Convict Finale/Carlos and Nick 1

The ad was short and simple; it just said that a local film company wanted well-built actors for male-on-male videos, some wrestling involved.  It damn sure didn’t take a genius to read between the lines; at the very least, it would be soft-core porn.

 

Carlos considered it carefully.  He wasn’t out of money yet, but he was running low.  He needed some steady source of income.  He’d loved the Mustang, but the car was probably way too hot to keep; he had to buy another car.

 

And he damn sure wasn’t gonna stint himself.  He ended up spending more than half of the ten grand he’d managed to acquire on his new ride, but it was worth it.  And he’d made a potential contact.  The salesman, a friendly young man with a shaggy mop of sandy-blonde had hit on him repeatedly.  At the end of the sale, Carlos drove off with the kid’s business card in his wallet.  He was well aware that the boy had written his personal cell number on the back.

 

Maybe later.  A little time would need to pass; most of the staff had noticed him that day.  After all, he’d bought a burgundy Mercedes SL 300 convertible.  Yeah, it was a 1990 model, but it looked great.

 

He’d spent a little more money renting a 10 X 15 storage space not far from his apartment—and hidden the Mustang there.  He didn’t own it, so he couldn’t sell it, and he was worried that it was too full of evidence to abandon.  He’d deal with it later.

 

The apartment he’d rented was in North Las Vegas, an ancient two-story fourplex, built of cinderblock covered in cracked babyshit-yellow stucco.  The neighborhood made the area where he’d offed that last whore look like fuckin’ Candyland, but Carlos could take care of himself.  It was a cheap, furnished, bills paid shithole that the muscular serial killer planned to escape as soon as he could get a guaranteed source of income.

 

Which brought him back to this ad.  It’d be a start.  His “Sin City High” had evaporated in the brutal Vegas heat; there was no way he could rob and steal his way into lifestyle he wanted.  As an ex-con, convicted of felony manslaughter, his options were limited—but there were things he could do.

 

And whatever he did, nothing was gonna stop him from having fun putting down fags.  Maybe this ad was a way to do both.  Yeah, it was unlikely—but what the hell, why not?

 

The address was unfamiliar; Carlos had to look it up.  It turned out to be north of town, off I-15 near the Craig Road exit.  “Walk-in auditions today, 2-6pm.”—great.  It was almost five thirty now.  He just barely had time to make it…

 

With a vague idea of what he was in for, Carlos dressed for the part.  First on was a pair of electric blue Under Armour compression shorts that reached to mid-thigh.  They clung to Carlos’s groin so tightly that his huge package was outlined in vivid, intimidating detail.  His thick, muscled calves descended into a pair of red Air Jordans, the laces the same shade of blue as the shorts.  Above the waist, his powerful, sculpted abdomen was wrapped in a red compression t-shirt with white piping on the seams; it highlighted his well-developed chest.  The tattoos writhing on his bulging biceps could be seen below the shirt cuff; similarly, the tight neck of the shirt did not obscure the inked designs on his throat.

 

Admiring himself in the mirror, the buff killer decided he looked both menacing—and powerful enough to carry through on the menace.

 

Turned out to be a good thing, too.  The moment he stepped out his front door, he could see his car.  Parked in the paved-over yard between the house and the street; open to the sidewalk, it had evidently attracted some attention.  It was surrounded by a crowd of rowdy young cholos who were staring at it in envy and murmuring among themselves, probably about the best way to part it out.  Suddenly, one of them reached out to the driver’s door handle.

 

“Hey, vato, keep yer fuckin’ hand off my ride if ya wanna keep yer fuckin’ hand!” Carlos snapped.

 

The greaser kid took one look at Carlos’s imposing form and jumped back.  “No daño, señor, no daño!” he cried in a panicked voice as the others took the hint and rapidly backed from the car.

 

“Better not be any harm, you worthless punk, or I’ll make you pay,” the hulking psycho growled, “Now get the fuck outta my way.”

 

They scattered like startled deer.  Carlos jumped in the car and headed towards the highway.  Damn, he was gonna have to find something soon.  The Benz was a target in that hood and he couldn’t watch it all the time.  It’d be nice if this worked out…

 

The neighborhood in which he found himself after he exited the highway was an industrial park, full of large buildings of cinderblock or corrugated steel.  At least a third had large wooden billboards plastered with the words “for lease” visible somewhere on the property.   He finally found the right address, a long, low warehouse building with a small lobby section.

 

There were three vehicles in the lot; one a dark green ford F250 pickup.  Just as Carlos pulled in, a pale, freckled twink wearing nothing but shorts and a pair of skate shoes came out.  He was thin and had a couple of bruises; his expression was one of discouragement and exhaustion.  He got into a beat-up old Nissan and left.

 

Stepping out of the oven-like heat, Carlos felt the refrigerated air of the lobby wrap around his slightly sweat-soaked body.  The room was empty except for an easel with a placard reading “Auditions this way”; there was an arrow pointing to a hallway on the right.  The hallway itself was dark and lined with doors, all closed—except the fourth on the left, from which flowed a rectangle of light.

 

Carlos approached slowly and warily.  Peering around the corner, he found himself looking into a large room, possibly a conference or meeting room at one time, brightly lit by overhead fluorescents.  In the far left corner, a wrestling ring had been set up.

 

It was a basic setup, a sixteen-by-sixteen foot square ring with skirting and a canvas mat.  The turnbuckle covers were of canvas, the same color as the ropes.  On one side was a small platform for mounting and accessing the ring.

 

There were two dudes in the room.  On the far left, some folding tables had been set up.  Covered with monitors and video editing equipment, they were being operated by a large dude with long black hair; he was sitting with his back facing the door and hadn’t seen Carlos in the doorway.

 

At the very back of the room, to the right of the ring, was another folding table.  This had what looked like a makeup case, some indefinable personal effects—and a twink dressed in nothing but a pair of briefs and knee-high boots.  The boy was smaller than Carlos but still surprisingly well-built; even from across the room, Carlos could see his thick muscles.

 

The boy was bent over the table, concentrating intently on something.  Carlos approached quietly until he was close enough to hear the sniffing sounds.  Little fucker was snorting coke.  Probably thought he was too high-class for crack or meth.

 

The muscled alpha snorted in contempt.  The kid evidently heard him; visibly startled, he jumped and whirled around.  Carlos got a good look at him.

 

Young—he looked like he was in his mid to late teens.  In fact, he had the build of a high-school wrestler, smooth, fit and muscled without being stocky or over-developed.  He was wearing a pair of bright red briefs which on closer inspection turned out to be Speedos.  They left nothing to the imagination; the kid was hung like a horse—not as well as Carlos, perhaps, but damned impressive in its own right.  Or it would have been had it been hard.  On his feet were a pair traditional knee-high wrestling boots, red with white laces.

 

The kid swiftly wiped the white powder of the end of nose and sniffled, the color of his wide eyes almost impossible to discern through cocaine dilation; his pupils were huge.  His face was innocent and boyish, with a slightly snub nose.    His hair was dark brown and cut short.

 

Grinning, the boy approached, holding out his hand.  This close, Carlos could see the hard lines in his face—kid was older than his teens and had been living hard for a while.  “Heya,” the coked-up punk chirped, “here for the video shoot?  Cool.  Name’s Brody La Roc—ya mighta heard of me.  No?  Most popular escort on the Strip, man.  Hey, when we’re done, take one of my cards.  I’ll make sure ya have a good time—if you can afford it.  Ha!  Hey, Nick, ya got another one!”

 

This last was to the dark-haired dude on the other side of the ring.  The guy had been engrossed with a video monitor, evidently doing some editing.  As soon as he heard his name, he jumped up and crossed to join them.

 

Nick was huge.  He was both taller and better-built than Carlos himself—not by much, but enough for Carlos to notice.  He was simply dressed in faded jeans, well-worn but clean work boots and a dark red sleeveless t-shirt but the clothes clung so tightly to his sculpted body that there was nothing left to the imagination.  The buff Hercules greeted Carlos genially, his broad, handsome face breaking out into a blinding grin.

 

“Hey, man, you just made it!  This is gonna be the last shoot of the day.  So—what’s your name?”

 

After the preliminary introductions, they got down to business.  Nick was doing what he called a film test, but he dropped some random comments that clued Carlos in.  The individual clips would be edited together as a bonus “screen test” feature on another porn flick, probably already shot.  This was a quick-and-dirty shoot for the purpose of padding out a video.  But it paid $150 and probably wouldn’t take an hour.  And Nick held out the possibility of further work.

 

“After all, man,” he said, “I got a wide distribution network.  I do all kinda videos.  Who knows?  I might be able to find something for ya.  Let’s see what you can do.”

 

Gazing over Carlos’s well-built bulk, Nick nodded with critical approval.  “Ok, shuck off that shirt.  The shorts can stay; I like them.”  Carlos obliged, peeling off the red compression shirt and tossing it onto a folding chair off to one side.  “And the shoes.  That’s a real canvas mat; those soles will lose traction.  You wear what—eleven, eleven and a half?  Lessee here, I got some extra gear just in case…”

 

After rummaging through a heap of boxes and bags piled in the corner, Nick returned triumphantly, holding a shoebox.  “Your lucky day, man,” he chuckled, “I got these new and ain’t come across anyone big enough to wear ‘em—you’ll be the first.”

 

It was a pair of Adidas Adizero Varner wrestling kicks, black with white laces.  Carlos slipped them on, tightening the laces until the shoes wrapped around his feet like socks.  He stood up and faced Nick, now clad in nothing more than his skintight blue shorts and the black Adidas shoes.

 

This time, Nick pulled out his hand-held camera and sighted it on Carlos.  “Fuckin’ excellent, stud.  Totally hard-core rough trade; this lighting shows your tats perfectly.  Let’s get y’all in the ring.”

 

The kid—Brody—made his way up the steps to the mounting platform.  Carlos followed, with Nick bringing up the rear, carrying his camera.  Carlos glanced around as Brody bent down and slipped between the ropes.  He noticed small cameras—from a distance, they looked like GoPros—mounted on each of the corner posts, just above the topmost turnbuckles.

 

As Carlos parted the ropes and entered the ring, Brody called out, “Hey, Nick, where ya want me?  Gonna run this one like the last one?”

 

Nick paused, his dark eyes running contemplatively over both Carlos and Brody.  “No,” he said after a pause, “I don’t think you’re gonna be the top here.  Don’t get me wrong, dude, ya know I love ya, but look at this guy.  Ain’t no one gonna believe you can take him down.”

 

Brody nodded and fidgeted but didn’t speak; he was too coked up to be completely still.  Carlos, waiting to see where all this was going, stood quiet and impassive—on the outside.

 

This was a mistake.  He’d made a terrible mistake.

 

Rage had welled up within him at the first sight of the cocky boywhore; Carlos had known from that moment that he would need to maintain the utmost control just to make sure he didn’t go too far.  He wasn’t going to be able to make it; he was gonna end up fucking up this little piece of shit on video.

 

The homophobic sadist was abruptly pulled from his reverie by the sudden awareness that Nick was eyeing him keenly.  Nick spoke first, a shark-like grin flashing across his face.  “I got it—dude, what’s your name?  Carlos?  Ok, Carlos, this is the plot—it’s a battle to be the top.  Got it?  Winner gets to fuck loser, and neither of ya wanna get fucked, so it’s gonna be a real struggle.  And since you’re the first guy we’ve had in today who looks like he could take down this guy”—this with a nod towards Brody—“you’re gonna be the winner.”

 

“What happens when I win?” Carlos asked.

 

“We’ll figured that out when we get there,” Nick replied, “but let’s get some good struggling on camera first.”

 

Getting down on one knee, the buff porn producer squared his subjects on the screen.  “Ok, let’s get y’all into the center, facing each other—great!  Now start with a grapple and let’s see who gets thrown down first.”

 

Chuckling maliciously, Nick zoomed in as Carlos closed in on Brody.  The young punk feinted to the right before breaking left; he was just barely able to dodge Carlos’s lunge.  The buff, inked alpha stumbled, digging the black kicks into the mat to recover his balance.  Enraged, he whirled and faced the sniggering escort.

 

“Gotta be faster than that,” Brody smirked.  “Want some coke?  It’ll get ya movin’, stud.”

 

“Naw, bitch,” Carlos snarled, “I don’t need no help to take ya down.”

 

His massive, muscled chest heaving, the hard-bodied sadist turned away and walked to the corner.  He needed to get control of himself; he was making stupid mistakes.  This wasn’t like him.  There was something about this obnoxious little piece of shit—

 

Or was there?  Was that really what was going on?

 

As his firm, heaving torso, slightly slicked with sweat, slowed in tempo with his breathing, Carlos threw a sidelong glance at Nick and the camera in his hands.  Goddam, the thought of snuffing the fit little faggot on video made him get hard.

 

And given how tight his shorts were, it was obvious.

 

But this other dude, this Nick—there was something about him.  Some kinda vibe he was giving off…

 

As if maybe he was into that too.

 

Carlos regained control.  An evil grin crossed his handsome—a grin he made sure was visible to the camera.  “Ok, you little motherfucker, get ready.  I’m comin’ for ya.”  Slowly and carefully, he moved to the center of the ring, his muscled form crossing the canvas with the lithe grace of a jungle cat.

 

Brody hadn’t been paying much attention to anything until Carlos spoke again.  “Well, it’s about time,” he muttered petulantly as he stomped his way towards his hulking opponent.

 

In the view screen of the camera Nick was holding, it was clear that Brody, buff and fit as he was, was still outclassed by Carlos to what would be a ridiculous extent in a genuine match.  The sculpted ex-con towered over the cocky high-priced rentboy; if the latter hadn’t been high as fuck, he might have had some well-grounded fears.

 

They stood facing each other, silently, for a moment.  Brody, of course, was the first to break.  “Ok, so now fuckin’ wh—“

 

This time, Carlos lunged so fast the Brody never got the chance to finish his sentence.  Clamping his huge hands around the kid’s thick biceps, he pivoted and hurled the punk across the ring with no warning whatsoever.

 

With a loud, inarticulate cry, the boywhore struck the padded ropes and was flung down to the mat, flat on his back.  As he lay there desperately gasping with the wind knocked out of him, he turned his head to the side.  Carlos’s tight black Adidas shoes suddenly swam into his vision; before he was able to catch his breath, he was flying through the air again.

 

He hit the ropes again, but this time it was closer to the corner post where there was less give.  It was a violent impact that left him face down on the canvas, wondering what the fuck had happened.  Before he could figure it out, though, something even worse happened.

 

Stunned by the swiftness of the assault, Brody was unable to protest when Carlos’s powerful arm, knotted with muscles, wrapped around his neck.  Once it tightened up, he tried frantically to protest, but by then it was too late.

 

Nick inched forward into the ring, closing in on the scene.  It was fantastic—Carlos was sitting on the canvas, his thick legs spread out directly in front of him.  Between them, practically sitting on his lap, was Brody, his face darkening as Carlos applied pressure to the sleeper hold he’d locked on the boy’s throat.

 

“Ya like that, ya little faggot?” Carlos jeered in a loud tone.  “What, ya think you can stand up to a real man, you piece a’ shit, huh?”  As he spoke, the aggressive alpha made sure his eyes made direct contact with the camera lens—and then with Nick.

 

Yeah, it was there.  The light of a predator.  This guy wouldn’t care if he wasted this worthless fairy right now.  As for the video—

 

Carlos decided to see how far Nick would go.

 

With a grunt, he jerked his powerful arms, tightening the hold even more.  Brody, with a purple, swollen face and bulging eyes filled with fear, clawed helplessly at the empty air in front of him.

 

His smooth, muscled legs, pinned between Carlos’s, began to kick and thrash, the heels of the red wrestling boots beating a desperate drumbeat that echoed hollowly on the canvas mat.

 

Carlos knew his own cock was stiffening and would be instantly visible one he stood up, but he was interested to see a bulge developing in Nick’s groin as well.  He was even more interested to see how long it took for Nick to break it off—he got a good thirty seconds of chokeout footage before he spoke up.

 

“Ok, man, cut—that’s enough for now,” he said, powering down the camera.  Carlos kept the pressure up.  Nick noticed after a particularly loud gagging sound from Brody.

 

“Hey, hey, hey!” he protested.  “C’mon, dude, time out.”  Carlos relented, letting Brody fall limply to one side, teetering on the edge of consciousness.  The punk gasped and coughed as his assailant climbed to his feet.  With a concerned look on his face, Nick approached the kid.

 

Kneeling down, he gave the boy a bit to stop coughing and gagging before pulling his chin towards him and smiled down into his fear- and tear-streaked face.  “Hey, man, you ok?  Sorry about that, I’ll go have a talk with him.  Go do another coupla lines; you’ll feel better—and I’ll give ya an extra three hundred if we finish this one, ok?  Ya good with that?”

 

Snuffling, the subdued rentboy nodded sulkily and slowly pulled himself up with the ropes, casting a baleful glare back at Carlos.  Nick stood up and strode quickly to the platform.  “C’mere,” he snapped at Carlos, gesturing him to follow as he descended the stairs and walked out the door.  Bemused, the ex-con trailed along, his raging hard-on pointing out the way.

 

They were halfway down the darkened hallway when Nick whirled and faced Carlos.  “What were ya doin’ back there, man?  Were you tryin’ to kill him?”

 

Carlos paused, uncertain how to answer—when he noticed Nick’s hand.  It was rubbing a noticeably growing bulge in the crotch of his tight jeans.  Glancing up into the well-built videographer’s face, the buff ex-con saw a gleam of lust in his cold blue eyes and was not really surprised.

 

Carlos played along.  “Sorry,” he said with grin more wolfish than sheepish, “I get carried away sometimes—but these fags need to be taught their place, y’know?”

 

Nick seemed to consider a moment before he spoke again.  “Ok, then.  You might be exactly what I’ve been looking for, and if it works out, you’ll end up making a lot of money.  But the important thing is—how far are ya willing to go?  On camera?”

 

The hardbodied sadist wasn’t dense, but it took a moment for him to work it out.  “Money?  On camera?  Y-ya mean people will pay to watch?”

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” Nick chuckled, his boots scuffing the carpet as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.  “I’ve already done several—I got a great way to make a profit off ’em.  The income is phenomenal but I keep it in an offshore account since a large part of it is in foreign funds.”

 

Carlos laughed aloud.  His enormous dick was now fully erect, and indicated his acceptance of the offer more eloquently than any words could.

 

At any rate, it was clear to Nick.  He said, “Tell ya what, man let’s go back in there and you do what ya want to that worthless little cunt.  And here’s an incentive—I already have the cash to pay him.  So if I don’t have to pay him—well, let’s just say I’m not comfortable walking around with that much cash; I’ll have to give it to someone…”  He abruptly strode back down the hall back to the room, leaving Carlos somewhat stunned at his luck.  He didn’t know how much had been promised to the slut, but the bonus of three hundred was itself twice what he’d been offered for the shoot.

 

Re-entering the room himself, Carlos couldn’t help but notice that Brody was already back in the ring, pacing, jittery, and obviously coked to the gills.  “Hey, dude,” the punk piped up shrilly as soon as he saw his opponent, “If you bruise me up, yer gonna hafta pay!  Ain’t no one gonna hire me if I get marked up—I’ll sue ya for loss of income!”

 

“Calm down, Edgar,” Nick said, “Carlos and I had a talk and he’s gonna treat you right from now on, we promise—right, Carlos?”

 

The buff escort blushed an angry red.  “Brody!” he screamed, enraged.  “Goddamit, my street name is Brody!  You better get it right in the credits!”

 

“Chill, dude,” Nick replied in a somewhat exasperated tone.  “I guarantee that everyone who sees this video will know the name Brody La Roc, ok?  Now get to your mark and lemme get this damn thing finished!”

 

Smirking grimly, Carlos mounted to the ring quickly and quietly.  He scanned the ring to see if there was anything he could use to his advantage, silently taking note that the turnbuckle on the top rope to the left of the far corner post had lost its padding, the threaded metal buckle glinting brightly under the harsh fluorescent light.

 

The impassive look on the alpha’s face was belied by the predatory gleam in his dark eyes, but the obnoxious boywhore was too drugged-out to notice.  It was clear that it wouldn’t be difficult to take the useless cunt out; the kid was obviously too high to put up an adequate defense.

 

This was gonna be fun.

 

As Carlos stepped to the center of the ring, his body bulked over that of his prey.  The shaven-headed alpha with his sculpted, tattooed chest and ripped abs was an intimidating opponent; the skin-tight blue compression shorts obscenely emphasizing his massive, straining cock.  If Brody had been more aware of his surroundings, he might have noticed the large dark spot right at the tip of the protruding shaft; he might have wondered what such an outpouring of precum might portend.

 

Brody himself was still jumpy; his thick, muscled body seemed to quiver with electric shock, but the dilated pupils of his bleary eyes spoke to the true cause of his symptoms.  His taut, smooth body, barely obscured by his knee-high red wrestling boots and matching Speedos, was glistening with a light coat of sweat, also generated by the coke.  And the Speedos gave yet more proof of his drug use.  Brody actually had a long, thick cock, nearly the equal of Carlos’s—but the tight briefs showed it curled limply in his groin.

 

Cocaine kills erections.  Carlos wondered how the kid made a living as an escort if he was doing that shit constantly—then it hit him.  The little motherfucker was a bottom. A complete, utter fag.  The burning rage began to swell in his chest again.

 

Nick could see what was happening simply by observing the way Carlos’s tool began to pulse rhythmically, and the way the dark circle of precum grew rapidly.  It was time to start the show.

 


 

The camera was centered on two buff, muscled men, one of them older and obviously more powerful than the other.  From behind the camera came a voice.  “Well, c’mon you two, whaddaya waitin’ for—an invitation to dance?”

 

The two men lunged towards one another, the larger tripping up the smaller.  “That’s it, Carlos!  Good!”

 

Carlos leaned down and grabbed the firm, half-naked youth.  Twisting the kid’s right arm behind his back, Carlos brought the mewling boy to his feet.  “Fuck!” the kid screamed, “That hurts!  You’re too fuckin’ rough!  Stop!”

 

“Shaddup, Edgar—oh, sorry, Brody,” came the cold, placid voice from off screen.  “You’re supposed to be an actor—fuckin’ act, bitch!”

 

Carlos swiveled his body, forcing Brody around so that the punk’s face was directly in the camera.  The handsome, well-built boywhore was flushed with rage.  Shaking violently, he tried to free himself from Carlos’s hold, his short brown hair fanning out as he struggled.  “What?!?” he screeched.  “Goddamit, I told ya—“

 

But was he told was never revealed.  With brutal swiftness, Carlos spun the cunt into the far corner and slammed him face-first into the exposed turnbuckle.  Gripping his fingers tightly in the slut’s hair, Carlos dragged his head back and smashed it forward again repeatedly, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone as he beat the shrieking, screaming hustler’s face to hamburger against the metal buckle.

 

Finally, he dropped the mewling boy onto the mat with a loud, hollow thud.  As he tried feebly to crawl away, it was clear that Brody was in complete shock from his sudden, violent assault.  The once-beautiful whore, his face beaten and bloody, squirmed across the canvas mat, squealing like a stuck pig.  A deep, guttural gurgling was emitted from the battered face; it seemed to be a plea for mercy but was utterly unintelligible.

 

“Where the fuck ya goin’, faggot?” Carlos jeered as he relentlessly stalked the brutalized fuckmeat.  Brody blubbered in panic, plainly aware of the fact that Carlos intended to inflict more pain on him.   The soft sound of Carlos’s Adidas wrestling shoes padding inexorably across the mat towards him were almost inaudible, but unnecessary in any case; the ruthless, implacable vibrations of Carlos’s tread on the taut canvas told Brody of the approach of death.

 

“What’s that, you worthless homo slut?  I can’t understand a thing you’re sayin’,” Carlos mocked the stunned punk as he loomed over him.  “Hey, I gotta great idea!” he chortled cruelly, driving his foot forward to deliver a strong kick directly into the smooth youth’s heaving ribs.  “I know exactly how to figure out what yer tryin’ to say, ya cocksucker—I’ll beat it outta ya!”

 

This was accompanied by another kick, this one much more powerful.  This kick was rewarded with a loud crack of bone as one of Brody’s ribs shattered.  The writhing hardbodied boy wailed in pain as Carlos shoved his foot under him, then with another kicking motion, rolled Brody onto his back.  Grinning evilly down into his victim’s blood- and tear-stained face, the hulking sadistic psycho said in an even tone, “I know how to find out what yer sayin’, fag—I’ll beat it outta ya!”

 

The camera came in for close-up as Carlos knelt over sobbing, mewling escort and spat into his face.  “Goddam, ya whiney-ass pussy,” the brutal alpha taunted, “Listen to ya squealin’ like a fuckin’ pig.  Here, you cumsucking faggot, here’s something for ya to whine about!”  And with that, Carlos plunged straight down, his arm stiff like a pile driver and his full body weight thrown into the blow that hit Brody dead in the face.   The force was great enough to snap the whore’s cheekbone; the violent rebound bounced his head roughly on the mat.

 

The frame was centered on the boy’s battered face.  Even under the blood and trauma, the expressions on the kid’s face were readable—the pain, the fear, the paralyzing bewilderment generated by an unexpected explosion of violence.  All were captured on the video.

 

It wasn’t the only thing the camera captured—Brody begged for his life.  His bruised and beaten body, taut and sweat-soaked in physical defeat, twisted in agony as the rentboy reached his arms out towards the camera—and the cameraman.  “N-n-ni—“ came from between his swollen, split lips.  “Ni-ni-n-n-ni—“

 

He could get no further than that one syllable.  “Hey, Edgar,” came a grim chuckle from behind the camera, “I’m gonna give him yer bonus after he wastes ya, cunt.  I don’t pay whores.”  The kid’s eyes, already wide and ringed with dark circles of shock, grew huge with panic at the words.  His pupils, though, were no longer dilated; the intensity and brutality of the assault had flushed his system with adrenaline and testosterone, neutralizing the effects of the cocaine.

 

He no longer had any anesthetic.  He was suffering every single moment of the beating.

 

Carlos didn’t let up.  He continued to draw his fist back, then slam it down with all the force that his thick, knotted biceps could deliver.  The wet, smacking sounds of the repeated blows echoed in the empty room as Brody’s sobbing and gurgling began to fade.

 

The whore was on the verge of consciousness; he knew that he was being beaten to death and it was obvious just by looking at him.  The desperate, panicked look haunting his eyes had faded, now replaced with a dull, dim look as the light of life flickered and ebbed within him.  An extreme close-up of his face recorded the resignation that took hold of the high-priced rentboy in the last few moments of his life.

 

Carlos suddenly broke off the beating.  Panting and heaving, his sculpted torso slick with sweat, he turned abruptly to the camera.  “Hey, man, this little homo sack of shit still hasn’t learned what happens to faggots who think they can seed real men.”

 

“Why don’t ya tell us what happens,” the off-screen voice drawled with malicious glee.

 

“They get offed by a real man, that’s what happens.  But first the little cocksuckers gotta get seeded themselves; that’s how they know it’s a real man wastin’ them.”

 

With a wild grin, Carlos flipped Brody back over onto his face and roughly jerked the Speedos off him.  Peeling himself out of his blue compression shorts, Carlos stood with his massive tool fully erect; a camera zoom revealed the full details of the pulsing, vein-wrapped shaft pumping out a steady stream of precum.  “Yeah,” Carlos’s voice come from off-screen as his throbbing cock filled the frame, “Time to show this worthless sack of queer-ass shit exactly what a real man does to homos…”

 

Lunging forward in a nude body slam, the hard-bodied alpha dropped his full weight on the smaller whore, who responded by moaning hoarsely and scrabbling frantically at the canvas mat.  Placing one hand in the small of Brody’s back, Carlos pinned the shuddering youth, angling his massive shaft for deep penetration.

 

“You like cock, you worthless pansy?” the ex-con sneered in a tone of cold rage that was contradicted by the glitter of lust in his eyes—a glitter of which he seemed to be unaware, but which was perfectly captured on camera.  “Then yer gonna love this, cunt, this is what a genuine fag-snuffin’ grade-A male feels like!”

 

And with that, he reamed his entire swollen tool into the whore’s ass, in a single powerful thrust.

 

Brody had taken plenty of cock up his hole in the last six or seven—was it eight?—years since he’d been selling his young, smooth body, but none of them had been quite this big.  And those that had been close had also been slow and well-lubed.

 

Even with his face beaten to a pulp, he could feel every moment of this fresh new torment as he was skewered on a gigantic dick, one that tore his sphincter open without waiting for it to relax and accept.  After that, it all dissolved into a sheet of white-hot agony as the engorged mushroom tip plunged the depths of his colon, scraping and tearing at the rectal lining.

 

And all his horrific pain was recorded in loving detail.  The camera pulled back enough to show Brody, squealing and thrashing, impaled on Carlos’s cock.  The tattooed killer, his muscled back moving rhythmically with his thrusts and covered with a glistening film of mansweat, reached up and grasped the battered rentboy’s chin, clutching it tightly, painfully in one powerful hand.  Brody gave one final high-pitched squeal before Carlos clamped his mouth shut.

 

Looking up with an insanely gleeful grin, Carlos spoke directly to the camera—he was speaking to Nick.  “Whaddaya think, dude?  Time to waste this useless faggot?  Yeah?  Fuck, I’m about to pump his guts fulla hot manspunk, man—goddam, I’m gonna mark this bitch as mine and snuff his worthless ass—fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!”

 

Jerking violently, Carlos began spraying a solid jet of sperm deep into Brody.  As he did, he grabbed a huge handful of Brody’s brown hair.  Feeling the cumdump meat kicking his wrestling boots in fear and pain, the cruel sadist gave a loud grunt, shot a boiling wad of spunk into the cunt’s ass and jerked his arms reflexively in orgasm.  As his bulging biceps tightened he jerked Brody’s head around a full ninety degrees or more.

 

It sounded like popcorn, the noise of shattering vertebrae.  The expression in the boywhore’s bloodied face showed that despite his shredded spinal column, death was not instant.  His entire body was immediately wracked with violent convulsions.  “Fuck yeah,” Carlos moaned, “Milk my cock, fag, drain my cum as ya die…”

 

The camera closed in on Brody’s face, zooming in to capture his eyes as life drained out of them.  The beautiful high-price escort was almost unrecognizable in the twitching pile of damaged and bleeding meat centered in the frame.  The image was held for a few seconds before widening again.

 

Shuddering and gasping, Carlos withdrew his still-engorged member and stood up.  Stepping to the far side of the corpse, he faced the camera, smiled, and ground his foot into the still-quivering face, the sole of the Adidas shoe flattening the already-broken nose.

 

“Yeah, bitch,” Carlos said proudly to the camera, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  That’s what us straight dudes do to worthless faggot fucks!”  There was no trace of irony in his words; as he spoke, large drops of semen were still oozing from his erect cock, splattering onto the dead punk’s smooth, bruised chest.

 

“Ok, that’s a wrap,” said Nick.

 


 

After cleaning himself up and re-dressing in the bathroom down the hall, Carlos came back to the large room and joined Nick.  The latter was sitting at one of the tables along the wall; he was editing video, just as he’d been doing when Carlos first saw—but now it was Carlos himself on the screen.

 

“Sit down, kid,” Nick said evenly.  With a loud metallic clang, his iron-toed work boot kicked an empty chair out as an invitation.  “Ya did really good. Not great, but really good.”

 

Anger rose in Carlos’s well-developed chest.  “Whaddaya mean?  What’d I do wrong?”

 

“Chill out, man,” Nick said with a deep chuckle.  “I been doin’ films like this for a long time.  Both sides of the camera—ya feel me, dude?  I know what I’m talkin’ about here.”  He cued up a section of video.  “See here, where you’re bashing his face into the turnbuckle?  It woulda been a lot more effective if you’d stopped in the middle to taunt him, especially if you’d forced him to face the camera.”

 

The buff filmmaker forwarded the video on the screen before he continued.  “And here, where you kicked him—that was hot, man, but you coulda done more.  You coulda made the slut suffer a lot more—and same thing at the end.  You got too excited and shot your bolt too soon.  But I can’t complain too much; the biggest mistake was my own.  I shoulda told ya to strangle him.  Mighta gotten him hard despite the coke.”

 

And suddenly, the rage-filled convict did chill.  He’d been right, Carlos thought, he had been getting a vibe from this guy.

 

Carlos was in the presence of a master.

 

“So here’s the deal,” Nick continued calmly.  “I like your work, but you’re gonna have to be able to take some direction—and to stick to it in the excitement of the moment.  Do you have that kinda self-control?”

 

It was a good question.  Carlos had to stop and think; he could sense that this was an important moment for him and he wanted to answer honestly.  “Yeah,” he finally responded, “Yeah I think I can.  But that’s on camera.  Sometimes I hafta just go and waste a homo cunt, and if there ain’t a camera around, tough shit.”

 

Now it was Nick’s turn to consider.  “Ok, fine.  You go do your own thing, but you’re available whenever I’m ready to film.  We’ll start ya at a grand per video and see how they gross; if you turn out to be as popular as I think ya will, you’ll soon be earning a lot more.”

 

Carlos could hardly believe his luck—then a question occurred to him.  “A grand per vid?  How often are we shooting?”

 

Nick laughed, a loud braying guffaw.  “Man, there ain’t no regular schedule for this kinda work!  I’m hopin’ for two a month to start; we’ll see how many hits ya get.  But I’ll need to be able to reach you at any time.  Lessee, I got your cell and if something comes up I can send a car if you’re too fucked up to drive—where ya stayin’?”

 

The older, larger stud recoiled in surprise when Carlos gave him the North Las Vegas address.  “Shit, man, you’re in the fuckin’ war zone.  Ya know what—I gotta high-rise condo on Paradise, right off the Strip.   Use it for bedroom sets.  Used to rent it out for all kinda porn shots too, but haven’t had any offers for a while.  Why don’t you stay there till we see what kinda revenue you can generate?”

 

Carlos was overwhelmed.  Nearly everything he’d wanted from Vegas had just been dumped right into his lap.  And as eager as he was to accept, he was suspicious.  “Why are ya doin’ all this for me, jefe?  You ain’t gonna get all fruity on me too, are ya?”

 

Nick laughed again, deeply.  “Carlos—that is your name, right?  Carlos, the reason I’m doing all this is because I can make a shitload of money offa ya—and, incidentally, make you a shitload of money, too.  I told ya, I got a great snuff porn network from my last partner—these dudes will cum all over themselves watching you.  Now c’mon and gimme a hand.  Actors gotta pitch in and lend a hand breaking the set.”

 

“What?” Carlos asked, startled, “You want me to help take down the ring?”

 

“Fuck no,” Nick replied, “I got a crew comin’ in in an hour or so to take it down and haul it out.  Get that tarp over there.  We’re gonna go dump the corpse.”

 

In a hazy sense of excitement, Carlos grabbed the folded tarp and climbed into the ring one last time.  Nick was already kneeling near Brody’s body—now still—and unlacing the knee-high wrestling boots.  “Might be able to return these if the cunt hasn’t damaged them too much.”

 

A couple of sharp tugs and the red boots were flung over the side onto the floor.  Then Nick motioned Carlos to approach.  They unfolded the tarp on the mat next to the body, then rolled the corpse over, wrapping the tarp around it until it was fully encased.  Without being asked, Carlos bent down, picked the limp form up and slung it over his shoulder.  “I got this,” he said, “where do ya want it?”

 

“Thanks, dude,” Nick smiled.  “Worthless cunt pissed on the mat when he died; I gotta get that cleaned.  We’ll go toss that meat in the back of my truck and run it down the street to the factory compactor.”

 

Walking down the hall towards the front door with the dead weight of Brody La Roc resting on his shoulder, Carlos couldn’t help asking one last question.  “Hey—uh, Nick, you said something about a partner in this porn network.  Is he someone I need to worry about?”

 

From the darkness behind him came a grim chuckle.  “Tony?  Naw, man.  I took care of him.  Ain’t no one gotta worry about him anymore…”

3 thoughts on “Convict Finale/Carlos and Nick 1

  1. JWC

    Yup, now that is perfect. Not just great snuff fiction, but great muscle snuff fiction. I’m pretty sure that Nick and Carlos are going to make a great team, and hopefully leave a lot of dead, broken fags in their wake. Broken bones, asphixiation, ruined faces: real feats of strength for an Alpha stud like Carlos. Keep it up!

    Liked by 1 person

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