruins the mood.
In his anger, it was the only thing he checked on; brandishing his massive rod like a weapon, he plowed it deeply into Chad’s rectum with no warning whatsoever. There was no hint of what was happening, and no lube. Chad wasn’t used to the lack of either, but it was the latter that had the greatest impact, in several senses of the word.
The pain tore through the drunken haze filling his weak, drugged mind. It didn’t sober him, exactly, but it did make him aware that this might not be as fun as he’d thought—and that he was too fucked up to handle things if it went out of control.
It was a cardinal rule of whoredom. Always be aware of the situation; always have a way out. Most of Chad’s clients were middle-aged suburban men who found his slim, boyish body irresistible. He’d never dealt with someone truly dangerous. And this was fun, not business. He’d let his guard down, but the thought was slow in processing, and the possible consequences hadn’t yet occurred to him.
What had occurred, however, was a horrible tearing sensation in his colon, a flaming, white-hot sheet of pain that evoked a shrill scream and an attempt to push Carlos off him. “Bitch, I ain’t takin’ your shit,” Carlos snarled, “shut the fuck up, faggot, and take my cock—and if ya don’t, I’ll fuckin’ make ya.”
With another violent thrust, the muscular convict buried his tool in Chad’s fuckhole to the root. Used and abused as the rentboy’s puckered asshole was, Carlos managed to stretch it past its prior limits, literally tearing the muscle in one place and the rectal lining in another.
Chad eyes went wide with shock; it hurt so bad his logic shorted out for a moment and he had a vivid mental image of a cactus shoved up his ass before he began to shriek at the top of his lungs. It lasted less than a second; Carlos donkey-punched Chad in the jaw, putting out his lights.
“Worthless piece a’ shit, told ya I’d make ya shut up,” he whispered sneeringly at the limp form beneath him, the lithe body jerking unconsciously with each thrust of Carlos’s hips. After about thirty seconds, the boy’s long lashes began to flutter. Parting his swollen, split lips, he let out a gagging, guttural moan.
Carlos slipped his right hand down to his leg and carefully slid the knife out of his boot. He placed it on Chad’s flat smooth belly; it was too large for the slut’s heaving gasps of breath to dislodge. Still in the process of regaining consciousness, Chad was too dazed to notice the huge blade lying on his abdomen. As his eyes focused on the sweaty, muscular chest in front of him, the rentboy’s awareness resurfaced in a torrent of verbal abuse from the convict.
“Stupid fuckin’ faggot, actin’ like you ain’t never had a dick up your worn-out fuckhole,” Carlos hissed viciously into the boy’s stunned, terrified face, “you squeal like a pig, ya know that? Just like a motherfuckin’ queer-ass cocksucking pig!”
Chad was still high, still drunk—but it wasn’t fun anymore. He wasn’t able to think clearly; all he knew was that this hot stud seemed to hate him and was hurting him more than he’d thought possible. The drug had intensified his sensations; it was as if every vein wrapped around Carlos’s enormous shaft was barbed wire slashing at his torn sphincter.
The con was holding the slut down by pinning his shoulders to the thin foam mattress but Chad managed to wriggle out from under. Still bleating in agony, he started clawing and beating at his assailant, making shallow scratches on the brutal killer’s hairy chest. As he struggled, the knife slid off his belly but in his frantic, futile attempt to climb off the rod impaling his ass, he had yet to realize it was there. The pain was just too intense for him to notice much else.
“What’s the matter, bitch, my dick ain’t enough? Ya want somethin’ else shoved inside ya?” Carlos snarled. Grunting in anger, he grabbed Chad’s flailing arms and held both wrists together in one hand above the boy’s head, immobilizing him. He needed to get the cunt’s attention—time for show and tell. With his other hand, he reached for the knife.
Carlos held the long, evil-looking blade in front of Chad’s bewildered eyes. As the boy froze in shock, the con released his arms and clamped his hand over the slut’s mouth. Leaning forward until their faces were a foot apart, he bought the knife between them so it almost filled Chad’s field of vision. He couldn’t look away.
As Carlos whispered to him, Chad was unable to take his eyes off the gleaming steel blade, as if he was hypnotized by the razor-sharp edge and the double-serrated tip. “Yeah, bitch, look at it,” the muscled killer murmured, “imagine what it’s gonna feel like inside ya. It’s gonna feel fuckin’ great to me, I can tell ya. I seen this inside, dude. Guy got done like this. It hurts bad, man, it hurts so fuckin’ bad you tighten up and milk the cum outta my cock. And if I do it right, I can make it last a long time. So get ready, you worthless faggot—it’s your lucky day; you’re gonna get all kinda long hard shafts stuck inside ya!”
Chad’s mind was a clean white sheet of panic, useless and helpless. Tears welled from his large eyes and trickled down his cheeks into his copper-colored scruff. His full, swollen lips trembled under Carlos’s excruciating grip as he began to blubber, a low keening sound grating to the nerves. His own long dick, protruding limply from a tangle of strawberry-red hair, wasn’t hard enough to prevent pure terror forcing out a couple of trickles of piss that ran warmly down the boy’s smooth sides.
“Ready to get it on?” Carlos grinned. “Ready for me to show ya what I think you disgusting faggots are worth? Time for some fun, cunt!”
He lay his massive bulk on top of Chad’s slim body, feeling it wriggle in terror under him, slipping across his muscled form on a film of sweat and piss. He kept his left hand tightly and painfully clamped over the whore’s mouth while with his right, he pressed the knife into the boy’s side, just below the armpit. Applying just enough pressure to break the skin, he slowly drew the blade downward, tracing a long, oozing line of red down the kid’s smooth, heaving flank.
Chad closed his eyes tightly and tried to turn away; the hand that gripped his face like an iron vise didn’t let him move far. He could feel the icy slice moving down his body and he knew that when it stopped—but he wasn’t able to think past that point.
He didn’t have to. Carlos grinned evilly as he slowly brought the knife back up, cutting a little deeper this time. Watching Chad wince in pain, he grunted and shoved his dick further up the boy’s ass, enjoying the muffled squeal he elicited. Then he pulled the knife back and started touching the tip to the bitch’s side at random. “Eeney, meeney, miney, moe,” he whispered, “catch a tiger—“ He shoved the blade in up to the hilt, burying all twelve inches of sharpened steel in Chad’s guts with a wet squelching sound.
The jagged serrations on both sides of the tip sliced through Chad’s tender flesh like soft butter. The blade had entered his left side, just below the ribcage. Slashing through the descending colon and a twisted mass of small intestine, the knife was rammed in on a slightly upward angle, shearing through the transverse colon and slicing the pancreas. Before the sharp steel tip stopped moving, it had punctured Chad’s gall bladder and embedded itself in his liver.
And yet no major blood vessels had been hit. The wound wasn’t immediately fatal—just horrifically painful.
Chad shuddered in shock, his wide eyes ringed with purple circles of agony. A foot of cold steel had been shoved into his torso; the white-hot flame of agony was all-powerful. What Carlos had said was true—he stiffened involuntarily; his muscles tightening on their own. It made things worse; as his abdominal muscles clenched, they closed in on the knife, causing it to slice open the wound even wider on its own.
“Fuck yeah, homo, now you’re gettin’ it,” sighed Carlos. “Goddam, guess that’s what it takes to get you stupid fuckin’ faggots to work a dick right—gotta stick ya like a pig. That it, cunt? That what ya like, you sick fuckin’ pansy?”
Chad barely heard the words; his world had become the flaming lance upon which he was impaled; the only other thing that worked its way through the agony was the tightening of his muscles—that had to be it, that had to be why his dick was getting hard, his muscles were sealing the blood flow into his painfully erect tool, that was OH HOLY FUCK—
Grabbing the handle, Carlos had twisted the blade ninety degrees. As the tip rotated within the wound, the serrations on each side carved strips from Chad’s organs, shredding parts of his liver, pancreas and intestines. With whip-like speed, the convict jerked the knife out of the whore’s quivering body. A trickle of blood flowed from the small gash in the kid’s side, but most of the damage was internal. Chad’s gall bladder was destroyed.
As the lean, smooth youth writhed in nightmarish agony on Carlos’s cock, his mangled sphincter desperately grabbing at the muscled killer’s tool, the con spit into the sobbing slut’s face before holding the knife up to him again. Drops of his own blood spattered Chad’s cheeks; where they hit his beard, they made circles of crimson on the copper.
“Look at it, cocksucker,” Carlos snarled viciously. “Ya like it when dude stick things in ya, you fuckin’ faggot, huh? Ya like what I’m stickin’ in ya? Look at the blade, you goddam homo cunt, lookit yer guts hangin’ in strings off my fuckin’ knife. Fuck yeah, you ain’t dead yet, bitch. I’m gonna make you hurt a whole fuckin’ lot more before you die. Watch this, fag, you’re gonna love this shit!”
Lifting himself up off the rentboy’s twitching, sweat-smeared body, Carlos drew his arm back and plunged the knife down vertically, the blade sinking straight into Chad’s flat, smooth belly. The redhead’s eyes widened to a grotesque extent as the blade again tore through his intestines, this time front to back. The blade was longer than Chad’s torso was deep, it utterly impaled him, coming out his back and cutting several inches into the foam mattress.
Carlos’s left hand had come away from the rentboy’s mouth, but by this time it didn’t matter. Chad gave an incoherent grunt of pain—“hoog!”—before sinking into a shuddering gasp. He was past the point of consciously calling for help; his entire existence was now simply reaction to pain.
Part of the pain was in his dick. It was harder that it had ever been, not that he was in a position to compare—but it was so hard it hurt. He was well-endowed, nowhere near as big as the horse dick plugging his rectum, but too big for comfort at the moment. As his long hard hog lay along his belly, the engorged purple head was scraping against the blade embedded in his belly.
In some malignant way, Carlos’s chuckle wormed its way through to Chad’s awareness. He knew this tattooed roughneck was both amused and aroused by his pain. As icy despair enveloped his shallow soul, Chad knew he’d be giving his killer exactly what he wanted as he died. He’d be in too much pain to resist. He’d die in horrible pain while his killer contemptuously used his convulsing rectum as a disposable sex toy.
In a defiant act of denial, the whore, realizing his arms were free, began to claw at Carlos’s face. His manicured nails dug into the convict’s scruff-covered cheeks as the boy gasped and squealed uncontrollably.
“You goddam faggot,” Carlos growled flatly, “here, maybe this’ll shut your worthless ass up, huh?” Yanking the long knife out of Chad’s stomach, he slammed it into the right side of the kid’s smooth chest. The blade sliced through the boy’s broad, flat pectoral muscle between two ribs before it punctured the right lung and embedded itself into a rib in the slut’s back.
Carlos held the shuddering youth tightly to him, feeling the rentboy’s agony ripple through his lithe lean body in waves, each one convulsing Chad’s colon and sending a thrill of pleasure along the convict’s cock. Again, he twisted the knife in the wound before yanking it back out, a long spurt of blood following the blade up out of the body.
He’d created a sucking chest wound. The rest of the bleeding was internal. Chad was sweating and quivering, his eyes wide and fixed as physical and electrochemical shock overwhelmed him. The massive internal trauma he’d suffered was starting to catch up to him; damaged organs were leaking not just blood but hormones and enzymes into his abdominal cavity.
He wanted to plead, to beg for his life, not realizing that he was past saving by this point. But it was moot; he still rigid from the physical shock, his body stiff and shuddering—and his cock. It had something to do with the searing burning pain in his ass—some part of him remembered the alpha stud on top of him, this was his cock, he was gonna make his erotic fantasy come true…
The rage-filled killer leered at Chad’s bewildered expression. There was a truly undeserving look of innocent appeal that made him even more contemptuous; his spit into the suffering cunt’s face again. Chad was gasping, his face turning blue as his lung collapsed. Suddenly, he jerked, his smooth firm legs wrapping tightly around Carlos’s waist, his red leather sneakers quivering in the air as gargling sound filled his throat. His body strained momentarily, causing his dick to rise up and slap the con’s hairy chest, then a bubble of blood burst in his mouth.
Chad continued to jerk and cough, trickles of blood leaking from each corner of his mouth and winding its way through his curly red beard. He was sweating profusely, his hair so dark with moisture its color was now hard to discern.
Carlos hadn’t done this before. He’d seen dudes snuffed in jail, but the one he’d killed had been in anger.
He had no idea how good it’d feel. And somehow, he knew exactly what to do—and when to do it.
He knew they were entering the home stretch when Chad began tensing rhythmically with each wheezing, desperate breath. The bitch was losing too much blood. Time to shift gears.
“Ok, homo, time for me to cum and you to go. I’m sure they’ll slap a coat of paint on this shithole after they haul your rotting, spunk-filled corpse outta here. That’s about all anyone’s gonna care about a cocksucking faggot whore who took the wrong trick home and got himself offed. Just so you know, you queer piece of shit, ain’t no one gonna care how much it hurts or how scared you were. The only one who cares is me. And for me, more is better.”
Chad continued to shudder, his eyes losing focus and rolling back momentarily before he clawed his way back to consciousness, grimly hanging on to life despite the agonizing pain of each passing moment. There was still enough of him left to feel the sadistic con’s engorged rod plunging deep into his battered and torn rectum.
Each breath was a struggle against the crushing pain of his collapsed lung, an uphill fight that left him weak. Chad’s world had shrunk to a tunnel view of Carlos’s muscular chest; on the side of the pec, past the wiry hair, he again caught the words “Die, Motherfucker, Die!” on the tattoo. Everything else was blinding white-hot pain. Even his huge cock was so hard it seemed to be on fire.
In a way, Chad was at peace; he was experiencing the worst and it would soon be over.
He was only half right.
Carlos looked down into the ginger’s face, blue from limited oxygen. “Useless goddam faggot, you still ain’t made me cum. You homos make me so fuckin’ sick; you lure us straight guys in and somehow it’s our fault when we gotta teach you cunts a lesson. I went to jail for the last one, but I ain’t goin’ back cause of you. Gonna take your cash and that piece of shit car you’re so proud of and by the time anyone bothers to check on your subhuman ass, you’re gonna be so rotten they ain’t gonna be able to tell what happen to ya for sure!”
Panting with rage and lust, Carlos held the knife up and looked at it, a terrifying glint of eagerness lighting his eyes as he gazed at the strings of flesh still caught in the serrations. His hard body heaved, his bulging arms glistened with sweat. The word “revenge” on his neck had actually been tattooed across his carotid; it throbbed with his racing pulse. The Confederate flag bandanna wrapped around his shaved head was dark with sweat.
Carlos fixed his icy gaze on Chad’s dazed, half-lidded eyes. “When we met, you told me you wanted it to hurt,” he hissed. Inhaling deeply, he spat another wad of phlegm into the slut’s blue, tear-stained face. “Does it hurt enough yet? What’s that? I can’t hear you, you motherfuckin’ piece a’ shit, so I’m gonna take that as a no. Ok, wow, you really like it the hard way, huh? Good, all of ya faggots deserve this much pain; glad ya realize it. Ok, cocksucker, if ya want it to hurt, this is really gonna make you blow your cumsucking load!”
A lot happened in the next few seconds.
It started with Carlos’s left hand. He placed it on the crown of Chad’s head, digging his fingers into the short wiry hair on his scalp like a handful of copper wires. His right hand flashed up in a blur, shoving the blade up under Chad’s jaw, behind the chin.
Pressing down on Chad’s head with his left hand and shoving up with his right, he managed to slowly force the length of steel blade into the rentboy’s head. The tip sliced slowly, excruciatingly up through the bottom of the jaw into the mouth. Pinning the slut’s tongue to the roof of his mouth, it continued up through the soft palate at the top of the mouth into the sinuses.
The helpless youth kicked his feet convulsively in the air, his sneakers jerking as his body shuddered in incomprehensible agony. Some part of him could hear, could feel his septum and the base of the cranium crunch and shatter as the knife continued its inexorable climb…
And then, nothing. There are no nerve endings in the brain. Chad wasn’t aware of the parts of his cerebrum that were destroyed as the knife passed through; he felt a twinge of pain as it punctured the dura and dug the tip into the inside of his cranium.
He felt an irrational and truly amazing sensation from his cock. He didn’t know the blade had sliced through and short-circuited the pleasure center of his brain; he only knew that he was in more pain than humanly possible—and that he wanted to cum so bad…
That was when Carlos pulled his hands in different directions; the one in the hair pulling left while the one holding the knife impaling the cunt’s head pulling right. In the blink of an eye, the convict had snapped Chad’s neck, completely severing the head from the spine.
The whore’s nervous system, already primed by the faulty signals from the brain, went into overload when the spinal column was mangled. The smooth lean body again went rigid and quivered, but this time with an intensity far beyond anything it had displayed before. The rentboy’s rectum clutched Carlos’s shaft desperately, like a drowning man. The dying fag’s cock stood up. It hesitated for a moment, throbbing and pulsating, before it began to pump out a steady stream of semen in a single ropy strand that splattered Carlos’s chest and smeared the dark fur on his buff torso.
With a loud, guttural grunt, Carlos felt himself pump his burning load into the dead whore’s guts; the convulsing slut still milking his hot spunk out of his shaft. “Goddam faggot!” he snarled as he shot his wad, “fuckin’ die, you worthless cumsuckin’ homo!” As he yelled, he felt himself shoot even harder; it didn’t matter if the motherfucker was already dead or not.
Carlos held on to the twitching, jerking corpse for a while longer before pulling out. This process had to be done twice—once with his dick and once with his blade. Then he was free to wriggle out from between the kid’s quivering thighs.
Carlos strolled to the bathroom and tried the sink. The hot water was really, really hot. That was good. He soaked a hand towel and wiped himself down, then used the same towel to clean the blade. When he was done, he left it in the sink under running water for a while.
Pulling up his jeans, he began a careful search of the room, starting with Chad’s clothes. He found $460 in the wallet plus change from the booze he’d bought. He also snagged the car keys. A quick glance around showed nothing else unusual—besides the bleeding corpse of the boy sprawled nude on the bed, his jeans around his ankles, that is.
He grabbed his shirt off the nightstand next to the futon—but before putting it on, he looked into the kitchen. There he did see something unusual. In the midst of liquor bottles and fast food wrappers was a flour canister. Opening it, he saw that there really was flour inside. And under the flour was a baggie with $3500 in it.
Carlos dressed quickly. Lifting the corner of the blanket, he peered out from behind the window blinds. No one in the breezeway, no one in the parking lot. Perfect.
His boots seemed to thump loudly on the pavement as he crossed the asphalt to the Mustang, but he didn’t worry about it. He’d be past the state line by midnight. And he had enough money now to last a while. Well, at least till he found another victim.