It was already past quitting time, but Jarrell hadn’t packed up his gear yet.  Brock had said he wanted to talk—not that it would do any good.  As far as Jarrell was concerned, Brock was an asshole.  Of course, there were a lot of assholes in the construction business; Jarrell knew that.  But this was only a temporary job for him; he had no intention of making a career of manual labor, and he could see no reason for dealing with a foreman who was a dick.

And dick was the operative word.  Jarrell knew that Brock had been looking at him funny, eyeing the teen’s ass and his crotch.  Brock was in his early thirties, incredibly well-built, with wavy sandy hair, pale blue eyes and an intimidating, muscular physique.  Jarrell himself hoped to achieve that kinda build one day—unlikely since he was a good five inches shorter than Brock and nowhere near as solid—and though the kid denied any kind of same-sex attraction, the lure of the older man’s amazing body only added to the tension between them.

Especially after Jarrell had put in a call to Jonas Howard, the contractor who owned the company, and accused Brock of sexual harassment.

It wasn’t true, of course; Brock might look, but he had enough self-control not to go any further.   And while the foreman wasn’t as closeted as the teen, he damn sure didn’t advertise his inclinations at work; that would be fatal to his career—and given the violent rednecks he commanded, could possibly be fatal, period, if one of them took it wrong.  As a result, he prized his privacy very highly.

Jarrell’s phone call had put all that in jeopardy.  It was time to have it out with the little punk.  But the shit that needed to be aired also needed no witnesses; Brock had told the kid to come by the office after five.  It was a Friday—and a payday—so the muscle-bound foreman knew none of the rest of the crew would hang around long.

But it was past quitting time and Jarrell hadn’t shown up yet.  Kid was probably dawdling over his gear, padding his work hours—five minutes over was paid as fifteen minutes—so Brock went to find him.  The office, a large trailer that had been trucked onsite, was set back from the construction area some ways; a large swath of former ranchland had been cleared for the subdivision being built.  The row of cookie-cutter homes that were being erected at the moment was some distance away from the office and couldn’t be seen directly from it.

The roads in the subdivision wouldn’t be paved until the heavy equipment was finished; Brock’s black Timberland construction boots crunched loudly on the gravel, accompanied by a faint, rhythmic clanking from the toolbelt at his waist.  It was warm for the time of year and the hardbodied stud’s stained cotton t-shirt clung so tightly to his chest that his jutting nipples were plainly visible.  His skin-tight jeans did nothing to hide his physique, either; the way they cradled the firm rounded globes of his powerful ass would have attracted the attention of any observers. 

But the only observer was Jarrell.

He’d been nailing fascia boards on a nearly-completed home as quitting time had approached and was still scrambling off the roof when he saw Brock coming, the older man’s shadow stretching out far behind him in the sharply-slanted blood-red rays of the setting sun.  The kid was lean and lithe, but several months of construction work were starting to full him out nicely.  He was sporting a torn and dirty Packers jersey—he was a Redskins fan and the shirt was no more than an old rag to him—a pair of torn, stained jeans, and a cheap knockoff pair of black and red Air Jordans that he felt gave him acceptable traction on the sloping roofs.

Even from this distance, Jarrell could make out the foreman’s muscles working under his clothing, but the arrogant punk refused to acknowledge the stirring in his crotch.  He maintained his disgust at Brock’s faggotry by utterly ignoring his own, totally disregarding the way his own body so obviously responded to the buff hardman’s physique. 

The boy was in dire need of a rough, hard fuck in the ass, but he’d rather die than admit it, even to himself.  The problem was, that attitude was causing all kinds of trouble—not for him, but for others.  Now, it had snared Brock—but Brock wasn’t the kind to calmly accept the teen’s bullshit, especially when it put his job at stake. 

Jarrell could see Brock’s body moving, but not his mind.  If he had, he might have had a bit more anxiety about their meeting.

The house Jarrell was working on was nearing completion; the external plywood had been installed.  No windows or doors were in place and the interior divisions were represented only by studs, but within a week or so, it would be recognizable as a dwelling.  The boy had scrambled off the roof by this point and was in what would become one of the bedrooms, in the process of stowing his gear, when he heard the heavy clumping of Brock’s thick boots on the wooden subflooring below.

“Where are you, J?  We need to talk,” came his deep bass voice.

“I’m up here,” the kid called out, managing to squeeze a considerable amount of surliness into three words. 

The staircase was only half-built, but the steps were in place.  Brock was up in no time.

The two buff males glared at each other; the tension in the air was palpable—and sexual.  As much as Jarrell remained in denial, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the older man’s well-built form.  The punk was so out of tune with himself, he wasn’t aware of his own erection—but Brock damn sure was.  It made him even angrier.  The kid wanted dick, but was such a closeted fuck that he’d do his best to take down any male who inspired erotic thoughts in his twisted little mind. 

That kinda cunt was utterly worthless, in every way.  The young asshole was a mediocre worker at best, and Brock suspected—but didn’t have the proof yet—that he was altering his timecards.  Really, if anything happened to him, the job wouldn’t suffer at all.  Jarrell would be the one suffering.

Deep in Brock’s mind, some part of him wondered why that thought made his long, thick cock pulsate inside his tight jeans, but he ignored it.

“You called Howard on me, you little fuck,” he snarled.

Jarrell blinked; he knew this was gonna be ugly, but he’d expected some kind of palaver at first.  But if that was how the foreman wanted to play it…

“Yeah,” the boy sneered, “I don’t like fags, and I ain’t workin’ for one.”

To his surprise, Brock broke out in a loud, raucous guffaw.  “You don’t like fags?”  the older man chuckled, “Boy, the way yer eyein’ my bulge, even a blind man could see how bad you want the D.  How many cocks you guzzled in the last week, motherfucker?”

Jarrell flushed with rage.  “I ain’t no fuckin’ homo!” he screamed, his unacknowledged, subconscious awareness of the truth of Brock’s taunts jacking up the pitch of his voice. 

The hardbodied stud grinned at the punk.  “Son, yer the biggest cocksuckin’ pansy I ever seen.  Fuck, only reason you were put on this planet is to service real men like me, and I think is past fuckin’ time ya learned it, too.”

Jarrell’s eyes bulged in outraged horror as Brock opened his jeans at the waist, unzipped his fly, and hauled out his massive, dripping shaft.  “C’mon, asswipe, get on yer knees and put it in yer mouth like a good little fairy.”

“You sick fuck…” the teen gasped.

Brock’s grin became evil.  “You have no idea, motherfucker.  But yer gonna.”

The foreman pulled a foot-long crescent wrench out of his toolbelt and advanced on the kid.  Jarrell saw him coming, but it took a moment for him to realize what was happening and react. 

“Wha-what the fuck you doin’?” he stammered, his attempt at threatening anger belied by the sudden fear in his voice.  “You lay a hand on me an’ yer gonna regret it, asshole!”

Saying nothing, Brock continued to advance.  Jarrell began to back up, holding his hands up in front of him.  Somewhere in the depths of his ignorant, white-trash brain, it began to dawn on him that hurling threats at the much more powerful man hadn’t been the best idea, especially since they were alone—and no one else had known about this meeting.  The boy’s fear came sharply into focus.

“H-hey, man, I, uh, I was just kiddin’, y’know?” he babbled, “I ain’t really gonna do nothin’, honest!”

“Yeah,” Brock growled, “I know you ain’t.”  He kept advancing and Jarrell kept retreating until the boy found his back pressed against the rough exterior shell of plywood.  The older man raised his arm; a stray ray of light glinted from the steel wrench into the punk’s eyes, making him flinch.

“Wait—please, no, I—”

He never got to finish the sentence.  Brock slammed the tool into the side of his head and Jarrell slumped to the floor, unconscious.

---

The first thing Jarrell was aware of was the throbbing ache in his skull; it was echoed by an external throbbing that he knew to be the generator that supplied power for the various on-site tools; he’d shut it off himself.  There was no time to think about why it was on again or what that might mean, though; the next thing he was aware of was a breeze on his torso chill enough to make his nipples achingly erect.  It took a few moments for him to follow the thought process though to the point of realizing that his shirt had been removed.

“Wha—?” he muttered groggily as he felt his legs being jerked around; as he became more conscious, he was able to lift his head, only to see Brock squatting over him, boxcutter in hand, slicing off his jeans. 

“Whafuck ya doin?” the dazed punk slurred.

“I’m gonna give ya what ya want so bad, bitch—my cock.  Gonna shove my rod up yer ass.  Ya like that, yeah?  We both know ya want it, so just shut up and take it.”

“Get ‘way from me…” Jarrell started when Brock leaned over and punched him in the face, almost casually.  The blow was devastating enough to shut the teen punk up, though.  The older man resumed cutting as the boy moaned and wiped away the blood from his split lip with the back of his hand.

“See, cunt, yer mine now,” the foreman continued in a conversational tone, “And I’m gonna do whatever I want to ya.  I mean, you didn’t tell anyone you were gonna meet me here, right?  Stupid fuck.  And everyone knows what a goddam flake ya are, so when you go missin’, it ain’t like anyone’s gonna be worried.”

“Wha?  Missin’?  I ain’t goin’ nowhere…”

Brock’s chuckle was deep and malignant.  “The fuck you ain’t, faggot.  And you ain’t comin’ back, either.”

The kid was still too stunned to fully process the muscle-bound stud’s words beyond realizing that a threat was implied.  The nature of that threat was beyond his grasp at the moment, but Brock planned to make sure he was fully cognizant—in a moment.

First, though, he needed to secure the fuckmeat.

“Get up, cunt,” he snarled, and made sure Jarrell did so, grabbing a handful of the punk’s long dark hair and dragging him upright by the scalp.  The boy was on his feet and being led, stumbling, towards one of the window openings before he even realized what was happening.  For a brief moment, he was seized with a panic, a fear that the angry hardman was gonna hurl him from the second floor.

If he’d known what Brock had planned, he’d have gladly jumped out of his own volition.

His first clue was the industrial nail gun lying on the bare subfloor next to the opening.  The boy’s deficient imagination could find no purpose for the tool in the current context, so he dismissed it—until Brock bent down and picked it up.  Since the buff stud had yet to relinquish his grip on Jarrell’s hair, the kid found himself yanked down to floor level, then back up.  This close, he realized that the tool had been attached to the generator and was fully powered.

Suddenly, the nail gun took on a new and sinister connotation.

“Wh-what’s that f-for?” he quavered, the question forced form him almost involuntarily—he really didn’t want to know the answer.

“To make sure you don’t go no place for a little while,” Brock jeered, his handsome face twisted with malicious lust, “I don’t like faggots tryin’ to get away when I’m plowin’ ‘em.”

And again, the words “I ain’t no faggot” formed in the closeted homo’s mind, but before he could utter them, Brock had grabbed his wrist and forced his hand against the wall, palm against the raw plywood and fingers splayed. 

Jarrell should have been able to guess what was going to happen, but the loud “thunk” of the nail gun firing took him by surprise.  He stared dully at the shining half-inch disk of metal on the back of his hand; it took another ten seconds before the searing pain of having his hand nailed to the wall made its way through his dim, dazed mind.

His scream was projected out the window; it echoed back from the empty shells of the other houses scattered beyond.  Brock chuckled, unconcerned—the site was empty.  Everyone had cleared out and there wasn’t another person within three miles.  “Fuck yeah, now yer startin’ to sound like the bitch you really are.  Here, lessee if we can getcha to do it again!”

He grabbed at Jarrell’s other wrist, but the boy jerked his hand away—instinctively at first, but with increasing determination as he realized that the sadistic foreman was gonna do the same thing to his free hand.  His sudden attempt to struggle was as useless as it was stupid—he had no chance of evading Brock with one hand permanently attached to the wall, and all he was doing was pissing off the musclebound alpha.

“Quit fightin’ me, faggot!” Brock barked.  In his rage, he pressed the nail gun against Jarrell’s smooth, sweat-slicked back and fired it, driving a three-inch nail through both the scapula and the third rib.  The damage was minor, but excruciating, and Jarrell’s shriek made his prior cry seem like the mewling of a kitten.  The sudden rigidity the trauma produced gave Brock the opportunity he was looking for; Jarrell’s lithe body had barely registered the pain before the new agony in his other hand made him weep.

Brock stepped back, grinning, to admire his work.  The teen fuckwad, nude but for his Air Jordans, had been nailed up in front of the window opening, his long boycock flopping in the open air, his firm rounded ass exposed, vulnerable, and perfectly positioned for the older man’s monstrous hog to tear into it at any time Brock wanted.

And Brock wanted—now.

Sobbing and shuddering, the latent pansy asshole could hear the older man’s boots on the floor behind him.  Part of Jarrell’s fear was his inability to understand what was happening to him—not five minutes ago, he was looking forward to having it out with the masculine foreman; what the fuck had happened?

He craned his neck in an attempt to see what Brock was doing.  The buff older man smirked when he saw the teen’s tear-streaked face.  He approached the boy, peeling off his t-shirt and standing next to the trapped punk in muscular semi-nudity.  Despite the pain and the awkward angle of his neck, Jarrell could clearly see Brock’s massive chest, his large nipples jutting above the broad, hubcap pecs and the golden haze of fur that covered the stud’s rock-hard torso.  But it was the threat of his visibly pulsating cock that forced the boy to speak in spite of his fear.

“Y-you can’t do this,” he moaned in the quavering voice of a frightened child, “I’ll tell.  I’ll tell everyone what you did to me—”

He was interrupted by a loud guffaw from the hardbodied foreman.

“Lemme tell ya something, bitch,” Brock said, grinning, “I been thinkin’ ‘bout this for a little bit.  See, this is a construction site.  Lotsa places for accidents to happen—and lotsa places for stupid little cunts like you to go missin’.  And ain’t no one gonna miss ya if you do.”

He approached Jarrell closely enough that the terrified punk could smell the acrid tang of mansweat and testosterone the stud gave off; in spite of the agony of fear in the teen’s conscious mind, his libido responded involuntarily.  Jarrell was a master of denial, though, and utterly refused to acknowledge his own raging erection.

Brock noticed it, of course; it only increased his determination.  “I’ve been havin’ some…interestin’ ideas lately about what I’d do to a worthless piece a’ shit like you if I ever got the chance, but I didn’t think I’d ever get to do ‘em.  Now you just handed me a whole wad of reasons to try ‘em out on you.  Gotta thank ya for that, you dumbass motherfucker.”

He placed his hand on his toolbelt.  Stupid as Jarrell was, he still understood the significance of the movement and very quickly changed his tune. 

“P-pl-please, oh god, please, I-I was just kiddin’ when I said I’d tell,” the teen babbled in panic,  “I sw-swear I won’t tell no one, just don’t hurt me, oh fuck oh god please don’t—”

Brock smiled sweetly, almost gently at the weeping punk.  “Hurt ya?  Cunt, I ain’t gonna hurt ya.  Hurt don’t come close to what I’m gonna do to ya.”

As Jarrell moaned in abject terror, Brock realized how erotic the mere mindfuck was and kept up the pressure.  “And I know you ain’t gonna tell no one.  By the time they find you, I’ll’ve fucked you up so bad they ain’t gonna be able to tell what happened to ya…if they find ya at all, har!”

The stupid young punk’s moaning became more pronounced when Brock stepped behind him and the boy felt the massive head of the stud’s cock probing his virgin asshole.  “Yer gonna love this, faggot,” the foreman jeered as his big strong hands grabbed Jarrell by the hips and pulled his pelvis backwards to position him for penetration.  The kid cried out in pain as the movement jerked his hands, tearing the wounds caused by the nails—not enough to free him but enough to hurt.

“Aw fuck yeah!” Brock said, “Ya like that feelin’, huh?  Ya like bein’ hurt, you worthless fuck?  Buckle up, asswipe, ‘cause I’m gonna rip yer ass open like a log splitter!”

Jarrell didn’t have time to brace himself before Brock was inside him, plowing deeply and relentlessly though his colon. 

As bad as the pain in his hands and his shoulder was, it was nothing compared to the agony of having his tender sphincter torn to shreds by the older man’s huge, vein-wreathed shaft.    It hurt so bad that Jarrell couldn’t believe he was being fucked—he was sure that Brock had jammed a baseball bat up his ass; only the feel of the foreman’s wiry fur scraping against his smooth back as he thrust himself remorselessly into the boy’s guts convinced him otherwise.

Brock ran his hands along Jarrell’s smooth, heaving flanks, slick with the cold sweat that physical agony was forcing from the teen’s lithe body.  The kid’s subdued blubbering added an aural counterpoint to the rough smacking sound of flesh on flesh and the hardbodied sadist’s grunts of pleasure as he plowed the youth’s fuckhole.

Jarrell’s mind was starting to cave under the physical onslaught—and it wasn’t helping that he could feel his own long, thick dick swinging between his legs with every thrust of the alpha’s hips.  What little lucidity the pain and terror left him with was unable to process why he was sporting a raging erection during a violent rape; he had no idea that part of it was an involuntary reaction from the way Brock’s tackle was brutally massaging his prostate—and he damn sure refused to recognize his own deep-seated desire to get reamed like a whore.  But his body understood what his mind shied away from, and as the older man’s pounding became more intense, precum began to ooze form the teen’s rod, spattering against the bare plywood wall beneath the window opening.

As Brock’s fucking became more intense, he felt his loosened jeans begin to slide down.  Soon his muscular ass was bare, the taut, hairy cheeks clenching and flexing visibly with each deep, brutal thrust.  They didn’t slide any further, so he didn’t bother to pull them back up—his toolbelt was still in reach, which was the important thing.  But the nail gun wasn’t, and Brock realized he was likely gonna need it soon—the fuckmeat was getting restless.

Between the pain and the sexual assault, Jarrell had been in a deep, uncomprehending mental fugue, a haze of agony and bewilderment.  It was sunset on a Friday night; he was supposed to be meeting some buds to down a few brews, pass a joint or two, and brag about the chicks they’d fucked—all lies, of course, but it was his routine, and one he enjoyed.  What was happening to him now was surreal, not real.  This was some kinda nightmare and he needed to force him self to wake up.  Twisting and jerking his lithe, sweating body, the teen pulled himself forward every time Brock’s enormous hog was thrust up his ass, deliberately avoiding the sheer agony of the massive member tearing into his guts.  It was pissing Brock off, but Jarrell didn’t know that and wouldn’t have cared if he had.  All he wanted to do was stop the pain.

“Stop it, ya useless faggot,” the alpha snarled, “Yer gonna stay still and take my cock if I hafta nail you in place to do it.”

That was enough for Jarrell.  He heard the threat without processing the literal meaning of the words, and he couldn’t take it anymore.  With a violent lunge forward, he managed to pull himself off Brock huge shaft with an audible popping noise, a loud, inarticulate cry of relief slipping from his lips as he did so.

Brock’s handsome face flushed with rage—but now he was free to retrieve the nail gun.  He stooped and swiftly snatched it up as Jarrell began gingerly testing his hands, trying to find a way to free them without incurring more pain.  The assfuck had hurt so bad that it literally hadn’t occurred to him that he was still trapped and no better off now than he had been, aside from the fact that he was no longer being impaled by Brock’s rod—but that was only temporary.

“Ok, you worthless piece a’ shit, you asked for it,” the hardbodied foreman barked, brandishing his dick in one hand and the nail gun in the other.  Jarrell whimpered in terror and yanked his hands even harder, tearing at the flesh and tendons but still unable to break free.  When the pain hit him from behind, that cruelly lucid part of his mind was amazed at how full of cock he was; it was like being hollowed out so his body could be nothing more than a sheath for the older man’s shaft.

But then Brock wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled, bending Jarrell’s lean young body backward.  The boy could see the alpha’s hand coming around, clutching the large, intimidating nail gun; he could feel the cold metal pressed against his flat, heaving belly—and he could hear the loud “thunk” as Brock fired it.

There was no bone to arrest the progress of the nail; all three inches of sharp steel punched cleanly and instantly into the kid’s guts with the head flush against his smooth skin.

“NGAH!” he screamed mindlessly as his body went rigid with pain.  “Aw, fuck yeah, that’s it, bitch!” Brock muttered as the teen’s asshole gripped his pulsating tool in agony, “That’s whatcha needed to work my dick, huh?  Shit, cunt, take it again!”

He fired four more nails into Jarrell’s belly in rapid succession, lowering the gun about an inch each time until the lowest was just above the punk’s jutting erection.  This last one tore into the boy’s bladder, eliciting a scream that reverberated in the empty room and beyond.

And at each one, the teen’s colon clutched Brock’s massive tool as if the bitch was actively working to make the alpha cum.  His torso, slick with cold sweat, shuddered against the foreman’s hairy chest with every puncture as his entire body bucked involuntarily in pain.

For Brock, it was an epiphany.  He’d fantasized about doing this kinda thing before, but he’d always kept himself under enough control to avoid doing anything that would cause trouble.  But the meat had started the trouble this time; in the alpha’s mind, that relieved him of any responsibility for what happened next.  Jarrell had brought this on himself—and Brock was having the time of his life.

“Goddam, asswipe, I gotta remember this next time,” he whispered to Jarrell, the rough blond scruff on his cheek scraping the teen’s ear.  “Course, you ain’t gonna be there for that—yer gonna die on my dick here and now.  Fuck, cunt, feels so fuckin’ good, don’t it?  Lessee if I can make it feel any better…”

Jarrell felt the nail gun’s removal from his belly but he didn’t start babbling in utter terror until he felt it pressed against his right ear.

“Oh Jesus no don’t dear God NO NO—” KA-THUNK!

The teen’s physical reaction as three inches of sharp steel tore through his ear drum and plunged into his brain were indescribable; Brock’s pulsating rod had never been worked so well.  It didn’t shut Jarrell up—but the effect of a nail to the skull was obvious.

“AAAGH no pleath no more sthop it Jethuth help me MOMMY PLEATH—”

WHAM!  WHAM!  Brock had raised the gun slightly and fired two more into the punk’s long dark hair.  The lithe young body thrashed and flailed as the kid continued to cry out, but by now his brain had been damaged past the point of no return.

“IGTH!  AGG!  NGTH!” the young faggot blurted out incoherently, no longer able to form words—but still conscious and excruciatingly aware of what was happening to him. 

But just in case he wasn’t, Brock made certain to enlighten him.

“There we go, motherfucker—now yer just a piece of meat to be fucked, yeah?  All ya ever were to begin with, cocksucker, but now I don’t have to hear ya beggin’ for yer worthless life.  It’s all gonna be over soon anyway, cunt—just make me cum and I’ll end yer pain.  That’s whatcha want now, meat, right?  So work my dick, you useless faggot.  Milk my load so I can put ya down like ya need, bitch!”

Jarrell heard Brock’s words, but he didn’t have the ability to process them.  The nail shot through his right ear had done more than just fuck up his hearing; the delicate balance mechanism of the inner ear had been instantly destroyed and the hapless teen was swept up in a tidal wave of nauseating vertigo that only enhanced his agony. Even the vision in his left eye was gone.

The young punk gagged and babbled uselessly as his heart raced in panic.  Deep under the screaming agony, enough of what passed for his intellect still existed—enough to know that he’d suffered irremediable brain damage.  Worse, it wasn’t bad enough to prevent him from suffering; in fact, it had increased his sensitivity in some perverse way.  Every nail embedded in his lean youthful body felt like a railroad spike, Brock’s vicious reaming seemed to be ripping his guts out through his ass with each powerful thrust—even the swinging and bobbing of his own swollen, leaking cock caused him unspeakable agony.

And deep inside, the stupid little cunt had managed to realize that worse was to come.  He knew that the death the alpha was going to inflict on him would culminate in unspeakable pain, even if he didn’t know how.

Brock didn’t keep him long in suspense.

The helpless homo, lost in his terror, never heard the metallic click as the buff foreman opened up his boxcutter, but he felt it when Brock placed the well-worn edge of the blade against the soft, vulnerable flesh of his throat.   “I’m gonna cum in yer ass, bitch,” Brock hissed in his ear, “And I’m gonna rip yer throat open when I do.  Fuckin’ hot as hell, yeah?  Shit, I always wanted to do this to a useless piece a’ meat—and you gave me just what I wanted, cunt.  Goddam, my balls ache so bad—aw fuck, I’m gonna unload!  Ya ready, asshole?  Ready to gargle yer own blood as I fill yer guts with my spunk?  Yeah, faggot, here we fuckin’ go!”

For one brief moment, Jarrell felt the hot splash of the foreman’s potent seed spurting into his intestines, and then it was lost in the horror of the boxcutter digging into his neck.  The blade needed changing; a sharper blade would have made a smoother, faster cut but this one was old and nicked.  It didn’t slit the teen’s throat so much as puncture the skin, then rip the flesh apart.

It took some effort, too.  The esophagus is a rubbery piece of tissue; Brock grunted and spewed, his masculine face twisted into a mask of rage and lust as his bicep bulged with the force needed to open up the punk’s windpipe.  Jarrell screamed loudly and shrilly, the sound of a pig being slaughtered; as his trachea was torn open, the shriek became a gurgling hiss accompanied by a spray of aspirated blood.

A n iron-like scent filled the unfinished room as a scarlet jet pumped out of the gaping wound, spattering on the mud and dirt below the open window space.  The dying boy thrashed in terror and mortal agony as blood poured into his lungs but his dick never lost its excruciating rigidity.  Jarrell never knew that Brock had dropped the boxcutter and swung the nail gun around to his crotch, but in his last few moments alive, he experienced the nightmarish pain of having two nails fired into his scrotum.  The sharpened steel tore through his semen-filled testicles; the sudden explosion of physical trauma triggering an orgasm of unimaginable force.

As Jarrell died, a steady geyser of blood-tainted cum erupted from his thick boycock, shooting out the window and into the coppery pool that was already seeping into the dusty ground below.  The convulsion had been so intense that the kid had jerked backwards against Brock’s hard, hairy torso with such violence that he ripped his hands loose, finally freeing himself when it was too late to do him any good.  The nails were still embedded in the wall, bloody, a length of tendon dangling from the one on the right.

With a deep, satisfied moan, Brock stepped back and let the quivering fagmeat slide off his still-oozing shaft; it collapsed in a heap on the raw subfloor.   The buff older man was sweaty and trembling with exertion and sexual satisfaction; he’d known a snuff kill would be hot, but he’d had no idea it would feel so good.  The sheer sense of power he’d had over the trapped youth had intensified his pleasure so much that it rang a warning bell in the back of his mind—he could easily get addicted to the sensation.

He’d have to be very, very careful.

That started now.  He looked down at the huddled pile of boymeat shuddering at his feet.  Luckily, there wasn’t much blood on the interior of the structure—it was notoriously hard to remove from bare plywood—but the well-used corpse needed disposal.  The foreman pondered for a moment, then remembered the subdivision entrance.

A large sign was being erected where the primary drive for the area under construction branched off the main road; it was going to be a tall, elaborate structure and deep pilings were needed to support it.  The excavations for the pilings had already been dug and the concrete was going in tomorrow.  It would be a simple matter to dump the dead bitch down the hold, shovel some dirt over the corpse, and let the crew finish the job in the morning.  The worthless little fuck would never be found.

As he bent to retrieve Jarrell’s body, Brock felt the chill breeze on his firm, hairy ass and realized his jeans were still around his knees.  He pulled them up and fastened them at the waist, leaving his cock hanging out the open fly—it was still dripping and he didn’t want a stain in his groin.  Then he grabbed the dead teen, sliding his hands under the boy’s arms, and dragged him out of the room.

Jarrell’s feet thumped on the stairs; his heels dug furrows in the dirt as Brock dragged the twitching corpse the two hundred yards to the gaping hole.  With a twist of his muscular torso, he threw the body in, hearing the thud as it landed in the dirt twenty feet below.  Grabbing a spade from a nearby stack of tools, he quickly shoveled some loose dirt on top of the dead punk—just enough to cover it so it wouldn’t be seen from ground level; no more was needed.

Brock wiped his hands down and felt satisfied with his work, until he realized that the little cunt’s clothes were back in the unfinished house.  Muttering under his breath, angry at his own carelessness, he retraced his steps—and was glad he did so.  He hadn’t realized that Jarrell’s kicks had come off as the faggot had been dragged to his grave.  As he strode along, he bent down and snatched up one, then the other, before entering the house and gabbing the kid’s clothes.

By the time Brock got back to his truck, he’d made a decision.  The clothes were a total loss, cut to shreds; he’d dump them in a random trash can.  The Air Jordans, though, were a different matter.  He’d already used one to wipe off his dick, rubbing his long member inside it to clean the last of his cum of the head.  He wanted a trophy.  It had been a fantastic fuck, and he knew a physical connection to the kill would help keep it fresh in his mind.

Besides, they were in good shape and looked like they might fit him.  He tossed the clothes in the bed of his truck, then climbed inside and placed the sneakers in the passenger seat next to him, glancing at them periodically and grinning as he drove off the site.  Who knows? he thought.  He might wear them himself if he decided to do this again.

And the way he felt, that seemed very likely.