It was time again.  It was long, long past time again.  Joe had been out of the country for months, very busy in the service of his country.

And his country needed a lot of killing done.  Problem was, his ability to mark his prey with his seed was limited.  He needed to do that, and he needed it now.

He looked at himself in the mirror.  He’d just gotten off a 48-hour plane journey on a covert military flight and had only had time to shower. He’d slipped back into a skin-tight sleeveless muscle tee, jet black with a satiny sheen that was in stark contact to the matte black of the combat pants of his tactical ops suit that he was wearing.  It was more akin to the glossy black leather of his military-grade utility boots that he was also sporting.

He was dressed for both sex and slaying…and both were on the menu tonight.

It was a Sunday evening; not the best night for stalking fresh meat, but not the worst.  Joe hunted around his bedroom and finally found the most recent cell phone he’d taken.  It had been from that little frat boy he’d wasted months ago; luckily, the rich kid’s parents had forgotten to shut off the service.  It would work for this one last time, which was all Joe needed.

He found one faster than he expected.  An Asian gym rat by the name of Sam—or so he claimed.  He had silky blue-black hair almost the same color as Joe’s muscle tee.  Beneath the dark almond eyes and low-bridged nose expected in Asian physiognomy, the dude had a razor-sharp beard and goatee that highlighted his masculine face.  His photo showed him in a navy-blue tank top and khaki cargo shorts, wearing athletic socks and a pair of Nike 270s.

He evidently had a foot fetish, which helped simplify Joe’s come-on.  The professional killer possessed several pairs of lace-up boots.  He selected a single boot from an old paratrooper and laid it on the bed, then, carefully framing the image, he used the phone’s camera to capture a photo of his massive cock laying on top of the boot.

“U want?” he texted the kid along with a copy of the photo.

“Fuck yeah!” was the response, along with the address.

“Be there in 45” he replied. It was that simple.  Another dumbass faggot begging to be slaughtered.

Joe drove there in about twenty minutes, slowly cruising past the small but well-maintained midcentury house before parking his 1978 Camaro three blocks north and two east of the address.  From there, he walked to his destination.  His black clothing and the thud of his boots on the pavement lent him an ominous—some would have said threatening—aura.  But it was late at night and no one else was out on the streets in the quiet residential neighborhood. 

He eventually got back to the right street, coming down it in the other direction from where he’d parked.  Before swiftly bounding up the porch steps, the experienced killer took a surreptitious glace.  His professional eye discerned that there was no threat—and would be no witnesses.

There was no doorbell.  If there had been a doorbell with a camera, Joe would have turned around the moment he spotted it.  By the same token, there was no way in hell he was going to knock.  It was quiet in this part of town, but as he well knew, just because it was late, and everyone had their lights out didn’t they were all asleep.  This homo’s house was a case in point; from the street, there were no visible lights.

He used the app instead.  Within three minutes, the door opened very softly, revealing—nothing much, really.  The room beyond was dark, lit only by a silvery shaft thrown at an oblique angle from the streetlight on the other side of the street.

Joe’s training caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise; he had to force himself to relax—at least a little.  After all, while it was highly unlikely that the little gym rat fag had devised some kind of trap for him, it wasn’t utterly impossible.

But then the punk stepped into the shaft of light.  “Hey,” he said softly, “I’m Sam.  You Clint?”

“Sure,” Joe drawled.  Clint had been the last homo he’d offed—or, at least, the name of the stupid pansy whore had used on its online profile.

“Damn, you’re hot,” Sam said in a soft voice, “C’mon in.”

Joe grinned and Sam visibly relaxed a bit.  He went in first and Joe followed.

“Follow me,” the muscular homo slut said, “I keep the lights off in the front; don’t wanna advertise my hookups to the neighbors.  Bedroom’s in the back.”

Joe didn’t get to see much of the living room, but his expertise gave him a sense almost like radar, letting him know where large objects were.  Progressing towards the rear of the house, he sensed an open space on the right that was the kitchen.  The hallway to the back was faintly lit by a sliver of light emanating from the bedroom door, which had been left ajar.  The bedroom was at the very end of the hall; there were two doors on the left and one on the right; all were open.

The first door on the left was apparently a guest room; the bed was made and evidently unslept in.  The next door on the left was an antiquated bathroom.  The door on the right was a dedicated gym/weight room.  Next came the master bedroom.

Once they were both inside, Joe was finally able to get a good look at Sam—if that really was his name; Joe highly doubted it.  Now that he could see the Asian fag in person, he could see how toned and muscular the cunt was.  He looked the same as his pic; in fact, he was almost identically dressed and well.  The socks and Nike 270s were the same.  He was also wearing a tank top to show off his huge biceps, but this time he’d gone with a rather vague “military” look, possibly inspired by Joe’s boot dick pic; it had a jungle camo pattern based on green shades.  He’d dumped the cargo shorts for a pair of drawstring sports shorts in khaki green.

Joe knew it.  The cocksucker wanted to be dominated. 

And in that moment, Sam’s status dropped from “he” to “it”.

Joe got it started.  He peeled off his shirt, revealing his massive hairy pecs and thick, jutting nipples.  “Your turn, bitch,” he said, leering at the hardbodied punk.  The way his enormous cock was tenting the crotch of his combat pants was impossible to miss.

The same was true for Sam.  He slipped out of his tank top, then stood up straight to let Joe see what he had to offer—all while rubbing his bulging groin.  His pecs were large, and his chest was broad, but Joe bested him on both.  Not by much, though.  His washboard abs didn’t quite equal Joe’s, but that wasn’t easily noticeable, giving the amount of manfur that the latter possessed.

That was the main difference between them, and it was the first to be noticed.  Sam had a happy trail of blue-black hair that ran from between his pectorals down to his pubes (although that wasn’t obvious yet as his shorts were still on), while Joe’s chest and abdomen were covered with thick curly black hair.

But when Joe unzipped his fly and hauled out his thick, pulsating member the atmosphere in the room, already filled with testosterone, adrenaline, and a faint trace of mansweat, became charged enough to ignite.  Sam had also pulled out his thick shaft—perhaps half an inch shorter than Joe’s—and began stoking. 

He and Joe stood there for a moment, staring at each other and jacking.  It only took three seconds for the sexual tension to spark and explode, filling the entire room with a primal lust.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Sam was on his knees in front of Joe, slobbering on his cock and stroking his combat boots.

Joe could only grin at this confirmation, not just of the worthless fag’s foot fetish, but its utter lack of dominance.  The grin, however, morphed into a snarl as Joe considered how badly the Asian cunt needed to be wasted.  Fuck, it was trying to impersonate a member of the armed forces.  As far as Joe was concerned, that alone deserved the death penalty.

Plus, Joe needed a nice, struggling mancunt to milk out his hot sperm.

“Get down and work my boots, faggot,” he snapped at it.

In sheer blind lust, Sam stooped down, still flogging his own meat as he ran his tongue over Joe’s boots, licking at the laces and the leather uppers before trying to transfer his attention to the treads.

As he lifted his leg to allow the whore to access the treads, he sneered, “Ya want me to run my boots over you?”

Gasping with desire, Sam could only blurt out, “Yeah.”

“Ya want me to stomp on ya?”

Breathlessly: “Fuck yeah.”

“Ya want me to grind yer balls under my bootheel until they pop like grapes, yeah?  Yer gonna scream so loud they’ll be able to hear ya two streets over!”

And at that moment, it all came to a screeching halt as if someone had pulled an emergency brake.  In a sense, that’s exactly what happened.

Sam pulled back, his expression a mix of horror and revulsion. His dick was already going limp.  He got up from his knees and practically flung himself away from Joe.

“Dude, you gotta go.  I mean you got a great build—and oh fuck your dick…  But I’m not down with that violent shit, ok?  I mean, I’ve got my own business.  I have to keep up appearances, do you understand me?”

Joe was absolutely furious, but he covered it so very well that Sam had no clue what was boiling up under the surface like hot magma.  “Sure, I understand you.  It’s just a misunderstanding.  I’ll leave.”  And with that, he tucked his giant rod back inside his combat pants.  Then he grabbed his compression t-shirt and made as if to put it back on.

“I’ll see you out,” Sam said, again visibly relaxing and thawing out somewhat.  The problem was, the muscled homo hadn’t realized that Joe’s combat gear hadn’t been worn in a sexual sense (at least, not entirely).

He also didn’t realize that he’d confirmed another of Joe’s opinion about him: that despite his military playacting, there was no way the well-built Asian faggot wouldn’t even last a day in actual combat.  And that led to what happened next.

Sam was slipping back into his tank top as he nodded to Joe, indicating that he would follow Joe out the door.  The well-versed killer had to give the queer credit for that; don’t let anyone ever get behind you.  Unfortunately for it, it also played directly into the plan that Joe had already devised.

He got to the gym door and paused.  “Hey, that’s a cool setup!” he said, as if he hadn’t thoroughly scoped out the room in the brief time it took to pass it.

“Uh, yeah, I use that when I can’t get to the real one,” Sam replied.

“Do you mind if I take a look at it?” Joe asked with an expression of interest so earnest that it could be—and was—taken as genuine.

Sam paused, then made the worst, and most likely the last, decision he would ever make.  “Sure, come on in.  I’ll show you what I got.”

Once inside, Joe headed directly to the weight set.  It was actually a multipurpose bent press machine with dumbbells, barbells, and several different sets of resistance bands.  Joe eyed the latter with interest.  “Nice setup, dude,” he said with ersatz enthusiasm.

Almost instinctively, the Asian faggot slipped back into gym bro mode.  “It’s not as good as what you can find in a professional gym.  But I’m usually too busy to go.  Still, I can’t get as swole as I’d like.”

“You ain’t doin’ too bad,” Joe replied with a grin.

“Well, thanks, but I’m as near a bulked as you,” Sam responded modestly—or, more likely, enviously.

Hefting a five-pound dumbbell, Joe came back in a musing tone, “Y’know, you can get a high impact with just this set, but you gotta work the reps just right.  I got some workout moves that you might like.  Easy but, as I said, high impact.”

“Yeah?” Sam said, eagerly.

“Yeah,” Joe answered, “For example, take this dumbbell.  Here’s one I bet you’ve never done.”

Sam nodded, his eyes tracking the dumbbell like an eagle tracking a rabbit.

“You hold it straight out in front of you, then pull it straight back until it’s almost even with your shoulder…”

Joe had all of Sam’s attention.  The younger man was totally enthralled.

“…then you slam it into the skull of the dumbass fag in front of you.”

Sam experienced what seemed to be a bright, painful explosion—then that was it.  He never heard the thick meaty whack of the chunk of metal striking his cranium.  And he certainly didn’t know his skull had been fractured, albeit not severely enough to cause enough damage.

At least, not badly enough for it to cause issues before death came in another, much more agonizing guise.

When Sam awoke, it was into indescribable pain.  He’d been used to exercising every major muscle in his hard, tough body—he was no Asian wuss twink—but he’d never prepared himself for such a brutal physical assault.   His firm, hot body was being pummeled by a fist that couldn’t be harder if it had been wielding a bronze knuckle.

That was because Joe was saving his for later.

In the meantime, Joe had propped up the punk from behind, as if he was about to mount it.  Sam spouted out a curse too fast for Joe to catch it, but it sounded like Mandarin.  Joe had more ammo.

“Die, you fuckin’ Commie chink!!” he snarled as his fist rained down on the handsome, goateed Chinese face.

The Asian cunt was still trying to sort out its bearings—not an easy job as its face was being caved in.  After all, it had only invited this hot bro over for some footwear play, and now—now things were going all wrong, and there was pain.  So much pain…

It had to fight back.  It knew it was nude—its kicks were still on but otherwise, its hard, firm, muscular body was naked as it reflexively tried to fight back, but something was restraining it, something giving, something elastic…and that was when it realized it was being restrained by its own resistance bands, its hand tied to the brass headboard that the homo gym rat had thought so cute in the antique store—

Joe brought the stupid fuck back to attention by driving his fist down onto its face hard enough to break its left cheekbone with a snap that would have been audible had Joe not been panting and his victim not been moaning.

There was an unintentionally merciful pause in the beating as Joe stood up straight and peeled off his sleeveless tee.  His arms had already been visible, sweat glistening on the thick delts, tickling down to the swollen biceps and triceps.  Now he revealed his chest in all its muscular glory, sweat glinting like diamonds hidden in the furry mat that forested the perverse killer’s torso.  Even Sam, despite suffering severe pain, felt his thick Asian mancock swell while helplessly watching the professional executioner who had now turned his back on his prey.

When Joe turned back, he was armed with two weapons.  One was his brass knuckles.

The other was his cock.

Long and engorged, it was a fearsome thing that almost seemed to have a mind of its own, wreathed in pulsing veins, oozing thick, viscous drops of precum; it was a piece of tackle that would make even the horniest fag pause.

But in this case, the fag was getting brass before seed.

“Ya liked watchin’ duds pump iron, queerboy?” the sadistic mankiller jeered, “Cause yer gonna get to watch me pump brass right into yer fuckin’ face!”

Sam’s eyes widened in horror, but he had no time to react before Joe’s metal-covered piledrive slammed into his face.

The agony was instant and incapacitating.  Sam had no way to sort out the tsunami of pain impulses across his face.  He knew his nose was broken because that was the site of the original impact, and he knew several teeth were knocked down his throat because he was choking on them, but he was only aware of the excruciating torment in his face and torso after that.  He didn’t know his other cheekbone had been broken—or his mandible.  In fact, the jawbone was broken in two places.

Sam had always been subhuman in Joe’s sight.  No longer a he but an it, the worthless fuckmeat was exactly what Joe’s sexually deviant libido demanded as a cumdump.  After that, it had to die so that no one else could mark his property.  His meat.

That was the idea, at least.

Joe moved his intention lower down the chink’s muscular body, overcome with the urge to destroy it.  He drove his brass knuckles into its ribcage with lightning-swift one-two punches that broke a lot of its ribs and shattered several, sending splinters of bone throughout its upper abdomen.  But worse was to come as he moved lower.

Sam was barely clinging to consciousness at this point.  He was moaning faintly and at one point seemed to be quietly pleading—but again, in Mandarin.  Joe could distinguish it but not understand it.  Not that it mattered.  The chink’s lungs had been perforated with shrapnel comprised of its own bone splinters from its ribs.

Joe had no mercy.  He’d managed to steer his sociopathic tendencies into a profitable—very profitable—profession, and he was willing to risk his life to satisfy his sadistically vicious desires.

All this slant-eye meant was an opportunity to mark his prey for the first time in months.  He’d killed plenty of its kind before.  No one ever missed them—there were so many of them, how could they know one was gone?  At any rate, no one would miss this one.  Especially once he was done with.  By that time, its face would look more like ground beef than anyone (or thing) else.

The beating continued.  But first, Joe wanted to know exactly what he was doing.  He needed to feel it.  And the only way to do that was to have his dick buried in the meat’s guts as he pounded the shit outta them.  That always felt so good.

Especially when it died with his cock deep inside it.  And now it was time.

Only its hands had been tied.  Its legs had been left free to kick in agony.  Weakly, the chink tried to resist as Joe forced its smooth and thick thighs apart, but one vicious blow to its gut resigned it to its fate as the sadistic sociopath took triumphant possession of his fuckmeat.

And then, all sexual hell broke open.

Beaten, broken, brutally raped, Sam spent the next—the last—twenty minutes of his life still conscious.  Although his sense of awareness slowly failed, until the very end, he knew who and where he was and could feel what was being done to him.  The physical and emotional trauma he’d endured had limited his ability for self-defense, and induced a strong lag in his comprehension…

…Sam was still there.

It started when Joe went in, hard and dry.  He could feel the slant-eyed Commie’s velvety-soft rectal lining shear as the throbbing, engorged head, lubed only by its own precum, ripped a path—path hell, more like a sixteen-lane highway—on its way deeper into the cunt’s guts.

The Asian faggot gripped Joe’s waist tightly with its legs as a loud, wheezy squealing sound erupted from between its swollen and bloody lips.  Its hands struggled furiously, pulling at the resistance bands much more intensely than it ever had during its usual reps.  It was useless, of course, but Joe liked it when the meat fought back.

“Yer gonna die, ya fag bitch!” the sadist hardman snarled, just to make sure the cunt knew what was coming—in case it already didn’t.

Then beating began for real.

As Joe brutal pounded his enormous, pulsating shaft into the muscled chink’s ass, his brass-embossed fist pounded its washboard abs.  From time to time, he’d roll the meat onto its side, giving him access to the flanks and part of the back.  The meat needed to be tenderized all over, especially meat as tough as this cunt.

Sam’s bedroom had seen plenty of action, but it had never contained this kind of atmosphere.  The air was thick with testosterone, adrenaline, and the acrid scent of mansweat.  It was thick with something else, too—noise.  Not loud noise, but the sounds of intense sex and brutal death.  The smacking of flesh on flesh, the harsher sound of metal on flesh, Joe’s bestial grunts, and Sam’s gasps and moans of profound sexual agony all filled the air.

The meat’s torn and ripped sphincter clenched tightly with each impact of Joe’s metal-enhanced knuckles, its shredded colon clutching the experienced sex killer’s huge, throbbing, club-like member.  This was it.  This was what Joe had been waiting for.  The faggot fuckmeat was nearing the end stages, but it was finally in sync with him.

“Fuck yeah!” Joe grunted with contempt and bloodlust, “Now yer gettin’ it!  Ya dyin’, boy!  Shame you stupid fuckin’ homos gotta be on the verge of death before ya finally start makin’ yer pain my pleasure!”

And that’s exactly what the cunt was doing.  Its firm, hard, well-toned body had become little more than an automated sex toy that responded to Joe’s assault by rewarding him with sexual gratification.  Every single blow it endured caused its mangled asshole to milk Joe’s engorged, leaking cock.  It wasn’t fighting him off now.  Its legs remained wrapped about his waist, squeezing it tightly every time a punch landed.  The arms hung tautly in their restraints, the hands clenching in sync with its rectum.

Sam was drifting in and out of consciousness.  There was little point in remaining sensate when the world was full of such extreme agony.  The phrase “no pain, no gain” had been repeated ad nauseam at the gym, but this was all pain, no gain.  In fact, it was gonna be a net loss.

During his lucid moments, the buff Asian stud was aware that his beautiful body was being thoroughly and methodically destroyed.  Everything from his crotch to his face and been viciously beaten.  His ripped abs were now almost literally ripped.  They were so bruised and swollen that they resembled not so much a washboard than an assortment of malignant tumors.  His chest had been crushed, making each laborious breath its own unique experience in debilitating pain.

Even he, however, didn’t fully appreciate the damage done to his face.  Not to say he wasn’t aware of major issues.  As his breathing became more ragged, there was more movement of his broken jaw.  Much like his ribs, the jagged edges of the broken bones caused indescribable torment.  His nose was clogged, and his eyes were swollen to the point that his field of vision had become a mere slit.

Had he actually been able to see his face, he would have been horrified.  Not only was his face unrecognizable, it was almost unrecognizable as a face.  The nose had been literally squashed flat, the mouth gaped open, drooling a pinkish, blood-tainted froth that ran down his chin.  A pair of purplish-black mounds of swollen flesh surrounded his eyes.  His own family wouldn’t recognize him.

As it so happened, they didn’t recognize him in the morgue—but Sam never knew that.  He also didn’t know that within the next ten minutes, he’d be out of pain.

Permanently.

It was a scene so bizarre that it was surreal.  In the middle of a luxurious bedroom filled with high-quality furniture and expensive antiques, two very well-built men were entwined in a sweaty, desperate struggle of sex and death.  It was well lit; every detail of the two men was easily discernable, from the younger man’s smooth calves, the muscles bulging in agony, the toes obviously curled in their Nikes, to the older man’s firm, taut ass as it pounded and thrust as swiftly and relentless as a steam engine.

Sam’s pain was too much; it triggered an orgasm.  Uterrlear involuntary, simultaneous, involuntary explosive semen exploded from his turgid member

“Aw fuck yeah!” Joe grunted as he spewed his sperm into the Asian’s ass.

Sam curled his toes in his Nikes.  It was like he knew what was coming next—but, of course, it was much worse than he could’ve imagined.

Joe’s fist cane down on Sams’s throat, crushing his larynx like a plastic cup.

Sam could no longer breathe. Every time he tried, nothing came on or into his lungs.  All that was left was his taut, muscled, Asian body being pierced by white cock.

He fought it.  Holy fuck, he fought.  He did not go gentle into that good night.  But as he struggled against death, he milked Joe’s dick free of all the sperm that had built up in his swollen, hairy ballsack.

And that was that last thing that Sam every felt—how Joe used him as a fucktoy and disposed of him like a used cumsock.  

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————

“Whatcha got, Bill?”

“Another faggot murder, over near downtown.”

“So?  Surley that ain’t serious?

“Chief is s concerned since it seems a bit violent.”

“So someone got rough on a fag?  So what?”

“Yeah, I agree, but you know him.  All on board with the chief’s mantra that we gotta be here for everyone.  Let’s go take a look at the cocksucker—then I found a great place for lunch!”

“What are we waiting for?” Paul asked, “Ain’t like and dead homo is gonna ruin my appetite!”