Carlos wasn’t used to feeling pressure—not since prison, at any rate—but it’d been three days since Nick had urged him to find a piece of fuckmeat for their latest commission. Three long, very hot days, and nothing. Perhaps it was the heat of high summer; maybe it was the panic over the low levels of the lake, but something was keeping useable faggots off the streets.
The operative word was “useable”. The commission was for a video with some strict parameters. The unknown client had requested a wrestling match leading to snuff but had also insisted on a level of realism. Carlos hadn’t been able to locate any homos with a body he couldn’t snap in half like a twig within fifteen seconds.
“What about a straight dude?” Nick had asked last night, when Carlos vented his frustrations. “Y’know, one of those ‘gay-for-pay’ assholes?”
Carlos was unconscious of the look of rage that crossed his hard goateed face. “Yeah, man, that works. Fuckers say they ain’t fags, but they’ll take dick. Goddam closeted fucks, even worse than the flamers.”
Nick’s mouth twitched, the barest fleeting hint of a smile. His pet killer was hooked. “See if you can find one who’ll take cash to do a nude wrestling video. Offer it a grand.”
“That much?” Carlos asked in surprise.
“Oh, c’mon, man,” Nick said with a pained expression. “Not like it’s gonna be taking the money with it when it leaves.”
“I know that,” Carlos replied with a snort, “I ain’t as stupid as you think, vato. But it’s gonna ask to see the cash up front.”
“And I know that,” Nick shot back. “Come by my place in the morning. I’ll have the cash for you.”
So Carlos had. Nick had lived up to his word—now it was Carlos’s turn. But the prey pool hadn’t grown any larger. The sadistic serial killer spent most of the day driving around in a kind of helpless rage.
He’d been in such a daze that when he finally saw the dude, he started as if woken out of a deep sleep. It took him a moment to orient himself; he was at a red light at the intersection of Desert Inn and Boulder Highway. And he was staring at a well-built youth in his early twenties.
The boy was standing on the median, wearing a pair of cargo shorts that came to his knees. Shirtless, the only other apparel his was sporting were the ankle socks just barely visible over his red and white Puma hightops. There was a small cooler by his side, on top of which was a half-empty bottle of water. He was holding a cardboard sign reading ‘Anything helps—God bless’.
It was too hot a day for Carlos to have the top of his cherry-red Benz down. The kid was literally glittering. From the buzz-cut strawberry-blond hair on is head to the golden fur on his shins, sweat made him a prism in the sunlight. Carlos wasn’t so dazzled, though, that he didn’t notice that the punk’s physique put him in prime wrestling consideration.
The buff ex-con rolled down his window. The youth, who had been eagerly looking for exactly this kind of thing, hurried over. The skin on his freckled face was starting to peel. A skull and crossbones were tattooed on his right shoulder. When he smiled, something that was almost certainly not a diamond glinted from a stud in his left ear.
“Hey, man,” he began, somewhat hurriedly, “Look, anything helps, y’know? My girlfriend and I just got into town—I got this job offer, bro, good one too, but then the car broke down, y’know? And I—”
“Can the crap,” Carlos barked. “I gotta job for ya. Two, three hours work, and you get paid a cool G, cash. If you’re interested, walk over to that strip mall. I’m gonna make a U and pull into the lot.”
Five minutes later, the kid opened the door and sat in the Benz’s passenger seat. He eyed Carlos warily. “Name’s Derek. Look, dude, I been hit on before by fags, so I’m gonna be honest with ya—I don’t touch dick.”
Carlos managed to stifle the urge to beat the asswipe to death then and there, just for insinuating that he was a homo. He smiled but had to swallow his pride to do it.
It tasted like bitter gall. This cunt was gonna pay.
“Yeah, well, there ain’t gonna be no fuckin’ here, man,” Carlos lied, “Just a nude wrestlin’ video. And you get a thousand, cash. Tell me that ain’t gonna help ya with yer car and yer girlfriend back in the motel. Am I forgettin’ anything? Got a kid on the way?”
Derek smirked. “Yeah. The tourist marks buy it, though.”
“Tourists? Out here?”
“I tried closer to downtown, but the cops ran me off. And trust me, you get anywhere near the Strip and those Metro fuckers—”
“Yeah, I get it. So? Yeah, or no?”
Derek’s eyes slid over Carlos’s body, taking in the killer’s white wifebeater clinging tightly to his heavily muscled chest, the jeans that seemed painted on, especially over his huge groin, his loosely tied Redwing construction boots. Despite the punk’s claim to uncompromising heterosexuality, his crotch pulsed visibly enough for Carlos to see it.
“Show me you got that kinda cash, and I’ll do it,” he said.
Long afterward, Carlos remembered that moment as a triumph of self-control. Those eyes, those slimy, lascivious eyes, and that twitching of the dick…and then the gall, the fucking gall of asking to see the money…
But he’d known to expect all that. And once he managed to overcome the initial detonation of rage, he was able to focus it with blowtorch precision.
He’d have his chance. He’d have a chance to show this motherfucking cunt what a waste of human flesh it really was—and what he thought it deserved.
“When, and where?” it asked, its acceptance of the deal depriving it of any lingering humanity it might have had in Carlos’s mind. It was a faggot, and it deserved death. His raging alpha personality completely disregarded his own throbbing erection that arose out of nowhere the moment the ex-con began imagining the vast amount of sheer agony he was gonna unload on this worthless cocksucking motherfucker.
Blissfully unaware of Carlos’s thoughts, Derek settled back, luxuriating in the Benz’s leather seat. The air conditioning was almost icy against his skin, making his thick dark nipples contract and harden to an almost painful extent. His mind turned to the half-ounce of weed and fifth of Fireball stashed in the cooler he’d had, now safely stashed on the floorboards behind his seat.
He was already stoned as fuck (Carlos had noted it; the dude’s eyes were so red it was flat-out obvious). Maybe he could have a drink when they got wherever they were going. Hell, enough Fireball inside him and he might touch this hot inked stud’s cock.
Fuck, he might do more than touch it.
Derek became vaguely aware that he was heading north out of the western side of the city. His weed-slowed reactions registered only a faint surprise that the cherry-red Mercedes exited the highway and took an unexpected turn into an industrial warehouse district.
“Where we goin’, mang?” he quipped, grinning at Carlos.
It was almost exactly the wrong thing to say to a Latino serial killer with a raging hatred for faggots. Perhaps it was some form of cosmic mercy that, for the rest of his life, Derek never knew how much his own words had caused him suffering.
Of course, by the time the Benz pulled into the parking lot of a non-descript warehouse with a small office attached, the rest of Derek’s life could be measured in hours—and the plural represented rounding rather than reality.
“C’mon in,” Calos said. “Meet my partner, Nick. I already texted him to expect us.”
Derek climbed out of the car and followed Carlos into the building, the muscles of his fit, firm body rolling easily as he strolled in, his toked-out mind lost in calculation. Fuck, man, for a G, I could get a much Wild Turkey as I wanted. I could pay off that spic for the meth and get more. I could hire that hot little nigger that thinks he’s a chick to work my—
“Hey, bro, I think this one’ll work.” Carlos’s voice broke in on Derek’s reveries. He found himself in a large open space, clearly a warehouse. To his left was an ersatz wrestling ring; it looked real enough, but this close, Derek could see how little padding there was. The turnbuckles and ropes were just upright metal poles and cables. There were pads on the concrete floor, but they were barely an in thick. Not that any of it concerned Derek; after all, it was soft-core fag porn, not actual wrestling.
But the dude who now approached him—holy fuck.
Introducing himself as Nick, the muscled stud was as hot as the one who’d picked him up, just in a different, more clean-cut way. In his late twenties, his thickly muscled body was forested with dark, curly fur that culminated in a recently grown but luxuriant full beard. And even better—except for a pair of black leather wrestling boots laced up to just below his knees, the hot fucker was completely nude. His cock, completely limp, hung more than halfway down his thigh and was more than an inch thick. Derek immediately realized that hard, the stud must be monstrous.
“Hey, man,” Nick said, grinning. Stepping forward, he extended his hand. “Yeah, you’ll be great. Don’t worry, dude, nothin’ you can’t handle. You can strip over there; those blue boots oughtta fit ya.”
Hesitantly, Derek complied, heading for the folding chair Nick had indicated, sitting on which was a pair of wrestling boots identical to those the older man was wearing. He kicked off his Pumas and pulled off his socks, then paused for a moment and blushed.
Well, fuck it, who cared? Hell, he might get some kinda offer. Lotta dough to be made in fag flicks. The thought of money was enough to overcome his embarrassment over going commando.
Three minutes later, Derek was totally nude except for the blue leather lace-up boots. Turning around, he saw Carlos sitting on a chair, slipping off his boots. His complicit leer was brief, but it was enough to trigger the ex-con again. By then, though, Derek’s gaze had moved on to where Nick was crouched, adjusting the feet of a tripod supporting a digital video camera.
The hard-bodied stud was facing directly away from Derek; the kid had a dead-on view of his taut, muscled asscheeks. Nick must have been twenty feet from the slut, but the lighting was good enough that Derek could make out a single gleaming bead of sweat tickle down the older man’s back, following the line of his spine until it vanished into the darkness between his marblelike glutes.
For some reason, Derek experienced a faint disquiet—so faint as to be almost subconscious. He pushed it aside. What did he have to be afraid of? Yeah, these dudes were stronger than him, but he didn’t think they were actual faggots. They seemed chill…
…and, of course, there was the money. Nothing vague or faint about that; he’d seen it with his own eyes. He’d be fine.
Then he turned around and saw Carlos behind him, nude except for red leather wrestling boots. His jaw dropped and he stood gaping, stupidly.
“Well, bro, ya ready?” Carlos asked, grinning. “Time to get it on, amigo.”
“What—uh, wh-what’s the set-up?” the punk asked nervously, trying to keep his eyes and his mind off the monstrously large cock dangling in front of him. Derek had done…things…when he’d needed money badly, but he’d never seen a tool that huge in his life.
“Ok, pendejo, here’s how it’s gonna work. See my pal Nick over there with the camera? We’re gonna tag-team ya. About a half-hour’s worth of wrestling grips and holds.”
“But no actual sex, right?” Derek asked, then paused. “I mean, I’d hafta charge extra on account of yer huge—”
Carlos flashed the kid a look so hostile the words faded in his mouth. “I ain’t no faggot, boy,” he hissed.
With an excellent sense of timing, Nick appeared. With an easy and open smile, he somehow seemed to exude an air of friendliness. Suddenly calmer, Derek was able to compare the two men side by side.
And it was needed; the only way to tell that Nick was fractionally shorter that Carlos was to see them side by side. That was also the only way to see the Nick’s cock was an inch or two shorter than Carlos’s, but it was thicker, and uncut.
The other differences were more visible from a distance—Carlos’s shaved head and tight, narrow goatee as opposed to Nick’s noticeable resemblance to a young Kurt Russell; the way Carlos’s muscled body was covered with the art of elaborate, menacing prison tattoos while Nick’s equally hard physique had been left to nature, lushly forested with thick manfur.
Derek’s eyes swung slowly back and forth between the two, exactly like a faggot trying to decide which one it wanted to fuck it first.
The movement wasn’t lost on Carlos. Nor was it on Nick, who realized he was going to need to rein in Carlos’s rage long enough to carry out some specific conditions of the commission.
This cunt needed to be humiliated before it died.
“Go ahead,” Nick said, nodding towards the ring that had been rented and erected in the warehouse, “Climb in.”
Then the furry, hardbodied stud turned to his counterpart. “Keep it cool, man,” he murmured in a soothing undertone, “You’ll get your chance to waste the fucker, but we’ve got a job to do first. You kill it too fast, and we don’t get our commission, capisce?”
Carlos nodded grimly; he wasn’t happy, but he remembered their orders. Part of him was hoping that the bitch was truly straight. If it was, what was about to happen to it would be even more degrading.
Unaware of all this, Derek negotiated his way into the ring. The deposit Nick had demanded—he ultimately agreed to consider it an advance and deduct it from the amount due at completion—had been more than enough for him to have hired a team to erect one that was identical to a professional ring in everything but size; it was only half as big.
Again, Derek felt a twinge of rootless disquiet. After all, he’d seen rings just like this in other softcore clips—not that he was watching them to get off, mind you—so it couldn’t be that. Maybe it was the way the other two dudes seemed to be glancing at him surreptitiously as they spoke. Perhaps it was the eyes of that Carlos dude, the rough-looking felon…yeah, his eyes, the way they smoldered with something intense that was about to burst into a raging inferno.
Suddenly, Derek didn’t want to be in the ring anymore.
And Nick, with the finely attuned senses of an experienced hunter, knew it.
Before he headed back to the prey, Nick gave Carlos one last piece of advice. “Make it think this is all just softcore porn. With maybe a little S&M, but nothing too rough. Nothing to frighten it off. Play nice with it—before you put it in its place.” His vicious grin was returned by Carlos in equal measure as he turned to the ring.
He strode across the concrete floor, his hard body flexing as he moved. Derek, hearing his footsteps, turned and found his eyes immediately drawn to Nick’s cock as it swung back and forth between his muscular thighs. He was engrossed by it—to the point of missing a vital cue about his imminent danger. But he wasn’t a faggot–he swore–so maybe it was just because he was coming down and he was starting to jones for something to keep the buzz going.
Either way, he never noticed that he could hear Nick’s footsteps, quite clearly—but he hadn’t heard his own. He’d been given professional wrestling boots with soft foam soles that couldn’t cause injury. Nick’s boots—and Carlos’s, too, which became obvious the moment he moved towards the ring—had been heavily modified.
‘Heavily’ being the operative word. The two muscle studs were wearing boots capable of doing considerable damage in a no-holds-barred environment.
As Nick moved to the camera, Carlos strode across the concrete floor towards Derek with an air of masculine confidence and contempt that the street boy found unnerving but yet also somehow…well, attractive wasn’t the right word. He wasn’t no fag, after all.
He was so successful at repressing his awareness of his own stiffening cock that it never truly reached his conscious mind.
Carlos parted the ropes and climbed into the ring, his hard, tattooed body already gleaming with sweat from the warmth inside the warehouse. “Ok, go to the far end and slowly walk towards me,” Nick told him, “I want to check the lighting.”
Derek was standing near the middle of the ring. Carlos quickly passed him on the way to the other end, but his return progress was much slower. This gave the young punk more time to size up his adversary. He still had a certain uneasiness about the setup, but Nick’s calm demeanor quieted him somewhat—which was a good thing, because the sheer power emanating from Carlos at such a close distance was almost overpowering.
As he passed the slut, the later found his eyes drawn to the way the hardbodied felon’s trapezius and dorsi muscles moved under his skin, but it was the rock-hard globes of his glutes, taut and furry, that seemed to capture Derek’s attention the most.
It wasn’t due to sexual interest—he knew that; Derek absolutely knew that—but there some kind of deadly fascination in that perfect masculine ass that made the cunt have a hard time looking away.
Carlos closed in on the camera, and Nick held up his hand. “We’re good, bro. You can get the show on the road.”
The two opponents met in the middle of the ring in one of the most uneven matches in history. Calos towered a good six inches over the “straight” whore and outweighed him by nearly a hundred pounds, every ounce of it pure muscle. Suddenly Derek found himself very, very grateful that this was all a movie. After all, these dudes wouldn’t do anything too extreme on camera, right?
He looked up at Carlos, towering over him, and gulped. This close, the ex-con’s scent flowed outward over him in waves—the faint smell of mansweat given an extra impetus by an underlying, yet overriding, tang of testosterone. The muscled stud’s grin was laden with a maliciousness he no longer bothered to hide.
“You ready, punk?” Carlos asked. He didn’t wait for a response.
It came faster than Derek could have believed possible—and with more force. Carlos’s surprise uppercut caught him on the chin with enough power to nearly lift him off his feet, but it happened so quickly that he was flat on his back on the mat before he realized he’d even been hit at all.
Groaning, he sat up, his mouth filling with a repulsive salty taste that caused him to spit instinctively. It was only then that he realized his lower lip had been split and blood was trickling into his mouth.
“Yeah!” he heard Nick shout, “Excellent start! Keep going, bro! Beat that fucker into hamburger!”
Wait, what? Sudden fear clutched at Derek’s heart with an icy hand, but he wasn’t given a chance to express it. Before he could so much as open his aching mouth, Carlos kicked him in the stomach.
Once again, the street punk ended up flat on his back. This time, though, Carlos was still with him, his red leather boot grinding into the boy’s abdomen. The pain was phenomenal, but even worse was the fact that he couldn’t breathe. Not that his lungs were compressed, but the kick had knocked the wind out of him, and now, with Carlos’s weight on his diaphragm, he wasn’t able to inhale.
His hands scabbled in desperation at the killer’s boot, the taut leather smooth under his palms, his fingers catching at the tight laces. He could feel it all above and beyond the pain in his mouth and the agonizing ache in his gut.
He had no way of knowing that the latter was a warning. Carlos had kicked him with such force that he’d actually managed to cause a tear at the point where the esophagus entered the stomach. Without immediate medical attention, Derek was in imminent danger of developing life-threatening peritonitis.
Of course, he was also—blissfully—still unaware that that was a moot point. He wouldn’t remain ignorant of the fact for long.
“Yo, man, tag me in!” Nick called out. The moment Carlos’s foot was off his belly, Derek rolled over, gasping desperately, and began crawling to the far side of the ring, too intent on catching his beath to notice what was happening behind him.
Nick climbed between the ropes as Carlos approached. After a quick and quiet conversation, Nick looked up and noticed that the fuckmeat had reached the far side and was slowly and painfully pulling itself up into a vertical position on the ropes. The long-haired stud turned back to Carlos.
“It’s a matter of timing,” he said. “I’ll tell you when.” Carlos nodded, cold glints of sadism illuminating his dark eyes as he took ten paces out into the ring.
Derek had managed to get himself upright. Still gasping, he used the back of his hand to shakily wipe away the blood that stubbornly continued to trickle from his mouth. Raising his eyes with trepidation, he saw Carlos standing more than halfway across the ring.
“C’mon, dude,” the hulking convict said sneeringly, “Lessee if you can do any damage. Come at me, fucker. I won’t even so much as swing atcha, I swear.” His words carried the ring of conviction because they were absolutely true.
Of course, as any decent lawyer (and most ambulance chasers) will tell you, there’s always a loophole. Derek had been on the streets long enough to have learned that on his own, but his pain had instilled a sense of anger and injustice that overrode his instincts. He launched himself at the smug muscular bastard.
“Now!” Nick shouted, flinging himself towards Carlos at the same time. As he was much closer, he reached the Latino killer sooner. Carlos grabbed Nick’s arm and with all his might spun him in a full circle right back at the ropes. Nick hit them with his back, stretching them back to their full extent. They snapped back just as Derek made it to the point where Carlos had been standing.
Instead of meeting Carlos—who, knowing what was afoot, had dodged to the side—he met Nick. Or, more accurately, he met Nick’s elbow, impelled towards him, driven into his face with the incredible power that he’d gained by launching himself off the ropes.
This time, the damage was much worse than a split lip. Stunned as he was by the force of the impact, Derek was still aware of that. The pain was much, much worse. For a moment, he choked and gagged on something hard and jagged before he was able to swallow it. It might have been a small mercy that he never knew he’d swallowed several of his own teeth, but he was still gargling on blood. Worse, he couldn’t breathe through his nose. His entire face was in agony; he had no way to sort through the sensations and realize that his nose had been crushed.
Groaning, the punk raised his head from the mat. The first thing he saw was Nick standing over him, grinning. The muscled cameraman was immediately joined by Carlos who looked down at the street meat and sneered.
“You ain’t gonna just leave the fuck like that?” the ex-con asked indignantly. “That’s the first thing you learn in prison, vato; you gotta keep goin’ when they’re down. Don’t give the asswipe the chance to get up again.”
Derek heard the words, but he was frozen in horror as he stared up at the two hardbodied studs, both furry and one covered in amateur tats—and saw that both of them were fully erect, their enormous, vein-wreathed shafts dripping transparent beads of precum.
“Man, you’re outta bounds,” Nick shot back, “I ain’t tagged you in yet.”
Carlos turned and headed back to the ropes. He wasn’t happy, Nick knew, but he also knew Carlos’s tendency to rush these things. Nick wanted this to be, if not a work of art, then at least something more than the quick, brutal snuff Carlos preferred.
He turned his attention back to the writhing slut. “He’s right, ya know,” he said, smiling gently down at Derek’s tear- and blood-streaked face, “You’re gettin’ fully tenderized.” Without the slightest change in the sweet, comforting smile on his profoundly handsome face, Nick raised his black leather boot and stomped the living fuck out of Derek’s smooth, flat belly.
“HOOG!!!” the unluck whore cried out—not an intentional expression but an involuntary ejaculation of air from his forcibly compressed lungs. As he curled helplessly into a fetal position, Nick strolled casually away.
“Ok, now it’s yours,” he said to Carlos as he reached out and tagged him.
As the powerful serial killer stalked across the ring, Nick grabbed the camera and zoomed in, focusing on Carlos’s muscular rear as the rock-hard glutes flexed with each step. “Hey, dude,” he called out, “Do something to it with your ass. There’s been a special request for that.”
Carlos paused and turned back to Nick. “With my ass?” he queried, then shrugged. “Ok, whatever. But I’m still gonna beat the fuck outta of it. It goddam well needs it.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Nick said with a quiet chuckle.
The punkmeat was still writhing and gasping for air when the inked ex-con reached it. “How ya doin’, gringo?” Carlos asked with a sneer. “Havin’ fun yet?” As Derek looked up at the hulking stud towering over him, Carlos took stock of the boy’s tear-stained face, dark and congested from the lack of oxygen.
“Looks like yer havin’ a little trouble breathin’ there, buddy,” the sadistic killer went on, “Here, lemme help. Bet this’ll take the pain off your tiny faggot mind.”
And with that, he squatted down and planted his ass directly onto Derek’s face.
The hapless youth saw it coming and threw his arms up to resist, but it was a case of too little, too late. The muscular, furry globes of manflesh descended inexorably until they clamped down onto the boy’s face, making an utterly airtight seal. With his nose buried in Carlos’s sphincter, Derek was unable to draw in the slightest bit of air.
Panic kicked in immediately. As he began to suffocate, he kicked and thrashed, his booted feet drumming on the mat as he clawed at the serial killer’s back and legs.
With a wicked grin, Carlos turned and gave the camera a thumbs-up. Nick returned it, his own dick getting stiff as the muffled cries of the terrified street rat were picked up by both his ears and the camera’s mic.
“Show that cunt who’s boss,” he called out, “Make him feel it!”
With a smirk, Carlos ground his ass into Derek’s face, squeezing his powerful glutes like a vise. The suffering rentboy, already in a silent hell of asphyxiating darkness, now experienced the addition of crushing pressure bearing down on his head. His struggles became more violent, more frantic.
“Yeah, man, nice!” Nick yelled, but thirty seconds later, Carlos bounded to his feet. “Enough!” he shouted as Derek inhaled a lungful of air in a huge, whooping gasp, “This is too easy—it needs to hurt!”
With that, he rounded on the punk, who was just starting to sit up. He lashed out with his red leather boot and kicked the fucker square in the head, striking him in the temple. Derek flopped bonelessly back onto the mat, completely unconscious.
“Your turn,” Carlos said as he headed towards the ropes, “I want it awake when I’m workin’ it. I want it to know what’s happenin’ to it.”
“Yeah, like I don’t,” Nick muttered but he climbed into the ring. Reaching under Derek’s armpits, he hoisted the limp kid upright and dragged him towards the rope. “Hey, go get a bottle of water out of the fridge,” he told Carlos, “Lessee if we can wake the fucker up.”
It only took Carlos a couple of minutes to come back in the water. Nick had Derek pressed against the ropes, facing into the ring. “Gimme a hand here real quick,” he said, “Just set the water down there where I can reach it.”
With Carlos’s help, Nick wrapped the ropes around Derek’s arms, entangling the youth so that he was held up without needing any other support. Nick grunted with satisfaction, opened the water bottle, and began splashing it into the punk’s face. The third spray of water got into the boy’s nose; he inhaled it and immediately came awake, coughing and choking.
“Hey there, Sleeping Ugly,” Nick jeered, “Glad ya decided to come back! After all, this is when the real pain starts; you didn’t wanna miss that, didja?”
And with that, he drove three ramrod-like gutpunches into the street whore’s flat, smooth belly.
Derek should have been used to the sensation of having the air beaten out of his lungs, but it still caused an involuntary panic at the lack of oxygen. As he struggled to inhale, Nick’s raucous laughter rang in his ears. Then he heard Carlos speak and his blood ran cold.
“Ok, bro, my turn. The faggot’s conscious. It needs to be beaten into hamburger—that’s my job.”
“You got it, dude,” Nick replied with a cheery grin, “Just hold off for a quick sec while I reposition the camera.” He tagged Carlos, then climbed out of the ring and headed straight for the camera.
Slowly, almost luxuriously, Carlos strode into Derek’s field of view and stood with his legs apart, his hands on his hips. The cheap boywhore raised his head reluctantly, his eyes tracing up from the red leather boots tightly laced up the Latino stud’s powerful shins to his knees. Above that, the bulging, muscular thighs gave way the most massive cock Derek had ever seen, jutting out proudly like the prow of a warship and steadily dripping precum.
The punk’s terror grew exponentially. He already knew he was gonna get hurt badly, but until this moment, he’d somehow, stupidly, failed to grasp that these dudes were actually getting off on his suffering.
He was helpless to stop the raising of his gaze, though; his eyes seemed to be impelled upwards via some force from outside. From Carlos’s furry, ripped abs to his huge chest with its hubcap pecs and malevolent tattoos, the serial killer radiated a vicious, barely suppressed rage and a truly frightening power potential.
Derek didn’t want to look Carlos in the eyes. He knew it would hurt—and he was right. But as he climbed laboriously to his feet, he couldn’t look away from those searing dark orbs.
“Yer gonna die, ya know,” Carlos suddenly said, almost casually. “That’s what the camera’s for. There are fuckers all over the world who hate faggots like you almost as much as I do. They’re gonna pay us shitloads of money just to watch us kill you. Just so you know what’s coming, asswipe. You need it to happen. You deserve it, you worthless piece of cocksuckin’ shit.”
“I’m good, man!” Nick called out. With the coldest, grimmest smile Derek had ever seen, Carlos ran at him. The young whore had just enough time to lose control of his bladder before he learned that Hell is absolutely real and could be experienced in full while he was still alive.
With amazing agility for someone so muscle-bound, Carlos suddenly leapt into the air, twisting into a horizontal position. He’d secretly been practicing this move ever since they’d gotten this commission; even Nick was taken by surprise.
Derek had never even so much as heard of a flying dropkick; all he was aware of was the image of the soles of Carlos’s boots coming straight at him. Even if the sight hadn’t immediately paralyzed him, though, he wouldn’t have been able to react fast enough to avoid the blow.
It was like taking a howitzer in the chest. Carlos felt the shock in the tough sinews of his booted shins before he fell back onto the mat, but Derek’s experience was much, much more painful. He not only felt the agony of three of his ribs shattering simultaneously—two on the right and one on the left–he actually heard the wet cracking sound of the greenstick breakages. This time, the air forced out of his lungs was amplified by his tortured scream into a high, girlish shriek of terrible suffering.
Carlos grunted and climbed to his feet as he rose, Nick called out. “Goddam, dude, that was fuckin’ hot! Where’d ya learn to do that?”
The hardbodied convict turned to the camera—he’d learned by now to respond to the audience, not to Nick directly—and gave an evil leer. “Taught myself, man. Fuckin’ homos ain’t no match for a real man; you know that. Now whaddaya say I give this motherfucker what it wants?”
“And what does the cocksucker want?” Nick asked with a grin as he zoomed the lens in on Carlos’s inked chest momentarily before shifting the focus up to his goateed, coldly handsome face.
“Aw, man you know what it wants. They always want the chorizo, and they want it hot and spicy, Latino-style.”
“Fuck yeah, man,” Nick replied, “But ya gotta bring the meat closer. Everyone’s gonna wanna see its face as it kicks and dies.”
“You got it,” Carlos said casually as he strode over to the spot where Derek was splayed out, flat on his back. The punk’s face was purple from lack of air; it simply hurt too much to breathe. It didn’t know that it was already meat; one of its lungs had been punctured and was collapsing. It was a slow process; immediate medical attention might have saved its worthless life, but there was no way in fucking hell that was going to happen.
“You heard the man, asswipe,” Carlos said smilingly, “Gotta getcha ready for yer close-up. Ya better smile for the camera as I give you what your faggot pig soul needs, cunt.”
With that, he bent down, his strong hands gripping the fag’s blue leather boots at the ankles. The ex-con stood up with a jerk and began to twirl, spinning the street whore out in front of him. Using the centrifugal motion to build up his momentum, Carlos made several revolutions before releasing the fuckmeat, flinging it in Nick’s direction. It hit the ropes with a gurgling scream of sheer pain before flopping back onto the mat directly in front of the camera.
By now, the vicious sadist’s enormous rod was visibly pulsating. Nick zoomed in on it, a teaser for the audience. He knew Carlos well enough by now to expect this; for someone with such a deep hatred of homos, the convicted killer clearly enjoyed plowing their fuckholes as he offed them.
The screaming of the pansy caused Nick to re-aim the camera. Carlos had it on its back, legs bent up to its chest so he could fuck it in the missionary position. He’d already jammed the cue-ball-sized head of his tool up the bitch’s rectum; Nick let the camera linger over the image of the stud’s massive, vein-wreathed shaft piledriving the meat’s colon as blood from its shredded sphincter trickled out.
Its wailing was loud and inarticulate, a constant shriek of agony. It was clear that whatever else the faggot had taken up its ass during its short, useless life, it had never dealt with anything on the scale of Carlos’s huge cock. It was also clear that Carlos found its continual crying a nuisance.
He looked up at Nick—or, rather, the camera—his face twisted into a terrifying mask of rage. “Goddamit,” he snarled,” I really fuckin’ hate screamers.”
“Why dontcha shut it up, then?” Nick asked with a smirk. They both already knew what was coming; their banter had been for the sake of the virtual audience. Carlos raised his arm and balled his fist, then spoke, punctuating his words with brutal jackhammer blows.
“SHUT [WHAM] THE [WHAM] FUCK [WHAM] UP [WHAM] YA [WHAM] GOD [WHAM] DAMN [WHAM] FAGGOT!!! [WHAM WHAM WHAM]”
By the time he was done, there very little left that was recognizable of the bleeding piece of tortured meat that had once gone by the name of Derek. Now it was just a dying cumdump, its feeble, agonized breathing making blood bubbles from the middle of hamburger-like face as its killer used it like the worthless sex toy it truly was.
“Aw fuck YEAH!” Carlos shouted as the sense of physical triumph merge with the release of pent-up rage to cause the semen in his enormous, puckered balls to boil over, “Take it, ya fuckin’ homo! Fuckin’ take it all and die!!”
The fuckmeat was no longer lucid but it was still alive and sensate. It could not only feel every blast of pain it was enduring, both externally and internally, it could also feel its own erection, involuntarily stimulated by the relentless pounding its prostate was suffering. Suddenly, there was a new source of pain as Carlos’s huge hands wrapped around its throat and began to inexorably crush it.
The frantic clawing that the utter lack of oxygen triggered was purely instinctual; even had it been able to think rationally, the knowledge that this would cause more pain to be inflicted on it wouldn’t have helped. As it was, it got no relief when Carlos let go with one hand—the single one he kept on its neck was sufficient to choke its life out.
And worse, as it now found out, the buff psycho now had a free hand with which to do further damage.
He grabbed the cunt’s right arm and twisted it backwards. There was a gristly-sounding snap as he dislocated it at the elbow, ripping apart the tendons and ligaments with the ease of tearing a drumstick off a chicken.
The meat couldn’t even scream at this nightmarish new agony, it could only continue to drum its left fist uselessly on its killer’s muscular, inked chest. Its lean, lithe body writhed tormentedly, the flat belly pressed against Carlos’s ripped, furry abs with its cock squeezed between, fully erect and lubed by a combination of sweat and its own precum.
“Twist it this way,” Nick directed, “I want to zoom in on its face.”
His expression so full of hate it could scarcely be called a smile, Carlos complied, putting both hands back around the homo’s neck. Placing his thumbs up under its jawline, he forced its head to the right without relaxing his iron grip on its throat in the least. “Yes!” Nick said, “That’s perfect!”
The buff cameraman, his own massive cock also fully erect by this point, adjusted the lens, bringing the dying punk’s face into sharp focus. Swollen and nearly black, it was almost unrecognizable as human, much less as the street beggar named Derek. The whites of the bulging eyes were streaked with red hemorrhages; tears leaked from the corners. What was left of the nose looked like a squashed tomato. The tongue, now a bright, livid purple, protruded grotesquely from its mouth—especially as most of the teeth that could have trapped it in had been knocked down the cocksucker’s throat. Thick foamy drool trickled out past it, white as semen, and ran in rivulets down the fag’s chin.
As its brain reached the point where functionality could no longer be maintained and the synapses began firing more erratically, the dying meat still retained a sense of what was happing to it deep within its primitive midbrain. Although the hows and whys were gone, it knew it was dying. It could still feel sensations, but the distinction between pleasure and pain was no longer possible. There was only a stimulus in extremis that was trigging a response to spew its seed as violently as possible in a last frenetic attempt to preserve its DNA.
Its muscles went rigid, its mangled sphincter tightened excruciatingly around Carlos’s enormous shaft. The good left arm, which had ceased beating against its assailant and had slowed to almost a caressing motion, now wrapped around the back of Carlos’s neck, holding him tightly as if in a desperate embrace.
“Aw, man, I’m gonna unload in this cunt!” Carlos cried out in a strangulated voice, “AW FUCK!”
“Not without me!” Nick yelled. Swiftly steadying the camera on its tripod, he climbed into the ring. He made it just in time, standing over the meat’s head.
“DIE, MOTHERFUCKER, DIE!!!” Carlos screamed, echoing the sentiment inked onto his massive, straining bicep as his thick slab of manmeat exploded deep inside the whore’s guts. As his huge, powerful body went irresistibly taut, he automatically dug his thumbs in and upwards and then clenched his hands.
With a single, not entirely deliberate action, he popped the fucking cunt’s head off the top of its spine with less effort than he’d have used to pop the top off a bottle.
As the base of its own skull sheared through its spinal cord, the penultimate thing the cunt felt on earth was a blast of pleasure/pain more powerful than anything its weak little mind could have possibly conceived. The fact that it ejaculated so hard that its vas deferens ruptured was subsumed into this sensation; a huge pink puddle of bloody semen stickily coated both Carlos’s chest and its own.
The erotic popcorn-like sound of vertebral destruction was too much for Nick. “GODDAM!!!” he practically screamed. With his nine-inch rod pointed straight down at the fuckmeat, he spewed a massive load of hot manseed directly into its face, completely covering it with enough cum for the thick opalescent fluid to pool in its eyes.
Simultaneously, Carlos hunched over, rutting and grunting inarticulately in the grip of an intense orgasm. Once again, the sadistic serial killer was swept up in the ultimate pleasure of filling a fucking faggot with his own potent wad while ending its worthless life. Nothing—nothing—felt so good as making a disgusting homo cunt die on his dick.
And that was that last thing useless fuckmeat once known as Derek experienced on earth—it died covered in cum, tasting cum, and pumped full of cum.
Twenty minutes lates, Carlos strode back into the huge open warehouse area after cleaning himself up in the office bathroom and redressing himself. Nick had already done so; now he was in the ring, stripping the slut’s corpse of its wrestling boots.
Nick looked up as Carlos entered. “Gotta get these back to the rental place,” he said with a grin. “Incidentally, ya did a great job, man. We’re gonna make a shit-ton of money off that one. Whatcha gonna do with this piece of garbage?” The last question was asked with a nod towards the splayed-out remains of the well-used street punk.
“Thanks, amigo,” Carlos said, replying to the comment first. “They’re building some kinda new resort on the Strip out south of the airport. Big industrial dumpsters; figured I’d just toss it in there with the rest of the trash.”
“Sounds like a plan. Need help carrying it out?”
“What, this little piece of shit? Nah, man—but do me a favor. Grab its clothes and dump them somewhere else, wouldja?”
And with that division of duties, they parted ways for the evening.
Even though it was only nine in the morning, the blazing sun poured down relentless heat on the scene. “Ya know,” Schweitz said, turning to Nuñez, “This kinda thing is might make us look bad if it continues.”
“Aw, bullshit,” Nuñez countered, “By this point you oughtta know good and well no one gives a shit about this crap.” He turned to the beat cop who’d called the scene in. “So, tell me.”
“Some bum dumpster diving found it. No real details except that it was obviously a sex murder. Man, I ain’t never seen a body that badly damaged in a case like this.”
“How long you been on the force?” Nuñez asked.
“Year and a half,” the cop answered.
“Stick around,” the homicide detective responded, “You’ll see plenty more of this shit.”
Heading towards the dumpster, already cordoned off with police tape, they encountered the lead CSI investigator. “Hey, Andrews,” Schweitz said in a comradely manner, “How’s it hangin’?”
“Little to the left, har!”
“So what’ve we got?”
“Another fag murder—but ya’ll already know that. Just like the others. Extreme overkill. Violent rape and torture. Whoever snapped its neck like that much be profoundly powerful; I’d hate to meet this dude in a back alley—not that I hang out in back alleys with homos.”
“Better watch your language, Andrews,” Nuñez said with a smirk, “It’s an election year. The libs will be up in arms if your remarks get out.”
Andrews scoffed. “Like you dickheads don’t say—and think—the same goddam thing. I’ve seen enough of these dead homos to know they’re practically begging for this shit. So desperate for cock they go home with any stranger who offers it to ‘em. You ask me, the deserve everything they get.”
“True dat,” Schweitz said. “Hey, you free for lunch? I found this great place out in Koreatown.”
“Won’t you two be busy with this one?”
It was Nuñez’s turn to scoff. ‘You kidding? Ain’t gonna take more than five minutes to fill out the basic paperwork. You said it yourself, no one gives a shit. The captain damn sure won’t.”
“And you wanna bitch about my comments?
“Hah!” Schweitz chortled. “Meet, say, about 11:30? I’ll drive.”
“Can do,” Andrews responded. “Anyway, I gotta go let the ME know he can send the meat wagon. No sense in you guys looking at the corpse; it’s just another reamed-out homo. I’ll send you my report if you need it.”
“Nah, that’s ok,” Nuñez replied, “No one’s gonna read it anyway.” Andrews headed towards his car as the homicide detectives heard to theirs.
“Y’know,” Schweitz said reflectively, “When I first joined the force, I had all these ideals about fighting crime and dispensing justice. That was before I learned how most of the stupid fucks bring this shit onto themselves”
“Yeah, no shit,” Nuñez grunted. “So, how do ya wanna file this one?”
“Same as usual,” Schweitz replied, “NHI—No Humans Involved.”