Dan sat in the cab of the pickup, his buzzcut blond hair glinting the in rays of the setting sun that came in through the passenger window. Even though the hot and steamy day was becoming an unpleasantly humid evening, the cop kept the engine off and the windows down. He was watching.
It wasn’t an official stakeout; he was in his personal vehicle. Backed off the road into the brush, he was keeping his icy blue eyes pointed to a spot a couple of hundred yards down the road where a gravel track branched off, leading back some distance. At the end of the track, well out of sight, was Brody’s trailer.
Dan knew that Brody was gonna make a move tonight. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. It had been Pete’s day off, but like a loyal young soldier, he’d kept an eye on the place until Dan left the sheriff’s office for the day and headed out to meet him.
“Yeah, he left once,” Pete had reported. “When down to the corner store an’ got gas and beer. If he’d gone any farther, I’da called, but he went back home. So ya really think he’s gonna be up to somethin’ here soon?”
“I did a little research on this Josh Perez punk he says he’s gonna question. Kid’s a worthless little faggot with a couple of public lewdness charges, but if he has anything to do with the drug trade in this county, it’s as an end user. And Brody knows it.”
“How do you know that?”
“’Cause Brody was arrested along with Josh on one of those charges. No charges ever filed, though—not enough evidence. Seems Brody never actually exposed himself. And Josh was so damn drunk he didn’t remember any of it, according to the file–claimed he didn’t know or recognize Brody. So nothing happened.”
“Brody already knows Josh,” Pete said—a statement, not a question, muttered in a tone of disgusted betrayal. “Son-of-a-bitch…” he muttered slowly. “But you think he’s gonna make his move soon?”
“Yeah. I can feel it. It’s Friday night, it’s hot and humid and there’ll be a full moon—look.” He nodded to the eat where the moon already hung over the horizon, pale and huge in the waning sunlight, already starting to slide under a cloud bank that had bubbled up from nowhere. “Prime rutting season for a rogue predator male.”
“Uh, look, Cap,” Pete said, almost bashfully, “If anything, um, comes up—you’ll call me? I mean you said yerself he could take us individually.”
“I said we’d have a hard time with him individually—but don’t worry, dude,” Dan said smilingly, “I’m just watching, no matter what he does. I’m just going to watch him and see how he handles himself.”
Pete gave him a quizzical look. In response, Dan said, “Don’t forget—he’s supposed to let me know he’s going out after the kid, but he could simply forget that. I want to see what he actually does with Josh.”
The younger cop’s scruffy, boyishly handsome face twisted into a leer. “You’re gonna watch him snuff that fag.”
Dan’s answering smile was colder and grimmer. “Why not? Whatever else happens, at least it’ll be one less homo in my county.”
A few more parting civilities and Pete headed off to the gym, intent on relieving his physical tensions with a demanding workout. Dan was left, watching and waiting, no less intent on relieving his suspicions about a possible psycho fag killer.
After all, Dan didn’t mind a dead faggot or two, especially if he was the one who made them dead, but there was a limit. There had to be control. There had to be Authority, and Brody was flying in the face of Authority. Loose cannons were dangerous and had to be disposed of, quickly and effectively.
The buff police captain sat and watched for his mark, his huge, muscle-bound body tense and ready for action at any time. No matter when Brody appeared or what he attempted to do, Dan would be prepared.
He didn’t have long to wait. Dusk didn’t last long at this latitude; with the clouds closing in quickly, darkness closed in even more quickly—and darkness was what drew the predator from his lair. Dan spotted a pair of headlights bouncing down the potholed gravel drive, but kept his cool, not starting his engine until Brody was almost a half mile down the road towards Corrington. After that, it was easy to follow him, at least until he got into the town itself.
Corrington was a small place, but on Friday night, everyone from the outlying villages and farms came into town to get drunk. Brody’s black pickup could have been easily lost in the sea of other big black trucks on the streets, but he’d jacked it up high enough to stand out. Dan followed it discreetly into the parking lot of The Well.
Dan had no intention of following Brody into the bar; his face would be instantly recognized—by the bouncer and bartender, if no one else; he was the local law, after all. He decided to just sit and wait, parking at the far end of a row where he could keep an eye on the back door—the way Brody had entered the place—without being immediately seen by anyone leaving.
It took about forty-five minutes. Dan had been prepared to wait much longer; he was rather surprised at how quickly Brody and Josh came out. He was also surprised at Brody’s brazenness, practically dragging his victim out the door. And his victim wasn’t going quietly.
It wasn’t that Josh was resisting; on the contrary, he was drunk and vocally horny.
Josh was young—far too young to be in the bar; he wasn’t yet twenty. He got around that handily enough by sucking the dicks of the bouncer and the bartender and anyone else inside who might cause a problem. He had some money; for this little burg, he was considered a rich kid. His dad managed one of the larger farms, located about fifteen miles northwest of town.
Josh was known for coming into town on Friday night and not making it back out to the farm until late Monday morning—afternoon, sometimes. His father kept getting pissed and threatening to put him to work, but never got around to it; largely because he knew his faggot son’s uselessness. It’d kill the boy’s mother to hear about it, though, so he kept his mouth shut.
Dan was well aware of the details of Josh’s life; having reviewed all available info in the files, he knew the kid was a worthless waste of human flesh. But he also knew that the cocksucker didn’t have the ambition to get involved in any kind of drug trade. He bought some shit all right, but nothing like China white. He was into party drugs–molly, X, even roofies. Fentanyl wouldn’t be his thing; it’d kill the mood.
Josh was evidently on something now, given the way he was staggering across the parking lot with Brody, although he could have just been drunk. He had taken off his shirt—presuming he’d been wearing one—and his strong but not overly-muscled torso was smooth and shiny with sweat. His dark, almost blue-black hair had been brushed up from his forehead at one point but was now disheveled and slick with perspiration; he had a patch of hair on his chin that was the same color.
Below the torso, he wore a pair of tight, worn Levi’s with a thick belt of brown, uncured leather circling his tight waist; he’d shoved a pair of Timberland boots on, leaving them half-laced and completely united. It was easier to kick them off when he was ready to get fucked. And the way his large, dark, bloodshot eyes kept turning to Brody, it was obvious that Josh was ready to get fucked.
Of course the little faggot was drawn to Brody. The older dude was dressed similarly in faded skintight jeans and his half-laced Redwing construction boots. Above, the buff sadist sported a sleeveless compression t-shirt in some dark shade that wasn’t clear in the uneven lighting of the parking lot. He strode steadily and purposefully towards his truck, Josh following him with the eagerness of a puppy.
Dan knew that Josh didn’t have an address in town and figured it was unlikely that Brody would take his prey back to its own home. Instead, he’d probably head back to his trailer, but Dan wanted to make certain. Once the redneck alpha pulled his truck out of the Well’s lot, Dan started his engine and began following. As soon as he confirmed that the big black pickup had turned onto the county road in the direction of Brody’s trailer, he fell back. No sense in making the psycho paranoid.
And that’s exactly what Brody was to Dan, a psycho. A killing machine, responsive only to transient emotions and sensations, not to reason. Something easily distracted and overwhelmed by rage and lust.
Something blind to the value of Authority.
But he had to know. He had to be sure. He knew that, whatever happened, the odds of him overpowering the muscle-bound redneck in any physical altercation were at best fifty-fifty. So he let Brody’s taillights vanish in the distance, giving the guy time to get home. Time for Dan to watch him in the act.
Then, once his suspicions were confirmed—and only then—would he bring Pete on board and let him in on his plan. No sense getting the kid mixed up in the messy details until Dan was certain they’d be needed.
By the time Dan got to the turning for Brody’s trailer, the latter was already home. Turning off his headlights, the off-duty Captain slowly and carefully eased his pickup down the rutted gravel drive. He stopped inside the tree line, about a half mile off the road, and walked the rest of the way.
As he approached the dilapidated single-wide trailer, he could hear music coming from inside. Dance music—not Brody’s choice, surely; he preferred country. Dan crept closer for a better look, but needed some help. Even at six and a half feet, he wasn’t quite tall enough to look into any of the windows. Glancing around, he spied exactly what he needed—a cinderblock. Placing it below the living room window, he stood on it, carefully shifting his scuffed roper boots to maintain balance.
The window was covered with cheap plastic miniblinds; they had been closed, but they were warped and a number of them were broken. By bending down slightly—he was too tall now—Dan was easily able to peer into the living room.
What he saw got his dick hard instantly.
Brody was leaning back in an old recliner. Josh had stripped down to nothing his scuffed Timberlands and a pair of fire-engine red boxer briefs that clung to his groin like they’d been painted on, perfectly outlining his bulging package and erect, straining cock. The boy had his arms up and his hands on the back of his head, arcing his back.
Little fucker was drunkenly giving Brody a lap dance. Even from the window, Dan could see and easily interpret the gleam in Brody’s eye; the gyrating cocksucker was even closer, but was either too fucked up to notice—or just didn’t care. As the cop watched, Josh reached down towards Brody’s lap, then quickly jerked his hands upward, pulling the buff older man’s compression t-shirt off over his head. He tossed it idly to the side.
The boy was clearly indulging himself, writhing on the muscle-bound sadist’s lap, running his hands over Brody’s rock-hard pecs and lacing his fingers in the stud’s chest fur. Dan shifted his boots on the cinderblock from time to time to keep the circulation flowing to his feet. At the moment, it tended to pool near his aroused dick…
As the teenaged punk ground his taint over Brody’s bulging groin, he seemed to get more and more aroused himself. The tentpole that formed in his skintight red boxers showed the dimensions of the homo’s dick; it wasn’t very long, but it was thick and meaty. Already, a dark moist spot had formed on the thin cotton that covered the big bulbous head of his cock.
Brody’s trailer was old and hadn’t been top-of-the-line when new. All the windows were single-glazed; sound penetrated them easily. Josh started speaking, and even over the dance music, Dan could hear his words clearly. “C’mon, man,” the punk whined, “I need dick. I wantcha in me. C’mon, gimme it, fucker!”
He climbed unsteadily off Brody’s lap and shut off the music coming from his phone, then grabbed Brody’s arm off the recliner and began tugging at it. “C’mon!” Josh insisted, his dick all but visibly pulsating inside his boxers. The boy’s eyes were lit with an intoxicated lust that was no less intense for not being rationalized. He’d said all there was to say—he needed dick.
Brody stared evenly at him for a moment, then reset the recliner and rose to his feet. As Dan watched, the horny young cocksucker allowed himself to be led into the bed, the smirk on his face telling Dan everything he needed to know.
For example, he knew he needed to move if he wanted a continued view of the action.
Dan hopped off the cinderblock, his boots hitting the gravel with a faint crunch that would have worried him had Brody not already closed the bedroom door behind him. He moved down to the next window, but its blinds were closed and evidently there was something hanging over them on the inside; not even a crack of light emerged into the dark humid night.
Concerned, Dan prowled around the end of the trailer, which was no help—only a small, high window; this was the bathroom. He continued around to the back, where he struck gold. There was a small window into the bedroom that not only had the shades up, it was also perfectly positioned. It was near the head of the bed, and separated from it only by the width of a nightstand.
Peering in, Dan realized he was less than a yard from where Josh was already flat on his back with his feet in the air.
The window was dirty—Brody never bothered to wash them—so the view wasn’t particularly clear; on the other hand, Dan realized that the film of dirt worked both ways. He could practically press his face up against the glass and not be seen. As it so happened, he didn’t need to get quite that close to be able to see what he wanted to see.
The bedroom was filthy, but the piles of clutter didn’t seem to have been there long. Dan figured that Travis, despite his known uselessness, must have kept the place in some kind of order. Evidently Brody needed a new house bitch.
Mounds of dirty clothes lined the walls. One was directly opposite the window; on the top of a pair of filthy oil- and mud-stained pair of jeans was a pair of ten-inch Justin work boots, the tan leather uppers equally as mud-spattered. Folded receipts and papers, some with Brody’s semi-literate scrawl on them, cascaded over the dresser, mixed with loose change, junk mail and unopened bills.
The dim yellow light in the overhead ceiling fan made the room look small and dingy. The battered walls glared bleakly at each other across the confined space. There was no sign of covering or pillows on the bed—the cheap stained fitted sheet was repelling, the thin, pale blue rayon becoming a downright repulsive shade.
It was clear, though, that Josh wasn’t there for the aesthetics.
The kid had already ditched his boxer briefs. He was nude, his cock rising from a mass of black tangled pubes. His slim, strong body was already slick with sweat that reeked of testosterone; the adolescent punk was so oversexed he seemed on the verge of losing control of himself. His tan boots hung in the air as he pleaded with the hulking alpha.
“Lemme see it,” Josh was whining, intoxication adding a petulant tone to his usual uncontrolled horniness, “Whip that bad boy out an’ lemme see whatcha got. I know a hunk like you’s gotta have a big ol’ dick…”
Brody, standing near the foot of the bed, only smiled mirthlessly and reached for his zipper. He lowered it slowly and theatrically; it was obvious to Dan that he was enjoying himself immensely. When Brody pulled his massive rod out of his jeans, the cop, having seen it before, already knew what to expect.
“Holy fuck,” he whispered; even in his inebriated state, the faggot twink could tell that this enormous shaft was more than he could handle. Not that he wasn’t willing to try. “Dude, you gotta go slow with that. Ya got any lube?”
Brody’s malevolent grin should have been both answer and warning enough; for the randy little homo hungry for cock, it was neither.
The older man climbed slowly onto the bed, his thick, throbbing rod dangling between his legs. “Hey, boy, wanna hear somethin’ funny? I’m workin’ with the cops—practically a goddam deputized po-po myself—and this is supposed t’ be an interrogation.”
“What?” Josh asked fuzzily, wondering what the hell Brody was going on about.
“See, I’m supposed to be askin’ ya about yer drug use…” Brody went on. Josh looked confusedly up at the handsome redneck’s face. In his bewilderment, he didn’t notice how the enormous dripping head of Brody’s cock was already pressing against his asshole, but Dan, with his ringside point of view, could see it perfectly. He knew better than the faggot what was going to happen next.
“An’ I kinda wanted to go all good-cop bad-cop on ya,” the grinning muscular alpha continued, “But fuck, everyone knows yer a worthless druggie faggot—so, fuck, might as well spare the cops the trouble an’ just handle the whole thing myself.”
“Huh?” Josh blurted out, his face betraying the first signs of fear. It was too late. Brody launched himself at the prone twink, slamming his balled-up fist into the boy’s face while simultaneously spearing kid’s ass with his dick, shoving ruthlessly past the tight sphincter and sinking his shaft as deeply as he could into Josh’s guts.
The sudden attack even surprised Dan; the powerful redneck was good. He hadn’t signaled his moves at all. The Captain felt that his decision not to handle Brody alone was validated; he and Pete would need a plan to take out this strong-ass motherfucker.
If Dan had been surprised, Josh had been literally stunned. Moaning, eyes rolled back in his head, the slim, firm body of the semiconscious faggot jerked as Brody thrust his cock inside it with long, brutal strokes. For the moment, the boy was a living meat puppet, with the pumping of another man’s dick as its only moving force.
Dan gripped the windowsill tightly, forcing his hands to remain where they were and not seek out his painfully erect rod.
Brody bent over the limp, sweat-slick youth and slapped his face. “C’mon, ya pussy, wake up.” Josh groaned faintly, but gave no other response, so Brody backhanded him, harder. The punk gave a louder groan and began blinking his eyes, a sign he was coming to. “Jesus, whadda fuckin’ pansy,” Brody sneered, “You grow up the way I did, faggot, ya learn how to take a punch.”
Josh’s ascent to consciousness was more or less a climb into horrible torment. His head pounded and ached from the blows he’d endured, but that was nothing next to the searing agony in his torn and bloody rectum. Long before he was fully awake, the teen homo was sobbing with pain.
“S-st-stop!” he begged unable to get his bearing in the sea of agony he was foundering in, “F-fuck’s sa-sake, stop!”
“Aw, shaddup,” Brody sneered and bitchslapped the suffering teen.
Despite Brody’s derision, Josh had dealt with a certain amount of violence in the past—being an open cockwhore in a rural area had its risks and the boy had taken a certain amount of abuse. He’d even been raped once, when he just happened to run across the team captain of the county high school’s baseball team one night after the dude had broken up with his girlfriend and gotten drunk…
But then again, he’d kinda known about the breakup. And where Frank would be at that point. And he’d enjoyed it. This was different—much, much different. It took a moment to catch his breath, but once he did, he made his displeasure known.
“HELP!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, “HELP!! POLICE!!”
Dan knew perfectly well—and knew the Brody did too—that there wasn’t another inhabited residence within a mile. But it still seemed to piss Brody off.
The look of vicious rage that contorted his roughly handsome face was terrifying. Josh had experienced pain and fear so far this evening, but the expression on Brody’s face inspired sheer terror. If he’d ever seen this look on the dude’s face he’d never have gone anywhere alone with him—and now here he was, overpowered and helpless, pinned to a bed by the gigantic dick of a heavily-muscled psycho.
But the flash of awareness came too late to save Josh from the brutal effects of Brody’s anger. From his vantage point, Dan, with the keen instincts of a predator himself, had recognized the erotic look of fear in the faggot’s face. Now his dick pulsed and ached as he witnessed how that fear was justified.
In his rage, Brody lost any control he ever had over his accent. “Ah tole you to” (here he balled up his fist, drew it back, and drove it into Josh’s face, his huge bicep twanging like a bowstring as the helpless teen grunted out “huk!” loudly, involuntarily) “SHUT” (WHAM, grunt) “THE” (WHAM, grunt) “FUCK” (WHAM, moan) “UP!!” (WHAM, faint bleat).
Brody paused for a moment, on his knees, towering over the prone youth, his dick still firmly planted in the unfortunate faggot’s ass. The sadistic alpha shook his hand out, grinning contemptuously down at the semiconscious adolescent.
Dan admired the fucker’s style. It was a shame Brody was going rogue; he’d have been a great addition to the elite squad that Dan was planning to recruit. But still, there was nothing without Authority, so he had no choice but to see that the redneck was put down like rabid dog.
Plus, the thought made him hard. Well, harder.
But right now, he had a snuff to watch.
Brody bent back over the boy, planting his hands palm down on the bed beside the kid’s shoulders and began plowing his ass, reaming the punk’s fuckhole. Each time the huge engorged head of the muscular alpha’s dick ground ruthlessly over Josh’s prostate, the boy moaned loudly, a deep, guttural sound.
And even though the rest of his lean, lithe body was limp, his cock not only remained stiff, it pulsed with each brutal thrust of Brody’s hips.
Dan was watching the scene intently but he was far too good a hunter to allow his attention to be completely absorbed. He was aware of a faint flickering and could feel just the slightest hint of a breeze. He withdrew mentally from the view in front of him just long enough to feel, rather than hear, a very faint rumble. There was a storm brewing.
The Captain turned back to the window. He wondered if Josh would live to see the rain.
Inside, Josh appeared to be starting to recover. It was hard to tell, though; his face was battered and both eyes blackened and swollen. The viciousness of the beating he’d received had left distinctive evidence on the boy’s face.
He brought his hands up to his face for a moment, then unexpected, shoved both arms up into Brody’s face and turned away, a uselessly feeble protest against the assault he was enduring. Brody wasn’t having it. He wrapped his thick muscled limb around Josh’s strong but overpowered right arm and with nothing more than an angry sneer and a quick, brutal jerk of his bicep, violently dislocated the kid’s elbow.
Josh screamed as tendons and ligaments tore, a high, thin screech, the raw sound of human suffering pushed past the point of endurance. The lean, lithe punk writhed on the bed, the heels of his Timberland boots tracing furrows on the thin sheet as his legs flailed in agony.
As Dan watched, hard and leaking, Brody raised himself up over Josh. Pinned to the bed, the boy looked up, his dark, puffy eyes awash in tears. From this angle, the hard-muscled, furry torso of the older man filled his field of view; Josh had a close-up of those huge hairy pecs and thick jutting nipples that had enticed him so much, but now all that power was being used to hurt him. He didn’t understand…
“W-why?” he managed to blurt out during his uncontrollable sobbing, “Why?”
As an answer, Brody punched him in the gut, his fist sinking deeply into Josh’s smooth, flat belly. “HOOG!” the teen bellowed involuntarily, rising up into a near-sitting position as the air was forced out of his lungs, then flopping back limply.
There was a brief moment when Josh was still too stunned to even try to inhale; he merely lay on the bed, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish, as he stared incredulously at Brody, his eyes as wide as their swollen lids would allow.
“Why?” Brody said, “Cause it gets me off, that’s why. Hurtin’ dumbass little fags like you gets me hard, motherfucker. Killin’ ya little cunts makes me cum. That what ya wanted to know, boy? I figured I wanted to drain my balls tonight an’ I picked you to drain ‘em into. Now don’t that make ya feel special, queerboy?”
Josh’s face was a mottled purple as he choked and wheezed, then inhaled loudly and deeply. As the leanly muscled adolescent suddenly convulsed with violent coughing, Brody, still on his knees looming over the prone youth, leaned back and guffawed loudly. “Aintcha glad ya asked, boy?” he chortled with malevolent glee.
Josh was locked in a cycle of sucking in lots of air, only to expel it in a spasm of coughing. His alcohol- and hormone-sodden brain was barely functional enough to handle Brody’s words, but he’d picked up enough to know that the searing pain in his asshole and the hot throbbing ache in his face were only hints of something worse.
He was right. He managed, surprisingly quickly, to regain control over himself and stifled the coughing. He needed to do something, think, something quick—
And that was when the flash lit up the room, overpowering the dim overhead light with the intense blue-white light of an electric arc. Josh had turned his head to the side, straining away from Brody, so that while Brody was looking down at him, he was looking at the window.
In that split-second white-hot flash, Josh and Dan were staring each other directly in the eyes.
Then, as the thunder cracked like a pistol shot overhead, Brody’s big strong hands wrapped around Josh’s throat and squeezed it shut.
Panic seized Josh as his air was cut off. He knew who Dan was—he’d lusted after the hulking police officer since he was fourteen—but the cop wasn’t doing anything. He was just sitting there…watching…
Josh clawed at Brody’s hands, his fingers digging uselessly at the older man’s vise-like grip. Once or twice, he reached out towards the window, his helpless fingers clutching at the empty air mere inches from Dan’s face. The teen’s mute plea for help kept the cop’s dick achingly hard.
Brody, wrapped up in his bloodlust, ignored Josh’s movements. In the hot, airless room, he pressed his heavy, sweat-lubed body onto Josh’s. As Brody pumped his ass and throttled him, the slim teen felt the alpha’s powerful muscles working within his body as he raped and strangled the boy; even the thick, wiry chest fur that Josh had found so hot was painfully abrading his skin like steel wool.
“Yer a lazy piece of ass for a faggot,” Brody sneered, “Goddam homo don’t even know how to work a real man’s dick.”
The hardbodied redneck had pinned him to the bed and was using his body like a disposable fucktoy and there wasn’t a damn thing Josh could do about it. And the more time went on, there was less he could do at all.
His handsome young face had already been beaten out of recognition; now, it was a hideous black mask. Josh could barely see; his eyelids were horribly swollen and through the tiny slits that he was able to force open, his whites were starting to turn red with hemorrhaging blood vessels. Convulsive movements of his enlarged tongue made him cough up white, foamy drool that trickled down his chin and lodged in the sad excuse for a soul patch on his chin.
His youthful body, flooded with adrenaline, kicked and thrashed in a frantic attempt at survival. The impulse, which originated in the primitive brainstem, bypassed all rational thought. If Josh had been capable of rational thought, he would have realized that raking and pummeling Brody’s taut, firm asscheeks with the heels of his Timberlands wouldn’t help him much. It did help burn the oxygen in his bloodstream, though.
Brody knew what was happening; he’d so gotten off on snuffing Travis that every detail of death was engraved in his memory. “Gettin’ close, aintcha, boy?” he whispered, bending down his head till his long, dark hair fell forward and brushed Josh’s black swollen cheeks. “I can tell cause yer dick’s still hard,” the sadistic alpha chuckled and wrapped his massive, powerful hands even tighter around the suffering teen’s throat—he was able to lock his fingers in back. Outside, Dan had to strain to hear Brody’s words over the rising breeze that swept up around him.
“I’m done, faggot,” the buff older man muttered hoarsely, the strain of holding back on orgasm telling in his voice, “Time to die, asswipe. Gonna fuckin’ hose yer guts with my manseed, you piece a’ shit fag—AAARRGHHH!!!”
It was as if every muscle in his over-developed body went rigid at once. His powerful legs tensed as he spewed a searing jet of spunk deep into Josh’s asshole. At the same time, his hands clenched spasmodically, crushing the teen boy’s esophagus into a solid mass of gristle with a loud, cracking crunch.
Josh’s tongue was forced out of his mouth in gush of foamy spittle and his sperm was forced out of his cock in a geyser of pearly cum.
“FUCK!” Brody roared, shuddering and spunking, “GODDAM CUNT! FUCKIN—UHH!”
His hands tightened again, but this time was cracking sound was more brittle. Brody had not only crushed Josh’s hyoid bone, he’d shattered the C-3 cervical vertebra, the razor-sharp shards of bone slicing through the helpless adolescent’s spinal column.
The boy only felt one final nightmarish shock that ended an eternity in hell; he never knew that the horrible pain had been one last explosive orgasm triggered by the massive trauma to his nervous system. His entire body suddenly contracted around Brody as the arms, flung wildly around the alpha’s head and his legs, wrapped around Brody’s waist, convulsed and tightened inexorably. The corpse’s feet kicked and shuddered so violently that one of Josh’s Timbs flipped off and tumbled onto the floor under the window.
Dan clutched the windowsill tightly, desperately ignoring the nearly irresistible straining in his groin. Brody screamed again, loudly and inarticulately, as he shot another load up the dead kid’s ass and Dan let go. He maintained enough control to remain rigid and upright as he creamed his jeans—
—then the sudden flash of lighting that burst overhead startled even him, and the cop toppled sideways off the cinderblock to the bare turf below. Simultaneously, the apocalyptic explosion of thunder, so loud it rattled the windows in the trailer, showed how swiftly the storm had approached. It was almost on top the them.
Lying in the weed-strewn yard, Dan cursed for a moment, only for the sky to light up again. As it did, he looked up at the window that had let him watch Josh get snuffed, and his heart skipped a beat. Brody was standing there, looking out.
Or, rather, looking up. He was staring at the sky, his handsome white trash face twisted into a smirk. The fur on his broad chest, illuminated by the flickering lighting, was thickly matted with spunk. He stood with his hands on his hips, his still-erect cock jutting out in front—and still dripping. And Dan had inadvertently put himself in the position of prey; his view of Brody towering over him was nearly identical to that of the buff alpha’s victims.
When the redneck killer turned away, Dan got to his feet and quickly circled the trailer. As he ducked through the woods, he could hear a faint but increasing patter as the rain started to fall. He was lucky enough to make it back to his truck before the downpour started. He sat in the driver’s seat, pondering for a moment.
He had no real fear of Brody, but there was deep concern. The cop knew it was his duty to take out the rogue killer before he could imperil Authority in Rigler County—but Dan wasn’t in a position to act with impunity. He wasn’t sheriff—yet.
This needed to be done discreetly and when Brody started putting up a fight—no ‘if’, just ‘when’—Dan would need to make certain that the hardbodied psycho could be contained quickly. Unquestionably, he would need Pete’s help. What was open to question was how much Pete could help. The boy was young and buff, incredibly muscular—but would it be enough?
Dan started the truck and eased his way down the gravel track, creeping along at five miles an hour till the county road was in sight—he left his headlights off and avoided using the brakes as much as possible so as not to give Brody any kind of alert. He drove directly home, thinking long and hard about how to proceed. He’d need to talk to Pete tomorrow. And in the meantime, he needed to wash the dried cum out of his jeans…
Dan needn’t have worried about drawing Brody’s attention; the powerful stud was otherwise occupied.
He’d instantly decided that the easiest way to dispose of the pile of still-quivering fagmeat was to wrap it up in the bedsheet and just dump it. He wasn’t concerned about this one being found—fuck, he was workin’ with po-po, wasn’t he? Of course, that didn’t mean he wanted it found in his crib.
Brody went into the living room and gathered up Josh’s discarded clothing. He carried it back into the bedroom and tossed it onto the corpse. He took a quick look around and, satisfied that he’d taken care of the evidence, began to loosen the sheet from the mattress. After prying it loose on one side, he walked around to the other.
That was when he noticed the fag’s Timberland boot lying on the floor. Snatching it up, he tossed it, too, onto the body, where it landed with a moist thump. Gathering up the corners of the sheet, Brody took one last look at Josh.
The dead teen was on his back, with his head turned to the left, as if he’d spent his last few seconds on earth staring beseechingly out the window. His grotesquely swollen face had faded from black to cyan blue, but the tongue protruding thickly from hit puffy, split lips was still a congested purple. The homo’s corpse was still jerking; the spasms were far apart and getting farther, but one of them had caused the bundle of clothing to roll off his torso and lodge under his arm. As a result, his boot had landed in the middle of a huge mass of half-congealed cum that had pooled on his chest.
It was hot and Brody felt his massive hog twitch at the sight. Josh’s own dick, slowly—very slowly—receding from its profound erection, was still oozing pearly beads of lukewarm spunk.
Enough. Brody brought all four corners—or as close as he could come with a fitted sheet—to the center and tied the whole thing into an enormous bundle. As the sheet tightened around it, Josh’s corpse rolled to one side and curled into a fetal position around the Timberland boot.
Brody hefted the bundle easily and carried it out to his truck. It was pouring rain as he stepped out the door, but it felt good. Cool and soothing. He threw the sack of fagmeat into the bed of his truck, then stood for a moment in the pounding rain, feeling it flow over his bare chest and wash the teen’s jizz out of his chest hair. A brilliant flash of lighting and a low grumble of thunder recalled the redneck killer to himself. He jumped into the cab of his truck, his skin-tight, sopping jean making a squishing sound as he sat in the driver’s seat.
With his headlights on, he was able to reach the county road much faster than Dan had been able to. Like the Captain, he too, turned towards town—but Dan didn’t live in Corrington. Heading towards the highway, the cop had sped past the intersection of the county road and the town’s main street. Brody didn’t.
Pulling over just past the intersection, the buff, half-nude redneck got out of his truck, still indifferent, if not oblivious, to the downpour. The rain had intensified to the point that it was almost blinding. When Brody bent over the bed of the truck to haul the body out, he could see that the thin rayon was virtually transparent, clinging to Josh’s corpse like wet newspaper.
A flash of lighting, so close that it illuminated the scene in polarized hues of blue-white and blue-black, played about the sick alpha’s head as he loomed over the dead teen, grinning with evil pleasure at the memory of snuffing him. He reached in and hoisted the sodden bundle of fabric, boots and boymeat out of the bed, then turned around.
Directly behind him was a drainage ditch that ran parallel to Main Street. About four feet deep and equally as wide, it passed under the county road in a culvert formed from a concrete pipe, slightly smaller in diameter—about a yard wide. The ditch was already half full, water rushing madly past its grassy banks towards the culvert.
Yeah, that’d work to dump the cumdump.
With a quick heave of his powerful arms, Brody tossed the teenager’s raped and murdered corpse into the swiftly-flowing channel. It sank like a brick, the water backing up momentarily before washing around and over it.
As Brody headed back to the truck, his Redwing boots sank in the mud. When he got to the road, he paused and scraped his soles on the edge of the asphalt; he didn’t want to track filth into his truck. After all, he’d just thrown a pile of filth out of it.
Both Brody and Dan made it safely to their homes that night, but Josh was not the only one who didn’t. The storms grew stronger overnight, resulting in flooding in several parts of the county. The highway was clogged with enough accidents that the state police had to be called out. The sheriff’s department was inundated with requests for help.
Just before daybreak, Dan was woken by his phone; he was needed. The call was particularly tragic; a family of five in a minivan had pulled off the highway for gas, gotten lost, and had driven into high water on one of the low-lying roads on the west side of the county. The vehicle had been washed off the road before help could arrive; Dan had to superintend its retrieval from ten feet of water some two hundred yards downstream of the road. Immediately after, he was given word that the county rest home was flooding…
It was like that everywhere across the county. As a result, it wasn’t until late that afternoon that a county road works truck arrived at the intersection of Main Street and the county road to investigate what had blocked the drainage and caused water to back up over the crossroads. The discovery of the corpse of a young male, evidently washed down the ditch and lodged in the culvert, let to a call to the sheriff’s office; the fact that it seemed to have been sexually assaulted and murdered, was entered into the long list of events that the officers needed to process.
As the body was being wheeled into the morgue, the report on its discovery landed on Dan’s desk, two flights up. By this time, it had been identified—Josh’s wallet, with his driver’s license and seven dollars in cash had been found in a pocket of the jeans. Dan didn’t bother to read it; he knew more about it than what would be in the report.
He leaned back in his chair and sighed. It was late—past nine in the evening—but he was waiting to see Pete. The younger cop had been assigned the second shift rotation that started today and was out on a call, but Dan expected him back soon. They had both been too busy during the day to speak; in the same way Dan had worked late, Pete had been called in early.
As if on cue, Dan heard the heavy tread of Pete’s Danner Tachyon boots on the tile out in the hall. After a quick double tap at the door, the buff, dark-haired cop entered, his face somewhat hard with the stress of the day.
“So?” he asked abruptly, “What happened last night?”
Dan tossed him the file he’d just gotten. “Here. That’s what happened last night.”
Pete looked at the Captain curiously, then read through the file. “Damn. Dude got rough. This is exactly what the fuck happened to that first one.”
“You saw it?”
A lascivious leer crossed Pete’s face.
“Wipe that grin off your face, boy,” Dan snapped, “This was done in direct contradiction to orders. He has disrespected Authority, and that makes him a murderer.”
“Yes sir!” Pete responded, his own respect for Authority plainly obvious.
Dan slowly rose to his feet. Placing his hands flat on the desk, he leaned over it, his powerful body straining his khaki button-down as he looked Pete directly in the eyes. “We need to take him down. Just us, you and me. And even with two of us, it’s gonna be tough. He’s strong, boy.”
He paused, but Pete could tell he wasn’t done talking yet. There was something about Dan’s manner that made Pete feel as if the older cop was trying to break something to him tactfully.
“Frankly, Pete, you’re good—but I need you better. I need you bigger. I need you stronger. When we finally take this motherfucker head-on, I need to know that you’ll be prepared to back me up. Do you understand?”
Pete did, actually. He’d admired the sheer physical strength that had allowed Dan to enforce Authority properly and had already increased the number of workouts he was doing during the week. Now, he decided, he’d intensify the workouts themselves.
“Good,” Dan said, not needing a reply; he’d seen Pete’s acceptance in his eyes. “You got two weeks. You’re nearly there, man, but we need to be certain we can overpower him when the time comes.”
An evil grin flashed over Dan’s face, identical to the one Pete had displayed earlier. “Then we can show that sick faggot-fucker what’s what.”
Pete returned the grin with no fear of contradiction this time.
“In the meantime,” Dan said offhandedly, “If you get some time during the night, go down and take a look at Brody’s handiwork. Motivate yourself for what you need to do. I’m heading out, but I’ll be on call if I’m needed. Looks like the worst of the flooding has subsided, at least.”
With that they parted, Pete heading downstairs as Dan locked up.
Dan had been right—the flooding had died down; the rest of Pete’s evening was quiet and mostly confined to completing reports. He was able to leave at the end of his shift, and true to his word, headed down to the basement and the morgue. Since the whole building was considered secure, there was no particular guard on the morgue itself and everyone on the force knew the code to the door lock.
It was just a few minutes past midnight. The place had been fairly full earlier but a number of funeral homes around the county had sprung into action; at one point in the afternoon, there had been five hearses in a line, waiting for their place at the loading dock. The morgue—more a cold storage locker; actual autopsies were done at the Medical Examiner’s office—was still something of a mess.
The far end had nine of the traditional old-fashioned sliding drawers in three tiers of three; half of them were part-way open and all of them were empty. Much of the floor space was taken up with gurneys, mostly bare, with an occasional empty body bag dangling limply off the sides.
Two of the gurneys were occupied. There was one immediately to the left of the door; from where he stood, Pete could clearly read “Jane Doe” printed on the tag connected to the black plastic body bag. He crossed to the other cart—it was located closer to the rear of the room, on the right side, up against the wall. Pete had to move a couple of empty gurneys out of the way to reach it.
He unzipped the bag and opened it out, inverting down over the sides of the cart, leaving Josh’s abused body nude and exposed under the glaring fluorescents. The teen’s corpse was now dry by now and rigor had passed, leaving it rag-doll limp. The dead boy’s skin had paled but his lips and fingernails were still dusky shade of blue. A milky film had formed over the half-lidded eyes.
The Timberland boot was still in the center of Josh’s chest; his body had curled around it, giving it some protection in the water. The rest of his clothes, along with the remains of the sheet, were off to the side.
Pete could see the damage done to Josh’s throat. It looked like the faggot had gotten his neck wrung. It was obvious that the kid’s trachea had been crushed to gristle…and thinking about it, about the power needed to do it, about being able to wield that kind of power…
Pete felt himself getting hard. Fuck yeah, he realized, this was what he wanted. He wanted to be able to force little homos like this to obey Authority, the way Dan did. The way Brody could, if he had the proper respect.
The hardbodied young cop scratched the wiry black scruff covering his left cheek—then lowered his hand to his zipper. Lowering it, he pulled out his throbbing dick–slowly, as if hypnotized…
He could see the scene now, not with Brody as a villain, but with himself as a hero, the squealing cocksucker foolishly resisting, bringing down the justifiable use of brute force on itself. Pete stood over the corpse, one hand running over the cold flaccid flesh, the other stroking his huge, pulsing cock. He was almost unconscious, lost in his own fantasy of physical strength righteously devoted to terminating criminal scum.
He imagined what the sensation of crushing the teen’s windpipe would feel like, what the look in the boy’s eyes would be as it suffered its well-deserved punishment. His hand traveled down to Josh’s smooth thigh, his fingers scraping off fleck of dried cum. Simultaneously, as he milked his long thick shaft furiously, the memory of driving a knife into Robbie Clebbs’ neck flashed before his eyes and the erotic joy of boysnuff, of watching the punk gag and die in the name of the law tripped Pete’s trigger.
“Fuck!” he shouted in a tight voice as a jet of cum shot from his pulsating rod and fell across Josh’s inert form. Then the buff cop bent over and jerked spasmodically. “GODDAM! FUCK!!!”
As he cried out, he spewed a thick, ropy geyser of manspunk all over the adolescent’s body, from the face to the crotch. Pete’s sperm pooled in Josh’s unseeing eyes, spattered across the tan Timberland boot still on his chest, and fell in thick pearly beads onto the kid’s matter pubes.
Pete staggered and fell back against the gurney behind him; luckily, the wheels on this one had been locked, so it held him up as he recovered his breath and his balance.
Fuck yeah, he was motivated. He wanted to be able to do this to worthless criminal bitches. He wanted to get off on snuffing for the good guys.
Unlike Brody, he was also aware of the need to remove evidence of his presence. Not that he was worried about the consequences of his cum being found of the corpse; Brody had actually gotten it right in assuming that Dan could fix such things. But Pete didn’t want Dan to need to do that, so he began to clean up.
He hadn’t expected to shoot a wad all over the corpse when he went to the morgue; he hadn’t thought to bring anything resembling a cumrag. Glancing around, his eyes lighted on the next best thing—Josh’s red boxer briefs, still damp with ditchwater. Pete carefully scrubbed his spunk out of the dead teen’s eyes and wiped down the Timb’s tan leather to remove the cum spots. He finished up by wiping down and patting down the punk’s thick pubes, then balled the cotton boxers up and stuck them in his pocket.
Stuffing his tool back into his chinos, Pete carefully re-sealed the body bag, then left the morgue, flicking off the lights on his way out. The sheriff’s department provided a gym; it was at the other end of the basement. No one would be using it at this hour, but Pete was determined not to waste a moment in living up to Dan’s and his own expectations.
As he headed down the hall, Pete added a reminder on his phone to speak with Dan as soon as possible the next day. While he didn’t want Dan to have to explain about his bodily fluids on a murder victim’s body, he had no qualms about asking the Captain to remove the reference to boxer briefs being found with the corpse. He knew—correctly—that Dan had no problem with that; after all, the Captain had sent him there in the first place.
Freshly drained and fired up, Pete headed eagerly in the direction of the gym. Brody was a monster, and it takes a monster to fight a monster. Pete was looking forward to the encounter.