Trucker 6–Trucker v Stripper

The Trucker awoke to the sound of rain drumming on the roof of the cab’s sleeper compartment.  Glancing up front, he noticed the windshield was fogged—a cold front was moving through.  He wiped it down and took a look around the rest area.  It was just as empty has it had been when he’d pulled in six hours ago.


Six hours hadn’t been much rest, after what he’d been through, but it had helped.  He’d gone north across the state line after working over the cop, then headed east on a state highway.  He’d gone a good 150 miles before exertion and lack of sleep started catching up; he’d pulled over and crawled into the back.


Time to move on.  He had no way of knowing if the state trooper’s splayed corpse had been found yet.  But he was trying to move unexpectedly; even without knowing whether he was being followed, his hunter’s instincts kept him wary.  He was actually planning to turn south again to take care of unfinished business, but he was trying to circle away from the scene of his last snuff; there was gonna be a lot of attention on that one.


So he headed east again, knowing that in a couple of hours he’d reach a junction with an interstate that would get him where he needed to go.  There was a decent-sized town there, San Amadeo.  Not huge, about twenty thousand or so, but large enough to lay low and rest up a while—and maybe have a little fun, too.  Town was big enough to lose a slut or two without anyone noticing.


He was there in less than three hours, having driven out of the rain but not the ceiling of dark low clouds.  The wind had picked up after dark, too, forcing him to watch his turns, even at slow speed inside city limits.   Since most of the town’s economy was focused on the highway intersection, there were three large truck stops within the immediate vicinity.


The Trucker made his choice quickly and pulled into the largest, busiest one, a large franchise with full amenities on the southwest corner.  Pulling into the middle of the large lot that ran west behind the interstate frontage, he eased his rig into a space between two others.


He had no plans to waste anyone inside during his stay; he was laying low.  Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t gonna off anyone at all.  But he wasn’t gonna be caught with any evidence in his truck.  If that punk-ass cop had tracked him, others could too.  He decided on a double-blind.


He knew San Amadeo, he’d driven through it several times and spent a night in one of the other lots once.  He’d scoped the place out but hadn’t played there yet.  He remembered the layout, though.


Three blocks north up the frontage road was a cheap motel; he’d get a room there.   There were several closer, of course—but this one shared a parking lot with one of the local gay bars.    He had no definite plans after that; like any good predator, he was primarily an opportunist.  The trick was putting yourself in the way of an opportunity…


Gathering clothes and toiletries into an overnight bag and shoving it under his arm, he climbed down from his cab and strode quickly towards the showers.


He felt better afterwards, almost energized, as he’d known he would.  He dressed warmly, slipping a simple unlined leather jacket on over a pullover olive-green ribbed woolen shirt that clung tightly to his broad shirt.  The shirt was tucked into tight faded jeans, bound tightly to his waist with a thick belt of rough black leather.


His thick-soled engineer boots thumped loudly on the pavement as he headed to the motel.  Once there, he was able to get a room with cash and an illegible scrawl on a blank form.  Place even had a washer and dryer available for guests.  He made specific note of that; it’d come in handy.


It was approaching midnight when the Trucker stepped back out of his room and headed to the bar.  He’d seen the place several times but had never been inside.  He was anxious to see what pigs were on display at the local trough.


The bar was dark and secretive on the outside.  At one time, the building had been a tiny strip center just off the frontage road.  Judging from the partitions in the crumbling exterior brick, it had once held three businesses; now, the bar took the entire dilapidated building.  All windows had been boarded over and painted black, as had the doors.  The only one that still worked was dead-center, also boarded over and painted.


Inside, the place was livelier.  Loud thumping dance music and flashing lights induced slight vertigo that intensified when the fog machine kicked in.  The Trucker realized the place was more nightclub than bar.


The bar was to the right; the left side was a dance floor.  Both were packed with guys of all kinds, twinks and studs and bears, oh my…  The Trucker wandered to the bar, noticing some appreciative glances on the way.  Even under the leather jacket, his tight shirt and jeans did nothing to obscure his stunningly well-developed body.  Ordering a beer and paying cash, he leaned up against the bar, slowly sipping the beer, scanning the crowd.


At first, it was hard to discern any details; a strobe light, timed to the beat of the music, flashed frenetically, giving that illusion of a series of still photos.  The muscled stud found himself clenching his jaw in frustration—it was too difficult to pick out prey in these circumstances.  In the darkness of the bar, he drew out his pack of smokes and lit one, inhaling deeply.  He hoped the lighting would change at the end of the tune.


It did.  In fact, it went out completely.  After a split-second of darkness, a pair of spotlights came on, illuminating small triangular stages set in the two far corners.  Each one had a stripper pole; each was suddenly occupied.  The spots had rotating gels; the changing colors of the two dudes on the stage moved through blue, green and red, but a few clear footlights at the edge of the stages ensured that every watcher had a clear view of the performance.


The boy on the right appeared first.  Tall, with strawberry-blond hair and a matching goatee, he popped onstage from nowhere, gabbing the pole and slowly spinning around it, showing off his body.  He wore a black baseball cap backwards, a shock of his blond hair springing out above the adjustable strap.


His well-built body was emphasized by his outfit; a tight white tank top showed off his bulging chest and smooth muscled arms.  There was a tribal band tattoo around the large bicep.  The baggy jeans were a little bit of a disappointment but they were clearly breakaway for the striptease.  He had black sneakers on under the jeans but the style couldn’t be discerned under the long denim cuffs.


The Trucker focused intently on him, liking what he saw.  He’d do—he’d do very well.  Then, as he took a long drag off his cigarette, his attention was drawn to the stage on the left.


The kid there was darker with a tan, almost olive-hued skin.  His long curly black hair was pulled back into a bushy ponytail.  He had a wide snub nose and large dark eyes, his face breaking into an easy grin.  He was considerably shorter than his counterpart but with almost as much muscle mass compacted into a smaller frame; as a result, he appeared to be much more developed than the blond.


He’d gone for a military look.  His ponytail hung below a flat-brimmed camouflage cap.  An olive-green t-shirt looked like it had been painted on.  His camp-patterned pants were just as baggy as the other stripper’s, but the combat boots he wore were more obvious.


The music came up and the boys went into their routine.  The pants came off first, and swiftly, as they were designed to do.  Underneath, they wore tight Spandex briefs—serious cock socks with a tight fabric sheath covering the goods, held up by an elastic thong.  The punk boy on the right was in bright red; the army slut on the left shoulda had camo, by the Trucker’s estimation.  Instead, it was a leopard print.


As the music picked up, a mirror ball descended, filling the darkened dance floor with a vast multitude of moving points of light.  The boys on stage undulated their lithe, muscular bodies to the driving tempo of the backbeat.  The blond on the right reached up and, grinning, removed his ball cap.  Bucking his hips suggestively, he tossed it out into the cheering crowd that had filled the dance floor as his flaxen hair fell halfway to his shoulders.


After a few more seconds, the short, darker slut on the left followed suit, tossing his cap out.  His black hair was still in a ponytail.  He reached behind and removed whatever had been holding it—at this distance, the Trucker couldn’t see what it was.  The boy’s curly mane spread out, dark locks down almost to his shoulder—but almost a mullet; the hair on the sides of his head was short.


The Trucker wavered, trying to make up his mind between the two.  The blond was hot.  His long muscular legs pumped with the music.  He had on black Air Jordans, only half laced, with white tube socks climbing his shins.


The kid on the left was shorter but better built.  His thick legs were smooth and firm; he wore glossy black combat boots tightly laced halfway up his shins.  He also had white athletic socks—the upper edge could just be seen over the boots.


In a flash, the blond pulled his shirt up over his head; the raven-haired boy on the left immediately did the same, both exposing their smooth, muscled chests and ripped six-pack abs.  The black-haired kid’s pecs were larger and the areolae very dark, highlighting his large nipples.  The blond’s smooth, broad chest had a near-invisible haze of golden fur.  The Trucker only noticed it because some of the shifting light patterns made it glow.


But by the time he noticed it, he’d already made up his mind.  Tossing the butt of his cigarette on the floor, he moved to the left.


He worked his way through the horny, cheering mob to a point near—but not at—the foot of the stage.  He stood still, looking up at the grinning slut, wearing nothing more than his boots and a thong so thin, the Trucker could see the boy’s hairy ballsack every time he turned to the side.  The kid’s dick was semi-hard.  It stretched the thin printed Spandex taut, pulling it away from his crotch, exposing the slut’s black mass of pubic hair to everyone close enough to have a view.


Then the boy noticed him.  Even in this chaotic atmosphere, the Trucker’s physique was awesome, in the literal sense of the word.  The reason he didn’t attract more notice was due primarily to the level of intoxication of those around him.  Between alcohol and drugs, most of the punks around him were too stupefied by the lights and loud music to be aware of much beyond the point of their attention.  And their attention was on the stripper.


The go-go slut grabbed the pole behind him and went into an elaborate routine, spinning his body with his legs wrapped tightly around the shining metal rod.  Coming to a stop, he placed his thick meaty cock up against the pole and began to hump it, letting his huge member, still covered in leopard-skin Spandex, slide up and down the shaft.


The crowd went wild—at least half did.  A split second later, the blond must have done something, because a separate cheer went up.  But the Trucker was still focused on the short dark muscular stud.  And evidently the feeling was mutual.


As often as possible during his time on stage, the black-haired stripper maintained eye contact with the Trucker.  Since the older man was bigger and taller than anyone else around him, it was relatively easy.  And while the Trucker’s outfit wasn’t flashy, it emphasized his impressive body so well that the slut couldn’t look away.  Every glance of his large, dark, languid eyes was accompanied by a suggestive grin.  The heaving mass of faggots on the floor were almost hysterical with love for the beautiful muscular youth, thinking the grin was for them—but the Trucker knew the truth.


After a few minutes, the boys came down off the stage.  Time to make a little money—they undulated out across the dance floor, taking a moment to bump and grind against anyone who slipped a bill into their thongs.  The Trucker watched the darker boy circle around towards him.  The stripper was more than a foot shorter than he was; he might have had trouble spotting him if there hadn’t been a followspot illuminating each of the nearly-nude whores as they worked the crowd.


Slowly but surely, the boy came to him, as the Trucker had known he would.  He stood motionless as the kid writhed against his body, feeling the slut’s smooth flesh slipping over his leather jacket.  He hadn’t bothered holding out money.  He wasn’t payin’ for this shit.


The stripper was breathing raggedly; it was possible he was high on something.  “Go into the bathroom, dude, and wait for me,” he whispered, “I’ll be done in five.”  Then he moved on, heading back towards the stage.


The Trucker headed towards the men’s room on the far side of the bar.  Since virtually all the clientele was on the dance floor watching the show, there was only one other guy in the restroom.  An older man, with gray hair and a white beard.  He took one look at the Trucker and split; he had enough experience to know trouble when he saw it.


The Trucker went to the trough-like urinal and waited, pretending to piss.  A couple of twinks came in, fondling and kissing each other.  They broke off abruptly when they realized they weren’t alone and went to find somewhere else to fuck.


Then the stripper came in.  The Trucker had to look twice; after finishing his routine, the punk had covered himself up almost to the point of being unrecognizable.  He’d gathered his long hair back into a ponytail and tucked it up inside a black ball cap embroidered with a pot leaf.  His thickly-muscled chest was still visible, barely constrained by the tight powder blue V-necked t-shirt stretched tautly around his torso.


He may have still been wearing the animal print cock sock.  Tight as his skinny jeans were—they really weren’t designed for someone as well-developed as the stripper—it was not possible to tell through the denim.  On his feet were a pair of low, slip-on sneakers in a black-and-white check.


The kid sidled up next to the Trucker at the urinal and slipped a folded piece of paper into his hand.  “My address,” he muttered, “meet me there in thirty minutes.  I get off at one but I ain’t supposed to hook up with anyone at work.  If you’ll let me record you bangin’ me, I’ll do a private show just for you first.”  At that moment, another pair of twinks came into the bathroom.  There was just enough time for the Trucker to nod agreement before the stripper hurried to the sink, washed up and left.


The Trucker himself left almost immediately after, heading for the exit.  Once outside the bar, he read the address under a streetlight.  The name of the street rang a bell; he’d seen it somewhere recently—just before he pulled into the truck stop.  A small side street two blocks up; it likely cut through to this street.


The muscled older man strode briskly away from the interstate, the thick soles of his boots making his footsteps echo loudly across the cracked pavement.  Sure enough, after about five minutes, he came to the street and turned left.  The street was residential; at one time, it had been a nice neighborhood with large houses.  But the proliferation of doors and jury-rigged porches showed that the houses had long since been cut up into apartments.


As the rest of the written address indicated.  It read “348F Grance St—garage apt in rear”.  348 turned out to be a huge misshapen wad of adobe with a driveway running up the right side of the house.  Two doors had been amateurishly cut into the side of the house with steps of raw wood leading down into the driveway.  The yard at the rear was paved for parking; there were three cars and a motorcycle in it now.


At the very back was the garage—two open bays without doors, both with cars.  But it was a two-story structure with windows above the bays and a door to the left of them.  The Trucker headed for it after taking a cautious look around.  But at this late hour—it was just past one now—the only lights on in the house had been in one of the front apartments.  The windows in the rear were unlit; in fact, most were heavily curtained or otherwise covered to block out the bright security light in the parking lot.


He reached the door unobserved.  Much to his surprise it opened and he stepped onto one square yard of linoleum.  In front, a flight of steps led up into darkness; to the right was another door out into the carport area.  Closing the outside door behind him, the Trucker noticed a faint glow at the top of the stairs that had been unnoticeable in the refracted glare from the light outside.


Mounting the steps, he found a small nightlight plugged into an outlet on the upper landing.  There was a door here, too—but this one was locked.  So the kid wasn’t that stupid.  At least he wouldn’t be seen while waiting for the little slut.  He lit a smoke while he stood, maliciously tapping his ashes on the floor.


Of course, the longer he had to wait, the more the motherfucker was gonna suffer.  It wasn’t long—only about five minutes, in fact—before the Trucker heard the downstairs door open.  He grinned in the dim light.  Piece of shit was gonna suffer anyway.


The stair creaked faintly as the muscle-bound youth ascended the stairs.  A broad grin broke out on his boyish face as he saw the Trucker waiting for him.  “Cool, dude, you showed up!” he beamed.  “You gonna let me film ya fucking me?”


The Trucker paused hesitantly, as if he hadn’t thought all this out beforehand.  “Sure, I guess,” he growled deeply.  The stripper’s grin and the bulge in his crotch both grew larger at the deep guttural rumble of the older man’s voice.  “What kinda camera ya got?” he continued.


The punk had fished his keys out the pocket of his ludicrously tight jeans.  “Here, lemme show ya,” he chirped, unlocking the door to the apartment over the garage.  Followed but the Trucker, he stepped into total darkness.  “Hang on, stud, I’ll get the light,” the boy said—and within a matter of seconds had located a switch.  The room was illuminated by the glow of a single novelty lamp; it was blue neon bent into the shape of an erect penis.


The room itself was fairly large, with several doors leading off to other rooms.  One end was set up as a conventional living room with seating, tables, and an entertainment center.  The other end, though, was very unconventional.


One corner had been sheathed in mirrors, with a triangular stage spanning the corner.  In the center of the stage was a stripper pole, bolted firmly to both the stage and the ceiling.  It wasn’t a duplicate of the stage in the bar—it was actually much better.


The slut knew it, too.  “Whaddaya think of my practice pole?” he smirked, his grin taking a self-satisfied slant.  “I’m hopin’ a good fuck vid posted online will be the ticket outta this shithole—see?”  He indicated a digital camera set on a tripod; the camera was so small it almost looked like a joke.  The stripper caught the Trucker’s expression.  “Yeah, yeah, dude, I know.  But it’s twenty megapixels and I got a sixty-four gig SD card in there.  And I can blur your face if ya want, or aim it so close your face is outta the shot.”


The Trucker glanced silently around the dim room as he slipped off his leather jacket.  He tossed it onto the sofa in the far corner before answering.  “Naw, man, that’s ok,” he drawled languidly, effectively concealing his murderous lust.  “Lessee what ya got.”


The stripper grinned again and the Trucker couldn’t help but notice how the short muscled slut had an almost adorably cheerful expression.  And as he noticed, his groin swelled appreciably at the thought of wiping that grin off the punk’s face forever.


The boy had seen the swelling in the Trucker’s crotch and had drawn somewhat different conclusions about the cause.  He swept the pot-leaf cap off his head, leaving his long black ponytail dangling.  He powered on the camera, then dragged a folding chair out of a closet and set it up at the foot of stage.  “Sit here, man, at least to start,” he said, almost gasping in excitement as his large dark eyes ran greedily over the Trucker’s massive chest outlined so perfectly in the tight knit shirt he was wearing.


As the alpha stud took the seat offered, the stripper darted to one side and punched up a playlist on his IPod, set into a speaker system.  Suddenly the apartment was vibrating with industrial dance tunes at an almost deafening level.


The slut grabbed something else off the table with the sound system but he slipped it into his rear pocket too fast for the Trucker to see what it was.  His hunter’s mind tagged it for future reference, though—just in case it might be some kind of weapon.


Then the kid bounded up onto the stage.  Looking directly into the camera, he gave his winningest smile.  “Hey, you sexy studs!” he twittered seductively directly into the lens.  “My name’s Randy and I love to get fucked hard!  If ya like this vid, vote for me!  And to any porn producers out there, send me a message if you’re interested!”


Turning his disarming smile back to the Trucker, the stripper began to gyrate in time to the music.  “Ya wanna show, stud?  You wanna fuck me up against my stripper pole?” he murmured breathily. The muscled youth grabbed the hem of his powder-blue shirt and slowly pulled it up, revealing his smooth hubcap pecs and rippled washboard abs.


He ran his hands over his own firm, muscled chest as he licked his lips and grinned—first at the Trucker, then at the camera.  It was obvious that the thought of getting fucked on film turned him on.  He slipped off his sneakers without using his hands, then began slowly worming his way out of his skin-tight jeans, swiveling his pelvis and pumping his hips in time to the driving music.


As the jeans slid to the floor, the Trucker saw that the kid had given up on the ludicrous thong and was now wearing nothing more than white ped socks and a black mesh jockstrap that wasn’t anywhere near up to the task of restraining the punk’s massive erection.  Standing at the very edge of the stage, the stripper clasped his hands behind his head and bucked his pelvis forward, his thick tube of meat almost striking the older man in the face.  It made swift smacking sounds as it bounced against the slut’s firm inner thigh.


The boy faced the camera and broke out into a huge, goofy grin with his tongue extended.  While he did, the Trucker watched the bitch’s tight ass jiggle in the mirror—in fact, he realized that due to the mirrored corner, both he and the camera had views from all major angles.


The thought made him smile.  Yes, he’d record this one.  He looked up at the well-built horny young slut standing over him and shaking his dick in his face and grinned seductively.  The stupid faggot stripper wanted to be an internet star?  He would be.  He’d be starring is his very own snuff movie.


The kid hopped off stage and approached the Trucker, who stood up to see what the whore would do.  Standing face to face, he moved close enough for the Trucker to feel the hot hard ridge of the homo’s dick through his jeans.  The stripper grabbed the alpha’s huge package with one hand, squeezing the massive denim-covered bulge of flesh in the older man’s crotch.  The other hand felt for the hem of the Trucker’s shirt, and slipping under it, began to caress his hard, furry belly, rippled with muscles.


The boy took a step back.  He was considerably shorter than the dangerous older man, so he had to look up to look the Trucker in the eye.  When he did, the alpha stud saw lust glittering almost frantically in the cunt’s large dark eyes.  “Fuck, dude, as long as ya do it on camera, you can do whatever ya want to me,” the slut whispered in an erotic gasp.  “Gonna let ya do things to me ain’t no one done before.”


The Trucker smiled coldly into the little homo fucker’s face.  “I know,” he said evenly, almost emotionlessly.


The kid suddenly grabbed at the Trucker’s shirt; the aroused killer obliged by bending down to allow the shorter slut to pull the shirt up and off over his head.  Bounding back up onto the stage, the cunt pressed the wadded shirt into his face and inhaled deeply.  “Fuck, man,” he muttered, almost inaudibly over the dance music, “I can smell your sex in your sweat.”


He looked back down at the Trucker—on stage, his head was higher than the older man’s—and paused, awash in lust at the huge muscled stud’s chiseled chest.  Between the mounds of hard top’s furry, broad pecs sat a pair of dogtags, sending sapphire glints in the blue light.


The boy began to dance, twisting his hard smooth body to the driving tempo of the backbeat.  Slowly and erotically, he began to rub himself down, using the Trucker’s knit shirt to wipe up his own sweat.  He paused to allow the camera to admire his profile as he slid the ribbed fabric down over his smooth six-pack abs, the faint dark fur trail that led from his lower belly to the dark tangle of his pubic hair was barely visible.


The elastic waistband of the black jockstrap was lost in the black wiry mass in the slut’s groin; it only showed dead center where the cunt’s huge erect tool had tented it up and away from his slim waist.  But the kid seemed to realize he’d danced himself into a corner; he removed the jock in a rather awkward maneuver that forced him to shift the shirt from one hand to the other a couple of times.  He actually blushed with embarrassment; he was a professional dancer and his moves should be smoother than that.  But he didn’t let it stop him; he had software that would let him edit the video file.  And it didn’t seem to bother the phenomenally hot stud who was gonna fuck him…


Feeling something moist on his chin, the stripper wiped it with the back of his hand, hoping the Trucker hadn’t seen him drool.  “N-name’s Ran-Randy, man,” he stuttered, desire making him nervous.


“Randy, huh—bet ya are, cunt,” the Trucker sneered.  He’d sat back down on the folding chair since he’d given the kid his shirt.  Now, as he watched, the punk had stopped using it as a towel and had slung it between his legs, rubbing his smooth boytaint along the ribbed fabric.  The expression on the faggot’s face as he looked at the camera stirred something in the Trucker’s crotch—if the kid was that responsive to tactile sensation, then the worthless cunt’s rape and snuff was gonna be a long screaming nightmare of torture.


His anticipation was very obvious in his tight jeans.  Spying the enormous bulge, Randy was both pleased and intimidated.  Noticing the stripper’s expression, the alpha stud chuckled malignly and unzipped his fly.  It took a few tugs for him to free his enormous throbbing hog from the confines of his jeans; when he succeeded, it stood erect and pulsing, the tip glistening in the dim blue light.


Randy gasped audibly at the sight of the full length of the Trucker’s tool.  Deep inside, he quivered in lust and fear, knowing how much it was gonna hurt having that huge shaft shoved up his fuckhole.  And since he did a lot of exercising, he knew how important it was to stretch before working out.


He bent down and retrieved something from his jeans, still lying on the stage.  It was the object he’d taken off the table—it was a round rod, about fourteen inches long.  It seemed to be made of light-colored wood, sanded smooth and varnished.


The boy held it up to the camera, grinning impishly, then whipped around and bent over.  He angled himself carefully, giving both the camera and the Trucker a good view of his pink, rosebud-like ass.  Slowly moving his hand between his legs, he brought the wooden dowel up and began to insert it in his boycunt.


The Trucker watched silently, with a sneer on his face.  But his hand moved slowly in his lap as he stroked his thick, swollen cock.  The stripper’s attention was much more on the older stud’s dick than his face.


Randy hadn’t forgotten that he was performing for an audience.  Turning his smooth bubble butt towards the tripod, he moaned loudly as he sank the rod deeper into his ass.  The Trucker was amused; he could see that the dowel was only about an inch in diameter.


He was three times that size.  The little fuck’s moans would be louder than that soon—and real.


The stripper moved slightly around the pole so that he could face the camera a little more directly.  Thanks to the mirrors, the Trucker could see the boy’s face from several angles at once; he was able to catch the punk’s expressions as he leered and pouted alluringly at his unseen audience.


The kid began to talk to his imaginary viewers.  “Ya wanna see me get fucked?  Wanna see me get fucked right here on my pole?” he grinned before looking back at the Trucker, who was still sitting silently, beating his meat.  Randy’s large dark eyes gleamed in the blue twilight.  “C’mon, man, c’mon up here and get your freak on.  Stick that thing in me, dude; I wanna bump and grind on your cock.”


He added in a low tone, “Ya gotta do somethin’ wild here, man, I gotta get outta this shithole of a town.  C’mon, make me an internet star.”  The Tucker heard him, but just barely.  He understood; the motherfucker deliberately spoke too softly for the camera’s small microphone to pick up.


He stood up abruptly, kicking one of his big black boots back and knocking the folding chair off into the darkness beyond the blue circle.  Standing to his full height, he paused for a moment so the camera could get a good view of his powerfully-built body.   The sweat on his broad hairy pecs glistened with tiny sapphires, the dogtags illuminated the dark furry valley between them with faint reflected light.


From the waist down he was still dressed, his jeans clinging tightly to his thick, strong legs.  Beneath the wide black leather belt circling his waist, his gigantic cock jutted like a lance, dripping from the dark swollen tip. As he turned and strode towards the stage, the thick soles of his engineer boots thumped audibly on the floor and his muscled arms swung freely.


Hearing the approach of the alpha, Randy started squirming and wriggling his smooth, firm asscheeks in erotic anticipation.  The projecting end of the rod danced about; in the dim light, it was difficult to see but the Trucker spotted it quickly enough.  “Fuckin’ do me, man!” the stripper moaned.  “You can tie me up if ya want.  You can even get rough—as long as ya don’t leave any marks; I got another show tomorrow night.  But make it look good!”


The Trucker chuckled grimly.  “Don’t worry,” he muttered, “I’m gonna make it look real fuckin’ good, bitch.  Ya like to get tied up, huh, son?  I can do that.”


The Trucker swept the floor with the piercing gaze of his icy blue eyes.  They lighted on a small ball of black fabric—Randy’s discarded jockstrap.  Perfect.  He dived down and snatched them up, pulling it out to make sure it was long enough.  With the elastic stretched, it was.


The hard-bodied older man stepped to the far side of the pole, to which the stripper was still clinging.  Randy let go, offering his wrists on the far side of the pole.  “Not like that, slut!” he barked, “Put yer hand around the pole again, motherfucker; gonna let ya hang onto the pole while ya ride my pole, ha!”


The young muscled stripper exhaled, shuddering with delight.  “Fuck yeah, sir,” he gasped, positioning his hands as ordered, “Please, sir, use me!”


The Trucker didn’t say another word.  He tied the waistband of the jockstrap around the boy’s wrists, cruelly tight.  He was now trapped, his hands bound tightly to his own private stripper pole.  Randy could feel the elastic dig in painfully, but he didn’t care.  He wanted this dude to hurt him.  He just didn’t want it to show; his smooth, developed body was not only his current livelihood, but also his hope for a better future, as measured in terms of money, sex, and drugs, in that order.


Having secured his prey for the evening, the dominant older stud slapped the punk on the ass.  At the same time, he grabbed the end of the wooden dowel and yanked it roughly out of the slut’s fuckhole, making sure to twist it a bit—just to make sure the cunt felt it.


Randy made it obvious that he not only felt it, he liked it.  His loud, drawn-out groan reverberated over the intense bass of the dance tunes blasting out of the speakers.  The Trucker looked directly at the small camera and grinned evilly as he slipped the rod into his back pocket, making it clear he had plans for it.


But that was for later.  Now, he had to go slow.  Planting his black boots on the stage, the older man bent his legs slightly, just enough to allow him to line up his massive battering ram of a cock with the cunt’s experienced but still-too-small rectum.  He gripped the youth’s waist tightly, his hands pressing deeply into the boy’s flesh.  The Trucker smirked as he felt the stripper’s strong thick thighs beneath his fingertips; they were trembling with strain and anticipation.


Randy was ready.  Bent over with his hands bound, his long dick was so erect, it was pressing against him.  He could feel his own hard rod against his smooth flat belly.  It made him even hornier.  He moaned loudly when he felt the huge head of the Trucker’s cock pressing firmly against his sphincter; he knew this was gonna hurt bad—and it was gonna hurt good.


He was right.  The powerful top penetrated him slowly but inexorably, stretching the stripper’s well-used ass muscle beyond any point he’d ever experienced.  The punk’s groans increased in volume, pitch and intensity as the thick tube of flesh inched its way up his colon.  Suddenly, Randy reached his limit.  He howled in pain, “Stop!  Fuck, dude, stop, please, it’s too much…”  He was breathing quickly, in sharp whining gasps.


The Trucker looked directly at the camera and grinned.  He stopped—but he didn’t pull out.  He just held still, his hard body gripping the slut like an iron cage.  The boy was still impaled on his shaft.  “Fuck…dude…” the kid gasped, “take-take it…out…please…please man…”


Randy was still aware that the camera was on, but he was in too much pain to pay attention to the fact.  The alpha wasn’t moving.  He had to get off.  He had to get off the dude’s dick.  He tried to pull himself forward, off the huge spear of manmeat buried deep in his ass, but the top was gripping him too tightly around the waist.  He couldn’t move; he could only endure.


So endure he did, gasping and trembling.  The strain in his pale face, reflected back to him from the mirror, somehow made the pain worse.  Just as Randy thought he was going to have to beg to be freed, he felt his ass muscle collapse, the sphincter finally relaxing around the Trucker’s swollen, vein-wrapped cock.


“That’s it, boy, take it,” the older man muttered.  The Trucker could feel the resistance lessen and knew that the stripper was acclimatizing to his tool.  That was ok for now—later on, he’d tighten the slut back up again.  He knew how, after all.


“Yeah, man!” Randy cried, “Stick it in me, dude!”  Now that the pain had let up, he was getting into it again, wanting to give a good performance for the camera.  “C’mon, man, pound my ass!”


The Trucker took his time.  Pulling his smokes out of his pocket, he lit one.  Grinning at the camera, he took a drag while pumping his hips forward in long, slow thrusts.  “Ya like that, bitch?  Ya like my dick?” he sneered down at the slut.  “Show me how much you like gettin’ fucked, you cock-hungry homo!”


Randy responded right away.  “Fuckin-A, man, I love your huge cock, dude.  C’mon, man, give it to me, make it hurt!  I wanna feel it, fucker!”  He gripped the pole tightly, feeling the massive shaft sliding in and out of his colon, the thick purple head reaming deep into his guts.  “Fuck!  Yeah!  Fuckin’ plow my hole!” he yelled joyfully as his own long, dripping tube of meat slapped his flat belly in time with the Trucker’s thrusts.


With an evil leer, the Trucker scattered his ashes on the stripper’s heaving, sweaty back and increased his tempo.  He was getting bored with slow strokes.  “Gotta work my shaft better than that, cunt.  You wanna be famous?  Ya gotta work for it, faggot.  Let everyone see how much ya love cock, motherfucker!”


Randy flexed his legs, feeling the rough denim of the Trucker’s jeans scraping the backs of his thighs.  The kid’s toes, still in their white ped socks, curled with each thrust of the alpha’s enormous hog.  He gasped, a mix of pain and pleasure obvious in his loud groans that became staccato as the Trucker amped up his speed, violently pounding the stripper’s ass.


“Fuck!  Yeah!  Fuck!” cried Randy, a huge grin of pleasure covering his face as the older man pumped his rectum full of cock.  “Choke me!  Hurt me!  Make me your bitch!”


“You already are,” the killer whispered quietly.  With his eyes closed, the stupid little shit couldn’t see the ice-cold smile on the Trucker’s face.    And when he did open them, his attention was on the Trucker’s belt, watching it slide from around the muscular top’s waist as it was slowly being removed.  “Ok, slut, you asked for it,” the older man said evenly, looping the belt under the stripper’s throat.


Then he rode the boy like a bronco, using the belt like reins, pulling the kid’s head up and pounding his ass.  Randy could only grab the pole and hang on while he got used, gagging as his head was yanked back by the thick black leather strap.  Opening his eyes wide, he could see the Trucker’s cold, hard face in the mirror, almost obscured by the dim smoky haze.  It made his dick even harder; he’d finally found a dude who knew how to used him the way he needed to be used.  Best of all, everyone online was gonna see him get the plowing he deserved.  He was sure this vid would get him some kinda offer—something to get him away from here.


The Trucker finished his smoke and tossed the smoldering butt to one side.  “Hey!” Randy coughed out, barely able to make himself heard over the music, “What ya tryin’ to do, set my place on fire?”  “Not a bad idea,” the Trucker chuckled quietly.  “Maybe later.”  Randy lost interest almost immediately, however; his ass was still getting plugged full of dick.  Even after the relaxation of his sphincter, the slut’s colon was still unprepared for such a continuous assault.  It still hurt.


But fuck, it hurt so goddam good.


The Trucker pulled the belt up even further.  The stripper started coughing and gagging as his throat was constricted—he could still breathe, but he could no longer speak.  Not that it mattered, he was far too focused on the dick being pumped deep into his rectum.  Grinning at the camera in the mirror, he succumbed to fuckpig ecstasy as the driving beat of the dance music synced with the agonizing tempo of the assfuck.  Forcing air past the tight belt, he moaned loudly.


“Yeah, cunt, ya likin’ that, huh?” snarled the powerful alpha as he bent over Randy’s smooth, firm back and started thrusting even harder.  The punk’s moan became a stammering groan, vibrating as his thickly-muscled form shuddered under the brutal onslaught of the Trucker’s cock.  His clenched hands gripped the metal stripper pole so tightly his knuckles went white.  “Yeah—oh—oh—oh—“ he stuttered, his mind lost in a haze of intense sexual pleasure.


The Trucker turned again to the camera, his face illuminated by his evil leer and the light of lust in his cold blue eyes.  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection and posed himself to give the camera his best side—his best side being, of course, top.


He showed the camera how well he fit that description.  His boots planted widely apart, his thick denim-clad legs were pumping steadily against the slut’s smooth thighs.  His huge, broad pecs and rippled hard abs, covered with dark wiry fur, loomed above the back of the hunched and bound cunt.  He held the ends of his belt in his hands, his strongly-muscled arms flexed just enough to pull the boy’s head back.  The dark scruff on his face had a blue sheen in the dim light, the same tint reflecting from his short black hair.


As the alpha killer looked down at his prey, he noticed—he couldn’t help but notice—how much the buff little slut was enjoying the brutal buttfuck.  The worthless asspig kept his eyes closed but the huge grin spread across his young face showed the intensity of his pleasure.


Time to change that.


“Hey, dude,” the Trucker whispered, “gettin’ a little loose on my cock.  What say I tighten ya up some?”  He chuckled grimly as the bar whore nodded and grunted his agreement.  The well-built stripper was still wallowing in lust and cock; he never heard the menace in the aggressive top’s voice.


They really made it too easy, the Trucker thought, as he slipped the end of the belt through the buckle, making a simple but viciously effective garrote.  The thick black leather loop would easily choke the life out of the little fuck.


Randy moaned loudly as the Trucker’s cock swelled and throbbed in his colon.  He had no idea that the physical sensation that felt so good was a reaction to the alpha’s desire to slowly and agonizingly strangle him to death.


It didn’t take long for the idea to enter his head.  It happened at the same time that oxygen stopped entering his head.


The Trucker cinched the buckle down, swiftly and silently.  The well-built fuckpig never saw it coming.  Suddenly the thick leather strap around his neck constricted, cutting his staccato groans to thick, choking grunts.


It took a moment for reality to sink into Randy’s sex-sodden mind.  He was already riding the thin knife edge between pleasure and pain with the deep, brutal fucking; the inch-wide belt had sunk deeply into the tender flesh of his throat before the crushing pain overrode the sensation of cock pounding his ass.


The realization the he couldn’t breathe trigged instant panic in the stripper.  In the mirror, he turned his eyes, huge and wounded with betrayal, up to those of his killer, but the dim blue light hid the alpha’s face in sharply-edged shadows.  The alpha’s dogtags glittered coldly as they danced in the air.  Randy could see them but he couldn’t see his killer’s face.


The Trucker, on the other hand, had a perfect view of Randy’s.  He made sure the camera did too.  The little fucker was short but strong; in his fear, he was trying to pull himself forward off his assailant’s massive shaft.  The Trucker was much stronger and could easily have simply held the boy down while he raped and strangled him—but he was pissed.  The useless cunt needed to learn to submit.


He wrapped the free end of the belt around one hand, keeping the loop tight around the fuckmeat’s neck, while he reached into his back pocket with the other and withdrew the wooden rod.  At fourteen inches long it made an adequate dildo—but an inch in thickness was poor preparation for the Trucker.  On the other hand, it made a great weapon.


He beat the young slut mercilessly.


Randy would have screamed if he’d been able.  The hard wooden dowel was hammered brutally against his back, each blow leaving a large dark bruise.  While he couldn’t see the Trucker’s face in the mirror, he could see the dude’s powerful arm raise and fall.  He could see each agonizing blow before it landed.


Worse, he could see his own face.


It was terrifying.  Dark and swollen, he could barely recognize himself.  His lips were blue and puffy, his frantic eyes starting to bulge.  Worst of all was the horror written broadly across his face.


The Trucker noticed it and stopped the beating for a moment.  Deciding to intensify the fear, he smirked at the camera before bending low over the trapped punk.  He kept the tempo of his thrusts steady, never once slackening the pace at which he reamed the whore’s guts with his enormous hog.  He pitched his deep bass voice so that it could be heard over the background music.  “Scared, ya worthless piece a’ shit?  You should be.  Yer gonna die, man.  Even better, motherfucker, you’re gonna get to watch yourself die.  Sooner or later, yer eyes are gonna bulge out so far you won’t be able to close ‘em.  Last thing you’re gonna see is your own black bloated face as you choke to death with my cock up yer ass.  Enjoy the ride, cunt.”


Standing back up straight, he made sure the meat had a good view in the mirror as he brandished the long rod and, drawing his muscled arm back slowly, brought it down with renewed force.  There was a splintering sound as one of the boy’s ribs shattered, sending splinters of bone into the punk’s liver and right lung.  The Trucker grunted with pleasure as the stripper writhed in agony on his dick.


Tears welled from Randy’s wide, protruding eyes as great glassy waves of excruciating pain washed over his strong but helpless body.  Everywhere he looked, his own death was literally staring him back in the face—if that grotesque, twisted mask confronting him in the mirror was really his own face.


That couldn’t be him, he thought, his mind aflame with panic.  He was getting fucked by this stud, the guy was still up his ass—no, it didn’t make sense—


The wooden rod came down again, from higher up this time.  The young slut shuddered, unable to cry out in distress as razor-sharp fragments of his smashed shoulder blade sliced through his trapezius and deltoid muscles.  The clenching and spasming of his body caused his sphincter to tighten as well; as he jerked and twitched involuntarily, he was pumping his killer’s cock without the alpha having to move—and it hurt now, oh fuck, it had never hurt this bad before, how was that possible—


The Trucker knew how, of course.  “Tightened your reamed-out fuckhole real good, didn’t I?” he hissed into the captive youth’s ear.  As he bent over the terrorized boy, his dogtags lay flat on the punk’s heaving, muscled back, forming undulating pools of blue light.  “Like that, dontcha, you worthless pain pig?  Sure ya do, ya fuckin’ homo pervert—lookit yer cock.  You’re enjoyin’ this so much, your faggot cock is already drippin’!”


He paused for a moment to admire his prey in the mirror.  The stripper’s short but hard body was backing itself up on his dick.  He’d seen the slut twerk on stage, now he was doing again—with an enormous shaft buried in his guts.  The whore’s face was darkening from red to purple and the tip of his tongue was peeking tantalizingly from between his swollen blue lips.  Fluid leaked from the boy’s eyes and nose, running in streaks down his smooth, bloated cheeks.


Around the meat’s throat, the thick black belt had constricted brutally, puckering the skin painfully as it sank in.  The buckle, centered on the back of the unfortunate slut’s neck, tore into the skin, causing trickles of blood to flow down both sides of the meat’s neck.  Tight as it was, though, the little fuck was dying very slowly.  The Trucker was giving his victim time to enjoy it.


And Randy could feel it all.  The dark icy silence creeping through his oxygen-starved brain hadn’t numbed him; on the contrary, he could feel the belt buckle rip his flesh with razor sharp clearness.  Even as his hard, smooth body shuddered uncontrollably, the terrified cunt not only knew he was still helplessly impaled on his killer’s massive throbbing shaft, he knew his involuntary spasms were milking the dude.


He still fought against the realization of what was happening.  Despite the Trucker’s words, despite the vicious, brutal assault and all the pain, Randy could not accept the fact of his own death.


The Trucker knew what was running through the meat’s mind—or at least what part of the mind hadn’t turned into meat already.  It was always the same, the denial and disbelief, the conviction that if they can just hold on long enough, they can survive.  Pathetic motherfucker.  Turning his face to the camera, he sneered and spit on the stripper’s heaving, sweat-streaked back before landing another rib-snapping blow with the wooden rod.


“Good,” he whispered coldly as Randy’s jerking and twitching became more intense, “felt that, huh?  More where that came from, bitch.  I’m gonna keep playin’ with ya till you’re used up.  When we’re done, you’re ain’t gonna be nothin’ but a rotting corpse pumped fulla cum.  How’s that grab ya, cocksucker?”


One last strike of the rod, this time on the boy’s upper arm.  The Trucker leered at the unseen audience as the agonized youth writhed in silent pain; his right humerus had splintered like a toothpick.  Tossing the weapon to the side, the Trucker bent over the kid.  Keeping the belt pulled tight with one hand, he yanked back on the slut’s ponytail with the other.


Now that he was close enough, Randy could see the alpha’s face again.  And there was enough pig left alive in him for his still-erect cock to swell and ooze as he caught sight of that cold, hard, handsome face again.  The dude was just as hot as he’d remembered.


Someone this hot couldn’t be killing him.  But the pain was so bad—it didn’t make sense.  All Randy had wanted was to get fucked on camera; on some level he was just barely able to acknowledge that he still was getting fucked on camera.  He was also dying on camera.


Even worse, he was dying in front of his own eyes.


The Trucker made sure the slutty faggot go-go dancer had a good view of his own performance.  Using the kid’s ponytail as a rudder, he manhandled the boy’s twitching head so that he couldn’t help but see his own face in the mirror.  No matter where he looked, it was reflected back to him.


“Watch it, you fucking faggot slut,” he growled in the punk’s ear, “watch yourself die.  Watch yourself milk the cum outta my tool as you kick and shoot and die—oh yeah, motherfucker, you’re gonna blow yer load too, like it or not.  ‘Course, you’re gonna be mostly dead by then, but there might still be enough of you left to watch your life end just so you can be my cumrag.”


Randy watched.  He had to.  His large eyes, which had earned him many tips onstage by their dark languid charm, were now bulging gruesomely from his face; he was unable to close his lids.


He spent his last few nightmarish moments on earth seeing himself getting raped and strangled to death.


He could no longer take refuge in a delusional hope that the guy was just into really rough sex.  His logical skill had slowed with asphyxiation. It was obvious long ago that no one capable of perpetuating such a violent rape would leave the victim alive and able to testify afterwards, but Randy had simply been unable to conceive of his own death.


Now, as a stranger’s enormous cock reamed out his spasming guts, he was getting to watch it.  And he was dying as he’d lived, gripping a stripper’s pole.


Even now, some part of him struggled to deny the obvious; that black puffy mask of flesh could not possibly be his smooth, sweet olive-hued face.  His bulging eyes distorted his vision but he could still see thick strands of ropy foam bubbling from the corners of his swollen lips.  Running down his bloated cheeks, they drooled off his chin in long white streams, making him look like he’d just given a sloppy blowjob.


Even his strong, well-developed body seemed to be working against him, his thick, bulging muscles cramping and spasming uncontrollably with approaching death.  He felt his heaving back pressing against the Trucker’s hard rippled belly, the older man’s fur scraping at the kid’s smooth skin as their flesh met in a moist film of sweat and pheromones.


“Yeah,” grunted the Trucker, looking the stripper in the eye as he shook his head, flinging drops of sweat from his black hair, “fuckin’ room smells like sex and death, huh?  Testosterone and panic, cunt, it’s so fuckin’ hot.  What, you can’t smell it?  Oh, that’s right—you’re the one smelling like death!”


Randy had a sensation flash across his ebbing consciousness.  He was aware of how tightly his left hand was gripping the stripper pole.  He didn’t know why he was aware; he just was.


He was past the point of realizing that his compact but buff body had been pushed past its limits and was starting to shut down.  His hand was gripping the pole in his death throes; he would have been grabbing it with his right hand too, if his right arm hadn’t been broken.


The light was too dim for the helpless stripper to see the hemorrhaging in his eyes in the mirror but the explosive spatters of utter blackness in his field of vision indicated the intensity of brain damage.  Randy was almost utterly unaware of his convulsions by this point.  The broken arm, the shattered ribs, even the thick throttling strap around his throat, all seemed to be subsumed and overwhelmed by the gigantic spear of hot pulsing flesh that had been shoved ruthlessly into his rectum until its swollen, oozing head was lodged deeply in his intestines.  Shattering pain crashed over the youth’s sweaty, squirming body as if panes of glass were being broken over him.  Dimly, so very dimly, he could still see the dark scruff shadowing his killer’s cheeks.  There was little enough left of the slut to say for certain if he jerked his head deliberately; if he did, it was to feel the wiry strands of the Trucker’s facial hair brush against his own smooth cheek—a last physical connection before death.


If so, it earned the Trucker’s contempt.  “Don’t fuckin’ touch me, ya useless homo whore,” he barked.  “What the fuck you think you’re doin’, you goddam faggot?  Huh?  Worthless fuckin’ cunt, I been takin’ it easy on ya, tryin’ to let you work my load outta me like a good little fuckpig, but you’re one stupid motherfucker.  You ain’t gettin’ it, you disgusting queer-ass whore.  I’m done playin’.  If you can’t drain me, I gotta make ya drain me.  Know what that means?  Means you’re dyin’ hard.  You’re meat, dude—now!”


The Trucker’s heavily-muscled arms moved in opposite directions swiftly.  In one hand, he held the belt, having wrapped it around his fist until he’d brought his hand down to within four inches of the stripper’s neck.  He’d wrapped the kid’s ponytail around the other hand.


As he pulled them in different directions, the belt contracted further and further onto the boy’s throat.  Randy was lost in a screaming blood-red haze of pain that seemed to flow in a straight line from the dick in his ass up though his twisting, writhing body, into the crushing, grinding pain in his throat.  Yet along with the pain was another pain, or maybe it was pleasure—something flowing through his own long, throbbing, oozing cock.


The Trucker turned back and spoke to the camera.  By some sadistic quirk of fate, Randy’s nervous system was still intact enough to not only hear but process the words.  “Watch the piece a’ shit homo die, dudes.  Are y’all ready for this shit?  Ready for it to get real?  Wanna watch me off this useless faggot?  Yeah?  Ain’t like anyone gonna miss ‘im, so ya might as well blow a load as he dies, huh?  Fuck yeah, man, watch this, this is gonna hurt wicked bad.  He’s gonna be in so much pain, he’s gonna shoot his wad, yeah?  Ready?  Fuckin-A, dude!”


As his sweaty pecs glistened and bulged in the bluish gleam, the Trucker’s arms gave a last brutal jerk.  Over the pumping beat of the dance music, the distinct crunching sound of shattered, collapsed cartilage was carried very clearly to the camera.


Randy’s convulsions became even more frenetic.  Now he really did seem to move as if he was acting in a porn video, his strong, smooth flanks rippling with repeated spasms in near-perfect rhythm with the tunes—ripples that were replicated on the inside in the meat’s shuddering colon.  “Yeah, you fuckin’ whore, that’s it,” the Trucker whispered, knowing that his deep voice would penetrate the techno dance tunes and be picked up by the camera’s mic, “jack me off, cunt, fuckin’ die and make me shoot, ya worthless cumsuckin’ fag!”


Randy had more or less ceased to exist; the short, muscular dancer who worked out every day, got fucked indiscriminately, and hoped to make his break in internet porn, was dead.  There was still a spark of sensate life left in the writhing, sweating, pulsating flesh, but even if oxygen had been pumped back into the failing brain, there would have been nothing left but—well, sweating, pulsating flesh.


At least the flesh was being put to good use.


Randy was fated to become an internet star, all right, but he’d only have one role.


His smooth firm legs kicked wildly, the ped socks making his feet slip and scrabble over the stage’s wooden surface.  As his knees started to buckle, the Trucker let go of the belt, wrapping that arm around the quivering youth’s slim waist.  The belt had sunk so deeply into the meat’s neck that the buckle had cut brutally into the skin, peeling up a string of flesh like a rind; it must have been excruciating.  At any rate, the belt wasn’t going anywhere.


His other hand was still wrapped in the cunt’s black silky ponytail, jerking the unfortunate boy’s head back so that the last thing he saw was, indeed literally, his own death.  By this time, though, his vision had dimmed to the point that he was unable to appreciate the black, distended caricature of himself, covered with tears and drool, which was reflected in the mirror.


The Trucker did, though.


Clenching the dying stripper’s pelvis in a grip of iron, he pumped his hips rapidly, feeling his massive balls drawing up as the seed inside began to boil.  His cock, already enormous, began to swell in anticipation, forming a solid throbbing pole impaling the whore’s ass as the youth’s firm, smooth asscheeks bounced convulsively against his thighs with a loud slapping sound.


Deep in the screaming, pulsing silence of progressive brain death, Randy was somehow hellishly aware of his killer’s sadistically painful enjoyment of his dying agony.  He could feel the way the dude’s huge tool ripped and tore at his rectal lining; it was like getting fucked by a blender.  And somehow, each searing blast of pain made the boy’s thick cock pulse and ooze.


There was little conscious thought left in the convulsing meat, but the Trucker took advantage of what was available.  He leaned down close and spoke to his shuddering victim, making sure his voice was audible over the music.  “You’re dead, ya worthless faggot, huh?  And I’m recording the whole thing.  I’m gonna be able to watch you kick and die whenever I want, you stupid little piece of shit—you’ve done you last dance, slut.“


And the tiny spark of pig left inside of the muscular but helpless stripper heard and responded.  Clutching the pole tightly in the onset of cadaveric spasm, the punk went rigid, his rectum and sphincter clutching the Trucker’s swollen sensitive cock in a convulsing tube of shredded flesh.


The Tucker grabbed the belt again—Randy was stiff in his death agony; his spasming legs, despite cramps rippling excruciatingly over his thighs, needed no support.    With the meat’s ponytail still wrapped around one hand, the wound the belt around the other and, giving a quick, brutal jerk, snapped the shuddering stud’s neck.  “Fuckin’ cunt!” he cried, “die on my fuckin’ cock, faggot!”


As he did, he could see the kid’s horribly swollen face, black with congestion except where a stream of white foamy drool bubbled down his chin.  It was too much.  The killer’s cock erupted, pumping the dying stripper’s guts full of cum.


It all happened in a millisecond.  Just as he started to shoot, Randy’s body reacted reflexively and violently to the slashing of his spinal column by razor-sharp fragments of bone.  His entire torso, already rigid, gave a last rippling convulsion that seemed to deliberately milk the spunk out of the Trucker’s massive hog, starting at the thick root and sliding smoothly up to the engorged tip.  At the same time, the cunt’s long, throbbing cock began spurting on its own, sending long ropy strands of pearly semen cascading across the stage, several shots intense enough to spatter against the mirrored walls.


The stripper never felt his last load. The Trucker held on, grunting and cursing as his huge rod continued to spew hot sperm into the quivering rectum of a still-twitching corpse.  For a minute or two, though it was hard to tell—the meat was still splashing its jizz everywhere, most of it on its own sculpted chest.  It had also managed to soak its hands and the tight black jockstrap that bound them.


The Trucker finally felt himself coming back under control; he always thought of it as coming out of hyperspace.  The jangling background accompaniment of his dogtags dancing in the air slowly grew still.  His pulsing cock was still sunk warmly and moistly in corpse’s ass.  The dead slut was still convulsing, but much more slowly now.  Even so, as the sweating muscular alpha could see in the mirror, each mindless twitch forced another drop of semen out of the fag’s still-erect cock.  In the dim blue light, the ripped, firm body seemed to be oozing sapphires from its dick.


With a great shuddering sigh, the Trucker placed his hands on the quivering carcass’ smooth asscheeks.  He had to apply a little pressure to withdraw his still-distended cock from the swiftly-cooling body.


As he did, the corpse slumped to the floor, the hands still gripping the pole.  In life, Randy had depended on the pole for support; he was depending from the supporting pole now in death.


Later, the medical examiner would have to break Randy’s fingers in order to remove his rotting body from the apartment.


For now, though, the Trucker had not forgotten the camera.  He turned towards it, then began walking to it, his erect, dripping cock jutting proudly out in front.  He made sure to keep in frame for a bit.  Once he reached it, though, he turned it off, tore it off its tripod, and took it over to the only source of light in the room—the blue neon light.


Examining the camera closely, he soon found and opened the cover over the SD card.  He popped the card out and slipped it into his pocket before throwing the camera to the floor and grinding it pieces under his bootheel.


Satisfied with his progress, he fished his smokes back out of his pocket and light another.  Taking a deep drag, he glanced around, looking for his clothes.  He spotted his shirt and retrieved it, laying the smoldering cigarette directly on a table.  Slipping the tight green thermal shirt back over his sinewy chest, he picked his butt back up.  It had left a burn on the table, he noticed with amused contempt.


Stupid faggot cunt.  He admired the corpse for a moment; it was so fucking hot—an obscene visual to the frenetic club tunes.  The short, strapping youth was lying against the pole, his hands above his head still clutching the pole in a death grip.  His forehead was pressed against the pole, but his legs were stretched out behind him, his body bent backwards with the crusted head of his cock just touching the stage, slowly adhering in a glaze of drying cum.  His smooth bubble butt, glazed with spunk and oozing blood, appeared to be almost deliberately aimed so as to be the first thing one saw entering the apartment, the cheap rough leather belt still wrapped around his neck..


The Trucker scattered his ash about the apartment as he walked about, viewing his kill from every angle.  He stubbed out his smoke on the dead cunt’s left asscheek, smelling the faint scent of bacon as the flesh sizzled.  Nothing like cooking a pig; for a brief moment, the sadist alpha regretted destroying the camera.  He’d have liked a few pics as well…


His leather jacket was the last thing he needed.  After slipping it on, he noticed that the door could be locked on the inside while open, then be closed.  Anyone wanting in would need the key.  He slipped down the stairs and was soon back out in the dark, walking back to the motel.


As his thick boots clumped loudly down the dark and deserted streets, he replayed the events of the evening in his mind.  Even after such a vigorous workout, he found himself growing hard again.  He knew he’d be jacking over and over again to the video.  He also knew a couple of guys.  With a little editing, he could get the snuff posted online.


Damn.  Now he was harder than fuck.  Shit, he’d just unloaded, and here he was ready to dance again.  No way he was gonna be able to sleep again like this.  Well, his laptop was in the motel room.  He could slip the SD card into it.  But he didn’t want to get too bored with it; this was too soon after the actual snuff.


Maybe he could find someone else to play with.  This late, this small of a town, it’d only be rough trade—a real street whore, probably an addict of some kind, but still…


He had an idea.  And after all, if he was gonna post the snuff, he’d need an audience reaction.



Mark sighed as he surveyed the room.  This was gonna be a nightmare.  The press was already nosing around; once the details got out, this was gonna be spread across the entire country.  A state trooper, found in a cheap motel room bound, strangled, his own nightstick jammed up his ass.  That alone was worth multiple news cycles.


He shuddered to think of the feeding frenzy once they learned about the second corpse, the kid in the bathroom.  God knows what they’d make of that; he wasn’t sure what to make of it himself.


He’d been called in on his way west to a conference; the state police had limited personnel in this area and had requested help.  And Mark had a reputation in the FBI; he’d already solved one major case involving a serial killer with a thing for dudes in uniform.


Still, this made no sense, so far.  He needed to bounce it off someone.  He needed to talk to Dan.


Talk—right.  He needed to do much more with Dan than talk.  But this was business, and Dan was one of the best profilers around.  His other needs would have to wait to be satisfied.


A trooper stuck his head in the open door.  “Hey, you the FBI guy?  We found his car; it’s on the other side of the bar across the street.”


“Yeah?” Mark asked. “Is it open?  Make sure it’s secured; I’ll be right there.”  He noted the look on the cop’s face as he stared at his comrade’s corpse—almost a sneer.  Taking a last look around the room, the agent turned to follow the local guy out the door.  The image of the trooper’s muscular body, ruthlessly used and callously left splayed and abused, had been graven into his mind.


As he crossed the street, he hoped he’d be able to find this psycho soon, because this body count would continue to grow.  This was far beyond anything he’d seen before; he was gonna get hold of Dan as soon as he searched the dead cop’s patrol car.  Dude was clearly into something kinky himself; Dan’s insight as a profile would be invaluable.


At any rate, one thing was absolutely clear—whoever this sadistic fuck was, he was very experienced.  He’d been doing this successfully for a long time and damn sure wasn’t gonna stop voluntarily.


Mark was after dangerous prey; one wrong step and he’d be the prey himself.  And this dude didn’t just kill his victims, he raped and tortured them to death.

One thought on “Trucker 6–Trucker v Stripper

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