Friday night—it was time to party.  It was time to hang out with friends, to relax, to enjoy the end of the work week.

It was time for another fag to die.

Jake had pulled over to the curb twenty minutes earlier.  It was a hot night, but he’d shut off the engine of his big Ford pickup and was sitting in the darkness, a thin sheen of sweat coating his taut, muscled body.  He sat as still as a hunter with prey in his sights, and that’s exactly what he was.

The whore was halfway up the block.

He’d spotted it while he was driving by and had circled the block, switching off his headlights before he made the final turn.  He wanted to take a good look at the potential fuckmeat.

It was young—no older than twenty.  Maybe not even that; it was clearly a street whore that hadn’t even risen to the level of being a rentboy escort.  That kinda life can age a faggot, Jake knew, so it was likely younger than it looked.

The cunt had a decent body but was a little short—no more than five feet six or seven.  Its long, tousled black hair had a slight curl to it.  He noted its dress with a certain ironical amusement.  In many respects, its outfit was similar to his own.  They were both wearing wifebeaters, but where Jake’s was white, the whore’s was black.  Both had jeans on, but Jake’s, while old and torn in spots, were mostly intact.  The fuckboy had converted its jeans into shorts, cutting off the legs so high up the thigh that an inch and a half of swollen boycock peeked out from the ragged edge.  And both wore boots; Jake still in his knee-high lineman’s boots from his job.  The slut sported glossy black leather combat boots. 

It was looking for dick; the way it held itself and the way it leered lewdly as every car that slowed down while driving by made its intentions obvious.  At one point a car crawled nearly to a stop in front of it and for a moment Jake thought he’d lost his prey.  Just then, a police car turned the corner behind him.  Jake slouched down in his truck, the other car sped off, and the human fucktoy slipped back into the shadows of an alley.  The patrol car followed the other vehicle down the street and out of sight.

The timing was perfect.  The street was empty.  Jake started his truck up and moved slowly down to the streetlight, where the little cocksucker had reemerged.   

He edged over to the curb; the boywhore approached immediately, with an air of eagerness—for money.  Once it saw Jake’s hard, handsome face, though, its eyes lit up with lust.  There was no doubt about it—it was a worthless homo.  He could off it and no one would give a shit.

That was good.  He wanted it to die on his dick.

“Name’s Cliff.  Whatcha lookin’ for?” the cunt asked openly.

“Just a quick fuck,” Jake replied.

“Gettin’ or givin’?” it queried.

Jake snorted.  “I ain’t no bottom.”  Inwardly, he raged at the rentboy’s presumptuous faggotry.  Once he had it in his control, it’d learn its mistake—but not until then.  Street whores were notoriously skittish, and he didn’t want this one to get away.  It needed to be snuffed in the worst possible way.

“It’s a hundred an hour for that,” it responded.

The unmitigated gall.  Fucking slut wasn’t worth even a quarter of that—but it didn’t matter.  Jake merely grinned.  “That’ll work.”

Perhaps he agreed too readily; the whore was suddenly wary.  “You got the cash?” it asked, “Show me.”

“Shit, man, I got paid today,” Jake said, trying to keep the anger from showing in his face as he dug out his wallet and showed the cunt that it was full of twenties.  It worked, though; the whore relaxed visibly and opened the door of the pickup.

“Excellent,” the faggot said as it settled into the passenger seat. “Go up the road here and turn right at the light.  There’s a motel about three blocks down.  I gotta room there.  It’s cool; they know me.  I’m in there a lot.”  Jake glanced over at the cocksucker; the info didn’t surprise him at all.  Homo had probably gulped down gallons of cum in the place.

That was gonna all end tonight.  One last load and it was lights out for the cunt.  Jake managed to get the evil smirk off his face before he pulled into the motel parking lot.

The office was surrounded by floodlights; Jake avoided it without thinking—almost a form of predatory instinct.  As he pulled to the far end of the dilapidated, single-story building, the whore nodded in approval.

“Good,” it said, “My room is this end one.  Just cause the night clerk knows me don’t mean I don’t try to keep shit on the DL, y’know?”

Jake knew.  He also knew that by the time he was done with this little fucker, there wasn’t any way of keeping the place off the radar of the police or anyone else in town.  He was gonna make it famous, if not downright notorious.

The punk hopped out of the truck as soon as the engine was shut off and led the way towards the door.  The crumbled asphalt of the parking lot crunched under its combat boots, only to be drowned out by the heavier tread of Jake’s knee-high black leather lineman’s boots.  It tried to open the door but had difficulty, fumbling with the lock.

“Whatsa matter—ya don’t want this dick?” Jake said sneeringly.  Just then, the little cumsucker managed to get the door open.

The room was small and irregularly shaped.  In a niche to one side, completely out of view from the bed, was a decrepit stand with a small TV on top of which was a cheap coffee maker; next to it was an open door that revealed a surprisingly large closet, given the size of the room.  Across from this was a desk/dresser combo unit that appeared to be bolted to the wall.  It was accompanied by a single armless desk chair with a metal frame; the seat and back were a solid unit of plastic.

Next to the entrance door was a window covered with thick, dirty curtains in a pattern that hadn’t been popular for more than thirty years.  Opposite the window was the queen-sized bed—easily the largest thing in the room, it was so big that the single tiny nightstand with its lamp and clock barely had room to fit in the corner.

The whore headed towards the bathroom door on the far wall.  “Gotta do somethin’ real quick,” it said, leering at Jake with its bloodshot brown eyes.  Jake heard its footsteps on the tile floor, then the sound of a lighter.  Swiftly and silently, Jake locked the room door behind him.  At some point, a keyless deadbolt had been added; he locked that, too.  He wanted no interruptions while he was putting the fag down like the dog it was.

As he did so, a harsh chemical smell filled the room, as if someone had spilled of bottle of cleaning solvent.  Jake recognized it right away; the homo was smoking meth in the bathroom.

A shark-like grin spread across his face as him massive cock throbbed in his jeans at this confirmation of his plans.  He could do whatever he wanted to the motherfucker.  No one was gonna give a shit if there was one less fagot methhead whore in the world.  And they damn sure weren’t gonna care how much it suffered as it was taken out.

The boy emerged from the bathroom, already sweating and twitching.  It had already stripped off its shirt and shorts; it still sported its combat boots, but they were loose and unlaced.  It’s boycock wasn’t thick, but it was nearly seven inches long and pulsing.  It approached Jake, its gaze fixed on his bulging crotch with a pathetic eagerness that filled the sadistic alpha with disgust.

It also filled him with a sense of his own power.  With an even broader grin, he reached down and pulled off his own shirt, revealing his sculpted, powerful abs, covered with fur.  The cunt was distracted enough to stare at Jake’s chest while the stud unzipped his fly and hauled out his enormous hog.

Seeing it, the fag’s mouth gaped with pleasure and anticipation.  “Oh fuck, man,” it moaned like a bitch in heat, “I want that in me so fuckin’ bad!”

“And that’s just what yer gonna get,” Jake chuckled, “So fuckin’ bad—when you’ve earned it.  Get over here and start workin’ on my nipples, asswipe.  You ain’t getting’ the D till ya deserve it.”  

It approached slowly, almost as if it was in awe, but the moment its lips touched Jake’s chest, the alpha’s disappointment began.  The cunt’s tongue worked his nipples, all right—in the mechanical, almost lackadaisical manner of a whore bored with its job, only in it for the money.

Jake, already filled with hate for the money-grubbing cocksucker, felt his anger rise within him.  But the inner rage triggered a bloodlust that made his huge member twitch and swell even more.  The rentboy, feeling the response, was sure that its actions were pleasing to the hot muscled stud.

It would learn its mistake soon enough—but not so soon as to avoid the consequences.

“Awright, enough,” Jake growled.  “Work my cock, faggot.  And do it right.”

The fuckboy scrambled to its knees and guzzled the hardbodied stud’s swollen, throbbing shaft like a pig gobbling its swill.  It certainly acted eager enough, but once again, Jake was far from impressed with its skills.  More, he couldn’t believe that it dared to demand money for them.

“You piece of utter shit,” he said in a calm cold manner the froze the slut’s blood in a way that screaming the same words wouldn’t have done, “You worthless fucking cocksucker.”

The teen fuckmeat had been on the streets long enough to know trouble when it heard Jake speak, but not long enough to develop the quick reflexes needed to survive.  It hadn’t braced itself fully when Jake clamped his hand in a vise-like grip around the back of its head and thrust forward, completely blocking its trachea with his engorged rod.

“Mmmmmph!” it tried to protest, then the conscious realization that it couldn’t breathe kicked in.  “Mmmmmmph!  Mmmph!  MMMMMPH!!!”

It eyes watered and its face darkened as it tried shoving Jake’s rock-hard, denim-clad legs away.  Realizing the futility of its actions, it was reduced to beating its fists helplessly against the sadist’s thighs.

While it was busily occupied choking on his dick, Jake slowly reached his free hand around and into his back pocket.  Stealthily, he retrieved a metallic object, a surprise he wanted to spring on the useless little homo gagging in his crotch.  If it looked up, the sheer malignancy of Jake’s grin might’ve made it piss itself.

But it didn’t look up.  And even if it had, it still wouldn’t have been able to see the brass knuckles the buff sex killer had slipped onto his hand.

Finally, Jake released the slut.  It popped off his cock like a champagne cork coming out of a bottle, gagging and drooling, trying desperately not to retch.  As it smeared away the streamer of saliva dangling from its lower lip with the back of its hand, it glared up at Jake, initially too upset to notice the alpha’s look of sadistic glee.

“Wha-what the fu-fuck ya tryna d-do?” it gasped, doing its best to speak without coughing, “Ya tryna choke me to death?”

“Not yet, motherfucker—not yet,” Jake hissed.  This time, something in his tone caught the rentboy’s attention.  It peered up, scanning Jake’s face attentively.  So attentively, in fact, that it never saw his arm swing.

The impact was unbelievable, almost literally.  The next thing the whore knew, it was on the floor, halfway across the room.  There were solid objects in its mouth and a pain as if it’d been hit in the jaw with a baseball bat.  This latter feeling was validated when it spit out the things in its mouth—which turned out to be three of its own teeth.

“Wha—” it croaked, looking at Jake in stunned disbelief.  It noticed the metallic glint of the brass knuckles on his right hand but was too dazed to follow the revelation to a logical conclusion.

“You—” it started, then paused to spit out blood, “You hit me!”

“Ya think, ya fuckin’ dumbass?” Jake sneered.  “That’s just foreplay, bitch.  By the time I’m done hurtin’ ya, death is gonna feel so good you’ll cum when I waste ya.”

The punk was still jittery and sweaty from the meth.  This sudden intimation of torture and murder accelerate its heartbeat to the point that Jake could see its pulse pounding like a hummingbird’s in its carotid artery.  He moved closer, his heavy lineman’s boots leaving deep impressions in the carpet, despite its thinness.

The cocksucker paled.  Like most of its kind, it had been aware that such things happened—but they always happened to someone else.  Not him.  He was too smart to fall into that kinda trap. 

And now that he had, he was too smart to die in it.  Not him.  He would get out, he would survive.

He would continue to deny reality until the final few seconds of his worthless life.  But he’d be utterly unable to deny the agony.  There was no escaping that—and Jake knew it.

Ruthlessly, he strode forward.  Grabbing a hank of the kid’s hair, he ruthlessly dragged it to its feet.  When he let it go, it swayed, as if it was not going to remain standing for long.  That was ok, though; he didn’t need it to stand long.  Just a few seconds would be enough to hit the target.

Hit it he did, the brass knuckles plowing into the cunt’s solar plexus like a runaway semi.

The fuckmeat curled forward, folding up like a fan.  Just as it seemed about to collapse to its knees, Jake’s right boot lashed out, the steel-reinforced toe making contact with the thick boycock dangling between the fag’s legs.  The kick had enough power to knock the boy back into the TV.  TV, stand, coffee maker, and whore all fell to the floor with a resounding crash.  The glass coffee pot shattered on the homo’s head; within seconds, tiny trickles of blood started leaking from numerous small lacerations across its face.

This time, it did puke.  In a fetal position, it vomited a thick white foam, redolent of alcohol.  Jake gave it a cheery smile.

“Don’t know whatcha been drinkin’, bro,” he smirked, “But better out than in, haw!”

Again, he approached the prone youth, slowly and menacingly.  This time, the kid was in too much pain to notice.  Its field of vision, blurred with tears, was filled with the muscle-bound stud’s leather boots, the knee-high laces laddering out of its sight. When one of the boots drew back, the whoreboy knew that it was going to be kicked again, but that knowledge did not lead to any emotional reaction.  Its psyche was too busy trying to process what it had already endured to attempt to prepare itself for any new onslaught.

And in any case, it would have been unable to prepare itself for the brutal attack that came next.  Jake kicked it hard and fast, landing a dozen direct blows within fifteen seconds.  Each time his boot made contact with the teen’s lithe, lean body, it snapped a rib or an ulna, punctured a lung, tore the liver, spleen, or intestines. The bitch rolled and wallowed on the floor, emitting a high-pitch squeal like the pig it was.  Its feet kicked and flailed, its combat boots scraping on the carpet.

Standing over it, Jake took off his brass knuckles and tossed them clattering onto the table.  Standing over the writhing boytoy, he spit on it.  “Fuck you,” he jeered, “I don’t need no help to make the likes of you suffer.  I can do it with my bare hands.”

The meat reached out, one hand grasping at Jake’s booted foot, tentatively at first, then with a firmness born of desperation.  It turned its swollen and bruised face up to the alpha, its expression one of utter misery.

Jake knew better, though.  It needed this.  Fuck, it knew it needed this.  Suffering completed faggots.  They craved it, knowing that the only expiation for their worthless existence was through pain and terror.

And in the end, no matter how much they screamed and struggled, they always blew a wad in the end.  Whatever their mouths said, their homo bodies knew the truth and their fag cocks responded.

So Jake only smirked when the teen boywhore grabbed his boot.  Quickly shaking the punk’s hand off, he stepped on it, grinding his thick heel in.  He could barely hear the faint, twig-like snapping of the cunt’s fingers over its pathetic mewling, but it was enough to make his engorged shaft ooze precum.

“Does it hurt, fuckwad?” Jake asked, his deep, masculine voice smooth as silk.  “Yeah?  Ya like that shit, dontcha?  Yer sick little queer-ass soul knows how much you deserve this. Well, don’t worry, cocksucker, we’re only getting’ started.”

He bent down and grabbed a fistful of the kid’s hair with one hand, wrapping the other around its neck.  Using them as handles, he pressed the fuckmeat back against the wall, then lifted it upwards, its back sliding up the thin sheetrock.  It clawed at Jake’s iron-hard grip on its throat—its good hand did, anyway; the other flailed uselessly in the air—as he lifted it off the ground and it started to choke.

Jake leaned in close, his hard, handsome face illuminated by an almost satanic look of malignant triumph.  “You wanted my load, right, faggot?” he whispered, “Here’s your chance to get it.  I’m gonna make you milk it outta me.”

Here his hand clenched even tighter; the pansy grimaced, its tongue momentarily protruding as the crushing pressure on its esophagus increased sharply.  “Wanna know how I’m gonna do that?” the alpha hissed. “I’ll give ya a hint—its gonna hurt like all fuck, hah!”

Things happened very quickly after that.  The whore barely had time to realize it was flying across the room before it wasn’t anymore; it had smashed into the nightstand with such force its body caved in the wall, leaving a slut-shaped hole in the sheetrock.  As the boy bounced back onto the bed, the bedside lamp—still functional despite being knocked to the floor with a crushed lampshade—thew lurid, phantasmic shadows on the opposite wall.

The whore rolled onto its side.  It didn’t have the mental fortitude to watch the slow, ominous approach of its killer—and yet, seeing his grotesquely towering shadow projected onto the wall in front of its eyes didn’t help.  It pissed itself.

Jake had enough experience as a serial killer to recognize what the acrid scent that suddenly flooded his nostrils was.  With a single deft move, he jerked the urine-soaked blanket and sheet off the bed, tossing them to the floor.  He’d acted quickly enough to avoid any of it seeping down to the fitted sheet.

The muscled sadist bent over.  Gasping the meat’s shoulder, he roughly flipped it onto its back.  “Ready to die, motherfucker?” he chuckled, his furry chest glistening with sweat and his stallion-sized cock visibly pulsating, “Cause I wanna unload this thick wad of spunk that’s boilin’ over in my balls, bitch.  You gotta die on my dick for that to happen; ya feelin’ me, faggot?  But not yet.  You ain’t suffered enough yet—”

Here the hard-bodied lineman stud bent over the battered body of his teenage fucktoy and stared straight into its terrified, bewildered eyes.

“—and trust me, you worthless piece of faggot shit, you’ll be fuckin’ beggin’ for death before I’m done.  When you finally die, it’ll feel so good you’ll cum.  I promise.  I fuckin’ promise.”

He sat back and, placing his hands on the whore’s smooth thighs, parted its legs.  “After all,” Jake added conversationally, “They always do.  Ain’t like this is my first rodeo.”

As the homicidal lineman positioned himself between his victim’s legs, he begin unbuckling his belt with a menacing air.  At last, some part of the whore’s innate warning system went off; it had heard things about other sluts being beaten with belts by dangerous johns.  Needless to say, it was a case of too little, too late; all the rentboy’s delayed red flag did was increase its abject terror. 

But Jake merely removed his belt and laid it beside the teen’s firm lean bruised body.  Leaning over the unfortunate youth, he held up his right hand, balled into a fist.  The rentboy experienced a pang of fear far greater than anything it had felt before.  That fist—it looked like a mallet, it looked like fucking Mjolnir (about which he’d learned from the movies)—would destroy him.  This amazingly hot stud—there was still enough of the cockpig left to appreciate its killer’s physique—was not only capable of beating it to death but was eager to do so.

Somewhere in the very back of its semen-craving homo soul, there was an involuntary response.

“You know,” Jake said insinuatingly, his eyes glowing hypnotically, “This is the best thing that could happen to you.  You need to die in nightmarish agony.  You fuckin’ want this, yeah?  This is what you were meant for from the moment you entered this world.  You’ve always been a piece of faggot shit.  I can tell that shit by yer fuckin’ cock, dickhead.”

He reared up on his knees, brandishing his enormous member in his hand like a lethal weapon, which it was.  “Your highest and best use,” he said, smirking into the teen’s face, “Remember that.  As bad as it hurts, as scared as you get—this is your highest and best use.  You’re not good enough for anything else.”

Then he speared the homo, his massive, precum-lubed shaft piercing the kid’s fuckhole like a javelin, tearing its way through the adolescent’s sphincter as easily as if it had razor-sharp blades.  And that’s exactly what it felt like to the punk.

It damn sure wasn’t a virgin, but the length and girth of Jake’s tool was more than anything it had ever taken before.  It was too much.  It opened its mouth to scream—

—and then Jake closed its mouth for it.  His huge fist came rocketing out of seeming nowhere and smashed into the punk’s jaw just before it could vocalize its pain.  It grunted, a deep, visceral, involuntary noise as its entire body jerked under the brutal impact.

“Aw, fuck yeah!!” Jake howled in savage ecstasy, “Bro, I felt that all the way down to the root of my dick!  Goddam, we gotta do that again!  You ready, motherfucker?”

The fuckboy coughed and spat up two more of its teeth.  That was the only response it had time for before another merciless punch plowed into it so hard that the lower jaw broke with an audible snap.

“AAAAGGGGFFHHH!!” the cunt spat out, utterly inarticulate in its misery.

“That’s it, faggot, just like that,” Jake said, his voice almost seductive. “Show me.  Show me how much it hurts.”  He stared deep into the teen’s hazel eyes, the long lashes bedewed with tears, and could see fear and confusion in equal parts.

“You got only one way outta this, fucker.  Ya get me?  One way—that’s death.”  As he spoke, he continued to plow his long thick tackle relentlessly up the boy’s agonizingly torn rectum; each time his swollen hog ground its way over the meat’s prostate, the fag’s dick pulsed and oozed, despite the pain.

“And I ain’t gonna kill ya till I’m done with ya,” Jake continued, digging the toes of his lineman boots into the bed to get better traction for fucking the stupid rentboy in the guts, “You hear me, ya homo piece a’ shit?  I’m gonna use you so hard, you ain’t gonna be no use to no one after I’m done.”

He leaned over, laying the full weight of his hairy muscular body on top of the adolescent, pinning its smooth, sweat-lubed form, writhing helplessly, beneath him.  He continued to whisper lovingly to the teen whoreboy, enjoying the mindfuck as much as the literal assrape.  “You’re gonna be begging to die before I’m done with ya.  But you already know that, dontcha?  Good.  That’s good.  Cause, ya see, the only way for you to earn that death yer gonna want so bad it to milk it outta my cock.”

He bent even further, his cruel erotic face filling the street whore’s field of vision.  The punk was barely clinging to lucidity; it took a few seconds for the sensation of contact—and then pressure—on is throat to register in its brain.  But now, Jake’s manner changed.  The evil alpha was back, not that it had ever truly been gone.

“You followin’ me, asswipe?” he hissed, his face contorting with a spasm of vicious sadism that drove home the force of his words with a profound impact.  “You want the pain to stop, you gotta earn it.  Remember that, faggot.  You gotta earn death.  Only way to do that is to make me cum—and the only way to do that is take as much pain as I can give you.”

“So here’s how your last few minutes on earth are gonna go down, dude,” Jake continued, returning back to his conversational tone.  “I’m gonna choke you to death.  I’m only gonna use one hand, cause I don’t need to use two to off a worthless fag like you.  That leaves this hand free.”  He held his right hand up, again balled into a solid mass of tremendous power potential. 

“They say it takes three minutes without oxygen for the brain to die,” the hardbodied alpha said.  “It doesn’t.  Healthy young kid like you?  It’s gonna be closer to five minutes, maybe more.  Even better, you’re gonna be awake most of the time.”

Jake gave another seductive look—this time, focused on his fist.  “And I’m gonna be beatin’ the living fuck outta you the entire time, bitch.  By the time you die, yer own fuckin’ mamma ain’t gonna recognize you.  Fuckin’ hot, yeah?  C’mon, cocksucker, let’s get started!”

Leering at the traumatized youth, Jake reached down.  Without looking, his hand unerringly grasped his belt.  As he held it up, his leer darkened, became more menacing.  The slut shook its head, its eyes wide with fear, faint whimpering sounds coming from its slack, contorted mouth.

But it wasn’t just that the boy whore was terrified.  Some part of its cockpig soul was turned on and that realization was, somehow, even worse than the fear.  The way the alpha’s hard hairy body was lit at an extreme angle by the lamp on the floor emphasized the massive mounds of his pecs, the rippling roll of his fur-covered abs…

…and the erotic musk of adrenaline, sweat, and testosterone that filled the small room, some of it pumped out by the punk’s own suffering body.  Its left lung had collapsed, forcing it to gasp for air.  With each ragged inhalation, it filled its right lung with pheromones that triggered the abundance of hormones circulating it its adolescent bloodstream.

It didn’t know any of that, of course.  The chemical nature of its reactions were beyond its understanding.  It only knew that the more pain it suffered, the more precum its cock oozed.

That was wrong.  It knew it was a faggot cocksucker, but it wasn’t that perverse.  It couldn’t—

Then Jake stuck it with the belt, the buckle leaving such a deep impression in the soft, smooth skin of the homo’s flat belly that pinpricks of blood welled up from the welt.  All thoughts of what its cock was doing were wiped from the pansy’s mind; it could only think of the pain, and how to avoid more of it.

“Fuckin-A, bro!” Jake cheered with malicious enthusiasm, “Ya like that shit, dontcha?  Damn, bitch, you backed yer faggot fuckhole up on my rod that time!  I heard you cumsuckers like a good whippin’ every now an’ then.  Is that right, motherfucker?  Just another homo pervert, right?  Then yer gonna fuckin’ love this shit, asswipe—I’m gonna rip yer skin off!”

Jake didn’t literally flay it, but the rentboy didn’t know that.  And it certainly couldn’t tell by the sensations it was enduring.  The hardbodied sadist beat it continuously with the belt, each blow slamming into the helpless youth with unflinching aim and relentless force.  As the fuckmeat writhed on the bed, the twisting of its lithe, lean form torqued its colon around Jake’s engorged, leaking member planted firmly in its guts.

The kid continued to make a series of shrill, nerve-wracking squeaks and squawks.  Even in the frenzy of the bloodlust beating, the sound wormed its way into Jake’s ear and started to irritate him.  “Goddam painslut,” he barked, “I already know you fuckin’ love how bad it hurts—ya don’t need to tell the whole fuckin’ world, ya whore!”

He leaned back, almost—but not quite—completely extracting his huge tackle from the fucktoy’s hole.  With inevitably perfect aim, he snapped the belt down with the speed and precision of a bullwhip in the hands of a master artist.  The steel buckle slammed into the faggot’s balls with a force approaching that of a bullet’s.

It tried to scream; it really, really tried.  It was just too much.  The noise backed up in its throat.

And then Jake made sure it couldn’t scream, ever again.

Later on, he marveled at how neatly he’d done it.  The slut shoulda been meat, right there.  Game over.  After all, he’d punched it in the Adam’s apple, as hard as he could.  “GACHCK!” it spat out, inarticulate testimony of its suffering.  Jake had smashed its larynx—yet, somehow, had managed to avoid collapsing its trachea completely.

It could breathe.  It was still alive.  But it could no longer make a sound above a rasping whisper.

“That was it, cunt,” Jake said, his eyes glittering, his handsome face erotic in its cruel indifference, “That was your death warrant.  Time to flood your faggot guts with the hot potent seed of a real man.  Yer gonna love this shit, fucker.  This is what you were meant for, and you know it.  Yer gonna cum, faggot.  Fuck, lookit how much precum is leaking from yer pansy shaft right now, you sick-ass homo.  Yer gonna cum when I off you, cocksucker.  You need this.  Hell, you want this.”

Clinging to the last (and probably the only) shred of pride it had left, the fag whoreboy knew that it had no way whatsoever to prevent the seductive stud from following through on its threats.  But it was determined that it would somehow prove it wasn’t the complete bottom pig whore this hot psycho thought it was.

It wouldn’t cum for him.  It had made up what passed for its mind.  No matter how intense things got, it wouldn’t cum for him.

With a cocky smirk, Jake held the belt up and threaded the end back through the buckle, making a very simple—but very effective—noose.  During this display, he maintained the tempo of the deep, brutal thrusting of his hips with impeccable precision.  By now, he no longer thought of the teen rentboy as a human.  It was nothing but a cock holster, a single-use cumdump.  He was ready to unload in it and make it into meat.

The muscled alpha, his furry body gleaming with sweat, looped the thick leather belt around the boy’s throat and began to pull it tight.  “Time to die, motherfucker,” he whispered, his mesmerizing, inescapable gaze locked into the whore’s bewildered, shock-darkened eyes.  “I’m gonna put you outta yer misery, faggot.  Time to cum and die.”

The last tiny sliver of the cockpig slut’s soul that had remained human rose up rebelliously; it knew it couldn’t fight back—but it damn sure wouldn’t give this psycho motherfucker the satisfaction of watching it shoot its wad.  No.  Wasn’t gonna happen.  It’d find a way, some way—

Then Jake jerked the belt viciously, instantly cinching off the fuckmeat’s airway.  The boywhore’s attention was suddenly focused elsewhere.

Its hands came up, one of them clawing frantically at the leather strap around its neck.  The other hand flailed uselessly in the air, the broken fingers flopping back and forth like a grotesque party favor.

“Does it hurt, cunt?” Jake hissed.  As he brought his face in close, the off-kilter lighting slid a shadow over his eyes, leaving them backlit by their own internal glow—a kind of emotional lava that puddled passion, rage, and hate into a boiling pool of lust.

It was the most terrifying, most erotic thing the fagmeat had ever seen.  And as the crushing pain in its throat was matched by the burning agony in its chest and the explosive pounding of its own frenetic pulse inside its skull, the punk was vaguely aware of the way in which its body was responding.  It was following the motions of its killer, its smooth thighs, already wrapped around the alpha’s waist, would tighten and squeeze with every relentless thrust up its ass.

And its cock—it wasn’t gonna cum, it wasn’t—pulsed and oozed, hypersensitive and aching so badly the slut could feel it even over the agony of being strangled to death.  Every time the wiry fur on the killer’s belly brushed against it made the boy’s dick feel like it had been fucking steel wool.

“That’s it,” Jake leered, “Give it up.  You’re almost done, bitch.  Your short, stupid story is over.  You don’t need to be taking up space on this planet once I unload in you.  Ain’t no one gonna need you no more, faggot.”

The cocksucker heard the words but was having trouble following them.  It had stopped trying to pull the belt away from its throat; it simply didn’t have the leverage.  By the time it realized this, though, it had burned up too much of its precious oxygen in the attempt.  It transferred the attention of its good hand to Jake’s face, but with so little power or coordination that it managed little more than weak slaps.

The meat was having trouble with its senses as well.  What little it could hear over the crashing of its pulse was tinny and fuzzy, as if coming from a great distance.  Its bulging eyes had become so distorted, it could no longer focus. 

The faggot was close, so close.  Jake could feel its smooth, lean body start to tremble under him.  He knew what that meant.  It wasn’t meat yet, but it was about to be a vegetable.  The homo cunt was at the edge of brain death.

Jake lowered his head, his rough, unshaven cheek brushing against the kid’s as he murmured into its ear.  “This is the only reason you ever existed, asshole—so you could die on my dick.  Lights out, motherfucker.”

Lifting up, he could see the petechial hemorrhages stippling its eyes, which were bulging from a face so black and swollen from congestion that it was unrecognizable as the teenage whore that had climbed into Jake’s truck an hour ago. 

Its mouth dangled open, giving the purple tongue plenty of space from which to protrude.  Thick, foamy streamers of drool trickled from both corners of the mouth.  On occasion, a faint, moist grunt managed to emerge from its blocked airway.

Placing one hand over the whore’s face, Jake wrapped the belt around his other hand.  Holding the faggot down, the sick sex killer snapped his other arm back, as if he was starting a lawn mower or outboard motor.  In a fraction of a second, not only was the rentboy’s esophagus crushed into a space of less than one inch diameter, but its spinal cord had been yanked out the bottom of its skull.

It couldn’t have known—and yet it did.  The damage to the central nervous system was so severe that it couldn’t have felt its own violent convulsions.  It couldn’t feel its feel kick so violently that one of its combat boots came off, thudding onto the floor. It couldn’t have felt its hand caress its killer’s face as its torn rectum clutched his cock, squeezing it and massaging to the point of orgasm.  It couldn’t feel the searing heat of manseed hosing its intestines.  It couldn’t feel its own deathload as it ejaculated copiously and involuntarily at the moment of its death, spewing thick, ropy sperm all over Jake’s hairy chest.

And yet, somehow, in the midst of that mind-shattering blast of mortal trauma that carried all of existence before it, the teen fag knew that despite its promises to itself, it had cum.  It had been that much of a pervert.

Then it was gone, its last second on earth an event horizon composed of agony, screaming terror—and humiliation.  Its killer had been right.

The whore was gone.  Its meat wasn’t quite convinced of the fact.  Jake held on, riding the convulsing corpse like a mechanical bull, letting the dead teen milk out a second and third orgasm as its destroyed nervous system continued to short circuit.

Eventually, the muscular alpha grunted and shuddered for the last time.  Pausing briefly to catch his breath, he pulled out of the dead kid and stood next to the bed.  Looking down at the corpse, he was dismayed at the depth to which the belt had sunk into the homo’s throat.  For a moment, Jake considered just leaving it there—but he liked that belt.  It was one of his favorites.

Ruthlessly, he knelt on the bed, placing one knee directly on the boy’s face.  Digging his fingers into the meat’s neck, he managed to work them under the belt.  With slow and patient maneuvering, he was able to slowly work it loose.

As he did, he could feel the crushed cartilage of the punk’s trachea through its skin.  He could hear it, too—every now and then he had to push a little hard.  Pieces inside would break.  And every time one did, a pearl of cum would leak from his semi-erect cock…

Eventually, Jake got his belt back.  He headed to the bathroom, the tread of his boots heavy on the tiled floor.  It only took a few minutes to wipe the slut’s cum off his chest and his own cum off his cock.  Grinning maliciously, he dropped the towel into the toilet and flushed it, making sure that water was overrunning the bowl before he left the room.

He paused as he was putting his wifebeater back on, looking down at his kill.  Had it learned?  It looked like it had.  Its face was starting to fade to a bluish-gray, but it was still horrifically bloated.  A pink mix of semen and blood was leaking from its mangled asshole and staining the bottom sheet.  Its legs were spread; one foot still booted, the other clad only in a sock but its toes visibly curled in death agony.

The mark around its neck was so deep and dark it could have been mistaken for decapitation if not for the obvious signs of strangulation on the face.  The fact that it was a sex murder could not have been made more clearer—but the fact that the victim’s shaft was leaking cum drove the point home.

It looked like it had suffered enough learned its purpose.  After all, that was the whole point.  Faggots need to learn their purpose. 

And their purpose was to die for his sexual pleasure.  That was why they were on the planet.

Jake opened the door, but before stepping out of the motel room, he stopped and took another backwards glance.

So many fags that needed to learn.  So many fags that needed to suffer.  It was overwhelming.  A question started forming in Jake’s mind…

…how does one find an assistant in this line of missionary work?

---

“What?  ID?  What da fuck you t’ink dis is, de Ritz?  Not, I don’t ask fer no fuckin’ ID!”

The small hairy man of indeterminate nationality was evidently either the owner or the manager of the motel.  Possibly both.  His thick but unplaceable accent made it difficult for the investigators to tell.

“He come in two, t’ree days ago,” the little man continued, “He a whore.  Get lot of whores.  Girl whores, boy whores, girlyboy whores, all kind.  No, I don’t see who go in his room.

Who found?  Maid found.  Every day, she come.  This not no dump!  We keep clean!  He not dead yesterday.  Happen last night, maybe.

Unper—unpurtur—what you say?  Calm?  I calm?  Why hell I should not be calm?  Whore die here every month.  Lots fag whore die here.  Last time, cops not even here half hour.  Why you come?  Fag always die; no one care.

You go.  You go now; you bother me.  I let you know when real person die.  You go now.”