Carlos was trolling for a slut.

 

It wasn’t something the homophobic sex killer did much anymore; these days, the meat just seemed drawn to him.  Even Bryan had approached him—although his ex-prison “buddy” hadn’t been the usual prey.

 

Tonight, though, the Latino stud had a mission.  He and Nick had gotten a consignment but somehow hadn’t found the right victim yet.  He’d roped in a cunt he’d found on Fremont Street, but the bitch hadn’t shown up.  Then Nick came back with one too fey and fem for Carlos to touch—it was wearing makeup, for fuck’s sake.  And now the deadline was running out; if footage wasn’t shot tonight, Nick wouldn’t have time to process it and get it to the client.  Hence Carlos’s late-night jaunt.

 

He was cruising nice and slow down Boulder Highway, heading east away from downtown.  Despite the chill in the air, he kept the top on the Benz down; since he was shirtless under his leather biker jacket, his large thick nips were rigid in the cool breeze.  His skintight jeans were tucked into a pair of tall black harness boots.  The streetlights glinted off his smooth-shaven head and illuminated the sharp angles of his black goatee.

 

He spotted the kid off to the left.  Under the brightly lit canopy of a gas station, a boy in his late teens or early twenties seemed to be asking a woman for something; as Carlos watched, she shook her head emphatically and climbed into an SUV.  She pulled away so fast the kid had to jump back; he started after her for a while, crestfallen, then turned and headed off into the darkness.

 

He was going north up a side street.  Carlos had to wait for a red light to make a U-turn; by the time he got back to the gas station and turned up same street, he was worried that he might’ve missed the punk.

 

He hadn’t.  Halfway down the street, the buff ex-con could see the boy under a streetlight, walking away from him.  The kid wore skintight jeans; Carlos could see the boy’s rounded asscheeks flexing forward with each step.

 

He knew he was gonna be slamming his thick raging cock into that tight ass within an hour; he just needed to bait the dumb fag the right way and the homo would be his to destroy—on film.

 

In the cool of the desert evening, the boy sported a denim jacket.  On his feet, he wore a pair of genuine shitkickers—square-toed cowboy boots that thumped heavily each time they hit the pavement.

 

The boy paused at the next street corner, looking thoughtfully down the cross street in both directions, as if deciding where to go next.  Carlos solved the problem by pulling up next to him.

 

“Need a lift?” the sadistic serial killer asked, his masculine face beaming as he smiled broadly.  The punk turned to look at him, and Carlos caught sight of his face under the light for the first time.

 

The kid was no more than twenty or twenty-one.  His hair was dark and short on the sides, slightly longer and wavy in the front and on top.  Under long dark lashes, his eyes were a beautiful shade of aqua blue.  There was a haze of short dark scruff along his cheeks and chin, and, as he turned to face Carlos, the latter could see that under his denim jacket, the boy was wearing a ribbed cotton wifebeater with a low scooped neck that showed off the tops of the cunt’s pecs, lightly dusted with a faint covering of dark fur.  It also showed that he was wearing a necklace—handmade, beads stung in a regular pattern on a string.

 

There was an eagerness in those deep blue eyes that told Carlos he’d made a good choice.  “Well, I, uh…actually, uh, I need money more than a ride,” the punk said, grinning.

 

“Yeah?” Carlos asked, his own grin taking on a salacious slant.  “Whatcha willin’ do to for it?”

 

For his part, the boy was almost leering now.  “Well, if the price is right, I’ll do almost anything.”

 

“Like gettin’ fucked?  On camera?”

 

The boy’s grin fell, and a worried look crossed his face.  “I, um, I been in some threeways and got my dick sucked—but no one’s been up my ass before.”  Despite his protestation, Carlos could see that the young faggot had a massive woody.  His jeans were too tight to be tented, but the outline of the long rigid shaft of boydick was obvious.

 

“One scene, and it pays a grand,” Carlos said encouragingly, knowing the fucker would be past caring about money by the time he was done.

 

“Oh fuck yeah!” the boy said and, darting into the street, grabbed the door handle of the red Mercedes, his greed so intense that it startled even Carlos, who hadn’t had time to unlock the door.  He popped the button and the boy jumped in hurriedly.

 

“It’s cash, right?  And I get it tonight?  Name’s Caleb, by the way.”

 

“Just call me Sam,” Carlos replied with a subtle smile, “And yeah, you’ll get it tonight.”

 

As Caleb buckled the seatbelt, Carlos called Nick quickly.  Caleb could only hear one end of the conversation.

 

“Hey, it’s me—Sam.  Yeah, that’s right, I got one.  Promised him standard rate—one grand for one scene.”  Here he turned and, smiling, winked at Caleb.  “Uh-huh, right.  Yeah, heading there now.  About twenty minutes, I’d say.  Make sure it’s all set up, I think this one’s ready to rock ‘n roll the moment we get there.”

 

He was right in his estimate of timing, but it seemed longer.  The homo was a talker, and even though Carlos habitually tuned his fagmeat’s words out, some of them always seeped in.  He managed to avoid the details of the pansy’s Midwestern upbringing or his bi-curious sexual fumblings, but he did pick up some random comments about coming to Vegas looking for work, not finding any, and being reduced to begging and turning tricks.  He admitted to sucking cock and giving handies but still claimed his ass was virgin.

 

The only thing that really caught Carlos’s attention in whoreboy’s monologue was that he’d left the Salvation Army four days ago.  He’d spent three nights in a homeless camp and last night in a motel room with a trick, where he was able to shower.  He was on his last set of clean clothes, but with what he got paid tonight, he chirped, he’d throw it all out and buy new gear.

 

—from all of which, Carlos learned that no one was gonna come looking for the fagmeat when it went missing.  Dumb babbling motherfucker was just digging its own grave.

 

As Carlos negotiated his way through the industrial warehouses that surrounded the “studio”, the whore started to turn amorous, stroking Carlos’s thick muscular leg next to him.  He was acting like he was on a date, and every time he laid his faggot hand on Carlos, the vicious ex-con felt the bitter taste of anger and hatred rising in his throat.

 

This little homo needed to be put down, hard and brutally.  The thought of ending its life in a nightmarish blast of pain and terror made the murderous sadist grin; his dick throbbed at the thought.  He could hold his anger back until they reached the studio—but after that, no guarantees.  The kid was dead meat, no matter what happened.

 

For Caleb, it seemed to be a blur.  A grand wouldn’t go far in Vegas, but it was so long since he’d had any amount that he was ecstatic at the thought of getting some cash.  And if he was gonna give up his hole, it might as well be to this stud.  The dude was so masculine that the deepest cockpig corners of Caleb’s soul came to life, responding to the rampant testosterone wafting off Carlos.

 

There were a number of red flags about the whole situation, but the boy was so horny and desperate for cash that he ignored the very few he noticed.  One big one showed up when they pulled into the parking lot and Carlos killed the engine.  In an area full of workers and a cacophony of noise during the business day, it was utterly deserted and silent at night.

 

Caleb was too busy watching Carlos’s ass, encased in tight blue denim, to notice.  He followed his killer into the building like a puppy.

 

The anteroom was dark as the crossed it, the only light being shed by the computer monitor as it played a screensaver.  Beyond, the bare, concrete-floored hallway was dark as well, but light spilled into it from an open doorway some little distance down, and that was obviously where they were heading.

 

Carlos quickly stepped aside and revealed a huge, bodybuilder of a man with long dark hair.  A bright red t-shirt was stretched to capacity across the man’s broad, hubcap-like pecs, to tight his nipples jutted up like fire hydrants.  The dude had on a pair of cargo shorts; some of the pockets were in use for various items, although the only one Caleb could immediately recognize was a light meter.  The man’s powerful, hairy calves were bare but vanished quickly, as he sported a pair of Ariat ten-inch Linesman boots.

 

“I’m Caleb,” the boy said, stepping forward and holding out his hand.  Nick looked at it momentarily.

 

“Go ahead and strip,” he said curtly, “Over there.”  He pointed into the darkness, and Caleb finally noticed his surroundings—a very large dark space with a concrete floor and metal walls and roof.  The near corner had been finished off to resemble part of a bedroom with several intensely bright lights that hung from the ceiling trained on it.  It was on a dais that was carpeted but nothing else was.  To the immediate right of the bed, a couple of long folding tables had been set up; these were covered with computers and video equipment, along with a couple of small tabletop lamps.

 

The place Nick had pointed was beyond that.  No lights, no furniture.  Discomfited, Caleb walked into the far corner and pulled his boots off, leaving Nick and Carlos to converse privately.

 

“Whaddaya think?” Carlos asked.

 

“It’s a good one,” Nick agreed, “But we’re down to the wire.  Gotta keep this one short and sweet.  Beat it, bang it, break it, yeah?”

 

Carlos nodded.  Nick didn’t need to hear a verbal response, the look of anticipatory bloodlust in the Hispanic killer’s cold sneer said more than words would have.

 

Caleb had peeled off every item he had on except his and his socks.  Even with the latter still on, though, he thought the concrete was cold.  When he walked back into the light, holding his clothes, he’d slipped his brown leather western boots back on.  His long, tapered boycock dangled thickly between his legs.

 

“Where can I put these?” he asked, his jacket, shirt and jeans in his arms.

 

“I’ll take them,” Nick said, grabbing them from him.  “You need to get on the bed.”

 

Again, Nick’s abruptness unsettled Caleb; he didn’t even know the dude’s name yet, but he was obviously the cameraman.  Still, he followed Carlos over to the set, pausing while the ex-con took off his leather jacket and laid it over the back of a chair in front of the worktable.

 

The punk didn’t even realized Carlos had unzipped his jeans until they reached the set platform and the stud turned around.  Caleb’s eyes widened at the sight of the shaft he’d agreed to take up his fuckhole.

 

“Um, I don’t—I don’t know…” he began hesitantly.

 

“You don’t know what, motherfucker?” Nick demanded, tossing the boy’s carefully-folded clothing onto the floor.

 

“Hey!” Caleb barked indignantly, “What the fuck, dude?”

 

“I’ll tell ya what the fuck, bro,” Carlos said, stepping closer.  The bright lights gleamed off the ex-con’s thickly-muscled torso and suddenly Caleb’s spell was broken and the full aura of menace the serial killer exuded hit the boy like a gravel truck.  The prison ink—the skull, the cross, the word “revenge” on his neck—it all spooked the whore.  Even the bright sparkle of the stud’s gold chain seemed sinister.  “Yer gonna die, that’s what the fuck.  See, I’m gonna beat the fuck outta ya, then rape yer virgin hole and snuff ya.  Nick here’s gonna film it all, cause lotsa guys will pay good money to watch a useless faggot like you get taken out.”

 

The young man’s face was beautiful when he grinned.  Even when that grin faltered, it was still beautiful, but now filled with uncertainty.  Caleb heard the words, but he refused to accept them literally.

 

“I, uh…dude, if this is a joke—HOOG!!”

 

Without the slightest warning, Carlos gutpunched Caleb, his huge, doubled-up fist slamming into the boy’s flat firm belly, sinking deeply into his guts.  The sudden intense pressure on his diaphragm forcibly expelled the air from the whore’s lungs.

 

With a gasping, terrifying sense of suffocation, Caleb sank to his knees and bent forward, his forehead touching the concrete.  Just for the moment, he wasn’t scared; he wasn’t even surprised.  He didn’t have the luxury to indulge in those emotions; everything had become subordinate to his need to breathe.

 

“Got the camera ready?” Caleb could hear Carlos ask.  “I really wanna fuck this one up before I waste it.”  Turning his head up, the kid saw with horror that the ex-con’s huge, rigid tool was oozing from the tip as he spoke.  The dude was sexually pumped at the thought of inflicting pain on him.

 

Gasping and wheezing, the slim, firm-bodied youth managed to force enough oxygen into his lungs to function.  The next reaction was instinctive and immediate—the imperative of air had been instantly replaced with the imperative of escape.  Rising unexpectedly to his feet, Caleb bolted for the door.

 

It took both Carlos and Nick by surprise.  It took just a moment for Carlos to respond, springing forward in angry pursuit, but by that time, Caleb had cleared the door and the frantic pounding of his bootheels echoed down the hallway as he fled for the exit.

 

He burst through the anteroom with Carlos right behind him, then veered right and plunged through the front door into the parking lot.  Except for his boots, he was still nude, his long rod slapping against his smooth thighs as he ran.

 

Carlos hadn’t had time to put his weapon away, either.  He emerged into the lot with his raging manshaft still dripping as he chased down his prey.

 

“Help!” Caleb cried, “HELP!  For fuck’s sake, someone help me—”

 

Then Carlos had him.

 

Grabbing the kid by the arm, he whirled him about and sucker-punched him in the jaw, hard.  Caleb was aware of a violent, painful sensation, but it happened too fast to sort out the details.  He wasn’t out, but he was badly stunned.  Agony bloomed in his mouth; his bottom lip was split, and he’d bitten through his tongue.

 

The nude boy spat blood onto the asphalt as Carlos caught him under his arms and dragged him back to his death.

 

Nick was at the door, grinning.  He held it open as the grunting, sweaty convict hauled the meat inside.  As a producer, he appreciated it when the fags fought back; it always made Carlos angrier and more violent.  Those videos generated the highest profits.

 

And Carlos was pissed now.  He dumped the moaning kid onto the bare cement floor, not even bothering to get him to the set.  Nick barely had enough time to pick up the camera and focus before the livid serial killer began literally putting the boot in, kicking Caleb brutally and repeatedly in the gut.  The kid gagged and cried out as the steel toes of the ex-con’s harness boots sank deep into his belly, damaging his spleen and liver.

 

Carlos paused for a moment, his hairy, muscled torso heaving with exertion and glistening with sweat under the bright overhead lights.  At his feet, Caleb was curled into a fetal position, sobbing and moaning.  Nick knelt down and zoomed in on the boy’s anguished face.

 

“How’s that feel, motherfucker?” he asked, “Hope yer likin’ it, cause he’s just gettin’ started on yer worthless ass.  By the time he’s done, yer own mama ain’t gonna recognize ya.”

 

Having caught his breath, Carlos raised his boot and used it to nudge the cunt over onto its back.  It didn’t resist, but it kept its hands crossed over its belly, protecting the area that hurt the worst.

 

Carlos merely aimed elsewhere.  Caleb opened his eyes to see the heavily-muscled Latino towering over him.  Looking up from floor level, the prettyboy slut got a menacing perspective, up the ex-con’s powerful legs to the enormous jutting cock, now dangling directly over him and dripping hot clear beads of precum.   Carlos leaned forward and spat on him; as he did, Caleb could see the broad furry expanse of his ripped abs and huge pecs.  The killer’s nipples were large and as hard as his cock and between them, the thick gold necklace twinkled—

 

—then Carlos raised his foot.  Caleb got a brief glimpse of the harness boot’s deep tread before it slammed down on his chest.  There was a cracking sound, like twigs breaking, as three of Caleb’s ribs caved in on the right side of his chest.  Carlos ground the boot into the flesh; he was deliberately trying to leave deep bruise showing the tread pattern.

 

Caleb couldn’t speak.  His abdomen was in excruciating pain and the broken ribs made it difficult to breathe.  He could see both Carlos and Nick bending over him, the two muscle studs grinning and savoring his pain.  He’d shoved aside his bewilderment over the how and why and was focused on stopping the pain.  He looked into the faces of his tormentors, his large soft eyes pleading for mercy.

 

They were met with cold contemptuous eyes, eyes filled with hate, with lust, with sadistic glee.

 

“Is it ready for your cock yet?” Nick asked with a smirk.

 

“Naw,” Carlos drawled, “Dumbass homo still don’t get it.  I still gotta beat some sense into it, make understand how fuckin’ worthless it is.”  And with that, he bent down, grabbed a hank of Caleb’s wavy brown hair, and lifted.

 

Despite the agony of movement, the slender whoreboy had to shift and scramble up onto his knees to avoid having his scalp torn.  Every time he bent his torso, the jagged ends of the broken ribs ground against each other and poked at his lungs, forcing a high-pitched squeal out of his tortured body.

 

“Fuckin’ pig,” Carlos snarled.  Holding Caleb upright on his knees with one hand, be began to beat the cunt in the face with the other. He made sure the pansy knew why it was happening, using the blows to emphasize his point.

 

“You goddam faggots need to die [SMACK, knocking out three teeth], and it needs to hurt bad [SMACK, blackening the left eye] so ya know just how much I fuckin’ hate [SMACK, breaking the right cheekbone] yer disgustin’ pervert asses. [SMACK, knocking out another tooth and splitting the upper lip] Hear me, cocksucker? [SMACK, blackening the right eye] Think yer a man? [SMACK, fracturing the jaw] Yer gonna die with a real man’s dick up yer ass, cunt! [WHAM, a roundhouse blow to the center of the boy’s face, smashing his nose with a wet crunch]”

 

Nick kept the entire scene in a tight frame.  It was perfect; he managed to capture the kneeling young faggot, on its knees in helpless submission as the booted, hard-dicked muscle stud beat its face in.  Every time Carlos’s fist plowed into the homo’s head, Nick’s camera caught the violence of the impact, the sound of flesh on flesh, the spatter of blood and mucus.

 

Finally, the ex-con let go of Caleb’s hair.  The pulped boywhore slumped to the floor in a state of semi-consciousness.  Carlos stood over it, shaking out his hand.  “Fucker’s got a hard head,” he joked to the camera, grinning.

 

Turning back, he shook his huge throbbing shaft over the huddled pile of moaning boymeat, letting hot clear drops of precum splatter on the kid’s heaving, sweat-slick skin.  “Ok, I think he’s ready now,” he told Nick.

 

The hulking cameraman didn’t know if the pronoun referred to the whore or to Carlos’s dick, and it didn’t matter.  “Help me with something first.  I got an idea for staging.  Here, pull that cart over by the bed.  That one, there, with the TV on it.”

 

Carlos, still wanting a chance to cool down after tenderizing his meat, grabbed the cart and positioned it while Nick readied his latest expensive camera.  “What’s this for?” he asked.

 

“I’ll show ya.  Drag the meat around the other side and toss it face down bent over the bed.  Let its legs dangle onto the floor.”

 

As Carlos manhandled Caleb’s limp body onto the stripped bed, Nick was fixing a webcam to the top of the TV that was now facing Carlos.

 

“See,” Nick explained, “Yer gonna bang the fucker from behind.  I gotta have something here that you can choke the bitch with—here, this’ll do—and you not only get to watch it die on the monitor, you can force the dumb cunt to watch itself die.”  His leer got more malignant as he spoke; when he finished, he reached down and unzipped his shorts, letting his own enormous throbbing tool out for some air.

 

Carlos, meanwhile, looked down at what Nick had tossed him.  “What is this—old-school stereo wire?  Aw hell yeah, fuckmeat,” he chuckled, nudging Caleb’s writhing form, “It’s fuckin’ on.  Hear me, faggot?  Yer gonna fuckin’ die and it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt.”

 

Caleb had heard him.  Caleb, in fact, had heard every word they’d said as they staged his rape and murder.  He was already having difficulty breathing, and the slightest movement sent jagged shock waves of pain through his firm body.  As Carlos continued to position his body, the young whore knew that the hardbodied sadist was lying; death wouldn’t hurt.

 

Caleb wanted death.  With the same single-mindedness with which he’d once focused on the now-forgotten thousand dollars, he now sought an end to his suffering, and death was the only answer he could see.  No matter what they did, as long as it killed him, he’d be out of pain.  He wouldn’t resist.

 

Then Carlos impaled the slut’s virgin fuckhole with his freakish huge cock, slamming home in a single, brutal thrust that stretched Caleb’s asshole wider than it was meant to go.  For a fraction of a second, there was a ring of pressure around the massive engorged head of Carlos’s shaft as the punk’s sphincter reached the end of its elasticity.  The ex-con applied a little more—a lot more—pressure himself and felt a momentary spurting sensation as the youth’s asshole tore open.  Lubed with its victim’s blood, Carlos’s hog plunged remorselessly into the kid’s guts.  It ground roughly over Caleb’s prostate before lodging deep in his intestines, adding to the boy’s misery by stimulating an intense, if involuntary erection.

 

The fagwhore tried not to move.  It all hurt if he moved.  The vicious convict had filled him with cock, more than he could take, but he wasn’t moving.  As long as he didn’t move, maybe he could accept it.  Maybe he could handle the agony.  But even breathing caused him pain.  Maybe he should stop breathing—

 

—and then he did stop breathing, as the sex killer wrapped the strong copper wire around his throat and tightened it.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Carlos said, looking at the camera, “Gotta good one here.  Clenched up its fuckhole nice and tight when I cut off the air.”

 

“Nothin’ better than a deathpig that knows its place,” Nick chuckled in reply.  “Hey, cunt,” he called out, shoving his camera in Caleb’s panicked face, “Does it hurt good?  Ya likin’ it?  Look up here, meat, yer face it already turnin’ purple—what’s left of it, anyway, haw!”

 

Caleb was losing himself; a vast tide of sheer terror was sweeping him away.  He clutched at the bed momentarily, feeling the cheap fitted sheet scratching against the nascent chest hair on his firm, bruised chest, then the clawing began.

 

“Yeah, cunt, fight it,” Carlos grunted and finally started fucking him.  Despite the sudden terrifying inability to breath, the sudden introduction of this unimaginable agony temporarily distracted Caleb.  The hardbodied ex-con was plowing his ass with jackhammer-like intensity, his insanely thick, vein-wrapped shaft reaming out the boy’s colon like a plumbing snake, shredding the nerve-rich rectal lining.

 

And yet even as he choked and gagged and struggle weakly and ineffectually to escape from this ongoing nightmare of agony, the whore was still aware in the depths of its pig soul that it was hard, and its own cock was starting to leak…

 

And then the pounding began.  In its head, in its chest, its racing heart furnished the tempo for its panicked horror.  It dug frantically at its neck, its nails digging deep and clawing bloody furrows in the flesh.  At some point, it clutched at its own bead necklace, snapping the string and sending the beads pattering over the bed.  The necklace had meant a lot to Caleb; Sarah made him that, and he’d gone longer with her than any other chick.  It was part of what made him Caleb.  But there was no more Caleb, only a feral animal, fighting desperately for its life.

 

“Now it’s gettin’ good,” Carlos said, again speaking into the camera directly to his fans.  “See, once it starts strugglin’, its fuckhole tightens up on my hawg real good.  Not as good as later, when it’s dyin’, sure, but enough to milk me good.”

 

The panic won out.  Caleb’s hands left his throat and he grabbed handfuls of the sheet, trying to dig into the mattress, to get some kind of purchase—trying to pull himself off Carlos’s dick.

 

He was trapped and utterly helpless, unable to move the slightest inch.  His vision was going weird and there was a humming in his ears almost as loud as the pounding—but still he struggled.  And then he felt weight, pressure—Carlos was laying on top of him.  The serial killer still kept the wire tight around his throat, but he was only using one hand.  The other he used to reach around and grab Caleb’s jaw in a viselike grip, grinding the fractured bones together for a new source of suffering.

 

But more than that was the mindfuck.  Carlos lifted Caleb’s head and forced him to watch the TV screen.

 

Through his distorted, bulging eyes, the faggot could see a face on the screen that looked like a grotesque caricature of his own.  Swollen, blackened and bleeding, it was a taut mask of suffering and fear from which his tongue protruded sickeningly.  And even though he couldn’t feel it, he could see the drool bubbling out from between his thick purple lips and dangling off his chin in foamy streamers.

 

It was all being captured by the camera on top of the TV.  Nick had shifted his position for the moment and had gone around to the other side of the bed.  For a few moments, he closed in on their legs—both of them with their boots on the floor, Carlos’s thick, denim-wrapped legs on the outside, his harness boots flexing with each deep thrust of the sadist’s hips.  Caleb’s smooth, firm legs were pinned between, his shitkickers sliding on the floor as he struggled.

 

“Watch it, bitch,” Carlos hissed, “Watch yerself die.  Lookit how black yer face is gettin’.  You been without air for a coupla minutes, cunt—how much longer can ya hold out?”  As he spoke, Nick pulled back from the boot footage and came around, kneeling on the bed and zooming the camera in on the punk’s face; Caleb was aware that the long-haired hardman’s cock was just inches from his face, but that meant nothing to him now.

 

Nothing meant anything—nothingness meant everything, if he could achieve it.  The agony he was enduring was soul-shattering; what little was left of his lucid mind had long since retreated, screaming, into the dark recesses of his psyche.  What remained was a panicked meat scrambling uselessly for its life, with no consideration for its next course of action.  It just needed to get away.

 

“It’s tryin’ to get up off yer dick, bro,” Nick laughed.  He pointed the camera at Caleb’s twisted, tear- and snot-streaked back, “Must think it’s got someplace to go.  Haw—you ain’t even going to yer grave, cocksucker.  You ain’t worth the effort or diggin’ one.  Yer gonna be dead in another two or three minutes, and then we’re gonna dump yer ass in the desert to rot.”

 

As Nick spoke, a change was coming over Caleb.  Carlos was experienced enough as a sex killer to recognize the signs just by the way meat was gipping his dick inside its rectum.  The boy was reaching a tipping point; in a few more moments, the brain damage would be irreversible.  Actual brain death wouldn’t be far behind.

 

Time to give his fans their money shot.

 

Still plowing the shuddering whore relentlessly, Carlos raised himself up off the boy and spoke directly to the camera.  “Yo, dudes, ya wanna see the best part?  Watch this shit.”

 

He pulled back on the wire, now so deeply embedded in Caleb’s neck that it couldn’t be seen.  The fag’s head was pulled back until it could go no further; then, his inked biceps bulging with the effort, Carlos pulled the fucker up off the bed as well.  Nick was able to get a shot of the kid’s heaving chest, imprinted with the tread of his killer’s boot.  Further down, Caleb’s long boycock stood erect from a mass of brown curly pubes.

 

“Meat’s good for edgin’, but when yer done, ya only get one chance.  Watch this—I’ll show ya how to use faggots to milk out yer load as they die.  Trust me, dudes, it feels so fuckin’ good.”

 

He grinned and stuck his tongue out at the camera.  Beneath him, riding his pulsating shaft, Caleb’s tongue was also out—as were his hands, splayed helplessly in front of him and clawing at the air as if trying to reach directly into the camera for help.

 

“Yeah…that’s it, cunt…work it…almost there, faggot,” the musclebound ex-con muttered as his dick plunged into the dying slut’s asshole, “Fuck yeah…yeah…yeah…fuck yeah!”

 

Carlos’s face twisted with the intensity of his approaching orgasm.  His whole body seemed to tighten, his muscles swelling with the final effort of the snuff.  “FUCK!  FUCK!  FUCKIN’ DIE, YA PIECE A’ FAGGOT SHIT!!”

 

With a loud grunt, the powerful killer tightened the wire around Caleb’s neck so deeply it nearly cut the homo’s throat.  With an audible crunch, the fucker’s esophagus collapsed into a thick wad of mangled cartilage.

 

There was no more Caleb, but the piece of flesh that had been him (and was still technically alive) responded, as much to brain death as to the crushing of its windpipe.  It jerked violently, froze rigidly for a single brief moment, then spewed a single steady stream of cum from its rock-hard rod for more than twenty seconds.

 

As the dead whore spilled its boycum over the sheets, the camera captured a different shower of spunk.  Nick, who was still kneeling on the bed, spattered the fag’s face with his own load, his huge hard body jerking and heaving as he unloaded.  Thick gobs of semen coated the homo’s protruding tongue and eyes.

 

Behind him, Carlos got what he’d been aiming for.  When the meat shot its death load, its colon spasmed violently; the punk’s dying convulsions only added to the sensation of hungry velvety suction.  With an inarticulate cry, the buff convict flooded the homo’s guts with his seething hot manseed.

 

It took nearly a minute for the three of them to pump their balls dry.  They all fell limp on the bed, two of them gasping and all three twitching.  After another minute or so, both Nick and Carlos had recovered enough to get up.  Carlos extracted his massive hog from the corpse as Nick shut the cameras off.

 

“Think we got ourselves a gold mine with this one,” the long-haired stud said.  Carlos grinned and headed for the door.

 

“Gonna go wash up,” he said he headed down the hall towards the bathroom.

 

Nick just used an old cleaning cloth to wipe off his dick before stuffing it back into his shorts; even though it was already semi-soft, it still took some maneuvering to get the massive tube confined again.  He collected the pile of Caleb’s clothes and tossed them on the bed.  Then he walked around to the other side, bent down and grabbed the dead homo’s still-twitching boots, and shoved the corpse into the center of the bed.

 

When Carlos came back into the room, Nick had just pulled the fitted sheet loose and wrapped everything on the bed up in it, a nice, tidy bundle containing the cum-filled fagmeat and its clothes.  “Help me get this into the bed of my truck real quick,” he told Carlos.

 

Even as dead weight the fag whore caused the two buff musclemen little difficulty.  They tossed it into the back of the pickup like a sack of dirty laundry.

 

“You need help dumpin’ the garbage?” Carlos asked.

 

“Naw, I found a good spot coupla weeks ago,” Nick replied, “As long as I can find my way back out there in the dark, it’ll be easy.”

 

And it was.  Carlos left, and Nick followed him till they got to the highway.  Then Carlos turned and went south, towards downtown, while Nick headed north, away from town and into the desert.  Thirteen miles north of the city limits, he exited and drove west down a small road that lead to a cement plant.

 

Half a mile short of the plant, there was a dirt road running north/south; it was a service road for a long line of electrical pylons that ran past the horizon.  Nick had already scouted the area and knew that the road crossed a gully some three miles north, equidistant between two pylons.  His truck had four-wheel drive, so he had no difficulties when he reached gully and turned to the west, off-road.

 

He only went some two hundred yards from the road.  At this point, the gully deepened from a few feet to more than two dozen.  Nick’s boots crunched in the sandy soil as he jumped out of his cab, and he paused to look up.  Out here, away from the city, the night sky was amazing.  The hardbodied stud gazed upwards, entranced for a few moments, then retrieved the still-quivering corpse from the bed of his truck.

 

Carrying it to the gully, he tossed it in, hearing the rattling, avalanche-like sounds as it tumbled and slithered its was down into the depths.  Returning to his truck, he to another lingering, longing look at the sky.  “Just beautiful,” he muttered, “Wonder if I have a camera good enough for night shots…”

 

He climbed back in; his truck roaring its way back out of the desert.  Within fifteen minutes of his departure, the dust had settled.  It was if he’d never been there.

 

There were to be no sneering cops or sobbing kinfolk for Caleb; his body was dumped too far from regular human activity to be noticed.  That didn’t mean that it went undiscovered, though.  As arid and lifeless as the desert seems, it supports a tremendous diversity of life, much of which turns scavenger from sheer necessity.

 

Fresh meat is never wasted in the wild.