It was early on a Friday evening and the slanted sun was throwing lurid shades of orange and red across the desert landscape.  Fall had already started but the heat was still close to ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit.  Buck was tired—but not too tired to satisfy his violently sadistic needs.

He was a ranch hand on the El Dorado cattle ranch located in the western part of the state.  He was trustworthy and had amazing physical strength and hardiness, so he was considered a valuable employee.  In addition to his income, he was living in a three-bedroom trailer located near the residential entrance to the ranch; most of the other hands lived in bunkhouses closer to the main house.

It was hours to the nearest city of any size; the closest town was Stanton, about 15 miles away along the ranch-to-market road that led west out of the town, past the ranch, and then north for about 35 miles to the interstate.  The road was mostly used by ranchers with an occasion semi going by.  On Friday and Saturday nights, Buck would go into town, looking for a little fun.

Tonight, Buck was hot and sweaty.  He pulled his skin-tight white wifebeater off and tossed it onto the passenger side seat of his Black Chevy Silverado 2500.  Rolling the windows down, he let the hot dry air blow across his huge chest, stirring his curly black body fur, causing his large dark nipples to stiffen and his long, wavy black hair to fan out across the back of his neck.  His tight jeans, worn and faded, were tucked into his work boots—a pair of brown Ariat Patriot square-toes boots with the shanks covered in a digital camo pattern with and American flag overlay stitched in the same tones as the camo.

The sun was halfway over the horizon, its reds and oranges softening to violets and roses, when Buck got to the arroyo bridge.  Much to his surprise, there was a teenage boy flagging him down.  Curious, Buck pulled over.

The kid couldn’t have been twenty; his youth was obvious.  He wasn’t dressed like a local.  He was in black, from his form-fitting sleeveless tee to his eye-wateringly tight skinny jeans and his Converse black leather All Terrain sneakers.  His light, sandy blond hair was short and carefully tousled, no doubt held in place by some kind of product.

In short, he looked like a faggot.

There was one bar in town that would accept that kind of thing, but only if it wasn’t obvious.  Buck didn’t hang out there, of course; he had a reputation to keep—most of his prey was from the local honky-tonks and Norte bars, full of temporary hires and migrants whom no one would miss. What he did know about that one bar was that this kid wouldn’t have an easy time there.  He was just too much of a flaming homo.

So what the fuck was he doing out here in the middle of nowhere?

Buck approached him, his thick rubber soles silencing his heavy tread on the pavement.  “Hey, dude, you ok?” he asked.

The boy was almost in tears.  He was also very, very drunk, judging by the alcohol odor wafting off him.  Already Buck’s predatory mind was shifting into high gear.

“My car,” the kid wailed, “It’s down there!”  He pointed over the edge of the bridge.

“Hang on,” Buck said, “Let me see how bad it is.”

It was pretty bad.  The drunken punk had managed not only veer off the road but had managed to roll the car—a tiny Mitsubishi—into the arroyo and partially under the bridge itself.  It was almost impossible to see from the road surface.

On examining the car more closely, Buck satisfied himself that it was totaled.  The passenger compartment was intact but the pillars and roof were bent and damaged, to say nothing of the frame and front axle.  And it reeked of alcohol as well.  Kneeling down in the dry creek bed, the hardbodied stud peered through the broken window.  Sure enough, he could see a plastic vodka bottle, now empty.

That explained a lot, he thought to himself as he climbed back up the slope to the road.  He thought about something else as well, and by the time he got back up to the boy, he’d formulated a plan.

“Yeah, yer car’s pretty fucked,” he drawled, “I sure can’t fix it; yer gonna need a tow.”

The kid became even more upset.  “I can’t get a signal!” he moaned, holding up his cell phone.

“This far out of town, there ain’t much signal.  I can give you a lift back to my place to use the phone there, if ya want.”

The homo wanted, of course; it was easy enough to see that.  Buck wanted, too.

Specifically, he wanted to beat, rape, and murder the little fucker.

“I’m Robbie,” the boy said, extending his hand.  Buck smiled warmly and shook hands with his prey.

Once they were in the cab together, Robby began letting his eye rove noticeably over Buck’s body.  “You’re a lot nicer than the dudes in town.  I was passing through and saw a bar that looked like fun, but it was like one of those old westerns, y’know?  Where a stranger walks into the bar and everyone gets quiet and stares at him? It creeped me the fuck out. I went somewhere else to get a drink.”

Yes, at the liquor story.  Buck already knew that.  He also knew that the kid had walked into the semi-gay bar in town—in any of the others, the reaction would have consisted of much more that silence and stares.

“Yeah,” he replied with a wry smile, “We don’t get a lot of strangers in these parts.”

“But you’re nice.  I like you.”  The cunt was obviously trashed, but—amazingly enough—he really wasn’t slurring too badly.  He was probably alcoholic and, Buck thought, had likely already fucked up his liver.

The muscled stud smiled grimly.  Hell, he’d probably be doing the fuckmeat a favor, sparing the agony of liver failure.

The agony he’d inflict would be much more intense, but it would be over faster.

First, though, he needed to find out who it was and where it was going.  No sense in taking any chances if anyone was gonna come looking for it anytime soon.  If so, he’d just get it drunk and rape it before sending it on its way—which was fun, but nowhere near as much fun as wasting it.

“You look pretty shaken up, dude,” he said.

Robbie gulped.  “I really kinda am.  Never wrecked a car so hard the airbags went off, much less rolled one!”

“Where ya headed?”

“Santa Fe—got some friends out there who’re gonna be throwing a party next weekend.  Bro, this thing it gonna be lit!”  There was a brief pause, then the boy spoke again.  “That is, if I get there,” he added mournfully.

“We’ll get a truck in from town for ya,” Buck said soothingly, “But what’ll you do if it takes a while to get fixed?  Get yer folks to help?”  He knew damn good and well that there was no fucking way that little rice-burner was going anywhere but the scrapyard, but the meat was too tanked to have realized that.

The youth twisted his lips, a sour expression on his face.  “Nah, I left home when I was sixteen.  They were giving me too much shit about my, uh, lifestyle.  I got a little place on my own.  I get by—but I still owe on this thing and I only got liability.  So I don’t know what I’m gonna do if I can’t get it back on the road in the next day or two.”  He began to tear up.

And with that, the punk sealed its own fate.  It wouldn’t be leaving Buck’s trailer alive.  The brutal sadist had learned what he needed.  He’d also figure out the little fag was a whore.  Yeah, he “got by”—but selling his lithe teen body out to be used by other men.

“Chill out, man, we’ll get ya taken care of,” Buck said.  The meat smiled gratefully.  “You look like you could use a drink.  I got a bottle of Jack at my place.”

The boy lit up and placed a hand on Buck’s thick, muscled thigh.  “Thanks, bro,” he said, smiling through his tears.  “I, uh, I can’t thank you enough.  I really can’t pay you for all your help, but, um if you have any, er…ideas…”

Buck grinned lecherously.  “Yeah, man, I got an idea.”

He turned right off the paved road onto a gravel track leading into his yard.  The trailer was large and fairly new, with three bedrooms, a laundry room, and a fireplace.  There was a small deck with steps outside the front door and another, larger one in the rear.  A large propane tank was on the side.

He parked just short of the steps and they got out and headed inside.  It was dark—most of the lights were switched off—and simply furnished, but clean.  When he switched on the living room lights, Robbie was impressed.

“Man, I wish I had this much space.  How much you pay for this?”

By now, Buck was already in the kitchen, getting out the whiskey and a tumbler.  “I don’t,” he called, “It’s part of my pay.  You want ice?”

“Aw, no,” the meat scoffed, “Fuck, I’ll drink it straight from the bottle.”

“I’m gonna go call the garage in town,” Buck replied, handing him the bottle.  “Here ya go, knock yerself out.”

That second sentence was the most truthful and sincere thing he’d said to the worthless fucker yet.

Robbie took a huge swig from the bottle, then another.  He could hear Buck’s voice from the landline phone in the kitchen.  “Hey Jimmy?  Yeah, it’s Buck, out at John Barsdale’s ranch.  We had a bit of an accident—this guy ran off the road and damaged his car.”  A pause.  “Ok, that’s good.  Just give me a call when you’re on your way.”  Of course, the adolescent cockpig had no way to tell that Buck had kept one finger on the headset cradle the entire time.

Strolling back into the living room with a wide manly, stride, the killer stud was clearly aware of the teen’s lasciviously hungry eyes roving greedily over every square inch of his hard, muscled alpha body.

“Gonna be a bit before he gets here,” he drawled, “Looks like we got some time on our hands.  I ain’t got no plans.  You want something to eat?”

The cumsucking homo’s response was exactly what he expected it to be.

“Fuck yeah, bro, I want somethin’ to eat,” it slurred drunkenly, ‘But it ain’t no food.”

“Good,” Buck replied with a nasty smirk, “Because I need a bitch to skullfuck.  And more.”  Much more, but he wasn’t gonna let the fuckmeat know that—yet.

The living room had an old-fashioned rustic living room set—wood chairs and sofa with wide flat arms and cushions patterned with western images—which faced a corner fireplace and a large dining area that appeared to be used to storage, but Buck headed past it all, going down the darkened hallway that led to the bedrooms.

“C’mon,” he commanded tersely as he opened the last door on the left, “Back here.”

Robbie tailed along behind him eagerly, the bottle still in his hand.  He stopped abruptly once he entered the door, though—the room looked like something he’d never seen in real life, only in porn movies.

It looked like a small, very basic sex dungeon.  There was a full-sized bed with what looked like a latex sheet tightly wrapped around it.  Hanging from the walls were straps and ropes of differing lengths and materials.  There was a large black leather easy chair that faced the bed.  On one side of it was an end table with a basic lamp and an ash tray with a half-smoked cigar.  On the other side was a simple, sturdy wood chair with no arms; a couple of bungee cords were lying on the seat.  On the far side of the room, opposite the bed, was a small dresser.  Spread across its surface were several pairs of handcuffs and shackles.  Next to them a rope lariat and a leather bullwhip were coiled.

As the twinkmeat gaped at the room, Buck grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him in.  Before Robbie could utter the slightest protest, the sadistic alpha cowboy had locked the two deadbolts.  It was only then that the punk homo realized that they had been installed with the knobs on the outside—Buck had locked them from the inside with a key.

Robbie didn’t know what that meant, but, drunk and horny as he was, he had a fuzzy sense that all was not right.  “Um, look,” he began, “I, uh—I think maybe I should go out and wait for the tow truck—”

“Ain’t no tow truck comin’, boy,” the buff ranch hand drawled.

“But…but, you said…you called.  I heard it!” The kid wailed.

“There ain’t no tow truck in town, bitch.  Closest one is ten miles east, in Armstrong—and they don’t come out here this late.  I lied.  You’re here, alone, with me and no one knows it.  Ya know what that means, you fuckin’ cunt?”

As much as Robbie refused—absolutely refused—to “know” what Buck meant, a sense of panic flashed through his drunken adolescent body like an electrical shock.  He almost lost control of his bladder; he did lose control of the whiskey bottle.  It fell to the floor and shattered, the loudest noise since Buck had informed the meat of its perilous position.

“Fuck, ya little shit, that was my last bottle.  Now I gotta go into town tomorrow, goddamit.  Yer gonna pay for that!” Buck barked. 

The next thing Robbie knew, he was on the floor spitting out the first premolar on his left side.  There was a taste of blood in his mouth and his left cheek was swelling and causing him great pain.  And he’d never so much as seen Buck swing, much less punch him in the face. 

He looked up and the hot, sexy cowboy was towering over him, his tight denim jeans bulging at the crotch, his furry, muscled chest still gleaming with sweat.  The upper part of his face was hidden in the shadow his cattleman crown cowboy hat shed, but enough of the lower part was exposed to show the cruelly jeering way his mouth was twisted.

“Get up, fuckwad,” the vicious killer demanded.  With tears running silently down his face, Robbie obeyed.

“Now strip,” Buck ordered, “I’m gonna fuck you hard, fast, and dry, faggot.  It’s gonna hurt.  Just so you know, motherfucker—it’s gonna hurt.”

Robbie hesitated, nervously licking his dry lips.  A single glance at the deadbolts made him despair of escape by that route; maybe the window—

Buck brought his plotting to an abrupt halt with a question, hissed quietly but pregnant with menace.  “You see that dresser, dontcha, asswipe?  Yeah?  But you don’t see what’s in it.  Do you wanna?  Trust me, you worthless little whore, I can make a 1300-pound steer do what I want and I’d just fuckin’ love to show ya how!”

Sobbing aloud, Robbie peeled off his t-shirt, revealing his smooth, flat belly and lithe—but nowhere near scrawny—torso.  Next, he knelt down, fumbling at the laces of his black leather Converses.  The homo punk was on the verge of panic, his frenetically scrambling fingers managing to do little more than to tighten the knot further.

Buck was losing patience.  The cuntmeat never noticed that he’d headed to the dresser and pick up the leather bullwhip, though—it was begging too loudly.  “Please, you don’t have to do this,” it moaned as it continued to struggle with the laces, “You can fuck me, dude, just please don’t hurt me!  I’ll give you whatever you want!”

“What I want, fuckwad,” Buck said calmly, “is to hurt you.”  He swung the whip violently.  It was eight feet long, and he was adept at using it at much closer distance than that—but he wasn’t ready to unleash its true power on the meat.  This was a gamey one; it needed some intense tenderizing before the finer details could be attended to.

But even though he’d bent it in half, holding the handle and the tip in the same hand, it struck the adolescent whore’s back like the equivalent of a rubber hose of the same size.  Robbie’s pleading instantly became howls of pain.

“Aw, yeah, faggot!” Buck crowed as he beat the helpless teen again and again, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  You love it, dontcha!  Take it, you bitch!”  The last strike of the belt impacted the kid’s head, driving his face down into the floor.  The thin, cheap carpet and even more meager padding were of no help.

The last thing Robbie experienced before the blissful darkness took him down was the agonizing squelch as his nose was crushed into the floor.

Even with the lithe teen whore limp and unconscious at his feet, Buck’s anger and lust continued to seethe within him, how powerful muscled clenched in rage.  He spent a good three minutes straight beating the insensate punk until its back was bloody and raw. 

Once he’d let the first wave of anger rise over him and move on, he was able to focus more clearly on what he needed to do.  The first thing was to strip the stupid faggot.  Buck knelt down and pulled out the knife he kept tucked into his boot.  With it, it was easy enough to rip the whore’s tight jeans to shreds.  Who cared if his hand slipped once or twice and the homo’s smooth skin got a couple of slices?  Not the adolescent cocksucker; its lights were still out.  And in any case, it’d soon have a fuck of a lot more to worry about than a few minor gashes on its legs.

He got the jeans off swiftly and was just about to slice the laces of its black leather hightops when it started groaning and moving.  Buck slid the blade back into his boot and stood up, waiting for the whore to make the first move.  Very slowly and stiffly, it tried to get up—obviously in great pain.

Buck wasn’t a patient man.  He was used to dealing with mindless brute animals and breaking them to his will.  He didn’t use pain on them unless it was necessary, of course.

With faggots, it was always necessary.

He grabbed a hank of its hair form the back of its head and dragged it upright, mewling and crying.  Steering it by his grasp on its scalp, he forced it over to the dresser.  It had three rows of two drawers each and had been painted white or off-white a long, long time ago. 

Not that Robbie got much of a chance to admire its authentically distressed appearance—Buck slammed his head down onto the top of the dresser hard enough to split the fucktard’s lips.  As the brutally sadistic alpha jerked it back up again, the kid knew instinctively what was about to happen, but the only reaction it had time for was a brief, despairing bleat before it went full-face into the dresser—this time, breaking its right cheekbone.

As it came back up for another round, though, it was determined to protest.

Flinging his arms out and placing his hands on the edge of the top of the dresser, Robbie locked his elbows, in an effort to avoid impacting it again.  He turned his ruined, bloody face towards Buck, his cheeks streaked with tears, snot, and blood.  “Why?” he asked—or, to be more accurate, pled— “Why are you doing this?”  His eyes were huge and dark, full of pain, fear, and confusion.  They had dark circles around them, as if Buck had blackened them, which he hadn’t.  Yet.

“Why am I doing this, you worthless little lickspittle faggot?  Because I fuckin like doing this.  You really wanna know why?  This is why, cunt.”  With his free hand, he unzipped his fly and let his frighteningly intimidating cock uncoil like a python.

“This is why,” Buck repeated.  “Putting useless cumsucking queers to death makes me cum.  So you can cancel whatever plans ya had for the night, asswipe.  I’m gonna fuck you to death.”

The words hit Robbie harder than a gutpunch, and with much the same effect.  Unluckily for him, he also dropped his guard.  Buck drove his face into the dresser for the third and final time.  The whoreboy hit the wood so hard he cracked—and broke—three teeth off at the gumline.  He slid down the front of the dresser until his legs curled up under him.  Hed ended up slumped, help up by the dresser, not unconscious, but in an utter stupor of agony.  Through the throbbing red haze that filled his mind, he heard his tormentor’s deep, masculine voice call out in a tone of expectant triumph, “Get ready, you cunt, I’m comin’ in hard, fast, and dry.  I’m gonna tear up yer ass like I’m roto-tillin’ a field, fuckwad.  You think yer in pain now?  Shit, boy, yer ass is ‘bout to get lit!”

Then things kicked into high gear.

Without warning, Buck’s foot lashed out, the square toe of the Arial Patriot boot catching the cunt on its left flank, about an inch below and to the left of its pink and inexplicably stiff left nipple.  There was a distinctive snap as its fourth rib splintered, sending slivers of bone into the surrounding tissue.  The whore was flipped onto its back, its writhing adolescent body slick with cold, clammy sweat.  Its expression of baffled misery somehow only stoked Buck’s rage further.

With a roar, he swept down and clenched his mighty hand—only one of them—onto the boy’s throat with a grip like an iron bear trap.  As Robbie’s air was utterly cut off, he felt himself deadlifted into the air by his neck.  Clawing frantically at the remorseless muscled forearm that was crushing his windpipe, Robbie kicked his feet, his leather hightops clearing the floor by a good five inches. 

He struggled to see as his eyes bulged; over the frenetic pounding of his own pulse inside his skull, he could hear his own thick, panicked gagging as he began to asphyxiate.  And yet…and yet…

And yet, despite the agony, despite the fear, he was hard.  He could feel it.  But it was trivial.  He was dying, he had to escape, this was no time to be thinking about his dick—

“Haw!” Buck jeered cruelly into the teenager’s swollen, blackening face, “Ya like this?  A lil’ ole breath control turnin’ yer faggot ass on, yeah?  Oh fuck yeah, motherfucker, it’s yer lucky fuckin’ night!  Jest imagine how hard your little fag cock is gonna spurt when I wring yer scrawny neck like a goddam chicken’s.  Hell, they keep walkin’ after they’re dead—I can’t fuckin’ wait to see if yer useless cocksuckin’ ass keeps cummin’ after I put ya down!”

And with that, he flung Robbie down onto the bed with the same look of calloused indifference on his face as when he tossed garbage into the landfill.  After all, to Buck, there was no difference.

Robbie felt differently, of course, and had an innate, instinctive desire to survive that would be unleashed reflexively when push came to shove.

Too bad it would make things much, much worse for the twink slut.

The second he hit the bed, Robbie felt a horrific stabbing pain in his left side, bad enough to impair his breathing.  The teen fag was certain that he was having a heart attack.  Unluckily for him, he wasn’t going to escape his whore fate that easily.  As excruciating as the pain was, it wasn’t his heart—it was the jagged edge of his broken rib ripping into his left lung.

But while mentally dealing with the new agony, he’d momentarily forgotten about Buck, a lapse of mere seconds that ended abruptly as Buck lunged onto the bed and grabbed his ankles, pulling them up and twisting them back violently, as if he was pulling both ends of a wishbone.  Without warning, the furry hardbodied alpha, glistening with sweat in the dim lamplight, slammed his muscled form down full-length on the kid, still gripping the cunt’s ankles.

There was a sound from both of the meat’s hips, the sound of tendons and ligaments being torn similar to that one hears when trying to tear a drumstick off a turkey.  The punk screamed as Buck guffawed sadistically.

“Har, I ain’t even in yer bitch ass yet—trust me, cocksucker, that’s gonna make ya scream!  Wanna see just how bad?  Hang on, motherfucker, yer about to get jacked up!”

He drove his huge shaft straight down vertically, tearing into the teen’s sphincter like a mechanical piledriver plowing into soft mud.  As well used as the slut’s rectum was, it had never experienced anything the size of Buck’s giant, pulsating slab of manmeat.  And as it tore through the boy’s colon like an auger, grinding roughly past the prostate on its way, the adolescent fuckhead began to shriek as the top of its lungs, screaming for help and for mercy.

“Fresh outta both, son,” Buck drawled with a sardonic grin, “Look around ya son.  See that chair over there?  If you’d been a real faggot instead of twink piece a’ shit, you’d’a gone a round or two in it.  I had one dude screamin’ for two hours straight on there before I fucked ‘im to death.”

Then he leaned down so close that Robbie could feel the man’s wiry chest hair on his own smooth pecs.  The heady scent of the killer’s sweat and pheromones filled the unlucky youth’s nostrils; an instinctive aphrodisiac that even exquisite agony couldn’t override.  But Robbie wasn’t paying attention to the fact that his cock, now pressed tightly between his flat belly and Buck’s hairy, ripped abs, was oozing.  Nor was he paying attention to the way the vicious alpha’s facial hair was scraping his cheek, almost as if Buck was trying to nuzzle him.

Almost as if…

“You wanna know why you ain’t in the chair, you fuckin’ cunt?” Buck whispered into the homo’s ear, “It’s because you can’t take it.  You ain’t even a real faggot.  Real ones don’t die in the chair, they die on my cock.  They all die on my cock, just like yer ‘bout to do.”

Robbie refused to hear this.  His lithe adolescent body was already rigid with the massive amount of trauma it had endured, from his smashed-in face to his splintered ribcage and deflating lung, to his ripped and bleeding asshole.  What little of his alcohol- and drug-sodden brain was able to function lucidly was in such extreme agony that death sounded pretty good.  But then he saw something in Buck’s hand.  It was the bullwhip.

The whoreboy didn’t know what it meant, but some feral, animal-like instinct inside the teenaged punk kicked in.  Shock had kept him passive throughout much of the assault, but now, there was death in the air.  Before he could make a move, though, the entire room was illuminated as if it was high noon outside for a fraction of a second.  After it was gone, Buck grinned down at the now-panicked meat.

“I always wanted to waste a queer in the rain,” he leered down at the fuckmeat.  He started winding the bullwhip around teen pansy’s neck, starting with the small end, just as the rumble of thunder came through the window.   

It was time for fight or flight—and flight was no longer possible.   Robbie’s hands began clutching at Buck’s face, his firm, wiry arms tense as he scrambled at the alpha killer’s beard.  At first, Buck swatted them aside as minor nuisances, but the more the whip was wrapped around the slut’s neck, the tighter it got.

And the tighter it got, of course, the harder the punk fought to stay alive—as always, a mistake that carried the penalty of even more torture before Buck was merciful enough to put the meat down like a dog.

Buck spent his days as a cowpuncher, but he was a much better faggot puncher.  When the scumshit’s fingers went to desperate, frantic clawing, he’d had enough.  It was time to teach the little piece of shit its place in the world.

Having gotten the whip completely around the homo’s neck, it was easy enough to wrap his left arm around the cunt’s right arm and pin it while simultaneously pressing the whip handle into its throat.  Once again, he slapped its other arm out of the way with his right hand, but before the unfortunate rentboy could pull back to defend itself, it was hit by a pair of sucker punches that Buck had delivered with the speed of a rivet gun.

The first impact hit the brutalized adolescent in the face, fracturing the orbit of the eye and knocking two molars down its throat.  It would have choked on them if esophagus wasn’t already too constricted for them to fit.  The second impact landed on the fuckwad’s left pec, just below its hard, jutting nipple.  This one was rewarded by an audible snapping sound as another section of an already-broken rib snapped off and tore into the worthless pansy’s lung, tearing another hole in it.  Not that it matter, functionally; the lung had collapsed several minutes ago.

As it happened, Buck saw the meat’s nipple get even harder.  At the same time, it had gone from fighting him to clutching—tightly, like a lover, its toes obviously curling in its leather Converses. 

“Aw, fuck yeah, shithead!” he jeered at the dying teen, “Love it, dontcha?  Goddam, I knew it!”  He grabbed its nipple and cranked it like he was trying to turn the dial to eleven.  The mortal agony the fuckmeat was enduring was visible on what was left of its face.  Not that much was—there was nothing of the lithe boyish slut that Buck had found on the side of the road.  There was only a gruesome black mask, swollen and mottled.  Its red-streaked eyes were bulging sightlessly.  Blood leaked from the squashed-tomato nose and drool bubbled up past its thick protruding tongue.

Robbie was teetering on the brink of annihilation and an inner part of his faggot pig mind that hadn’t yet been reached by the progressive brain damage knew it.  He was reaching the point where the agony was fading into the background.  The pain was still nightmarish, but it just didn’t seem to…matter as much.

The fire of torn and straining lungs and a racing heart were still there.  The insanely rapid banging of his pulse still felt like it would blow his head apart at any second.  The welts and broken bones—nothing had gone.  What eclipsed all of it was the rape.  Robbie’s fuckhole was being augured with a ruthless brutality the cunt could never have imagined.

Just as an icy gray haze began to surround e black blossoms that were exploding in his eyes, Robbie heard Buck speaking, the sadistic alpha’s husky rasp only just barely audible.

“I toldja you were gonna die on my dick, you faggot piece of shit.”  There was another blast of thunder, deep and vibrato.

It was the last thing Robbie heard.  As if given permission, the meat clutched the brawny cowboy close in a violent rigid spasm, its fingers digging into his shoulders and its thighs scissoring around his waist.  The whore arched its back, its smooth flat belly, slick with the cold sweat given off by the dying. 

Without a notice, Buck felt a hot jet of thick fluid being spewed across his furry abs.  “Aw fuck, YEEAAHH!” he bellowed as he rutted with the dying adolescent, his huge, swollen shaft flooding its innards with his potent manseed while the bitch continued to cum, even after it was dead.

In fact, its cock continued to spurt when there was no brain activity left, just random misfires of a catastrophically damaged nervous system.  Buck had been right about the chicken; even after he’d pulled out (after an orgasm that had felt like it had lasted for five-plus minutes straight), the corpse continued to spasm and twitch.  Each time it did, its slowly deflating dick expelled more semen.

Buck left the room and headed to the bathroom.  He cleaned the cum off his chest and his cock and tucked the latter back into his jeans, then headed back to his killing pit.  It wasn’t until he’d gotten back into the room that he realized the asswipe’s final struggles had been intense enough for it to have kicked its left sneaker off.  Even as he watched, a spasm curled the toes inside the white ankle sock and forced more spunk out of the flaccid cock.

Then there was a bright flash and another, even louder clap of thunder, and Buck realized he was being presented with a perfect opportunity to take out the trash.  But he needed to be fast.

Doffing his cowboy hat and putting on a shirt—there was already a chill and freshening breeze ahead of the storm—he grabbed the cuntmeat off the bed and draped it over one arm like a pile of dirty laundry.  Buck had more than enough strength to carry the slut’s dead weight down the hall and outside, where he unceremoniously dumped it into the bed of his pickup.  Returning back through the trailer, he collected all the rentboy’s belongings and headed out.  Everything got tossed into the bed, where the punk’s leather Converse came to rest on its still-swollen face.

As Buck negotiated his way back out to the ranch-to-market road, he could see the storm off to the northwest.  The flashes of lighting illuminated the towering clouds from within; he didn’t need a meteorologist to tell him this was going to be a real gully-washer.

And he was counting on it being literally that.

It didn’t take him long to reach the bridge over the arroyo.  Pulling his four-wheel drive truck off the road and partly down the embankment, he stopped and engaged the parking brake.  Exiting the cab, he made certain that his boots had good traction on the steep slope; he had work to do.

The first step was to take all the shit out of the bed of the truck and stuff it into the whore’s wrecked car; it took a bit of effort because of the terrain.  Buck had deliberately parked on the opposite side of the bridge from where the car had ended up.  Once he reached the crumpled vehicle, he stuffed everything inside of it, treating the corpse like the sack of trash it was.

Buck then returned to his truck and grabbed the hook off the winch on the front bumper.  Taking this back down the arroyo, he hooked it to a section of the car’s frame.  Climbing back to his truck again, he started the winch.

It took about ten minutes, during which the storm had come appreciably closer but still wasn’t right on top of him—which was good. He’d managed to drag the wreckage and all it contained directly under the bridge, where it was completely invisible to the road above.  Even if this storm didn’t wash the vehicle itself away, it’d strip everything from the interior.  But he needed to get down and unhook the winch before he got washed away too.  The arroyo came down from the mountains to the north and was almost certainly already filled with floodwaters somewhere upstream, rushing in his direction.

But he got the winch back together safely and headed back home.  It started sprinkling on his way back down the gravel road and when he got home, he caught a bit of light rain between the truck and the front door.

Once inside, he started to relax.  It had been a good workout.  He’d enjoyed putting another homo in its place, but it had been a long day, and he was tired.  He decided to take a shower and head to bed.

Just as he was about to turn on the water in the bathroom, there was a blast like an explosion that shook the entire trailer.  Simultaneously, the patter of rain on the roof became an almost deafening roar.

The storm had broken.