Trucker 22–Trucker vs Another Worthless Boywhore

The Trucker was angry.  He needed a piece of fagmeat on which he could vent his frustrations—and he’d just found it.

He was in a homo bar in the seedier outskirts of a large metropolitan area; he’d had a delivery not too far away.  Normally, he tried to make such deliveries late at night to avoid city rush-hour traffic.  This warehouse, though, shut down operations at eight in the evening.  As a result, the Trucker had spent hours on the highway at a crawl, burning off expensive fuel.  He was an independent contractor; that came out of his pocket.

By the time he was done with the job, he was done.  He parked his rig at the end of the dead-end road on which the warehouse had been located in a rather desolate area of light industry.  This area, however, what located next to a neighborhood of old run-down houses and sixty-year-old apartment complexes.  The faggots were moving in and slowly trying to gentrify the locale, however; hence the gay bar.

It had popped up while he was trolling for a victim online, and it was perfect—about a mile away, close enough to walk.  Grab a couple of shots of whiskey, a piece of smooth young fagmeat to beat, rape, and snuff, and he’d soon be back to grab a few hours of sleep in his cab. 

The streetlights in this part of town were intermittent and neither they nor the streets themselves were maintained well.  The concrete slabs of the sidewalk were uneven and tilted; nevertheless, the buff, vicious sadist planted his black leather harness boots on the pavement with heavy, confident steps.  He strode unconcernedly through an area through which even the police went with caution and trepidation.

He knew he could handle himself—after all, he got off on killing, and he had the experience to do it well.  And his appearance didn’t hurt, nearly six-and-a-half-foot frame tightly encased in a pair of jeans so worn they were soft and faded to pale blue.  It was a chilly night—the temperature was forty degrees and still dropping—but that didn’t bother him.  In deference to the chill, however, he had donned a black leather aviator’s jacket over his white cotton t-shirt, so small it was straining across his broad, muscular chest. 

He looked like a badass, and he knew it.  But then again, he was a badass.

He’d gotten stared at the moment he entered the bar.  It wasn’t quite successful or trendy enough to be an actual club, but it was certainly trying.  Loud, rhythmic dance music was being played by a somewhat lackluster deejay in one corner.  The dance floor itself was large and rather crowed and the bar was packed.

The Trucker approached it.  The young pansies at the bar practically squealed with delight as he roughly shouldered through them and got the bartender’s attention.  “Double shot of Jack,” he barked. When it came, he paid.  He downed it as easily as if it been water as he got his change, then turned around, leaning back against the bar and surveilling the crowd.

It was full of so many cocksucking boywhores that the Trucker could hardly restrain himself, but one caught his eye early on.  It was young—in fact, it looked too young to be in the bar legally, not that the Trucker gave a shit.  What did matter was that it was so obviously desperate to be used.

That was it.  That was the one.  That was the homicidal faghunter’s version of a twelve-point buck.  It might say it didn’t want to suffer, but it did.  It might say it didn’t want to die, but it did.  They all did.  They said they didn’t, they screamed and fought to the last moment of their utterly worthless lives, but they did.

At least, they all shot thick, uncontrollable wads of cum when he killed them, which amounted to the same thing as far the Trucker was concerned.

At the same time, the boy caught sight of the Trucker and froze, slack-jawed in awe.  He was slim and wiry but by no means scrawny; in fact, his sleeveless black t-shirt revealed pecs and biceps of almost perfect form.  His jet-black hair was very straight and cut into something that the Trucker equated with an emo look; it was likely dyed.  Not that that bothered the Trucker.  Undoubtedly the coroner would be able to determine the true color.  The lashes around the large dark eyes were so long and thick as to make the Trucker suspect mascara.

He’d soon find out; no mascara would be able to withstand the tsunami of tears that would be rolling down the kid’s face before the Trucker was done with him.

Below the waist, he continued the theme, his skin-tight smooth leather jeans highlighting thick, firm thighs and shapely calves; the cuffs were tucked into a pair of hightops so spotlessly white as to appear new.

The Trucker allowed just the faintest sardonic smirk to cross his face, but it was enough.  Slowly, as entranced as a moth by a flame, the kid approached him, his smooth, youthful face a mixture of hope, lust, and uncertainty.  Of these, the greatest was lust.

“H-hey,” he said as he reached the unimaginably hot older man, “I, uh, I’m Kevin…”

The Trucker grunted and slowly scanned the slut from head to foot, then back, contempt oozing from his gaze to such an extent that it had an almost physical impact.  At any rate, it certainly had the impact the Trucker had wanted.

“Yeah, boy, you’ll do,” he said laconically.

Kevin was galvanized.  “I, um, I’ve got an apartment not too far from here. It’s—well, it’s kinda dirty right now, but—”

“Just tell me, faggot, can I fuck ya there?”

Kevin lit up like the top of the Chrysler Building under the verbal abuse.  “Yes, sir!” he babbled, literally wriggling with excitement, “I mean, it’s small, but fuck yeah!”

“Wait outside for me, bitch,” the Trucker commanded, “You need to prepare yerself.  I’m gonna have another drink and then I’m gonna destroy you and your homo asshole.”

He turned his back on the boy without waiting for a response and ordered another double Jack shot.  As Kevin obediently waited outside, freezing his twink ass off—he hadn’t brought any kind of jacket, not that it mattered; raging lust kept him at a fever pitch.  In the meantime, the Trucker had polished off his second double, then a third. 

By the time he headed outside, safe in the knowledge that no one in the club would be able to tie his exit to the meat’s, whatever possible restraints or inhibition he might have had, had been erased by the alcohol.

By the time he rejoined the fagmeat outside, the Trucker’s enormous cock was ragingly hard.  He wasn’t going to unload world of hurt on the twink fuckboy—he was going to unload a whole fucking universe of nightmarish agony.

He was going to sear the true meaning of suffering into its very soul.  By the time he was finished, death wouldn’t be a release; it would be such a profound pleasure the cunt would spunk uncontrollably.

And it would love it.  Deep in his own soul, the Trucker knew that the meat recognized its inferiority.  It needed and wanted this, and he needed and wanted to give it to it.

“Let’s go,” he grunted abruptly.  Like an eager puppy, Kevin headed across the parking lot and turned left.  The heavy thumps of the Trucker’s boots on the sidewalk told the whore that his john was following him.

He’d hit him up for the money once they got back to his place.  After all, he hadn’t been turned down yet once he’d stripped and shown off his smooth, firm body.

And so the stage was set for a perfect vortex of hatefucking, horrific beatings, and excruciating death.

The apartment building to which the kid was leading the Trucker turned out to be a squat two-story structure faced with brick of a dingy, indeterminate hue.  The asphalt on the thin strip of parking space in front of it was about twenty years past its useful life, judging by the huge holes and massive ripples that made a lunar landscape of its surface.  Not that it mattered; there were only three cars in evidence, none of them in good condition. 

For that matter, the building looked mostly vacant—something the slut verified the next time it spoke up.  Pausing on the bottom riser of the rusty metal stairs, he turned back to the Trucker.  Even with this addition to his height, he still had to look up into the towering stud’s face.  The whoreboy’s own eyes glittered with a truly reckless lust.

“Place is almost empty,” he said with an impish grin, “They’re runnin’ our leases out, then they’re gonna tear the place down.  Only four of us left, and I’m next to last to go—I got three months to go.  The units around me are empty, so—” here he faltered for a moment before plunging in “—so we can make all the noise we want.”  

The fagmeat was too horny to notice how ice-cold the Trucker’s grin and reply were.  “Good,” he said, firmly but quietly, “trust me, boy, you’re going to be making a lot of noise.”  It was a clear warning, an obvious red flag, but the twenty-year old cocksucker was too drunk to care.

In Kevin’s opinion, he’d let this hard, masculine Adonis fuck him all night long without charging him a dime—not that that would stop him from asking, of course.  He just wanted him.  He wanted to feel his massive cock probing deep into his intestines.  Hell, he deserved this guy.

The stupid little homo had no idea how right it was as it made its way to the second floor, the almost soundless footfalls of its hightops easily overwhelmed by the more solid sound of the Trucker’s boots. 

The sadistic killer’s grin remained cold and steady on the reflection of how even his footwear was already eradicating evidence of this disgusting little pervert’s existence.  It was a stain, he was gonna clean it up, and he was gonna enjoy the living fuck outta doing it.

Once inside, the boy flicked a light switch as the Trucker soundly and surreptitiously locked both the latch and the deadbolt on the front door.  Instantly the room was flooded by the stark light of a bright white bulb in a milk globe ceiling fixture.  The meat hadn’t been lying when it said the place was dirty; what it hadn’t said was that it was cramped and claustrophobic, with a single window in the front, overlooking the outside walkway.

To the left was the smallest kitchen the Trucker had ever seen—both the stove and the refrigerator were ancient, but their miniscule dimensions must have made replacement expensively prohibitive, if not downright impossible.  A couple of pan handles jutted from the sink and the door to the single upper cabinet was ajar, revealing some cans of beans and a half-full jar of peanut butter.  The lower shelf had disposable plates, cutlery, and cups.

The rest was the living room, consisting of a sofa, coffee table, armchair, and an entertainment center, all mismatched, and all dating from no later than the 80’s.  The TV was a generic 32” flat screen; it just barely fit into the space allotted in the entertainment center.  The coffee table had three beer cans, evidently empty, a bottle of tequila, obviously empty, and a bottle of Jim Beam, half full.  There was also a bong and an overflowing ashtray piled with cigarette butts and the roach ends of joints.

Speaking of roaches, the Trucker had seen enough of them, especially in the kitchen, to add downright revulsion to his sneer of contempt.  The whole fucking world was gonna be better off without this vermin-ridden faggot in it.  Whatever he was feeling, he needed to erase this subhuman mistake with his dick.  Time to peel off another layer of inhibitions.

Without saying a word, the hardbodied serial killer stepped forward and grabbed the bottle of bourbon off the coffee table.  He unscrewed it with one hand, dropped the cap on the floor, and polished what was left in three huge gulps.  Tossing the now empty bottle on the sofa, he turned to the punk, his eyes now slightly red and glowing with white-hot rage and lust.

Kevin could—or would—only see the latter.

“You ready to get dicked down, asswipe?” the Trucker leered.  He was loose but focused; he still had complete control over himself.  All the alcohol had done was help him achieve a deeper level of hatred than otherwise.  This was going to be phenomenally brutal and sadistically cruel. 

But the fuckmeat wanted it.  It needed it.  The fighting, the kicking, the struggling—that was all biology.  Yeah, there was shrieking agony and mindless terror for a while, but in the end, it always finally accepted how important it was to be treated like the worthless perverted piece of shit that it was.  After all, it always surrendered its useless existence with an explosive orgasm.


Luckily for Kevin, he actually was too drunk to pick up on any of the nuances of the Trucker’s words or body language.  “C’mon,” he panted, “Bedroom’s in here.”  He headed through a doorway leading to the rear room—bathroom, closet, single window to match the front room.  There was a twin bed with a battered, tarnished brass headboard, a single nightstand with a cheap porcelain lamp with a yellow shade; after switching on the overhead light, dim and yellow, the meat went to the nightstand, turned on the lamp and plugged in its phone.

The other items of furniture in the room were a dresser with an array of things scattered across its surface and a splintering armless wood dining chair with clothes piled on it; in fact several piles of dirty laundry were scattered around the room.

At the far end of the room was a vanity with a sink and a large mirror; the actual bathroom was off this and consisted of a tub and a toilet.  One whole wall was taken up sliding closet doors with fake wood paneling.  One of the doors was open, exposing yet more dirty laundry and a somewhat expensive selection of sneakers, boots, and leather items.

“You can just toss your stuff anywhere,” the cheap whoreboy said as it turned its back on the Trucker and peeled it t-shirt off, uncovering its smooth back and developed lats.  Unlacing its hightops, it wriggled out of its tight leather jeans, revealing a firm bubble butt.  From behind, its boycock could be seen dangling between its legs, already dipping in excitement.

As it turned back to the Trucker, it spoke.  “I like to get fucked in my kicks—” it began, before freezing in a cross between awe and arousal.

The awe was for the Trucker’s chest, now exposed in all its powerful, furry glory, the thick, firm nipples rising above the forest of chest hair covering the broad swell of the pecs.  The excitement was from what the Trucker was holding in his hand.

The older man had doubted that his jacket would remain on the chair—there were too many clothes piled on it already, and they were dirty anyway—and he damn sure wasn’t going to place it on the floor, so he tossed it on the dresser and did the same with his t-shirt.  As he did so, he noticed a pair of handcuffs with the key still in the still in the lock. 

Now, as he stood shirtless in front of the entranced fagboy, he dangled the cuffs—minus the key—from the index finger of one hand while slowly and seductively lowering the zipper of his jeans with the other hand.  Even then, his mammoth tool was so long that he had to reach in and pull it up and out of its tight denim confines before it could bob and sway.

Kevin had never seen anything like it.  At the age of twenty, no one had inspected his fake ID too closely, but then again no one had for several years.  By now, his virginity had been so erased, even its ghost had been exorcised.  And of course, what had started out as the tight sphincter of a tender young fuckhole had long been stretched beyond recognition.  Even so, the monstrous shaft now projected towards him like a throbbing, oozing lance, was bigger than anything he’d ever encountered.

It was intimidating, and Kevin felt a slight pang of fear.  In the brief amount of time left to him, he might, at some later point, have regretted ignoring it.

He never did, naturally; when the time came, he was too busy thinking of other things.

Now he just gulped and gave the Trucker an almost sheepish grin.  “I, uh, I like it kinda rough.  Only kinda, but you can use those if you want.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned back, slipping his left hightop back on over his ankle sock and lacing it tightly, then did the same with the right.  While starting to lace up the latter, he spoke up, unable to resist his mercenary urges.

“By the way,” he said nonchalantly, “I usually charge three hundred buck an hour to get fucked, and I’m worth it, but for three hundred, you get me for the whole night, bro.”  Behind him, there was a pause, followed by a thump.  Just as Kevin finished the knot and stood up straight, his back still to the Trucker, there was a sudden profound pain in his head.  Then there wasn’t anything.

The Trucker, finally triggered by the faggot’s demand for cash, had dumped the clothes off the chair and bashed it over the slut’s head so hard it disintegrated, spindles and legs raining to the floor.  The fuckmeat slumped unconscious to the floor like a sack of potatoes; it took the hard-bodied serial killer almost no effort at all to hoist its limp form and toss it onto the bed on its back. The only things on the bed besides the cum-stained fitted sheet was a wadded blanket and a couple of pillows.  The Trucker knocked it all off to one side and promptly yanked the cunt’s arms up over its head and cuffed it to the bedpost.

The mise en place was set, the meat was ready to be tenderized, and the Trucker was ready to get his dick milked.  All that remained was for it to wake up.

He wanted to look it in the eyes as it died on his cock, slowly and excruciatingly.

The blow hadn’t been that hard.  The wait was less than five minutes, then the Trucker noticed the unfortunate youth’s long, silky lashes begin to flutter.  Smiling coldly, the cruel sex killer bent over the smooth, firm, helpless form of the meat and slapped it in the face.

“Wakey, wakey, motherfucker,” he cooed, “Don’t wanna sleep through yer whole murder, do ya?”

Kevin heard the words, but they sounded thick and slow, as if coming to him through something denser than air.  He was right, of course; his alcohol- and weed-fogged little faggot pig brain was much denser than air. As a result, he wasn’t able to make sense of what he was hearing.

Opening his eyes didn’t help.  The concussion he’d received, though minor (and from this point forward, the very least of his worries), had scrambled his limited perceptions.  The light hitting his retinas was a painful burst of bright scintillations that took a moment to sort out.   

When he did sort them out, he was confronted by the image of the hairy, muscled stud looming over him, leering and brandishing his monstrously huge cock like a sword.  Despite the icy shard of terror that had lodged itself in his heart, Kevin still felt his own swelling shaft pulse with lust. 

The sensation felt degrading—but the meat had other things to think about at that moment.  It knew it its hands had been cuffed to the headboard; it had experienced that many times before.  And yeah, it hadn’t spent several years as a boywhore without having been exposed to violence and danger; it had been hospitalized twice by brutal johns.  But this was—different, somehow.

The words the Trucker had spoken while the punk was recovering consciousness were finally beginning to percolate into its awareness.  It suddenly realized what the difference was; it came down to a single word.

And that word was murder.  The others had only wanted to hurt him.  This one wanted much, much more than that—and the young slut was utterly unable to stop him. 

The Trucker recognized the desperation; the way the boy’s wide eyes dulled with fear and shock would have been obvious to any observer.  This was the signal he’d been waiting for; the sign that it was finally awake enough to be fully aware of what was happening to it.  As he’d said, he hadn’t wanted it to miss out on the fun.  And he didn’t give a shit that in this matter, its idea of fun was widely divergent from his own.

He knelt on the bed, the tight denim of his jeans stretched tautly around his powerful rounded glutes as he grabbed the cunt’s ankles just above its sneakers and yanked its legs apart as if he was trying to snap a wishbone.  The kid cried out, more in fear than in pain; its smooth, firm thighs strained visibly but vainly in an attempt to resist what was coming.

And Kevin did indeed know what was coming; he was going to get raped.  His sick little cockpig soul actually thrilled at the thought of being raped—and had gloried in it when it had happened in the past—but, again, this time was different.  Aside from the threats, the violence, and everything else, there was the matter of size.  That huge horsedick zeroing in on him was going to ream his well-used fuckhole out like a plumber’s snake. 

This wasn’t gonna feel good.  This was gonna be sheer agony, and he knew it.

And he was right.  

As the fuckboy squirmed beneath him on the rough, stained sheet, the Trucker rammed his gigantic rod balls-deep into its intestines, instantly stretching its sphincter like an over-tightened rubber band. The highly sensitive muscle shredded in the blink of an eye as the head of the Trucker’s tool, as large as a billiard ball, tore its way along the rectal lining.  Before the nightmarish pain had the chance to reach the slut’s brain, its prostate has already been scraped raw, causing the meat’s erection to further swell and ache abominably.

The agony snowballed its way up the boy’s nervous system and hit all at once with the intensity of a bolt of lightning.  Its shriek took a moment to build; the Trucker knew it was coming by the way the taut, firm fucktoy tensed under him and involuntarily clenched is ass on his pulsing member.

The sadistic alpha leaned forward and clapped his hand over the bitch’s mouth, pressing down so hard its lips were mashed painfully into its teeth.  “Shaddup and take what’s comin’ to ya, faggot!” he snarled.  He didn’t mind making the fuckmeat scream, but he had enough experience as a fagkiller to know the value of discretion.  He didn’t mind if the meat died in silence, as long as it was riding his cock when it did.

But that was when Kevin made one of the greatest—and last—mistakes of his short, useless life.  Even though the Trucker hadn’t closed off his nose, the pressure the murderous stud was exerting on his face had the effect of severely restricting his nasal passages.  With agonized panicked snot clogging his sinuses, his ability to breathe was reduced by some ninety percent—not quite enough to suffocate him, but more than enough to induce blind terror. 

Kevin’s error was to give in to that terror and yield to his instinct.  He bit the Trucker’s hand.

“YOU GODDAM ASSWIPE!!” the buff killer barked out, snatching his injured palm away from the boy’s mouth.  The homo’s pent-up screams rolled out, massive breakers of suffering echoing off the thin walls.  But the terrified whoreboy couldn’t stop.

So the Trucker made it stop.  He punctuated his verbal abuse with physical persuasion.

“Shut [WHAM!] your [WHAM!] fuckin’ [WHAM!] cock-gobbling [WHAM!] faghole, you [WHAM!] worthless [WHAM!] homo [WHAM!] cumpig!!! [WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!]”

By the time he was done driving his fist into the kid’s face with all the force of his semi moving at top speed, the meat’s visage had been pulped into hamburger.  And while the Trucker hadn’t completely removed its ability to make noise, it was quieter now, only emitting a faint blubbering, sobbing sound as its ass got merciless plowed.

It was also going loose, its mangled rectum exerting less pressure on the Trucker’s giant hog.  That was disappointing, but not entirely unexpected; the firm, young bodies of the fags he offed were able to take a lot of punishment before their lingering deaths, but they had weak psyches.  Their tiny little minds collapsed into shock long before their smooth, lithe forms had milked the potent manseed from the huge tool grinding relentlessly into their guts.

It was ok, though.  The Trucker knew how to fix that.  Shock could be offset by shock.

Rearing up on his knees, he reached over and snatched the lamp off the bedside table.  An obvious thrift store find, it was old and ugly without having any true value whatsoever; the dingy white porcelain on the base had a poorly-executed floral design, and the shade was battered and dingy.

But it wasn’t the lamp itself the Trucker wanted.  He smashed it roughly against the metal headboard of the bed.  The meat flinched as shards or porcelain rained down on its face, but otherwise, it maintained its vacant stare.  Even as the Trucker ripped the sturdy cord from the mangled metal base and tossed it over his shoulder into the middle of the squalid room, the punk fuck didn’t move.

It wasn’t until the cruel sex killer dangled the cord in front of the meat and slapped it twice in the face—hard—that it began to come out of its trance.

And the Trucker knew it.  It was time to prep the fagshit for what was in store for it.

The hardbodied, powerful murderer looped the thick cord—double copper strands covered in thick rubber—into a simple granny knot and dangled it in front of the helpless slut’s face.  “You know what this is for, yeah?  You know what’s gonna happen now,” he said, calmly, and in an even, measured tone that was somehow even more terrifying that his rage, given his complete control and dominance over the fag’s life at this point.  “You deserve this, motherfucker.  Goddam, you need it—you want it; don’t fucking act like you don’t, ‘cause you little worthless cumpigs always do.  I’ve snuffed enough of your disgusting perverted asses to know the truth.  Enjoy dying on my huge fuckin’ shaft, asswipe—it’s the best thing to happen to you in yer meaningless existence.  Enjoy yer death, cunt!”

And with that, he roughly grabbed a hank of the whore’s hair and jerked it up off the bed, simultaneously slipping the looped cord over its head.  Letting the head flop back onto the bed, he proceeded to pull the cord so tight around its neck that it instantly sank into the tender flesh of its throat.

After that, Kevin’s brief and miserable experience on this planet got much, much worse than the pansy had ever imagined possible.  It wasn’t that it didn’t know that such things were possible; it had just always thought that it was smart enough to avoid it.  And now that it knew how wrong it was, it was far too late to do anything about it.

The instant cessation of air into its lungs triggered an immediate panic response, but with its arms bound and its voice silenced, the only way it could react was with its firm, hard body—and this was what the Trucker wanted.  As its smooth thighs tightened around his waist and its lithe, lean body tensed beneath him and clenched his rigid cock like a vise, the sadistic serial killer grinned in pleasure as he rammed his massive tool even deeper into its suffering form, relishing the way its agony profoundly intensified the pleasure he felt.

This was the only way to handle faggot whores.  It wasn’t enough to expunge their useless presence from existence; it needed to happen while they rode his dick into their graves.

“Aw, yeah!” he grunted, “Fuckin’ die, you goddam cumpig!  Die on my cock like you deserve!!”

Inside his thrashing body and swollen, blackening face, Kevin was still awake and aware—unluckily for him.  The unimaginable pain of having his ass reamed out relentlessly would have been more than enough suffering to leave him mentally traumatized for the rest of his life, but the merciless beating he’d endured, and the vicious taunts of his masculine killer had been enough to send him into shock.  It took the cord around his neck to bring him back.

He could still feel the other sources of pain—especially in his bleeding fuckhole—but strangulation added a dimension of unbearable agony that clenched his boyish form in an iron grip, almost literally crushing him. In fact, it was literally crushing him—or, at least, his esophagus. 

And the effects were snowballing.  As a raging inferno blazed in his oxygen-deprived lungs, his asphyxiation and terror made his pulse pound inside his head like a jackhammer.  He wasn’t lucid or intelligent enough to realize some of the details of what was going on, but he was aware of the effects.  He didn’t know that his eyes were already bulging, pinpricks of petechial hemorrhages breaking out in the whites like measles; he only knew that as the huge bursts of blackness began to fill his field of vision, what little he could see was becoming increasingly distorted.  In the same way, he could feel that his mouth was full of something, but had no idea it was his purple distended tongue, literally being squeezed out of his mouth by the overwhelming pressure on his trachea.

He could feel something else, too—something he unquestionably recognized.  His dick was so rigidly erect that it felt like it would burst.  But there was nothing he could do about that.  There was nothing he could do about any of it, except drool out thick foamy saliva and flail pathetically.

“Like that, dontcha, fag?  All you homo sacks of shit want this, yeah?” The Trucker sneered, his powerful body shimmering with a slight sheen of sweat from the exertion of rough sex.  “You know this is what you’ve always needed; it’s the only reason you exist.  You’re gonna spill your pathetic pansy cum when you die.  Just to let ya know.  You ain’t gonna feel it; you’ll be a vegetable by then, milking my hog with yer convulsions.”

The meat’s body was also covered in sweat, not the warm male sweat of sex but a cold lubrication of deathsweat, forced out of its pores by mortal pain.  In fact, then only part of its twisting, shuddering body that wasn’t oiled by perspiration was its cock—another unlucky break for the stupid little slut.  Its painfully swollen member was pressed against the Trucker’s rock-hard washboard abs, every swift, violent thrust of the killer’s hips abrading the fucker’s thick cock against the alpha’s wiry body fur.  From the point of view of the dying whore—not that it had many points left, and practically no view—it felt as if it was being forced to fuck a sex toy that had been filled with steel wool.

Suddenly, the fuckmeat jerked violently, pressing its smooth flat belly hard against the Trucker’s as its back arced up off the bed.  At the same time, its legs, wrapped around the hardman’s waist, folded at the knee, its heels drumming against its rapist’s hard, flexing ass.  But the serial sex murderer ignored it; his glutes were so strong and firm that the meat was unable to cause the slightest damage. With his jeans still on, he could barely feel it.

“Aw, fuck!” the rutting killer grunted as his huge scrotum puckered, his balls on the verge of boiling over with his powerful manseed, “I’m about to give you whatcha want, asswipe!  Gonna mark ya permanently with my hot spunk, cocksucker!  Ya want it?  You gotta die for it, ya worthless garbage!!”

Laying the full weight of his body on top of the thrashing punkfuck, he looked it straight in the face.  Even though he knew it was likely too brain-dead at this point to understand—or even hear—him, he couldn’t resist talking to it.

“You ready, bitch?  Ya ready for it?  Here it comes, faggot!!”

And with that, he jerked the cord so tight that he compressed the whore’s neck to a diameter of an inch and a half—including its spine.

He’d been wrong about one thing—the meat wasn’t too brain-dead to understand him.  It was close, but not there yet.  The words weren’t even the last thing it heard in its short, useless existence before its brain shut down.

The last thing it heard was the gruesome sound of the cartilage in its trachea cracking and crunching as it was crushed into a tiny wad of bloody gristle.

And then, Kevin finally achieved his true purpose in the scheme of things, giving up his life for the momentary sexual pleasure of a true alpha male.

As the smooth boycorpse convulsed vigorously, it kicked its legs so violently that it managed to fling off one of its hightops, despite the fact that it was still tightly laced.  It also unloaded explosively, its thick deathload jetting out irrepressibly and covering the Trucker’s belly and chest in quarts of hormone-laden semen.

The buff killer wasn’t far behind himself. As his body hunched over his youthful victim, hosing its innards with his searing seed, he found himself still beating the shuddering body of the whore, the air filled with the sound of flesh striking fleas, punctuated by the sadist’s orgasmic grunts of pleasure.

After that, it took a few minutes for things to settle down.  When the Trucker finally ceased gasping and shuddering, he immediately extricated his gigantic tool from the dead kid’s ass, leaving the corpse still kicking and quivering on the bed, the toes in the ped sock of the shoeless foot curling and flexing visibly.

He spat in the face of the dead cumdump before heading to the bathroom to clean himself of the vile fag spooge matting his fur.  Even then, he didn’t feel clean; the towels and washcloths were all filthy.  The single small face towel that seemed in acceptable condition wasn’t quite enough to clean the huge deathwad from his torso.  As a result, when he got his enormous weapon re-holstered inside his jeans and re-entered the bedroom, he picked up his shirt and stuffed it into his back pocket, leaving it trailing out like a bandanna, and slipped his leather jacket on, letting it hang open to reveal his hairy, cum-glazed chest.

As he’d planned, he got back to his rig and was on his way out of town before the morning rush hour arrived.  Grinning as he headed down the interstate, he reflected back with pride on his last glimpse of the dead faggot slut.  Spread on its back with its hands still cuffed to the headboard, there was nothing recognizable about it above the point of its grotesquely constricted throat.  The spread legs, one still in a hightop, were still quivering slightly as cum leaked out of its slack asshole—and out of its own shriveling cock.

It was a matter of pride in performing a valuable service to humanity by ridding it of yet more subhuman shit.  It was equally important to him that it would be obvious to anyone who found the body that another useless homo had been expunged via a truly vicious rape and murder.

And it was obvious, if not in way the Trucker expected.  Kevin was never missed; no one gave enough of a shit about him to even notice he was missing.  He wasn’t found until nearly a month later, when a rep from the property management company came by to post an eviction notice for non-payment of rent.  Company policy dictated that a copy be left inside the apartment unit.  Once the door was opened, that cat—as well as a hideous stench—was let out of the bag.

By the time the coroner arrived, the only things discernable about the corpse was that it was that of a young male who had been bound and strangled.  The nature of personal items in the room, as well as some long-dried bodily fluids on the sheet, clearly indicated that it had been raped, too.  But the decomp was too advanced to yield any genetic material from the killer; in fact, from the medical point of view, it wasn’t clear if the boy had been strangled before or after rape.  For that matter, it wasn’t clear if the rape had proceeded or followed the murder.

Even the identity of the corpse remained a mystery.  Kevin’s dental records and DNA weren’t on file anywhere in the city, and no one had reported him missing.  In the end, what was left of him was cremated, dumped into a small cardboard box, and buried discreetly in a corner of potter’s field, with the other indigents and lost souls.

It was like he’d never existed at all. 

One thought on “Trucker 22–Trucker vs Another Worthless Boywhore

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