Even in Vegas, it can get cold. A winter front had moved down from the north, its strong winds sweeping across the Strip and blowing candy wrappers and strip club ads along the gutter. Carlos was glad it was chilly out; for one thing, it was a break from the constant, oppressive heat. For another, it gave him a good excuse to wear his leather jacket.
The jacket was a black biker jacket; he wore it open, with no shirt underneath, his ripped, furry abs and thick inked pecs on display for anyone who wanted to look. With his skin-tight black jeans tucked into a pair of Corcoran jump boots—laced halfway up but untied, the tongues hanging out—there were a lot who wanted to look. The buff, well-built skinhead attracted a lot of covert (and some very obvious) glances as he strolled south down Paradise, a block off the Strip.
The aggressive sex killer was alone, horny and restless. Nick was involved out at the warehouse tonight, editing the video from the last faggot Carlos had snuffed. But the hardbodied Latino knew how to fix his problems, though, and the first step of the cure had him out on the street, literally dressed to kill.
It was already past dark, but even on the back side of the huge resorts that face Las Vegas Boulevard, there were still plenty of plenty of bright lights. Certainly bright enough for Carlos’s muscular form to be seen and admired. But when his lure was finally bitten at, the nibbler turned out to be an unexpected, and unwelcome, source.
“Carlos? Hey, Carlos, that you, bro?” came a smooth tenor voice, “Hey, man, over here.”
The dude was standing no more than five feet away from him, but Carlos didn’t recognize him for a moment. Then the guy stepped forward, into better light, and Carlos locked onto his eyes.
That did it. Carlos would never forget those eyes.
They were beautiful, large and bright emerald green, with long, lush eyelashes and a darkening at the ends of lids as if eyeliner had been applied. But the last time Carlos had seen those eyes, he was in prison. Eyeliner isn’t impossible to procure in prison, but this dude wasn’t wearing makeup.
He was younger than Carlos, but not by much—about twenty-four. He was only about five-eight in height, but there was no slackness in his firm, fit body. His hair was dark and cut short—almost a buzz cut—except for a thick clump of hair on the left side, left long, dyed auburn, and combed back over the top of his head. His ears were pierced and plugged with black discs—not too big, about 2G in gauge. Those were new, Carlos noticed. Under a gray hoodie, half-unzipped, he sported a white cotton t-shirt with a large graphic image on it; it appeared to be an elaborate skull, off-kilter.
The punk’s firm, muscled legs were highlighted by a pair of tight camo print cargo pants. Like Carlos’s they were tucked into his boots, but his were Vasque Arrowhead boots, black and orange. The overall effect was as eye-catching as Carlos’s own outfit was. But the eyes, the glittering green eyes, were all the Hispanic psycho needed to see.
“Bryan?” he asked blankly. The dude grinned.
Oh yes, Carlos remembered Bryan. Bryan was in prison for manslaughter as well; he’d convinced the jury that he’d killed the other drug dealer in self-defense—then boasted about it in prison, laughing about how he’d wasted the motherfucker for coming onto his turf. But that wasn’t why Carlos remembered him.
Bryan had raped Carlos. He’d been one of four guys who’d backed the outclassed Latino into a corner and run a train on him. Bryan had gone last. As the other men went before him, he held Carlos down and clamped his hand over his victim’s mouth, jeering and goading the others on.
Oh yes, Carlos remembered Bryan. But he’d forgotten that the asshole had said he was from Las Vegas.
“Been back for a coupla months,” the younger man said cheerfully. “Never thought I’d see you again, dude. But damn, talk about good timing.”
“Huh?” Carlos said stupidly, his brain more or less short circuiting as it tried to find the right was to react to the situation. As it so happened, Bryan himself sliced right through Carlos’s Gordian knot.
“You free right now?” the grinning hipster asked. He went on as Carlos nodded. “Gotcher own place, too, yeah? Cool. Damn, dude, it’s been two days—I gotta lay some pipe…” He reached down and grabbed his rod, already tenting the taut fabric of his camo pants.
“…and I know you take it up the ass.” He finished up with a jeer in his voice and a leer on his face. He was making it clear that he hadn’t forgotten Carlos either.
And that was all it took to clear Carlos’s troubled mind. “Sure, I gotta place. Condo, right back there. C’mon, bro, I’ll treat ya right.”
The leer that had twisted one side of Bryan’s boyish face widened to the other side. “Fuck yeah, man, I knew it. Don’t matter if yer a chick or a dude, once ya had summa my cock, yer gonna want more—har! Happens every fuckin’ time. G’wan, buddy, I’ll be right behind ya—an’ then I’ll be right in yer behind! Har!”
Carlos swiveled around and started walking back up Paradise. He had the sensation of physically feeling Bryan’s eyes focusing intently on his ass as he walked. The rage induced by his violent denial of his sexuality was at a boiling point already; the thump of the Latino skinhead’s boots on the pavement drowned out the sound of his grinding teeth.
The one thing that gave him any comfort was the pressure he could feel inside his right boot—something long and hard and unyielding. It was his Bowie hunting knife, the nine-inch carbon-steel blade tucked as usual into its hidden boot sheath. Just knowing that it was there allowed Carlos to respond to Bryan’s erection in kind. One of them was damn sure gonna get fucked tonight.
Neither one of them said a word on the way back to the condo. Nothing needed to be said. The sheer volume of pheromones given off by two physically fit, hypersexed young males filled the elevator with an intoxicating musk. The silence between them wasn’t broken until they got inside the condo, and even then, the first words said weren’t to each other.
The moment Carlos opened the door, he knew that Nick was there—the lights were on. Nick had a key to the place—he paid for it, after all—but he usually let Carlos know he was coming by. The only times he didn’t was when he had a new project and was too excited to wait.
Nick had been sitting on the sofa, checking his phone, when the door opened. The moment he heard it, he popped up and started speaking. “There you are, man! I been waitin’…anyway, I got this new commission—” He broke off as Bryan entered the room. “—uh, you got company…”
“This yer, uh, partner?” Bryan asked insinuatingly.
“Nick, Bryan—Bryan, Nick,” Carlos mumbled inanely, wondering what the fuck was wrong with himself—he needed to get control of this situation before Bryan told Nick about…about…he didn’t even want to imagine it himself.
“I, uh, I guess I can come back later…” Nick said, his voice uncertain.
“Yeah, maybe ya better,” Bryan quipped, “Unless, ‘acourse, ya wanna stick around and watch me fuck yer boy here.”
Nick paused at this and glanced at Carlos. “Should I—should I get my camera set up?”
“Yeah,” Carlos said, “Do that.”
“Yeah,” Bryan said, “Do that. But I wanna copy.”
“Ok, I’ll get it set up,” Nick said, heading towards the bedroom. He paused in the doorway, then turned back. His large, powerful body was framed by the open space behind it, his broad, hairy torso admirably displayed by a bright red cotton tank top with the Champion logo across the chest. His elastic-cuffed jogger pants did little to hide his thickly-muscled legs. On his feet were a pair of bright red Nike Air Force 1 Utility sneakers, the same color as his tank top. “Gimme five minutes.”
“So who’s this Nick?” Bryan asked. “You didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout him.”
“Didn’t know he was gonna be here,” Carlos mumbled.
“Who is he, yer boyfriend? He bangin’ ya when you can’t find no other dick? Lissen up—he can film but I don’t do no three-ways with dudes. That shit ain’t cool—”
His self-rationalization about gay sex was cut short when Nick re-entered the room.
“It’s ready,” the older stud said, brushing his long dark hair out of his eyes. He hadn’t heard the conversation, but he had no trouble reading the searing light of sexual hatred glittering in Carlos’s eyes. The sadistic skinhead was already having difficulty maintaining his composure, but he headed towards the bedroom. “Inside,” he said at the door. Bryan took it as an invitation to follow, but Carlos had been looking directly at Nick when he said it. The latter realized it was the ex-con’s explanation for how he knew the guy.
The obnoxious punk shrugged off his jacket as he passed through the bedroom doorway. Tossing it onto the floor, he paused and noticed the view from the huge window. “Damn, dude—nice!” he said, “Must be some good money in filmin’ dudes fuckin’. You gotta let me in on some a’ that!”
Bryan looked over and saw that Carlos was out of his jacket as well, his elaborate tattoos visible on his broad furry chest. Grinning, he pulled his t-shirt up over his head and dropped it on top of his jacket, showing off his own ink. The Iron Cross on his left pec was detailed, but the Confederate flag with the motto “Die, Motherfucker, Die” on his right bicep was clearly an amateur job.
The punk was muscular—not in Carlos’s class, but well-built. He wasn’t as hairy as the Latino skinhead; a single line of fur ran down the center of his chest and his flat, firm belly to vanish below the waistband of his camo cargo pants. He sat on the bed and began loosening the few laces of his Vasque Arrowhead boots.
Neither he nor Carlos knew that Nick had already started recording.
“Always wanted video of me fuckin’ a dude—the bitches love that shit,” Bryan boasted as he kicked his left boot off, “Gets ‘em all horny when they see I’m such a stud I c’n dick down both chicks and guys. ‘Course, Carlos here knows all about that, dontcha, dude?”
Carlos stiffened. No matter what it took, there was no way he was gonna let Nick know what Bryan had done to him in prison. He could barely admit it to himself—the thought that some other male had cum inside him…
“See, yer, uh, friend here and I were prison buds,” Bryan said, smirking at Nick as he slid the other boot off and unbuttoned the waistband of his cargo pants. “An’ there was this one time me an’ these other dudes got holda him an’—GACK!!”
Later, Nick had to replay the video in slow motion to see exactly how smoothly Carlos had squatted, retrieved the Bowie knife from his boot sheath, then whirled and sprung forward, thrusting the tip of the blade into Bryan’s throat. The razor-sharp steel, held vertically, pierced the unlucky punk’s larynx straight through from front to back, the cartilage that formed his vocal process parting like butter under a hot knife. The tip of the blade lodged in one of Bryan’s cervical vertebrae for a moment, then Carlos jerked the knife back out.
He’d managed to avoid all the major blood vessels and most of the major nerves. The wound wasn’t fatal, but it was excruciating, horrifyingly traumatic—and left the victim permanently unable to speak.
“Goddam, man, what the fuck?” Nick asked, shocked, as Bryan, his eyes huge, clutched at his throat and sank back down onto the bed, making thick, desperate gagging sounds.
“Aw, his voice was gettin’ on my nerves,” Carlos said, his expression visibly more cheerful than it had been since he’d gotten home. “Don’t worry,” he continued, making certain that Bryan could hear his words, “He’ll still put on a good show when I fuck ‘im and finally snuff ‘im. Gonna take my time with this one. Hear that, ya sick faggot? You’re gonna die slow, with my cock up yer ass.”
By now, Carlos was standing beside the bed, towering over Bryan as the latter pulled his hands from his neck and stared in horror at the blood on them. Without warning, the muscular Latino backhanded the youth. “You thought you were gonna fuck me?!? Naw, motherfucker, I’m gonna fuck you.”
Bryan turned his dazed, uncomprehending eyes up to meet Carlos’s icy gaze. Their beautiful emerald green, ringed by long and lush eyelashes, set something off in the skinhead’s warped psyche.
“No one fucks me! Ever!!” He punched Bryan three times in the face, repeated jackhammer blows that Nick caught on camera—not the impacts, but the flexing of Carlos’s thick, powerful deltoid and dorsal muscles and the bulging of his trapezius. He was still clutching the long Bowie knife in his hand as he pounded the punk’s face.
Finally, breathing heavily, he stepped back, leaving the bruised fuckmeat sprawled unconscious on the bed, still in its socks and camo pants, its face swelling and air gurgling in its open trachea. Nick adjusted the camera, re-centering the field of view on the wounded and trembling ex-con. He loved it; this was hot as fuck. It’d bring a nice inflow of cash if Carlos continued to abuse the unlucky motherfucker as brutally as he’d started. “Damn, dude,” he said appreciatively, “What’d he do to you?”
“Nothin’,” Carlos said sullenly, “He din’t do nothin’. Fuckin’ faggot just thought he was gonna be smart, is all. But this asswipe needs my dick bad. An’ he needs it to hurt. Go get yer handheld, cause when this fuck wakes up, he’s gonna know what it feels like to have a real man inside ‘im. Get a close-up of his face as he cries like a fuckin’ pussy, huh? Yeah?”
Nick’s huge shaft was already tenting his jogger pants; noticing it, Carlos grinned, then bent forward and began cutting Bryan’s pants off with his knife. The horny little fuckmeat was commando, of course; Carlos was already expecting it. Piece a’ shit was ready to stick his cock into anything that came along—it was time to see how well he performed on the receiving end of the proposition.
And if he needed a little prodding to perform well—the nine inches of razor-sharp steel that jutted from the hilt grasped tightly in Carlos’s hand would ensure he got the point.
By the time Nick got back with the hand-held, Bryan’s camo pants lay on the floor, a pile of shredded fabric. The Latino skinhead already had his massive dick out, its thick, vein-wrapped girth already pulsing and dripping.
“Aw hell yeah, man, time to rock ‘n roll,” Nick chuckled enthusiastically. “This is gonna be a serious money-maker, right here. C’mon, dude, lemme see ya make this piece of fagmeat scream.”
Carlos didn’t need any encouragement. As Bryan began to moan and squirm, faint trickles of blood still leaking from the hole in his throat, the buff ex-con serial killer climbed up onto the bed. Planting his thick-soled jump boots to get the best traction, he grinned maliciously and started to force the engorged purple head of his cock into Bryan’s asshole.
Bryan liked to fuck other dudes as a show of dominance; much like Carlos, he in no way thought of himself as gay. Unlike Carlos, though, he’d never been fucked in the ass. His fuckhole was tight; despite the slick coating of precum acting as lube for the Hispanic stud’s shaft, it was still a struggle for Carlos to mount and fully penetrate his semi-conscious victim. He had to force it, brutally, and the horrific, searing pain of his sphincter being torn forced Bryan back to full awareness.
He screamed. It was nightmarish; he was being forced down by this muscular dude and couldn’t escape the agonizing sense of being impaled, so he screamed and screamed—but no screams came out. All Bryan was able to do was croak and gasp as his severed vocal cords fluttered uselessly in his punctured larynx. A fine mist of blood was aspirated from the wound with each attempt; Carlos noted it with pleasure.
“Hey, Nick! Dude, you gettin’ his neck? See that?” he asked, then spoke to Bryan directly. “Hey, ol’ friend, ol’ buddy, you tastin’ yer own blood yet? Huh? How’s that taste?” He thrust his hugely swollen member deep inside the prison rapist’s guts, grinning maniacally as Bryan’s face twisted with excruciating pain.
“Hurts, don’t it?” he whispered—not so quietly that Nick couldn’t hear him— “Hurts when you don’t want a fuckin’ dick up yer ass, yeah? Guess what, bitch, it’s about to hurt a lot fuckin’ more. You’re gonna die ridin’ my cock, an’ I’m gonna make goddam sure you die hard—and slow. Yer gonna be praying I cum in yer guts, motherfucker, cause snuffing yer worthless faggot ass is what’s gonna make me blow my load—and death is the only thing that’s gonna end yer sufferin’. Get it now? Ready to get fucked to death?”
The question was rhetorical; even if Bryan had been physically capable of speaking, his beautiful eyes, wide with blank fear and ringed with gray, showed his state of insensibility. As Nick zoomed in on the young punk’s face, it was clear that the kid was going into shock. His struggles slowed; his perfect bubble butt ceased to flex erotically on Carlos’s rod.
“No ya don’t,” Carlos snarled, “Stay awake, motherfucker!”
Raising his knife up, he drove it straight down like a pile driver, plunging all nine inches of sharpened steel into Bryan’s hard, flat, fuzz-covered belly. Carlos forced it in up to the hilt, powering through the faint resistance of the punk’s rubbery intestines. The blade sliced between the floating ribs in the back and completely penetrated the pain-wracked youth, its tip embedded in the mattress beneath him.
As Bryan kicked and writhed in agony, Carlos grunted with sexual pleasure. “Fuck yeah, that’s it—clench that ass and work my fuckin’ dick!”
The ex-con hipster screamed silently, his muscled body suddenly going stiff with excruciating pain as the powerful Latino began to withdraw both his knife and his cock. Tears trickled from Bryan’s eyes as he felt the hot hard dick and the cold hard blade being extracted from inside his body—slowly…oh, so slowly…
Carlos waited into just the tip of each remained inside the quivering punk. “Watch ‘im,” he told Nick, his face lit with sadistic glee, “Get a shot of the fucker’s face here, when I give it to ‘im good.”
Bryan heard him speak, but was suffering too badly to understand what they meant. Some part of his mind was lost in bewilderment, trying to understand how what should have been an easy fuck had turned into this searing nightmare. He was totally unprepared when Carlos slammed his huge swollen shaft home, burying it balls-deep inside his former rapist. Simultaneously, he powered the Bowie knife back in, twisting it in the wound, slashing at Bryan’s soft, tender guts.
The boy clutched at Carlos, his fingers gripping the Hispanic skinhead’s broad shoulders as his strong, thick legs, already involuntarily wrapped around Carlos’s waist, tightened like a wrestling move—but it was all done unconsciously, in reaction to the phenomenal torture he was enduring.
Bryan screamed and screamed, the wheezing, gurgling sound coming from the gash in his throat making a mockery of his efforts. Nick had positioned himself to the side of the bed and had zoomed in on the dying convict’s face over Carlos’s shoulder while the latter tormented his prey. “Lookit that—I think he wants t’ stop! That right, ya little bitch? Ya don’t wanna get fucked? All ya gotta do is say no!”
Knocking Bryan’s arms away from his shoulders contemptuously, Carlos rose up on his knees so Nick could get a better view. He left the knife embedded in the kid’s belly, blood leaking from the wound and the hilt bobbing in the air as Bryan’s sweat-slick abdomen heaved in agony.
“Well? I ain’t hearin’ ya say no—guess that means yer enjoyin’ my dick, huh? Yeah? Fuckin’ knew it, ya worthless faggot cockwhore!” The buff, domineering psycho spat in the suffering youth’s face, then punched him again, splitting his lips.
“Damn, dude, yer really gettin’ medieval on his ass,” Nick chuckled; he’d seen Carlos lose it with the meat before, but never right away like this.
“Wanna see him suffer,” the hardbodied sadist grunted, his inked skin glistening with sweat as he rhythmically pumped the tortured youth’s ass, “Wanna make goddam sure the faggot knows what it feels like when a real man gets hold of his worthless meat.”
“Fuck yeah, man,” Nick chuckled, rubbing the dark moist spot at the top of the huge bulge in his pants, “Dudes are gonna be lovin’ this shit, man—fuck ‘im up man; tear that cunt up!”
It was obvious that Bryan, wallowing in terrified agony, was till able to understand Nick’s words. Seeing the fresh wave of horror sweep over the punk’s bleeding, swelling face, the buff cameraman grinned and winked maliciously at him, then leaned in over Carlos’s shoulder for a close-up.
“Naw, man, c’mon round the side and show ‘em how much the fuckin’ sicko’s gettin’ off,” Carlos jeered, “Bitch likes it rough—hah!”
Circling around, Nick saw that Carlos was right. The muscular Latino was up on his knees with the fuckmeat’s thick, firm legs wrapped around his tight waist, steadily pumping his huge tool into the kid’s traumatized asshole. The hilt of his knife still protruded from Bryan’s taut, flat belly. In between Carlos and the knife, Bryan was sporting an erection—an impressive one, given his obvious agony and terror.
“Watch this shit,” Carlos smirked. As Nick zoomed in, the hairy, tatted ex-con grasped the hilt and yanked it out of Bryan’s guts. As he did, he twisted it slightly so that the viciously sharp serrations carved new channels in the suffering punk’s flesh.
Bryan stiffened in horrible torment his face contorted with agony, pink foam bubbling from the wound in his throat as he shrieked, inaudibly and futilely—but at the same time, his hard half-foot of vein-wreathed cockmeat pulsed visibly. Nick made damn sure his viewers missed no detail as the tortured youth’s erect, throbbing penis started oozing precum voluntarily.
“Toldja the fucker was a goddam faggot,” Carlos said, looking Bryan straight in the eyes. “Aintcha, ya piece a’ motherfuckin’ shit? Ya want this, dontcha? Fuckin’ love finally havin’ a real man fillin’ yer guts with all kinda long hard shafts, yeah, you sick fuck?”
The nightmarish pain in his guts and his ass had pushed Bryan over the edge; even as his former victim pumped his colon full of cock, the strong young punk was beating on Carlos’s chest, his fists uselessly pummeling the Latino’s broad hairy chest. He was only barely aware that his own dick was hard, hard and bobbing stiffly with every powerful thrust of Carlos’s hips.
“Goddam,” Nick moaned, steadying his camera in one hand as he unzipped his fly with the other, “Fuckin’ meat sure looks like it’s workin’ yer tool good.”
“Naw it ain’t,” Carlos sneered. “Worthless cunt can’t even stroke my dick right. Think it’s time to tighten up its fuckhole the hard way. Hear that, bitch? Know what that means?” Grinning evilly, the buff, inked ex-con brandished the blade to the panicked, pain-crazed youth flailing desperately beneath him. “Means it’s time to die, fucker.”
Suddenly the muscle-bound serial killer threw himself down, the wiry fur on his hard chest scraping Bryan’s smooth skin like steel wool. The youth felt the weight of the larger man compress his straining cock between their flat, sweat-slick bellies as his legs, still wrapped around Carlos’s waist, squeezed together involuntarily.
Carlos grabbed a hank of Bryan’s long, dyed section of hair, holding the boy’s trembling head still. He bent down so close that his scruffy facial growth scraped Bryan’s smooth, silky cheek—so close that neither Nick nor his camera could pick up the words the skinhead muttered into his prison rapist’s ear.
“You fucked up so bad, dude, so fuckin’ bad,” he whispered, managing to fill his low voice with venom, “Think you hurt now? Yer gonna die in so much pain, fuckwad. Get ready, cunt, clench up on my thick hog an’ fuckin’ suffer!” Then he rose up to give Nick view.
The cameraman stroked his own cock as he closed in on the tip of Carlos’s knife, now placed under Bryan’s jaw, then opened the camera’s view back out to get the tatted Hispanic’s cocky, malicious grin. “Watch this shit, dude,” Carlos said, ostensibly to Nick, but looking directly at the camera, “This is what a real man does to a fuckin’ prison faggot.”
With that, he began to slowly, incrementally, shove all nine inches of the blade up into Bryan’s head through the underside of his jaw.
What Bryan had endured before was nothing compared to this new agony. His punctured larynx, his stabbed gut and impaled ass were all but forgotten as sharpened steel slid up through his jaw, parting the tissue like butter until it hit the underside of his tongue. That was muscle; Carlos had to apply a little extra pressure to pierce it.
The hardbodied cameraman was as affected by the near-visible haze of sweat and pheromones as the two males locked together in fatal intercourse on the bed. Nick’s long, pulsing shaft began to ooze as he captured a visual of Carlos’s right bicep bulging as he powered his knife through Bryan’s tongue, inflicting horrific pain on the writhing punk.
Bryan went utterly rigid with agony, his hands helplessly clutching Carlos’s broad shoulders and his tight, firm thighs scissoring the ruthless Latino’s waist. Carlos shifted his powerful body forward, digging his shiny jump boots into the bed for better leverage as he continued to force his knife into Bryan’s skull.
All the unfortunate youth could do was hold on and suffer. His own strong young body was no match for that of the sadistic skinhead; he’d only been able to rape Carlos as part of a group. In his single-minded lust, he’d put himself at the mercy of his one-time victim solo.
Problem was, there was no mercy, only unimaginable pain.
It seemed to take forever. The knife inched its way up through the roof of Bryan’s mouth, spearing the soft palate. Carlos had to press hard to force the tip of the knife through the palatine bone; with a satisfied grunt of effort, he cradled Bryan’s head in his free arm and shoved. He was rewarded with a loud crunching sound as the carbon-steel blade penetrated the agonized punk’s cranium and sliced up through his sinuses.
Bryan was conscious throughout the whole process. There was little space for lucid thought within the echoing confines of his mind; there was nothing left but screaming and soul-searing physical suffering. And during it all, he held his killer tight, pressing his firm, smooth, shuddering body against Carlos’s, the toes on his sock-covered feet curling in the air.
“Oh fuck yeah, that’s it,” Carlos moaned, his hard handsome face taut and sweaty with physical pleasure, “that’s how ya make fuckmeat tighten up—milk my fuckin’ cock, faggot. Die, so I can fill yer worthless corpse with cum!”
The frame of Nick’s camera was filled for a moment with Bryan’s face, filled with anguish and smeared with tears, snot, and blood—the latter trickling from his nose and his split lips. As the pointed tip of Carlos’s knife speared its way up through his skull, it sliced through the boy’s optic nerves; his bulging, bloodshot emerald eyes suddenly rolled back in his head as permanent darkness swept over him.
His ears still worked, though.
“Hey, Bry,” Carlos whispered huskily, “I’m ‘bout to fuck yer brain with my blade. Just a little “fuck you” from our days inside.”
With a snarl on his face, the muscle-bound skinhead drove his knife up into Bryan’s head until the tip ground into the inside of cranium. In a split second, the punk’s frontal lobe had been impaled by a thick steel shank.
And in that second, Bryan became meat. Shuddering, sweating, clenching meat that spent its last few living moments on earth using its colon to stroke Carlos’s long, fat dick to orgasm.
“Aw, yeah!” the hairy, inked ex-con yelled, “Fuck! Goddam, gonna blow—FUCK!!” His powerful, glistening body went rigid as hot manseed boiled over in his balls and was pumped in huge spurts deep into the dying meat’s ass. The image recorded on Nick’s camera turned out pretty well after a little stabilization editing; the buff, leering cameraman shuddered a little as he spewed thick creamy jets of semen directly into Bryan’s slack, gaping face.
Between the entwined males, the quivering boymeat began to spunk uncontrollably. Despite being in the depths of ejaculation, Carlos felt his one-time rapist’s cum splattering into his belly fur—and the memory of the last time he’d felt Bryan’s jizz, it was inside him.
It was too much. Even as he unloaded in his victim’s helpless corpse, it was still too much.
Carlos pulled his dick out of the fuckmeat. Still shooting, he yanked his knife out of Bryan’s head in a single brutal jerk. Grabbing the dead boy’s package—still spunking as well, an automatic physiological response to the massive brain trauma—the enraged Latino sliced it all off.
Even as he held Bryan’s severed dick and balls aloft, the convulsing organ continued to shoot semen. “Holy fuck!” Nick cried, sending a solid stream of jizz into the air like geyser. Incredulously, he recorded Carlos jamming Bryan’s still-leaking dick into the kid’s own mouth, balls-first, so that the livid head protruded from his parted lips, letting the spunk still oozing out trickle down the dead punk’s chin.
Carlos shot two more jets of thick, ropy manseed over the mutilated remains of his prey, his chest heaving, the gold chain around his neck glinting in the light as he steadied himself over the kicking corpse. Breathing heavily, Nick allowed the hardbodied ex-con to slide off the bed; recovering his breath, he lowered the camera for a moment. For a moment, he centered it involuntarily on the cum-spattered tops of his Nike Air Force 1s, then raised it again, letting it linger over Bryan’s smooth, muscular corpse, trembling in its death throes, blood leaking from the gaping wound between the legs.
“And…scene!” Nick cried enthusiastically, shutting the camera off. “Jesus, dude, that was fuckin’ intense! What, did he piss you off? Bad cellie?”
Carlos had managed to catch his breath. Standing at the foot of the bed, he gazed contemptuously down at the mangled, abused body. “I didn’t bunk with the asswipe,” he said quietly, his rage momentarily dispersed via orgasm. “Fucker wouldn’ta lived this long if I had.”
He turned and headed towards the bathroom, leaving Nick to plan the clean-up.
The lugubrious grin on Nuñez’s face let Schweitz know this was gonna be a good one—as in, this was gonna be really bad. He wasn’t disappointed.
“It’s another faggot—” Nuñez started.
“Aw, jeez, whyd’ja hafta call me out here on this one? You know we ain’t got time for this bullshit!”
“Thought you’d like this one,” Nuñez grinned. “As a connoisseur, so to speak.”
Schweitz rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress an amused smirk. “Ok, show me whatcha got.”
“This way,” the slim Hispanic cop said, leading his sweating, obese partner to a dumpster at the end of the alley; it belonged to a small-time local casino, whose staff had reported the find. The body had already been removed from the garbage and was on a gurney, bagged, by the time Schweitz got there.
“Open it,” Nuñez said. The tech obeyed, letting Schweitz get a good view of Bryan’s bulging mouthful.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” the heavy-set cop muttered.
“Ex-con,” Nuñez said, “Hasn’t been in town long. We found his parole officer’s card in his wallet; he ID’d ‘im from the tattoos.”
“Ok,” Schweitz sighed, “That puts you ahead. I admit it, that one’s fucked up. But I still think I can find one even worse before the end of the year. The faggots do some seriously sick shit to each other. Now sign off on that worthless cocksucker—haw! —and let’s go grab some lunch. There’s a new Chinese buffet over on Charleston I wanna try.”
“Always thinkin’ of yer gut, aintcha?” Nuñez jeered coarsely. “Naw, I don’t need no ident number for that motherfucker”—this was to the coroner’s tech, referring to the corpse— “Ain’t like anyone give a shit about some faggot jailbird.”
As the cops headed back up the alley, the tech re-sealed Bryan’s stiffening corpse. He banged it around a bit as he got it back to the van, but, after all, he wasn’t paid to care about some faggot’s abused body, either.