Joe’s phone beeped. Actually, it wasn’t his phone; it had belonged to one of his kills—Joe had kept it for the gay hookup app the cunt had installed. After altering the dead kid’s profile, he was using it to troll for victims. Seemed he’d found one. Glancing down, he read the screen—
Tapdisazz: hey daddy wassup
The buff sadist quickly replied—
Powertop4boi: my dick. what ya want
Tapdisazz: ur dick
This was accompanied by a pic. It was a neck-down nude body shot of a young man, not powerfully built but with well-defined muscles. Based on the lighting, the dude was black; his skin was a relatively light mocha shade, but his thick cock was a seven-inch bar of dark chocolate.
Joe was intrigued. He hadn’t wasted a nigger before. This could be fun.
Powertop4boi: yeah I can slip ya the D. u host?
Tapdisazz: can host 962 walnut st apt 7H how long
Joe knew the street, if not the specific address; three block south of the MLK Boulevard exit on the interstate. Bad neighborhood for an evening stroll—but as a predator among predators, the experienced killed wasn’t afraid. He knew he could handle himself in any situation.
Tapdisazz: u comin man need to get fucked bad
Powertop4boi: gimme 20 will plow ur hole
Tapdisazz: k homey hurry want ur nut in my azz
Joe chuckled. Faggot was gonna get his cum and a fuck of a lot more.
It was already past midnight—he’d been lying nude in bed; he jumped to his feet quickly and crossed to his dresser. It was still record-breakingly warm for the time of year, so he slipped a black sleeveless muscle t-shirt over his head; it clung to his muscular torso as if it had been painted on. Next on was a pair of beige cargo shorts that reached just below the knee. They were tight enough to clutch his firm, rounded ass tightly but still displayed no more than his hard, hairy calves—half of which the well-built stud immediately covered with white tube socks.
He’d had to pull the socks so high up his legs to make sure he could get on his sand-beige combat boots. They rose halfway up to his knees; once he had them tightly laced, he checked himself in the mirror. In a way, he had kinda a casual-military-commando thing going. It was unintentional, but he liked the result.
Slipping his wallet into his rear pocket and his keys into his front, he headed out to his car. Within five minutes, he was on the interstate—and in another ten, he’d reached his exit.
Turning south on MLK Boulevard, he slowed to a halt a red light. The first couple of blocks were lined with tote-the-note care lots, pawn shops and shade-tree mechanics. Back in the darkness off the main street, there was a fair amount of furtive activity that melted away briefly on the odd occasions that headlights turned down the side streets.
The next major cross street to the south was Lamar; every weekend, there was guaranteed to be at least two murders within a five-block radius of MLK and Lamar—usually drug, robbery or gang-related. And this was despite a large police presence; Joe passed two cruisers and a motorcycle cop during his three-block trip from the interstate.
Turning left onto Walnut, he followed the potholed street for another two blocks before arriving at his destination. The address turned out to be located in a complex of dilapidated two-story buildings of fourteen apartments each, seven upstairs and seven down. From the open parking lot in the street, the complex was laid out on a slope that led down to a malodorous, weed-choked drainage ditch at the back of the property. Building H was next to the ditch, last building on the right side.
The unseasonal warmth did nothing to help the dank stench wafting up from the ditch. Even so, several people were out in the dark—mostly young black dudes. One punk in dreads, wearing sagging jeans showing the top three inches of plaid boxers, gave Joe a particularly hostile glance as he slipped by on the other side of the concrete steps.
His paramilitary appearance was arousing suspicion in an area rife with drug trade. Again, he wasn’t concerned with his own safety—but his dick was hard and he didn’t wanna go home without burying it in nigger ass. If one of these motherfuckers started some shit before he got to the meat’s apartment, he wasn’t sure he’d have the chance to fuck the asswipe before real trouble started.
In any advent, it didn’t matter; he reached building H without incident. Apartment 7H was the one at the far end of the building on the ground floor. The thumping of his hard-soled combat boots on the cement walkway was drowned out by music that turned out to be coming from apartment 6H; someone into old school gangsta was blaring Tech N9ne’s “Breathe” so loud the flimsy, hollow-core front door of the unit was visibly rattling. Joe had to beat his fist heard against the door of 7H to get a response.
After a moment, the door opened and the towering alpha found himself facing a kid in his late teens—no older than twenty, certainly. The boy was almost assuredly mulatto. It wasn’t that his skin was so light that indicated that one of his parents was white—it was his stunning, startlingly light blue eyes. His nose was broad but not overly so; his lips were thick, but they looked soft and luscious, not like a caricature. Short curly hair like steel wool covered his scalp.
The punk was shirtless; his broad smooth chest was tattooed with the words “Lamar Pride” in three-inch-tall calligraphic letters in an arc descending from one shoulder and rising to the other. Joe wasn’t aware of any local gang known as Lamar—but he did know that Lamar High School was a couple of miles away.
Around the black fag’s neck was what looked like a thick-linked dog chain, looped back into itself in a slipknot. The kid sported a pair of UA Mo’ Money basketball shorts in shiny gray; despite their bagginess, they did nothing to hide his long, semi-erect cock. Under the shorts, the boy had stayed true to form with a pair of Adidas “Light Em Up” basketball hightops.
Little fuckin’ gangsta wannabe. Joe grinned broadly—wastin’ this little nigger cunt was gonna be so fuckin’ hot…
“Holy shit…” the kid gasped, gazing up at the hard-bodied stud looming in his doorway. Joe’s body was bulked out from his recent workouts and it was obvious the black kid was into well-built white tops.
“C-c’mon in,” he stuttered. “I-I’m Deonte.” Stepping to the side, he let Joe into the apartment. The towering alpha filled the doorway momentarily as he paused and glanced around. It didn’t take long—there wasn’t much to glance at.
The apartment was an efficiency—a single room with a closet and a couple of alcoves. One was the bathroom, the other could best have been called a kitchenette. There was a small fridge, a sink and a two-burner cooktop but no oven. On one side of the room was a large flat-screen TV; facing it was an unfolded sofa bed. To one side was an overstuffed armchair in the same light floral upholstery—now dark and stained with age—as the sofa; the set had probably belonged to the cocksucker’s gramma or something, Joe figured.
Interestingly enough, the off-white sheets covering the two-inch thick foam rubber mattress were that color by design; they, along with the pillowcases, were all clean and in good condition.
Not that he cared. Good a dump as any to put down the black boy. He turned back and grinned at his prey.
Deonte couldn’t believe his luck.
The nineteen-year-old really was a gangbanger wannabe; he worked at the local fast-food burger joint for minimum wage and supplemented his income by dealing drugs. Nothing on a huge scale, but right now there was half a pound of skunk weed in the closet and about thirty dime bags of coke in a baggie taped under the toilet lid.
Competing as he was in a hyper-masculine culture, he’d always wanted to be dominated by older white daddies; he wanted to be violated by “the Man”—and the hulking, toned dude standing here now fit his desire perfectly. And it was the first time. No other white guy had been brave enough to come down here to the hood. This fucker was hardcore…
He was so lost in lust he was unaware of how far out his now fully-erect cock was tenting his ball shorts—and was utterly unaware of the small but growing circle of precum that darkened the material at the tip of the tentpole.
It darkened even more once Joe spoke.
“So ya wanna real man’s cock, boy? Think yer thug enough to handle my cock? Lessee what ya got. Strip, bitch, I wanna see if ya got as big a dick as niggers are supposed to!
Deonte’s face blushed visibly against his pale brown skin. Grinning, he shucked the ball shorts, stepping out of them to reveal a pair of smooth but muscled brown legs and a jet-black dong the size of a Louisville Slugger—almost as big as Joe’s.
The sex killer chuckled. “Damn, I guess they were right. You jigaboos got nice big dicks.”
The black youth stiffened; he expected a certain level of racial abuse in the encounter, but this guy was going a little far. Still, for that body, the horny young fag was willing to endure a lot.
It was probably a good thing that he had no idea how much he’d have to endure over the next hour.
Joe reached down and grabbed the bottom edge of his shirt, then slowly pulled it up over his head, revealing his incredibly toned torso, covered with dark wiry fur. Deonte swallowed loudly—more of a gulp, actually—and his thick cock suddenly pulsed and began oozing clear beads of precum.
His already-broad grin widening, Joe slid his hands down to his waist and, with a quick shove, dropped his shorts. As they pooled around his combat boots, Deonte literally gasped aloud at the huge shaft that rose straight up in a tube of thick, throbbing manmeat to press against the white alpha’s hairy, ripped abs. He’d been with punks better hung than he himself was, but no one anywhere near this big.
“Fuck, dude,” the young thug said, wiping his thick, soft lips with the back of his hand, “You got some serious junk, dawg—ain’t sure that’s even gonna fit.”
Joe’s handsome face twisted into a smirk. “I’ll make it fit, cunt. Now be a good little bitch—come over here and put those fat nigger lips on my nipples. Now, boy!”
Deonte jumped to attention and moved towards the leering stud. Still standing near the door, Joe reached a hand behind himself and made sure the keyless deadbolt was on, then swept his arm around to catch Deonte by the back of the head and jerk him closer.
“Get yer fuckin’ nappy-ass head down and work my nips, ya worthless coon!” he barked. The black kid flinched at the words but before he could do anything more, his face had been mashed into the top’s hairy, hubcap-like pec; a rock-hard plug of flesh penetrating into his mouth.
Obeying instinctively, the black punk began tonguing it, despite his rising concerns about this white motherfucker. Dude was gettin’ too race-heavy for Deonte to feel comfortable; he wanted to be dominated, not treated like shit.
Which was a shame, really, since he was about to be treated like much less than shit.
“Work it, fucker, lemme feel yer tongue,” Joe grunted, clamping his large hands on Deonte’s head and feeling the short, tightly-curled hair scraping his palms like steel wool. He dragged the kid’s face across his chest, making sure to grind the thug’s face into his own wiry chest fur.
“Now work the other one, ya nigger faggot,” the brutal alpha hissed as he roughly manhandled the young buck’s head onto the other large, erect nipple. “That’s it, work it good or I’ll beat like a fuckin’ field hand!”
It was too much for Deonte. Bracing his strong arms against Joe’s chest, he pushed off abruptly enough to startle the sadist, despite his experience. Whirling in his expensive (for him) Adidas kicks, the youthful thug tried to twist his way around his now-frightening hookup—only to find that the front door wouldn’t open to his frantic fumblings.
Then a large hand slapped down on his shoulder; before Deonte knew what was happening, he’d been flung back a yard and a half, landing on his back on the hard wood floor with enough violence to force the breath from his trim, firm body. As the trim black homo gasped for air and blinked his bright blue eyes in pain, his field of vision was filled by the image of Joe looming ominously over him, nude except for the boots that indicated he expected lots of combat tonight. It was an overwhelmingly intimidating sight, made even more so by the huge straining shaft jutting out in front of the white hunk, dripping searing beads of boiling precum.
“Big mistake, ya fuckin’ jungle ape,” Joe chuckled, reveling in racist cruelty. He lashed out with one powerful leg, showing Deonte that his Desert Storm combat boots had steel toes with a swift kick that caught the nigger slut on the hip and fractured his pelvis.
The pain was sharp and shattering; the black punk swiftly shed his tough nigga image as he writhed and squealed on the floor. Even though the vision in his amazingly bright blue eyes was blurred by tears, he could still make out the contemptuous way in which Joe curled his bottom lip as the toned and fit killer planted one of his boots on his prey’s heaving chest and bent down over him.
“Stupid-ass little coon pansy,” he sneered with a hard, sharp edge to his voice, just before he hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat it on Deonte’s face. Leaning forward, the sadistic alpha put his weight on the boy’s chest, the thick sole of his boot crushing the slut’s ribcage until he could no longer inhale.
Deonte’s beautiful eyes widened almost comically as he struggled to breathe. His mouth gaping like a fish, the young black stud grabbed frantically at Joe’s thick, hairy calf, trying futilely to pry the white dude’s foot off him. As his hands clutched the top’s leg uselessly, the alpha bent down and viciously swatted them away before reaching out and gasping the loose end of the slipknotted chain around Deonte’s neck.
Wrapping it around his hand, Joe jerked it, simultaneously removing his boot and standing up straight in a single, almost graceful movement. Deonte took a deep breath the moment the pressure on his chest was removed—
—only to find it cut off again, infinitely more painfully, by the chain-link noose he’d voluntarily slipped around his own neck.
Now the black cunt’s eyes were bulging grotesquely as his b-ball hightops kicked helplessly in mid-air. Raising his powerful arm over his head, Joe hoisted Deonte up to his own eye level. “I ain’t playin’ no games with ya, you black-ass cumsucking fag—yer takin’ my dick, now, ya got me, ya nigger bitch? And ya better take it good, ya fuckin’ spade, or I’m gonna beat ya like a field hand!”
The struggling thug grasped and clutched at Joe’s thick and incredibly powerful forearms, his fingers prying at the killer’s hands, desperately and futilely trying to break free of his strangling grip. His eyes rolling wildly, he kicked and jerked like a fish on a line—his head was buzzing and panic was setting in; he didn’t know how much longer he could remain conscious.
Then Joe turned to the side, drawing his arm back and swinging Deonte around like a pendulum. With a swift twist, the cruel top snapped the kid in the air like cracking a whip, flinging the flailing faggot face-down onto the bed where he landed spread-eagled.
The black teen was too brutalized to be fully functional; as he floundered on the thin foam mattress, clawing the chain away from his throat, he could hear the steady, measured tread of the buff alpha’s boots approaching from behind but was unable to react. He was awake enough to know that something had gone horribly wrong with his hot white daddy fantasy.
Since he sold drugs—even if just on a low-level scale—Deonte carried a 9-mm piece with him at all times. He’d rarely have more than a grand of cash on him at any one time, but in this hood, that was enough to justify a home invasion; as a result, Deonte never went anywhere without his gun—except that when he got back from his last delivery, not twenty minutes before he’d found the hot honky online, he’d left the gat in the car.
The realization that he was defenseless entered the young buck’s head just before Joe’s gigantic cock entered his ass.
Deonte was starting to rise and had gotten up on his hands and knees. As the cruel sadist reached the foot of the bed, he was presented with a smooth black bubble butt, the asshole pulsing pinkly in the middle like a target for his thick, oozing head. Without hesitation—and without lube—Joe instantly plunged his massive shaft into the faggot’s fuckhole up to the hilt.
The teenage homo screeched as Joe’s hog split open his sphincter, tore past his prostate and buried itself agonizingly in his soft, tender guts. He tried to pull forward, away from the searing pain impaling his ass; he only succeeded in enraging his tormentor.
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, ya stupid-ass piece of shit!” he snarled, reaching out and grabbing at the dog chain, “Just can’t control yer howlin’ either, can ya, you fuckin’ baboon? That’s ok—I know how to make niggerboys like you obey!”
With a loud grunt, Joe yanked the loose end of the slipknot, sealing off Deonte’s throat and pulling the kid’s head back and up, making him arch his back in an excruciating semi-circle. The strong, smooth light-skinned youth clawed the air in front of him as Joe began riding him like a rodeo cowboy, one arm out to the side as he used the other to jerk the chain like a bridle slung round the neck of his mount.
“Take it, nigga, take that white dick up yer jigaboo ass,” Joe chuckled maliciously as he pounded the black boy’s hole. “That’s what ya wanted, right, bitch? Cracker cock tearin’ yer coon ass up? Fuck, yeah, boy, ya gotta be lovin’ this shit! Enjoy it, ya lucky fuckin’ nigger fag!”
Keeping his tight combat boots planted firmly on the floor, the overpowering alpha shifted his positon slightly so he could thrust his throbbing manmeat even deeper into his prey’s rectum. His powerful thighs bulged as he sped up the tempo of his pumping, driving his engorged rod further into his panicked and writhing victim.
On his hands and knees, with his spine bent achingly backwards, Deonte was still aware of his own thick, erect shaft and the way it slapped against his belly with every thrust of his assailant’s hips. His right hand was fumbling vainly at the chain, which was sunk too far into his neck to reach—his left hand was on the bed supporting him; if it didn’t, he’d have fallen forward and dangled from his choker.
The young thug queer could hear the frantic tempo of his pulse pounding in his head as pressure built in his chest. At first, the horrible reaming agony in his ass had been overwhelming; it was only when the oxygen deprivation reached a certain point that the nigger teen, his smooth chest slick with cold sweat squeezed out of his lean form by force, began to feel the true pain of being strangled to death.
As it so happened, the moment he hit that point, Joe gave some extra power to his thrust and sank his tool further into Deonte’s shredded innards than ever before. It was too much for the gangsta-wannabe; reacting reflexively, he jerked with all the force of a bucking bronco. The violence of the motion caught Joe momentarily off-guard—enough to make him lose his hold on the chain. Before he realized it, the smooth black buck had slipped off his dick, leaving it bobbing and dripping fat translucent beads of precum onto the spotless sheets. Deonte blindly yanked the dog chain away from his throat. He’d expended the last of his oxygen in shaking off his rapist; the slim but muscled punk could only flop onto his back, gasping desperately for air as the pressure and the pounding in his head began to decrease.
Glancing towards the foot of the bed, the black cocksucker had a view down the entire length of his own firm, smooth body, brown and glistening with sweat in the dim light. His dick, a seven-inch shaft of jet-black meat stood tall and straining between his legs; beyond that, his feet, still tightly laced into his Adidas kicks, were spread wide.
And towering between them was the crazy white dude, his hairy, muscled body also gleaming under a fine layer of perspiration. And his cock was hard and straining, too—but it looked like it still hadn’t reached its full erect length.
When it did, getting raped was gonna be like being impaled on a caveman’s club. And as his glance moved further up the stud’s body (some fuckpig corner of his brain still lustfully noting the alpha’s broad furry pecs and bulging biceps), he couldn’t help but realize that the cold, icy glint in the older top’s eye was the look of death.
This motherfucker was gonna kill him.
Even though his young and well-built body had been nearly put out of commission by oxygen deprivation, panic provided the desperate thug with enough of a jolt to propel him up off the bed. It took a mighty heave to bring his slim but strong form away from the sagging coil net and thin mattress and Deonte wasn’t really aiming anywhere in particular.
Since the move was totally unexpected, and Joe had to go around the chair (toss it aside, actually, but it still took a moment), Deonte had time to reach the door and, opening it, get his head outside to call for help.
Unfortunately, in his disorientation, he didn’t realize it was the closet door.
It wasn’t until his eyes focused on the large bag of weed he’d hidden that Deonte realized his error. By then the clumping of the sadist’s thick boot soles on the wooden floor told the terrified youth that the man was almost on him again.
He almost pissed himself in terror, but his traitorous erection prevented more than a dribble from coming out—and that little burned like fire along his urethra. It didn’t matter; his mind was suddenly and utterly diverted from his dick.
He was face down, head halfway into the closet, so he couldn’t see what his assailant was doing; he felt the closet door being ripped from his well enough, though. And he damn sure felt the door again when the killer stud slammed it on his head.
Leaning on the door, crushing Deonte’s head between it and the jamb, Joe kicked the moaning, writhing teen in exactly the same spot he had before, grinding the fracture of the pelvis into an outright break. The boy shrieked, then sank into a subdued blubbering.
Joe had caught sight of what was in the closet. As he kept his prey’s head pinned in the door, he bent down and whispered into the trapped kid’s ear.
“So yer a pansy-ass nigger drug dealer, huh? Fuck, they’ll gimme a medal for this kill. Ya hear that, ya worthless gangbanger wannabe? I’mma be a goddam hero for snuffing yer faggot ass!”
Standing back up, he spoke again. This time, he put some emphasis on his words by repeatedly slamming the door on the black teen’s head.
“So now it’s time to learn (WHAM) yer goddam place (WHAM), you fuckin’ uppity (WHAM) niggerboy (WHAM)!”
Deonte cried aloud with each blow, his entire body jerking with the force of the impacts and making his hightops kick the floor. But it was the final blow on the final word that quieted him down, largely because it was the one that fractured his skull.
It didn’t cause major brain trauma but it was painful and terrifyingly loud; the young black thug heard his skull crack like an eggshell. He instantly became light-headed with shock and did not resist as Joe dragged his limp form back to the hideaway and tossed him onto it on his back.
It was only when the larger, more muscled alpha actually climbed up on him that he came out his daze; the white dude’s weight on top was driving Deonte down into the crossbar of the folding frame. Even with this new pain, the slim black buck was still unable to do more than moan inarticulately as Joe propped his legs up on his shoulders and began to stuff his—finally—fully-erect cock into the punk’s reamed-out ass.
“Do-don’t…no, stop…p-p-please, d-dawg, ya ai-ai-ain’t got-gotta do this…” the boy begged.
Joe leaned over and grabbed the chain, spitting into Deonte’s face before ramming his cock all the way up the homo’s ass—and jerking the chain tight. “Shaddap, ya fuckin’ faggot junglebunny. Only thing you homo niggers are good for is killin’—dark meat is real good at soaking up the cum of a good white man, boy, didja know that? Yer about to find out, you stupid black bitch!”
And with that, Joe assumed the killing position. He was fucking Deonte missionary style with the kid’s “Light ‘Em Up” sneakers on his shoulder while boy was getting lit up good. The alpha was hunched over him, one hand pulling back hard on the choke chain around the black thug’s neck, the other hand splayed out over the punk’s forehead, pressing down for support—and squeezing, right along the fracture line, because he knew it caused the dying nigger agony.
“How ya likin’ that, boy?” Joe grunted gleefully as he shagged the teen as remorselessly, making sure the kid felt every thrust. “That what ya were lookin’ for tonight when ya said ya wanted my nut? I bet not, ya ignorant fuckin’ nigger.”
Pushing forward on Deonte’s head, Joe pulled backward on the chain to counterbalance, tightening the metal links around the boy’s throat. As they sank into the skin, the kid’s finger’s clawed at his neck, scraping and breaking the skin but unable to grasp the slick metal surface. The teen’s pale blue eyes bulged as his face swelled, but his field of vision was filled by Joe’s face; Deonte could look at nothing but the man who was killing him.
“See,” Joe said in a maliciously conversational tone of voice, “The problem with you nigger fags is that y’all never learn yer place. And yer place is on the end of my cock, milking out my spunk. So I gotta make ya learn, boy. I can tell yer a stupid-ass fuckin’ coon, too, just by lookin’ at ya, bitch—ya know what that means?”
Deonte was in an uncharted world of pain and terror; his secret sex fantasy had turned into a nightmare. The crushing pain in his closed-off throat was preventing him from screaming from the slashing, searing trauma being inflicted on his anus. Amazingly, his own dick was still so hard it literally hurt.
And somehow, through it all, the youthful thug could see the cheery insanity in the cold killer’s light in Joe’s eye when he spoke next.
“It means I gotta hurt ya. Yeah? You get it, yeah? Niggers learn best by beatin’, so I beat into yer head over there that you were my bitch. An’ now I’m gonna make the lesson stick by wastin’ ya. After all the last thing ya learn sticks with ya forever. So once ya learn how fuckin’ good white man seed feels inside yer nigger fuckhole, I’m gonna choke yer worthless life out and leave yer reamed-out corpse for yer homies to find. What ya say, dawg, we tight?”
Then Deonte learned that the nightmare could get worse. Joe’s jackhammer thrusts mangled the teen’s innards, the thick, unlubed shaft of flesh, wreathed with veins like barbed wire, tore at the punk’s rectal lining and ripped into the lower duodenum. As the chain sank deeper into his throat, small areas of skin were forced agonizingly through the openings in the large links. Unable to loosen it in the slightest, Deonte transferred his hands to Joe’s wrists.
It was like trying to pull down concrete posts. The flailing black youth was sweating harder now, his own distinct musk adding to the heady mix of testosterone and adrenaline filling the room. His struggles intensified as his thick lips parted, forced aside by his swollen purple tongue, slowly pushed out his mouth on a tide of drool that trickled down Deonte’s chin and streaked his face with white foam.
He no longer tried to pry Joe’s hands away from his throat; realizing the futility of the attempt, the dying nigger clawed desperately at his killer’s handsome, contempt-filled face but the powerful top was both larger and stronger and was easily able to avoid his blind thrashing. His expensive Adidas shoes kicked and jerked without making contact with his assailant.
The horrific pain in his mangled ass and his broken his had faded into a kinda buzzing in the background, overtaken by the relentless pounding and pressure in his head, amplified by the way the sadistic alpha was squeezing his damaged skull; even the fiery tightness in his chest was fading.
Funny thing was, even as his brain began to die, Deonte could still feel his own raging hard-on. Somehow, through the cold grayness that was creeping inexorably over his firm, lithe body, the black fag could feel the pulsing warmth of his deathload boiling in his puckered balls, waiting for the final traumatic signal to erupt in a burning froth of DNA.
As his wasted life began to fade, the nigger thug’s struggles began to slow into caresses. His hands, no longer claws, gently slapped at Joe’s massive, hubcap pecs, almost as if they were stroking the wiry fur. His entire body bucked and curved, griping his rapist’s cock firmly holding it in place as the rectal muscles began to convulse.
And then Deonte reached the tipping point of brain death.
Joe knew he’d reached the sweet spot when the punk’s random thrashing became more rhythmic and less focused. The nigger was already meat. Joe merely confirmed it when he gave one last final violent jerk to the chain, sinking it deep enough into the slut’s throat to crush the esophagus with a loud cracking sound.
Perhaps it was the final blast of pain that flipped the switch in the black fuckpig’s shorted-out brain, but that was the moment that Deonte’s swollen scrotum exploded, sending jet after jet of ropy streams of cum spurting from his hard dick. Joe could feel the wet warmth splatter across his ripped abs and spew across his chest.
At the same time, the gangsta wannabe—now nothing but fuckmeat—went rigid with orgasmic convulsion, making his sphincter—despite being torn now in two places—clamp down around the root of Joe’s shaft like a cockring while his colon rippled in its death throes like a velvet glove over the alpha’s huge, engorged rod.
With a loud, deep grunt, Joe unloaded in the nigger’s ass, his scalding sperm flooding the black boy’s guts. Some faint spark of Deonte’s faggot soul was left to respond to getting knocked up by his killer; as Joe shot his wad, the teenaged homo erupted with one last fount of spunk before the kid subsided into quivering meat that hadn’t quite realized it was dead yet.
With a deep and satisfied sigh, the vicious killer withdrew his still-erect tool from his victim, stood up and glanced around. Locating the bathroom, he crossed to it and washed himself up, tossing the towel he’d used into the toilet and flushing it. He closed the door on the overflowing mess as he walked out.
Deonte was lying sprawled on his back, cum leaking from his ass, stained pink with blood from his shredded colon. His pale blue eyes were less stunning now that they bulging grotesquely and utterly bloodshot with petechial hemorrhages. White foam had dried to a crust on his face while large pools of his own spunk slowly congealed on his chest.
Joe slipped back into his shirt and shorts, glancing around the shitty efficiency apartment, partially in contempt, partially to ensure he’d left nothing behind. Pausing for a moment, he turned back and snagged the bag of weed from the closet; he might be able to use it a lure for fresh meat. He shoved it into his pocket and left, leaving the door closed but unlocked.
He’d have given anything to be a fly on the wall when the little fucker’s homies learned that he was a faggot—and he’d lost a half pound of weed. Poor niggerboy; his rep was gonna be total shit.
6 thoughts on “M4M4Black”
Wow! I can only imagine that some will protest the aggressive racism in this great story, but c’mon: we come here to get off on homophobic gay snuff fiction. What harm is the occasional violent raceplay going to do after that? The loathing Joe displays for his kill as both a fag and a coon, to say nothing of petty criminal, is very fucking hot. “Yer place is on the end of my cock.” It is an important lesson that Joe teaches the young homo. The worthless piece of shit served his highest function by getting Joe off in his death throes. How awesome is that? I, for one, would not object to the introduction of a black killer, who takes it upon himself to waste pathetic white queers on his massive nigger cock. I believe in equal opportunity rape and murder.
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Well… My problem with the racism is it seems tacked-on and excessive. Joe is established as being completely hateful, fine, but look at how much more frequently he uses racist slurs here than he uses homophobic slurs normally. It’s played-up to a degree I found unpleasantly distracting.
Also, the racism just kind of came across as shallow, as though how racist a person is begins and ends with how often they use slurs. You can’t spray-paint a pickup then claim it’s a sports car; Joe has backstory and motivations behind his homophobia, he can’t just magically be racist as well. At least, not plausibly.
Benefit of the doubt: maybe Joe just wants to be as awful as possible to his victims and in this case he’s just latched onto racism as yet another way to victimize a kid who happens to be black, so he’s play-acting as best he understands. That would fit with established canon. But even with that, the victim was such a tired stereotype… I think it would have been more interesting if he’d in fact not been a drug dealer or gang-banger, but Joe still believed he was. That would have seemed more authentically cruel and racist to me.
Actually, I think you’re right. This one never felt quite right and I forced it instead of letting it flow naturally.
Sorry, I should’ve made clear that I meant that as constructive criticism only. You are easily one of my favorite authors!
While I didn’t think this was some of your best work, I still VERY much enjoyed it, and I’m glad you’re willing to experiment even if it doesn’t always work out perfectly. To improve you must try; to try you must fail.
Trust me, I took it in the spirit in which it was intended and am not offended. This was an experiment that didn’t utterly fail but didn’t completely succeed either–but each story represents a new opportunity to hone my “craft”, so I don’t regard any of them as a complete waste of time.
…well, to the extent that graphic gay snuff porn isn’t a complete waste of time…
I just had to look for this story and finally found it. I for one, even being a guy of African origin for one LOVE the racism…
But the other reason for seeking this out was the fact that i can never forget ther Joe simply stood on the guys chest and he couldn’t even breathe. Note I wonder if he could stomp so hard that his soles end up touching the ground…
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