The outside temperature was nearing 100 degrees Fahrenheit and every one of the motel’s under-window AC units were droning away, continually and deafeningly.  It was a bleak, run-down place just off the interstate—so close, in fact that the AC noise was often overcome by the sound of the traffic from the highway that was only located fifty yards from the room’s front door.

Not that Rocko minded.  He was still free.  And he’d managed to find another teen fag to bang.

This one said his name was Rory, but Rocko had gotten a glimpse of an old ID card in his wallet, and Rory was his middle name.  His first name was Andreas, of all things, and despite his declarations of being over twenty-one, he was still four months shy of being twenty.  But then again, the only thing the little slut had ever said that Rocko had ever actually believed was that he’d been on the street for nearly four years, after his mother had caught him getting fucked by his stepdad—and Rocko was highly suspicious of that last part.

At any rate, this particular fucktoy was nearing the end of its useful life.  Rocko had pretty much reamed it out.  Plus, he had a feeling that it was fucking around on him, and that was the real issue.  First, he didn’t know where it was going, and that last thing he needed was it bringing some disease or nigger methhead back to the room.

Second, and much, much more important, Rocko didn’t know who the little fucker was talking to or what about.  And it had let slip a couple of days ago that it knew that Rocko was an escaped convicted murderer.  The situation couldn’t continue.  It was payday and Rocko had stopped off at a liquor store and gotten a bottle of Maker’s Mark.

He’d pulled his old Ford into the motel parking lot, rolled down the driver and passenger windows, and shut the engine off.  Then he sat there, sweating in the heat, drinking swigs from the bottle as he pondered the problem.  He’d only gotten a third of the way through the bottle when he decided that he needed to have it out with the bitch and find out exactly what it had been doing—even if he needed to beat the information out of the little faggot.

He rolled up the windows on got out of the car, the thick soles of his Chippewa 8” black leather workboots grinding on the crumbling chunks of the decaying tarmac surface.  Their laces were left loose so he’d been able to tuck in the cuffs of his old Levi jeans, now so worn and faded that they were a pale sky blue and almost threadbare.  His cotton t-shirt had been relatively clean and white when he’d left that morning to work but was now so soaked with sweat that it clung to his broad chest and washboard abs, leaving nothing in the way of his muscles, body fur, and prison tats to the imagination.  The mystery wasn’t why the adolescent whore had been drawn to him, it was why it had felt the urge to stray.  Well, that was one thing Rocko planned to resolve.  Now.

But it wasn’t there when Rocko got home. 

He peeled off his sodden shirt and used it to sop up whatever extra sweat it could before tossing to the floor.  He placed the whiskey on the table in front of the window—drapes closed for other reasons beyond keeping out the glaring sunlight, obviously—and sat in one of the two shabby and slightly mismatched chairs that accompanied it.  He continued to dwell on the problem of Rory.  And drink.

And drink.

There wasn’t any good reason for it to be gone, he felt.  They didn’t need anything—the homo liked cheap vodka mixed with just about anything.  There was half a large bottle of the stuff left, along with a twelve-pack of soda.  Lotsa ramen that it liked and cans of the thick beef stew that Rocko preferred.  The microwave sitting on top of the mini-fridge worked well.  The TV got basic cable.  And there was plenty of weed hidden away in one of Rocko’s boots in the closet.  What else could an adolescent cocksucker want?

Well, a cock, of course.  But Rocko considered himself worth waiting for.  Any pansy that couldn’t do that didn’t deserve him.

Or to live.

The thought of wasting the worthless little bitch at once, today, actually came to mind idly.  It hadn’t occurred to Rocko earlier; he’d only been musing over the need to dispose of it at some point.  Now that it had occurred to him, it was clinging tightly.  And the alcohol only helped it along.  And the fact that by this late in the day, the decrepit, rattling AC unit under the window could no longer keep up with the outside temperature.

As the temperature inside the sleazy, smoke-stained unit rose, it became obvious; the motherfucker was whoring around on him.  Probably had a buncha disgusting diseases.  Rocko took another swig.  Yeah, whoring around on him—and not cutting him in on the take.  Fucking cunt.

Just then, the door opened unexpectedly, and the fucking cunt walked in, grinning with that freshly-fucked look.  It was wearing a pink tank top that displayed its smooth skin, slick with the sweat that covered its firm, lightly-muscled chest and arms.  Below its white shorts that were just a bit too short, its perfectly formed thighs, covered with a faint, golden haze of light hair, descended down into succulent calves.  On its feet, it was sporting a pair of gray-and-white Puma Rebound Layup hightop kicks.

The rage-prone convict had all the proof he needed.  The motherfucker was dressed to get fucked.

Rocko waited until it had closed and locked the door behind it before he rose and spoke—or, rather, roared.  “Where the fuck have you been, ya useless cumdump?!?”

Startled by the tone of Rocko’s voice, Rory turned towards him, his eyes still adjusting to the change in lighting from coming indoors.  His heart began to race, making him gasp once, reflexively.  Had Rocko found out about his side hustle?

Rocko had.  And his sweaty, muscled body was primed for revenge.

“You been fuckin’ around on me, aintcha?” the convicted killer hissed.

Rory’s heart began to beat so quickly he had to gasp for air, depriving him of the ability to answer—not that Rocko would have been willing to listen to anything he had to say.  By the time he was able to respond, it was too late.

“I-I was only giving this-this old dude BJs,” he stammered, “He-he’s a law-lawyer…oh fuck, lawyer, an-and he can help…”

“Goddammit, I knew it!” Rocko shouted in triumphant rage, “You been tellin’ others about me!”

Rory realized his mistake and went pale in terror.  As if illuminated by a sudden bolt of lightning, he was instantly aware that his young faggot ass wasn’t going to be able to talk its way out of this.

Not that it would stop him from trying; of course; he was utterly oblivious as to how much worse it would make things for him.  “Aw, ma-man, I, I only been try-tryin’ ta help ya!!”, he blurted out, mustering as much faux rage as he could.  It was almost a primeval defense mechanism, like a smaller creature making itself look larger when faced with a predator.

But this predator was not only smarter than that, it was burning with a psychotic and homicidal bloodlust.  As Rocko twisted his hard, cruel face into a mask of vicious rage, Rory shrank back against the door he’d just locked behind him.  He’d forgotten that, in the fear of the moment, but he’d remember it a later, when he only had a brief fraction of a second to savor the fact that he’d locked himself in with a sadistic sex killer.

But that was still to come.

Rory had known about Rocko’s nasty temper and tendency towards physical violence since day one, of course; it was part of what had made him so attractive.  Rory liked to be used like the slut he was.  The idea that he hadn’t completely plumbed the depths of what Rocko thought was the appropriate use of a slut was slowly dawning on him now as the buff alpha brusquely yanked his zipper down in a single motion and extracted his enormous, throbbing cock.  It came out, long, hard, looking exactly like the dangerous weapon it was—not so much a sword for stabbing, but a club for bludgeoning. 

And it was more swollen than Rory had ever seen before.  His heart ratcheted up several notches.  He’d lived the last year or so staying with older men, pretending to work by whoring himself out, not just for his room and board, but for drugs and money too.  As a result, the feral instincts he’d developed as a cheap street rat had subsided, even if they hadn’t completely died out.  They should have gone off the moment he first entered the motel room, but they were certainly screaming now.

It was in almost in a heightened state of awareness that the terrified adolescent considered his options.  While he didn’t truly believe—it might be more accurate to say, couldn’t truly conceive—that this was literally a matter of life and death, he knew that the situation was profoundly serious.  He glanced around for avenues of escape.

This, of course, was totally expected.  The stupid young whores inevitably had the instincts of animals—but then again, as far as Rocko was concerned, they were only human in their outward form.  They were living sex toys, to be disposed of when used up.  Unfortunately, they had been endowed with the gift of speech, and it was usually necessary to take measures to ensure that they talked as little as possible.

And in this case, those measures were going to be extreme.  It had talked to a lawyer.  A fucking lawyer!

Slowly, a plan was evolving in Rocko’s mind, and he wanted a little time to work it out.  So, he noted the cunt’s eyes shifting about with a cold contempt.  Let it look.  Let it try.  Let it hope…

Thus, when Rory’s fear reached the point that he could no longer bear the idea of not attempting to escape, the only resistance he met from Rocko was an instinct reaction from the alpha.  The escaped murderer almost absentmindedly reached out and grabbed at the back of Rory’s shirt, grasping a handful of pink fabric. 

Rory lunged powerfully forward.  Instantly, there was a ripping sound and Rocko was left with the shredded remains of the teen’s shirt while the latter, now clad only in shorts, socks, and shoes, dove through the nearest door and closed it behind him.

Admittedly, Rory’s options were few, but it was a bad choice—it was the closet. Still, it did contain a possible weapon.  The boywhore looked at the folded suitcase stand propped against the back wall, his mind racing…

Rocko’s mind, however, had raced much more swiftly and smoothly and had come to a bold conclusion.  To do this right, he was gonna have to leave the room briefly.  He’d take his key, of course, but the slut was too scared to try anything.  Even though his cock was now oozing in anticipation of what he was going to do, he regretfully penned it back up in its denim confine.

Rocko was an experienced homicidal sexual predator, but he could be taken by surprise on occasion—and this was one of those occasions.  No sooner had he left than Rory came out of the closet, shaky and pale.  He was brandishing the collapsed stand, holding two legs in each hand.  The stand was old and scratched up, but it was solid wood, and it was heavy.  This time, Rorry would be ready.

He made only one fatal mistake.  He lost the element of surprise by re-locking the door.

It didn’t take Rocko long to find what he was looking for in the trunk of his car.  He sauntered back to the room, well aware of the dark, spreading stain of precum in his groin.  But the doorknob refused to yield to his touch.

The cunt was awake.  Good.  It was time to saddle up.  He was ready to dump a load into this stupid piece of meat and end its life in unspeakable agony.  It deserved no less.

A slow, cold grin spread across Rocko’s hard face as he turned the key in the lock.

The chain lock had been set.  The muscled sadist placed the sole of his boot on the door and shoved, his thick thigh muscle flexing visibly in his tight jeans—but he didn’t have to kick.  The chain parted as if it had been made of pipe cleaners, the door swung wide, and Rocko entered, carrying what he’d retrieved from the car.

It was a sixteen-inch double-bladed steel Bowie knife.  And it was knocked out of his hand the moment his booted foot stepped onto the carpet.  Rory, armed with suitcase stand, had been hiding behind the door.

Rocko was rarely taken by surprise these days; perhaps he’d grown over-confident.  But he’d been caught off guard by the little cunt and nearly knocked to the ground.  He’d gone down on one knee, taking the majority of the impact on an upraised arm.  The knife skittered away, coming to rest under the nightstand, where it was almost completely hidden. 

In a split second, the homicidal alpha launched himself back up in a counterattack, springing upon the hapless adolescent like a ravenous tiger.  With the full weight and force of Rocko’s muscled body slamming into him, Rory was thrown across the room, hitting the far wall hard enough to go through the sheetrock.  Slumped and groaning on the floor, he’d ended up semiconscious before he even knew something had hit him.

He could still make out some of what was happening, though.  Rocko walked over to him, rubbing his arm where bruises were already forming.  The look on his face was a somehow gleeful hatred, but when he spoke, his voice was like frozen stone.

“You’re gonna die,” he said flatly, “and it’s gonna hurt worse than anything your little fag ass can think of.”

With that he stepped back, snatching the phone off the nightstand and yanking out its cord.  Wrapping it around his hands he turned back to Rory, a faint smile on his face, but the look in his eyes unchanged.  The boywhore, becoming more conscious, attempted to move, uttering a series of urgent grunts as he struggled to rise.

“No, I ain’t gonna strangle ya,” Rocko said in the same cold, flat voice, “You’d probably actually enjoy that.  No, when I’m done with you, not only ain’t your momma gonna recognize you, she’s gonna puke if she tries.”

With that, he lunged forward and looped the cord around Rory’s left wrist.  Holding it close, he slammed his workboot down onto the kid’s flailing right arm and looped that wrist as well, he began to drag Rory toward the bed.

And at that moment, something changed in the room.  The unique combination of Rocko’s rampant testosterone, exuded by his own sweat and Rory’s fear-driven adrenaline, pumped out by his sweat, had an impact on the atmosphere that went beyond the visceral to be nearly mind-altering.

There was no more Rocko, no more Rory.  There were now the Alpha and the Whore.  And the Whore didn’t want to die. 

It kicked wildly, its sneakers thrashing on the floor.  “Stop!” it plead, “Please!”

The Alpha merely grunted “Shaddup.”  He dragged the Whore up onto the bed by its wrists, the only sign of the effort being the bulging of his massive biceps, gleaming with sweat.  As the slut continued to struggle and kick, the muscled sadist calmly tied its hand to the steel headboard. 

Now the Whore looked Rocko straight in the face, the tears in its eyes belied by the throbbing bulge in its crotch that matched that in the Alpha’s.  “Let me go or I’ll scream,” it said.

“No you won’t,” Rocko replied calmly.  “I can guarantee it.”  He stooped down and, retrieving the knife, he held it up to show the adolescent rentboy.

It was like a spark had been lit in the already charged atmosphere in the room.  The powder trail was now ignited; when it reached the keg, the explosion was going to be catastrophic.

The Whore screamed loudly.  It thrashed frantically, its lithe, smooth torso arcing up off the bed so that its flat belly was caught by the light.  The skin glistened with sweat, an effect that gradually ebbed towards the lower part of the abdomen where a faint down appeared that darkened, thickened, and grew wirier as it trekked beneath the waistline of its shorts.

Well, it wouldn’t need those.  With cold efficiency, Rocko began to cut them off, using the serrated edge of his blade.  The Whore kept screaming and kicking, making the process not so much difficult as irking, especially when the fuckmeat’s screeches were caused by its own movements.

In a sudden burst of animalistic fury, the Alpha stabbed it in the balls…and then instantly regretted it.  Not because of the pain he’d inflicted—never that—but because he’d created the opposite reaction than the one he’d expected.

He’d seen dudes shanked in the nuts in prison a couple of times; in each case, the guy had been left gasping in shock.  That didn’t happen with the Whore.  While one testicle had missed the blow—it had come in at an oblique angle—the other had been squarely punctured.  In fact, it had been nearly, but not quite, slashed in half.  The Whore shrieked so hard its voice almost cracked.

Rocko had wanted to quiet it; now he was sure it could be heard outside.  Still clutching the knife, now smeared with the kid’s blood, he balled up his hand and spoke to the cunt, emphasizing his words with his fist.

“Shut [WHAM] the [WHAM] fuck [WHAM] up!!!”

By the time he finished, the Whore had responded beautifully.  Its head was lolling, its eyes open but rolled back in its head so that only the whites could be seen.  It was drooling out a trickle of blood, and an occasional tooth, from its slack and open mouth.  The mouth was unusually agape—Rocko had broken its jaw in two places.  Satisfied, the alpha slashed its shorts to shreds.

Rocko unbuttoned the waist of his jeans and lowered the zipper, releasing his pulsating member.  The Whore was still out, drooling and making guttural sounds, as the Alpha climbed onto the bed and parted its legs.  It quickly regained some form of consciousness, however, when the muscular ex-convict speared its rectum with his engorged shaft.

It wasn’t as if Rocko hadn’t fucked it before, but this was different.  The atmosphere that had turned the Alpha and Whore modes on in his head, enhanced by Rocko’s inherent rage and sadism, gave an impetus to his brutal thrusting that went beyond rape to physical torture.  And he wasn’t the only one to feel it.

Rory began to surface from blank blackness into a sea of undifferentiated agony.  The first sensation that he could feel was the searing agony of his punctured testicle; he had no idea that his long teen boycock was still erect and pulsating.  While his brain was trying to manage that nightmarish pain, he was also become aware that he was being brutally assraped.

All of it processed in a millisecond and was then overwhelmed by crushed face.  His eyes were swelling shut, his nose was smashed, and his mouth—

He tried to scream, but his broken jaw not only prevented it, it added to the sheer misery of the moment.  As Rory underwent more pain than he had even imagined, all he could do was utter garbled bleats and mewls.  And worse was rapidly approaching.

As the Whore tugged frantically at the plastic-covered cord that bound it to the headboard, the Alpha noticed that even though its dick was still hard, its ass was losing traction on his on vein-wreathed tool.  It was starting to accept its role.  They all did, sooner or later.  It happened every time because they were all whores and deep inside, this was what they needed.  The Whores might bleat and gurgle and struggle like this piece of shit was doing, but the fuckpig that filled whatever hole their souls should have filled, needed it.

No, they might not want it, but they goddam sure needed it.  And it was time this one learned that.

“I’m gonna put you in yer place, ya fuckin’ faggot,” Rocko growled, “And your place is grasping my cock until I kill you.  Get it?  I’m gonna cum when you die.”  With that he picked up the blade, already lying unnoticed on the bed, and held it up to the kid’s left nipple, hard and jutting above the dark areola.

“So, ya see, ya really, really wanna make me cum,” he stated with hate-filled malignancy as he calmly sliced the boy’s nipple off.  Its lithe torso writhed against his wiry chest fur, but there was little change in the way it was gripping his dick.  He transferred his attention to the right nipple.

“’Cause that way, you die sooner, so the pain stops sooner.  Ya feel me, bitch?”  It only took a brief flick of the wrist, and that nipple was gone as well.

Better.  At least that got a response out of it.  But it was nowhere near enough for what was needed—thus showing that the Whore had answered the Alpha’s question.  It didn’t feel him.

Well, it was gonna.  Rocko punctuated his statement by, suddenly and without warning, plunged his knife into the slut’s smooth, flat belly.  The blade slashed through the skin and muscle effortlessly, the honed, razor-sharp edge puncturing the intestine and emerging out the back, pinning the worthless homo to the bed.

There.  That was what it needed to really respond.  “Betcha love that shit, dontcha, cunt?” he sneered, lust now obvious in his sadistic joy.  “Ya got two hard shafts rearrangin’ yer guts at the same time, yeah?  You like that?  Don’t cum yet, motherfucker.  Enjoy the pain—there’s more comin’, I promise!”

Rory gasped as he was punctured.  He clutched at the Alpha’s upper arms in a reflexive reaction, trembling at the edge of shock as his fingers tightened around his killer’s bulging biceps.  But the homicidal sadist kept his promise; more pain was coming forthwith.

The Alpha, now overcome with a hate-filled bloodlust, yanked the knife free.  With an uncanny aimed honed by numerous prison yard shankings, he rammed it into the Whore’s upper abdomen.  Turing his wrist ever so slightly, he managed to impale its gallbladder, liver, and right kidney with a single thrust.  Each of the injuries would be fatal on its own—eventually.  In the meantime, its cock agonizingly hard from electrochemical shock, the Whore writhed on the blade like a bug on a pin.

Which, as far as the Alpha cared, was what it was.  Whores were closer to insects than humans and needed to be exterminated as vindictively as possible.  They deserved what their tiny pig souls craved: sexual abuse, nightmarish agony, and death.  Preferably all at once.  He tugged the blade out and stuck it in the other side, this time getting the spleen and the left kidney.

Rory was only vaguely aware of the profoundly traumatic injuries his lithe adolescent body was enduring; he’d retreated into a catatonic state in an instinctive reaction to avoid shattering his psyche.  He was awake, but he wasn’t processing sensory inputs.  He couldn’t see Rocko’s muscular torso as he thrusted and heaved, his chest fur matted with sweat, his face twisted with cruel lust as he spat on the helpless teen.  He couldn’t hear Rocko snarling about him being a useless slut. 

What he could feel, somehow, was the brutal and relentless rape of his already well-used fuckhole—and his own agonizing erection as his teen cock was being ground like grist in a mill between his own flat, firm, sweat-slick belly and Rocko’s hairy, muscular abs.

It was time.  Deep down inside, both the Alpha and the Whore could feel it.  Rocko felt it in his balls, seething near the exploding point.  Rory felt it unconsciously, in the little corner of his faggot pig psyche.  The agonizing, degrading death he’d needed and craved was here.  It was time.

Rocko jerked the knife out of the fuckmeat, reversed the angle, and slammed it in under the cunt’s jaw.  Clutching the kid’s head in one hand for leverage, he muscled the blade up through the tongue and soft palate.  The hard palate offered some resistance to the razor-sharp tip, but not much.  Even less was offered by the bone and the base of the skull after the professional shiv traversed the nasal passages.  Ripping upwards, he nicked the temporal lobe and slashed through the frontal lobe.

The slut immediately lost the ability of voluntary motion, contracting inwards so that it clutched the Alpha’s shoulder while tightening its legs around his waist.  It’s Puma hightops dug into his back.  But it was still alive, and while not exactly conscious, it was still sensate to a degree.  But not for long.

It was an incredibly ugly, vicious, and excruciating way to die.  Rocko stirred the blade, scrambling the teenaged whore’s brain like eggs for breakfast.  That was the final catalyst.  The meat had brain damage beyond any hope of survival.

It convulsed with all the vigor of a hormone-riddled adolescent fag, beating the Alpha despite its profound sexual release.  Rocko felt the hot, intense gush of its boyseed spewing over their chafing abdomens, and it was what tripped his switch.  Immediately, he started to mark the dead whore as his own, flooding its guts with his searing hot load.

It’s at least possible that the Whore felt the burn in its intestines before it died.

Rocko raised himself up on one arm, yanked the blade out of the corpse’s skull, and continued to stab it as he gushed semen in periodic spasms.  Somewhere along the line, the meat convulsed so intensely that one of its Puma kicks came off and was flung halfway across the room.

After a while, it was done.  Rocko pulled his dick out of the dead teen and sat up to assess the situation. 

He was sweaty and soaked with fag cum, and a little bit of blood.  His knife was still buried up to the hilt in the rentboy’s chest, probably piercing its quivering heart.  The room was a disaster, clearly showing the violence of the assault—not that he cared about that.  It was time to move on.

Rocko pulled the knife out of the dead meat, causing it to spasm and tremble, forcing spooge out of its still semi-erect penis.  It didn’t matter.  He was done here.  He headed into the bathroom and took a leisurely shower, cleaning his knife along with himself.

When he was thoroughly cleansed of the taint of faggot, Rocko exited the bathroom and began to pack up.  He didn’t have much to pack; he always travelled light.  After all there was no telling when he might need to bug out suddenly—like now.

He tossed everything into the trunk of his car, including the slut’s weed in one of his boots.  After all, it might help lure some new bitch in.  After emptying everything he wanted (or might possibly identify him), he paused in the doorway and turned back to take stock one last time.

It was clear, profoundly clear, that an incredibly savage gay rape and murder had occurred.  The adolescent whore lay sprawled on the bed, oozing blood from a score of stab wounds.  It was still bound to the headboard and there was blood oozing from its wrists where it had struggled against the plastic-wrapped phone cord.  Cum was pooled on its chest and was leasing out is ass.  Its eyes were rolled back in its head and blood leaked from its nose and ears.

That was what the body looked like as Rocko sped off into the evening and it still looked like that the next morning when the police arrived.  The only difference was that it had gotten stiff, and the fluids had congealed.  The spasms had stopped too, but the cops didn’t know that and didn’t care that the teenager’s last signs of life had abated in the early evening hours when it was alone in a dark locked room.

“Well,” said the responding officer to the homicide detective, “The maid found this and gave us a call.  You’ve seen what we got from the manager about the kid paying for the room with cash by the week.”

“Yeah,” the detective replied, “But he also says that there was an older man living with him who probably the one paying for it.”

“Ok, but there’s no evidence for that,” the officer answered.

The detective rolled his eyes and wondered if the crime scene unit had been called.  Well, if not, he certainly wasn’t going to waste their time on what was clearly a faggot domestic dispute.  And if the victim was a whore, as he suspected, this whole file would end up in the trash.

“Call the meatwagon,” he said laconically, “Just another John Doe.  No one’s gonna care.”

The outside temperature was nearing 100 degrees Fahrenheit and every one of the motel’s under-window AC units were droning away, continually and deafeningly.  It was a bleak, run-down place just off the interstate—so close, in fact that the AC noise was often overcome by the sound of the traffic from the highway that was only located fifty yards from the room’s front door.

Not that Rocko minded.  He was still free.  And he’d managed to find another teen fag to bang.

This one said his name was Rory, but Rocko had gotten a glimpse of an old ID card in his wallet, and Rory was his middle name.  His first name was Andreas, of all things, and despite his declarations of being over twenty-one, he was still four months shy of being twenty.  But then again, the only thing the little slut had ever said that Rocko had ever actually believed was that he’d been on the street for nearly four years, after his mother had caught him getting fucked by his stepdad—and Rocko was highly suspicious of that last part.

At any rate, this particular fucktoy was nearing the end of its useful life.  Rocko had pretty much reamed it out.  Plus, he had a feeling that it was fucking around on him, and that was the real issue.  First, he didn’t know where it was going, and that last thing he needed was it bringing some disease or nigger methhead back to the room.

Second, and much, much more important, Rocko didn’t know who the little fucker was talking to or what about.  And it had let slip a couple of days ago that it knew that Rocko was an escaped convicted murderer.  The situation couldn’t continue.  It was payday and Rocko had stopped off at a liquor store and gotten a bottle of Maker’s Mark.

He’d pulled his old Ford into the motel parking lot, rolled down the driver and passenger windows, and shut the engine off.  Then he sat there, sweating in the heat, drinking swigs from the bottle as he pondered the problem.  He’d only gotten a third of the way through the bottle when he decided that he needed to have it out with the bitch and find out exactly what it had been doing—even if he needed to beat the information out of the little faggot.

He rolled up the windows on got out of the car, the thick soles of his Chippewa 8” black leather workboots grinding on the crumbling chunks of the decaying tarmac surface.  Their laces were left loose so he’d been able to tuck in the cuffs of his old Levi jeans, now so worn and faded that they were a pale sky blue and almost threadbare.  His cotton t-shirt had been relatively clean and white when he’d left that morning to work but was now so soaked with sweat that it clung to his broad chest and washboard abs, leaving nothing in the way of his muscles, body fur, and prison tats to the imagination.  The mystery wasn’t why the adolescent whore had been drawn to him, it was why it had felt the urge to stray.  Well, that was one thing Rocko planned to resolve.  Now.

But it wasn’t there when Rocko got home. 

He peeled off his sodden shirt and used it to sop up whatever extra sweat it could before tossing to the floor.  He placed the whiskey on the table in front of the window—drapes closed for other reasons beyond keeping out the glaring sunlight, obviously—and sat in one of the two shabby and slightly mismatched chairs that accompanied it.  He continued to dwell on the problem of Rory.  And drink.

And drink.

There wasn’t any good reason for it to be gone, he felt.  They didn’t need anything—the homo liked cheap vodka mixed with just about anything.  There was half a large bottle of the stuff left, along with a twelve-pack of soda.  Lotsa ramen that it liked and cans of the thick beef stew that Rocko preferred.  The microwave sitting on top of the mini-fridge worked well.  The TV got basic cable.  And there was plenty of weed hidden away in one of Rocko’s boots in the closet.  What else could an adolescent cocksucker want?

Well, a cock, of course.  But Rocko considered himself worth waiting for.  Any pansy that couldn’t do that didn’t deserve him.

Or to live.

The thought of wasting the worthless little bitch at once, today, actually came to mind idly.  It hadn’t occurred to Rocko earlier; he’d only been musing over the need to dispose of it at some point.  Now that it had occurred to him, it was clinging tightly.  And the alcohol only helped it along.  And the fact that by this late in the day, the decrepit, rattling AC unit under the window could no longer keep up with the outside temperature.

As the temperature inside the sleazy, smoke-stained unit rose, it became obvious; the motherfucker was whoring around on him.  Probably had a buncha disgusting diseases.  Rocko took another swig.  Yeah, whoring around on him—and not cutting him in on the take.  Fucking cunt.

Just then, the door opened unexpectedly, and the fucking cunt walked in, grinning with that freshly-fucked look.  It was wearing a pink tank top that displayed its smooth skin, slick with the sweat that covered its firm, lightly-muscled chest and arms.  Below its white shorts that were just a bit too short, its perfectly formed thighs, covered with a faint, golden haze of light hair, descended down into succulent calves.  On its feet, it was sporting a pair of gray-and-white Puma Rebound Layup hightop kicks.

The rage-prone convict had all the proof he needed.  The motherfucker was dressed to get fucked.

Rocko waited until it had closed and locked the door behind it before he rose and spoke—or, rather, roared.  “Where the fuck have you been, ya useless cumdump?!?”

Startled by the tone of Rocko’s voice, Rory turned towards him, his eyes still adjusting to the change in lighting from coming indoors.  His heart began to race, making him gasp once, reflexively.  Had Rocko found out about his side hustle?

Rocko had.  And his sweaty, muscled body was primed for revenge.

“You been fuckin’ around on me, aintcha?” the convicted killer hissed.

Rory’s heart began to beat so quickly he had to gasp for air, depriving him of the ability to answer—not that Rocko would have been willing to listen to anything he had to say.  By the time he was able to respond, it was too late.

“I-I was only giving this-this old dude BJs,” he stammered, “He-he’s a law-lawyer…oh fuck, lawyer, an-and he can help…”

“Goddammit, I knew it!” Rocko shouted in triumphant rage, “You been tellin’ others about me!”

Rory realized his mistake and went pale in terror.  As if illuminated by a sudden bolt of lightning, he was instantly aware that his young faggot ass wasn’t going to be able to talk its way out of this.

Not that it would stop him from trying; of course; he was utterly oblivious as to how much worse it would make things for him.  “Aw, ma-man, I, I only been try-tryin’ ta help ya!!”, he blurted out, mustering as much faux rage as he could.  It was almost a primeval defense mechanism, like a smaller creature making itself look larger when faced with a predator.

But this predator was not only smarter than that, it was burning with a psychotic and homicidal bloodlust.  As Rocko twisted his hard, cruel face into a mask of vicious rage, Rory shrank back against the door he’d just locked behind him.  He’d forgotten that, in the fear of the moment, but he’d remember it a later, when he only had a brief fraction of a second to savor the fact that he’d locked himself in with a sadistic sex killer.

But that was still to come.

Rory had known about Rocko’s nasty temper and tendency towards physical violence since day one, of course; it was part of what had made him so attractive.  Rory liked to be used like the slut he was.  The idea that he hadn’t completely plumbed the depths of what Rocko thought was the appropriate use of a slut was slowly dawning on him now as the buff alpha brusquely yanked his zipper down in a single motion and extracted his enormous, throbbing cock.  It came out, long, hard, looking exactly like the dangerous weapon it was—not so much a sword for stabbing, but a club for bludgeoning. 

And it was more swollen than Rory had ever seen before.  His heart ratcheted up several notches.  He’d lived the last year or so staying with older men, pretending to work by whoring himself out, not just for his room and board, but for drugs and money too.  As a result, the feral instincts he’d developed as a cheap street rat had subsided, even if they hadn’t completely died out.  They should have gone off the moment he first entered the motel room, but they were certainly screaming now.

It was in almost in a heightened state of awareness that the terrified adolescent considered his options.  While he didn’t truly believe—it might be more accurate to say, couldn’t truly conceive—that this was literally a matter of life and death, he knew that the situation was profoundly serious.  He glanced around for avenues of escape.

This, of course, was totally expected.  The stupid young whores inevitably had the instincts of animals—but then again, as far as Rocko was concerned, they were only human in their outward form.  They were living sex toys, to be disposed of when used up.  Unfortunately, they had been endowed with the gift of speech, and it was usually necessary to take measures to ensure that they talked as little as possible.

And in this case, those measures were going to be extreme.  It had talked to a lawyer.  A fucking lawyer!

Slowly, a plan was evolving in Rocko’s mind, and he wanted a little time to work it out.  So, he noted the cunt’s eyes shifting about with a cold contempt.  Let it look.  Let it try.  Let it hope…

Thus, when Rory’s fear reached the point that he could no longer bear the idea of not attempting to escape, the only resistance he met from Rocko was an instinct reaction from the alpha.  The escaped murderer almost absentmindedly reached out and grabbed at the back of Rory’s shirt, grasping a handful of pink fabric. 

Rory lunged powerfully forward.  Instantly, there was a ripping sound and Rocko was left with the shredded remains of the teen’s shirt while the latter, now clad only in shorts, socks, and shoes, dove through the nearest door and closed it behind him.

Admittedly, Rory’s options were few, but it was a bad choice—it was the closet. Still, it did contain a possible weapon.  The boywhore looked at the folded suitcase stand propped against the back wall, his mind racing…

Rocko’s mind, however, had raced much more swiftly and smoothly and had come to a bold conclusion.  To do this right, he was gonna have to leave the room briefly.  He’d take his key, of course, but the slut was too scared to try anything.  Even though his cock was now oozing in anticipation of what he was going to do, he regretfully penned it back up in its denim confine.

Rocko was an experienced homicidal sexual predator, but he could be taken by surprise on occasion—and this was one of those occasions.  No sooner had he left than Rory came out of the closet, shaky and pale.  He was brandishing the collapsed stand, holding two legs in each hand.  The stand was old and scratched up, but it was solid wood, and it was heavy.  This time, Rorry would be ready.

He made only one fatal mistake.  He lost the element of surprise by re-locking the door.

It didn’t take Rocko long to find what he was looking for in the trunk of his car.  He sauntered back to the room, well aware of the dark, spreading stain of precum in his groin.  But the doorknob refused to yield to his touch.

The cunt was awake.  Good.  It was time to saddle up.  He was ready to dump a load into this stupid piece of meat and end its life in unspeakable agony.  It deserved no less.

A slow, cold grin spread across Rocko’s hard face as he turned the key in the lock.

The chain lock had been set.  The muscled sadist placed the sole of his boot on the door and shoved, his thick thigh muscle flexing visibly in his tight jeans—but he didn’t have to kick.  The chain parted as if it had been made of pipe cleaners, the door swung wide, and Rocko entered, carrying what he’d retrieved from the car.

It was a sixteen-inch double-bladed steel Bowie knife.  And it was knocked out of his hand the moment his booted foot stepped onto the carpet.  Rory, armed with suitcase stand, had been hiding behind the door.

Rocko was rarely taken by surprise these days; perhaps he’d grown over-confident.  But he’d been caught off guard by the little cunt and nearly knocked to the ground.  He’d gone down on one knee, taking the majority of the impact on an upraised arm.  The knife skittered away, coming to rest under the nightstand, where it was almost completely hidden. 

In a split second, the homicidal alpha launched himself back up in a counterattack, springing upon the hapless adolescent like a ravenous tiger.  With the full weight and force of Rocko’s muscled body slamming into him, Rory was thrown across the room, hitting the far wall hard enough to go through the sheetrock.  Slumped and groaning on the floor, he’d ended up semiconscious before he even knew something had hit him.

He could still make out some of what was happening, though.  Rocko walked over to him, rubbing his arm where bruises were already forming.  The look on his face was a somehow gleeful hatred, but when he spoke, his voice was like frozen stone.

“You’re gonna die,” he said flatly, “and it’s gonna hurt worse than anything your little fag ass can think of.”

With that he stepped back, snatching the phone off the nightstand and yanking out its cord.  Wrapping it around his hands he turned back to Rory, a faint smile on his face, but the look in his eyes unchanged.  The boywhore, becoming more conscious, attempted to move, uttering a series of urgent grunts as he struggled to rise.

“No, I ain’t gonna strangle ya,” Rocko said in the same cold, flat voice, “You’d probably actually enjoy that.  No, when I’m done with you, not only ain’t your momma gonna recognize you, she’s gonna puke if she tries.”

With that, he lunged forward and looped the cord around Rory’s left wrist.  Holding it close, he slammed his workboot down onto the kid’s flailing right arm and looped that wrist as well, he began to drag Rory toward the bed.

And at that moment, something changed in the room.  The unique combination of Rocko’s rampant testosterone, exuded by his own sweat and Rory’s fear-driven adrenaline, pumped out by his sweat, had an impact on the atmosphere that went beyond the visceral to be nearly mind-altering.

There was no more Rocko, no more Rory.  There were now the Alpha and the Whore.  And the Whore didn’t want to die. 

It kicked wildly, its sneakers thrashing on the floor.  “Stop!” it plead, “Please!”

The Alpha merely grunted “Shaddup.”  He dragged the Whore up onto the bed by its wrists, the only sign of the effort being the bulging of his massive biceps, gleaming with sweat.  As the slut continued to struggle and kick, the muscled sadist calmly tied its hand to the steel headboard. 

Now the Whore looked Rocko straight in the face, the tears in its eyes belied by the throbbing bulge in its crotch that matched that in the Alpha’s.  “Let me go or I’ll scream,” it said.

“No you won’t,” Rocko replied calmly.  “I can guarantee it.”  He stooped down and, retrieving the knife, he held it up to show the adolescent rentboy.

It was like a spark had been lit in the already charged atmosphere in the room.  The powder trail was now ignited; when it reached the keg, the explosion was going to be catastrophic.

The Whore screamed loudly.  It thrashed frantically, its lithe, smooth torso arcing up off the bed so that its flat belly was caught by the light.  The skin glistened with sweat, an effect that gradually ebbed towards the lower part of the abdomen where a faint down appeared that darkened, thickened, and grew wirier as it trekked beneath the waistline of its shorts.

Well, it wouldn’t need those.  With cold efficiency, Rocko began to cut them off, using the serrated edge of his blade.  The Whore kept screaming and kicking, making the process not so much difficult as irking, especially when the fuckmeat’s screeches were caused by its own movements.

In a sudden burst of animalistic fury, the Alpha stabbed it in the balls…and then instantly regretted it.  Not because of the pain he’d inflicted—never that—but because he’d created the opposite reaction than the one he’d expected.

He’d seen dudes shanked in the nuts in prison a couple of times; in each case, the guy had been left gasping in shock.  That didn’t happen with the Whore.  While one testicle had missed the blow—it had come in at an oblique angle—the other had been squarely punctured.  In fact, it had been nearly, but not quite, slashed in half.  The Whore shrieked so hard its voice almost cracked.

Rocko had wanted to quiet it; now he was sure it could be heard outside.  Still clutching the knife, now smeared with the kid’s blood, he balled up his hand and spoke to the cunt, emphasizing his words with his fist.

“Shut [WHAM] the [WHAM] fuck [WHAM] up!!!”

By the time he finished, the Whore had responded beautifully.  Its head was lolling, its eyes open but rolled back in its head so that only the whites could be seen.  It was drooling out a trickle of blood, and an occasional tooth, from its slack and open mouth.  The mouth was unusually agape—Rocko had broken its jaw in two places.  Satisfied, the alpha slashed its shorts to shreds.

Rocko unbuttoned the waist of his jeans and lowered the zipper, releasing his pulsating member.  The Whore was still out, drooling and making guttural sounds, as the Alpha climbed onto the bed and parted its legs.  It quickly regained some form of consciousness, however, when the muscular ex-convict speared its rectum with his engorged shaft.

It wasn’t as if Rocko hadn’t fucked it before, but this was different.  The atmosphere that had turned the Alpha and Whore modes on in his head, enhanced by Rocko’s inherent rage and sadism, gave an impetus to his brutal thrusting that went beyond rape to physical torture.  And he wasn’t the only one to feel it.

Rory began to surface from blank blackness into a sea of undifferentiated agony.  The first sensation that he could feel was the searing agony of his punctured testicle; he had no idea that his long teen boycock was still erect and pulsating.  While his brain was trying to manage that nightmarish pain, he was also become aware that he was being brutally assraped.

All of it processed in a millisecond and was then overwhelmed by crushed face.  His eyes were swelling shut, his nose was smashed, and his mouth—

He tried to scream, but his broken jaw not only prevented it, it added to the sheer misery of the moment.  As Rory underwent more pain than he had even imagined, all he could do was utter garbled bleats and mewls.  And worse was rapidly approaching.

As the Whore tugged frantically at the plastic-covered cord that bound it to the headboard, the Alpha noticed that even though its dick was still hard, its ass was losing traction on his on vein-wreathed tool.  It was starting to accept its role.  They all did, sooner or later.  It happened every time because they were all whores and deep inside, this was what they needed.  The Whores might bleat and gurgle and struggle like this piece of shit was doing, but the fuckpig that filled whatever hole their souls should have filled, needed it.

No, they might not want it, but they goddam sure needed it.  And it was time this one learned that.

“I’m gonna put you in yer place, ya fuckin’ faggot,” Rocko growled, “And your place is grasping my cock until I kill you.  Get it?  I’m gonna cum when you die.”  With that he picked up the blade, already lying unnoticed on the bed, and held it up to the kid’s left nipple, hard and jutting above the dark areola.

“So, ya see, ya really, really wanna make me cum,” he stated with hate-filled malignancy as he calmly sliced the boy’s nipple off.  Its lithe torso writhed against his wiry chest fur, but there was little change in the way it was gripping his dick.  He transferred his attention to the right nipple.

“’Cause that way, you die sooner, so the pain stops sooner.  Ya feel me, bitch?”  It only took a brief flick of the wrist, and that nipple was gone as well.

Better.  At least that got a response out of it.  But it was nowhere near enough for what was needed—thus showing that the Whore had answered the Alpha’s question.  It didn’t feel him.

Well, it was gonna.  Rocko punctuated his statement by, suddenly and without warning, plunged his knife into the slut’s smooth, flat belly.  The blade slashed through the skin and muscle effortlessly, the honed, razor-sharp edge puncturing the intestine and emerging out the back, pinning the worthless homo to the bed.

There.  That was what it needed to really respond.  “Betcha love that shit, dontcha, cunt?” he sneered, lust now obvious in his sadistic joy.  “Ya got two hard shafts rearrangin’ yer guts at the same time, yeah?  You like that?  Don’t cum yet, motherfucker.  Enjoy the pain—there’s more comin’, I promise!”

Rory gasped as he was punctured.  He clutched at the Alpha’s upper arms in a reflexive reaction, trembling at the edge of shock as his fingers tightened around his killer’s bulging biceps.  But the homicidal sadist kept his promise; more pain was coming forthwith.

The Alpha, now overcome with a hate-filled bloodlust, yanked the knife free.  With an uncanny aimed honed by numerous prison yard shankings, he rammed it into the Whore’s upper abdomen.  Turing his wrist ever so slightly, he managed to impale its gallbladder, liver, and right kidney with a single thrust.  Each of the injuries would be fatal on its own—eventually.  In the meantime, its cock agonizingly hard from electrochemical shock, the Whore writhed on the blade like a bug on a pin.

Which, as far as the Alpha cared, was what it was.  Whores were closer to insects than humans and needed to be exterminated as vindictively as possible.  They deserved what their tiny pig souls craved: sexual abuse, nightmarish agony, and death.  Preferably all at once.  He tugged the blade out and stuck it in the other side, this time getting the spleen and the left kidney.

Rory was only vaguely aware of the profoundly traumatic injuries his lithe adolescent body was enduring; he’d retreated into a catatonic state in an instinctive reaction to avoid shattering his psyche.  He was awake, but he wasn’t processing sensory inputs.  He couldn’t see Rocko’s muscular torso as he thrusted and heaved, his chest fur matted with sweat, his face twisted with cruel lust as he spat on the helpless teen.  He couldn’t hear Rocko snarling about him being a useless slut. 

What he could feel, somehow, was the brutal and relentless rape of his already well-used fuckhole—and his own agonizing erection as his teen cock was being ground like grist in a mill between his own flat, firm, sweat-slick belly and Rocko’s hairy, muscular abs.

It was time.  Deep down inside, both the Alpha and the Whore could feel it.  Rocko felt it in his balls, seething near the exploding point.  Rory felt it unconsciously, in the little corner of his faggot pig psyche.  The agonizing, degrading death he’d needed and craved was here.  It was time.

Rocko jerked the knife out of the fuckmeat, reversed the angle, and slammed it in under the cunt’s jaw.  Clutching the kid’s head in one hand for leverage, he muscled the blade up through the tongue and soft palate.  The hard palate offered some resistance to the razor-sharp tip, but not much.  Even less was offered by the bone and the base of the skull after the professional shiv traversed the nasal passages.  Ripping upwards, he nicked the temporal lobe and slashed through the frontal lobe.

The slut immediately lost the ability of voluntary motion, contracting inwards so that it clutched the Alpha’s shoulder while tightening its legs around his waist.  It’s Puma hightops dug into his back.  But it was still alive, and while not exactly conscious, it was still sensate to a degree.  But not for long.

It was an incredibly ugly, vicious, and excruciating way to die.  Rocko stirred the blade, scrambling the teenaged whore’s brain like eggs for breakfast.  That was the final catalyst.  The meat had brain damage beyond any hope of survival.

It convulsed with all the vigor of a hormone-riddled adolescent fag, beating the Alpha despite its profound sexual release.  Rocko felt the hot, intense gush of its boyseed spewing over their chafing abdomens, and it was what tripped his switch.  Immediately, he started to mark the dead whore as his own, flooding its guts with his searing hot load.

It’s at least possible that the Whore felt the burn in its intestines before it died.

Rocko raised himself up on one arm, yanked the blade out of the corpse’s skull, and continued to stab it as he gushed semen in periodic spasms.  Somewhere along the line, the meat convulsed so intensely that one of its Puma kicks came off and was flung halfway across the room.

After a while, it was done.  Rocko pulled his dick out of the dead teen and sat up to assess the situation. 

He was sweaty and soaked with fag cum, and a little bit of blood.  His knife was still buried up to the hilt in the rentboy’s chest, probably piercing its quivering heart.  The room was a disaster, clearly showing the violence of the assault—not that he cared about that.  It was time to move on.

Rocko pulled the knife out of the dead meat, causing it to spasm and tremble, forcing spooge out of its still semi-erect penis.  It didn’t matter.  He was done here.  He headed into the bathroom and took a leisurely shower, cleaning his knife along with himself.

When he was thoroughly cleansed of the taint of faggot, Rocko exited the bathroom and began to pack up.  He didn’t have much to pack; he always travelled light.  After all there was no telling when he might need to bug out suddenly—like now.

He tossed everything into the trunk of his car, including the slut’s weed in one of his boots.  After all, it might help lure some new bitch in.  After emptying everything he wanted (or might possibly identify him), he paused in the doorway and turned back to take stock one last time.

It was clear, profoundly clear, that an incredibly savage gay rape and murder had occurred.  The adolescent whore lay sprawled on the bed, oozing blood from a score of stab wounds.  It was still bound to the headboard and there was blood oozing from its wrists where it had struggled against the plastic-wrapped phone cord.  Cum was pooled on its chest and was leasing out is ass.  Its eyes were rolled back in its head and blood leaked from its nose and ears.

That was what the body looked like as Rocko sped off into the evening and it still looked like that the next morning when the police arrived.  The only difference was that it had gotten stiff, and the fluids had congealed.  The spasms had stopped too, but the cops didn’t know that and didn’t care that the teenager’s last signs of life had abated in the early evening hours when it was alone in a dark locked room.

“Well,” said the responding officer to the homicide detective, “The maid found this and gave us a call.  You’ve seen what we got from the manager about the kid paying for the room with cash by the week.”

“Yeah,” the detective replied, “But he also says that there was an older man living with him who probably the one paying for it.”

“Ok, but there’s no evidence for that,” the officer answered.

The detective rolled his eyes and wondered if the crime scene unit had been called.  Well, if not, he certainly wasn’t going to waste their time on what was clearly a faggot domestic dispute.  And if the victim was a whore, as he suspected, this whole file would end up in the trash.

“Call the meatwagon,” he said laconically, “Just another John Doe.  No one’s gonna care.”

And he was right.  Rory was finally identified—and Rocko had been right also.  His mother vomited in the process.  But after that, there was no progress in the case.  It turned out that even she didn’t care about her homosexual son.  He was incinerated in a carboard box and his ashes were used to fertilize her garden plantsAnd he was right.  Rory was finally identified—and Rocko had been right also.  His mother vomited in the process.  But after that, there was no progress in the case.  It turned out that even she didn’t care about her homosexual son.  He was incinerated in a carboard box and his ashes were used to fertilize her garden plants.

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.

He says his name is Ryan, but that’s a lie.  He says he’s twenty-one, and that’s a lie, too.  He can’t be more than eighteen. 

But you want him.  You want to possess him, to own him, here and now, and that’s what matters.  And he’s a street whore, which makes it even better, because there’s only one way to make a whore yours.

And no one else will ever miss him.

When it happened before, it was an accident but it had been so good—you’d never known sex could be that intense.  Now you do, and you want—no, you need—to recapture that feeling.

This time, you know what’s going to happen.  The excitement, the anticipation, already have your long thick cock already swollen so visibly that a mere glance at your crotch makes your arousal painfully obvious.

But above all, it’s the sense of power, of control, that sparks your desire.  You’re anxious to get to that ultimate conquest, that moment when the boy can never belong to anyone else and is yours to do with as you will.

And, after all, this is only a practice run.  You’re working on a rewiring job, bringing an older office building up to code.  It’s long, hard work, and you need to blow off some steam.  There’s that guy who works in one of the offices, the one that’s been eyeing you.  No, not eyeing—ogling. 

If he went missing, questions would be asked.  Best to work out your technique on a non-entity.  A non-entity that you still want to possess.

So you decided to go trolling, and that’s what led you here.  Despite your deep desire, you still feel awkward, of course—it’s not like you’re used to doing this often.  But you have done it before, on rare occasions.  You know about the alleyway behind a certain block of bars in the gayborhood. 

The alley is narrow enough to make fitting your F-250 into it somewhat difficult, but nowhere near impossible.  Thirty yards ahead is a spot where it widens a little, and that’s where you pull in.

You see him almost immediately.  He’s about another fifty feet down the alley.  He’s standing next to a dumpster, under a security light, but at first, it’s hard for your eyes to make him out.  The light is fluorescent, and it’s about to fail—it’s flickering like a strobe.  Further down the alley, you can see several other guys, but not clearly.  Two of them seemed to be engaged in oral sex.

Not your business.  The boy closest to you has seen you and is coming closer.

He has straight blond hair that falls to shoulder length at least, if not beyond.  The hair is likely dyed, since his eyebrows are as brown as his puppy-like, long-lashed eyes.  He’s seriously whoring himself out, to judge by the skin-tight black leather jeans, white t-shirt, and black leather biker’s jacker that highlight his lithe adolescent body.  The cuffs of the leather jeans are caught up in a pair of tightly laced red, white, and black Adidas Rivalry hightops.

He approaches the passenger door; you’ve already lowered the window.  As he leans in to start the ball rolling, you notice the clear skin on his face, and the faint black smudge on his upper lip that betrays the onset of facial hair.  That’s one definite sign that his stated age is a lie.

Not that it matters.  You start to tell him your name is Mike, thinking it can’t hurt for him to know, but at that moment, he whips out a phone and starts texting, saying he always likes to check in with a friend before taking on a trick. 

You immediately change tack and give him a false first and last name.  You also bitch about dealing with a loaner since you Chevy Tahoe is in the shop, hoping it throws him—and his friend, more likely his pimp—off the track.  You’ can’t afford to make that kind of mistake in the future, but you push that aside.  You’ll deal with that later; right now, you have the kid to deal with.

He demands three hundred bucks for an hour, anything goes—no boundaries.  That’s not a lot of money to you in general—hell, you’ve got five hundred in your wallet right now, for that matter—but it’s a fuck of a lot to spend for sex.  It takes a moment for you to realize that it ultimately won’t matter.

You agree and “Ryan” demands to see the cash.  Not a problem. 

All it took was a quick glance at the money and the boy eagerly pops open the passenger door and climbs up into the passenger seat of your pickup.  You cautiously back out of the alleyway and head for home.  Once you hit the freeway, the kid starts asking about booze.

Well, you got some nice single malt scotch back home, but you’re not gonna waste that on this punk.  That’s for a real date—like that guy at the office building…

Stop counting that chicken before it’s hatched.  You’ve got a fluffy little chick right here with you that needs some attention first.  There’s half a bottle of Smirnov left from a party you had three months ago, and this kid says he’s satisfied with that, especially when you add the fact that you have liter of fresh orange juice in the fridge.

When you get home, you park in the garage, closing the door behind you before shutting off and exiting the truck.  None of your neighbors has the chance to see that someone else is riding with you.

It’s time to get it on.

You lead the way from the garage down a short hallway, your Timberland boots thudding on the tile until you reach the carpeted living room.  The moment you get to the sofa, you turn to him.  Without a word, he reaches out and grabs the groin of your Wrangler boot cut jeans, fondling your erect shaft through the tight denim.

You look him deeply in the eyes, those huge, adorable, puppy-dog brown eyes.  You know what’s happening, you know how this will end for him.  But yet your heart, contrarian as always, swells with pity and love for the youth.

You wrap your hand around the nape of his neck and slowly pull him to you until you can feel his slim, firm body pressing against you.  Your lips meet and instantly your tongue is probing his mouth, entwining with his own tongue.  Part of you regrets what you have to do to him—and certainly regrets doing it here, in your own home.  But the boy is a whore and any place of his own would likely be compromised by others.

And as far was what you’re going to do—well, that’s an expression of love.  This is the only way to keep him safe, to make him yours, to make sure no one else can ever hurt him again.

If he truly knew how much you loved him in this moment, how you were going to protect for all time, he’d be eternally grateful.

He breaks away and steps back momentarily, breathing deeply and fixing me with a lascivious gaze.  Tremblingly, he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.  “Where, uh, where’s that drink you mentioned?” he asks in a strained voice.

“This way,” you reply, and lead him into the kitchen.  You pull a highball glass from a cabinet and place it on the counter; it’s soon joined by the vodka and orange juice.  “Go ahead and help yourself,” you say casually, and head back to the living room.

As you wait for the kid, you remove your dark blue button-down and white cotton t-shirt, laying them carefully over the back of a chair on the far side of the room.  No sense, after all, in getting your work clothes mussed.

Then you unzip your fly and yank your huge throbbing tackle out.   When the boy returns, he’s greeted by the sight of your jutting cock. 

His jaw drops; the only reason his glass doesn’t do the same is because he raises it to his lips and empties the entire thing in two consecutive chugs.  He sways for a moment—the alcohol can’t have fully entered his bloodstream yet, so it must be a reaction to the strength of the drink.  Then he grins in a stupidly endearing way and shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor.  Two seconds later, his t-shirt is lying on top of it and he’s massaging his leather-covered shaft.

His grin gets even wider.  “You got any weed, dude?”  That I can provide, and he knows it—my bong is in plain sight, so I nod to indicate my agreement.  He takes a couple of lung-busting hits and as he staggers, coughing and gagging in a cloud of sweet bluish smoke, you reach out and grab him around the waist, pulling him to you again.  This time, you unbutton his fly and pull his long boydick out of his leather jeans.

He looks down at you, his grin now goofy and loveable.  You take the head of his dick into your mouth, showing him how much you truly love him.  As you lavish your tongue on his thick head and lap at the thin tube of spongy tissue running along the underside of his meat, you hope that he’ll be able to sense what you feel about him. 

You hope he knows that it might hurt a little to start, but it’s only being done to ensure he can never hurt again.  And if that’s not true love, what is?

You run your head down his shaft, savoring every inch of it.  He does, too, judging by the way he pulls his balls out so you can rest your chin on them, your face buried in his silky adolescent pubes.

This time, it’s your turn to break it off.  “C’mon,” you say, rising suddenly and grabbing him by the hand.  “Let’s go into the bedroom…”  Your voice trails off as you smile seductively and pull him into the next room.

Once inside the door, you maneuver him around in a semicircle, like a ballroom dance move, so you can seat him on the foot of the bed with you standing in front of him, your dick bobbing in his face.  Fuck, it’s so erotic, the way your oozing precum slathers his young, greedy face with transparent glaze. 

He’ll know.  He’ll know why.  He wants you as much as you want him right now.

“Your turn,” you whisper gently to him, “Let me see what you can do.”  He obliges by gulping down my raging erection.  He can’t quite get as far down on mine as you got on his, but he’s doing his damnedest to get there.

And as he does so, you unbuckle your belt and very slowly remove it from around your waist.  Raising it up, you wrap each end once about your palms, leaving a sizable leather strap in between.  Holding this above the teen’s head, you jerk your hips backward and drop the belt down around the boy’s neck.  Already drunk and stoned, his unprepared reflexes are no match for your determination and you’re able to close his throat off with ease.

This is it.  This is the moment that makes him yours.  You know—or, at least, experience has led you to expect—that he’s not going to want this, not at first.  He’s gonna be scared, he’s gonna resist.  You need to calm him, to explain why this is the best thing that could ever happen to him.

You can do this.  You can make him understand your utter devotion in offering the gift of death.

He fights, of course; he will at first.  But he’s really struggling to push you away.  He keeps trying to stand but you pull down on the belt while tightening, ensuring that the kid can’t rise.  Poor boy, he must be terrified.  His arms claw at you wildly, his fists beating futilely beating on your bulging, fur-covered pecs.  Between your spread, booted legs you can see his leather-clad thighs thrashing as he kicks in sheer panic.

Sometimes, suffering is needed to understand love—but you still want to soften the blow for the beautiful teenager.  You’re able to twist the ends of the belt together so you can still hold the noose tight with your left hand.  With your right hand, you cradle his jerking head and press his purple, gagging face into you ripped abs.

“Shhh,” you whisper, stroking his long, silky hair, “It won’t hurt for long.  I promise.  And then nothing will ever hurt again.”

You stand up and pull him erect by his neck, keeping the belt taut and gently clutching his chin.  His hands start scrabbling at the black leather strap around his neck, alternating that target with your own hands and wrists.  But he’s not hurting you.  You can look directly and deeply into his horrified eyes and watch as they slowly start to bulge, pinprick hemorrhages discoloring the whites.

Poor, poor boy.  You don’t want to make him suffer like this, but there really is no other way.  If only he wouldn’t resist, if only he understood how soon he’d be at peace. 

You pull him close, so close your cheeks brush.  In this tight proximity, you can hear every single strained grunt that is the ghost of an unborn scream of utter terror.  “Don’t fight it, my love,” you murmur into his ear as he gags and chokes, “Let it come.  Submit to it.  Embrace the darkness that will make you truly mine, and no one else’s.”

You pull back again, to see it he heard you, if he understands who much you love him.   He seems to.

He’s gazing into your eyes, a long, deep unfocused look.  He’s no longer resisting you; in fact his hands are caressing your face, his fingers making a fluttering motion—although they grow weaker with each pass.  Suddenly he stiffens. His face is almost jet black and his eyes roll back until nothing can be seen but blood-streaked white.  His purple lips have been forced apart by his dark, swollen tongue.  As his head bobs erratically, thick foamy spittle drips from his chin.

Oh god, he’s irresistible.  You want him now, more than ever.  As his brain flicker out, you grab the back of his head and pull him to you, kissing him deeply, forcing your tongue past his despite its thick, swollen state.  His face is so puffy and black that he’s almost unrecognizable, but you don’t care.  Now, in this moment, you love him.  The only thing needed to make it right is some sign of his acceptance, some acknowledgment of your intense, profound love—

—and he gives it.  You hold his dying body close to you, feeling that firm teenage form writhe in its death throes, when suddenly he experiences a powerful convulsion.

At the same time, what seems to be a gallon of sticky, white boyspunk splashes up your torso, splattering on your erect, oozing rod and matting your pubes and chest hair.

He’s dead.  He’s still thrashing and ejaculating, but you’ve done what you promised.  He’ll never belong to anyone else; he’ll never be hurt by anyone else, ever again.  But even better, he knew it.  He knew it, and he loved you for it.

You have his semen to prove how much he loved you for it.

And now, you can love him back.  Now, he’s really, truly yours.

You lower his quivering body back onto the bed, slowly loosening the belt enough to slip it back out from around his neck.  It takes a bit of force, though; it’s been embedded pretty deeply.  You step back and circle around the foot of the bed, walking slowly, struck by the marble-like beauty of the dead you.  His face is still badly swollen, but the blackness is already fading into a faint indigo.  You admire his expression as he stares into eternity, fully at peace.

You glance up and notice your reflection in the mirror on the dresser on the far side of the bed from you.  From this distance you can see not only yourself, but the corpse as well—and you’re struck by a sudden urge.  It’s not something you’ve ever felt before and you don’t know where the compulsion comes from, but, well, why not?

Staring at the mirror, you grin as you flex your powerful arms and, in that moment, you knew why you felt the need to do it.

It’s the link between seeing the power of your muscles and the sensation of power you’ve derived from using them.  The thick biceps and triceps, the swollen pecs and the bulging delts and lats are a visual testament to your power.  You can do this.  You can make a man yours, forever—any man you wanted.  You can end another man’s life.

You LIKE ending another man’s life, as the sight of your ragingly erect, dripping cock proves. 

And now it’s time to claim him, to mark him as yours.

You kneel down to pull his shoes off.  One has come off already; evidently, he managed to work it off during his convulsions.  Shame; you’d have liked to see that.  You pause for a moment to imagine it…

But enough of that.  You slip the other sneaker off.  He can keep his calf-high athletic socks.

Rising, you lean over and begin peeling his leather jeans off, a smooth, musky second skin that slowly reveals the alabaster skin of the dead boy underneath.  They get tossed to the floor.

Nude but for his socks, he’s finally ready for you.  You still love him, in a way.  It’s time to finish showing him how much. 

Climbing onto the foot of the bed, you take his feet by the ankles and bend his legs up until his knees are nearly touching his chest.  From there, you can mount him with ease.

And mount the boy you do.  He accepts you, almost willingly, but there are moment of resistance where you need to use…force.  It’s ok, though, you’re not hurting him.  Once you’re fully inside him, you lower his feet until his ankles rest on your shoulders.

And now, you give him what he needed, what he desired, what drove him to you on this dark, fateful night.  As you pump him full of your achingly hard member, you lean forward and plant kisses on his face.  Fuck, the jaded look in the face of a dead man is almost more than you can take.  More, his dick is still semi-erect and slapping between his belly and yours, smearing your ripped abs with his still-dribbling semen.

It’s coming, you can feel it.  You lean forward, letting his legs splay out on either side.  For a moment, you run your hands over his taut, smooth thighs, then lean forward again and kiss him on the mouth.

Make him yours.  Mark him with your manseed.  No one will ever breed him again.

You kiss him deeply, your tongue thrusting into the crushed remains of his throat as your long, hard dick explores his guts.  Yes.  Now you’ll show him.  Now, you’ll prove he’s yours.

When the orgasm comes, it’s of an intensity you’ve never experienced before.  Clutching the teen’s corpse tightly, you continue to French his mouth long and hard as spurt after spurt of hot jizz spits from your engorged shaft up into the kid’s intestines.

Even after it feel like your balls have drained, you keep fucking him, emitting grunts and moans of agonized pleasure.  Finally, it ceases and you collapse, sweating and panting, your heaving flanks glistening with sweat.

After several minutes, you finally recover enough to pull out of him and get up so you can head to the bathroom and clean yourself off.  Afterwards, you put your shirt and belt back on.  At the tough of the thick black leather strap, your knowledge of what you are able to do with it make your dick, back snug inside your jeans, twitch and begin to stiffen again.

But you don’t have time for that.  It’s time to clean up the results of your experiment.

The dead kid is easy to handle; you just scoop him off the bed, carry him out to the garage, and dump him in the bed of your truck.  A return trip into the house clears up his clothes and shoes, and they join him soon enough.

Now, it’s time to put him back where you found him.

It’s four-thirty in the morning, but as you approach the alley, you can see a pair of shapes down in the darkness.  There aren’t any cameras back there—that’s why whores hang out there, but it’s also a spot for quick sex after the bars close.  You pull into a near-empty parking lot across from the alley and shut your lights off.

You feel a sense of impatience, but it’s replaced by a sharper pang of concern when a police car turns down the street.  It soon turns out to be beneficial, though—the cop isn’t interested in you, but he is in the alley.  He shines his searchlight down it. 

From where you’re sitting, you can see that his light isn’t quite making it into the corner where the figures are.  But it’s extremely close, and they stop moving.  Not seeing anything, the cop shuts the light off and continues down the street.  Less than sixty seconds later, two young men come out of the alley, one zipping his pants.  They scan up and down the street and immediately depart on foot in opposite directions.

The alley is clear.  You drive straight to the dumpster where the kid had been standing.  You shift into park and exit the truck.  Thirty seconds later, the dead kid hits the bottom of the dumpster with a loud thud, reminiscent of over a hundred pounds of meat being disposed of.  He ends up on the reeking, rusting metal floor face down, legs spread, ass bared and still leaking your spunk.  When you toss his clothes in, they land to the side.  The boy’s cooling, stiffening corpse has no cover against the elements.

 It doesn’t matter, though.  He past the need for any.  Your desire for him has ensured his immunity from any possible pain or discomfort, ever again.

As you drive home, your mind seethes with epiphanies and possibilities.  This is who you are.  This is how you love.  And in the end, they love you back.  They love you so, so much for your ultimate devotion, your need to own them and protect them.  After all, if they didn’t, why did they cum so hard when they finally realized what you were doing for them?

When you’re home and undressing, another thought occurs to you—you can’t count this as successful until you know there won’t be any further consequences.  You need to watch the news to see if there’s any mention of that alley or the kid himself.

What did he say his name was again?  Oh, yeah.  His name was Ryan.

Aaron plunged the syringe into Will’s forearm and the boy winced.

“Keep still and watch,” the older man growled, “Maybe you’ll learn how to do this yerself.  Now that it’s in, ya wanna confirm you actually got the vein with a backflush, see?”

He pulled the plunger back slightly and blood flowed up into the syringe, tinting the yellowish, nearly transparent fluid already in it.  “Bingo!” Aaron crowed and pushed the plunger home.

“Take the tie off your arm now and get ready for the train,” he told Will, “You should already be tastin’ metal.”

As Will, his tongue protruding, nodded with the fixed, vacant stare of someone mainlining coke, Aaron bound his own bicep and prepared a hit for himself.

Aaron was thirty-one and up until three weeks ago, he’d been living alone in a mobile home he was renting on the south side of town.  The park in which it was located was located next to a cement plant and across from the city landfill.  The place wasn’t very popular—it was mostly inhabited by immigrants on a short-term basis—and was about to become even more so, since the empty field on the other side of the park had just been rezoned for industrial use.

Not that Aaron gave a shit about any of that.  It was cheap and no one stuck their fuckin’ nose into his business as long as he paid his rent to the property manager each month.

Three weeks ago, though, he’d been at his dealer, scoring some meth, when he met Will.  The kid said he was twenty-one but was actually no older than eighteen.  Granted, it was a rough eighteen. The boy had gotten hooked on meth in junior high and had fled home when he was fifteen, living on the streets and whoring himself out to feed his habit.  There was still a boyish handsomeness to his face, but even at such a young age, he was beginning to show dark rings around his eyes and the sharp, angular cheekbones visible on a hopeless junkie.

But he’d always been good at finding the right guy—the guy who would breed his faggot fuckhole and pay him by getting him high.  For Will, money was only the means to an end, and that end was meth.

For his part, Aaron wasn’t fooled; he knew a boywhore when he saw one.  But this looked like a hot young piece of meat with which he could have some fun with for a while, then kick it out when he was done with it.

So Aaron had spent a couple of weeks getting Will high on meth and fuckin him so hard it verged on sexual abuse with no problems.  Over the last week, though, the little cunt began showing increasing signs of resistance to being used as Aaron’s animate fucktoy.  And while the sadistic older man didn’t mind slapping around a playmate that fought back a bit, too much of a good thing irritated the living fuck out of him.

Tonight, then, was Will’s last chance.  This time Aaron was gonna try something different.  Instead of meth, they were gonna shoot up coke.  And if the bitch didn’t perform as expected after that, then he was going to kick it out the door, literally.

But the coke was taking effect.  Will leaned back on the sofa as Aaron headed to the kitchen for another beer.  The latter was shirtless, his dark body hair confined to a small but furry path from his waist up to a couple of inches above his navel.  Most of his unfurred torso was covered with tattoos, including his pecs, shoulders, and arms.  His skin writhed with symbol, Asian characters, skulls, and knives.

Below the waist, he was wearing a pair of worn and faded work jeans that showed off his powerful legs and thick, bulging cock to perfection.  In fact, the latter was so massive that he found it more comfortable to leave the button at the fly undone.  Sometimes, when he sat, the fat head of his dick stuck up and out of the jeans.  On his feet were a pair of Timberland boots, just as scuffed and worn as the jeans.  They were laced up but untied and so open at the top that the cuffs of his jeans just naturally fell inside them.

His face was young and hard, with a short, dark-brown beard.  His short wavy hair, of the same color, was covered by a red cap with a straight brim.  Around his neck, a heavy silver chain glittered, setting off a large bit of ink on his neck.  The design was elaborate but seemed to involve a demonic face fashioned out of a biohazard symbol.

In other words, he was a hardcore trailer park thug and was just as brutish as his appearance.  He worked at the cement plant next door in the grinding and blending process.  His job, though, was pure manual labor.  As a result, Aaron was a man for whom might meant right.  He anticipated using his physical strength to do what he needed to.

He also didn’t mind using it to do what he wanted to do.  And what he wanted to do was abuse faggot sluts.

He was content to live in a wretched mobile home because it gave him the privacy to indulge his sadistic whims—and privacy was needed.  Some of them screamed.  Some left with bruises, some with missing teeth.  A few had left with broken bones.

One hadn’t left at all.  Aaron still remembered that occasion fondly.

Will, on the other hand, was only willing to take it up the ass as long as he got high—or, at least, so he rationalized it to himself.  He still had the firm, muscled body of a high-school athlete, with curly russet hair and a faint scattering of freckles across the bridge of his snub nose.  But the toll of drugs and rampant sex could already be seen in his face.  There was just the slightest hint of a downy, golden fuzz across his cheeks—where were themselves not completely free of specks of adolescent acne.

And around one of his jaded eyes was a nearly-healed bruise, the remnants of a black eye Aaron had given him two weeks prior, during a bout of particularly rough sex. 

He’d actually enjoyed that.  He didn’t like to admit how much.  But sex with Aaron was growing incrementally more violent, more painful each night.  Now Will was worried how much further it was going to go.

And unluckily for him, mainlining coke did more than just get him high—it also gave him a major paranoid mindfuck.  As his tongue hung out and he experienced the full rush of the drug, he knew—he knew—that Arron was going to kill him.

Aaron for his part, got off on abusing the bitches, but he’d never killed one.  Well, not deliberately.  Although, that one had been kinda fun…  But anyway, at the moment, he was horny as hell and there was Will, in a tight black tank top and jean shorts cut so short that his long teen cock peeped out form under the frayed hem.  He was also wearing tube socks and a pair of red Converse All-Stars that a prior trick had bought him.

As far as Aaron, was concerned, the boy was high and ready to get fucked, and Aaron was ready to fuck him.  He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, not tonight.

As far as Will was concerned, he was in imminent danger.  His brain was scrambled by the cocaine flooding his bloodstream, but his street skills weren’t.  He would defend himself.

At this moment, the atmosphere in the trailed was thick with the scents of smoke, sweat, and mansex, but there wasn’t the slightest hint of the explosive scene about to unfold—a scene that would end very, very badly for one of the big-dicked males in the room.

All it took to set it off was Aaron’s gipping of Will’s arm. 

“C’mon, boy,” he demanded, standing by the couch and towering over the punk. “I wanna stick it up yer ass.”

Will looked up at him in horror.  Aaron was about five inches taller than he was and thirty pounds heavier, the latter all muscle.  In his runaway paranoia, the punk inflated the difference until the older man had become, in his mind, a hulking ogre determined to destroy him.

“Leggo!” the kid yelled shrilly, “Don’t touch me!”

Aaron jerked back, momentarily startled, then his face flushed with anger.  “Whaddaya mean, don’t touch you?” he spat out.

“You keep away from me,” Will said, not quite able to make eye contact, “You wanna—you wanna hurt me, I know it!”

Aaron’s upper lip curled into a sneer.  “Goddam, you’re just now figuring that out?” he asked with mock credulity before coming back with contempt, “What a stupid little cunt.  Yeah, bitch, I’m gonna hurt you.  And the longer it takes you to strip and get in that bed, the more I’m gonna hurt ya, you hear me?”

Will heard, all right, but he was having none of it.  He popped up off the sofa and began backing away from Aaron, wide-eyed and shaking his head.

“Where ya going, whore?” Aaron asked in silky tones, wearing a wide grin.  “Ain’t nowhere for you to hide.  You get out that door—” here, he nodded at the front door, the only exit to the mobile home, “—and the only folks who’ll hear you scream ain’t gonna care.  Trust me, motherfucker, I know that from personal experience.”

By now, Will had his back against the thin fake pine veneer that covered the wall, his eyes darting frantically to either side.  Aaron had been approaching him slowly, warily, like a tiger stalking its prey, his grin growing more and more sharklike the closer he got.  With no prior warning, the teenager suddenly turned to his left and took off, heading to the bedroom.

Instantly, he could hear the pounding of Aaron’s Timberlands in hot pursuit.  Will ran as if he instinctively knew that his life depended on what happened in the next seven seconds.

He just didn’t run quite fast enough.

Just as Will reached the bedroom door, Aaron reached out and grabbed his shoulder, roughly twisting him so that his back slammed into the wall.  Before the boy could speak, the enraged alpha gutpunched him twice in quick succession.  Will exhaled forcibly, clutching his midsection but any other reaction to the blows was overwhelmed when Aaron brutally slammed his steel-toed boot into the punk’s groin.

Instantly, the muscled teen youth was transformed into a writhing ball of fetal misery on the floor.  Arron grabbed it by the back of its collar and began to drag it into the bedroom.  Just as he got it through the doorway, the thin cotton shirt gave way.  The slut, still croaking in pain, slumped back to the floor, leaving Aaron with a useless rag in his hand.  He tossed what was left of the shirt aside and knelt down, viciously yanking the cunt’s shorts down and off over its kicks.

Rolling onto his back, Will’s hands quickly covered his hairy, swelling balls.  The whoreboy didn’t know what was going on; he was higher than a kite and could only understand that Aaron was inflicting horrible pain on him.  The inked stud wanted him dead, he knew that, but he didn’t know why, and he needed to know.  He tried to ask but could only get out a few garbled moans.

It was enough to set off Aaron’s cocaine-fueled rage again, though.

“Shaddup!” he screamed, “Only thing I wanna hear outta you is screamin’ when I shove my cock up yer ass, fuckmeat!”

The rentboy only got a momentary look at the tread on Aaron’s boot as the sneering, sadistic top stomped its teeth down its throat.

That searing blast of pain wiped everything else from the slut’s mind.  It was still gagging on its own blood and teeth as it was picked up and flung onto the bed like a sack of potatoes.  By the time the adolescent whore regained some sense of awareness, it was on its back and Aaron had pried its legs apart with enough force to sprain the tendons and ligaments of its hip joints.  It was suffering phenomenally—and it had no idea that it was about to get exponentially worse.

Aaron was hung like a stallion, but tonight he was even more massive than usual.  Aside from the extra impetus given by the drugs and the indulgence of his vicious cruelty, he’d strapped a leather cock ring tightly around the root of shaft, encircling his huge balls, bulging with semen.  Aaron’s dick was a much more formidable weapon that it had ever been before, at least in the teen’s brief experience with it.

And without warning, it was suddenly buried full-length in the punk’s fuckhole, lubed only by its oozing precum.

The meat’s face was literally that—meat.  Its nose was flattened and broken, its lips crushed, torn, and bleeding.  Every motion of its mouth brought new pain—but that was nothing compared to the agony of anal impalement. 

And that was pure sexual joy for the rutting alpha, hearing its fucktoy bleating in pain.  That was what it fuckin’ needed, and he was just the hardbodied stud to do it right.  His taut, smooth flanks and furry abs glistened with sweat as his muscles rippled, driving his hips in a brutal and relentless jackhammer motion, plunging his engorged tackle deep into the kid’s intestines, completely wrecking its colon.

It was obvious that the meat couldn’t handle this level of pain.  Its shrill keening swelled into a sharper, more defined scream—not that Aaron cared.  Fucktoys had screamed before.  No one had ever done anything; no one would help this one.

It was fucked, in more ways than one.

By now, though, it seemed to be getting used to the abuse.  At least, it was under enough control to start resisting.  They usually did; they usually had to learn the error of their ways.  But then again, they also hadn’t usually started by pissing Aaron off.  This one had.  And worse, its shredded sphincter and ravaged rectum were going loose.

This one was outliving its usefulness—but it still hadn’t made him cum.

Aaron ramped up his fucking, his hips hammering the whore’s pelvis mercilessly as he plowed his swollen member ever deeper into the teenager’s guts.  The meat began to struggle more forcefully, its hands clawing at the roughneck alpha’s face, but Aaron knew how to fight fire with fire—and violence with violence.

He began slamming his fist into the whore’s face with the power of a speeding semi, repeatedly.  The impact resounded through the messy, mansex-infused room with a wet, beefy smacking sound as the adolescent’s face was reduced to an unrecognizable pulp under Aaron’s mercilessly brutal beating.

And it paid off.  Each time his drove his fist home, he could feel the worthless little whore’s asshole contracting.  In his drugged bloodlust frenzy, the cruel white trash stud found that he could even time his blow to create something like a ripple effect on the meat’s mangled sphincter.  He manage to time each punch with the thrust of his gigantic rod.

After a couple of minutes, the meat’s scrambling hands began to weaken, to flutter like dying birds.  Within another sixty seconds, its arms had fallen limply so its sides.  Aaron had beaten it so hard that brain damage was setting in.

That didn’t mean that the meat once known as Will didn’t know what was happening to it; it could still feel every single impact, every single plunge of the sadist’s cock.  It just no longer had the physical control to fight back.

It could only feel—and suffer.  And suffer it did.

As his balls began to seethe and boil, Aaron no longer confined his blows to the meat’s face.  He began pounding its chest and abs, striking hard enough to break a rib with a faint but satisfying crunch.  But it wasn’t enough.  He was about to blow his load, and he needed some way to express his utter contempt for and degradation of the faggot he was using as a cumdump.

So he stopped beating it and wrapped his hands around its throat.

It was then, and only then, that he realized the whore was almost as erect and ready to blow as he was.  Its hard boycock was between them, slapping their bellies and leaving a snail-like trail of precum on both of them.  Its firm legs were still pinned up and over his shoulders, its smooth, muscled thighs taut with agony.  He could tell by the tensing of the calves that its sneaker-bound feet were kicking frantically behind him.

“Fuck yeah,” he grunted hoarsely, “You ready for it, ya worthless whore?  Huh?  Yeah?  Ready to die?  Ready to be put outta yer misery, faggot?”  He wrapped his hands around the teen’s throat and applied pressure.

He meant to strangle the fuckmeat, but the sudden convulsive onrush of violent orgasm got the better of him.  Clutching the slut’s neck with his left hand, he placed his huge, strong right hand over its face.  With a brutal, lightning-fast movement, he jerked his left hand upward toward himself while pressing down on his right hand with all his weight.

When every single one of the teenager’s cervical vertebrae shattered, it sounded like popcorn.

Everyone thinks death from a broken neck is instant; it isn’t.  The dying whoremeat that had once been named William endured a prolonged chemo-electrical agony that was nearly identical to what it would have experienced if he’d been stuck by lighting.  With, of course, one major difference—a truly nightmarish and excruciating orgasm.

The teenaged drug slut went rigid.  By now, it’d managed to work of one of his Converse hightops off; Aaron couldn’t see the meat’s toes curling in its death throes, but he could see everything else.  Like the way it spewed out what looked like a quart of boycum for its deathload.

It was enough for Aaron; he could no longer control his raging hatelust.  With the deep, guttural grunting of a rutting animal, he started hosing the adolescent corpse with semen.

It went on and on.  Both of them, one utterly brain dead and nearly physically so, the other wearing a mask of snarling rage, shooting huge amounts of manseed.  The dead slut’s balls were emptied long before Aaron’s was.  The latter left no part of the fucker’s digestive system unmarked with his potent manspew.

When he was finally done, he slowly pulled his shaft from the corpse as if he was unsheathing a sword.  He was shaky, tired, and depressed; the coke was wearing off.  He needed sleep.

Aaron kicked the twitching body off the bed, turned out the light, and drifted off, still in his boots and jeans.

He woke up at six in the morning.  He had to be at work at the plant by nine that day—but right now he was horny.

And there was cold meat in the room.

For a moment, Aaron toyed with the idea of fucking it again, but he didn’t like the idea of playing sloppy seconds to himself.  On the other hand, there was nothing to say a dead whore couldn’t give him head…

Within five minutes, Aaron was seated in a chair, holding the meat upright with a fistful of its hair.  Rigor mortis had already set in, but hadn’t progressed far, rending the dead teen into something along the lines of a mannequin instead of a limp pile of meat. 

It took the alpha a moment to locate its mouth in the ruin of its face.  He couldn’t resist gloating for a moment.

“Yer own momma wouldn’t know ya know, bitch,” he smirked at the half-lidded, milky eyes, “Might not ‘a killed ya if you’d put out…”  This last was muttered with a sigh as he pried its mouth open and lowered the head onto his raging cock.

His monstrously long tool slid down the dead kid’s esophagus—if it had still been alive, it would have choked.  As it was, the corpse’s windpipe was just dry enough to offer the friction Aaron was looking for.

The muscular, tattooed trailer park thug hunched over the teenager’s body and skullfucked it.

“Aw, fuck yeah,” he grunted, “Goddam asswipe—yer a better fuck dead than alive, you fuckin’ cunt!”

With both hands entwined in the meat’s hair, he bobbed its head up and down, repeatedly, faster and faster, using it as the sex toy it was destined to be.  Suddenly his hard, muscled body went taut in the agony of intense pleasure as his spunk exploded into the corpse’s trachea, flooding its larynx and lungs.  He was still shooting as he slowly withdrew his pulsing rod from the adolescent’s body, forcing semen into its sinuses and out its nostrils.

When he was done, he kicked it to the floor again and went to take a shower.

He dressed and ate some breakfast—he could cook eggs and bacon to perfection—and found he had half an hour to get to work.  Work was next door; he had plenty of time to run to the dump and toss in all the trash bags from the last week he’d placed in the bed of his pickup.

Except this load, of course, would have an extra piece of trash.

Aaron opened his front door and peered out.  No one was visible, as usual.  As he expected.  He stepped out cautiously, the wooden steps leading down from the trailer’s front door creaking under his Timberlands.  They usually didn’t make quite as much noise, but this time the alpha stud was burdened with an extra hundred and twenty pounds.

Rigor had progressed slightly further at this point, and dead whore was getting a bit unwieldly.  It took some effort for Aaron to get it lodged in the bed of his truck, hidden (well, good enough for the dim morning light) under the four trash bags already there.  The dump was literally across the street.  In less the ten minutes, he was on the rim, overlooking the huge, rank pile of garbage.

The whore was the first thing to go, its pale, purplish-blue form tumbling swiftly down the thirty-foot embankment and easily blending in with the rubbish below, as if it belonged there.  And it did.  A few seconds later, Aaron’s trash bags landed on it, obscuring it enough that it would never be noticed when the municipal garbage trucks came back after their daily runs and completely covered it.

Aaron walked into his job perfectly on time, feeling refreshed and invigorated.  In fact, he felt amazing.

And now he knew what was needed to obtain that feeling.  He just needed to waste a bitch.