Eddie was angry.
Of course, that wasn’t unusual; Eddie was always angry. But his anger, most of the time, was general and unspecific. Today, it was focused on and a single burning point.
The kid was about eighteen. He’d been walking with some of his buddies from the local high school past the gas station where Eddie was filling the tank on his truck. The psychopathic fagkiller hadn’t seen him at first; it was only when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up that he realized he was being looked at that way.
He glanced around—sure enough, his homo detector was on point. One of the boys in the passing group was scoping him out.
The boy had a mop of dark hair. His build was firm but wiry; he certainly wasn’t any challenge for Eddie in terms of power. The little fagboy was wearing a pair of low-rise white denim jeans so tight his pansy cock was outlined down to the last detail; Eddie could damn near see then veins around it. The punk’s tight chest was wrapped in a black t-shirt with a retro Led Zeppelin logo on it, all just visible beneath a thin black nylon jacket with a hood and white stripes down the sleeves. The lid sported a pair of black and white Nike Motion 2 kicks on his feet.
Eddie memorized every detail as he and the boy stared at each other. As the bulge in his groin pulsed visibly, the teenager turned and walked quickly down the sidewalk, catching up to his friends. He had no idea he’d just been marked for death.
Eddie finished fueling up and climbed into his truck. He was positively grinning in incandescent rage. The way his psyche converted self-hatred into predatory homophobia was similar to a solar furnace, capable of keeping up unimaginable amounts of heat for a very long time.
He stoked the fires and headed left out of the gas station, the direction in which the kid had been walking.
By now, the boy was about a half mile down the road. Eddie could easily make him out—his white jeans practically glowed in the late afternoon sunlight, and none of the other little punks he was with was wearing white. Just as he spotted the boy, though, Eddie saw the kid split off, turning again to the left, down a side street. There was a brief pause as he spoke a bit to his buddies, but then they continued down the avenue while the fagboy walked on alone.
Trailing the homo the rest of the way home took a little skill. Eddie couldn’t drive at the kid’s walking speed; that was too obvious. And if he kept circling and passing the boy too often, eventually the little shit would recognize his big black truck and become suspicious. In the end, he darted ahead, turned down a cross street and waited for the kid to pass, then went over to a parallel street. Heading up two blocks, he did it again. Eventually the kid didn’t walk by. Eddie pulled out onto the boy’s street, heading back the way he came, and was just in time to see the fucker entering a house. Eddie noted its particulars and then parked three blocks down and two over.
The sun was setting as the thump of Eddie’s combat boots on the sidewalk echoed down the suburban street. Inside the houses on either side, families were settling in for the evening. Some were eating, some were arguing, some were watching TV—and all of them were utterly unaware of the muscle-bound young man stalking just outside in a khaki tank top and camo fatigue pants held tightly to his narrow hips by a wide meshed nylon belt.
If they had noticed him, at least some would have called the cops. His intent to kill was literally visible, writ large across his hard, masculine face and his somehow aggressive manner of movement.
The kid’s house was larger than most of the others in what was already an upscale community. The house to the right was no slouch, either, but it had an attribute that immediately drew Eddie’s attention—it was empty. There was a for sale sign from a high-end realty firm planted in the slightly overgrown lawn. The blinds and curtains had been removed and large front windows displayed empty rooms, writhing with carved molding and elaborate paneling. And even more interesting, the backyard gate was wide open.
After a quick and reassuring glance around him, Eddie dove into the dim twilight of the tree-shaded yard. A long open lawn stretched back to the property line; to his left, the house hulked, a darker mass in the blue dimness of the evening. He crossed quickly to the fence on the other side of the yard—it was the one next to the kid’s. It was nearly seven feet high, but that wasn’t a problem; the fence was lined with all kinds of trees. As agile as he was strong, the obsessed fagkiller was soon ensconced in branches overhanging the next yard, from which vantage point, recon was easy.
A deep-set covered patio was attached to the back of the house and two boys were sitting in chairs on it. For a moment, Eddie thought he was looking at twins, they were so much alike. He soon recognized one as the punk who’d been scoping him out, though, noting that the other was slightly shorter and perhaps a year younger. The fact that they were brothers was obvious in the physical similarities between the two.
Peering into the twilight, Eddie focused his eagle-sharp eyes on the boys. They were chatting and the older one was doing something with his hands, bent over a side table. Eddie wasn’t close enough to see what, be he soon rectified that.
He dropped form the tree into the darkened yard, his boots making no sound on the soft, lush turf. This property was much more landscaped than the one next door, and Eddie used it to his advantage, concealing himself behind it as he approached close enough to see and hear what was happening on the patio.
The older kid, he saw, was rolling a joint. He was speaking just as Eddie came into earshot.
“…and if I hadn’t been with some of the guys from school, I mighta gone and hit him up,” he said.
“Bro, if Dad heard ya talkin’ about picking up a strange dude at a gas station for a hookup, he’d shit a brick,” the younger one replied. “You better watch out—if he ever even thinks you like guys, it’s gonna get ugly.”
“Like I don’t already know that,” the other answered, “Don’t worry, I’m careful enough—and I can take care of myself.”
“Shit, hide the weed,” the younger brother blurted, “Here he comes now!”
The older youth just managed to shove the baggie of pot back into his jeans pocket when the back door opened and a tall, square-jawed man in a button-down shirt and dress slacks strode out, his hair perfectly combed and an expression of disapproval on his face that seemed somehow innate.
“What are you two doing out here?” he demanded.
“Just talking,” the older boy said casually.
The man glared balefully at the boys. “Listen up, you two. This weekend is critical to my city council reelection campaign. I’m the keynote speaker at the First Baptist’s “Pray for Trump” retreat, and if either of you does anything to embarrass me while we’re gone, so help me, I’ll—”
“Roger! We’ve got to go!” came a woman’s voice from inside the house. “Tell Josh he can’t bring that Annabelle slut over; he’s seventeen, but she’s not. God only knows what they’ll get up to. Ross, you hear me? Watch your younger brother! And NO parties!”
“Yes, ma!” Ross shouted, smirking at his kid brother. Their father grimaced.
“Remember,” he growled, “Don’t fuck anything up, or kill you little shits.” He turned and re-entered the house, slamming to door behind him.
“Fuckin’ big man,” Ross sneered.
“Yeah, he just loves this city council shit,” Josh muttered, “Runnin’ our lives ain’t enough for him. And ma—”
“Aw, don’t get started on her,” Ross said as he fished the joint and handed it to his younger brother. “Here, light it up. I’m gonna go make sure they’re gone.”
As the younger teen fired up the blunt, the older headed into the house. Eddie considered making his move, but, like the boys, he wanted to know the coast was clear too. After all, he had plenty of time, by the sound of it.
That was good. He was gonna need to figure out how to waste two fags at once. It would be easy enough to take the younger one out quick and quiet, commando-style, but that wasn’t what Eddie wanted.
The younger one was a fag too. He might be fucking around with girls, but if one was, they both were. Stood to reason. Older one probably corrupted the younger long ago, made his kid brother his bitch. Raped his ass one night, muffling the kid’s cries with a pillow.
It’d what Eddie would’ve done if he’d had a younger brother.
Both of ‘em were perverted fuckin’ homos, and both needed to die.
Ross reappeared at the back door. “It’s cool. They’re gone; c’mon in, we’ll fire up my PS4.”
“Fuck yeah!” Josh said, bouncing happily up off his chair, “That’s my idea of a Friday night—gettin’ high and playin’ Mortal Kombat!” He followed his older brother into the house. Once he got into the light, Eddie could see Josh was wearing an oversized white t-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans tight enough to cradle his teen asscheeks snugly. The hems of the jeans were casually caught up on what looked like a pair of Timberland eight-inch workboots, except these seemed to be made of black suede. He wore them loosely laced and untied
As the boys disappeared deeper into the house, Eddie swept across the patio, a dark shadow in the twilight, and slipped inside the back door. He found himself in the kitchen. It was dim, with only the light over the stove on. To his right was a dark doorway; the square, bulky shapes of the laundry appliances loomed in the murk.
Directly ahead, on the far side of the kitchen, was another doorway. It was from here that Eddie heard Ross call out, “Hang on a sec! I gotta go set the alarm. If mom and dad sneak back early, it’ll warn us.”
The keypad for the alarm was directly behind Eddie, next to the back door. There was no time for anything elaborate; the psycho boykiller darted into the laundry room as the older kid came and secured the house.
From less than five feet away, Eddie could see the boy more clearly than he had yet. There was a fine shadow of dark haze on the punk’s upper lip—a mustache just starting to grow. Eddie’s eyes roved over the adolescent’s firm, lean form, taking in how large the denim-wrapped bulge in the groin was. Yeah, he needed to waste this little homo before it matured into something dangerous. His huge cock began to stir and swell, just at the thought.
Four feet away, Josh finished locking down the house for the evening, totally oblivious to the fact that he was being sized up for the kill. He turned and headed back the way he’d come, his Nikes padding quietly across the tile floor.
Eddie followed at a distance, down a hall that led to the front. The house was large; dark cavernous rooms opened on each side—a formal dining room, a study, a formal living room. The staircase was an ornate, meandering affair that wound its way up to the second floor. As Eddie waited for the kid to ascend, he noticed that the staircase seemed to back up on a media room; the room had a well-stocked bar that had been built partially under the stairs.
Once the boy got upstairs, the psycho stalker felt safe enough to follow. He managed to make it up quick enough to note the punk going into one of the doors that opened off the upper gallery. He’d closed the door behind him; silently, Eddie stole forward and pressed his ear to the door.
“You got another one rolled?” Ross was asking. “Oh, cool. Here, lemme fire it up. You ain’t got the game started yet?”
“Well, fuck, man, I was waitin’ for you to get back,” the younger one replied. “So anyway, you saw some dude today…”
“Oh, yeah,” Ross muttered in the breathless squeak of someone who’d just taken a lung-busting hit of weed. He exhaled audibly, then coughed for thirty seconds straight.
“Ya don’t cough, ya don’t get off,” Josh chuckled.
“Aw, fuck you,” his older brother muttered.
“Naw, man, I only like chicks. But you saw some dude you’d let pop your cherry?”
Ross laughed, “Yeah, man, like I’d be lucky enough to have had this guy be my first—ya know, the first to really fuck me. Speakin’ a’ which, remember our bet. Fifty bucks to the first one to get laid, right? So how’re ya makin’ out with Annabelle?”
Josh began, “Well, I got a lil’ somethin’-somethin’ planned Friday night if I can—”
Eddie burst through the door and stood before them, his massive, muscular form filling the doorway. Both boys stared at him, slack-jawed and stunned. Ross had just enough presence of mind to recognize the intruder.
“That’s him!” he said excitedly, “That’s the guy!” His face lit up, hope radiating from his youthful countenance—and then he saw Eddie’s expression.
“Lookit this shit,” the powerful sadist growled, “Coupla little fuckin’ fairies havin’ a tea party. Sorry to break it up, girls, but you two need to learn how a real man disposes of homo garbage like you.”
“Wh-what?” they both said, almost in perfect unison—Josh, starting to flush with anger and Ross, hopelessly confused, his erotic fantasy instantly crumbling.
“I said, I’m gonna teach y’all yer proper place, ya stupid sacks a’ shit. Think I’ll start with the little one.”
By now even Ross had made the mental switch from love interest to potential antagonist; this threat was all it took for him to go on the attack in defense of his brother. With an inarticulate cry, he darted forward.
Eddie had been expecting it; in fact, he’d deliberately provoked it. As the older teen rushed him, the older and stronger man swung his arm, casually and easily, punching the punk in the jaw and dropping him to the floor in a senseless, ungainly sprawl.
The ex-Marine stared the younger teen dead in the face. “You wanna try anything, motherfucker?”
Ashen and trembling, Josh shook his head.
Getting the older boy secured wasn’t going to be too much of a problem. Eddie had started carrying a pair of regulation police handcuffs some time ago; he’d found them at a military surplus store. But he wanted to make sure he could cuff the kid to something fairly immobile. For the first time, he looked around and took in the detail of the room.
It was clearly the room of an adolescent male, but beyond that, any trace of the occupant’s personality was smothered with the same kind of bland décor that Eddie had glimpsed on his trek through the house. The queen-sized bed was an expensive piece of furniture, and the sheets seemed to be of a high quality. It was difficult to tell, the way they were wadded up on the floor. But the fitted sheet that remained had the shimmer of expensive material.
Beyond the bed was a large alcove with a window. In the wall adjoining the window was a desk with a computer and a sizeable monitor. Directly behind the desk, against the opposite wall, was a set of shelves containing the peripheral—among other things, a nice laser printer and a musical keyboard with a USB cord.
On the wall opposite the bed, immediately to the left of the door Eddie came in, was a huge LCD TV on its own stand, with the game system and a sound bar underneath. The desk chair and a second chair had been set up in front of the TV with a couple of TV trays next to them. It was the second chair that attracted Eddie’s eye.
It appeared to be one of the dining room chairs, ornately wrought, but sturdy. If he could bind the fucker’s legs to the chair legs…the little shit’s clothes were scattered over the floor; there had to be a belt or two…there.
Striding over to the heavy wood chair, Eddie lifted it easily with one arm and carried it over to where he’d dropped Ross at the side of the bed.
“You! Boy!” he barked at Josh. The younger brother had not recovered from the emotional shock of Eddie’s entry and was still standing at the foot of the bed. He flinched violently at the sound of the older man’s voice, then turned and looked at him, his face almost blank.
“Go get me those belts,” he demanded, pointing to a pile four feet beyond where Josh was standing where the pile of clothing was almost two feet high. On top were a couple of pairs of jeans with belts still in them. One belt was black and ordinary; the other was white with a series of small metal plates along its length.
Josh turned and looked at the pile, then turned and looked back at Eddie, the same blankness in his face. But he turned and headed towards the jeans.
Eddie, in the meantime, hoisted Ross and sat him in the chair, holding the limp homo upright as he circled around to cuff the kid’s arms behind the back of the chair. He clicked the steel bracelets on so tightly they dug into the boy’s flesh. He looked up just as Josh arrived with the belts.
“Here,” he grunted, “Give’m to me.”
Josh dropped the belts, turned quickly, and bolted out the door.
By the time Eddie got to the doorway, the boy was halfway down the stairs. He knew what the kid was aiming for—the alarm keypad next to the front door. The little fuckwad was going for the panic button.
Not if Eddie could help it. His strength and build didn’t mean he was too musclebound to move; like any good hunter, he was swift and sure-footed. He made it down the stairs much faster than Josh would have thought possible. Just as the terrified adolescent reached out for the keypad in relief, Eddie caught up to him. Before the punk could touch a single button, the powerful ex-Marine had clutched the back of the kid’s head and, using his own forward momentum against him, slammed Josh’s face into the wall next to the keypad.
The boy slumped to the floor, stunned, leaving an oval-shaped hole in the drywall. As the kid groaned and ran his hand over his face, Eddie kicked him in the head, his steel-toed combat boot putting the cunt’s lights out.
Pausing for a moment, the sweating, heaving stud reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and pulled it up over his head, tossing it onto a table at one side of the entryway. Much more comfortable without his shirt, Eddie bent down and grabbed the unconscious teen by his wrist and began dragging him towards the stairs.
As he reached the foot of the staircase, Eddie noticed a tray on the bar tucked under it. On the tray was an ice bucket, ice pick, and four tumblers. Without breaking his stride, the sadistic killer snatched the ice pick off the tray. He continued up the stairs, dragging Josh along behind him like some nightmarish version of a child dragging its teddy bear off to bed.
As the boy was pulled up the staircase, his feet caught on every riser. His left boot came off about halfway up, landing upright on the next step down. Near the top, the other boot came off; this one tumbled down the stairs past its mate, coming to rest about three steps from the bottom. The punk was wearing white ped socks underneath. They stayed on as Eddie dragged the kid back to his brother’s bedroom and tossed him on the bed.
Even after Ross regained consciousness, he still wasn’t sure he was awake. The scene in front of his eyes was too surreal too much like a nightmare, to be real.
Josh, nude and limp, was stretched across the bed in front of him. Ross was a horny young fag; he’d lusted after his younger brother’s smooth, firm body for years—but he loved the kid and would never force himself on him. Seeing the boy sprawled out in front of him was a shock—
—but not as much of a shock as the image of the hardbodied stud standing directly in front of him, shirtless, in the camo pants and combat boots only, with an enormous erection jutting out from his open fly and a malicious grin on his face.
“Glad ya decided to join the party,” the well-built man said, his cold, handsome face lit with an unsettling manic glee. “You’re just in time to watch me ream out yer little bitchboy here.”
That was when Ross realized that he himself was nude, except for his kicks. He didn’t remember his clothes being removed, but they had been, and he’d been bound to a chair. This crazy dude had stripped him and Josh both and was talking about raping Josh—and he couldn’t move.
“Wha?” he muttered groggily, still stunned from the blow to the head he’d received and barely remembered. “Wha—why? Whya doin…”
Eddie smiled even more broadly and bent down in front of Ross. He held out something; it took the teen a moment to focus on it and realize it was an ice pick. “Yer askin’ why? I thought all you faggots wanted a real man to stick something long and hard into yer worthless asses. It’s yer lucky fuckin’ day, homo—you get to watch me stick all kinda things into that little cocksucker there on the bed. A hot porno to get ya into the mood before it’s your turn, see?”
Ross didn’t see. He wouldn’t let himself see. But he had no choice but to see what happened next.
Josh was still out. He was on his back, his lithe, smooth adolescent body sprawled and helpless on the bed, which had been swept clean of all but the fitted sheet. Under the indirect lighting Ross had used in his room, Josh looked as if he’d been laid out on an altar. Or, rather, a stage—for an audience of one.
Slipping the ice pick into his waistband, Eddie climbed onto the bed, brandishing his huge cock like a club and smiling malevolently down at the unconscious teen. Kneeling on the bed, he bent down and scooped Josh’s legs up, placing the kid’s ankles on his shoulders. With easy access to the boy’s ass, the serial killer began to probe the punk’s sphincter with the engorged head of his cock.
“Dude,” Ross began, his words still slightly slurred as he spoke, “Whatcha doin’?” Ross knew damn well what it looked like they guy was doing, but that couldn’t be right.
“I’m gonna show this little cocksucker what a real man’s cock feel like,” Eddie replied nonchalantly. “You might wanna pay attention, cunt—your turn’s next.”
Ross struggled furiously with his bindings. He couldn’t see what was holding him back; the sound and sensation behind his back told him his hands were in cuffs, but he had no clue what was on his legs. Whatever it was, nothing was giving—not that that stopped the well-built adolescent from trying.
“Keep yer fuckin’ hands off him!” the teen snarled viciously, “If he don’t kill ya when he wakes up, I will!”
Eddie grinned happily and plunged himself balls-deep into the younger boy’s asshole.
Both Josh and Ross cried out simultaneously; Josh screaming in pain as the agony of having his sphincter torn apart like wet paper pulled him violently form his semi-conscious state. His older brother yelled inarticulately in rage and sympathy.
“Fuck yeah!” Eddie crowed, “That’s what I’m taking about. Nice tight little baby fag—ya like that, dontcha? All ya little boyfags crave mancock, yeah?” He turned to Ross. “Don’t get jelly, bro—I’m gonna be layin’ pipe up yer fuckhole soon. The little one here’s just foreplay, a little somethin’ to get my meat nice and hard.”
As he spoke, the muscular ex-marine continued to plunge his freakishly large member as far as he could into the adolescent boy’s rectum. His pelvis bounced off Josh’s ass, the rounded pink globes of the boy’s asscheeks quivering with each thrust.
Josh’s pain and fear were blatant; it was obvious—at least to anyone who wasn’t a psychopathic, sadistic serial killer—that the kid was a virgin. Even Eddie could feel the blood that tricked from the punk’s ass as a kind of warm lube. The teenager had gotten his cherry popped and was bleeding just like a chick. He was also shrieking like one.
“Goddam, got me a screamer,” Eddie said, carrying on his casual commentary with his victim’s horrified older brother. “Bitch fuckin’ loves ridin’ the D but ain’t got no volume control. I know how to fix that.”
And in front of Ross’s horrified eyes, Eddie punched Josh twice in the face, hard and brutal roundhouse swings from the shoulder. The boy grunted viscerally as each of the blows landed, his entire body clenching to ward off the impacts. And even from where Ross was strapped down, he could see his little bro’s dick flop up, semi-erect, each time he was hit.
Ross didn’t understand that, and for some reason, it scared more than anything else. After all, some part of him still hadn’t accepted that any of this was happening. Maybe it was a hallucination; maybe the weed had been laced with something…
“Aw hell yeah!” Eddie grunted. “Goddam faggot knows what it wants!” He turned back to Ross, his happy grin somehow making his masculine face breathtakingly handsome and soullessly evil at the same time. “Hey, asswipe, you like pain as much as this one? It tightens its fagpussy around my shaft when I hit it—maybe I need to hurt it more, yeah? Think that’ll make it work my dick real good? Let’s find out!”
And as Ross looked on in terror and Josh moaned and coughed up two teeth, Eddie pulled the ice pick out of his waistband. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna start slow,” he said to Ross, “Let the whore get used to it first. But it’s gonna hatfa work my dick good to earn my seed.”
And without breaking eye contact with Ross, Eddie moved the ick pick down to Josh’s smooth, heaving flank and began shoving the nine-inch steel shaft into the teen boy’s side.
Despite being stunned by the blows to the face, Josh was still sufficiently conscious to feel pain. He reacted immediately, wailing in pain and trying to wriggle out form under his rapist’s bulky form. Eddie just grinned and continued to slowly push the pick into the kid.
Suddenly Josh gasped and went rigid. “Yeah, that’s the spot,” Eddie grunted, then turned back to Ross. “Gotta love combat trainin’. Stick yer target in the kidney, and he’s helpless. Organ trauma gets ‘em all nice and tight, too.” He withdrew the thin steel shaft a couple of inches, then rammed it back in brutally, timing the jab with a powerful thrust of his hips.
Suffering from the double agony of his attacker’s cock in his guts and weapon in his kidney, Josh’s instinctive reaction, as Eddie had said, was to go stiff, in an effort to prevent the foreign objects in his body from doing further damage. It was also an instinctive act to brace himself—when he reached out and grasped Eddie’s arms, his hands clamping tightly on, but not able to encircle, the killer’s huge biceps, it was an action of pain, not pleasure. His bruised jaw tightly clenched, the agonized teen’s s breathing was harsh and fast, whistling through the gap form by the knocked-out teeth.
Eddie pulled the ice pick back out of Josh with an exquisite protraction, then held it up and admired the way the metal shaft was red with blood up to the handle. It was too much for Ross.
“Stop it, you psycho!” he screeched. Eddie turned slowly and smirked and Ross felt terror wash over him—not for himself, but for his brother. “I said stop it, motherfucker! Let him go!!”
“Stop it?” Eddie asked innocently, the cold sneer on his face unchanging, “Stop stickin’ the fag in the kidney? Sure—that was gettin’ old anyway.” Leaning back, with a sudden motion almost too fast to be seen, he whipped the ice pick around and brought it down on the boy’s stomach, puncturing his smooth, flat belly and driving it in up to the hilt.
Again Josh gasp and clenched in agony. “That’s it,” Eddie grunted, “Just like that. Work my cock, faggot!”
Josh moaned and mewled in desperate pain. He and his older brother were in tears; Ross too horrified to speak, at least for the moment.
“Aw, yer goin’ loose again,” the buff ex-Marine said. Josh was in too much pain to pay attention, but Ross heard him. By now he knew what to expect.
“No…no…” he whispered.
“Shaddup,” Eddie snapped, “Yer little homo bro likes this shit. See?” He managed to twist his waist and tilt Josh’s still-rigid form slightly towards Ross. The older couldn’t help but see his baby brother’s thick, erect cock. It was surreal; it made no sense—but, bewildered and despairing, some part of Ross began to think this sadistic stranger was right. Josh wanted to be hurt.
But no, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t going to think about that. And he damn sure wasn’t gonna think about the fact that his own tool was getting stiff. It meant nothing; getting out of this situation meant everything.
Eddie plunged the pick back into Josh’s belly four times in lightning-fast succession, savoring the sensation of resistance, as if he was puncturing the head of a drum, with each one. And the sobbing teen clenched everything—including his sphincter and rectum—with each stab.
Eddie turned back to Ross, his lips wreathed with a happy smile. “Dude,” he said, “It’s like his fuckhole is jackin’ me off. Fuckin’ fantastic.”
“…you sick fuck…” Ross gasped, barely audible. But Eddie heard him and leered evilly at the compliment.
“Motherfucker, you ain’t seen shit yet,” he replied, jerking the steel shaft back out of the moaning teenager’s gut and plunging it into his chest, two inches southwest of his heart.
Josh cried out in agony as the ice pick penetrated his pectoral muscle—a massive steel needle that was suddenly and brutally driven through his body with such force that it pierced his lung and ended up lodged in the inside of one of his ribs, near the spine.
Eddie turned away from Ross; the taunting was fun, but this was getting good. The young fuckmeat stared up at him, its huge dark eyes ringed with gray circles of shock, its mouth open and moving, but no sounds coming out. Suddenly, it heaved beneath him, a single spasm, and coughed, a fine trickle of blood leaking from the corner of its mouth. The injury wasn’t fatal, but the punk’s lung was bleeding.
Josh remained loose; he didn’t go rigid. Eddie was furious. The faggot wasn’t cooperating.
“Boy, you ain’t workin’ my dick,” he growled. Josh kept staring at him blankly, his lips making the motions for words he wasn’t voicing. His hard cock kept jabbing against Eddie’s belly; the vicious fagkiller could feel the hot spongy warmth of its swollen purple head against his smooth ripped abs—but the cunt wasn’t moving its fuckhole. “Only damn thing you fucking fags are good for is a cumdump, and you ain’t even good at bein’ that! Hope yer bro over there is a better fuck than you are, ya worthless piece a’ shit. Time to put you outta my misery, fuckwad.”
Slapping his huge strong paw of a hand on Josh’s face, he forced it to the left, towards where Ross was sitting, and pinned it there. With the other hand, he pulled the ick pick out of the boy’s chest. It took a little effort; the tip was tightly embedded in the rib.
Holding it aloft, he turned to Ross. “Hey, asswipe, watch this. Watch this close.” He didn’t need to threaten, he knew the adolescent homo was compelled to see what was happening to his little bitchboy cuntbrother; he wouldn’t be able to turn away.
He was right. Ross watched in growing horror as Eddie lowered the ice pick into Josh’s ear—and then kept right on inserting it, very slowly, into the boy’s skull.
Josh came out of his stupor almost immediately. The terrible pain of the chest wound receded far into the background as a whole new universe of agony opened up to the buff young adolescent in the final two minutes of his life.
Two minutes is a long time. The next two minutes that Josh and Ross endured lasted eons.
For Josh, it began with the pain of a punctured eardrum, to be suddenly replaced with a faint but distinct “crunch” inside his head as the steel shaft crushed the tiny bones of the middle ear. Then the true nightmare began.
As Eddie continued to slide the pick slowly and lovingly into the boy’s ear canal, it ripped through the semicircular canals and Josh spent the rest of his life in unimaginable vertigo and nausea. As Ross watched, frozen in shock, his younger brother began to kick and retch. His smooth teen body was soon covered in sweat as the unfortunate youth dry heaved uncontrollably.
“Too late for that shit now, cunt!” Eddie crowed, speaking to Josh—but looking at Ross, who held his gaze helplessly. “Too late to save yer useless ass by workin’ my cock, dumbass—time for ya to take a nice long dirt nap!”
Needless to say, all this motion didn’t help Eddie’s aim much—not that he cared. Josh might have, since it prolonged his life, and hence his agony, for a few more seconds, but he was long past being able to control his actions in any case. Nothing he’d suffered yet had been a truly mortal wound, but that changed in the next moment, when Eddie finally drove the sharp-tipped steel tool into the teenager’s brain stem.
Ross could see it in Josh’s eyes. He didn’t know the details, didn’t know that Eddie was grinding the pick around in his brother’s ear, sending the long rigid shaft ripping through the brainstem—but that part of the brain controls facial muscles. The look on his dying brother’s face was seared into Ross’s mind.
Josh arced his back. Eddie pulled himself up as well, letting Ross see that despite everything, the kid’s rod was not only erect but pulsating. Again, the older teen felt a sense of despair, not understanding his brother’s physical reaction. How could he be hard now?
And then Eddie slashed through something important. He’d angled the ice pick downwards and had badly damaged the medulla oblongata, which controls both the heart and the lungs.
Josh began to breathe hard. As Eddie lay on top of him to get full enjoyment from his kill, the dying teen began to writhe, his sweat-slick skin sliding smoothly against Eddie’s own. His breathing became faster and shallower, his empty eyes staring into his brother’s as his blood from his injured lung blew out of his mouth in a faint pink mist.
“Faggot’s close,” Eddie said with a grin. “Wanna see it? Wanna watch yer brother’s deathload? Sure ya do, ya little sicko, yer already hard yerself. Ok here ya go!”
And with the same motion he’d used earlier, he pulled himself off Josh and tilted him towards Ross, making one last dig in the boy’s brain with the ice pick. Josh’s last sound on earth was a deep, mortal grunt, and it was accompanied by a solid jet of thick, abundant, adolescent semen that spewed forth out of the punk’s cock.
Ross watched it, his mind blank with horror. Josh was dead. He could see it in his face. He was dead, but he kept on cumming.
As the corpse’s convulsions began to slow, the stream of sperm tapered off and slowed to an ooze. Eddie slowly pulled himself upright and got off the bed. Josh lay on his back, his legs splayed, his thick boycock slowly shriveling, and a tapioca-like puddle of spunk pooling on his flat belly. The ice pick jutted grotesquely from his ear. His eyes were wide open, and he had died with the expression of someone who had stared into Hell.
Ross stared at his younger brother’s raped and murdered corpse. Tears trickling down his face, he seemed to be sinking into a fugue state when Eddie’s raucous, taunting voice hit him like a slap in the face.
“You’re next, fucker,” he growled, advancing towards the bound teenager, his enormous cock jutting out from his camo pants, “I ain’t shot my wad yet. You better be better than he was.”
“In fact—” he paused and looked back at Josh’s quivering body, the turned to Ross again, “—I got an idea. Looks like we got something here for you to practice on.”
Ross could follow the musclebound psycho’s line of thought as he advanced. He burst into tears and pissed himself. He already knew there was nothing he could do to stop whatever it was that was coming next.