A cold front was coming through.  The rains had been intense during the day but as the night came on, they tapered off.

The wind hadn’t, though.  It ruffled the Trucker’s jet-black hair and tugged at the short scruff on the alpha’s face.  He’d gotten into town earlier during the day, dropped off his cargo, then headed back to the large truck stop on the highway. There, he could park his rig and get some sleep to the sound of the rain drumming on the metal roof.

That was then.  Now he was awake—and on the hunt.  He needed fresh meat.

Even in his black lambskin leather bomber jacket, the stiff east wind left a sting.  The Trucker shrugged it off.  He was used to physical extremes; this barely registered in his consciousness.  After all, under the jacket was nothing more than a white cotton t-shirt that was two sizes two small; it clung to his massive, muscled chest so tightly that the dark areolae surrounding his jutting nipples were clearly visible.

Beneath this, his jeans, as tight as if they’d been painted on, were worn to the point of having faded to such a pale shade that they seemed almost sky-blue.  Beyond the jacket, his one concession to the weather—and it really wasn’t intended as such—was the pair of black leather 10-inch Carolina loggers into which he’d tucked his jeans.  They were useful for dealing with puddles.

And faggots.  Tonight some very unlucky homo cunt was gonna learn that.

The place he was headed for was called The Troff.  The Tucker had learned about it online; it was evidently full of cockpigs.  He had no doubt he’d be able to snag some prey without anyone noticing—or caring.  He could see it just ahead, up the street.  Already the usual types were clustered near the entrance—a young, scrawny whore, shivering in a tank top that was inadequate for the weather who was being sneered at by a fag in its late twenties.  The latter, still desperately—and obviously—clinging to the fading bloom of adolescent beauty, was ogling a dude encased in leather head to foot, including a Muir cap.

The last one amused him the most.  Nothing wrong with leather, of course, but that tough-guy persona…fucker would shit itself if he had any idea what he Trucker had planned for the evening.  Not that it’d ever have the chance know; that wasn’t what the buff, sadistic killer was looking for tonight.  He pushed his way past and entered the bar.

Inside was even more of the same old, same old.  Utterly cacophonic, with seizure-inducing strobes flashing through a thick haze generated by cigarettes and the obligatory fog machine.  It was the perfect hunting ground, so cluttered with distractions that no one more than three feet away would ever get a good look at him. 

Peering through the murk yielded no worthwhile results, so the hardbodied killer approached the bar and ordered a shot of rye. He threw it back, then ordered a double scotch and soda.  With this in hand, he left the bar and began to saunter around the club, peering into the unlit nooks and crannies in his search to find the right slut.

He found it leaning against an exit door not far from the bathroom, smoking a cigarette.  It might be more accurate to say that it found him.  Even though his back was turned, he could feel its eyes crawling all over him.  Nonchalantly, he turned to face it.

It was young, possibly in its early twenties.  But the paleness of its skin and the dark rings under its large, pale blue eyes indicated a hard life and likely drug addiction, so it might have been younger.  It reeked of alcohol, but the Trucker hadn’t seen anyone checking IDs at the entrance, to that was no way to be sure how young the whore was.

And it was a whore.  There was no question about that; it was begging to get laid.  Around its slim waist was a black nylon belt supporting a pair of black Diesel skinny jeans, the cuffs of which had been snagged on the high tops of its Adidas red suede kicks.  Above the waist, its lithe torso was wrapped in a tight tank top the same shade of red as the hightops.  Over this was a thin dark nylon jacket; the cunt must have been chilly on its way here, although it was already slick and glistening with the heat inside.

The Trucker grinned at it, knowing that however sharp that chill may have been, it wasn’t anything close to the icy embrace of death that would enfold the useless slut and take it under tonight.

It lit up when the buff older dude with the four-day scruff on his cheeks locked his eyes on it, its dead, soulless eyes momentarily showing a feeble spark of life.  The hair was blond and styled into what looked like waves.  The hair was obviously dyed, given the dark brown color of the eyebrows underneath and the faint haze that was beginning to sprout on the pouty upper lip.

It smiled at the Trucker, almost too eagerly.  The alpha gave no response beyond that of a mocking sneer.  The boy wasn’t put off by that, though, and the reason soon became apparent.

“Hey, dude,” the kid said, a slight nervous quaver in its voice belying the confident grin on its face, “You, uh, looking for some fun?  I’m good—really good—and I don’t charge too much.”

“How old are you, whore?” the Trucker demanded.

Instantly, the punk lost its feigned cockiness, becoming disconcerted and defensive.  “I’m twenty-one!  I, uh, just don’t have my ID with me right now—”

“Never mind,” the Trucker broke in.  So it was underage, and in the bar illegally.  Well, it was going to learn that there were consequences for breaking the law.  And in this case, one of them was the death penalty.

“How much?” he snapped.

Again, the rentboy lost its bearings; the Trucker’s tactic of switching tracks getting it confused.  “I, uh…it’s, uh, fifty bucks a half hour.”

“You gotta place?”

It became eager again now that the prospect of making money was back on the table.  “Yeah!  You bet!  It’s just a couple of blocks over—we can walk.”

“Ok,” the Trucker replied, “Wait for me out front.  I’m gonna take a leak and pay my tab.”

The kid hesitated, worried that his john would get away.  But aside from the alarmed emergency exits, there was only one way out of the bar for patrons—through the main entrance.  So he went.  The Trucker strolled over to the bar, returned the empty glass in his hand, and ordered another shot of rye.  He hadn’t run a tab; he’d paid for each drink at the time. 

He tossed the rye back and left the bar, certain that no one would associate his exit with that of the whore.

The wind was still as strong as it had been when he’d arrived, but the temperature had dropped quite a bit, a brief respite before a heat wave moved in the following week.  It didn’t bother the Trucker, but the slut was clearly shivering in its thin jacket.

The serial killer grinned sadistically.  Stupid little bitch was gonna be a lot colder before the night was over.

The kid was right, though; he really did live only two blocks away, just down the road.  The place had been built about sixty years ago as a hotel, something along the lines of a Holiday Inn.  Somewhere in its long descent into seediness, it had been acquired by a company that had converted it into single-room all-bills-paid apartments.

The slut headed toward the outside staircase, leading his john up to the second floor.  The light footfalls of the boy’s Adidas kicks were almost silent, appropriate for a soon-to-be ghost, while the Trucker’s boots struck the concrete steps with the heavy tread of a true Man.

It turned out the cunt’s room was at the top of the stairs, number 201.  The lights in most of other rooms were off, not that it meant much—it was a weekend night, after all.  Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check.

“This place looks empty,” he said with a slightly contemptuous tone designed to provoke the whore.  It worked.

“Well, they ain’t rentin’ no more rooms out!” it barked bitterly.  Evidently the Trucker had touched a nerve.  “Most of the damn rooms are empty!  Once someone moves out, the room don’t get rented again.  I hear they’re about to sell the building.  I dunno what I’ll do then.  Probably live on the street.

Poor little whoreboy.  Well, the Trucker would ensure it would never have to suffer that fate.

It got the door open and entered, flicking on the light and holding the door opened for the Trucker.  He walked in and whirled around to face the punk as it closed the door.

“Lock it,” he commanded, “Both locks.  I don’t want anyone…disturbing us.”

The buff alpha surveyed what was about to become his killing pit.  In the middle of the left wall was a queen-sized bed stripped bare but for its yellowing and evidently cum-stained fitted sheet.  There were two nightstands with lamps of a kind that the Trucker vaguely remembered his grandmother having.  On one nightstand was a cheap alarm clock.

Beyond the bed, along the back wall, was the entrance to the bathroom and next to it was the closet.  Continuing around to the right wall was a small dresser with what looked like a refurbished 24-inch TV. On one side of it was hung a full-length mirror, on the other, a mini fridge with a microwave on top.  Making the turn back to the front wall, a small round table with two rickety chairs was placed in front of the window to the left of the door, with just enough space to separate it from the bed.  The window was covered with thick, smoke-stained brownish curtains.  All the furniture matched but was old and battered; likely purchased at auction.

It took the Trucker far less time to scope out the room than it takes to tell it. By the time the fuckmeat had locked the door and turned back, the Trucker was already slipping off his leather jacket.  The boy’s jaw dropped as he got a better view of the stud’s broad, muscled chest and thrusting nipples.  The Trucker’s hands lowered to the hem of his t-shirt.

“Yeah, fucker?” he said, leering into the punk’s face.  Wide-eyed, it nodded furiously.

Slowly, sensually, he peeled the shirt up and over his head, gradually revealing his sculpted abs, his firm, furry belly, and finally his massive pectorals, covered with black wiry hair on which lay, suspended from his neck, a pair of dog tags—a souvenir from one of his very first kills.

The slut could only gape.  It took a few moments to recover its voice.

“You—holy fuck…bro, you can fuck me for free…” it moaned.

“I was anyway, you faggot piece of shit,” the Trucker responded casually, his face utterly expressionless. 

It took a few moments for the words to make their way to make their way through the blond cocksucker’s drug-addled brain and finally penetrate its almost blind lust.  It couldn’t make sense of them, but before it could respond, the Trucker spoke again.

“Strip, fag,” he ordered, his deep gruff voice ringing with steely alpha dominance.  The boywhore’s inner cockpig soul responded so instinctively to the commands of a real Man that it found itself seated on the bed, slipping its kicks back on, completely nude with its shirt and jeans lying next to it. 

It hadn’t remembered getting undressed, or why it put its hightops back on, but it didn’t matter.  It stood back up and faced the Trucker, its seven-inch boycock already swelling and rising.

Moments later, it was steadily oozing precum after watching in awe as the Trucker extracted his enormous and downright frightening tackle from the tight confines of his jeans.  He slowly approached the kid, his intimidating rod jutting out in front of him like a lance.

Hesitantly, the teen homo reached its hands out and ran them through the Trucker’s dark chest hair, as wiry as steel wool.  Worshipfully, they ran up and out, clutching at the huge pecs, as hard as those of a marble statue, before reaching the thick, erect nubs of the Trucker’s nipples. Then it lowered its hands, sensuously fondling the hard six-pack of the abdomen before reaching the muscled stud’s leather belt, still buckled at the waist.  It drew back to clutch the Trucker’s shaft—but he abruptly knocked them aside.

“How long you been on the streets, punk?” he suddenly demanded.  Again, thrown off kilter, the whore could only stutter confusedly.

The sadist grunted condescendingly.  “Aw, never mind,” he sneered, “You been getting plowed by dudes since you were old enough to cum.  And ya just loved it, didntcha?  But tell me this, boy—ever run into any real trouble?  Betcha some of yer little whore buttbuddies have, yeah?  You know, went out to make a little money and never made it back?”

He placed his palm flat on the kid’s chest and shoved, forcing it back onto a sitting position on the bed.  He leaned over his powerful form looming intimidatingly over the adolescent slut.  “Aintcha ever scared of how…dangerous…this shit is?”

In that moment, the cockpig was gone.  All that was left was Devin—and he was scared.  He knew some, all right.  Rick had lived two doors down.  Left one night last July to meet a john for a quick fifty buck blowjob and wasn’t seen again for more than three months when he was fished out of the local landfill and had to be ID’d by his teeth.  And there was Jamie—that one still gave him nightmares; it was said he’d been eviscerated alive…

And then Devin noticed something else—the Trucker had bent over and picked the jeans up off the bed.  He was now slowly removing Devin’s nylon mesh belt from the waistband. 

As he was doing so, they caught each other’s eyes.  The serial killer smiled with what was unmistakable anticipation.  “You know what happens next, don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question, said with a warm, gentle tone more sinister than any snarl would have been.  “You know what this is for.”

Devin did know—and he was utterly panicked.  He still couldn’t believe that he was in truly mortal danger—not him, that just couldn’t possibly happen—but he knew some serious fucking shit was about to go down and he needed to get the fuck out.  NOW.

The Trucker was still towering in front of him, slightly bent forward, his hard, hairy body so close that Devin could inhale the erotic tang of mansweat, adrenaline, and alpha testosterone.  He could feel his cock swelling in spite of his fear, but he didn’t let the involuntary erection get to his head.

He let terror do it instead.

He might have been able to figure out a plan; after all, he’d whoring himself out on the streets since he was thirteen, nearly ten years ago–long enough to have developed the survival skills of an alley cat.  Not, of course, that his plan could possibly have succeeded against an overpowering serial sex killer like the Trucker, but he might have staved off his incipient foretaste of hell for a few moments longer.  Instead, he chose to bolt for the door.

He never had a chance.  With the Trucker directly in front of him, his only option was to swivel to one side and push off on that leg, but he slammed directly into the left side of the Trucker’s furry chest, bouncing off his granite-hard pec and slamming back onto the nightstand.  The lamp fell back onto the bed and Devin rolled off to land on his hands and knees.

The Trucker had been expecting something, but not a lateral impact.  He was knocked off balance and stumbled several feet to the side.  As he recovered, Devin got to his feet.

For a moment—it could only have a couple of seconds, at the very most, but it seemed to last for eternity—they faced each other, the fallen lamp casting an eerie off-kilter light across the scene.

For that fraction of a second, it looked like an image of an extremely unequal gladiator show.  The scene was the archetype and epitome of the Alpha exerting its rightful and complete dominance—sexual and beyond—by marking weaker males as its own property. The ultimate gestalt of male dominance.

After that, the only thing left was to make sure it stayed his property.  Forever.

But again, the moment was nothing more than a tableau vividly illuminated by a flash of lightning before the storm broke.  Each of them lunged to the right, Devin towards the door and the Trucker towards the bed.  The Trucker reached his goal first, but he then had to get from the bed to the door—by which time Devin had managed to unclasp the chain lock.  His fingers were fumbling with knob and had just managed to turn the tab when the Trucker threw the nylon belt around his throat and dragged him away.

“You fucking cunt!!” the Trucker hissed and slung him into the wall beside the door with enough force to put his face through the drywall.  Then, flinging the teen whore violently onto the bed, he turned his back and relocked the door.  It was time for the slut to learn its highest and best use—as nothing more than a cumdump made of fuckmeat.

He strode back over to lithe, limp form prostrate on the bed.  It was little more than semi-conscious, its left cheek already swelling and darkening and blood trickling from its mouth.  The Trucker yanked it upright by the belt around its neck.  “Wakey, wakey, ya little shit,” he chortled as he jerked and jostled it around.

Devin fought against consciousness, even as it came crawling back.  Even before he could piece everything together, he could remember that something horrific was awaiting him, and he didn’t want to face it.  But awakening was inevitable—and when it happened, he learned that the situation had deteriorated considerably since he’d checked out.

Now that the Trucker had his prey awake, it was time to start the lesson.  And any good master knows that the first rule of teaching is to establish expectations.  The stupid little fuck needed to learn to obey.

Up to—and, if the Trucker wanted, past—the point of death.

To that extent, the Trucker smacked the punk in the face, his huge, bear-like hand imparting jaw-rattling force.  The backhand was just as brutal and the sequence repeated as a tactile form of driving his words through the homo’s thick skull. 

“Don’t” [SMACK!] “fuckin” [SMACK!] “fight” [SMACK!] “me” [SMACK!] “you” [SMACK!] “worthless” [SMACK!] “piece” [SMACK!] “of” [SMACK!] “faggot” [SMACK!] “shit!!!” [SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!]

By the time the Trucker felt that he had expressed himself thoroughly, the cheap rentboy was lolling flaccidly in his nylon mesh noose.  The only expression it made was to suddenly cough up an incisor, but then it fell limp.  The Trucker dropped it back on the bed in contempt.

This one was a sad, weak excuse of a fag.  If this was how it reacted to a minor—and indeed, by the Trucker’s standards, slight—admonishment, then it was going to be long evening.  But the Trucker was prepared for that.  The important thing was that it needed to be awake.  It needed not just to know, but to feel exactly what was happening to it.

The mindfuck was sometimes the best part, and he was only just getting started.

The meat issued a long, low groan—it was waking up.  The Trucker rolled it off the bed; it hit the floor like a sack of potatoes and lay moaning in a huddled mass.  As it began to awaken, the cruel stud strolled over to the chair where he’d draped his leather jacket.  Reaching inside it, he pulled out his light and a pack of Marlboro Reds.  He lit one up and put the pack back into his jacket.

The boywhore was fighting consciousness valiantly.  It took a while for it to resurface from the darkness.  The entire time, the Trucker stood over it, smirking, tapping his ash out on it, and prodding it with his boot—although some of the prods were akin to vicious kicks.

Devin’s awakening was as inevitable as it was unwanted.  Under the circumstances, consciousness was much less preferable than unconsciousness but there was nothing the adolescent slut could do to stave it off.  It was only with the greatest of reluctance that he now found himself facing reality.

And the reality was that he was lying on the thin carpet of his shitty apartment, looking up at the hardbodied, booted stud towering over him, his enormous shaft jutting out and oozing drops of hot transparent precum onto Devin’s unprotected flesh.  Above his huge, hairy pecs with gleaming dogtags nestled in the fur, the sadistic alpha was sneering down at him with a look of utter bloodlust.

Devin had never seen that look before.  He’d been in plenty of bad scenes before—he ended up hospitalized on an average of twice a year by violent johns—but he’d never, ever seen that look before.

He hadn’t doubted the Trucker’s earlier words, but there was something about that hate-filled glare that almost broke Devin’s instinct for self-preservation.  Almost.

With the stunning agility borne out of panic, Devin scrambled on all fours until he reached the table, then climbed to his feet.  He skittled sideways and pressed his back against the right wall, next to the fridge and microwave, facing the Trucker, his eyes wide with terror in his battered, swelling face.

The Trucker hadn’t moved.  He didn’t need to.  But now he bent down and picked up the whore’s belt before turning back to face it.

“Where ya gonna go, fuckmeat?” he jeered mockingly.  The punk didn’t answer.  The Trucker took a step towards it and it sidled in front of the fridge and began to inch its way down the far side, in front of the dresser and TV.

The Trucker took another step and it bolted for the rear wall, launching itself into the bathroom and locking the door.  The Trucker guffawed long and loud at the utter futility of the faggot’s escape attempt.

He was still laughing as he slammed his thick-soled logging boot against the door, splintering the lock out of the jamb on the first blow, sending the door ricocheting off the wall.  He found the worthless piece of shit sniveling and cowering in the bathtub.

The rentboy was now little more than blubbering, panic-stricken fuckmeat.  “Why?” it wailed up at the leering, muscular sadist towering over it, “Why are you doing this?  You don’t have to hurt me…”

“No”, the Trucker replied in tone of cold satisfaction, “I don’t have to hurt you—I have to kill you.  I want to hurt you.  I want you to die in terror and agony.  The more your worthless little homo ass suffers, the harder I get off.”

And before the stunned teen punk had time to respond, the Trucker looped its own nylon mesh belt around its neck and dragged it forcibly out of the bathtub.

It fought.  It fought violently.  It knew that it was being dragged back towards the bed and that once back on it, it would never leave again.  At least, not under its own power—and in that it was absolutely correct. 

Its mistake was in thinking that if it struggled hard enough, it could escape the inevitable fate that faggot whores so richly deserve.  And its struggles only made the nightmarish pain and terror worse.

Its smooth, firm legs kicked against the cracked tiles of the bathroom floor as its hands fumbled about, seeking anything on which they could get a grasp.  Finally, in their frenetic scrabbling, they managed to clutch onto the door frame, where the meat was able to maintain a tenacious, if tenuous, momentary hold.

For the Trucker, it was a minor inconvenience.  The hardbodied alpha gave the belt a swift, vicious jerk.  The punk gagged as its windpipe was squeezed shut and it lost its grip on the door frame—the attention of its clawing fingers now being directed to the excruciating stricture around its throat.  Its kicking became more intense at this point.  At one point, it dislodged the sneaker on its left foot, sending the hightop suede Adidas tumbling back into the bathroom, where it landed upright just inside the doorway.

After that, there was nothing it could do.  The was nothing to grab, nothing to hold on to—no way to stop being painfully, remorselessly being drawn to its deathbed.  There was nothing but terror…

…too much terror to realize that it had a raging erection, much less even wonder why.

The Trucker knew why.  It was getting exactly what it needed, what it desired.  And somewhere within, somewhere deep inside its twisted little cockpig subconscious, it knew that and was responding in the most appropriate way.

They all did.  Faggots always did.  It was one of the ways the Trucker justified what he was doing.  Fuckmeat needed this—and knew it.  No matter how much it cried and begged and fought, this was how it was supposed to be. 

Of course, sometimes stupid fagmeat need prodding to realize how badly it needed this.  The Trucker paused for a moment and released the belt.  The whoreboy felt a momentary sense of—well, relief wouldn’t be the right word.  But it could breathe again.

Not for long.  The Trucker had decided to put his 10” leather loggers to good use.  Before the cunt could realize what was happening to it—much less being able to defend itself, however rudimentarily—the Trucker began stomping it.

As the sole of the huge, heavy boot began raining down with merciless, crushing force, leaving the imprint of its sole deeply and horrifically pounded into the tender flesh of its chest and smooth, flat belly, the teen slut could only squeal like the cockpig it was.  The squealing soon thereafter ceased as the Trucker transferred his tender attentions to the boy’s face.  By the time he’d crushed its nose and stomped its incisors down its throat, the Trucker was done.  Somehow, the meat was hard and leaking—and by now, so was the Trucker.

And with that, he dragged the kicking teenaged whore up onto its deathbed.  Still using the belt to drag it around and reposition it, he only loosened is grip once he himself was on the bed, and by that point in time, it was barely conscious.  It made no attempt to resist as the hulking killer, his broad shoulders and furry chest glistening with sweat, pulled its legs apart and then up over his shoulders as he hunched forward and prepared to thrust his massive tackle into the kid’s asshole like a harpoon.

For the meat, it was too much.  Enough of Devin was still sensate—enough to feel his rectum impaled by an enormous throbbing cock, many times larger than any shaft that had ever penetrated it before.  Bue he couldn’t fight it off.  And from that point on, Devin became the flailing, convulsing adolescent fuckmeat he’d always been destined to be.

The Trucker knew it.  It was a shame the faggot whore wasn’t as quick to catch on.  It still had to learn that it was dead.  Right now, it was still trying to straight-arm death—but Death was stronger, and the Trucker knew and ensured it.

The boy was beating on his chest.  The sound of the impacts of its fists on the Trucker’s stone-hard pecs was muffled by ample body fur, resulting in meaty but barely audible slaps.  The vicious killer grinned at the cunt, vaguely amused by its utter fruitless attempts at resistance.

But then Devin did something stupid.  In his defense, even his well-worn asshole couldn’t take the immense girth and length of the sadist’s enormous horsecock.  When he realized that beating on his assailant’s chest was as effective as slamming his fists into a cinderblock wall, he turned his frenetic attentions to the alpha’s face.  The Trucker instantly ceased being amused.

“Goddam it, faggot!” he bellowed, “You fuckin’ take what you got comin’ to ya!”

And the next time the homo reached up at him, the Trucker caught the kid’s right wrist.  Even with his left arm, the Trucker was able to dislocate the slut’s shoulder with ease, wrenching it around as if he was trying to pull a drumstick off a chicken.  The Trucker found the snapping and popping sounds to be incredibly erotic.  Naturally enough, the meat didn’t have quite the same reaction.

Devin screamed, loudly and long.  Agony pulsed through his lithe teen body, slick and glistening with a cold sweat forced out by sheer physical pain.  He wasn’t aware—wasn’t capable of being aware right now—that his hard boycock was leaving a trail of ooze each time it slapped against the Trucker’s hairy, ripped abs.  Nor was he aware that his own mangled, torn rectum had tightened around the brutal stranger’s huge tackle, although he did know that the destruction of his right shoulder had not only not paused the tempo of the violent rape, but it also seemed to have sped it up.

But by now, the Trucker had had enough.  The teenaged whore was giving him what he needed, but as much as its shrieks of pain were turning him on, he knew that he couldn’t let it go on longer.  Sooner or later, someone would hear it.

“Ok, whore, time to turn ya into meat,” he drawled with a leer.  Then, again without missing a beat as he vigorously rutted with the whoreboy, he reached over and picked up its nylon mesh belt.  “Hush now,” he said with a gleefully malicious tenderness, “I know, I know, it hurts.  But it ain’t gonna for long.  I fuckin’ promise you that, cunt!”

Devin barely registered when the belt was looped about his neck, but he suddenly realized it was there when the cruel alpha decided to test his grip by giving it a brief squeeze.  That was the first and only warning of his imminent death that Devin actually believed.

He inhaled to scream, to cry out, to beg for his life, to say something, but it was too late.  The webbed belt tightened so swiftly and powerfully that it instantly sank below the surface of the skin.  Devins last gasp had filled his lungs with his final supply of oxygen, contaminated with an acrid musk of mansweat—both his own and that of his killer—enhanced by male sex pheromones, testosterone, and adrenaline.  He had no way of knowing it, but his adolescent homo body was primed to die.

And to cum. So was the Trucker.

The sex killer placed his huge left paw palm down over the kid’s face, covering it up.  He could feel the tip of the dying whore’s protruding tongue and the slimy white foam that was welling up between its swollen purple lips and trickling down its chin.

With the fuckmeat’s head locked into position, the sadistic alpha looped the nylon belt once more around his right fist and gave it a swift, vicious jerk.  With its head pressed firmly down and its neck jerked brutally upwards, Devon’s death would have surprised him if his brain hadn’t been too damaged to realize what was happening.  He hadn’t been strangled to death after all.

Not that it mattered.  Death wasn’t instantaneous; there was still profound suffering at the end.  And cum.  Lots and lots of cum.

As bone shards pierced the adolescent’s spinal cord, it began to convulse violently, arching and flailing.  Still riding it out like it was a bull in a rodeo, the Trucker was rewarded with its intensely desperate final spasm as the teen clutched him tightly, its smooth body abraded by its killer’s wiry body fur, and desperately spewed out its DNA in a final attempt at genetic self-preservation.

The moment the Trucker felt the hot spurt of boycum on his hard, ripped abs, it triggered his own load.  Thrusting his mammoth rod so far up the dying teen’s asshole that his head was buried in the lower part of the intestine, he began hosing the meat’s guts with a continuous stream of searing manseed.

He didn’t remember how long he spent lying on the shuddering corpse, spewing its innards with spunk.  He vaguely remembered that the dead kid still managed to unload a couple more wads before subsiding into the shudders and convulsions associated with a trashed nervous system.

Eventually, though, he extracted his massive cock from the corpse like he was removing the drill head from an oil rig.  He stood for a moment and retrieved his cigarette pack, then sat back on the bed to relax for a moment while having a smoke.  After all, he wasn’t getting any younger and he’d been ridding the world of useless faggot for a good two decades.

He hadn’t seemed to make a dent in the number of them.  In fact, they seemed to increase, like locusts. 

With profoundly sneering contempt, he extinguished the butt of his cigarette on the cunt’s right nipple, enjoying the sensory inputs of watching the skin blacken, hearing the sizzle of burning human flesh, and inhaling the somehow appetite-inducing aroma akin to cooking bacon.  Afterwards he got up but didn’t bother to go to the bathroom.  He just grabbed the boy’s Diesel jeans, wiped the cum off his dick and his chest, and tossed them aside.  Before slipping on his shirt and jacket, he turned to take on last look at his kill.

The slaughtered adolescent whoreboy lay on its back with its own nylon mesh belt still deeply embedded in its throat.  The only feature recognizable in its blacked, crushed face, was the eyes—they were rolled back into the head with only the blood-straked whites appearing.  White foam was still visible on the chin.  Even from a distance, there was clearly something wrong with the angle of the neck.

The entire torso was purple and black, the crazed maze of boot tread welts already starting to appear.  They were even staring to become visible under the quickly-congealing cum that had pooled on the teenager’s belly.

The legs were splayed wide apart and the Tucker’s cum was still oozing out of the shredded, useless sphincter.  Both socks had stayed on, as well as the remaining right Addias hightop.   Even the slightest glance would show that the teen slut had been the victim of a violent—and well-deserved—sex killing.

Grinning with satisfaction, the Trucker donned his t-shirt and jacket and head out.  This time, he didn’t even bother to close the doors.  It was too cold for flies, but surely there was something around that would gladly dispose of rotting meat.

As he descended the stairs from the killing pit, the cruel alpha idly wondered where he’d be when the body was discovered.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Not the he knew—or even actually cared—the answer to the Trucker’s question was that he was fifty miles north of town and heading for the state border.

It was actually the property manager who saw the open door and investigated.  He was still waiting outside when the police arrived.  “I seen them crime shows,” he proudly announced to the responding officers, “Once I saw what that faggot got hisself into, I stayed outta the room.”

Within moments, detectives White and Ahmad had arrived on the scene, and things were wrapped up very quickly.  There was a brief disagreement about the wisdom of pursuing a suspect.

“We have semen, man,” Ahmad stated, “We can at least do a DNA test.”  He’d only been promoted to detective ten months ago and spoke with all the enthusiasm of someone anxious to prove themselves in a new position.

White sighed.  “Yeah, we can,” he responded in the patient but weary tone so often used while teaching someone the ropes, “But there’s zero chance there’ll be a match.  And if there is, what do you plan to do about it?  There’s still that robbery and murder at the liquor store on Apache that we’re getting chewed up about, to say nothing about the barbershop shooting on Fifth.”

“But—but I thought—” Ahmad stammered.

“Look, Ahmad, yer a good kid, but a little to gung-ho.  You think anyone’s gonna care what happens to this faggot?  And don’t ask me how I know; look at them dildos on the dresser.  You go talk to the manager; sounds like the MEs office is here.  I’ll make sure their camera man gets set up.

If anything, Ahmad found the manger even more callous.

“No, I didn’t see who the homo was with, and I don’t give a shit.  Just get the body out.  I’ll be in the office if ya need me.”  He started down the stairs.

“So you’re not worried that a murder in one of your units will scare tenants or prospective tenants?”  Ahmad asked in one last attempt to elicit some kind of emotional response to the brutal sex murder.

The manager stopped and barked a loud, incredulous guffaw.  “Worried? Fuck, no!  I been trying to get rid of all these fags.  Owners are gonna tear the building down and sell the place.  The sooner I get ‘em all out, the larger a bonus I get.  Cocksucker did me a huge favor getting itself offed.”

Sighing dejectedly, Ahmad descended the stairs, trailing the manager.  At the bottom, they both paused and stepped aside for the ME and the photographer.  An orderly with a gurney with a body bag on it waited at the bottom of the stairs as well.  After the ME’s men had gone up, Ahmad headed towards his car, leaving the orderly and the manager at the bottom of the stairs.  To the manager’s surprise, the orderly initiated a somewhat odd conversation.

“Hi,” he said, s slim man with russet hair in a white lab coat, “My name is Harris.  Tell me, do you know is the deceased had any sneakers?”