Carlos and NIck 8–Remy’s Big Break

Remy was getting despondent.  It was getting late on a hot weekday afternoon, and no one had approached him.  And he was dressed—or, at least partly dressed—to attract attention, too, although it was more out of necessity than deliberate effort.

 

Vegas can be unbearable in August, so once he found a shady spot just outside one of the large casinos on the north end of the Strip, he peeled his t-shirt off and tucked behind him in the waistband of his pants, letting part of it hang out.  Even so, beads of sweat trickled down his firm chest, making his smooth teen skin glisten.

 

The pants weren’t the most comfortable for the heat—skintight leather jeans.  Those, and the designer leather hightop sneakers in black and gold, had been purchased as what Remy had thought was a good investment.

 

The adolescent punk wasn’t completely stupid; he’d left school at the age of fourteen and had run off with a wealthy older man he’d met.  The dude got him high, gave him a home and all the money he asked for, and only occasionally asked for sex in return.  Remy could go party and get laid almost anytime he liked—for a couple of years.  Then his sugar daddy OD’d one night when Remy was out.

 

He was out on the street, selling his teen body, within a week.  Already experienced and street-savvy, he managed to make some contacts via his party buddies and after just over three months of whoring himself out, had gotten his opportunity.

 

Remy had sandy blond hair, large blue eyes and a pert nose in addition to his lithe but muscled adolescent body; the thought of doing porn had always appealed to him, so when he got the chance to be bottom to a famous top known for his rough sex, the young slut jumped at it.

 

He was responsible for his own wardrobe, so he made a calculated choice to get something really eye-catching.  After all, this part could lead to huge things, he told himself as justification for spending not only his rent and food money, but the cash he had laid up for a drug debt, on the pants and kicks.

 

The scene went great.  The top fucked the shit outta him; Remy shot a huge wad for the camera, took his surprisingly small cash payment home, and waited for the calls to come in.

 

The calls came in, all right, but not the ones Remy was wanting.  The landlord was phoning daily, when not banging on the door.  His dealer was calling even more frequently—and more ominously.  But the movie led to nothing.

 

It led to nothing for Remy because the producer did a little late research on him.  One he found that he had graphic sexual footage of a minor on his hands, he personally cut the scene out and destroyed all copies.  Even digital versions were securely wiped.

 

Remy never appeared on screen at all.

 

And then he was gone.

 

He was in too much of a bind to stay where he was, so he fled.  Sometimes he hitched rides (or, more accurately, traded them for sex), sometimes he took the bus, crammed uncomfortably into a window seat, unable to close his eyes and rest due the non-English cacophony of voices surrounding him.  But one way or another, he managed to make it to Vegas, only to find that it did him a fat lot of good.

 

Sure, he could turn tricks, and the income from that was enough to support a shitty apartment and his meth habit, but he wanted more.

 

Well, more certainly hadn’t come today.  And it wasn’t likely to come tonight.

 

He shrugged and sweat ran into his eyes, stinging them.  He clenched them shut and was still rubbing at them when a deep bass voice spoke, so near that it startled the shit out of him; he hadn’t heard anyone approach.

 

“Ya look like you could use a few bucks.”

 

He opened his eyes and was instantly in lust.

 

The dude was Hispanic, with a shaved head and a tight black goatee.  He sported a wifebeater and jeans that clung to him like a second skin, leaving no detail of his powerful, heavily-muscled body to the imagination.  The worn denim was wrapped so tightly around the stud’s cock that Remy could easily see the shape of the huge head.  And the wifebeater seemed designed too display the guy’s thick pecs and muscle-bound arms covered in an intimidating display of tats, some crudely inked.  A pair of black combat boots completed the look.

 

Remy really hoped the stud offered him money—because he wasn’t gonna ask for any.  As much as he wanted cash, he wanted that enormous rough trade cock reaming out his ass, and he was prepared to give it up for free.

 

But the guy had already mentioned money; with that and his body he had about 120% of Remy’s attention.

 

“Uh, yeah,” the teen said, batting his long lashes; his attempt at innocence had all the subtlety of a silent-movie vamp.  “I ain’t been in town long, and I ain’t found a job yet…”

 

“No?  You found any cock yet?”

 

The look on the dude’s face was cold and almost contemptuous, but Remy didn’t care.  He’d sure found the cock he wanted tonight, at any rate.  He blushed and grinned, a natural reaction much more attractive than his earlier attempt.

 

“I’m Sam,” the hardbodied stud said abruptly, “Ya like it up the ass?  Wanna get fucked on camera?  Pay’s good.”

 

“Yeah?  How much?”  The boy was suddenly as alert and focused as a hound on a scent.

 

“A grand now and five percent of the online revenue.”

 

Well, fuck—that was more than Remy had got for the professional flick.

 

“Who’s gonna fuck me?  You?”

 

The tatted hunk grinned for the first time, Remy noticed—but the adolescent slut was so full of greed and hormones that he disregarded the feral, shark-like nature of the grin.  “Yeah, man, I’ll be the one fuckin’ ya.”

 

The kid practically beamed at hearing this.  “Give it to me rough,” he bleated, “Treat me like shit.  You c’n do that, right?”

 

This time there was no mistaking the predatory gleam that illuminated Carlos’s dark eyes with an almost psychotic glow; Remy’s dismissal of the meaning of that look was a willful act.  All he cared about was the answer and “Sam’s” reply was what he wanted to hear.

 

“Bitch, this is gonna be the roughest, rawest fuck you’re ever gonna get in yer life—I fuckin’ promise ya.  Now c’mon, my partner’s already got the cameras up.”

 

“Where we goin’?” Remy asked, his rounded leather-encased ass practically wriggling in anticipation.

 

“We got a place out in the warehouse district.  Nice and private for a movie set.  You’ll see.  Hop in.”

 

They’d arrived at Carlos’s Benz.  One look at the car was enough to convince Remy that this was a legit deal.  Sure, the car was older, but the kid didn’t pay much attention to model years.  He knew it was a Mercedes convertible and it looked great.

 

Appearances were more than enough for Remy.  He climbed in next to Carlos and in a moment, they were heading off into the darkness.  For one of them, the darkness would be permanent.

 


 

From the moment Remy entered the set, he knew that this was it, this was the chance he’d been waiting for.  The set itself wasn’t quite as professional as his single prior experience, just a bed and a nightstand on a carpeted platform, but the stud he’d be working with made up for—and then there was the cameraman.

 

Nick was focusing a tripod-mounted camera at the bed when they arrived.  He’d already been alerted by a call from Carlos, a call overheard by Remy in which he was referred to as “a hot one” and felt flattered.  Nick’s long wavy black hair fell to bare shoulders; he was shirtless.  His massive chest narrowed to the waistband of an incredibly tight pair of jeans, the hems of which had been negligently caught and hiked up when Nick had pulled on his pair of laced but untied Rockrooster logging boots.

 

The teen slut’s jaw almost hit the ground as he was introduced; Nick was bigger and better built than “Sam”, even if he lacked the dangerous edge that the tattoos and shaved head gave the ex-con.

 

“You ready to get fucked?” the cameraman asked laconically, his grin touched with the merest hint of malevolent contempt.  “Show us what we’re paying for, boy.  Strip.”

 

As Remy balanced precariously on one leg, pulling off a sneaker, his eyes were drawn to the huge bulge in Nick’s crotch.  He could see the details of every last inch—and there were a lot of inches—of the cameraman’s massive tackle.  Still staring at Nick, the whore wriggled his way out of his tight leather jeans, everything finally coming down, letting his long thick boycock spring free, achingly erect.  The left cuff, though, caught at his foot; still standing on only one leg, Remy lost his balance.  Just as the pants came free, he staggered into Carlos.

 

The muscle-bound convict had shed his wifebeater by this time, revealing a thick gold chain half submerged in the thick fur covering the killer’s powerful chest.  As Remy stumbled forward, he ended up with his face inadvertently buried in the dark forest of wiry hair.  The boy needed no encouragement; with his face already in a place he wanted, he began nuzzling the older man’s hair, inhaling his musky scent.  Within seconds, he’d transferred his attention to Carlos’s nips, licking and gnawing at the hard nubs of flesh.

 

The kid began jacking himself, his hand moving furiously in his crotch as he worked the fagkiller’s chest, but as he did, he could hear the sound of a zipper sliding behind him, and he knew what that meant.

 

Remy liked nipples but he loved cock. And he was about to get some.

 

The skin-headed rough trade pushed him roughly away.  Remy stumbled back and feel to his knees.  He didn’t mind, though; from here, Nick enormous dripping dick was right at face level.

 

All he had to do was open his mouth and his throat was full of manmeat.

 

Nick was only semi-hard as he inserted his shaft into the whore’s mouth, but he swiftly reached the massive extent of his full erection as he skullfucked the teen slut.  Remy had enjoyed the slick, salty precum and the feeling of fullness in his mouth but as the huge tool kept swelling in his esophagus, he realized he needed to come up for air.

 

And then he realized he couldn’t.  Nick was clutching his head, the cameraman’s powerful hands clamped like a vise to his cranium, making any movement impossible.  His eyes watering, Remy began to gag and choke.  He pressed his hands against Nick’s thick, strong thighs, trying to force the older man away.  As he struggled uselessly, he heard Nick’s malicious chuckle.

 

That was when he vomited, a thick wad of foamy drool erupting from around the huge hog in his mouth and dripping off his chin.

 

“Can’t breathe?” the muscle-bound cameraman asked jocularly.  “Whore like you should be able to hold its breath longer than that.”

 

Remy might have had a rejoinder had he been able to speak; as it was, he could only beat against Nick’s rock-hard, immovable body as the stud kept forcing his cock further down the gagging teen’s trachea.  As the huge tube of manmeat inched its way further in, something tripped in the kid’s brain, slow asphyxia setting off a kind of claustrophobic panic response.  Remy became frantic, struggling wildly to pull away as Nick clutched him tight and Carlos looked on in amused contempt.

 

Finally, Nick let the boy free.  The teen faggot fell back, coughing and retching as drool continued to pour down his chin and smear across his smooth chest.  His face was a livid purple and as he tried to wipe his lips with the back of his hand, it was trembling visibly.

 

Nick noticed and guffawed.  “What, did you think I was trying to snuff ya?  Not yet, bitch—you’re not dying till I get the cameras on.”

 

Remy listened to the words, partly incredulously and partly in terror.  Surely that was a joke—but it inspired enough fear in him to get him to his feet.  As Nick, still grinning, to a step towards him, Remy took a step backwards.  Nick took another, Remy took two—and bumped into something firm and unyielding.  He whiled around to find it was Carlos.

 

The look on the ex-con’s face almost made the boywhore lose control of his bladder.

 

“Where ya think yer goin’, faggot?” the inked killer snarled.  “Yer gonna die on my dick tonight and we’re gonna film it.  Thousands of dudes around the world are gonna pay us good money so they can beat their meat as they watch me rape and snuff your worthless homo ass.  They wanna watch me destroy your teen fag body, ya dig?  The more you hurt, the more you scream, the more they pay—and the more I get off.”

 

There was a brief, pregnant pause and the sadistic fagkiller spoke again.  “You wanna end the pain?  Make me cum, motherfucker, and I’ll snap yer neck and put you outta yer misery.  Remember that, cunt.  You die when I cum.  I’m gonna leave yer spunk-filled body to rot in the desert—but not till I’ve filled it.  Got it, cocksucker?”

 

Yes and no.  Remy had heard the words, but he couldn’t process them; it was as if his brain was refusing to understand them.  And once it did, it flat-out refused to believe them.  This was some kinda sick joke.  Maybe a prank.  He didn’t know anyone personally who would prank him, but there were cameras—maybe this was one of those cable reality shows…

 

Carlos, seeing the boy’s confusion regarding the veracity of his speech, cleared the matter up for Remy by punching him in the face hard enough to send the teen reeling back onto the concrete floor, where he lay dazed, spitting up blood and his left incisor.  As he struggled to regain his equilibrium, he heard the thudding of thick-soled boots on the floor and looked up to see Nick looming over him.

 

The long-haired musclestud grinned and flexed his pectorals.  The sight of his huge, glistening pecs would normally have instilled pure lust in Remy; now, that lust was mingled with fear.  There was a lot of power there, and if it was unleashed against him…

 

Slowly and reluctantly, he climbed to his feet.  He knew he was making himself a target, but he had to be upright if he was to have a chance at escape.

 

Nick, though, was even more experienced as a fagkiller than Carlos.  He knew what was bubbling in the teen slut’s mind; the stupid little fucks always tried to make a break for it at this point.  That could be fun, but Nick had a job to do—namely, to get this cunt onto the bed so Carlos could fuck it and snuff it.  He decided to forestall any flight attempt the pansy might try.

 

His method was swift and brutally efficient.  Remy just barely had time to see the hardbodied cameraman’s huge pec and powerful bicep swell.  The fact that he was gonna get punched again was obvious.  He drew his hands to his face…

 

…and Nick’s fist plowed into his firm flat belly like a runaway train.   “EEEEGGH!” Remy cried out in a high, girlish shriek as the vicious impact forced the air from his lungs.  He stumbled backwards, gasping for air.

 

Nick powered up the camera be fore advancing towards him and suddenly the adolescent whore found himself in some sort of alternate time, a kind of involuntary slow-motion with heightened senses.  He was aware of so much, but couldn’t move fast enough to do a damn thing about any of it.

 

He was aware of Carlos standing to the side, smirking, his huge horsedick pulsing visibly with each blow he watched the boy take.

 

He was aware of incredible pain in his gut and wondered vaguely if it had caused organ damage; he seemed to visualize internal bleeding…

 

He was aware that the camera was on, and that this was being recorded for the sexual satisfaction of complete strangers.

 

He was aware of a swath of blue denim filling his field of vision.  He had just enough time to realize that, as he was bent over in agony, Nick was kneeing him in the face—and to think oh fuck before he was struck hard enough to crush his nose and jerk him fully erect, his eyes wide open.

 

Nick was swinging his fist even before the pain hit Remy; the kid saw it coming at him but there wasn’t anything he could do.  And then there was blissful nothingness.  With the squealing bleat of a slaughtered sheep, the teen whore was knocked backwards, sprawling unconscious on the floor, his battered face swelling and bleeding, his legs spread—and between them, his long boycock still semi-erect, despite the ferocious abuse the boy had just endured.

 


 

The first thing Remy was aware of was pain.  The second thing he was aware of was more pain.  Any part of reality not involving pain was a distant third.

 

He was on his back.  He was on something firm, but not as hard as the concrete floor.  His eyes were badly swollen; it was difficult to open them, so he didn’t try at first.  He had no problem hearing, though.

 

“I’m about ready to take this cunt down.  Ain’t ya got something to wake it up?”

 

That was the one he knew as “Sam.”

 

“I’ve got some ammonia caps if we need them, but I’ll bet it starts up screaming and yelling the moment you get your tackle into it.”

 

That was the cameraman.  Remy desperately pried his eyes open, filled with terror by the unconscious recognition—he didn’t dare recognize it consciously—of the significance of the pronoun “it.”

 

He was on the bed, on his back.  The overhead lights were simple shop lights in reflective metal cones, but they were nearly blinding from his perspective.  He turned his head to the side and the thickly-muscled forms of his assailants swam into view.

 

Nick had removed his jeans.  He’d slipped his boots back on; the concrete floor was slippery with only socks on, but otherwise, he was stark nude.

 

At the moment, he was working on the camera, facing away from the bed.  Remy, despite his obvious peril, couldn’t help but admire the stud’s tight, muscular ass, imagining those muscles tautening and flexing as his hips drove his shaft up a homo ass…

 

Carlos, on the other hand, was facing him, still in boots and jeans.  His enormous shaft jutted out intimidatingly, like the ram on an ancient warship.  He noticed Remy’s movement and jeered, “Looks like all ya had to do was mention dick and the fag woke right up.  Shit, even got it hard again, haw!”

 

The teen slut understood that very bad things were going to happen.  He still didn’t believe that his worthless ass was going to die this night, but given the damage already inflicted on him, he knew that unless he could get out of here real quick, he was gonna suffer.  A lot.

 

Carlos approached the bed.  He’d been nearly eye-level with the prone youth until he mounted the platform.  Still blinking and shielding his dark, swollen eyes from the overhead lights, Remy peered up at the hulking sadist looming over him.  He could barely see Carlos’s cold, hard face over the ex-con’s huge, thickly-muscled chest, but the gold chain buried in his fur twinkled gaily under the bright lights.

 

As he stood over the bitchboy, Carlos took one hand and wrapping it around the base of his massive cock, began slapping it into his other hand.  Hot precum splattered over Remy’s lithe nude form as the killer leered at him.

 

“Ya like dick, dontcha, asswipe?”  Carlos sneered.  “Fuckin’ faggot.  Tonight yer gonna learn what faggots are good for, cunt.  Tonight, yer gonna learn what real men do to cocksuckin’ perverts.”

 

He bent down, and now Remy could see his face very clearly.  Given the utterly insane mix of hate and lust that gleamed in the hardbodied convict’s eyes, the terrified adolescent didn’t want to see him that clearly.  Or hear him.

 

“And I promise ya, motherfucker, it’s gonna hurt. It’s gonna hurt so bad you’ll beg us to waste your pansy ass.  I fuckin’ promise.

 

“Aw, now, don’t be cruel,” came Nick’s jeering voice as he approached with a hand-held camera, “You know you won’t off the fuckmeat till it milks your load, no matter how much it begs.”

 

The long-haired cameraman grinned, turning in all his nude glory to the kid on the bed.  His smile was genial, almost beneficent.  “There’s your pro-tip for when the pain gets too much, fag.  You’ll have to make him cum before he’ll be merciful enough to kill you.”

 

And deep down, some corner of his shallow cockpig mind made Remy aware that even as he was being told that he was gonna be raped and tortured to death, his own dick was still hard.  He didn’t want this, he’d never wanted this, but he couldn’t control his erection.

 

Oh fuck, he had to get out of here.  It might not be too late—

 

It was.  He hadn’t begun to rise when Carlos was on the bed with him, forcing his legs apart with the careless violence of a child yanking a wishbone.

 

“What the fuck?” the teen homo yelled in an outraged tone—as if that had any impact—as he felt the inhumanly large head of the muscled killer’s shaft pressing against the soft tender pink edges of his asshole.  “No way, asshole you ain’t fuckin’ me, you can’t dooaaAAAAAIIIEEE!!!”

 

Remy’s shriek spiraled up over an octave as Carlos plunged his tackle into the boy’s fuckhole, tearing him so badly in the process that—if he lived—he’d need surgery.  His enormous tool not only tore the teen’s sphincter in three places, it also split the kid’s rectal lining before it ground his prostate into paste and lodged deep in his guts.

 

The pain was not something Remy could comprehend.  Compared to this, the vicious beating was a good-night kiss from mother, and that was the thought that stuck in the teen’s agonized mind.

 

“Mommy,” he begged softly, tears streaming down his bruised face, “Please, mommy…”

 

“Aw, shaddup,” Carlos barked and gutpunched the kid.  Forced halfway into a sitting position by the blow, Remy found himself staring directly into the eyes of the fagkiller fucking him.

 

“I ain’t yer mommy, I’m yer fuckin’ god,” the ex-con snarled.  “I’m the one who decides when the pain stops, motherfucker.”  With that, Carlos laid him back on the bed again with a love tap to the jaw, so gentle it barely dislodged two more teeth.

 

Tears welling in his eyes, Remy could see a large blur by his side; the loud guffaw that it emitted was in Nick’s voice.  As his sight cleared slightly, he found himself looking directly into a camera lens.  “Does it hurt, boy?” came the long-haired sadist’s deep basso voice, “Come on, show us.  Beg for it to stop, whore, beg the camera!”

 

And that’s exactly what Remy did.  Turning his battered, once-handsome face to the lens, he painfully opened his damaged mouth and sobbed, “Please…please, d-don’t hurt me no more, mister…”

 

Nick’s laugh was crueler and more raucous than before.  He turned to Carlos.  “Mister!  Did ya hear that?  He actually called me mister…”

 

“He ain’t the one with his dick up yer ass, faggot!” Carlos snarled.  He drew back his huge, piston-like arm and plowed his fist three times into Remy’s smooth, firm belly in rapid-fire succession. Each blow elicited a high girlish squeal from the gasping youth as the massive impact forced the air out of his lungs and past his vocal cords at high velocity.  His entire body jerk spasmodically each time Carlos’s fist fell; the ex-con grunted with pleasure as the cunt’s asshole clenched his thick pulsing shaft repeatedly during the attack.

 

Nick caught it all on film.  As Carlos leaned back for a moment, keeping his shaft buried in the teen’s ass, Nick stepped forward, holding the camera in one hand and his huge, club-like cock in the other.  He dangled it, engorged and dripping, over Remy’s dark, grimacing face.  The kid still hadn’t been able to inhale from the brutal pounding on his solar plexus; his wide-eyed look of desperation and his useless mouth, gaping and closing, gave him the look of a landed fish asphyxiating in the open air.

 

He could still see, though, and as his taut young body writhed in a frenetic attempt to breathe, he was well aware of the way Nick was wielding his gigantic tool above his face.

 

“So you like dick, boy?  You want this dick?  Sure you do; I can see it in your eyes.  Guess it’s your lucky night, punk—here ya go!”

 

And with that, Nick began swinging his thick, meaty shaft, slamming it into Remy’s face.  It was a formidable weapon, having enough length and girth to give it a hefty mass.  When the vein-wreathed rod of manflesh walloped the teen across his bruised face and broken jaw, the pain was phenomenal.

 

Remy had been dickslapped hundreds of times before; he’d never know it could hurt, much less cause such horrible pain as this.  Even the precum spattered from the cameraman’s monstrous dick seemed to sear Remy’s skin where it landed.

 

The adolescent slut felt his mind slipping away from him.  This was the hottest sexual encounter he’d ever had in his short, wasted life—two incredible alpha studs, one fucking roughly while the other’s cock was in his face.  But this was no wet dream—it was a fucking nightmare.

 

And then it took a turn for the worse.

 

Carlos wrapped one huge powerful hand around Remy’s throat.  “Goddam faggot ain’t even good for fuckin’,” the hulking alpha growled, hatred radiating from his muscular body with an almost palpable heat.  “Bitch can’t even take a real man’s cock; I had to wreck its hole to get my dick in.”

 

As he pounded Remy’s ass, viciously and rhythmically, he spoke to Nick, who turned to him with the camera, so it appeared that the brutal sadist was talking directly to his audience.  “Worthless homo can’t tighten up on my shaft.  Whaddaya think—time ta make it into meat, yeah?  Fuckin’ cunt’ll get all nice and tight as it chokes to death.  Hey, bro,”—this was directly to Nick—“Give it a couple more haymakers.”

 

Remy heard it and tried to fend off the blows.  His head was pinned into place on the bed, but his arms were free; the urge to resist was involuntary.  It was also a huge mistake.

 

For some reason, Remy split his forces—so to speak—with one hand clawing at Carlos’s face while the other came up to ward off the looming blow.  This was useless, of course; even Remy, flat on his back and looking up at the hardbodied cameraman towering over him, could see the immense power as Nick’s pecs tensed and his bicep swelled to deliver the punch.

 

Nick’s fist shot forward twice, rapidly, knocking aside the teen’s protesting arm and impacting his face with the force of a wrecking ball.  The pain would have been overwhelming but at the same time, Carlos’s free hand caught at Remy’s wrist.  The punk’s clawing hadn’t managed to injure the ex-con, but it pissed him off.  With breathtakingly cruel ease, he bent the boy’s hand backwards until the wrist broke with multiple faint popping sounds, then tossed the arm aside, letting it flop uselessly on the bed.

 

For one single soul-searing moment, time seemed to freeze for the terrified, agonized teenager. He could see, could feel, could sense everything about him as if his mind had somehow become infinitely sharper under the impetus of rape, torture, and impending death.

 

He could feel the tiny individual bones that had broken in his wrist.  He could see, as if in slow motion, Nick’s arm drawing back for another punch, his thick, hard muscles tautening, their massive power potential about to be unleashed to inflict pain on him yet again.  He could feel the cheap yellow comforter that covered the bed as it scratched the smooth soft flesh in the small of his back.  He could smell the testosterone and adrenaline given off by the two hulking alphas working so relentlessly to destroy him; it was a sharp, acrid scent that mixed with the sour tang on mansweat.

 

And, of course, he could hear.

 

“Time to own this faggot’s ass,” Carlos grunted as his hard, handsome face clenched in sexual rage.  “Gonna shoot soon.  Time for it to die.” Just as Nick’s second blow landed, he began to squeeze.  Instantly the pain in Remy’s face and ass began to recede as the horrible vise-like grip of Carlos’s hand slowly constricted his windpipe; as his breath whistled in his narrowing esophagus, it became harder to inhale with each passing second.

 

In a dim way, just as its air was permanently shut off, the boyslut was vaguely aware that is was sporting a massive, aching erection, but it had more important things to worry about. Panic set in.

 

“Hey, dude, catch this shit,” Carlos grinned at Nick, his powerful, thickly-muscled body heaving and thrusting as he pumped his enormous hog into the teen’s mangled fuckhole, “Stupid cunt just figured out it can’t breathe.”  With a “Fuck yeah!” and an equally malignant grin, the nude, buff cameraman leaned in for a close-up view of the teen’s strangulation.

 

The terror in Remy’s face was obvious.  Less sadistic observers might have been moved to pity; it merely goaded the two powerful fagkillers to greater heights of cruelty.  “Hey, motherfucker,” Nick jeered, “Smile for the camera!  Show the folks out there how much you’re loving a nice hard fuck, har!”

 

Carlos was strong enough that he was able to choke the punk out one-handed.  This left his other hand free—but not for long.  Soon it was slamming into Remy’s vulnerable, unprotected flesh.  The teen’s chest, his belly, his already-smashed face, nothing was sheltered from Carlos’s onslaught.  In addition to the erotic sounds of male-on-male rape was added the heavy, meaty sound of fist on flesh as the vicious ex-con pounded the boywhore in the ass—and everywhere else.

 

The kid was flailing and thrashing, desperate to escape the crushing agony.  Nick pulled the camera back for a wider shot of the tableau—the powerful killer, his muscular arm rising and falling as he beat the teenager, his firm, tight ass flexing as he plowed his huge manshaft remorselessly into the kid’s colon—everything was recorded so that others could take sexual pleasure in Remy’s suffering.

 

The pounding inside Remy’s head was getting so loud he couldn’t think—but he could still feel.  He definitely felt the crushing pain in his esophagus as his unbelievably powerful rapist choked him to death with just a single hand.  The pressure in his head and the searing agony in his chest as his lungs heaved and strained against an utter lack of oxygen was almost more than he could bear; it almost—almost—overwhelmed the torture of having his ass shredded by a dick too big to fit.

 

The weight of the hardbodied top pinning him to the bed was inescapable; despite the nightmarish torture he was enduring, Remy could still feel Carlos’s thick, strong muscled working and flexing against his own body as the older man raped and strangled him; he knew all that power was being expended to make him suffer and die, but there was nothing he could do about it.  His one good hand was beating at the hulking sadist with as much effect as if he were beating an oak tree.

 

The adolescent whore began to die.  The rapid drumming of his pulse ratcheted up several notches, echoing through his skull to the exclusion of most other sounds.  There was something wrong with his eyesight; he couldn’t close his eyes at all, and great black blossoms were beginning to bloom in his field of vision.  For a moment, he tried to focus on a dancing glint of light that he could make out—his vision too dim for him to realize that it was Carlos’s gold necklace that had caught his attention—when a movement to his side reminded him that Nick was still there.

 

Remy’s thinking was vague by now; his oxygen had been cut off too long for his brain to continue its normal function.  He remembered Nick, but at the moment, all that mattered was that he wasn’t the one in the process of killing him right now.  If he’d just help…

 

The shot Nick got was perfect; it helped make this film one of his highest-earning to date.  The badly injured teenager, his blackened, swollen face beaten beyond recognition, reached out in desperation—directly to the camera.  Nick zoomed in on the struggling youth, capturing the suffering and despair of his bulging, staring eyes and the way his tongue was just starting to peek out from between his purple lips, prompting a flood of foamy drool down his smooth cheeks.

 

And while his jackhammering pulse drowned out most noises, by a cruel trick of fate, both men’s voices were pitched just right to break through the background and enter his consciousness.

 

“Fuck yeah, bro, get in there and let ‘em watch me put this faggot down like a fuckin’ dog!” Carlos jeered, his harsh voice filled with cold, hateful glee.

 

“Here, let me get in closer for a second,” Nick told him.  Without throwing the tempo of the brutal rape off, Carlos leaned back and let Nick get even closer.  The muscular cameraman pointed his lens straight down into the dying boy’s face and began dickslapping him again.  A moist smacking sound filled the room as Nick’s monstrous tool slammed into Remy’s bloated, congested face.  The hardbodied psycho grinned down at the choking slut as he ran his pulsating cock over the teen’s black, protruding tongue.

 

“Yeah, that’s it, lick my dick, boy,” Nick sneered, mostly for the camera.  Enough of Remy was still alive to be aware of what his killers were saying—but not for long.

 

A cold fog was creeping in around the edges.  Things were receding; not the pain—Remy’s entire universe was nothing but pain—but things didn’t seem to matter.  The fear was fading; the damage to the teen’s brain had been mounting by the second.  He’d finally reached a critical point—even if he was allowed to breathe again instantly, he’d already suffered irreparable brain damage.

 

His vision was nearly gone.  He was aware that a powerful man was on him and in him, but the details of who or why were gone.  All there was, was now.  He was suffering, he would always suffer.  And what hurt most was his dick.  More than his ripped-open ass or traumatized face, it seemed like every nerve ending in his agonizingly erect shaft was on fire.

 

“Gonna fuckin’ blow,” Carlos grunted, his thrusting, muscle-bound form slick and glistening with the sweat that was forced from him by the exertion of the brutal rape and murder, “Time to say goodnight ya homo sack a’ shit!”.  Beneath him, struggles slowing to caresses, Remy heard the words distortedly, as if at half speed with reverb edited in.  His good hand was no longer beating at the Hispanic ex-con’s tattooed chest; now, it was involuntarily stroking those huge pecs, fingers curling spasmodically in the thick, wiry chest fur.

 

Carlos lay full length on Remy’s shuddering body and turned to Nick who was squatting beside the bed, his firm muscled asscheeks tense with the strain and his long shaft dangling nearly to the ground; he was holding the camera right at the level of the bed.  Carlos looked directly at the lens when he spoke.

 

“Ya wanna see it?” he said with a cruel, shark-like grin the took in all of his unseen audience, inviting their complicity in his remorseless hatefuck.  “Ya wanna see me kill this stupid fuckin’ cunt, yeah?  Wanna watch the worthless homo die?  Here ya go!”

 

He turned at looked down at what was left of Remy, spitting into the black, grotesque mask that had once been the teen’s face, before screaming, “Fuck you, faggot!  FUCK YOU!!!”  As his powerful, muscle-bound body bent over the teen whore and jerked violently, he wrapped both hands around the boy’s neck, applied his thumbs to the jaw and popped Remy’s skull off its spine like he was popping the cap off a bottle.

 

Remy didn’t die instantly; that mercy was denied him.  His spinal cord suffered massive damage but wasn’t severed.  The trauma sent an electrochemical pulse through the adolescent’s nervous system that swamped the punk’s shuddering, sweating form like a tsunami.  It was as if Remy had been struck by lightning—a searing, burning shock that seemed to reach his furthest extremities.  Every nerve in the teen’s young, fit body screamed in agony.

 

Especially those in his raging erection.

 

At the same time, his hypersensitive nerve endings felt heat deep in his guts, burning pain of a different kind, like lava hosing his ass.  Remy was too brain-dead to realize that Carlos was filling him with hot, potent alpha seed; he could only interpret it as pain.  He couldn’t hear the fagkiller grunting and cursing, or Nick vicious taunts—but when Carlos, in the violent throes of orgasm, began slamming his fist into Remy’s face, the near-dead teen was made aware of it.  The first blow was powerful enough to sever the spinal cord as jagged edges of shattered vertebral bone slashed through the thick bundle of nerve tissue.

 

If the prior trauma had been a lightning strike, this one was a direct hit by a nuclear bomb.  Remy was annihilated, disappearing in a white-hot blast of agony that caused a spontaneous, prolonged ejaculation.   The teenaged slut shot its deathwad for nearly thirty seconds continuously.  It was the last thing the cunt experienced while it was alive, and every microsecond of it was filled with excruciating pain.

 

Remy’s life spewed out from his cock, and it hurt.  His DNA splattered on his hulking killer’s inked, furry chest.  At the same time, Nick’s huge, club-like shaft began to spunk, a thick, ropy geyser of cum that splashed into the dead whore’s bulging eyes and on its protruding tongue.  Professional as always, Nick managed to capture every detail of the slut’s death while still coating it with his load.

 

After that, there were a couple of minutes of gasping and deep breathing as the muscle-bound alphas recovered from their exertions.  Nick stepped off the platform, his boots thudding heavily on the concrete floor, as he left the set area and headed for the restroom to clean up.  By the time he’d finished, Carlos had managed to extract his enormous rod form the dead boy’s ass and was headed to the restroom himself.  Passing in the hall, they high-fived each other–nude, booted, grinning, their gigantic alpha cocks dangling as they walked.

 

Once they were clean and dressed, it was time to take out the trash.  The meat was sprawled on its back, twitching.  The left foot in particular was jerking rhythmically, the toes still curling.  The faggot’s cock was going limp, the semen that had been trapped in the boydick slowly oozing out as the rod shriveled in death.  Even though it was covered in a glaze of cum, the dead kid’s face was a grotesque caricature, while its bruised chest was pooled with its own spooge.

 

“So how do ya wanna do this?” Carlos asked.  “Meatsack ain’t goin’ in my car like that.”

 

“Hell, the comforter’s shot anyway.  Just wrap it up and dump the whole thing.  Hang on a sec.”  Nick retrieved the whore’s sneakers, balled-up shirt, and leather pants, tossing them onto the quivering corpse.  “Come on,” he said, beginning to fold the cheap, thin fabric around the dead teen like a shroud, “I’ll carry it out; you get the doors.”

 

No sooner said than done.  Nick causally tossed the meat over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and took it out to Carlos’s Benz, where he dumped it into the trunk.  “On second thought,” he said as the ex-con slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, “Dump the cunt but bring the comforter back; I don’t want it found with the body.  I can burn it.”

 

“Ya really think anyone’s gonna care about a dead fag whore?” the muscled convict asked sneeringly.

 

“These days, you never know,” Nick said.  “Anyway, no sense in taking a chance.”

 

Carlos grumbled under his breath as he headed off towards the desert.  When he finally got to the already-scouted dump site, he vented his frustration at the extra precaution Nick had insisted on by kicking the fuck out of the corpse with his combat boots before finally shoving it, nude and abused, into a gully to rot.

 

It made him feel a little better.  Stuffing the comforter back into the trunk, he turned back to town, whistling as he headed back up the isolated dirt track to the highway.

 


 

“Hey, Nuñez, Captain wants to know if they got an ID on that dead fag yet.”

 

Nuñez looked wearily as his partner in the doorway.  “It’s a dead fuckin’ faggot.  Why the fuck does the captain care?”

 

“Dontcha keep up with events?” Schweitz grinned, “It’s an election year.  Gonna be a lot of this touchy-feely bleedin’-heart crap.”

 

“Goddam bullshit,” Nuñez muttered under his breath.

 

“I can’t hear you,” Schweitz said loudly, his grin even broader.

 

“Yeah, we gotta ID on the cocksucker,” Nuñez replied just as loudly.  “Remember that broad in here last week?  The one from outta town?”

 

“The one who took one look at the body and puked her expensive lunch everywhere?  Thought she swore that wasn’t her precious little darlin’.”

 

“Yeah, well, the dental records came back, and it turns out her precious darlin’ got his face caved right the fuck in before bein’ raped and killed and left to rot in the desert.  Not surprised she didn’t recognize what was left.  Anyway, there’s your answer for the captain.  Now, what does he want me to do with the info, actually look for the killer?”

 

“Fuck no; dude’s doin’ the city a favor.  But now he can say progress is bein’ made on the case if anyone asks.”

 

Nuñez closed the file on his desktop and dragged the icon to the trash.  “Moving on, then,” he said in a more relaxed tone.  “After all, a couple of actual humans got offed last night, ya know.  We have real work to do.”

 

Both men returned to their jobs, Remy’s very existence wiped form their minds.

One thought on “Carlos and NIck 8–Remy’s Big Break

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