The Trucker stood in the convention center parking lot, looking north. He’d spent the last hour overseeing the delivery of his load at the center’s service entrance; by noon the next day, he was scheduled to pick up a trailer loaded with sugar at a refinery south of the city.
Tonight, he was free. Since he was only in town overnight, he decided to leave his rig at the convention center; he could come back and sleep in it if no better option came along.
Despite the fact that it was the Trucker’s first time in New Orleans, he was sure that some better option would come along. All he had to do was hunt it down.
He decided to head someplace he knew would be teeming with anonymous fags no one would miss. Picking up the train at Julia Street across from the Port of New Orleans, he headed north towards the French Quarter.
It was a warm and sultry evening, the humidity a palpable presence that enveloped one like sopping wool blanket; windows everywhere were fogged with condensation. In spite of his position in a corner of the train car (to avoid attracting attention), the glittering beads of sweat on the hardbodied alpha drew a couple of envious—and lust-filled—glances. But given the way he was dressed, he knew to expect a certain degree of faggot focus anyway.
In deference to the warmth of the evening, he wore a dark gray short-sleeve mechanic’s shirt, unbuttoned. It hung wide, exposing his broad, fur-covered chest and hairy ripped abdomen for all to see. Those who did see, and kept watching, were occasionally rewarded as a sudden movement or gust of air flapped the shirt open even wider, exposing one of the stud’s thick, dark, rock-hard nipples. For those who had allowed their attention to wander, the faint, flickering reflection of the dogtags nestled in the thick body fur between the huge mounds of his pecs was sufficient to make them look again.
The thick forest of fur that carpeted the Trucker’s hard flat belly lead down to—and past—the waistband of a pair of clean but very well-used jeans, the denim worn in places to the softness of velvet. An inch-thick belt of black leather emphasized the tightness of the Trucker’s waist. The jeans were also so tight that the softness ensured that every pulsing vein in the well-hung stud’s package was visible if one looked closely enough.
More than one were looking closely enough as the train began to accelerate out of the Toulouse station, rounding the curve past the Natchez’s dock. The Trucker was on the left side, looking out the window on the side away from the river. He saw the bulk of the Jax Brewery building go past and, drawing the brim of his camouflage-patterned trucker’s cap down low over his icy blue eyes, began to think it was time to explore a little.
Once he saw Jackson Square go by, he’d decided to get off; as the train came to a stop at the Dumaine station, he got out and soon the sidewalk of Decatur Street was thudding with the reverberations of his big black leather engineer boots as he walked north, looking around him.
Damn, there was so much meat scampering about. So many vermin to be put down…
The bulge in his groin became even more pronounced.
He’d walked past Latrobe Park before turning east—well, northeast, actually—on Ursulines, heading away from the Mississippi and deeper into the French Quarter. The further he went, the more faggots he saw.
The Trucker had heard of Southern Decadence; at some point, one of the homos he’d put down had bleated something about it. Out of curiosity, he’d looked it up, but hadn’t thought much about it. He had no idea that it was in full swing and that on this hot and humid September evening, he’d find the Quarter packed with faggot twinks.
It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel.
He turned right on Chartres, passing that fortress of supposed chastity, the Ursuline Convent—darkened and locked, as was proper for that hour, but now it was because it was a museum, and past closing time. Making a left on Governor Nicholls Street—again, just to wander and see what was on offer—the muscled stud ambled up to Royal Street. On the way, a couple of fey twinks in short shorts and thick-soled sandals ogled him and giggled as he passed under a streetlight. He sneered at them in disgust, his rage against the worthless little queers mounting within him. Then he reached the corner of Governor Nicholls and Royal, and stopped cold in front of the Lalaurie house.
Delphine Lalaurie was yet another part of New Orleans lore of which the Trucker was already aware. Not that there’d ever been much of a racial component in the sex killer’s general contempt for humanity—it was just that he’d admired some of ol’ Delphine’s methods.
He kept heading up Royal to the next intersection, which was Bourbon Street. Figuring that he was pretty much in the heart of the Quarter—which he was—the Trucker decided that it was as good a time as any to begin the hunt in earnest. He turned left, back towards Canal Street, and refocused his attention on the environment with the eyes of a predator stalking for a kill.
There was rainbow bunting strung across the street; rainbow flags hung from streetlights and from private balconies. At St. Phillip Street, the next intersection, a preacher with bright red flag stood on a box, loudly denouncing the rampant sin around him to a few earnest acolytes in white short-sleeve shirts and dark ties; everyone else ignored him completely with the exception of a pair of large furry bears who laughed out loud at him, then embraced and kissed passionately in front of him and his disciples, all of whom blushed violently.
The Trucker grinned. Stupid fuckers; that wasn’t how you handled faggots.
There was a small, low building to his right, covered in what looked like dingy white stucco; there was a sign—“Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar”—and it was packed with homos. The Trucker had to stop for a moment to catch his breath; the sense of anticipation, of the soon-to-come pleasure of release was almost overwhelming.
Then he stepped inside.
It was a fucking smorgasbord of fuckmeat. The inside was dark and packed with writhing male bodies. The moment the Trucker planted his boots on the sunken brick floor, he realized the ancient building, with its forge still in place, was too overcrowded to offer much hope for successful hunting. Immediately adjacent, though, was a small walled courtyard that opened onto the street. The courtyard was far less crowded and had a few small metal bistro tables scattered about; most were occupied.
At the back of the yard was a small covered bar where business was surprisingly slow; aside from a couple of fairies whispering and sniggering as they sucked ghastly purple frozen drinks up through straws, there were no other customers at the moment.
“Gimme a Jack on the rocks,” the Trucker told the bartender. “Make it a double.” He flipped the dude some cash when he got his drink and leaned back against the bar, looking out at the crowd.
Dudes of all shapes and sized wandered past the arched doorway to the street, but inside the dimly-lit courtyard, the faces all clustered together around the candles on each table, faces lit from below and blurring together in their vacuous lust. The Trucker felt rage and disgust rising in him again, the pressure forcing its way to his cock, making it pulse and ache…
And that was when he saw him. The boy who was sitting by himself at a table to the right of the doorway—it wasn’t just that he was the only other person alone in the courtyard. It wasn’t even that he was openly staring at the Trucker.
It was the naked hunger in the twink’s eyes; an almost imperious desire that somehow brought a look of vulnerability to the otherwise unpleasantly arrogant cast of the punk’s face. This was the one, the Trucker decided on the spot. This little cocksucker was gonna die on his dick tonight.
He walked slowly towards the table at which the kid sat; a faint stirring of the humid air flared his shirt out behind him like a cape. The boy at the table had a perfect view of the alpha stud’s broad, hairy chest, as hard and as perfectly formed as if carved from marble, with a glint of metal in the middle from his dogtags.
There was a cold, metallic glint above, too, above the strong, scruffy jaw—glints that came from eyes hidden deep in the shadow cast by the brim of the trucker’s cap. And that huge package, so tantalizingly displayed right out in front…
The kid was still sitting when the Trucker reached the table, his jaw literally hanging open. His brown hair was cut short on the sides and back, but left long in front and combed back over his head. His nose was long and straight, dividing a pair of murky hazel eyes and terminating just above a pair full lips that formed a natural pout when closed.
Not that they were closed at the moment. “You, uh, y-you wanna sit?” the kid asked almost timorously, then immediately regained some composure. “I mean, I ain’t expectin’ no one or anything.”
“Sure,” the Trucker said evenly and lowered his massive form onto the tiny metal chair. The delicate wrought iron of the bistro set only enhanced his aura of well-built power.
“I-I’m Trent,” the kid said suddenly, holding out his hand. The Trucker looked at it silently. Trent flushed and let it fall back to the table.
After an awkward pause, the Trucker looked at the boy, giving Trent the impact of his cold blue eyes for the first time. “How old are ya, kid?” he asked flatly.
“I’m nineteen,” Trent replied, raising his chin almost defensively.
The Trucker, sipping from his glass, glanced significantly at the glass that was sitting in front of the boy; it was another one of those purple concoctions. Trent flushed again.
“Well, ya know, they ain’t cardin’ nobody tonight,” he replied in a low voice. “You ain’t gonna narc on me, are ya, bro?”
“Naw,” the Trucker drawled, his lips curled into a sardonic grin, “I ain’t gonna rat ya out to the cops, dude. You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that.”
Trent grinned and took a mouthful of the frozen drink. “It’s called a Zombie,” he said, “Want some?”
“No thanks,” the Trucker said dryly and took another slug of his whiskey. “Look, dude, I ain’t interested in bein’ yer friend. I’m lookin’ for someone to fuck. I’m lookin’ for a cumdump. You gotta room?”
Once again, Trent sat and stared at the hulking stud with his mouth open. It wasn’t that he was upset; it was just that the blunt nature of the demand startled him. He had to clear his throat and chug another mouthful of the purple swill before he could stammer out a reply.
“Uh, y-yeah man, I, uh, I gotta place—AirBnB, y’know—whol-whole damn apartment. Got the whole second floor looking down into a private courtyard—hot, huh? Daddy’s payin’ for it, but he don’t know. Told ‘im I needed to get away for the weekend cause my frat bros—I’ma Phi Alpha Gamma, y’know—told ‘im they made to much noise and I had an exam comin’ up. Daddy’s a partner in a big law firm up in Baton Rouge, lotsa political pull, y’know, so he let me put it on his office credit card. And ain’t no one gonna know I’m usin’ the place to get fucked—smart, huh, bro?”
Trent stopped gushing and looked at the Trucker, realizing he was drunk and had let his enthusiasm get out from under him. The older man had polished off his drink and was looking around the courtyard in a bored manner.
“—Anyway,” the kid finished up lamely, “I gotta nice room. Wanna go? I got some Johnnie Walker, too.”
The Trucker finally turned his attention back to the fuckmeat. “Sure,” he drawled, “Long as you gotta place I can plow yer ass, that’s all I need. Let’s go, boy.”
They stood up. Trent turned towards the arched doorway, then paused and turned back to the Trucker, a barely-discernable look of concern on his face. “Trent,” he said, “My name is Trent.”
“Whatever,” the Trucker replied flatly, “Let’s go.”
Without another word, Trent wheeled around and led the way out onto the street, turning right. Even in his alcohol-induced buzz, there was a slight misgiving at the back of his hormone-wracked mind…but the swelling in his groin was much less possible to ignore.
And glancing at the blue-collar muscle stud walking beside him, Trent knew damn good and well that he didn’t want to ignore it. This hardbodied god was gonna bang him tonight; that was all that mattered.
Fuck the consequences.
At some point, Trent moved ahead; he had to—he was the one who knew where they were going. They turned right at the first street and the Trucker drifted back a couple of steps so that it wasn’t obvious that he was following the kid. Not that there was much chance of being noticed; despite the crowd on Bourbon Street, not too many dudes had ventured this far northeast. There wasn’t much reason to; most of the buildings faced back onto Bourbon Street or forward into the next block. The street was mainly lined with brick walls.
It was dim, but between the occasional streetlight and the orange glow cast off by and reflected back down to the city from the low-hanging clouds, there was enough light for the Trucker to scope out the boy’s ass.
The teen slut had dressed—or, rather, undressed—for the humid night air. His chest, slimly muscular, was already streaked with sweat; perspiration outlined the kid’s pecs on the thin ribbed cotton of his gray wifebeater. Just barely visible beneath the hem of the shirt was a pair of the shortest gym shorts the Trucker had ever seen, barely four inches from waistband to hem. Trent’s smooth thighs and firm calves flexed with every step the teen took, his retro black and white Nike Jordan 10s stumbling occasionally on the pavement at the buzzed punk staggered from time to time. But he kept heading forward purposely.
Finally, Trent turned left onto Burgundy Street. “Jus’ a lil way longer,” he chirped happily, managing to sound even more drunk than he was. Luckily, the Trucker was in the shadows at the moment or Trent couldn’t have failed to miss the look of contempt the alpha threw at him.
As it turned out, Trent’s rental was several blocks down Burgundy, which was better lit than the street they’d left, if just as empty—there were fewer businesses, and most had already closed. When they finally reached the building, it was an old two-story townhouse. The ground floor had been converted to a restaurant; it was closed—apparently not for the evening, but for good. Above it was an apartment that the Trucker presumed wasn’t Trent’s—there was a huge party going on full blast; it was the only noise in the otherwise quiet street. The place had three pairs of French doors opening out onto the cast-iron balcony; all were open and lit up. There was crowd of kids of both sexes talking, drinking and dancing, both inside and on the balcony, their yammering nearly blotting out the blaring music.
Even intoxicated, Trent had enough presence of mind to duck back into the shadows—just in case any of his frat brothers was at the party. The Trucker noticed the maneuver, following directly in the faggot’s footsteps as the kid pulled out a key and moved towards a metal gate blocking an arched passage on the right side of the façade.
Letting the kid lead the way down the passage, the Trucker closed the gate softly behind him, then headed into the courtyard.
The building was L-shaped, with the base of the L being the front, facing the street, and the upright of the letter running back from the street. The rest of the space was a courtyard that seemed to be laid out as an arbor or pleasure garden. In the dim light cast by a couple of muted lampposts near the back of the garden, the Trucker thought he could make out a gazebo. The sides of the yard not surrounded by the building were blocked by high, blank brick walls; none of the neighbors had a window overlooking the yard.
Another cast-iron balcony ran around the second floor here, too. Trent was already climbing a set of stairs immediately to the left of the arched entry. The Trucker followed him up, the clanging of his big black boots on the iron steps almost inaudible over the sounds of the party. They had to cross in front of the windows to the party suite in order to turn the corner and get to Trent’s place in the rear. Looking across, the Trucker could see three darkened French doors, much like the ones on the front of the building; this was where the teen punk was leading him. The party suite didn’t have doors to this balcony, just windows overlooking it, and shades had been pulled over them. There was enough light to see their footing—and to make out occasion shapes silhouetted against the shades—but no one was looking out.
The Trucker was able to follow the twink into his place without being observed. Even better, the noise and music from the next unit was so loud, no one could possibly hear anything going on anywhere else.
That was good. That meant the Trucker could make the homo twink squeal a little before putting him down.
Inside, Trent turned on the lights as the Trucker closed a set of plantation shutters over the door, just to make sure they couldn’t be seen. Looking around, the hardbodied alpha was somewhat surprised to see that the entire space had been converted into a single large room. The center of the room was a living area, with a fireplace against the far wall. To the left, an open area had been converted to a kitchen, to the right was the sleeping area. In the far corner was a walled-off area that was evidently a bathroom. The entire place was furnished with period antiques, giving the room the somewhat schizophrenic feel of a French Colonial loft apartment. Even the walls had been taken down to the original brick.
“Hey, ya wanna drink?” Trent said.
“Sure,” the Trucker replied, “On the rocks. It’s a hot night.”
As Trent headed to the kitchen, thinking that it was indeed a hot night, the Trucker pulled his cap off and tossed it onto the butler’s tray table that was in front of the antique settee. Digging his pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket, the older man lit one, then slipped out of his shirt and tossed it onto the table as well.
When Trent turned back around with two glasses of scotch in his hands, the Trucker was standing in the center of the room, wearing nothing but his skin-tight jeans and his black leather engineer boots. The teen fratboi gasped and almost dropped the drinks; seeing the Trucker clearly under good lighting for the first time, he was almost frightened.
He’d certainly been able to see enough up till now to know that the older dude was a major stud, but he hadn’t perceived how truly huge the guy was. Those huge pecs, bigger than any hubcaps he’d ever seen, that dark wiry fur covering his chest and his ripped abs, those thick jutting nipples…
He looked like he could literally fuck Trent in half—and that thought both scared and aroused the horny teen slut.
“H-here,” he stammered, shakily handing the Trucker a glass. “Damn, y-you’re—I, uh, I…um, hang on, I’ll be ri-right back…” Taking a hefty slug from his own glass, Trent crossed to a bedside table; a rather large piece of furniture meant to match the high four-poster bed. After digging in a drawer for a moment, Trent came back with a lit joint. Taking a deep hit, he proffered the jay to the Trucker. “Want some?” he gasped breathlessly to avoid exhaling.
The Trucker shook his head silently and took another drag from his smoke. Sipping his scotch, he stared at Trent for another few moments before speaking.
“Get outta those clothes, bitch,” he ordered. Suddenly, Trent found himself obeying the iron tone of command in the alpha’s voice. He peeled the wifebeater off over his head, revealing his smooth, lithe twink torso, slim but firm and strong. With a quick shuck and shuffle, Trent had wriggled his way out of the shorts—they fell to his ankles and he stepped easily out of them, leaving himself nude except for his retro Jordans and no-show ped socks.
His thick twink cock swung free between his legs; while it was nowhere near as huge as the Trucker’s, it was still an impressive piece of meat for a teenaged faggot. More than six inches long, it sprang semi-erect from a bushy mound of dark-brown pubes between Trent’s smooth, firm thighs.
The Trucker took another drag from his cigarette. “Horny little fucker, aintcha?” he jeered, leaning back and slowly unzipping his fly. The vicious alpha’s eyes never left the kid’s face; he watched as the boy’s eyes lit up with lust, the young punk panting as the Trucker’s zipper slipped further down his crotch.
Finally the Trucker decided the time had come to let the little homo see exactly what he was gonna be dealing with. The older man had to reach into his jeans with both hands to extract the enormous tube of manflesh that he intended to ram into the twink’s asshole.
First, though, he had other plans.
“Get over here and suck my cock, you fuckin’ faggot,” he snarled. Trent blinked; he’d known the dude would take over and turn dominant—he expected that. But he also expected some kinda warning. This sudden onslaught caught him by surprise.
“W-what?” he stammered, “I, uh, I—”
“Shut the fuck up and wrap yer faggot lips around my dick, asswipe!” the Trucker barked. Again, the tone of command lashed Trent like a whip. Before he was even conscious of his actions, the teen slut found himself on his knees, trying to take the biggest cock he’d ever seen down his throat without gagging. It was a losing battle, and he knew it.
The Trucker grunted with pleasure as he felt the twink whore choke on his dick. “Yeah, that’s it, ya fucking homo,” he said as he grasped Trent’s head with both hands and forced it violently into his crotch, “That’s what a real man’s cock tastes like. Ya like it, faggot? Yeah? Choke on it, cunt, gag on a man’s dick, you fuckin’ pansy-ass queerboy!”
Trent would have protested the vile homophobic names he was being called—he was a bottom, but he had limits. Unfortunately for him, he was too busy being a pansy-ass queerboy to call a halt to the proceedings. And even as the massive rod of manmeat pinned his epiglottis closed, sealing off his windpipe as it plunged halfway to his diaphragm, his own tool was swelling and pulsing.
But as much as Trent reveled in choking down the hot blue-collar stud’s cock, he still couldn’t breathe. And as horny as he was, at some point the need to inhale became imperative—and suddenly, just as he started to squirm, the teenaged cocksucker felt the older man’s denim-wrapped thighs press against the side of his head.
As Trent began—slowly at first, but with increasing desperation—to pull his head up off the hardbodied top’s dick, the pressure on the sides of his head increased painfully. The Trucker wasn’t actually trying to use his incredibly powerful thighs to crack Trent’s skull like a walnut, but if the panicking fag thought that, so much the better.
The teen’s face began to darken. Tears streaming involuntarily from his wide, bulging eyes, Trent looked desperately up at the Trucker’s face, his eyes pleading silently for air. The sense of control, of power over the teenaged faggot was almost too much for the Trucker…
…he had to let the kid go. He hadn’t suffered anywhere near as much as he needed to.
Relaxing his legs, he let Trent jerk himself backward out of the older man’s groin and fall backwards onto the floor. As the lean, lithe punk lay gasping and gagging on the floor, the Trucker stood up and polished off his drink. He took a final drag off his smoke and tapped the ash onto the prone youth before stubbing the butt out in an ashtray.
“Awright, bitch, enough foreplay. Get yer ass on the bed. I’m gonna show ya how faggot cunts like you need to be fucked. Ya hear me, asswipe? Get yer goddam homo ass up, clear them pansy sheets off the bed, and get yer legs in the air, ya hear me?”
Still coughing, Trent rose shakily to his feet, then turned and grabbed his drink off the coffee table. He took a big slug of the booze, snatched his still-smoldering joint from the ashtray and took a deep, lung-busting hit.
“What the fuck are ya waitin’ for, cocksucker?” the Trucker snarled, “Get over there an’ clear that goddam bed off!”
This time, Trent obeyed, snuffing his jay in the ashtray, unaware of how soon his own life would be so easily snuffed. Shoving the pillows off the far side of the bed, he grabbed the comforter, blanket and flat sheets in a single handful and jerked the bedding down to the foot of the bed. All three pieces were tucked in deeply at the foot; Trent gave up trying to pull them off and left them draped over the footboard and dragging on the floor.
The Trucker watched the lithe teen’s muscles flex and bulge under his smooth skin. A rather large one bulged in front—the little faggot punk evidently liked being verbally abused. His dick was swollen and erect, a purple staff that bobbed and weaved in the air with Trent’s every motion.
Then the kid climbed up onto the bed, rolled onto his back, and raised his Nike Jordans in the air. His cock rose straight up from his groin, curving slightly up towards his smooth flat belly. Trent nestled himself into position, then reached around and grabbed his own asscheeks, spreading the fuzz-covered peachlike globes and exposing his pink puckered asshole.
Almost before Trent realized it, the Trucker was on the bed with him, still in his jeans and boots. The stud had his cock in both hands, rubbing the huge engorged head of his tool against the boy’s fuckhole, the alpha’s precum smearing over the orifice—it was the only lube the hapless bitch was gonna get.
To Trent, it felt more like the business end of a Louisville slugger. As the Trucker hovered over him, the teen looked up at the older man. He felt something touch him directly between his pecs and heard a faint clinking sound—they were close enough for the stud’s dogtags to settle onto his chest. All sense of caution and self-preservation evaporated as the bottom boy drank in the view of hairy muscled manflesh about to pump his ass. His bleary pot-reddened eyes sought out the Trucker’s icy blue glare.
“I know it’s gonna hurt like fuck,” Trent said softly, nearly in a whisper. “I’ll probably scream. Don’t stop.”
The Trucker’s lips twisted into a knowing leer. “Don’t worry ‘bout that, faggot,” he chuckled, “I ain’t gonna stop no matter how much ya scream.” Without another word, he shoved his massive rod into Trent’s ass, not waiting for the teen’s sphincter to relax.
Trent was right. He screamed.
The Trucker stiffened with pleasure as he felt the youth’s colon clench in resistance to the searing pain, tightening up on his cock. “Fuck yeah, that’s it,” he grunted, “Keep fightin’ it, faggot, keep workin’ my shaft.”
Trent liked getting fucked, and he liked it to hurt—but now a whole new dimension of agony was opening up in front of him. He’d never been so full of cock before. It wasn’t just the pain of split skin and torn muscles in his rectum; he could feel the Trucker’s enormous, club-like rod prodding deep into his viscera and his head filled with images of horrific internal injuries.
The punk was howling with pain, but his own cock was not only hard, it was slapping against the alpha, spattering clear viscous drops of precum over the latter’s firm hairy belly. Trying to endure the brutal assfuck, Trent clutched the Trucker with desperate strength, his fingers digging into the stud’s biceps and his smooth thighs wrapped tightly around the alpha’s waist.
Trent’s Nikes kicked in the air as his toes curled involuntarily with every thrust of the Trucker’s hips. The kid’s swollen shaft pulsated at the same tempo as the top’s massive, vein-sheathed rod ground its way relentlessly over his prostate. Already overloaded with teen hormones, the boy didn’t need much stimulation—no matter how much pain he was in, he was gonna stay hard. It wasn’t something he could control.
Suddenly the music coming from the party suite stopped; the cacophonic rumble of overlapping human voices continued, but the volume level dropped dramatically. Problem was, Trent was still squealing—and now it might be heard.
The Trucker put a stop to that real quick. “Shaddup, cunt,” he barked, and popped Trent in the face.
The force of the blow slammed the kid’s jaws together, making him bite his tongue painfully. The alpha hadn’t even needed to slow the tempo of his fucking; he’d simply pulled one powerful arm back and plowed it into the teen’s face while still supporting himself with his other arm.
It worked. Trent shut up, his bloodshot eyes, large and vulnerable, looking accusingly up at the Trucker before they started to fill with tears.
“Aww, whatsa matter?” the Trucker sneered. “Is de wittle faggot gonna cry? Man up, ya little motherfucker—you said ya wanted it to hurt, remember? Cause I sure the fuck remember. You ain’t even started to hurt yet, asswipe. I’m gonna use yer homo ass up, you piece of fag garbage. By the time I’m done with ya, you ain’t ever gonna need to get fucked again—ever.”
As the Trucker reared himself up on his knees, looming over the lithe young boy, he maintained control over the situation physically, keeping the kid pinned to the bed with his dick. Trent watched—as best he could; despite his best efforts, he was crying—with a growing sense of surreal horror as the older man unbuckled his thick black leather belt and slipped out from around his waist.
The Trucker doubled the belt and held it in his right hand and suddenly, somehow, Trent’s vision cleared. He looked up at the older man’s powerful chest, his broad hubcap pecs carpeted with a mass of dark wiry hair, his thick nipples jutting proudly at the crest of each mound. And above that, the dark, scruff-covered face, so masculine and so cold, with that icy heat in those blue eyes…
And while Trent was almost hypnotized with lust for the man who was hurting him so badly, the Trucker swept his arm down, slashing Trent across the face with the doubled end of the belt.
It didn’t break anything or even draw blood, but it left a terrible welt across the kid’s soft fuzz-covered cheek. Trent shrieked.
“Shut the fuck up!” the Trucker roared and hit him with the belt again. This time it was a backhand blow, and this time it was harder.
The teen sobbed openly but managed enough self-control to avoid screaming aloud. He was in considerable pain and utterly bewildered by what was happening. All he knew for a fact was that he was still getting violently fucked—and he was still hard…
“Wh-why?” he gasped out between sobs, “Hit-hit m-me—wh-why?”
“Because it feels good, you worthless piece of fuckmeat,” the Trucker grinned. “Every time I hurt you, your horny little faggot teen body gets all nice and tight on my dick. Hurting you gets me off—you feel me, cumdump? Yer gonna feel me, I fuckin’ promise. The more pain you’re in, the better you work my cock. Here, I’ll show ya!”
Trent lay back on the bed with the older man’s shaft still buried deep in his guts. His fragile young psyche was starting to disintegrate in the face of sheer terror; it was as if what was happening to him was part of a movie he was watching. He wondered if it was past midnight yet; he really did have an exam on Monday—Bio 101 and he was gonna flunk but who gives a shit, he didn’t need Bio to get into Daddy’s law firm and make it big—
And then there was one single moment of lucidity, like a flash of lightning illuminating an unknown landscape for a fraction of a second—just enough time for Trent to see that the Trucker had looped the belt through its buckle, forming a simple noose. The hairy musclestud was holding it up and showing it to the boy, his face twisted with malevolent glee.
Trent was shallow and unintelligent, but even he understood what was gonna happen. He snapped back to reality instantly.
“N-no—” he begged, “For G-god’s sake, no—please, oh dear God, please d-don’t—”
The young kid broke down sobbing. The Trucker looked down at him and laughed aloud, coldly and cruelly.
“The meat always begs,” he said with an amused tone in his voice, almost as if he was speaking solely to himself. “Like it has any worth until it’s full of my seed. You need to learn that the only reason you exist is to be my cumrag, faggot. Once I pump my load into ya, you’re done. You’ve served your purpose on this planet. All that’ll be left is a pile of boymeat.”
Trent’s eyes, wide with stunned horror flashed up at his killer. The teen still wasn’t able to think of the Trucker in that way yet, but his desperate denial was crumbling.
“Y-you’re kiddin’—ha! A’course, that’s it—it’s a joke, right? Huh? Cause I asked for it rough, huh? Right?” Fear drove the boy’s pitch higher with each work; the final question was a squeak.
“Time to die, cocksucker,” the Trucker said complacently as he reached out and lowered the belt around Trent’s head. The lithe young fratboi tried to fight the older man off, but the alpha knocked the kid’s flailing hands away like so many annoying mosquitos and, taking advantage of an unguarded moment when Trent lifted his head up off the bed, managed to get the belt around the punk’s neck with minimal effort.
“There,” the buff killer said in a self-satisfied tone, “Now we’re ready for business.” He shifted himself, keeping his huge rod embedded in the teen’s ass as he dug the thick soles of his engineer boots into the mattress. He was gonna need a lotta leverage to make the meat milk his shaft right.
“Oh fuck no please don—urk!” Trent cried out, his final useless plea cut off as the hardbodied psycho tightened the belt and cinched the kid’s windpipe off with a single jerk. From then on, the only sounds the fratboi could make out loud were thick gagging noises as he was slowly choked to death.
Inside, though, he was screaming. The inability to breathe had refocused the worthless little punk; now he had a purpose—to keep alive as long as possible, to stave off death to the last of his strength.
And that was exactly what the Trucker wanted, too—to feel the young faggot struggle and die on his cock.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered seductively to the panicking teen, “Keep fightin’ it, fuckmeat. Fuck yeah, boy, just like that. Work my dick, you sack a’ shit, fuckin’ milk my shaft as you go under.”
Trent fought it, all right; he fought and thrashed like a landed fish. His hands, curved into claws, came flying at the Trucker, digging and scratching for any vulnerable spot—anything to relieve the crushing agony in his throat.
It had taken long enough for the shallow young homo to understand that this was really happening to him, that he’d used his smooth young body to lure in something much more dangerous than a hot anonymous fuck. Even now, as his guts were getting reamed and his pulse pounded swiftly and deafeningly inside his skull, he refused to accept the fact that death was imminent. His fear at the moment was getting hurt so bad his father had to be called; what the fuck would he do then?
“Am I losin’ ya, asswipe? You findin’ something more entertain’ than my cock to think about? Ok, cunt, I’ll make yer sorry goddam ass pay attention to what matters most in yer useless life—working the spunk outta my dick. Here, this’ll help ya focus—”
The Trucker wrapped the loose end of the belt around his thick, hairy wrist, grabbing the end of it in his right hand. Placing his left hand on Trent’s chest, he began to pull backwards with his right. He started off slowly, almost gently, but kept increasing the power. Within a matter of seconds, his right bicep was bulging, a visible manifestation of the sheer strength the older man was using to snuff the teenaged faggot.
Trent clawed frantically at the Trucker’s chest, clutching and releasing handfuls of wiry hair like steel wool. As his esophagus began to deform under the crushing pressure and his face started to swell excruciatingly from lack of oxygen, it finally began to dawn on the fratboi that he wasn’t going to survive this encounter.
That was what it took to trip the trigger. Panic set in, ensuring that Trent’s actions were no longer aimed at a rational attempt to free himself—he was thrashing and flailing in blind terror, his desperate attempts to free himself punctuated by the jangling music of the alpha’s dancing dogtags.
“Aw, fuck yeah!” the Trucker grunted in ecstasy. “Goddam, I love how twink meat kicks as it dies!”
The shuddering, sweating pile of teen boymeat was no longer a lucid human being. Trent had relapsed to the state of a terrified animal caught in a trap. He clawed and dug at the thick leather strap that was wrapped so tightly around his throat that it had sunk in; his fingernails shredded the flesh of his neck as he tried vainly to get them up under the belt.
The Trucker felt the teen’s smooth skin sliding against his, lubed with an oily film of panicked deathsweat that was literally being squeezed out of the kid’s body. He looked down with sick lust at Trent’s grotesque, blackened face, swollen and distorted out of recognition. The fratboi’s tongue, huge and purple, had pushed its way past the thick blue lips and was protruding amidst a steady stream of white, foamy drool that leaked down Trent’s peach-fuzz-covered cheeks.
“I’m gettin’ close, fuckwad,” the Trucker hissed hoarsely, “Ya want my load? Ya want to end it, to stop the pain? Die, faggot, die on my cock. Fuckin’ kick and die an’ jack me off. C’mon, you worthless little pansy, make yer fuckin’ faggot life mean somethin’. Drain my balls an’ I’ll let ya rot with my hot manseed in yer guts. Die, you piece of shit, so I can use you as a cumrag.”
The pounding in Trent’s head was overwhelming; it drowned out everything else. It drowned out the razor-sharp agony of the brutal buttfuck; in fact, Trent was almost desensitized to that pain by now. It also drowned out the horrific pain of his collapsing trachea and the fiery sense of intense pressure radiating from his oxygen-starved lungs…
…but it didn’t drown out the burning sensation that ran the length of his swollen, aching cock. Even as his sense faded and he began to slip convulsively into progressive brain damage, the teen slut could still feel his own painfully erect and throbbing cock pressed against the Trucker’s belly–and was somehow till sensitive enough to feel the older man’s muscled form hunched over him, working and pumping, using his body as a sex toy, to be tossed aside after orgasm.
And as his brain shut down, Trent began to want it. He began to accept death, to accept that his best, his only purpose in life was to receive this stud’s semen, to accept his sperm in a mighty gush. That was all he was, a receptacle for hot mancum, and if he had to suffer like this to achieve it, it was ok…
“Now yer feelin’ me, huh, bro?” the Trucker whispered, “Now ya like it, yeah? Now ya want it, right? Fuck you, ya goddam worthless faggot!”
Pulling up violently on the belt, the Trucker took his left hand off Trent’s chest and drove it as hard as he could into the dying teen’s face.
Several things happened at once. Trent was too far gone to hear the words, but he certainly felt the Trucker jerking the belt—it would have been difficult for him to miss, since his trachea was crushed into a bloody mass of cartilage, his larynx reduced to a mangled wad of tissue.
That sudden blast of nightmarish pain proved to be too much for the near-dead punk; his traumatized nervous system went into overload and he began to spunk uncontrollably. The dying fratboi shot an interminable, high-pressure jet of semen onto the Trucker’s body, splashing up his chest and splattering on his dangling dogtags.
Less than half a second later, the Trucker’s blow drove Trent’s nose into his face, shattering the bridge like glass and sending bone shards flying into what little part of the teen’s brain was still alive. It also ruptured the kid’s cervical vertebrae, tearing open the spinal column and mangling the spinal cord itself.
As the kid went rigid with massive nerve trauma beneath him, the Trucker felt his seething balls erupt in an explosion of pure manseed. In his final death agony, Trent clung tightly to his killer, his firm smooth thighs tightly wrapped around the Trucker’s waist and his retro Nike Jordans kicking and flailing mindlessly in the air behind the Trucker’s back. His arms had shifted as well; now he held his killer in a tighter embrace than any lover ever dared.
The Trucker cried out, a long inarticulate cry of orgasm and male dominance. He spewed load after load uncontrollably into the human cumrag he’d snuffed, letting the corpse’s convulsions milk the last drop of spunk from his aching, overfilled scrotum. At some point, he realized he was pounding his fist again and again into Trent’s defenseless face.
The teen was long past caring. He was dead. His body hadn’t quite realized the fact, though; the smooth young fratboi was still quivering and spunking, jet after jet of cum shooting from his convulsing corpse. It took more than a minute for both Trent and the Trucker to stop unloading.
Finally, the Trucker shuddered to a stop. He paused for a moment, gasping and sweating, his leaking cock still buried deep in the corpse. Almost from outside himself came the awareness that the music from the part suite had started again; he suddenly realized that he’d shot his entire wad to the background music of “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” by Activator. Well, at least it was appropriate.
Slowly and regretfully, he pulled his tool out of the dead kid. His boots hit the wood floor with a loud thump as he crossed to the bathroom to clean up; wiping the boyspunk out of his wiry chest hair took some effort. When he was done, he tossed the wet towel into the bathtub and walked back out.
It was a shame to let a nice room like this go to waste, he thought, but he had to get going. After all, that sugar waiting for him tomorrow wasn’t going to deliver itself. Still, there was a romantic appeal to the scene that presented itself to him—the old brick walls, the antique French provincial furniture, the tight, hot teen corpse lying spread-eagled on the bed with damn near a pint of creamy mancum leaking out of its ass and what looked like a quart of teen boyspunk congealing on its chest and a thick black leather belt embedded in its neck, its black and white Jordan 10s still twitching against thecum-soaked mattress…
The Trucker smirked. Well, someone was gonna have some fun finding it.
Tucking his shirt into his back pocket so that some of it hung out, swinging against his taut ass like a hankie, he left the same way he came in. Once past the party suite windows and down in the courtyard, the Trucker took a deep breath of fresh air, inhaling the heady scent of jasmine from somewhere nearby. Yeah, he thought, he could come to like the Big Easy…
The sound of his boots on the pavement echoed through the French Quarter as he headed back to the train.
“Mr. Boudreaux? I gotta call for you…”
“Dammit, Marcie, can’t you see I’m busy? I’m about to start this conference call with the governor and Senator Boileau about gettin’ this Religious Freedom bill passed; can’t it wait?
“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s the New Orleans police. It’s your son. They say—they…oh, sir, you really need to take this call!”
“Oh gawd, what’s the little bastard done now? Another one of those stupid fraternity pranks? I swear to God, if he wasn’t mixin’ with the right types down there, I wouldn’t be payin’ his dues. Oh well, as long as it ain’t too serious. But he better not be costin’ me any more money. Go ahead an’ put ‘em though, Marcie.”
Ten minutes later, Trent Boudreaux, senior, had fled his office for the parking garage. By the time he was on the road for New Orleans, his conference call was forgotten, not to be recalled to mind until he learned every last nightmarish detail of his son’s murder—after what was obviously consensual gay sex.
The funeral was private; family shame prevented any public announcement. His frat brothers struck his name from the roll and never admitted they had allowed a faggot in their midst.