“A shortcut? Down here? Naw, I don’t think it’s safe.” Ben peered down the dark alley that Ethan had indicated.
“C’mon, man, what—are ya chicken?” Ethan teased.
They were walking home from Club 69, their favorite bar. Ethan was eighteen and Ben was a little older at almost twenty. It had been lust at first sight between the two twinks and they were inseparable. They were walking back to small apartment they shared since Ben was unemployed and couldn’t afford a car—and Ethan had lost his license due to a DUI when he was still living with his parents.
In other words, they were typically heedless young faggots, more concerned about style than substance. They made sure they had decent clothing and enough money to pay the cover fee at the club; after that, they always managed to get other guys to buy them drinks.
Ethan was slim and lithe, not scrawny. His lean body was dressed to attract attention, from his cropped t-shirt that read “Daddy’s Boy” and revealed several inches of his smooth, flat belly above the waistband of his black skinny jeans, to his Steve Madden Riot black and gold hightops. Even his sculpted, ash-blond hair seemed to draw the eyes.
Ben was slightly taller than Ethan and had a more average build. He had a clear oval face and large dark eyes under a carefully disheveled mass of chestnut curls. He sported a short-sleeve t-shirt hoodie in a shiny, tight-fitting material over a pair of skinny jogger pants in pale blue denim, with a white stripe down the sides. On his feet were a pair of Chuck Taylor “Hidden Heart” Converses.
With their eye-catching gear and “fuck-me” looks, neither twink had encountered any resistance in getting others to buy them drinks. By the time the bar closed, neither one was really sober enough to make good decisions.
Which was why Ben made the worst—and last—mistake of his life and overrode his objections to Ethan’s short cut. Not that he didn’t bitch about it, of course.
“Man, this place is nasty,” he whined as they picked their way through the alley, “Smells like piss, too. How d’ya know it’s ok? You been down here before?”
“Sure,” Ethan replied nonchalantly, “Gave a dude a blowjob down this way last year. They wouldn’t let me into the club–said I was too young, so I hadta wait outside. So this one dude comes out—”
“Where’s this lead to?” Ben broke in nervously.
“Well, lessee, we turn this corner here, and there’s another alley for a coupla hundred feet, then another turn an’ yer out on Anderson Avenue. What’s wrong with you, dude?”
“There are stories about this neighborhood, man—ain’t you heard ‘em? Some kinda Nazi gang or some shit like that. Like gay-bashin’ an’ shit. I just don’t like it, that’s all.”
“Aw, I know what you need,” Ethan grinned and grabbed Ben’s hand. “C’mere,” he said, dragging Ben around the corner. This stretch of alley was dimly lit; the view down its length was impeded by dumpsters and trash piles. The blond twink pushed the dark-haired one up against the wall and kissed him deeply, their soft lips pressed together as their tongues explored each other’s mouths and Ethan’s hands fondled the steadily-stiffening bulge in the crotch of Ben’s jogger pants.
“What the fuck do we got here? Coupla faggots? On our turf?”
The harsh, jeering voice froze the twinks’ blood; it was simultaneous with the blinding beam of a flashlight pointed straight in their eyes.
“Hey, Jack, whatcha think?”
Jack stepped forward into the circle of light; it took some blinking, but Ethan and Ben were able to focus on him.
Jack was older than the boys; it wasn’t clear by how much, but it didn’t matter. He was buff and athletic, his broad chest stretching out the cotton “Gold’s Gym” t-shirt he wore. His muscled forearms and massive biceps were covered with tattoos, far too many to take in at once, but Ben noticed several swastikas and his heart sank.
Jack’s Levis were tight and torn, showing that he had thick, powerful legs to match his arms. Below the knee, the jeans vanished into a pair of green 20-hole Doc Martens. But it was it was Jack’s shaved head that confirmed the image. Except for the fringe of a dark beard across the hard line of his jaw, the man standing before the twinks was a skinhead.
He crossed his arms and sneered at them. “Oh yeah, they’re faggots, all right.”
“Look, man, we were just takin’ a shortcut!” Ethan cried out.
“Yeah, dude, we-we don’t want any trouble,” Ben stammered.
Jack’s sneer grew broader. “Wee-wee? Yer gonna fuckin’ wee-wee when I get done with you. You two faggots made a big mistake. We’re takin’ this neighborhood back from worthless fucks like you.”
“Aw, man, cut us a break—” Ben started, when, with no warning at all, Ethan whirled and bolted.
“Ed! Frankie! On ‘im!!” Jack barked and two fit, burly dudes shot out of the dark, grabbing Ethan—one by the arm, the other by the hair—and dragging him back into the light.
Ed was the oldest of all of them, with buzz-cut hair the same ash-blond shade as Ethan’s. His large nose had a noticeable hump showing that it had been broken in the past and was a legacy of the decade the Aryan thug had spent on the semi-pro boxing circuit. His hard, powerful torso was barely contained in his white cotton wifebeater, but he’d otherwise gone with the traditional skinhead look of rolled-up acid-washed jeans over oxblood Doc Martens.
Frankie hadn’t jumped on the Doc Marten bandwagon; he’d kept his military-issue combat boots when he was discharged. He’d also kept his fondness for camo utility pants, tight khaki t-shirts, and his crewcut hair, his one concession to civilian life a carefully-shaped goatee.
Between them, the muscle-bound Nazis held the twink helpless.
“Hank, you and Mike set that light down so we can see what’s goin’ on—then grab that other one, got it?”
The flashlight was settled somewhere nearby, illuminating a broad swath of filthy alley pavement and graffiti-covered brick wall. Two buff men, one in a plain white cotton t-shirt, jeans with suspenders and red 8-hole DMs and the other in a black t-shirt with the legend “These Boots Were Made For Stomping”, tight, stained jeans, and black steel-toed engineer boots.
All of them had tattoos on both arms. Neither Ethan nor Ben noticed, but Hank and Mike had a teardrop tattoo by their eyes. Ed had two.
Hank and Mike dragged Ben to one side. One of them—Ben wasn’t sure which—grabbed a handful of his thick chestnut hair and jerked back, forcing his head up so he had to watch what was happening in front of him.
And what was happening was nightmarish.
As Jack stood with legs spread and arms folded, Ed and Frankie forced Ethan down onto his knees. After some swift maneuvering, Frankie was left crouched behind Ethan, holding him down. Ed stood up and, after some pre-arranged signal with Jack, stepped off to the left, out of the light.
“See, you sick fuckin’ perverts are pollutin’ our pure American way of life,” Jack said, his contempt dripping from his words. “We’re gonna waste all a’ you worthless fucks—niggers, spics, chinks, faggots, libtards—all a’ ya, hear me? Fuckin’ sick-ass motherfucker!”
Ed had returned by now, handing a long, narrow object to Jack. It took Ben a moment to comprehend what he was looking at: a baseball bat wrapped with rusty barbed wire.
Ben almost lost control of his bladder. Ethan did lose control.
“Hey, lookit—the little fag pissed himself!” Jack guffawed; he was joined by all the Aryans.
On his knees, Ethan began crying. “Please,” he sniveled, “please don’t hurt me, man. I’ll leave, I swear, I’ll go and never come back—” His voice dissolved into broken sobs.
“Fuck yeah, cunt, beg for yer worthless life,” Jack jeered. Like all the gang, he was straight—but like all the gang, he knew the erotic rage of completely owning a faggot. They had plans to get some pussy later on—but fuck, here was some fag pussy, theirs for the taking; why not drain a load?
He massaged his stiffening dick with one hand as he looked down at the overpowered fairy. With the other, he hoisted the bat. “Sick goddam fuck,” he growled, “Don’t fuckin’ deserve to live.” He swung the bat at Ethan’s side like he was aiming for a triple play.
Ethan’s shriek of agony as barbs of rusted steel shredded his smooth silky skin echoed in the close confines of the alley but was lost in the background of general city noise.
“Aw, fuck yeah!” Ed cheered; Frankie’s “Aw right, man!” was followed up by expressions of approval from Mike and Hank. Ben turned beseechingly to the hardbodied Nazi thugs pinning him down, but there was no trace of mercy. On the contrary; both men were obviously getting sexually around by their sheer dominance and ability to inflict pain on the faggots.
Ethan sobbed and cried, clutching his damaged flank. The blow had been hard enough to break two ribs; they ached, but the slashes from the barbed wire hurt more. “Hey, cocksucker, look up here,” Jack called out. Ethan glanced up just in time to see him swing the bat again. This time, he made the mistake of holding up his right arm to ward off the blow.
The impact of the bat broke Ethan’s arm with a loud snap; the teen queer gasped in shock but before he could react, the barbed wire, slashing across the arm, flayed his skin to the bone.
Holding his right arm in his left, looking at his wounds with wide, shocked eyes, Ethan screamed. Frankie let go and backed away, letting the mauled youth rise shakily to his feet.
For a moment, Ben thought he was going insane. Jack had reached down and unzipped his fly, letting his thick tube of manmeat fall out. Then the Nazi spoke. “So ya like dick, do ya, motherfucker? You only had fag dick, cocksucker. I’m gonna letcha see what real mandick feels like before you die, asswipe.”
As Ethan gaped at him, Jack swung the bat again, catching the eighteen-year-old fagboy directly on his left knee with a crunching sound. Ethan shrieked in agony again and crumpled to the ground, a heap of bleeding boyflesh.
And that was exactly what the gang of predators was looking for. Gender didn’t matter, what mattered was proving their physical superiority over their victims. They’d have done the same to, say, a group of Asian schoolgirls. They were men, they were hard, and they were gonna prove it, literally.
“Strip him,” Jack commanded. Ed and Frankie, both with visibly erect cocks, stepped forward and began jerking Ethan’s clothing off.
“Stop it!” Ben cried, finally summoning the strength to overcome his fear.
“Shaddup, ya homo sack a’ shit!” Mike snarled and punched Ben in the stomach. Ben couldn’t see the brass knuckles Mike had managed to slip on, but he damn sure felt them. Both men tightened their grips on the young pansy as he shuddered in pain.
When his vision cleared again, Ben was looking on a scene straight out of Bosch painting. Ethan, stripped down to his black and gold hightops, was getting stomped repeatedly by three muscle-bound Nazi thugs with big boots.
The teenaged faggot thrashed and jerked on the grimy concrete, desperately trying to avoid the continuous pounding of thick boot soles on his tender skin. “Aw, fuck yeah,” Frankie spat out, his erect cock already oozing with his sense of power, “Ya like rough trade, ya cum-sucking fag, huh?” He slammed his combat boot into the kid’s solar plexus, making the boy curl up reflexively around his foot. “That fuckin’ rough enough for ya?”
“Naw,” Ed jeered, “But this is.” With his big thick cock swinging wide, he kicked Ethan in the jaw, breaking it with a loud crack. The punk was splayed out on his side with the impact, moaning incoherently.
“How’s that feel, ya fuckin’ homo pervert?” Jack asked as Ed chuckled and stroked his hard shaft.
“Stop!” Ben yelled again, his voice quavering with tears, “You’re gonna kill ‘im!”
All five booted thugs laughed derisively. Hank grabbed Ben’s chin and twisted the boy’s head to face him; the fag could smell the beer that came off the Nazi’s breath in thick, yeasty waves. “That’s right, motherfucker. Best way to make sure you stupid faggots don’t ferget yer lesson is to beat it into ya!”
As he and Mike laughed, he kneed Ben in the groin. The kid groaned and tried to collapse but the vicious thugs held him up and continued to force him to watch Ethan’s suffering.
By now, the nearly-nude teen homo had rolled onto his belly and was crawling on the pavement, attempting to escape his punishment. “No you don’t, you little asswipe,” Jack snarled and slammed his boot down on Ethan’s back. Before Ben realized what was happening, Jack, Ed and Frankie had all surrounded Ethan and were brutally stomping him. “Fuckin-A!” Frankie barked, grinning and erect with white pride, “Ya worthless piece a’ shit!” Ed, his fists gripped tight, pounded his red DMs on the boy’s bare back.
Ben hadn’t realized he’d lost track of Jack until the latter appeared, rearmed with the baseball bat. Still unable to catch his breath, the dark-haired cocksucker could only moan his protest as the hardbodied Aryan gripped the handle, took a wide-legged stance, and swung the barbed wire-wrapped bat as hard as he could—which was pretty fuckin’ hard, as Ethan learned to his cost.
The bat hit Ethan across the small of the back, instantly slashing the smooth skin. Ben, some ten yards away, heard the crunching sound as several of the pansy’s vertebrae shattered, instantly paralyzing his legs. Despite the horrific pain of his broken jaw, Ethan screamed; he couldn’t help it. The sound was more like a squeal, and it clearly enraged Jack. He shoved the toe of his boot under Ethan’s left shoulder and rolled the sobbing kid over.
“Shut the fuck up, faggot,” he sneered, then bent over and spat in Ethan’s face. Blinking the phlegm out his eyes, the teen peered up at his assailant, his bewildered eyes seeking some clue to this sudden explosion of terror and agony into his life.
All he saw was a tall muscular skinhead looming over him, his cock protruding from his fly, erect and pulsating. And that tall laced green leather boot he was hoisting; at any other time, Ethan would be aroused, but now, looking at the deep, grime-filled tread of the Doc Marten hanging over him—
It happened so fast he didn’t see it coming. “Suffer, ya fucking cunt!” Jack roared and stomped Ethan’s face, driving his boot into the homo’s mouth. Then he turned away and tossed the bat to the side, gripping his hard shaft and brandishing it proudly like a club as Ethan thrashed, his hightops drumming on the pavement as he gagged on his own blood and teeth.
“These baby fags ain’t never had no real mandick,” he chuckled, looking around at the grinning thugs, who all knew what was running in his mind. “Whaddaya say, boys—wanna show ‘em what real men feel like ‘fore we show ‘em how real men handle faggots?”
Given that every one of them already had their dicks out—and there wasn’t one that wasn’t rock-hard and already oozing—the answer was obvious.
“Bring him,” Jack said. Without another word, Ed and Frankie bent down, each one grabbing one of Ethan’s arms. Following Jack, they dragged the beaten and bleeding sack of fagmeat down the alley. Mike and Hank came right behind, jerking Ben along in a painfully tight grip.
Fifteen yards down the alley, under a dim security light, was a stack of pallets about three feet tall or so. The thugs threw Ethan onto it face down, his already-slashed chest and belly scraping along the rough, splinter-strewn wood, his young, smooth asscheeks and pink fuckhole splayed out for easy access.
Frankie went first. Planting his combat boots wide, he shoved his thick, glistening tool inside Ethan’s still-clenched asshole. As Frank’s hard, goateed face snarled with physical pleasure, Ed held Ethan down and Jack rained blows on his face. Frankie’s thrusts up the comatose fag’s ass were timed by the repeated smacking sound of flesh on mangled flesh.
Ben wasn’t left out of the fun; as Hank, his broad chest straining his thin cotton wifebeater, held the slim, boyish homo upright, Mike hunched over and delivered a devastating series of punches to his mid-section in sets of three.
“Fuckin’ (WHAM) faggot (WHAM) goddam (WHAM, pause to re-adjust brass knuckles) piece (WHAM) a’ (WHAM) shit! (WHAM)”
The Nazi emphasized his hate with an impact so hard it tore Ben’s liver. Hank suddenly let go and the gasping, moaning twink sank to the pavement, clutching his battered abdomen, feeling, but not understanding the mortal ache inside. Just past the Aryan in the jeans and black leather boots, he could see that Frankie was finishing up with Ethan. The hulking skinhead gave a loud, inarticulate cry and shuddered violently. He remained bent over the trembling form of the limp homo, then withdrew his still-leaking shaft. Stepping quickly to one side, he let Ed in.
The older man’s cock wasn’t quite as long as his predecessor’s had been—but it was considerably thick. He smirked, his masculine face, with its broken nose, betraying a kind of malicious triumph as he spat into his hand and smeared the spit onto the head of his dick. He kicked at the boy, his steel-toed DM’s leaving dark bruised on the kid’s calves, but there was no response from Ethan.
The eighteen-year-old twink had suffered too much head trauma. The bleeding in his brain was too severe. Ed sank his fireplug dick into a human vegetable.
Ben knew what was happening. He knew how this was gonna end. In a way, he envied Ethan—the lucky fucker wasn’t feeling any pain. Reaching behind him, he clutched at the brick wall and tried to pull himself up.
That was when Hank showed back up with the bat. To Ben it seemed to happen in slow motion, but he couldn’t stop it. The Nazi strongman swung low, like he was teeing off a golf swing, and took out Ben’s left knee with a sickening crunch.
As Ben fell shrieking to the ground, Hank lifted his boot and pounded it down into the kid’s face, hard, twice. There were a couple more crunching sounds, but Ben stopped screaming. He was too busy coughing up blood and teeth.
As Ed kept grunting and pumping on one side of the alley, Hank and Mike quickly stripped Ben of his jogging pants and peeled off his tight shirt; like Ethan, except for his Converses, he was left nude and bleeding on the other side of the dark, reeking passageway.
Unlike Ethan, Ben was still conscious. He was aware of being dragged over to the stack of pallets and being tossed across it. Turning his head and opening his eyes—reluctantly—he found he was looking directly into Ethan’s face—upside down. He’d been placed on the opposite side from his boyfriend.
There was nothing left that Ben could recognize; he was looking into bloody pulp. Even those beautiful eyes were gone, rolled back into the skull so that only blood-streaked white slits showed under the bruised, swollen lids.
Then there was a dick inside him. That sudden, that fast. No preparation, and especially no lube. Despite a broken jaw and multiple missing teeth, Ben squealed like a stuck pig.
“Aw, fuck yeah!” he heard Mike grunt behind him, and he knew whose swollen manhood was plugging his colon. Through tear-streaked eyes, he looked past Ethan’s face and saw that of Jack, who was still pinning the brain-damaged teen down across from him. “Now yer gettin’ ta see what a real man feels like, motherfucker—you should be fuckin’ thankin’ us!”
At that moment, a shudder ran through Ethan’s limp body. Ed, his hard, muscle-bound body glistening with sweat, cried out, “Fuck! Gonna cum—FUCK!” As he snarled and unloaded, there was a sudden acrid scent and a trickling sound. Ethan had lost control of his bladder, piss spattering his hightops.
Ed pulled out, gasping and shaking as Frankie took over from Jack and Jack stepped back to fuck Ethan. He went last because his dick was the largest. He was notorious for it; after he banged a chick, she was too reamed out for anyone else.
“Hey, man,” Ed warned, “I think that one’s dead.”
“So what?” Jack leered, “A hole’s a fuckin’ hole.” Closing in on the corpse, it took him a moment or two to mount it; despite being slack in death, Ethan’s sphincter was still too tight to handle Jack’s cock. The skinhead had to apply some pressure; then he felt the dead flesh tear and sighed with pleasure.
“Aw fuck yeah,” he grinned, looking Ben directly in the eyes, “Best kinda faggot there is—a dead one, servicin’ my rod.”
Behind and inside him, Mike was pumping faster and faster; despite being barely conscious from pain and terror, Ben could feel the constant grinding on his prostate—and how it was slowly forcing an erection on him. He wasn’t the only one.
“Hey, bro, th’ little fuckin’ faggot likes it!” Hank jeered loudly. “Lookit this shit—he’s fuckin’ hard! Hey, Mikey, you a fag? Cause it looks like yer doin’ it right—haw!”
With a roar of rage at the taunt of his sexuality, the powerful thug grabbed a handful of Ben’s hair, jerked his head back and slammed it down onto the pallet. As he did, he suddenly hunched over and spasmed, then filled Ben’s rectum with searing manseed. Another jerk and another slam, this one rewarded with the squelching sound of Ben’s nose being broken, brought another hot jet of semen coating the homo’s innards—and then Mike pulled out.
Even now, Ben was still awake and lucid. He knew he shouldn’t be, but he was. And he felt somehow empty inside, without the Aryan strongman brutally raping him. It was the last submissive act of despair of a bottom faggot trying to stave off death—and he needn’t have worried anyway. No sooner was Mike out than Hank was in.
Compared to Hank, Mike had been loving and gentle. Mike needed a hole to fuck so he could cum. For Hank to cum, someone had to suffer.
“Gimme yer knuckles, bro,” he said gruffly as he stuffed his massive tool inside the twink’s violated asshole.
The pain in his colon had faded into the background by now, but the sudden hail of blows on his back damn sure didn’t. With every thrust of his powerful hips, Hank hit Ben, cursing him with each blow. The fleshy impacts echoed in the alley, along with grunts of “Faggot! Goddam cocksucker! Take it, you worthless sack a’ shit, fucking take my dick!”
“Aw yeah, fuck that faggot,” Jack grunted, the handsome skinhead’s face twisted with demonic lust and rage, as he plowed his shaft into Ethan’s still-convulsing corpse, “Fuck yeah, dude, beat the fuckin’ homo garbage to death and fuckin’ unload in the cunt’s gut’s!” As he heaved and pumped, his “Gold’s Gym” t-shirt clung tightly to his sweat-slicked chest, highlighting his massive pecs and large, jutting nipples.
Some sick little part of Ben’s mind found itself cravenly attracted to Jack, even as Hank raped him and beat him so badly that his kidneys failed—not that Ben lived long enough to suffer much by it.
He did manage to live long enough to take the Aryan’s load, though; the smooth, wiry teen was still conscious and suffering as the skinhead shuddered and moaned, hosing Ben’s guts with hot squirts of semen. At the same time, Ben became aware that he was alone on the pile of pallets.
Jack had pulled out of Ethan. The teen fag’s body, with nothing to support it, slid off the pile and fell into a filthy puddle like a sack of pigshit.
“Hey, Jack, this one’s still alive,” Mike said.
Jack, his enormous manshaft still swinging wide and free in the air between his powerful legs, said evenly, “Not for fuckin’ long. Hand me that bat; I gotta idea.”
Grinning with malignant hate, Frankie quickly handed Jack the barbed-wire-wrapped bat. He watched with almost reverent awe; this was gonna be good. Jack knew how to fuck faggots up good; that’s why he was the leader.
And good, in this case, meant real fuckin’ bad.
“Get ‘im up on there,” Jack commanded, indicating the pile, “Up on his back with his legs spread.”
Ben’s eyes, wide with terror, vainly sought those of Jack as Ed grabbed a handful of the twink’s hair and his left arm, Frankie the right, and Hank and Mike each of his smooth, firm legs. Even though they’d all—except Jack—cum within the past few minutes, their hard, strong bodies had enough stamina—and sick hateful lust—for them all to start getting hard again.
“Ya like takin’ it the ass, do ya, faggot?” Jack jeered at Ben. The nineteen-year-old prettyboy—no longer so fuckin’ pretty—tried to beg for his life but was able to force no more than a croak from his ruined mouth, at the cost of excruciating pain. “Then it’s yer lucky fuckin’ day, cunt, cause I got somethin’ to stick up yer ass that you ain’t ever gonna forget!”
Ben didn’t see it coming, either literally or figuratively; it wasn’t till Jack started forcing the bat up his ass that he realized what was happening.
It took a while, and a lot of effort. Ed let Frankie take hold of Ben’s hair and went to help Jack shove. The pain of his mangled mouth was suddenly nothing; Ben’s nightmarish screams echoed down the alley but the only response they brought was to make his assailants harder.
“Fuckin’ suffer, you goddam cocksuckin’ piece a’ shit!” Jack barked, “Scream and die, ya worthless faggot fuck, ya motherfuckin’—aw, fuck! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”
As he ground the wire-sheathed bat into Ben’s ass, twisting it deliberately to shred the homo’s rectum, he suddenly shot a thick ropy geyser of spunk over the nude twink’s body, his pearly manseed splattering across the tortured teen’s heaving form. Then it was as if someone had set off a signal; as Ed and Jack continued to destroy Ben’s ass, the lithe young fuck was showered in cum by the burly hate-filled thugs surrounding him.
If he’d been in a position to enjoy it, it would have been a dream come true for Ben. As it was, the nightmare went on far too long. The Nazi thugs managed to get the bat eight inches up Ben’s ass before the fag died of shock, trauma and blood loss.
Tucking their dicks back inside their jeans, the boys in the gang slapped each other on the back and complimented each other on their prowess. There was nothing surreptitious or shameful in their actions; they’d done a good deed by offin’ a couple of baby fags who had no right to exist in a White (real) Man’s world.
They left the corpses where they were—Ethan’s, barely recognizable, a huddle mass of fagmeat marinating in a puddle of piss and rainwater, and Ben’s, splayed out on the pallets, the bat still jammed up his ass.
They didn’t bother to take the bat. Bats and barbed wire were cheap, and this one had been up inside a faggot. They could wash their dicks, but ya don’t wash a wood bat.
“Hey, Frankie,” Jack said musingly, “Next time, get two bats—and some long-ass nails.”