Loose Ends and Burnt Ends, part 1

The dark and crowded bar presented something of an obstacle course to anyone carrying a pitcher of beer, and especially to someone of Pete’s broad-shouldered, muscular build, but he managed to get back to the table without spilling any of the golden, frothy liquid.  Seating himself, grinning, he expertly poured a couple of glasses without generating an overflowing head.  He then slid one of the glasses across the table to Dan.

 

Pete had been working out heavily, as per Dan’s instructions, and it showed.  The younger cop was much more built now than he was when they’d first met.  This was the first night in two weeks that they’d both been scheduled off together, and they took advantage of the fact by going out to celebrate.

 

It was just sheer chance that Brody was in the same bar.

 

They’d kept up their surveillance of him; the pair of bulked-up cops hadn’t forgotten their pursuit of drug traffickers, but there’d been little movement in that area.  On the other hand, there hadn’t been much movement from Brody either.  Ever since he’d wasted the teenaged faggot, he’d laid low; they knew that because either Pete or Dan had spent part of virtually every day trailing him.  Not that they’d intervene if he initiated another snuff; Pete was still waiting for the signal, and Dan hadn’t given it yet.

 

Tonight, though, was for relaxing and celebration.  Both men had dressed down in plaid western-cut button-down shirts; Dan had rolled up the sleeve of his, showing off his furry forearms.  Both men also wore very tight, very worn jeans and boots—Dan’s was a pair of steel-toe Rocky western ropers while Pete sported a comfortable pair of Wolverine Moc Toe 8-inch workboots.  They pretty much looked like the other country guys in the bar—which was likely why Brody never saw them, even though they weren’t in stakeout mode.

 

It was Pete who first noticed him.  “Well, I’ll be goddammed!” he said in amazement.

 

“What is it?” Dan asked.

 

“Look over there, Cap—ain’t that Brody?  See, next to that buff, dark-skinned dude at the bar…”

 

Dan squinted into the crowd.  “Yeah, it sure is.  Well ain’t that a coincidence.  And here I thought we were givin’ him the evening off.”

 

For a time after that, they ignored the rogue killer; after all, he wasn’t gonna kill anyone in public.  Dan was congratulating Pete on his physical progress, letting the younger man know how proud he was and suggesting some further areas of improvement, but Pete kept noticing how the captain’s eyes were wandering back to Brody.

 

Finally, his curiosity got the better of him.  “Ok, Cap, out with it—what’s he doin’?”

 

Dan shook his head.  “Naw, it ain’t him.  It’s the guy he’s talking to.  I swear I seen him somewhere recently.  Or maybe his picture.”

 

Pete craned his neck to see the guy better, but his view wasn’t as good as Dan’s; all he could make out was the guy’s back.  He seemed to be a well-built Latino in a yellow t-shirt, torn, stained jeans and a pair of black Timberlands.  His blue-black hair was nearly shoulder length and while he was older than most of the fags Brody went for, Pete could see the attraction.

 

“Yeah?” he asked, “Think we should keep an eye on them?”

 

Dan looked Pete levelly in the eyes and said, with little fanfare, words that made the young hardbodied acolyte’s heart leap with joy, “Yeah, we should.  You’re ready, boy.  You can take ‘im if ya hafta.”

 

 

Within ten minutes, Brody and the Latino man got up and headed for the door.  With little fuss, Dan and Pete left their table as well, keeping close to their prey but not close enough to be noticed.  Outside, it was even easier to stay in the shadows; while Brody headed for his truck, the cops headed for Dan’s.

 

The moment he was behind the wheel, Dan snapped his fingers.  “Tony Rodrigues, that’s who he is,” he said.

 

“Who, Brody’s new fucktoy?” Pete asked.

 

“Yeah,” Dan said, grinning.  “Came across the wire a couple of days ago—he’s wanted in Calabesa County on suspicion of raping and murdering seventeen-year-old Billy Webber—his stepson.”

 

Pete whistled, his eyes wide.

 

“Yeah,” Dan chuckled, “Looks like we’re might have us a rasslin’ match tonight ‘tween these two.  So much the better.”

 

His grin took on a darker hint that was mirrored in Pete’s face when he glanced at the younger man.  “Loser’s gonna take us on.  No matter what happens, Body’s goin’ down tonight.”

 

Pete felt his powerful muscles tighten in anticipation.  The feeling of rigid hardness penetrated his entire body, as the thick, pulsing bulge in his crotch proved.  “So we’re gonna be there for the kill?  How’re ya gonna manage that, Cap?”

 

“Easy,” Dan grinned.  “Who’s working the east side tonight?  Mike, yeah?”

 

He got on the radio and called out to Mike.  It seemed that nothing much was happening on the east side tonight and Mike was glad to do the Captain a favor.  Providing him with Brody’s plate number and a description of his truck, Dan asked Mike to delay the driver.

 

“Ya just want me to hold him for a few minutes?”

 

“Yeah, Mike—I just wanna check out a hunch without a possible suspect around.  I appreciate it.”

 

“No problem, Captain—glad to help!”

 

Pete looked at the older man questioningly.  “What was that for?”

 

“That’s how we’ll be in on the kill,” Dan replied, “We’ll get there first.  We’ll be there watching as it goes down.”

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” Pete chuckled.  “Damn, that’s good.  Watchin’ one snuff the other so we can be on the spot to waste the one left alive.  Fuckin’ hot as hell!”

 

“You ready for this, boy?” Dan asked, his face serious for a moment.  “You ready to end a man’s life, to feel him die in yer hands?”

 

“Yeah,” Pete responded in a strained voice, “I been fuckin’ ready since day one, man.”

 

Dan didn’t have to see Pete’s huge erection straining the worn denim of his jeans to know that the younger cop was eager.  The question was—was he able?  Tonight, Dan would learn for certain just how far he could trust Pete with his plans for the Rigler County Sheriff’s Department.

 

And some of those plans were…extreme.

 


 

Brody was in a foul mood as he slowly maneuvered his pickup up the rutted gravel road towards his trailer.  He’d have to talk to Dan about that cop who pulled him over.  Pure fuckin’ harassment.  He wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t fuckin’ acting like it, either.

 

On the other hand, the dude was with was drunk; in fact; the fucker was totally bombed.  He was laying back in the passenger seat, slurring out boasts about his sexual prowess and leering at Brody.

 

Dude seemed to have no idea he was gonna be the one taking it up the ass tonight.  He’d learn soon enough, though. Maybe he’d put up a fight.  Brody kinda hoped so; his internal rage needed a good venting.  Beating the shit outta this drunk muscled faggot would feel damn good.

 

He shut off the truck.  “We’re here,” he told the guy—couldn’t remember his name and didn’t care anyway—and jumped out of the driver’s seat.  The other guy fumbled at the door handle, got it open, and managed to get out of the truck without falling.  Staggering, he followed Brody up the steps.

 

The buff killer had headed to the bar straight after work; he was still in his work clothes—torn, stained jeans tucked into his laced, untied Redwing construction boots and a white tank top clinging to his huge hairy chest.  As he mounted the steps, though, he could feel the gaze of the hardbodied homo behind him and knew that it was centered on his ass.  He grinned; if the motherfucker thought he was gonna be shagging Brody, it was gonna be a pleasure to teach him otherwise.

 

Brody was all man.  He didn’t take dick from nobody.

 

Neither did Tony.  At least, he never had before and had no plans to change that, but he was too fucked up at the moment to consider the matter at all.  He’d never had a problem getting hard even when he was drunk; his seven and a half inches of thick, vein-wrapped manmeat was already stiff as he watched the trailer trash stud climb the steps in front of him.

 

Brody flipped the light switch as soon as they entered.  Tony’s first drunken thought as his glance swept the trailer’s dark and dingy interior was that he wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place.

 

Then Brody turned towards the kitchen and the sight of his firm, rounded ass covered in the soft, faded denim, filled Tony’s mind with other thoughts.

 

Brody grabbed a beer from the fridge.  He didn’t ask, or care, if his guest wanted one.  As far as Brody was concerned, it’d be a waste of a good beer. Drunk homo wouldn’t be around long enough to finish it anyway.

 

“Bedroom’s in there,” he grunted, nodding towards the partially open door on the other side of the clothing-strewn living room.  Popping the top of his beer, he took a long swig, then noticed that the motherfucker was still standing there, swaying slightly.

 

“Whatcha waitin’ for?” he snapped.  “G’wan, get in there an’ strip.  Get on the bed.”

 

Tony finally picked up on the instruction, without picking up any deeper meaning in the stud’s harsh tone.  By now, he’d absorbed all the alcohol that had still been in his stomach when he left the bar—he wasn’t just drunk; he was stupid drunk.  Grinning inanely, he staggered into the bedroom.

 

Behind him, the buff killer polished off his beer and crushed the can in his fist.  He peeled off his dirty t-shirt, baring his powerfully muscled torso.  The gleam of his sweat-slick skin under the dim overhead light was matched by the faint twinkle of his thick gold necklace, half-hidden in the dense fur that swept across his massive chest.

 

He was looking forward to this.  The piece of faggot shit in the other room might think it was a top but by the time Brody was done with it, it’d know its true place on earth—or in it.

 

Grinning maliciously, he reached down and unzipped his fly, then slowly extracted his formidable shaft.  Once free of the confines of his jeans, it pointed straight at the bedroom, so hard it ached.

 

It knew its prey was in there, and Brody wasn’t one to deny it.  He headed for the door with his rod jutting in front of him like a weapon; the thud of his boots was muffled by the threadbare carpeting.  He was intent on the kill and didn’t look back.

 

If he had, he might have noticed the way the guest bedroom door was being slowly and stealthily opened.

 


 

In the bedroom, Tony had at least been lucid enough to strip off his clothes; his t-shirt and jeans were piled sloppily on top of his Timberlands.  His hairy, muscular body was the first thing Brody could see when he entered.  The drunk Latino was grinning stupidly and hard as a rock.

 

“C’mon, man,” he slurred, “C’mon an’ suck it.  I got it ready for ya.”

 

Brody’s answering grin was colder and more malicious.  The dumbass actually though he was gonna be driving.  The psycho clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked.  This was gonna be fun.

 

“Get on the bed, faggot,” he said, the cold steel in his voice cutting through the haze in Tony’s alcohol-soaked brain.

 

“Huh?” the buff Hispanic chirped, peering blearily at the larger man.  “Wha’, ya wanna suck me off on the bed?  Naw, get on yer knees.’

 

Brody didn’t bother to conceal the line-drive punch that he aimed at Tony’s head.  The nude furry fag saw the powerful blow coming at him but was too wasted to dodge it.  He took the full impact in his face, falling back, stunned, onto the bed.

 

Stunned and wasted, yes, but not incapacitated.  Tony wasn’t quite as tall and powerful as Brody was, but the difference was minor.  He was strong, and he’d been caught off guard to the extent he’d had no clue that he was about to be attacked.  He rose up off the bed before Brody could approach him.  A hurt anger glowed in his red-rimmed eyes as he wiped his busted lip with the back of his hand, leaving a bloody smear.

 

“Wha’ th’ fuck, man?” he demanded.  His voice had the slightest hint of a whine in it; just enough for Brody to hear, and to spark his contempt.

 

“Get back on that bed with yer fuckhole in the air, ya worthless pig,” Brody barked, “I’m gonna jam my rod so far up yer ass you’ll be gaggin’ on it from the inside.  Bend over, bitch—now!”

 

Tony’s drunkenness meant that his reaction was more stupefaction than anything else; it soon shaded into amusement.  “Aw, naw, dude, I fuck—I don’t get fucked,” he laughed easily, as if he’d entirely forgotten that he’d been punched in the face two minutes earlier.

 

Brody decided to remind him.  He kneed Tony in the crotch, driving his hard patella into the Latino’s hairy, low-hanging nads.  As he grunted, painfully and viscerally, and crumpled, Brody jerked his leg up again, this time planting his knee deep into Tony’s flat, firm belly.

 

The buff Hispanic expelled the air in his lungs with a forced wheeze and fell straight to the floor, gasping and shuddering at Brody’s feet.  The tall redneck killer squatted down and, placing one knee on Tony’s back, leaned forward.

 

“Guess what, asswipe,” he hissed menacingly, “You’re already fucked.”

 

He stood erect and drew back one foot, then drove his steel-toed Red Wing boot crushingly into the heaving, gurgling fag.  Brody’s cock visibly pulsed and stiffened at the wet snapping sounds caused by two of Tony’s ribs shattering under the brutal impact.

 

If the hardbodied Mexican had been able to catch his breath, he would have screamed; he’d broken bones before, but he’d never endured the pain of sharp jagged shards tearing open his left lung.  And suddenly, regaining his air became much, much harder.  The pain cut through the alcohol-induced fog in his brain like—well, like a sharp knife.  As he writhed, nude, on the filthy floor of a stranger’s bedroom, Tony understood that he was in trouble.  A lot of trouble.

 

Brody, on the other hand, was filled with satanic glee; his uncouth backwoods brain full of a barely controllable mix of red-hot lust and white-hot rage.  The faggot was learning his place.  But if this was kindergarten, Brody was ready to accelerate the lessons to post-graduate level.

 

“C’mon, motherfucker,” he sneered as be bent down and grabbed Tony, “My dick it gettin’ cold and I wanna warm it up in yer guts while I jack you up.”  Brody locked his hands around the moaning homo’s upper arms; they weren’t quite big enough to encircle Tony’s thick, strong biceps, but they were close.  He hoisted the Hispanic dude in the air and held him close—their chest fur bushed and tangled together—while he looked Tony straight in the eyes.

 

“Ready to get what’s comin’ to ya, spicmeat?  Fuckin’ wetback pansy—ready to get what ya deserve?”

 

Tony still couldn’t speak clearly, but he didn’t need to.  Much to his horror, he felt his long, thick tube of manmeat slowly but visibly growing rigid.  Since Brody was strong enough to hold him dead-arm straight at eye level mere inches away, within seconds the two hard cocks were practically jousting with each other.

 

The look of triumph in Brody’s eyes was cold, hard, and terrifying.  Dominance had been established, but in this pairing, there would not be an alpha and a beta.  There was only an alpha and a null—soon to become a negative.

 

Tony already knew he had to act fast if he was going to leave this room alive, but his vicious assailant’s inherent sadism worked against him in more ways than one.  He figured he might be able to scramble away once he was tossed on the bed.  Brody, however, had other plans, and he put them into action with a blindingly swift maneuver.  Letting go of Tony’s right arm, he grabbed at the fucker’s throat, his left hand clamping around it like a steel trap.

 

He was then free to ball up his right hand into a fist and slam it like a wrecking ball into the left side of Tony’s torso—exactly where his boot had landed.  The Hispanic homo had recovered enough breath to scream, but his throat was cinched off.  He could only gurgle and writhe, his toes curling in agony barely an inch above the dirty carpet.

 

When Brody tossed him onto the wadded pile of stained, yellowed sheets, Tony was less concerned with escaping and more concern with trying to breathe without shrieking.  He was about to find out it didn’t matter if he shrieked or not—no one would care.

 

It wasn’t that there was no one else nearby; it was just that those who were nearby wanted to hear him scream.

 


 

Pete crouched in the doorway with Dan right behind him.  As close as they were, the captain could sense the raw sexual excitement surging through his buff young deputy.  It emanated into the hazy atmosphere of the darkened hallway—an electric aftertaste, a whiff of cordite, something hot and powerfully charged.

 

The two men watched silently but intently as Brody beat Tony into submission before raping him.  They did nothing to intervene.  They were representatives of the law, but it was an artificial law, a human construct.  This situation was under the jurisdiction of the law of the jungle—a much older and more primitive law that gave to the strong the right to do whatever they desired to the weak.  It was the law by which all four men lived their lives—even Tony, who had used it to his advantage with his stepson.

 

Problem was, Tony met someone even stronger.

 

But four aroused hardbodied males within a fifteen-foot radius, all pumping out pheromones in an area already permeated with mansex, were adding fuel to a raging fire.  And the brutality Brody was inflicting on the Mexican fag was nothing compared to the explosion of violence that was soon to come.

 


 

As Tony wallowed in pain on the bed, Brody’s towering presence suddenly loomed over him.  In his agony, the well-built Latino had lost sight of the vicious bastard who’d inflicted it on him—until Brody was there, his shadow thrown across Tony’s muscular body.

 

 

For a moment, the battered boykiller glanced up at his assailant.  It was a terrifying sight—the hulking psycho standing over him, huge muscles gleaming with a light sheen of sweat and an angry, jutting erection that would intimidate the most submissive bottom whoreboy.  The glint of the thick gold necklace nestled in Brody’s wiry, luxuriant chest fur naturally drew Tony’s gaze up to the sadist’s hard, masculine face, covered with dark, unshaven scruff and filled with such hate and lust that Tony almost lost control of his bladder.

 

He had to get out of here.  Now.

 

Despite the pain it caused him, he managed to roll over onto his belly and begin to squirm away.  He might not have been as bulked-out as Brody, but he’d been powerful enough to waste his stepson without breaking too much of a sweat; he might stand a chance against this loco motherfucker if he could just beak away—

 

—and then Brody was on him, a sudden crushing weight as the hardbodied killer landed on his knees on Tony’s back, pinning him face-down on the bed.  The startled Latino reached out for the side of the mattress, seeking something to grip so he could pull himself out from under, but Brody stopped that maneuver cold.

 

He shifted his weight, keeping one knee in the middle of Tony’s back and placing the other in the middle of the spic’s right forearm.  “You ain’t going nowhere, ya fuckin’ wetback,” he snarled, his redneck voice thick with racial hate, “Not till I’m done with ya.”

 

He laid his right hand on top of Tony’s and curled his fingers between those of his victim.  In another setting, the gesture would have been intimate, even loving.

 

Here, it just gave Brody a better grip, letting him use greater force as he jerked Tony’s arm back with enough power to break it at the point where his knee was placed.

 

The thick, almost gristly double snap of the radius and ulna shattering simultaneously was drowned out by Tony’s screech of pain.  His escape plans evaporated as he stared incredulously at the way his useless right arm hung at a bizarre angle.  His muscled body heaved and twitched; Brody rode it out with a vicious grin, his thick meaty cock slapping on Tony’s bare back as the cunt flailed.

 

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, cocksucker,” the sadistic top crowed, “Lissenin’ to yer bitch ass squealin’ like a fuckin’ pansy turns me on.”  Still kneeling on Tony’s back, he silently unbuckled his belt and snaked it out from around his waist.  Beneath him, the furry, muscled spicmeat was still bucking and jerking in pain.

 

Tony never saw Brody double the belt up; her never had the chance to flinch from Brody’s upraised arm or to try, however uselessly, to ward off the impending blow.  He never knew it was coming until it was there.

 

Then it was all he knew.

 

Instead of holding the ends of his thick leather belt, Brody held it in the middle, leaving the ends—including the large metal buckle—to cause the actual strike.  As a result, the power of his blows was instantly doubled.  The end with the leather strap left vicious welts that added to the agony caused by the buckled end tearing at Tony’s taut manflesh.

 

The first lash was almost as painful as the broken arm, a searing slice across his right shoulder blade, as if a butcher was making a preliminary cut before slicing off a specific cut.  The next one came before the fiery agony of the first had subsided, and from that point on, Tony only remembered that his arm was broken when his mindless thrashing ground the jagged ends of the bones together.  And even then, it didn’t matter.  What mattered was that the sheer excruciating torture of Brody’s insanely violent attack convinced Tony that he was being flayed alive.

 

He wasn’t that lucky.  Death would’ve come sooner that way.

 


 

Pete’s bloodlust was near the boiling point.  Dan couldn’t blame the younger man; he was no less full of testosterone and cum than Dan himself.  And the scene playing out in front of them certainly wasn’t cooling them off.  Two hardbodied males on the bed, one screaming in pain, the other grunting with the muscular effort of inflicting pain…

 

They could see well enough; Dan had decided it was safe enough to crack the door open a little wider.  The two motherfuckers in the bedroom were too engrossed in their own relationship, so to speak, to notice much of their surroundings at this point.

 

And so the pair of buff lawmen crouched with erect, straining cocks, as Brody beat the screaming Mexican to a pulp, whipping the thrashing faggot until he drew blood, then moving on to a different spot.

 


 

After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually closer to ten minutes, Brody stopped swinging his belt.  Still straddling the fagmeat, he could feel it twitch and shudder beneath his firm muscular thighs.  It moaned and sobbed quietly, as if it already knew that begging was useless and that its best choice was to accept what was being done to it.

 

It expected to be hurt again; some deep dark area of its brain, walled off by battlements of denial, even expected death.  What it didn’t expect was Brody’s long swollen shaft rammed brutally up its virgin hole as the violently powerful redneck mounted it from behind and took it like a bitch.

 

Tony was a top.  He’d enjoyed the fuck outta raping his teenaged stepson.  He’d never felt any desire to take it up the ass, and this new source of agony somehow transcended the pain of broken bones and lacerated skin.  It was…invasive, somehow, in in the way nothing else had been.

 

And despite his suffering, the memory of Billy’s snuff flooded into Tony’s traumatized mind.  From nowhere, the thought flashed through his head that he’d inflicted exactly this pain on the teenaged punk.  Adding to the effect caused by Brody’s cock grinding against his prostate, it created an involuntary physical reaction.

 

To his horror, Tony found himself with a raging hard-on while he was getting viciously assraped.

 

Again, he screamed at the top of his lungs—but not at top of his vocal cords.  He’d been shrieking and crying so long that his already hoarse voice cracked.  The sounds he gave off now were guttural and grating.

 

Brody found it instantly annoying.  He liked his meat screaming, but he didn’t like it gargling.  He’d never let go of his belt, even when he’d plowed his tool into the pansy’s asscunt; he’d intended to use at some later point.  The noise the spic homo was making decided him; that point was now.

 

If the fucktard wanted to gag, Brody would give it a goddam good reason to gag.  He looped the belt over its head, then switched the ends in his hands so that it crossed at the back of the neck.  After that, all he had to do was lean back and jerk on the reins.  By easing up on the belt (or vice versa), he controlled if the meat breathed or if it choked, if it gasped for air or if it gagged in suffocating horror.

 

The hairy, muscled wetback was his fucktoy, a sack of meat to enjoy as it died on his cock.

 


 

Tony, of course, didn’t think of himself that way, but nobody gave a shit what he thought.  And by this time, lucid ratiocination was beyond his abilities.  With a monstrous cock up his ass and a thick leather strap cinching off his windpipe, self-preservation took up more of his mind than self-image.

 

But some part of him was also recalling Billy’s violent convulsions as the teenaged punk had died.  Tony had strangled him with a belt.  He’d forgotten that.  He’d raped his stepson and choked the boy to death with a belt.  Now it was happening to him.

 

The inside of Tony’s head felt like it was going to start spewing out of his ears; the pressure and the pounding were unendurable—but he could only claw ineffectually at the thick strap with his one good hand.  He couldn’t move; he was pinned to the bed by what felt like a telephone pole being reamed up his ass.  He couldn’t even scream aloud anymore.

 

And that was the point when Tony lost his Alpha card.  He was suddenly flooded with remorse for what he’d done to his stepson.  Now that he was suffering the identical agony he’d put the little cunt through, he developed a rudimentary sense of empathy.

 

It came too late to redeem him as a human being; it just made his last few minutes on earth as thrashing fuckmeat even more painful.

 


 

From behind, Brody couldn’t see the spic’s face.  He didn’t get to watch the way his bitch was drooling, or the way its eyes bulged and its face darkened from purple to black, but he didn’t need to.  He could feel its asshole working his dick, massaging the full length of the thick, throbbing shaft as he plowed it into the fucker’s guts.

 

The more brain damage the homo suffered, the harder its fagcunt stroked Brody’s rod.  The hardbodied redneck pumped his massive hog faster and faster into the dying shitsack, feeling beneath him its powerful muscles clenching and relaxing involuntarily as it started to lose physical control and coordination.

 

One thing it hadn’t lost yet was consciousness.  Brody didn’t know how he knew it could still hear him—but he knew.  He bent down to whisper into the motherfucker’s ear, so close, his rough, unshaven cheek brushed against the faggot’s head.

 

“Stupid fuckin’ wetback,” he hissed, “Still drunk, asswipe?  Still so drunk ya think you can fuck me?  Only thing yer good for is sinkin’ in th’ swamp after you die and milk my load outta me.  Ya hear me, boy?  Work my dick, faggot, work it good!”

 

With a snarl, Brody rose up and jerked brutally on the belt, his hands tightly gripping the ends as the thick bands of muscles in his biceps strained visibly under the skin.  The pressure on the dying pansy’s throat was inexorable.

 


 

Tony both felt and heard his esophagus collapse.  It was a soft crunching sound, like some crushing plastic foam, with the snapping of the hyoid bone adding a moment of punctuation.

 

When it happened, Tony shot his load.  It was an instinctual and uncontrolled reaction—the reflexive response of hypersexual manmeat to overwhelming physical trauma.  Since he was pinned face down on the bed, no one knew he’d spunked.  Not even Tony.  What he’d felt was an excruciating ache, as if his scrotum had been turned inside out, and in a way, it had.

 

In other circumstances, it would have been his best orgasm to date; he unloaded more sperm onto Brody’s stained sheets than he’d ever shot before.

 


 

It wasn’t how the meat’s dick reacted to a mortal wound that interested Brody so much as how its rectum did.  And the spicmeat’s ass was handling the buff killer’s engorged member like it was deliberately jacking him off.  The faggot’s fuckhole seemed to have a mind of its own, one not affected by lack of oxygen—one that wanted the alpha’s seed.

 

“Oh fuck,” Brody grunted, dropping the belt, “Oh fuck!!”  With a loud, inarticulate cry, the muscular killer leaned forward and wrapped his powerful arms around the corpse’s head.  His hips pumping at a frantic tempo, the redneck stud gave a massive grunt and twisted his arms.

 

The movement was quick and brutal; he wrenched the spic’s head off its spine.  The top two cervical vertebrae shattered with a popcorn-like burst, clearly audible outside the bedroom.  The sound damn near made Dan and Pete cum.  It did make Brody cum.

 

He jerked and heaved, his muscle-bound form shuddering violently as he hosed the dead fucker’s guts with his semen.  As the dead man continued to kick and twitch on his cock, Brody hunched over and spewed jet after jet of seething sperm up the corpse’s ass.

 

Gasping and heaving, he finally slowed.  Gingerly, he began to extract his still-oozing manhood from the dead faggot when the door was kicked in.

 

Brody looked up, angry and confused, as Pete and Dan piled into the room.  Pete had his shirt off, baring his huge furry chest; Brody hadn’t realized how pumped up Pete had gotten.  Behind him, Dan just finished unbuttoning his shirt and was slipping it off.

 

Then Brody realized that Pete’s fly was open. and his enormous tackle was hanging out.  And hard.

 

It happened in the blink of an eye.  “Take ‘im, Pete!” Dan barked, and the younger man threw himself at Brody.

 

Brody might not have known why it was happening—but he knew what was happening.  It was gonna be a fight to the death.  And if he lost, he was gonna take it up the ass.

 

 

 

Alpha Male Eddie

Eddie was pissed, but that was nothing new.  It was what had got him kicked out of the Corps after three years; he still seethed with rage at the memory of the Marine shrink’s diagnosis: fragmented personality with psychotic breaks trigged by latent homosexuality.  That motherfucker.

 

Eddie was ALL man, and he damn sure knew how to show it.  Every facet of his image, from his chiseled, rock-hard body to his military gear and clothing, to his jacked-up matte-black Dodge Ram picked, was specifically designed to show that was a true Alpha Male.  Nothing—nothing—would ever disprove that.

 

But every now and then, something slipped.  And when that happened, things got—

 

Well, for example, there was JJ.

 


 

It started one summer evening just as the glaring sullen heat of the day was fading into a swift dusk.  Eddie just happened to be driving by the Hudson Street Skate Park when he saw the boy.  He didn’t know why he pulled over, but he did.

 

The boy was heading out, walking away from the park with his skateboard under his arm.  He seemed to be headed for the bus stop at the corner—that was when Eddie decided to make his move.  He quickly pulled to the curb and asked if the kid needed a lift.

 

“Sure, man,” the kid grinned, adolescent hormones giving the teen’s voice just enough depth to prove that he was sexually mature.  “Name’s Jeremy,” he said, opening the door and climbing up into the cab, “But my friends call me JJ.”

 

JJ was in fact seventeen—and was sexually mature.  Two years ago he’d managed to get Amy Schneider from down the block to give him a handjob and just lately he’d talked her into blowjobs.  He wasn’t going steady with her or anything, but none of the other girls he went with would suck his dick yet.  He was supposed to see Amy tonight and was anxious to get home.

 

For a brief moment, the two males sat and scoped each other out.  JJ’s face was smooth, with just a hint of youthful fullness; his hair was short and dark, but it was mostly hidden under a black ball cap—with, Eddie noted with interest, a Marine Corps logo.  Maybe the boy’s daddy was enlisted on the base.

 

The teen’s gear was nothing special—a gray t-shirt and black mid-thigh shorts covered his lean, lithe body but showed his smooth, firm legs to advantage.  A pair of black Converse Play hightops with a red heart logo completed the skatepunk look.

 

For his part, JJ was almost mesmerized by Eddie; he’d never seen such a perfect male form.  And Eddie wasn’t dressed to be ignored.  His military affinity was clear from the way he kept his dark blond hair buzzcut and his facial hair trimmer in a razor-straight line.  His khaki utility pants, bloused into a pair of black leather combat boots, wrapped tightly around his thickly muscled legs.  The pair of dogtags dangling against his skintight olive-drab t-shirt drew attention to his huge sculpted pecs and his almost-perfectly ripped abs.  But there was something both compelling and repellant about his face—JJ couldn’t say what.  Maybe it was the cold hard lines of his cheeks, or the grim set of his mouth…or maybe the unnerving glare of those piercing green eyes, icy and fiery at the same time…

 

It was Eddie who broke the silence.  “So, where ya goin’, man?” he asked, the friendly, open tone of his voice making the teen relax visibly.

 

“Aw, I’m headin’ out to Jupiter Road—over where it crosses Adams, y’know?  Gotta meet my girlfriend…”

 

Eddie chuckled and JJ blushed boyishly.  “Well, she ain’t my girlfriend…I mean… well, she kinda—”  He lapsed into a confused silence as Eddie continued to grin.

 

“Yeah?  What, she letcha dip yer wick, huh?” the older man laughed coarsely, making the teenager blush even harder.  Finally, Eddie decided to relent.

 

“Yeah, I gotta head out that way for business—ya mind if we stop at my place on the way?  Need to pick up something.”

 

“Naw,” JJ said, “And lissen, about Amy—”

 

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Eddie said tersely.

 

“No, but seriously, man, I get to thinkin’—see, maybe I could get a real girlfriend—one a’ them hot senior bitches that won’t even look at a junior like me—if I had a hard body.  Like yours.  Man, how do I do that?  Whadda I gotta do to look like you?”

 

Eddie glanced at the teen covertly, noticing the boy’s wide-eyed, innocent look.  The little fuck wanted to pretend to be an Alpha Male?

 

“Ya wanna get swole?  C’mon, boy and I’ll show ya some of my routine if ya want.”

 

Of course JJ wanted.  Eddie shut off the loud rumble of the truck’s huge engine; from his vantage point in the jacked-up cab, he could see that there was no one about.

 

“You c’n leave yer board here,” he said and jumped from the truck, his combat boots crunching loudly in the gravel lot.  JJ followed, but his lean teen body made far less noise when he hit the ground; he watched the well-built older man enviously as he trailed him into the apartment.

 

Half of Eddie’s bedroom was devoted to weights; in the center was the standard inclined bench, now laid flat, with a rack of barbell weights on the left and one of dumbbells on the right.  All the weights, including the hex dumbbells, were metal—the set looked old, but was obviously still functional.

 

The other half of the room also caught JJ’s notice—not so much the twin bed and the inexpensive dresser as the posters on the wall.  For a moment, the kid thought they were movie stills—then he realized he was looking at blown-up photos from war correspondents across many wars.

 

They were almost all photos of corpses.

 

On the far wall was a large flag with a grinning skull superimposed over a pair of crossed daggers.  Chains of roses frames the image; a motto, split to appear above and below, read “Die, Motherfucker, Die”.

 

Eddie noticed JJ looking at it.  “I’m gonna get that tattooed,” he said proudly, “Right here, on my right bicep.  Already got the money for it, too.  But the guy I wanna do it is in prison; I gotta wait till next year for him to get out.”

 

JJ took all this in with the silent reverence of a teen who feels he’s in the presence of a serious badass.  His admiration for the red-blooded male in front of him overpowered any sense of unease the gruesome photos had generated—after all, the dude was in the military, just like his dad.  Mighta even had to kill someone.  If he got to know him better, he’d ask, JJ decided.

 

“So anyway, I’m up to pressing three hundred and twenty-five right now, but I like to start down at two seventy-five for a few reps before adding the final fifty,” Eddie explained.

 

JJ looked at him questioningly.  “You don’t use a spotter?” he asked.

 

“Fuck,” Eddie sneered, “Spotters are for pussies.  Real men don’t need no help to lift.  Watch.”  And with that, he pulled his shirt off in one smooth sweep, letting the dogtags fall jingling back to the center of his broad chest.

 

And even though neither of them realized it, the sight of Eddie’s smooth hubcap pecs and erect, jutting nipples got JJ hard.  Eddie wasn’t in a position to notice it and JJ was used to the spontaneous erections of adolescence without thinking about what caused them—although he did find it odd how his breath caught was he eyed the older stud’s six-, or fuck, eight-pack abs, so taut and ripped.  As Eddie stood before him, booted, in tight pants and with that amazingly sculpted torso, JJ realized he’d never seen a more perfect male form.  He was overwhelmed with desire, but in his mind, it was desire to be Eddie.

 

If he’d come right out and said that, it might have prevented what happened next.  But probably not.

 

“Ya gotta get yerself positioned right,” Eddie was saying as he settled back on the bench, sliding under the already-loaded barbell, “Yer gonna fuck up yer back if ya don’t…” he trailed off, his face going blank.  He was looking at JJ, but his gaze seemed to be miles away.

 

Only seemed.  His head was right at the level of the kid’s crotch.  Eddie had suddenly realized the little punk was hard.  He’d gotten hard while looking at Eddie.

 

The kid was a faggot.  A little fuckin’ faggot tryin’ to act like a real man.  A little fuckin’ faggot who’d wormed its way in, wantin’ to make him a homo too.

 

The break was swift and silent.  Eddie blinked, smiled, and sat up.  “But for you, dude, I’d suggest building up those arms first.  Try some daily reps with a five-pound dumbbell, like one of these.”  He picked one of the hex weights up off its rack and strolled over to the skatepunk.  “In fact, these are good for lotsa things.  Like puttin’ fags’ lights out.”

 

“Huh?” JJ asked, his youthful face full of innocent confusion as Eddie smashed it with the dumbbell, knocking the teen senseless to the floor.

 


 

JJ was climbing.  He didn’t know to where, but it was a long and painful climb, and the higher he went, the more painful it got.  It had started as a general agony but seemed to be devolving to a specific ache.  Just as he regained consciousness, he located it in his jaw.

 

The pain ballooned in severity as he blinked and groaned.  His eyesight was blurry, and he was utterly unable to comprehend the change of circumstances he’d undergone since his last memory.  He vaguely recalled the buff shirtless dude who was standing over him with a look that could be either a hate-filled snarl or a vicious grin.  And the teen couldn’t place the significance of the blood-smeared dumbbell the guy was holding.

 

“Www…wwh…whaa—” he tried to speak, but there were hard lumps in his mouth.  He spit them out and saw two of his teeth tumble down his own chest, leaving faint bloody streaks on his smooth skin.

 

That was when he realized he was nude.  Well, he still had his Converse kicks on; he could feel them, but otherwise he’d been stripped nude.  And he was—he was on the military dude’s workout bench, evidently.  It had been raised from a flat to an inclined position, and he was on it on his back, completely nude.

 

He didn’t try to move; it was useless.  he could see hid hands–hinging above his head, they’d been handcuffed separately to the barbell, one on each side of the bench.

 

As he looked at the barbell in confusion, Eddie spoke.  “G’wan and try it, cumsucker.  I got four hundred pounds on that thing.  Yer fag ass ain’t goin’ nowhere.”  His voice was filled with a cold glee that sent chills down the teen’s back.

 

“Ay…ain’t no fag…” JJ managed to mutter, rolling his head to the side and spitting out blood.

 

“Course ya ain’t, you fuckin’ lyin’-ass fairy.  I saw yer boydick get all stiff when ya saw a real Alpha Male.  That’s why ya came here, yeah?”

 

JJ couldn’t think.  His head hurt.  In a way, it was why he was here, but not that way—but he couldn’t think.

 

“Fuckin’ luring me in from the side of the road—betcha could barely keep from grabbin’ my cock right there in fuckin’ public, huh, ya goddam homo?  Ya wanna see what Alpha Male meat looks like?  Here ya go, asswipe.”

 

His eyes blazing with psychotic fury, Eddie jerked his zipper down and dug inside his tight utility pants.  And as dazed and bewildered as JJ was, he couldn’t help but be in awe of the massive tool the buff young stud pulled out.  Over eight inches long, nearly two in diameter, wreathed in pulsating veins and with a huge purple head—it was as terrifying to the trapped teen punk as any deadly weapon would have been.

 

And in its own way, that was exactly what it was.

 

The captive youth gaped at the erect member that dangled directly over his face.  With terrifying speed, the malicious grin on Eddie’s face was replaced with an enraged snarl.  “You fuckin’ pervert!!” he screamed, and before JJ could even flinch, the hardbodied ex-Marine began pounding him in the face with the blunt metal dumbbell.

 

The sounds in the next few minutes were unbelievable—the wet squelching sound of flesh beaten until it splits, the crying and bleating of the teenager as he was forced to submit to the brutal violence of the older, more powerful man, the rattling of handcuffs and jingling of dogtags, the crunching and snapping of facial bones…

 

When Eddie finally stood up and tossed the bloody dumbbell aside, his massive, well-defined torso glistened with a film of sweat.  He paused to catch his breath and admire his progress.

 

The faggot was still conscious, but not coherent.  It gurgled and coughed up some blood and a few more teeth before lying back, gasping—it couldn’t breathe through its crushed nose.  The eyes were dark and swollen shut, the lips were split, the jaw was fractured and both cheekbones were broken.

 

It wasn’t enough.  The faggot hadn’t suffered enough.  Eddie still needed to show what an Alpha Male did to impudent skatefags who tried to sneak in for gaysex.

 

He needed to fuck it, to plant his potent manseed deep inside the boymeat.  That’d show the fucker, all right.  Show it just what the fuck was up.

 

As he wandered in and out of dark clouds of pain, some small part of JJ’s mind that wasn’t cowering in a corner wondered exactly what the hell had happened.  This major stud had offered him a lift, had offered to show him how to get swole, and then just—

 

The kid’s thoughts were interrupted by a sensation of movement.  He could feel the Marine dude grab his ankles and yank; with a supreme effort, the youth managed to pry open his swollen eyes—to watch in horror as the buff psycho placed JJ’s Converse hightops on his shoulders.  Even then, his terrified psyche wouldn’t let him go all the way—he could see the huge pulsing shaft that was pointed right between his legs, but he refused to acknowledge what it meant.

 

But reality could be denied only so long.  Even with his eyes closed again, he could feel the pressure starting to build against his anus as the huge thick spongy head of Eddie’s dick probed the tiny opening.   Suddenly Eddie muttered, “Ya know what a real Alpha Male is? He’s a man who can make anyone submit to his cock.”  JJ braced—but it wasn’t enough.

 

This pain wasn’t like the pain of the brutal beatdown his captor had administered.  It was much, much worse.  His adolescent sphincter could only stretch so wide; it was a virgin hole utterly unused to external penetration and lacked the flexibility to handle the older man’s enormous tackle.

 

Eddie literally tore the teenager a new fuckhole.  JJ’s cry of outraged discomfort spiraled into a shriek of terrified agony as his ass muscle split open and Eddie’s gigantic throbbing member pounded its way relentlessly up his ass, tearing at his rectal lining as it went.  Nothing in the young skatepunk’s life had prepared him for this—this nightmarish pain of impalement, of being torn open from the inside—

 

To Eddie, he was just a tight fuck.  And a noisy one.  “Aw, shaddap and take it like a fag, ya cunt!!” he roared, spitting in JJ’s face.  He then drove his point home by driving his fist into the kid’s face, cutting his scream off abruptly.  As the skatepunk lolled listlessly on the narrow bench, the buff ex-Marine took a savage joy in using the virgin boymeat as his own personal fuck toy.

 

Drifting in and out of consciousness, JJ was still aware that his ass was being pounded with relentless fury; he couldn’t help but be aware of it. The thick pulsing veins that sheathed Eddie’s massive tool rode roughshod over his prostate, massaging the hormone-filled adolescent until his own boycock rose up stiffly, as if in defiance of the vicious assrape.

 

He could only moan in bewildered agony, but it was enough for Eddie to hear.  It was enough to trigger another break.

 

“Ya like that, ya fuckin’ piece a’ shit fairy?  Moanin’ like a goddam whore with a dick in ya—cocksuckin’ pansies like you need to fuckin’ die!”

 

Leaning over JJ, Eddie wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat and began squeezing.

 

Nothing in the teen’s short, useless life had prepared him for this level of trauma and abuse; the entire attack had left him stunned and defenseless—not just physically, but in a profoundly psychological sense as well.  Despite the pain, he still simply couldn’t believe that what was happening was real.

 

That all changed now, instantly, with the cessation of breath.  Whatever his failings, whatever he’d suffered, JJ still had the lithe, lean body of a fit and active teenager.  That body sprang into action, instinctively, in a frantic attempt at self-preservation.

 

For his part, Eddie was taken by surprise.  He’d been heavily trained in the art of the hand-to-hand kill, but he’d never actually killed anyone before.  He didn’t expect such a violent reaction—but his training enabled him to retain control of the situation.

 

As JJ thrashed and kicked, Eddie leaned forward, pressing down on the boy and pinning him under the weight of his muscles.  He could feel the teen’s smooth, firm belly and strong pecs flexing valiantly under him, sliding against his own massive chest on a film of sweat.  His dogtags dropped onto the punk’s swollen, blackening face, then slid to the side.

 

The muscle-bound stud endured the aimless frenetic buffetings of the boy’s hands; he’d already wrapped his powerful arms around the kid’s legs as a grip to fuck him, so all the gagging youth could do with his legs was squeeze at Eddie’s waist.

 

“That’s it,” he hissed psychotically into JJ’s pain-twisted face, “Yer dyin’, homo.  Does it hurt?  I hope so, ya sick fuck.  Goddam piece a’ shit—yer dick is hard!  You deserve to die, ya disgustin’ pansy.  Fuck you, ya fuckin’ faggot!!”  And having worked himself into a frothing anger, he spit in JJ’s dark, congested face and dug his thumbs into the teen’s larynx.

 

JJ had been going on for nearly a minute with no oxygen; he should have been starting to black out, but some perverse physiological anomaly was enabling him to remain conscious.  It wasn’t a benefit.  He could hear and comprehend everything being said to him.  He didn’t understand why he was being called a faggot, but he knew his dick was hard and he knew he was dying.

 

And he knew when Eddie crushed his larynx.  He could feel the older stud’s thumbs slowly gouge the thick mass of cartilage out of place; he could hear as well as feel the gristly crunch as his voicebox was pulped.  Again, it was pain of a kind he hadn’t realized could exist and his physical reaction was innate, and instant.

 

Eddie had never experienced anything like it—the way the teen’s virgin rectum clenched up on his swollen member, squeezing it vigorously, almost desperately, as if it knew that making him ejaculate was the only way to stop the agony.  The boy’s thrashing ceased; he gripped his murderer tightly, sensually—an instinctive response to minimize movement and hence pain.   But to the homicidal ex-Marine, it seemed to be a drawn-out moment of intimacy—of him finally proving, and the worthless faggot finally understanding, exactly how Alpha Male Eddie truly was.

 

Now that Eddie had asserted himself as Alpha, he still needed to mark the meat as his.  He still needed to pump it full of his potent manseed, to neutralize its faggotry.  It needed it.  The faggot needed his cum.

 

And it hadn’t suffered enough.  It was still alive.

 

“Ain’t dead yet, faggot,” he grunted, pounding his shaft into the twink’s ruined fuckhole, “Ain’t dead yet.”  The hardman tightened his hands remorselessly around JJ’s neck, feeling the erotic sensation of the rubbery esophagus being crimped shut by the sheer force of his powerful hands.

 

JJ could feel it too, in a way.  The pounding in his head was worse than the pounding in his ass; the pressure that had built up in his skull felt like it was shoving his eyes out of their sockets.  In spite of the way they bulged grotesquely, he still couldn’t see much—but the great black explosions in his field of view weren’t just blood vessels rupturing in his eyes.  The oxygen deprivation was catching up to him.

 

He’d been a healthy little punk, and it betrayed him physically.  He’d managed to stay conscious long enough to still be awake as brain damage set in.  So he was unlucky enough to be able to feel his windpipe being crushed but was totally unaware that a long stream of drool was oozing out past his protruding tongue and was trickling down his left cheek.

 

Reason and meaning ebbed from the dying teen but sensation and pain remained.  The thrashing boymeat could still feel its own erection.  Eddie could feel it, too.

 

“Still hard, ya fuckin’ pervert?” he snarled, “Fuck you, faggot—fuck you!!”

 

Jamming his thumbs under the angle of JJ’s jaw, on each side, the ex-Marine, his phenomenal strength amped up by psychotic rage, squeezed his hands with all the power he could muster while simultaneously wrenching them in opposite directions.  In a fraction of a second, Eddie totally destroyed the major anatomic structures of JJ’s neck.

 

The collapse of the trachea yielded the same viscerally satisfying crunch that had accompanied the mangling of the unlucky youth’s larynx.  This was enhanced by a loud snapping sound that came from a deeper location—by the placement of his thumbs and pressure applied to the right way on the back of the neck, he’d managed to pop the kid’s skull right off his spine, shattering the first cervical vertebra and sending bone shards slicing into JJ’s spinal cord.

 

Whatever the punk’s screaming terrified adolescent brain wanted to do after that was moot; the electrical signals coming from the cerebellum shorted out.  The adolescent body responded to its damaged nervous system in the way it was most primed to: it went into instant convulsive orgasms.

 

It was the convulsions that got to Eddie, too; the way the smooth, lithe teen body suddenly clutched him tightly and shuddered beneath him—it was almost as if it was deliberately milking his swollen, pulsating rod.  He felt the hot splash of the boy’s cum on his chest and realized that the faggot was spewing a steady stream of boymilk all over him; it was being smeared across his chest as their bodies pressed together in a frenetic coupling of semen and death.

 

“Aw, fuckin’ faggot!” he screamed, pounding his right fist into the dead boy’s already-ruined face, and felt his balls draw up beneath him.  Then he had to hold on tight as his own ejaculation rendered him powerless, clutching the trembling corpse as he spunked, again and again, pumping what felt like quarts of searing hot manseed into the worthless homo cumrag.

 

Eddie lay on top of the teenager’s dead body for nearly ten minutes, feeling the corpse quivering beneath him until it finally lay still.  When he disengaged himself, he had to peel his chest from the twink’s; the boy’s cum had already started to dry.  His thick shaft, still engorged and leaking, came out of the kid’s ass with an audible pop.

 

Eddie left the room and took a shower.

 


 

When he returned, he paused in the doorway to admire his work.  He was proud of himself; he’d taken a worthless faggot out of the world, and he’d shown it he was full Alpha Male as he did it.

 

It had fallen off the bench while he’d showered, but it was still handcuffed to the barbell, so it hung by its arms, resting on its left hip.  The smooth chest was covered by a crusty glaze.  One of the Converse sneakers still twitched every few seconds, but otherwise it was still.  The face couldn’t be seen; with its neck broken, the dead kid’s head was slumped forward.  Only the boy’s sweat-matted black hair was showing.  And its softening cock, pearls of semen dripping from the tumescent head.

 

Eddie had put his pants and boots back on after the shower; now he slipped the t-shirt back on as well.  Then he stepped up to the weight bench and unlocked the cuffs that held up JJ’s corpse, letting it slump to the floor like a sack of dirty laundry.  Stowing the cuffs in his nightstand drawer, he paused and considered for a moment; then, picking up the teen’s clothes and cap, he left the apartment.

 

At his truck, he opened the bed.  He used an old section of carpeting as a bedliner, cut to fit; he rolled it back and tossed the clothes into the bed.  Retrieving the skateboard from the cab, he placed it in the bed, too.  Then looking around to make sure no one was observing him, he darted back into the apartment.

 

When he came back out, he was carrying the meat.  He placed it in bed of the truck, then rolled the carpet back over it—not perfect camouflage, but good enough in the dark.  Hopping in the cab, he started the huge beast up and headed out.

 

The front part of the skate park was still brightly lit and in active use; most of the punks out now were older, probably late teens or early twenties, but there were a few who looked younger—some much younger.  Eddie ignored them; if they weren’t faggots after his dick, he had nothing against them.  But now he knew that fags hung out at this park, and he intended to send a message.

 

The rear part of the skate park backed up to the interstate and wasn’t used after dark; this was enforced not so much by chains or fences as by the simple expedient of keeping the place unlit and as dark as possible.  The few daredevils who regarded it as a challenge had already injured themselves enough to serve as a warning.  One boy had died; another had suffered massive brain damage and was still on a respirator.

 

The back end of the park was left alone at night.  Tonight, though, it wouldn’t be.

 

All Eddie could see was a pit; he couldn’t tell its shape or form, and he didn’t need to know.  He tossed the reamed-out boymeat, nude except for its sneakers, into the darkness and heard it hit the concrete below with a boneless thud.  It was followed momentarily but its clothes, hat, and board, the latter of which clattered noisily down into the pit before evidently landing on its wheels and rolling some distance away.

 

An unexpected breeze picked up, ruffling Eddie’s buzzcut hair.  He glanced over at the lighted part of the park, his steely gazing sighting on the heedless youths darting about.  Yeah, this place was infested with faggots.  He’d have to keep his eyes peeled.

Blackie Goes Dark

Sighing with boredom, Blackie leaned back in the doorway and took a swig from the flask he’d stowed in his pocket.  It was a warm night and the mouthful of body-temperature Johnny Walker burned his throat on the way down.  It didn’t bother Blackie, though, he was used to it.  And he’d deal with being bored so long as he could get tanked.

 

Didn’t mean he couldn’t get pissed off, though, for having to stand out here in the hot humid night air just to earn a coupla extra bucks.  Damn Uncle Clayton, he grumbled inwardly, Coulda done more.  Coulda gotten me a better job.

 

Actually, Clayton Chambers had already done far more for his nephew Hayden (Blackie to his disreputable friends and, reluctantly, his family) than the strung-out young punk deserved.  Simply getting him into the police academy hadn’t been difficult—a matter of a word or two places with the right cronies in city hall, getting Blackie’s criminal record buried too deep to find—but number of strings the old man had to pull to ensure Blackie’s graduation was a different thing altogether.

 

The boy hadn’t had any issues with the physical parts of the course; he was twenty-three and his body was a hundred and fifty pounds of firm, strong muscle.  And, to everyone’s surprise, he turned out to be an excellent marksman.  But that was where his appropriateness for the police academy ended.

 

It wasn’t just that Blackie got violent when he drank—and he drank a lot—it was that he was stupid.  It was a stubborn stupidity that successfully resisted all attempts at improvement, making him sullen and ungrateful.  His innate arrogance and sense of entitlement had made him a pariah in his graduating class and universally loathed on the force.

 

The annual salary of a rookie cop wasn’t much, but it was more than enough for most young men his age to live on.  Blackie, though, continued to party like a teenager and his lack of responsibility naturally led to lack of funds.   Hence his moonlighting as a security guard—and his attitude towards doing it.

 

Fuck it, at least I can still get fuckin’ drunk, he thought and took another swig.

 

The night was still, but not quiet; the warehouse he was patrolling, a small metal building set back from the street by a parking lot, was only a few blocks from the highway and a couple of major thoroughfares.  The sounds of the city rose and fell like waves from all sides; even in the dead of night, it wasn’t silent.

 

Blackie checked the time; it was half past midnight.  He sighed petulantly and began his perimeter walk; there were stickers placed at points along the perimeter that he had to scan with his phone by a certain time, to prove to his employer that he was actually doing his job.

 

Another fuckin’ indignity.  Bastards couldn’t just trust him.  Of course, if they had, he wouldn’t be patrolling the property; he’d likely be too drunk even to walk.  As it was, he was having trouble keeping his feet.  The thick soles of his heavy workboots made loud scuffling sounds as he staggered his way along the perimeter fence.

 

His figure, silhouetted by the parking lot lights, wasn’t a bad one; he was just under six feet tall and despite his dissipation, his build was tight. The hip styling of the black hair that gave him his nickname—buzzcut on the sides and rear with the longer hair on top spiked at the front—was offset by the heavy dark scruff of four days’ worth of growth shadowed his cheeks and his chin.  If it weren’t for the dark blue short-sleeve button-down and tight chinos that were the required uniform of the job, he’d have looked exactly like what he was—an ex-high-school party boy several years past his glory days and rapidly going to seed.

 

Broad-shouldered and built, stupid and drunk, Blackie was already fulfilling his highest contribution to society—not as a cop, at which he was utterly incompetent, but as bullet-bait for a cartel-owned warehouse.

 

Blackie didn’t know that last part, of course, and if he had he wouldn’t have given a shit.  He also didn’t know that he was steps away from a nightmarish world of torture and terror that would end only with his agonizing death.

 

There was an oak tree in the far corner of the parking lot.  Massive and ancient, its limbs stretched up ninety feet and its vast umbrella of shade was more than sixty feet in diameter; the few cars that ever parked in the lot tended to crowd under the oak on hot summer days.

 

Tonight, the blackness under it was damn near impenetrable.  But there was a sticker he had to scan on the corner post, back behind the tree.  Squinting in the dark, the drunk young guard stumbled in his heavy boots but continued to plod sullenly forward.

 

The first hint that anything was off was also his last chance to save his life, but he was too fucked up to take it.  His police academy training had taught him how to recover from being blindsided by a blow like the one that sent him stumbling into the tree, but he could only clutch drunkenly at the rough bark to keep from falling to his knees.

 

The most dangerous aspect of Blackie’s employment on the police force was that it gave him an excuse to carry a gun 24/7.  He had one on him now, in a hip holster, but he was too stunned to even think of reaching for it.  And then a hand clapped over his mouth, a hand in a leather glove that had no fingertips, to allow for a tactical grip—like the one sealing Blackie’s lips with an iron grasp.

 

He couldn’t see the glove on the hand over his mouth, of course—but he could see his mate.  It was right in front of his face, holding the wickedest Ka-bar knife the young thug had ever seen.  At least seven inches of serrated carbon-steel blade glimmered faintly in the darkness, three inches from his eyes…

 

…eyes.  He could see eyes.  The face across from his was masked; there was an opening for the mouth and one for both eyes, across the bridge of the nose.  The rest was a hood of black material that completely covered the head.  Some self-preservation instinct tried muzzily to jump-start his training; the inebriated punk was able to get at least a vague idea of his attacker.

 

The Other Dude was all in black—some kind of jumpsuit, with soft-soled boots.  It made it harder to tell.  He was slightly larger than Blackie—and definitely stronger—and judging by the wrinkles around the eyes, somewhat older, perhaps early thirties.

 

But that wasn’t what Blackie noticed most about the eyes.

 

The knife vanished but instantly Blackie could feel its tip pressed against his stomach.  It was a pinprick, just barely there on his firm flat belly three inches above the navel.

 

“You feel it?” hissed the Other Dude—softly and abruptly.  The pressure on Blackie’s mouth eased.

 

“Uh-huh,” he muttered shakily.

 

“I ask.  You answer,” the Other Dude continued in a brisk, business-like manner.  “If you don’t…”

 

The sentence wasn’t finished.  It didn’t need to be.  Blackie could see the end of the sentence in the Other Dude’s eyes.  They were pale blue, opaque as deep-set ice.  The intoxicated punk had never seen eyes so cold.

 

He knew that the moment his usefulness ended, so did his life.  It scared him so bad he lost control of his bladder.  The hardbodied young punk was forced to stand, pinned against a tree, as warm piss ran down his firm legs and pooled in his boots.

 

He was utterly helpless, utterly alone, and utterly in the Other Dude’s control.  And he knew it.

 

“Y-yessir,” the young thug said, speaking to an older man in a respectful tone of voice for the first time in his life.  It had taken a knife pointed at his gut to make him do it, but he did it.

 

“Ok,” the Other Dude said evenly, “Where’s Ramirez?”

 

“Who?” Blackie asked blankly.  The hand clamped down on his mouth like a bear trap and then—

 

—and then it was inside him oh fuck the pain the knife was inside

 

“Relax,” the Other Dude whispered, pressing his full body weight against the shuddering punk, steadying him up against the tree, “It ain’t even penetrated yer abdominal cavity.  Yet.  Every question you don’t answer, it goes in another inch.”

 

Cold despair seized Blackie as he realized that no matter how willing he was to cooperate, it wouldn’t save his life if he honestly didn’t know the answers.  Tears rolled down his cheeks; he’d have begged for his life if the Other Dude wasn’t still handgagging him.

 

“Now tell me where Ramirez is,” the black-clad figure hissed menacingly.  He released Blackie’s mouth.

 

“D-dunno any Ramirez,” Blackie sobbed frantically.  It didn’t help; the Other Dude clamped down on his mouth again.

 

“That didn’t answer my question,” he snarled and sank the blade in another inch.  Blackie, his mouth sealed by the leather glove, moaned and shuddered.  “Ya feel that, bitch?” the Other Dude sneered, “I’m already through yer gut muscle.  Next one, yer gonna start feelin’ in yer bowels.  Answer me, ya fuckin’ sack a’ shit, or I’m gonna stick ya like a pig.  Who’s in the goddam warehouse?”

 

His eyes wide, Blackie frenetically shook his head.  The Other Dude let go.  “I-I-I hons-onestly don’t know,” the panicked young thug gabbled, “I on-only been inside a cup-coupla times…”  His hoarse, husky voice trailed off into broken weeping.

 

“Aw, bullshit!” the Other Dude spat out and rammed his blade up to the hilt in Blackie’s flat, firm belly.  Leaning forward, he pressed his face up against that of the suffering punk, whispering quietly into his ear.  Blackie could feel the Other Dude’s mask scraping against his own facial scruff as the cold, hard words penetrated his ear.

 

“I scoped it all out.  Yer a fuckin’ cop–I’ve seen you in uniform.  Ya gotta be in on this deal—Ramirez has too many contacts in the department.  You ain’t playin’ innocent, motherfucker—ain’t nothin’ worse than a crooked cop.”

 

The Other Dude leaned back again, his features becoming lost in the darkness.  Suddenly, he placed his hand in the middle of Blackie’s chest.  What happened next would have made him scream had the unexpected blast of agony not put him in shock first.  The Other Dude ripped the blade back out of Blackie’s stomach.

 

He didn’t twist the blade; he didn’t need to. The sudden brutal extraction of the serrated blade inflicted more physical damage than all of the initial thrusts had done.  The exterior wound wasn’t very large, but Blackie felt like his abdomen had been ripped open.  He clutched his bleeding gut, his eyes huge and dull with shock as the Other Dude held the bade up for him to see.

 

“Lookit that,” the vicious killer smirked, “See those shreds of meat danglin’ from my blade?  That’s yer guts, boy.  That’s what yer innards look like.  Know what the best part is?  You ain’t dead.  Fuck, son, we could getcha to a hospital and save yer life even now.  Good surgeon might have ta cut out some a’ yer bowels, but you’d live.”

 

Then he was back, the musty smell of leather flooding Blackie’s nose as the hand slammed down on his mouth again.  This time, though, the Other Dude momentarily sheathed his weapon; the prey was already sufficiently dominated by pain and wouldn’t put up any resistance.

 

Blackie blinked and flinched as the Other Dude ripped the young guard’s shirt open.  With the buttons of his short-sleeve uniform shirt torn off, it fluttered open, revealing his broad, smooth chest, nipples jutting from his pecs into the humid night air.  The Other Dude yanked his knife up out of the sheath and placed the tip of the blade two inches above the left nipple.

 

Even though he was in pain and terror—and still drunk, for that matter—even an idiot like Blackie realized that the knife was aimed directly at his heart.

 

“You get a second chance, asswipe,” the Other Dude said calmly.  “And this time, I’m goin’ slow, ya get me?  So you’ll have time to think about it when ya lie.  But after this, ain’t no fuckin’ doctor gonna be able to save yer worthless ass.  Tell me the truth or die, fucker.”

 

The tip pierced his flesh; the merest prick—just enough to let a tiny rivulet of blood trickle down Blackie’s smooth, rounded pec and drip down his torso.  He’d have pissed himself again if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder.  He was alone, helpless, and on the brink of death.

 

“Ok, buddy, ya don’t know Ramirez—and I’ll betcha say ya don’t know Andros either, huh?  But you been inside.  That I believe.  So where’s the safe?”

 

The contemptuous tone of the Other Dude’s voice was matched by the shove he gave the knife; not enough to actually wound Blackie, but more than enough to remind him it was still there.  Just in case he’d forgotten.

 

Blackie froze.  Safe?  What fuckin’ safe?  He’d never seen a safe—

 

“Where?  Back office?  Upstairs?  Answer me, fucker!”

 

This time, he intended it to hurt.  Exercising complete professional control over both his weapon and his victim, the Other Dude expertly drove the sharp steel tip of the blade into Blackie’s pectoral to a depth of one inch, as promised.  It parted the young thug’s pec muscle like a steak knife through hamburger, the thick, firm tissue peeling back with no resistance.

 

Blackie’s scruffy, dissolute face was a mask of pain and shock.  He could feel the muscle shearing apart and the blood spurt from the chest wound.  It hurt worse than the gut stab—far worse.

 

The Other Dude knew it.  “Just gettin’ started, cunt.  Yer gonna regret not answerin’ me.”

 

Blackie tried to speak, but he couldn’t make his mouth work right; all he could do was moan and gibber like an idiot.  He wanted to tell the Other Dude that he just didn’t know, please, stop the pain, don’t kill me I’d help you if I could oh please fuck no—

 

“Where is that goddam safe, motherfucker?!?”

 

Somewhere in the back of Blackie’s mind, some part of him realized how his own stupidity and irresponsibility had led him to this point.  If he hadn’t been such an entitled, drunken fool, he would have learned the skills needed to avoid this situation.  Problem was, it had taken the terror of impending death to sober him up enough to realize it.

 

By now, it was way too fucking late.

 

The Other Dude shoved the knife into Blackie again—this time with much more force.  It was needed; the professional killer’s bicep flexed with the effort required to drive the steel blade through the ribcage, snapping one rib and almost literally sawing through another.  Even so, he still retained enough finesse to halt the progress of the knife before it hit the pericardial sac.

 

Blackie’s face was contorted into a grimace; deep in his piss-flooded boots, his toes curled in agony.  He didn’t—couldn’t—scream but was emitting a high-pitched keening sound of extreme suffering.  His entire body was stiff, rigid with pain.

 

He held the pose; he had to.  There was a knife in him, millimeters from his rapidly beating heart.  His chest was sliced open.  Oh holy fuck, he couldn’t move…

 

The Other Dude’s face came in close; once again the mask brushed his carefully sculpted facial scruff.  “This is it, fuckwad.  Yer last chance.  Tell me where the safe is.  Now.”

 

And that was when Blackie remembered.  He had seen a safe.  He’d never left the front room, but he’d seen it through an open door.

 

“It’s in the back.  It’s embedded in the concrete.  About five feet tall,” he said, gabbling it all out at once, then started sobbing. “Please don’t hurt me no more.  I dunno anything else, I swear.  I promise.  Please—” he broke down into tears.

 

“Now see, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?  Cheer up, punk; I’ll make it stop hurtin’,” the Other Dude said with a wide grin.  With a sudden final shove, he rammed the knife into Blackie’s heart, popping it like a water balloon full of blood.

 

The hardbodied young guard grunted in mortal agony, gripped by a pain so intense he was unable to think or act—he could only feel and suffer.  As his spasming heart pumped itself to shreds on the shaft of sharp steel, Blackie stared with horror and betrayal into the Other Dude’s cold eyes.  He tried to breathe, but he couldn’t; there was fluid in his throat.  The terrified young man gagged and retched, coughing up a gob of thick, coppery blood.

 

“Don’t worry, pal, it’ll stop hurting here in a sec.  Gotta go; catch ya on the flip side,” came the soft, mocking voice.  Blackie felt a deep tearing from within his vital organ as the Other Dude yanked his knife back out of the dying punk and, stepping back, vanished into the darkness.

 

Blackie sank to the ground, his face frozen in a look of stunned agony as his life drained away.  He still didn’t know who the Other Dude was or why he was dying; he could only feel the excruciating chill of death drawing him into nothingness.  He was terrified and suffering…and alone…

 

And then there was nothing left but a pile of manmeat, twitching in the darkness, its bootheels digging furrows around the oak’s roots as the corpse shuddered in its death throes.

 

The Other Dude had been right—the hurtin’ was over.

 

In the aftermath, Blackie’s body wasn’t found for more than six hours, by which time it was stiff with rigor.  The investigating cops recognized him but let him be carted off in the meatwagon as a John Doe.  His corpse was in the morgue three days before they got around to matching his fingerprints; no one had bothered to report him missing.  The body was reluctantly claimed by family.  With no public service—or even any death notice—Blackie vanished as if he’d never existed.

 

He wasn’t missed on the force.  It was noticed with sneering contempt that for all his bullshit horseplay with his gun, he’d let himself be tortured and murdered by a single assailant without even unholstering his weapon.  His name was stricken from the ranks with relief—and silent applause for the killer.

Family Pride by Gay Slavemeat gsmeat2@gmail.com

 

I have written a lot of fantasy gay snuff stories, usually with the victim being a willing slave that embraces its fate, since that’s my personal fantasy and what I think I deserve. Sometimes readers request a particular approach or plot.  I like to do that and those have been well received.  I was recently contacted by a fellow slave, who says his name is Bill, and who has shared the events that led him not only to become a willing sex slave but to want to be snuffed.  I think his story may well be mostly true, although of course on the internet one never knows for sure.  In real life I do not approve of anyone getting hurt involuntarily, let alone snuffed.  Human life is precious and should be preserved and nurtured, although for those of us who are masochists I have no problem with willingly being tortured, used sexually, and humiliated naked in public – so long as there is not permanent damage.  I get off big time on that sort of thing with me on the receiving end.  The thought of me being snuffed fills a strong need, and the fantasy keeps me away from seeking the real thing.

 

Bill appears to have reacted to initial involuntary abuse by embracing it totally and wanting more.  I find his story a major turn-on.  He asked me to write it and also to write how it might end.  That is what follows.  The past events and his current state of willing slavery are from what he claims to be real, as are some of the first names such as his original pimp, brothers and high school friends.  But to protect his identity somewhat I’ve used some fake names, like the bar name, which I took from the now-closed Mack’s in San Francisco.  (That was the best S&M club I ever attended, and he did not tell me the name of the Boston S&M club where he’s kept.)  I also included a much younger version of myself as a bit player in the events to advance the plot, as does the setting around a real estate deal.

 

So, here’s his story with one possibility on how it might end, an ending Bill says he would like to have happen.

 

 

Burlington, Vermont

Thanksgiving

 

“I love living in Vermont and it’s amazingly pretty in the winter, but this year is ridiculously cold,” said Mr. Thompson.  He had just finished Thanksgiving dinner, surrounded by his entire family, and the tryptophan in the fresh turkey (along with some excellent red wine) was starting to make him sleepy.  It had been a great day, with lots of turkey, football, family, and wine and beer.  He had been joined by his three sons and their families, and everyone was in a great mood.  He was incredibly close to his boys, and proud of them.

 

“You are right dad,” agreed Mark, who at 30 was the eldest of the three.  “And Kevin, Danny, and I think we all deserve a break from the cold.  We also think it would be great to have some quality family time with just you and the three of us.  We haven’t done that for a long time – a guys’ trip to someplace nice and warm where we can relax.  After all, you’re about to turn 55 and retire, and the three of us can afford to take some time off after the real estate deal we just closed.  We have a lot to celebrate and everything to be proud of.  We think this would be a nice Christmas present for you.  We planned for a trip to the Bahamas for the four of us, and when we mentioned it to Mr. Jordon he said he’d like to host us all, along with Tommy and Ryan, at his personal resort.  He’s really pleased with how the real estate deal turned out for everyone, and said he knows we’ll all make a lot of money when the property is developed.  He also thought Tommy did a great job as our lawyer and Ryan as our accountant, so he wanted to include them.  We’ve all bonded during the deal on a personal level and discovered we have a lot of values in common.  So now we can even do the trip pretty much for free.  How’s that sound?  I thought I’d bring it up before you fall asleep.”

 

Mr. Thompson was surprised and thrilled.  While he winced a bit about being proud of everything, he certainly was proud of the three amazing sons he had shared his holiday with.  They had worked together on a hugely successful deal with a very rich and prominent real estate baron, and he knew their new partner could easily afford the trip.  So he eagerly accepted the offer and they quickly delved into the timing and details.  It made the day even more special and Mr. Thompson drifted off to a well-deserved nap on the couch in due course.  As he did so, Danny, the youngest of the three, looked lovingly at him and commented to his siblings: “We really do need to use this trip to make sure he can be proud of everything.”  His brothers agreed.

 

Boston, Massachusetts

Mack’s S&M Gay Sex Club

 

Dennis and Paul were engaged in a friendly and animated conversation as they enjoyed some beers and watched the action at Paul’s club.  Paul owned the intense underground gay S&M club, which was nicely full that evening even though it was a weekday.  There were about 40 guys, a majority in leather garb that highlighted their macho alpha male status and bodies.  There were also slaves, who were mostly naked or nearly naked, as befit their inferior, subservient status, making their bodies readily available for inspection and use by their alpha owners.  The bartender was busy serving drinks and most of the group had just enjoyed the buffet that was part of Mack’s tradition.  The patrons were also enjoying the bar’s house slave, who was totally naked and busy sucking cocks.  The alphas even made him suck the cocks of other slaves, so he’d be reminded he was not even worth being taken into their households as a personal slave.  He was just a fuck toy at a S&M bar, of no more value than the bar stools or the backroom sling.  However, he was handy for the guys who needed to get rid of some beer, as he also functioned as a mobile human urinal.  Patrons wouldn’t have to leave their seats and could just piss down his throat or up his ass.  He had once been named Bill, but mostly answered to “fag pig” since that was branded on his lower belly just above his exposed (and currently erect) cock.  Guys also followed the instructions branded on his naked butt, which invited them to “fuck the faggot.”  He was popular since everyone was welcome to fuck him or piss into him (throat or ass), and there weren’t any limits on whipping, fisting, or beatings so long as Paul said it was OK.  Paul always approved so long as he got to watch, or to participate if it was an especially fun and humiliating idea.  Paul was solicitous of his customers and used all his property to satisfy them, including his sex slave, the fag pig fka Bill.  And the fag pig knew what it was and always cooperated and accepted whatever use was made of it, thanking the alphas who used it for doing so.  The fag pig was content and grateful, as it should be.

 

Dennis handed Paul a flier he had brought, with the comment “I assume this is yours, and refers to your fag pig?”  The flier read:

 

FOR SALE

Snuff-ready subhuman live meat slave

Vitals:  25-year old Caucasian male slave, 6’1”, 170 lbs.  Brown hair and eyes, moderately good looking and in generally good physical condition.  Cock 7.25” and functional.  Body fat kept at 15%, to assure flavorful meat that is still very lean.

 

Training:  Well trained to suck cock, drink cum and piss, and eat shit.  Current tasks are janitorial, focusing on cleaning urinals and toilets, including doing so by licking clean the urinals and toilet bowls with its tongue, to enhance its training and humiliation and for entertainment of club patrons.  Responds well to being butt-fucked, whipped, and beaten, and especially to dildos and fisting.  Totally submissive and obedient.

 

Reason for sale:  Slave is showing deterioration in skin smoothness because of being whipped and beaten repeatedly, along with some burn marks, and slave’s asshole is damaged and overly loose as a result of large dildos, being double-fucked, and consistent fisting.  Efforts at repair were not sufficiently successful to meet club standards for fuck-toy slaves.  The current owner of the slave plans to have his premises painted and will use the proceeds of the sale to pay for that.  Slave understands and acknowledges its life is far less important than patrons enjoying a freshly painted setting, and will cooperate with whatever torture, snuff, and cannibalism scenes the purchaser determines.

 

Inquire to Paul at Mack’s S&M Club, Boston, Mass.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Paul laughed as he read the flier.  “Of course it is.  As you well know since you’re the one who sold me the pathetic piece of fag shit in the first place.”

 

“yeah, but you sure didn’t pay much for it.  And I think you’ve made good money as a result of how utterly depraved Bill is.  Not setting any limits for patrons when they use him has obviously paid off.  Plus having nice clean toilets.  But I hope you don’t think you’re going to get much for him.  About all he’s good for is getting snuffed.  I just fucked his ass and you could park a semi in there.”

 

Paul laughed again.  “True enough.  I’ve distributed the flier discretely and have had some promising inquiries.  Given the fact he’s relatively young, his cock still works, and he’s got the right attitude about being a shit-eating subhuman who deserves to be snuffed, I think I can get enough to pay for the paint job and a few new amenities.  And there are other slaves out there that I can train to replace him.  But I don’t have any delusions about his value.  So, do you want to buy him back?  And do you think you have a replacement for him I could get cheap?  I know you’re in the business of pimping and selling young males.”

 

Before answering, Dennis paused and watched as Bill held up a very large glass to his lips.  He had masturbated into it and then added the cum form used condoms of guys who’d fucked him.  Other patrons filled it up with piss and spit.  One alpha wiped his own ass with some toilet paper and added that to the mixture.  Bill thanked them all and slowly drank the entire cum/piss/spit/shit-stained toilet paper contents.  When he finished several other patrons dragged him over to the nearby sling for further amusement.

 

“Both,” answered Dennis.

 

Burlington, Vermont

8 years ago

 

Bill, Ryan, and Tommy were great friends, each dealing with the stress of high school and the accelerating onset of puberty as they had all turned 17 and hit their sexual prime.  For Tommy and Ryan, the opposite sex was now somehow mysterious and made them insecure and shy.  But Bill had a different reaction.  What got him going was the same sex –  other guys.  He realized he was gay, but he was amazingly ignorant about any aspect of being gay since it wasn’t ever discussed at home, and Bill figured it was no big deal.  But when he told Tommy and Ryan he learned he was completely wrong.  It was a huge deal.

 

“You’re a fag?” Tommy asked in horrified shock.  “Fags aren’t human, they’re subhuman.  You’re a thing, nor a person.”

 

“And you are no longer our friend,” added Ryan.  “We want nothing to do with you.”  Bill was horrified and embarrassed and begged them to reconsider.  He wanted to continue to hang out with his friends.  He told them he’d do anything to be able to continue to do so.

 

“Maybe we’ll give you a choice,” Tommy responded.  “We will either completely ignore you, or if you obey us we will allow you to be around us from time to time as a sex toy for us to use. Instead of us just herking off we could fuck your puny little ass.  That’s what straight guys do to fags like you.  But you would have to do whatever we say, no matter what.”

 

Bill was totally devastated.  He had thought these were his best friends and their reaction put him into shock and depression.  But he couldn’t stand not being around them at all, so he agreed to their terms.  “Like I said, I’ll do whatever you want me to do.  You can use me sexually as a fag if you want.   Just let me be with you at least part of the time.  And don’t tell anyone.”

 

“OK, let’s see if you really mean it.  Take off all your clothes and get on your knees.”  As Bill did so, Tommy unzipped his pants and took out his cock, which he proceeded to stroke until it got hard.  Then he shoved it into Bill’s mouth and told him to suck it, which Bill did.  And Bill liked doing so.  When Tommy shot his load, Bill also discovered he liked swallowing the cum.  Tommy told him he needed to be thanked for using Bill, and as Bill did so Ryan took his turn and also shot a load down Bill’s throat.   This soon became a pattern, with the two “friends” taking turns getting blow jobs from Bill.  Since Bill liked being naked in front of his former friends and loved giving them blow jobs and drinking their cum, Bill looked forward to the ritual. And they had promised to keep his status a secret.

 

But blow jobs soon weren’t enough for Tommy and Ryan, and after a few weeks of blow jobs they decided they wanted more.  They told Bill to bend over, naked, and then Tommy once again took the first turn, this time fucking Bill’s tight, virgin ass.  Bill wasn’t prepared for the pain, and his asshole bled as Tommy reached his climax.  It bled again when Ryan took his turn, but there was no sympathy.  They told Bill this is what fags deserved and he better get used to it.  This was all he was good for, and they laughed as he nearly broke into tears form the combination of pain and humiliation.  However, he not only didn’t resist, he begged for more.  Bill learned that day, and confirmed over the following weeks and years, that he liked being butt-fucked even more than he liked sucking cock.  And he accepted that this was indeed all he was good for.

 

What surprised and frustrated Tommy and Ryan was that being faced got Bill hard, and he clearly enjoyed it.  So, after a month or so of regular use of Bill’s butt and mouth for fucking, Tommy went a step further.  This time Tommy told Bill to get naked and lie on his back in the bathroom.  He again dropped his pans, but this time it wasn’t his cock that went into Bill.  He lowered his own butt onto Bill’s face and farted, laughing at Bill as he did so.  Then he took a dump.  The load of shit went into Bill’s mouth, and Bill obediently swallowed it.  Then it was Ryan’s turn, with both boys laughing at Bill as they told him to wash his mouth out, so he could function as toilet paper and clean their asses.  They told him to describe how wonderful their shit tasted, and to thank them for their “gifts.”  Bill did exactly as he was instructed.  Tommy and Ryan had found the ultimate humiliation, and their sessions with Bill now included not just using him as a cum depository, but also for their piss and their shit.  Bill was too embarrassed and ashamed to admit to them that he had soon come to want this too – he was turned on by being used and degraded, no matter how badly.  It frustrated Tommy and Ryan that even this depravity turned him on, and they slapped him around and beat him up to show their displeasure.  But they also kept using him as the fag they always reminded him he was.

 

Tommy had a further idea on how to humiliate Bill, which worked well and sealed Bill’s role as a worthless fag.  When he and Ryan were each fucking him, one in his ass and one in his mouth, Tommy arranged for Bill’s brother Danny to walk in and “discover” him serving two alpha males.  Danny was a year younger, and he was the brother Bill was closest too.  Bill and Danny shared a bedroom, and Bill secretly was massively turned on by Danny’s amazing, masculine body, which Bill often got to enjoy seeing naked.  Tommy had obviously already told Danny Bill was a fag, but Danny feigned shock and reacted just as Tommy and Ryan had done.  He told Bill he was subhuman and could not be his friend or brother any more.  Danny gave him the same choice as had Ryan and Tommy, and Bill was soon being used by Danny just like he was by Tommy and Ryan.  It was easier for Danny given the shared bedroom, so the use was more frequent.  Their nearby bathroom also made it easy for Danny to make shitting into Bill’s mouth a regular source of his entertainment.

 

Danny, despite promising not to do so as had Tommy and Ryan, soon arranged for the two other brothers, Nark and Kevin, to walk in on a fuck session and join in the condemnation.  In fact, the five straight boys began to compare notes on ways to better humiliate the fag.  Bill’s brothers added an evaluation, with the meanness that often happens with family members.

 

“You aren’t ever going to have a decent life.  You’re totally worthless even to other fags, and no guy is ever going to kiss you or hold you.  All you’re fit to do is be a whore, which is what you’ll become someday.  With a little luck, maybe you’ll get AIDS and die soon.  We hope you do that.”  The five alpha males enjoyed a contest to come up with the best way for Bill to die.  They made it quite clear that is what they wanted to happen to him, as soon as possible.  And when their father found out, he piled on to that same sentiment and told Bill he was no longer a son and would need to leave the house once he finished (or dropped out of) high school.

 

Once he was “out” high school was miserable for Bill.  He did find some solace playing baseball., being a good center fielder and a decent hitter, and he enjoyed the game a lot.  It was his only positive activity, and he spent his time mostly on baseball, some attention to schoolwork, and being used by his brothers and his former friends.  But being used was his favorite activity – he liked being a sex object, and he even liked being a human toilet.  Being a fuck-hole and a toilet was his only purpose.  Well, maybe not entirely his only purpose, as he’d also learned that his role included doing tasks for the alphas.  He performed the chores his brothers had been assigned, and even did some of the work for their part-time jobs.  Bill learned (and accepted) that he was a slave, serving his betters (which was most everyone) in however they wanted to make use of him.

 

In due course Bill did manage to graduate form high school and even entered college at the University of Vermont, studying prelaw.  As he entered college his father confirmed he was no longer welcome in his home and he no longer considered him a son.  His father was totally ashamed to ever have had contact with him.  Bill was not to show up, even for family events and holidays.  Making things worse, Danny made sure word got out at college that he was gay, and things started to deteriorate in the dorm and in classes too.  He was shunned and found himself unable to study, finally dropping out early in his second year.  He got a job for a while, but after about six months even that didn’t work out.  Bill was broke, despondent, and desperate.  As his brothers had predicted, there was only one option.  Bill became a street prostitute.

 

Bill was able to make enough to live on, sort of, as a whore.  The reason was that he was very “flexible” in terms of what he’d do, and word of that got around.   One guy, named Dennis, even let him stay the night in return for some rough treatment.  Then Dennis invited some of his friends over and they all shared Bill, introducing him to the world of S&M as well as using him for butt-fucking, piss, and shit.  Dennis had become his pimp and added to his training.  When Bill had asked if there was someone who would be willing to allow him to have a place to live in return for sex, it was Dennis who took Bill to Boston and introduced him to the fantastic world that was Mack’s.  Paul had accepted Bill, even paying Dennis a small fee, and initially letting him whore himself to patrons.  But soon Paul just kept Bill as a naked sex slave and allowed the patrons to do as they wished with him for free.  Bill did janitorial work, focusing especially on cleaning the toilets, and had access to a small storeroom in the back to live in, with a mattress and a few chairs.  He was allowed to shower and to eat leftovers form the club’s buffet (usually from a dog dish).  It was great for Paul’s business, and Bill very quickly realized this was the “life” he both wanted and deserved.

 

There were occasional events that stood out, such as a few times when he was allowed to visit his brothers.  One had sent a card asking if he had contracted AIDS yet, saying he hoped this had happened because it would be better if he died like they said he should.  All three brothers made it clear they would prefer him dead but wouldn’t pay a cent for his funeral if he had one.  When they allowed him to visit them on a couple of occasions, it was in the garage of his eldest brother, Mark.  They said they’d pay him a little money in return for once again fucking him and shitting in his mouth, but after Mark started the fun by administering a combo of cum, piss, and shit into Bill, they informed Bijl he’d have to pay them for the privilege of eating their shit.  So, Bill took what money he had and paid it to the three alpha males, getting the waste from his other two brothers, Kevin and Danny, as they also fucked him and then pissed and shat into his mouth.  He returned to Boston broke and even more humiliated, much to the satisfaction of his three brothers.  But he also returned more turned on than ever by their fantastic alpha bodies, especially Danny’s.  His father refused to see him at all, being completely ashamed of him and no longer considering him as a son, as he had made clear years before.

 

Other occasions related to his life as a slave.  To entertain the patrons Paul had had him branded on two occasions, once with “Fuck the Faggot” on his butt, and once with “Fag Pig” on his belly just above his cock.  Bill clearly understood how appropriate each of these were, and asked Paul to brand him with the term “sex slave” on the forehead so it would always be visible even on the rare occasions when Bill wasn’t naked.  But Paul said no since he did not want to risk damaging his property.  On another memorable occasion Bill was the target of a whipping contest at the club, with 7 guys participating and taking turns, then deciding they’d all whip him at the same time.  Bill was in the emergency room for a while after that, and some of the lacerations didn’t heal.  But it was useful as a reminder of his status and use, so over time his young skin became more scarred.

 

It was the fisting that did the most damage.  Bill really got off on being fisted – it was the perfect combination of pain and humiliation and again it had started with Tommy and Ryan but accelerated with Danny.  The downside was that it extended his asshole, and in time there was even room for two guys to fist him at once.  So, they did, and of course that made it even worse.  In his last visit to his brothers, Danny had gotten into him up to his elbow.  That was an unbelievable turn-on for Bill.

 

Some of the patrons started to complain to Paul that the bar slave had too loose an ass for a nice tight butt-fuck, and Paul was always highly attentive to his customer’s desires.  So, as Bill turned 25, Paul had decided to sell Bill and find a younger replacement.  After all, he’d owned the slave for nearly two years, and it was now damaged property.

 

Mack’s Gay S&M Club

Boston, Mass.

 

Dennis and Paul were once again enjoying drinks and entertainment.  It had been two weeks since Dennis had last been to the bar, and he had made a lot of progress on the terms he’d worked out with Paul for the purchase and replacement of the bar’s live fag meat.  They both had their cocks out and hard, and Bill was kneeling between the two of them servicing Dennis.  Next to him, also kneeling and totally naked, was another slave, somewhat younger, servicing Paul.

 

“I think you will find the new slave quite acceptable and reasonably well trained.  As you can see it is good looking and has a reasonably good-sized cock, a bit shorter than Bill’s, about 6.75 inches, but thicker.  It’s fresh out of high school, only 19, so you should get 3-4 years of service before it is used up like Bill is, obviously depending on how much it gets fisted and whether you repair the asshole as it deteriorates.  It can produce gobs of cum with impressive frequency and even a bit of distance when it shoots.  If you lie it on its back the cum easily reaches the chest and sometimes even the mouth.  The electricity to the balls all the time has likely affected the quantity and quality of Bill’s cum production these days.  The new slave also gives great blow jobs, as I hope you’re finding out.  Most important, it’s a natural masochist and fully understands that it’s a subhuman piece of slave meat.  There will be no issues on obedience.”

 

“Well, the slave’s doing a good job so far,” Paul acknowledged, his breathing starting to get a bit heavier as the slave’s tongue aroused his cock.  “And he’s attractive enough, with skin that doesn’t yet show the effects of being whipped and burned.  But what about willingness to do things like drink piss and cum, and eat shit?  Those turned out to be important in getting value out of my current piece-of-shit slave.”

 

“No issue on the piss and cum.  He seems to crave both, and we can demonstrate that once they finish sucking us off.  But you’ll have to train him to eat shit.  That shouldn’t be hard, given his attitude, and as I said he is totally obedient.  There will be no resistance. He just hasn’t been trained to do so and doesn’t have a natural inclination for it like Bill did.  If you let the guys shit on his food, and he doesn’t get to eat anything that isn’t covered with it, I’m sure he’ll adjust in no time.  And the training will be fun for everyone.  I’ve already talked to him about this and he’s eager to learn.

 

“Incidentally, you’ll also notice he hasn’t been branded yet.  I suggest you do that in a special ceremony, so you can charge guys extra to attend.  I always thought “fag pig” was a bad choice for Bill, by the way.  It’s insulting to pigs.  I think you should brand this one as what it really is – fag slave meat.  Or a phrase that empathizes its use for cum, piss, and shit eating.  Or a combo.  How about “fag slavemeat toilet?”  I’d do it right in the middle of the chest, so it’s more visible, and then require him to go shirtless even when he’s in public and not naked at the bar.  That would be extremely humiliating.  And maybe “fuck the fag” on its ass, like Bill’s, since that has always gotten a lot of laughs. Of course, that’s all up to you since you’ll own it – just be sure I get to join the fun when you do the branding.  I love watching the red-hot metal burn their skin, and I always cum when I smell it cooking and hear them scream.  Also, the slave has been informed it no longer has a real name since it’s not a person, and it has been trained to answer to slavemeat, which is why I think branding it that would be instructional and inform your patrons.

 

“Fair points and good ideas,” responded Paul, who was now very much enjoying the blow job and getting a bit distracted as the pleasure increased and the point of orgasm neared.  “I think I might have even consulted with Bill on the name prior to his branding, and that’s obviously a mistake.  Subhuman objects shouldn’t have any say in that – or anything else.  I plan to be much stricter with the replacement.”  As he considered how much fun that was going to be, Paul reached orgasm and shot his load down slavemeat’s throat.  Dennis did the same with Bill.  But they left their cocks in the slaves’ mouths since they would soon want to piss.

 

Paul changed the optic.  “How did the final negotiations go?  Do we have a deal?”

 

“They went great.  And your deal is a little better than I thought we could get.  You not only get the money for painting the place, you get this new meat for free.  The buyer is covering my fee as well as your renovation costs.”

 

“Wow!  That’s wonderful.  How did you pull that off?”  As they talked Paul released his load of piss down the eager throat of his new human urinal.  No need to interrupt the conversation to take a leak.  Dennis did the same with Bill.

 

“The whole thing is wonderfully fortuitous.  My biggest customer, for whom I procure a whole lot of young male slaves, lives in Burlington and is a really rich real estate developer.  He’s got the kind of money most of us can’t even conceive of and he uses up the slaves very quickly for his amusement.  I’ve joined him for some fantastic snuff scenes followed by great slavemeat meals featuring live meat.  He recently did a deal with some local guys who owned land adjacent to his that, if you put it all together, would make a hugely profitable development.  Things are booming up there, as you know.  He said everyone is going to make a bundle.  The others, I think it was some brothers, were great to deal with and they bonded on a lot of fronts, including their hatred of fags and their views on what should happen to them.  He wanted to give them a present to express his appreciation.  He had gotten to know them and their story very well during all the complex negotiations and realized Bill would be the perfect gift.  I’d had him come down with me that time I visited a few weeks ago and he checked out the merchandise I had available.  He bought a few other slaves too, but the irony is that his interest was only in Bill as the gift.  Even though Bill was obviously not in the best shape, especially for being fucked, he said there was something special about Bill that made him the perfect object to present.  Well, the idea of Bill being special is ludicrous but that gave me a lot of leverage and he hardly even resisted when I told him that would mean he’d have to pay my fee for the new slave as well as cover the cost of you renovating your club.  He also visited the bar and liked it, so getting it refurbished  appealed to him too.  So you get slavemeat for free and you can also upgrade the other furniture and equipment as well as repaint the place.  This is going to be the nicest S&M joint in the country, with new furniture that includes a fresh new slave.”

 

Paul was beyond delighted.  “And any idea what happens to Bill, not that it matters?  Just curious.”

 

“None.  But I’m pretty sure he winds up dead, which is what he deserves since he’s damaged and not as useful.  Fuck, he probably even wants to be snuffed, given how pathetic he is.  I just hope it’s painful and prolonged.”  Dennis kicked Bill in the nuts to get his attention and asked.  “Hey fag pig, are you looking forward to being snuffed after you’re sold?  I’m guessing it’s going to be pretty horrible.”  Bill nodded, not even pausing as he continued swallowing Dennis’ piss.  He had been listening and was in fact turned on by the conversation and the prospect of being snuffed.  He totally accepted Dennis and Paul discussing the two slaves as what they were – mere objects.

As both slaves continued to expertly massage the dicks they were servicing, bringing them back to evections after drinking the piss, in due course Dennis and Paul each reached a second orgasm and shot another load of cum down the throat of the slave serving him.

 

What followed was a wonderful evening, with lots more sex and torture to celebrate the transactions. Dennis had slavemeat demonstrate his lust for cum and piss, drinking the huge ceremonial glass of excrement that Bill often drank to amuse the patrons.  The bar patrons then refilled it and Bill then did the same, starting the mixture by masturbating into the glass.  As he did so Paul announced that Bill was being sold and slavemeat would replace him. Dennis added that this load of cum would be Bill’s last, as his new owner did not think he deserved the pleasure of an orgasm and planned to snuff him fairly soon.  Everyone chimed in on the hope the snuff would be especially prolonged and painful and Dennis assured them it was very likely to last several torture-and0humiliaiton-filled days.  That produced a cheer form the group and a hard-on for Bill.  He knew this was what he deserved.

 

Dennis attached a cock-cage to Bill to assure he could not cum any more unless his new owner changed his mind.  The patrons then had a particularly savage evening raping and fisting Bill, and then doing the same with slavemeat.  It turned out slavemeat had not yet been fisted, so this was a painful new torture for its education.  There were lots of jokes about Bill’s loose but-hole, and about how that would happen to slavemeat over time.  Paul even started slavemeat’s training at eating shit, telling Bill and slavemeat to crawl to the toilets and drink the mixture of water, piss, and dissolved shit left from a patron who had not flushed.  The stench was more than slavemeat could handle at first, and he threw up.  But that worked out well for training, and slavemeat eventually was able to also consume his own vomit along with a further supply of shit.  Paul was quite satisfied with his new slave and decided to follow Dennis’ ideas on the branding.  Slavemeat would always be naked in the bar and would wear only a thin jockstrap that left all three brands exposed if permitted to go elsewhere.  Paul was determined to assure slavemeat suffered even more humiliation and torture than had Bill.  But he would periodically have a vet repair the asshole so it remained tight enough to please his beloved patrons.

 

The next morning Bill left with Dennis, naked with no possessions at all and the cock-cage preventing him from giving himself any pleasure.  Bill crawled into a cage that was then locked, to be delivered to his new owner, and slavemeat started its new duties and continued its training.  Paul scheduled the branding for a time that was convenient for Dennis to return and enjoy it.  After all, Dennis had done a first-rate job that satisfied everyone.  He provided a valuable and appreciated service, assuring pathetic fag slaves received the ridicule, pain, and ultimate snuff fate they deserved.

 

Spanish Cay City, The Bahamas

 

Mark, Kevin, Danny, and their father got off the plane at the Spanish Cay airport, excited to escape the cold Vermont winter and start their vacation.  They had flown non-stop on Mr. Jordon’s private G-7 jet from Burlington to the luxurious Bahamian resort – the first time any of them had ever been on a private plane.  It had been a great flight, with exceptional food and drinks, and they were more excited than ever at what lay ahead.  Even Mr. Thompson, who did not like flying, enjoyed the trip, although he was very tired when it was over.  As Mr. Jordon had suggested, they were joined on the flight (and the vacation) by high school buddies Tommy and Randy.  They had been friends of the three brothers since then, growing closer over the years, and since Tommy had served as the lawyer for the real estate deal and Ryan as their accountant, being part of the celebration made lots of sense.  Mr. Jordon knew of the friendships and admired how they had bonded in high school, and he wanted to express his appreciation to everyone.  This worked well since Mr. Thompson viewed Tommy and Ryan as if they were his own sons, admiring them for all they’d achieved.  Mr. Jordon met them at the airport with a stretch limo, and when they arrived at the resort they were shown to their rooms – again, a level of luxury none of them had ever experienced before.

 

It was early evening by then and the group gathered for cocktails and desert, having had an outstanding meal on the flight.  When everyone was seated, Mr. Jordon stood up to greet his guests.

 

“I want to welcome all of you and thank you for joining me at my resort.  This is a special place where I only invite special friends like yourselves.  It’s not open to the public.  All of you have become friends, and our transaction together has created positive personal relationships that will last for many, many years.  And, now that it’s all closed, you will be able to afford more luxuries and I wanted to introduce you to them.  In fact, I want to partner with you on some other real estate deals very soon.  But we’re not here about that; we’re here to celebrate what we’ve all done already.

 

“There is another aspect to this event as well that I hope will make the vacation even more special.  I learned from conversations with you that we share a mutual distaste.  We are alpha males disgusted by the faggots who pollute our society and pretend to be human.  We know it is our task to punish them and make them go away, permanently.  I learned that my five younger colleagues became friends in part by sharing that task.  Sadly, and I apologize for bringing up what I know is a sad aspect for Mr. Thompson, it involved what had been a member of the family.  And that sadness has continued since the fag has not disappeared as it should have and as its one-time siblings had ordered it to do.  I have acquired the fag and as part of my gift I have arranged for that to happen on this vacation, so you can all finally be done with it.”

 

Mr. Jordon signaled a waiter, and in short order two servants carried in a metal cage containing a naked male.  The servants were young with slender twink bodies that were also naked except for slave collars.  Their cocks were erect, and they each had “fag snuff meat” branded on their left buttock.  Mark, David, and Danny had known Mr. Jordon’s plan, but Tommy, Ryan, and Mr. Thompson were stunned and immensely pleased.  The fag was Bill, who was also stunned to realize who had purchased him.

 

“Like all fags, this one is worthless.  It’s not even fit to serve as meat for our meals, and in any event, we will have my house fags to enjoy for that purpose in due course.  They have been trained to understand their role as targets of alpha males and as meat, and they will join our meals as entrée’ courses.  Their meat is of far higher quality than the fag in the cage.

 

“But as we discussed plans for this wonderful chance to get together Danny had a great idea on how to make the fag useful for the first time ever, and simultaneously restore the Thompson family pride.  Since it was his idea, as the two fag slaves unload the animal I’ll let him take it from here.  By the way, the fag slaves are among many that I maintain for punishing them until they are ready and eager to be disposed of, having realized their place and purpose.  So feel free to use them as you wish.”

 

The cage was opened, and Bill was dragged out, then placed on a nearby table on his back.  Danny got up from the table, drink in hand, and went over to a fire pit nearby, grabbing the handle of a red-hot branding iron.  He invited everyone to stand next to the table and with no greeting to the fag other than spitting in his face he administered the brand to its chest, the burning causing a loud, painful, and almost inhuman scream, along with the delightful aroma of burning fag meat.  As they all realized what had been branded onto Bill’s chest in large letters, they all cheered and doubled over with laughter.  They slapped Danny on the back, toasted him with their drinks, and congratulated him on his cleverness.  Bill could not see what had been burned onto him, but knew he was not permitted to ask, or to speak at all unless spoken to.  His two years as a bar sex slave had been good training.  He fully understood and agreed with their assessment of him.  He was indeed worthless fag meat, now realizing he wasn’t even fit for consumption by the alpha males he worshiped.  But they were saying he’d finally be useful, and he hoped that was true.  The fact he’d be dead didn’t bother him at all.  He was secretly thrilled that his brothers and former friends were going to be somehow involved.  He was grateful and hoped they enjoyed themselves during whatever was going to happen to finally snuff him as he disserved.

 

At that point the vacationers returned to their seats and continued to celebrate, making final plans for the next few days.  Mr. Jordon suggested that they conclude the evening with the alpha males using the fags for their entertainment.  Everyone enthusiastically agreed.  Even though Mr. Thompson declined since he was exhausted from the flight, he encouraged them to do so.  As he left to rest, he did take the time to spit in the face of the fag and tell Bill he was glad Bill’s existence would be ending, and he would not have to be embarrassed by him any longer.  He told Mr. Jordon how much he appreciated this gift, and that he knew this would be the best and most fulfilling vacation he’d ever have.  Mr. Jordon also left, saying he didn’t want to intrude on a family event, but again encouraging them to take full advantage of the amenities he had available for punishing fags, along with the drinks, deserts, and the house fag slaves.  The slaves would obey and there were no limits with what could be done to them either.  Mr. Jordon planned to dispose of them during the week’s fun.  They were well trained, aware and accepting of their purpose and fate, and eager to cooperate.

 

As the two older alphas excused themselves, the slaves opened a sliding door that revealed an extension of the dining area, which was set up for S&M sex of all types.  As the five young alpha males entered this awesome space, they discussed options as they removed their own clothing to make it easier to use the fags as sex objects.

 

“I think we should start by fucking our own fag,” suggested Kevin.  “But I remember that his ass is loose, so that might not be as much fun.”

 

But Mark had a solution, also pointing out it would be fun to get all the fags fucked at the same time.  “How about if Tommy and Ryan each start by fucking one of the house fags, who look like they’re in good shape.  As for our family fag, I suggest Kevin and I double-fuck him, which should make it tight enough to be fun.  At the same time, he can give Danny a blow job.  So, he’ll have all three of our cocks inside him at the same time.  We’ve had a lot to drink, so I’m sure we can all fill the fags with piss after we fill them with cum.”

 

Everyone quickly agreed, but Tommy said he was feeling a little drunk and wanted to work off a bit of the booze affect first so he could enjoy the fucking more. He also was anxious to whip the animals as they so obviously deserved.  As a result, the first activity was to string up each fag by its wrists from chains in the ceiling, so its feet were slightly off the ground and its body was able to be whipped from all sides.  The five alphas selected whips from among the wide collection displayed in the room and enthusiastically beat the backs, asses, chests, bellies, and cocks of their victims.  (They unlocked the cock cage that Bill still wore so his cock and balls would be vulnerable to the blows.  As soon as it was removed his cock got hard, which was a source of humor for the alphas.  Better still, that made it easier to whip.)  The alphas traded off among the animals, but Bill got most of the attention and was bleeding nicely from multiple fresh wounds by the time they were done.  Danny was the most enthusiastic, working up quite a sweat as he wailed on his one-time sibling.

 

“OK fags.  What do you have to say to us?” Ryan mockingly snarled at them.  All three fags immediately expressed their thanks for the beatings, with Bill being the most enthusiastic.  He was totally thrilled and turned on by what had just happened, and what might happen next.  He felt he might finally suffer the snuff he deserved.

 

The fucking session was next, and it too was a lot of fun.  Mark and Kevin commented that Bill’s ass was still too loose even with two cocks in it, adding a dildo to assure it was tight enough and that Bill felt pain as he was fucked. Danny commented that Bill at least knew how to suck cock, allowing Bill to also lick his ass and his balls.  Tommy and Ryan complemented their fags on having tight assholes, noting that this also meant there was a chance for some fun fisting to ruin theirs in anticipation of their disposal.  They all commented on how much better looking than Bill the house fags were, and on the fact their cocks were bigger than Bill’s.  None of that was actually true, but it enabled them to jeer at Bill and further humiliate him.  “Yeah,” Tommy jeered, “cock size is one more area where he underachieved.  Fuck, he managed to fail at absolutely everything – even being a decent sex slave.”

 

The alphas also traded off on the fucking, so the brothers would be able to enjoy the tight asses of the house fags and Tommy and Ryan could once again fuck Bill.  After all, they were the first to have done so.  They even had the house fags double-fuck Bill, adding an even larger dildo to increase the pain, just so he’d understand that he was an even lower sub-human than they were.  And they used Bill, not the house fags, as their urinal for the same reason.  That part of the evening’s entertainment was culminated with each of the fag slaves shitting into Bill’s mouth, as the alphas laughed, pointing out that Bill was fit to eat subhuman slave shit.  Bill, of course, cooperated fully and demonstrated his reaction with a very erect cock and expressions of thanks.

 

After the alphas satisfied their initial desire to fuck the fags, Danny asked the group: “Does anyone think they will still want to fuck Bill’s ass?  I’m personally not interested in fucking something that loose any more.”  The other four agreed, and Danny continued.  “Great.  Because I found something in the attic at home during Thanksgiving that I brought for just this occasion.  At one time it was Bill’s, and I think we should return it to him.”

 

With that, Danny went over to a nearby table and pulled back a cloth.  Under it was a large baseball bat.  It had been given to Bill by the high school coach with an admonition to practice hitting.  While Bill was a good center field player, he wasn’t that great a hitter.  The other team members, especially Tommy and Ryan, had laughed at Bill on the occasion.  “The fag fucker even sucks at hitting,” Tommy had told the rest of the team after the coach left.  It was Bill’s first public humiliation as a known fag.  They all laughed as Tommy recalled the event, reminding them that they’d used the bat to beat Bill and then taken it from him for further use in his beatings.  Danny had wound up owning it.

 

As Danny took the bat and walked over to Bill, he asked Bill if he would want it back.  “Of course, you know where it will go, my dear older brother” added Danny.  Bill said yes and thanked Danny for returning it to him.

 

Bill had been fisted numerous times, and had large dildos inserted into his hole, but this was far larger.  All five alphas laughed and toasted themselves with fresh drinks as first Danny and then each of the others forced the thick end of the bat into Bill’s ruined asshole.  Nor did they stop when they reached the natural end of Bill’s cavity.  They continued to push, using a large mallet to pound the bat further into the fag’s fuck channel – crushing its internal organs and increasing the intensity of its screams.  They no longer even sounded human, which made it a lot more fun for the alphas to hear.  Danny used the mallet to make sure the bat was inserted as far as we possible.

 

“Don’t worry,” Mark assured Bill, laughing as he again spit in his face.  “This is not what is going to kill you, although it would, given the damage to your insides.  What we’ve just done is fatal and you are now officially dying.  Your internal organs are ruined and won’t function, so your system will shut down.  But the bat also acts to stop most internal bleeding, so it will take a few days.  The bat will never come out since you’d then die far too quickly.  It’s now a permanent part of you and will assure you’re in constant, extreme pain until you’re finally disposed of.  Meanwhile, we have something far more appropriate and painful in mind.  It might even be something you could succeed at, but you’ll probably fuck that up too.”

 

“Speaking of that,” added Kevin.  “I’m getting a little hungry.  Anyone up for a snack?  I am, and then I think I might be all in for the night.  I’m also a little drunk so some food might help.  After all, we want to be well rested for more fun tomorrow.”

 

Again, everyone agreed and at this point Danny again took the lead, having spent the most time planning the trip’s fun.

“We know you like to eat shit, and that is what you deserve because you are shit.  But you don’t have any money to pay us for our shit like you should and have done in the past.  We have a solution.  First, you are to jerk off, so we can laugh at you while you cum.  To be sure you’re in the right frame of mind all five of us are going to piss down your throat as you play with your cock.  When you shoot your load, I’m going to cut off your cock as it spews your final cum.  Then I’m going to eat it.  After that Mark and Kevin will each cut off one of your balls and eat them.  That’s not much meat since your cock and balls are so puny, so we’ll find some other parts of you to make it a proper snack and let Tommy and Ryan share in the fun. Understood?”

 

Bill was impressed with how creative Danny’s plan was.  He thanked Danny for the chance to be used as meat even though he was not worthy, and did as instructed, using his right hand (he was right-handed) to start massaging his cock.  It quickly became hard again despite the pain he was in form the beatings and fucking, and now especially from the large bat that impaled him.  Or maybe he quickly got hard because of all that, along with the loads of piss pouring down his throat and his contemplation of the fact he was about to lose his cock and balls in an astonishingly humiliating and painful way.  Plus, it had been several days since the cock cage had been attached so he couldn’t jerk himself off.  His cock responded to acceptance of how much he deserved what was happening, and his body gyrated a little as he approached orgasm and his cock started to spew a thick final load of cum.

 

As Bill oozed man-juice from his throbbing cock Danny took a knife and slowly cut it off.  That instant of pleasure turned into one of unbelievable pain and humiliation.  Danny now had Bill’s manhood in his hand, holding it so Bill could see it and letting the liquids flow into Bill’s piss-filled open mouth.  Then Mark took the knife and cut off the left testicle, followed by Kevin cutting off the right one.  Bill was now totally emasculated, his manhood divided among his three brothers.  He fainted from the pain but was quickly revived.

 

“As Mr. Jordon mentioned, your meat is not fit for human consumption like these other fags’ is.  But we are going to give you the honor of contributing to the meat we will digest and that will become the shit we will make you eat in the morning.  We are going to eat your cock and balls,” Kevin announced.  “But first we want to hear you thank us for doing this.  After all, it was actually your idea, which you told Danny about the last time you were permitted to visit so we could fuck and whip you.  Your fag-meat genitals will become shit that we will return to you.  You will then thank us again for that gift.”

 

Bill responded immediately, despite all the pain, and truthfully.  “Thank you for cutting off my cock and balls and making me a subhuman eunuch as I deserve.  And thank you for doing me the honor of eating my meat and turning it into shit, which is also what I deserve and ultimately what I am.”   Bill was sincere in what he said.  He knew this was more than he deserved.

 

Danny started by putting the drained cock into his mouth, positioned so Bill could watch.  “Fuck, this tastes terrible,” he announced.  “I doubt it will even make decent shit.”  To avoid any further taste, and since it was so puny, he just swallowed the cock whole.  Mark and Kevin went next, actually enjoying the freshly cut testicles.  “This is kind of tasty,” Kevin commented.  “But I don’t think there’s any point eating the scrotum.  It probably tastes as bad as the cock.”  So he tossed the little piece of skin into Bill’s mouth, instructing to eat his own ball sac, which of course Bill did.  As his brothers ate the genitals while Bill watched, Mark elaborated on the process.  “We didn’t eat much today so we can be sure our morning dumps tomorrow will include what had been your cock and balls.  And we’ve taken some diuretics that will cause the meat to move through our systems far more rapidly than usual.  We don’t want any part of you inside us any longer than necessary, even as meat being digested.  That means we’ll shit in your face what had been your own meat, but it won’t be completely digested and will be even more disgusting than usual.  Just to be sure there’s enough, and to let Tommy and Ryan also join in the fun, we’re going to help ourselves to some of the rest of your meat.”

 

Danny picked up the theme as he reached for Bill’s right hand, explaining: “Now that you don’t have a cock to jerk off, you really don’t need your right hand.  That’s the one you used to use for that.  We could eat that, but it’s not very tasty and doesn’t have much meat.  Your fucking cock was disgusting enough.  We’re thinking your arm might have some meat that’s better, but the worthless hand is in the way.   I’m going to cut it off and save it for later use.  But first I’m going to punish it for all that jerking off.”  Danny smashed the useless jerk-off tool with the mallet he’d used to drive the bat into Bill’s ass, crushing the bones and laughing at his own cleverness as he then cut it off and tossed it into a nearby container.  What he was after was the meat on the arm, and he used the knife to slice that off, sharing it among all five alpha males.  They ate it raw, again with Bill watching in agony.  The amount of pain from having flesh cut away from his live body was beyond Bill’s comprehension, and he was horse from screaming and had to be revived several times.  “There, that should assure there’s enough shit made from you to provide what you deserve to eat tomorrow.”  And with that, the alphas left for their luxurious rooms while the house fags cauterized Bill’s bleeding body, so it would remain alive for further use.  Then they, in turn, reported to Mr. Jordon’s room for further punishment.

 

The Angry Reaper

Near the Coast of the Bahamas

The morning after their arrival had been as much fun as the prior evening had been.  It started with the five young alpha males assembling in the S&M torture room where Bill had spent the night in the cage.  They laughed at his ruined body as they awakened him.  The house fags had simply cut off what remained of his right arm and applied a tourniquet to prevent further bleeding, tossing what had remained after the meat was sliced off and eaten the night before into the nearby bucket with the crushed hand.  Ryan joked that they had found the perfect way to prevent a fag from jerking itself off.

 

All five took turns taking their morning dump into Bill’s open and willing mouth, following it with loads of piss.  It was even more fun than they’d anticipated because the effect of the diuretics was not only to make much of the shit unusually runny and disgusting, but also to cause some to contain undigested pieces of the meat.  As Danny took his dump the group noticed one piece of shit that was clearly the remnant of Bill’s cock, which Danny had swallowed without chewing.  The glans at its tip was still recognizable even in the rest of the pile of shit and hey made sure Bill chewed it thoroughly before swallowing his own man-muscle.  The testicles had been more thoroughly digested so they weren’t distinct within the piles Mark and Kevin contributed.  Besides, as they pointed out, they were very small – an observation that generated more laughter.  The runny mass of shit was truly disgusting, but Bill swallowed all of it as instructed, thanking the alphas for their gift.  He literally was eating himself in his proper form – as shit.  The degrading sight led to lots more fun abuse, and while they ridiculed Bill they also had him clean out his mouth, so he could give each alpha a morning blow job, gratefully swallowing their cum to follow all the piss and shit.  It had been a fabulously fun and entertaining start to the day.

 

As Bill finished expressing his thanks, Danny spoke up again, asking the group: “Does anyone want to hear any more out of this fag?”  They all said no, so Danny took a scissors and used it to cut off Bill’s tongue.  He tossed that into Bill’s mouth with instructions and an explanation.  “It’s about time you bit your tongue, faggot.  But this won’t get digested since your innards are ruined and your asshole is plugged for good.  But you are still required to chew it and swallow.  Other than shit and piss it’s the last thing you’ll ever eat.”   As the rest of the group spat in Bill’s face, Danny lashed his chest brutally for failing to thank Danny for preventing him from embarrassing himself by talking.  Bill tried to mouth a thank-you, but hat just caused Danny to whip him harder.

“I’m ready for a hearty breakfast and then ready to go deep sea fishing,” Mark announced next, to the cheers of the group.  They all had gone down to the dock and boarded Mr. Jordon’s impressive fishing yacht, The Angry Reaper.  He had named it in honor of his lifelong passion for ridding the world of useless fags.

 

The house fags were on board in case anyone wanted to beat them or fuck them, but the focus of the day was on fishing, and there was an expert crew to assist them.  Bill had also been brought on board, placed on his back in a tub that was designated not only to store him but also for the passengers to use when they needed to urinate or take a dump.  His severed arm and hand were in a small tub next to him.  After everyone pointed to where his cock and balls had been and had a good laugh, Mr. Jordon explained the day’s plan, and Bill suddenly realized what had been branded on his chest and what his purpose was.  He once again admired and appreciated the appropriateness of Danny’s ideas.

 

“We want to attract the big fish that inhabit these warm waters, and that requires the right bait.  Over the years I’ve learned that fresh fag body parts work wonderfully well for that, and as you can see we have a fag already branded for what it now is – “live bait.”  But I have also discovered that the fish are even more interested if the live bait has been soaked in a mixture of piss and shit.  So, while I know it’s a little embarrassing for some of you to urinate and shit in public, you’ll be adding to that mixture and increasing the chances of catching something impressive as fag parts are attached to your fishing lines.  Our expert crew will do the cutting, as it is important to keep the fag alive, so the bait stays fresh.  We think there’s enough of it to serve as bait for all three days of our adventure if we’re careful.  And, of course, this also means it will spend part of the day, and each night, soaking in a solution of filth that attracts fish and befits its status.  Also, try to aim for its mouth so it will swallow as much as possible, which also helps flavor the meat to be better bait.”

 

The group moved a little closer to the tub where Bill was being stored.  The young alphas had stripped down to tight Speedos, which allowed them to enjoy the warm sun, get a tan, and show off their awesome alpha bodies.  The sheer dominance of the situation – themselves as big sea fishermen, the house fags as service animals, and Bill as live bait – had aroused their masculine instincts big time.  The tight swimsuits did nothing to hide the large erections that resulted.  What they did not realize, and what would have annoyed them, is how much this turned Bill on.  He was no longer a sexual animal, of course, but he was still a fag.  And as he viewed the fantastic man-flesh looming over his ruined body he once again realized how much he worshiped their forms and how right it was for them to use, torture, and dispose of him.  If he had still had a cock it probably would have shot a load without him even touching it.

 

Since it was Danny’s idea to use Bill as bait he got the first piece of meat to add to the hook at the end of his fishing line.  It was a nice slice of thigh-meat, and everyone enjoyed watching the expert crew cut it off while listening to Bill’s pathetic attempts at screaming without his tongue.  Yet as Danny moved even closer to enjoy the show his god-like body and the sight of his perfect, erect cock outlined by the tight Speedo meant Bill had no complaints.  A little blood flowed into the tub before the wound was closed by adding a tight tourniquet just above the right thigh below the butt.  That way they could remove more bait from the thigh and leg, which they did as they prepared the lines for the other vacationers.  Danny’s added load of piss down Bill’s throat contributed a bit more fun to the opening scenario and set a good example for the others when they needed to piss.  Since Bill’s cock had been removed and his sphincter crushed by the bat, the piss that went into his mouth soon emptied out of the piss-hole that remained, for him to lie in.  Mr. Thompson especially approved, and everyone got another good laugh.  By the time the vacationers were set up with their fishing lines, Bill’s right leg and thigh were mostly devoid of meat or muscle.    The crew saw to it he stayed alive and awake to entertain the passengers, but Bill had another purpose to fulfill once they reached the desired fishing area and the boat was put at anchor.  Bill was tied with ropes, using the handle of the bat and his neck as the key points of contact to keep his body upright, and lowered over the side of the board, bouncing off the boat to the amusement of everyone.  As Mr. Jordon explained, the piss-soaked live body was the key to attracting large fish to within range of the lines of the fishermen.  Bill was literally live bait, and Mr. Jordon was correct.  Within a short time, Bill’s body attracted a large shark, which surfaced as it took a bite out of Bill’s butchered leg.  Mr. Jordon was quite pleased as this meant the tourniquet would stop further bleeding and they could leave Bill in the water to keep performing his function of attracting fish.  But the big excitement was when the shark bit the piece of fag meat at the end of Tommy’s line, and with help form the expert crew Tommy was able to land the huge predator.  He was absolutely thrilled.

 

“Hey, Tommy, you just caught a shark.  I thought you lawyers didn’t do that.  You know, professional courtesy and all that?”  Ryan’s joke got a huge laugh, and although everyone caught at least something on their first day of fishing, this catch was the highlight of the day.  Fag bait was once again successful, as Mr. Jordon had predicted.  Bill was hauled back into the boat and placed in the tub to marinate further, so he’d be ready for day 2 of the adventure.  By then the tub was full and the five young alphas added some piss and shit to fill it even more, as always aiming at Bill’s open mouth.

 

The vacationers returned to the resort and had another fantastic evening, enjoying delicious food and fine wines, which included fresh shark along with one of the house fags that Mr. Jordon had ordered bar-be-cued live for their enjoyment.  Everyone agreed the fag’s meat was delicious, and the young alphas commented how much better it was than the samples they’d had of Bill.  They had contemplated eating a bit more of him, so they could again shit on him with his own meat, but concluded he wasn’t good enough and didn’t deserve the honor anyway.  “We clearly allocated the fags to the right tasks,” Mark noted.  The real joy, however, was everyone seeing how happy Mr. Thompson was with the day’s events.  He had caught a large snapper, so he had enjoyed the fishing, but mostly he was thrilled with how the day reflected on their shared view of fags and the need to dispose of them.  He and Mr. Jordon had a lively, enthusiastic exchange on that, and Mr. Thompson was effusive in his complements, also taking note of how well the young alphas were humiliating, punishing, and dismembering Bill.  Mr. Thompson was both thrilled and grateful.

 

After dinner the young alphas again had fun torturing and fucking the house fags.  Mr. Jordon had not only replaced the one who had been eaten but added four others, so each young alpha had one to play with.  It was especially fun as the three new ones were still in training.  Training a fag to know its place and purpose was great fun.  Their live bait, meanwhile, remained on the yacht marinating in the tub of filth.

 

Day 2 was also successful, starting on the yacht with everyone shitting and pissing into Bill’s mouth and all over what remained of his body.  Tommy had joked about his Speedo creating a tan line, and Mr. Jordon encouraged the young alphas to skip the swim suites. “Young alpha males traditionally hunted and competed naked, and I think you’ll enjoy that as well as taking care of Tommy’s tan line concern.”  Then Danny also pointed out being naked would be more convenient for pissing and shitting on Bill, and for using the house fag slaves for sexual release.  Of course, what he really liked, but didn’t say, was the fact it meant he could show off his well-shaped cock, which was a bit bigger than the other four.  Given the amount of testosterone that the setting generated, all five of the young cocks were erect for much of the day, with the house fags well used for sexual relief.  Bill, of course, was no longer an option to use for that, with his ass plugged by the bat and no tongue remaining to give a proper blow job.

 

The only slight hitch of the day was Bill being severely bitten by a barracuda as he danged form the side of the boat.  The bite was obviously no problem – it was amusing to watch – but it meant he had to be hauled up for a bit while the wound was treated.  The fish had bitten him in the chest, where he had been branded “live bait” so at least the interruption had an ironic and humorous aspect.  Mr. Jordon ordered the repair because he wanted the bait to stay alive for all three days.  However, the huge plus side of that was that the prize game fish had then bitten Mr. Thompson’s line, generating what he would often refer to as the most fun day he’d ever had.  Even Bill was pleased, listening to the events while being repaired and realizing he had caused something good in his father’s life.  Of course, no one else considered that aspect, especially not Mr. Thompson.

 

As they again headed back to the resort, they all commented that the experiences and comradery were terrific.  So was the evening, this time not featuring the prize game fish to accompany the live fag meat, as Mr. Thompson wanted to have his trophy prepared for mounting in his living room in Vermont.  But the fresh snapper went well with the grilled live fag.

 

As they reached the boat for day 3, they all observed that Bill had been thoroughly marinated in blood, shit, and piss from their efforts, but they were amused to note he also had been the target of seagulls during the evening and early morning.  “Even the birds think he’s best used as a target for shit,” Tommy observed, and everyone agreed.  They then engaged in the now-traditional entertainment of pissing and shitting on Bill, and then they increased the quantity of bait used on their lines, leaving Bill with neither arms nor legs, let alone a cock, even before he was lowered into the water to perform a final day’s duty as live bait.  This was followed by dumping the tub overboard so all the “marinate” soaked his body and the water around him.  Bill was live bait, and after the day’s fishing he would be of no further use.  So there was no further need for the marinate and no one paid attention when he was bitten multiple times.  His body had attracted lots of fish this day as well, so it didn’t matter if he was still alive or not.

 

When the day was done, and the yacht powered up for the journey back to the resort, Danny happened to look over the side and, to his surprise, realized that Bill was still alive, albeit barely.  Danny also saw another giant shark in the distance heading toward Bill.  He alerted the rest of the group, since he not only had no objection to Bill being eaten by a shark, he figured that would be fun to watch.  The group assembled quickly to observe the fun, but then Danny remembered Mr. Jordon had told him sharks tend to leave a lot of the carcass to float away.  It would be inconvenient if part of Bill washed up on shore.  Mr. Jordon had recommended a different approach, and the five young alphas did a fast game of rock/paper/scissors to see who would do the honors.  Danny won, and as the group watched he casually cut loose the rope that was keeping Bill upright in the water near the side of the ship.  As Bill was pulled under the ship by the powerful engines and props his eyes briefly met Danny’s, and Bill tried to mouth the “thank you” he genuinely felt.  He had finally been used to provide pleasure for his former family and then disposed of as befit a fag object as disgusting as he always had been, removing a point of family shame.  But, to the cheers of the onlookers, Danny flipped him off and spat into the water.  They all heard a satisfying “thud” followed by a brief slowing of the engines.   Mr. Jordon assured them the special design of the props meant what was left of the fag was now thoroughly ground up.  Bill wasn’t the first fag who’d been used as live bait needing to be fully disposed of after use, nor even a noteworthy one.

 

As the engines returned to full power and the yacht began its journey, the vacationers were served fresh drinks and celebrated both the great day fishing and the disposal of Bill.  Mr. Thompson suggested a picture of the five young alphas, who quickly returned to the side of the ship and posed.  Their naked bodies glistened in the sun, shoaling off their masculinity (which included impressive cocks since the recent thrill had caused each to become erect).  They smiled at the camera and held their drinks up for a toast. Danny, in the center, held up the end of the rope he had just cut, with an appropriate look of triumph.  It was the perfect reminder of their vacation and their accomplishment, and they continued to congratulate each other as they recalled the fun details.

 

The final evening was the best celebration of all, and Mr. Jordon processed another of the house slaves to create his favorite “fish and fag fry” feast.  All his guests were effusive in their thanks, especially Mr. Thompson.  “This was a fantastic trip in every respect, and I now feel I can truly have pride in my entire family.”  Neither he nor anyone else was ever bothered by the thought of Bill again, and the photo was a treasured reminder of the reason why.

The Return of Leather Dave

The building was located off Randolph Street, some three blocks from the river.  On a side street facing the massive rail yard of a huge train station, the hotel didn’t give a view of anything worth looking at—not that you could tell by the prices.

 

Dave supposed it was the décor.  The place had been refurbished from a turn-of-the-century theater into a bijou hotel; the theater itself too small for modern stage productions but, once the balcony was redone as a mezzanine floor, perfect for smaller conventions.  Like the Chicago S&M Leather Club’s SpikeCon.

 

Dave wasn’t staying at the hotel himself; he knew better than that.  He was hunting.  He wasn’t into the hard-core masochists that he knew would be attending, but these kinda events drew curious little cunts looking to be dominated and willing to go farther than most before realizing they’d gone too far.

 

Stupid fuckers, Dave thought with a grin and at least two dudes looking in his direction feel in love with his handsome, porn-star features.  His long-lashed green eyes sparkled in the oddly dim “unconventual” lighting, and the dark hair on his head gleamed.

 

But Dave was used to that, especially decked out in all leather.  He’d gone high-gloss black leather on everything, from the vest that hinted at the stud’s broad chest while showing off the thick wiry black fur that covered his torso to the skin-tight jeans that left neither his taut, firm ass or the enormous bulge in his groin to the imagination.  He’d topped it off with black Wesco harness boots and smooth, tight leather gloves.

 

He looked every inch a man, and judging from the leather-wrapped ridge running down his leg, that extended a number of inches.  As a matter of course, he drew stares of raw, naked lust as he moved silently through the leather-clad crowd.

 

The time was near midnight and the convention hall was packed.  Behavior wasn’t quite as licentious as it would have been in a gay nightclub—and, in fact, a number of attendees had already left for a tour of the local clubs—but the throng was rowdy and horny.

 

No one would notice anything unusual about him picking up a fuckbuddy and heading out.  He just needed to find the lucky stiff.

 

And that was when Dave spotted him, about ten yards away, at a cash bar by a side door.  The slut had noticed him, too, and they kept eye contact as Dave approached across the crowded floor.

 

The kid was young—at least twenty-one, since he’d bought a beer and the bartender was carding, but surely no older.  What little of his hair could be seen under his backwards leather ball cap inclined more to strawberry than to blond, and his smooth, youthful face was sprinkled with a band of freckles that ran across the bridge of his upturned nose.

 

The punk was wearing a white tank top that showed off his smooth arms.  He wasn’t anywhere near as well-built as Dave, but he wasn’t scrawny.  The boy looked like he could hold his own, and that made Dave happy.  The sadistic killer wanted a good workout and had been hoping to find a sparring partner that could last for a little while.

 

The kid’s concession to leather included combat boots tightly laced to nearly mid-calf and a pair of short shorts that ended inches down the thigh and didn’t quite conceal the florid head of the cunt’s dick.  But it was the thick leather dog collar the fag was sporting around his neck, with its triple row of jet-black steel spikes, that caught Dave’s eye, and set his imagination working.

 

“Hey,” he said smoothly, his baritone voice resonating deeply as he glided up to the boy.

 

“Uh—hi,” the kid replied nervously, grinning and blushing boyishly.

 

“I wanna fuck you,” Dave said bluntly.

 

The slut’s gentle shyness evaporated instantly and his muddy brown eyes lit up with expectant lust.  “Oh fuck yeah, dude,” he said with breathless excitement, “I gotta room here—you, uh, ya wanna go?”

 

“We gonna be alone?”

 

“Yeah,” the punk replied, “Buncha us got a suite but the others all went out clubbin’.  They won’t be back for at least three hours, if they come back at all, the fuckin’ whores.”

 

“Let’s go,” Dave said and followed the kid out.

 

The boy was so eager, if he’d been a dog, he’d have been wagging his tail.  On the way up to the third floor, he told Dave his name was Harold, “but everybody calls me Buddy.”  He rattled on about his personal life—how he’d come to the convention with a group of gay friends all into leather, how his father, some high-ranking judge, had no idea why his son had taken a week off his classes to visit Chicago.

 

“He thinks it’s to tour the Art Institute,” Buddy finished up smugly as the elevator reached the third floor and opened.  The suite was to the left, last door on the right.  The mellow lighting, tasteful carpet and ambient music went some way towards explaining the hotel’s ludicrous pricing.

 

So did the interior of the suite.  There was a bathroom to the left and a kitchenette off to the right of the entry; Dave had a brief impression of stylish cabinets of dark wood and glass and steel appliances and fixtures, but he had little interest in those rooms beyond ascertaining that they were empty.  Past the entry was a small living area minimally furnished with a loveseat, coffee table, floor lamp, and a huge TV on a stand.

 

“I’ma go grab us a drink,” Buddy chirped, heading for the fridge.  Dave grunted absently in agreement and checked out the bedroom.  It was a sight worth seeing.

 

Most of the room was taken up by an almost grotesquely huge bed; it seemed too big to be a king.  The bedding mostly crumpled on the floor; in fact, the whole room looked like the set for an orgy scene in a porno.  Clothes, sneakers, boots and random pieces of leather gear were scattered around.  Dave found himself admiring the Red Wing harness boots propped on the recliner in the corner, along with the harness draped over them.

 

A large window was opposite the door; it looked down onto the street and the railyard.  There was a dresser next to it and a desk opposite the bed; both were covered with sex toys, popper bottles and wads of tissue.  On the desk was an enormous black dildo, reflected in the large mirror above.

 

Dave smirked and turned back to the other room.  Buddy emerged from the kitchen with a couple of tumblers.  “Here,” he said, somewhat unsteadily, “It’s Frieball.  I mean, Fireball.  Good shit.”

 

Dave took a sip of the whiskey.  “So how many of ya are here?” he asked.

 

Even though Buddy was seriously buzzed and horny as fuck, he still knew what the leather stud meant.  “Ya saw the bedroom?  Yeah, there’s three of us all in there.  Man, Lee wanted to fuck me so bad last night, but I been waitin’ to get plowed—hopin’ I’d find someone like you—” he here broke off and blushed charmingly again.  “So, anyway, I gave ‘im a BJ instead an’ helped ‘im use the dildo on Todd.  Todd’s such a fuckin’ whore…”

 

The punk trailed off as Dave slowly stood up and slipped his leather vest off, tossing it down onto the coffee table.  It knocked both drinks onto the floor, adding the heady scent of whiskey to an atmosphere already redolent of testosterone and mansex.  Buddy didn’t notice; his attention was riveted to the older man’s huge hairy hubcap pecs with their dark jutting nipples.

 

Buddy rose too, not gracefully as Dave had, but popping so eagerly his leather cap came off, revealing his light wavy hair.  The kid almost lunged at Dave, fastening onto the muscular killer’s chest, his tongue lapping at the large nips while he ran his fingers through the black wiry fur.  He paused a moment to lift a finger and run it around Dave’s goatee, outlining the stud’s mouth before bringing it back to his own and sucking on it.

 

Suddenly the boy broke off.  “I want you in me,” he muttered breathlessly, then pulled off his shirt, revealing his smooth, firm, wiry torso.  Grabbing Dave by the hand, Buddy led the way to the bedroom, wriggling out of his tight leather shorts as he did.  By the time they reached the bed, the only things Buddy wore besides his gleaming leather boots and his spiked collar were an eager grin and a raging hard boycock.

 

Dave didn’t bother to pull his dick out; he didn’t need to.  Buddy did it for him, hands trembling with excitement as he worked the older stud’s zipper.  Dave could feel the boy’s fingers around his massive, throbbing member as Buddy excitedly began to extract the enormous manshaft from its leather confines.

 

“Goddam,” the punk whispered in awe, “It just keeps comin’…”

 

“Wait’ll it’s fuckin’ in ya, whore,” Dave growled and Buddy squirmed in submissive glee.  “Now get over here.  I wanna fuck you right here in front of the window.  Show all those cunts down there what a fuckin’ slut you are.  C’mon, fucker!”

 

The ginger-blond fag obediently assumed the position, bent forwards with his hands placed on the huge plate-glass window and his ass posed and ready for receiving.  He had a great view of the street—and in the backlit bedroom, the conventioneers milling about on the street below had a great view of him.  Whistling and catcalling, faint but still audible, could be heard from below as the leather-gear crowd began to realize they were being given a free show.

 

Dave stayed far enough behind that he couldn’t be seen from the street.  They knew he was there, though, from Buddy’s reaction as the muscle-bound older man began to shove his huge, vein-wrapped mantube up the boy’s fuckhole.

 

The kid rose up on his toes, flexing his feet inside his tightly-laced boots and bending his waist in a vain attempt to find a position that would be more accommodating to the enormous rod being relentlessly thrust into his colon.  He was into pain, sure, and he knew he could take the dude’s cock, if only he’d used lube…

 

The youth beat on the window in sexual pain, groaning loudly and erotically as his eyes rolled back in his head.  “Aw yeah—fuck, brah, yer killin’ me…” he moaned to the faint cheering from below as his own thick, dangling boycock slapped against the glass.

 

“Not yet, cunt,” Dave muttered and started pounding the boyhole remorselessly.

 

Fuck YEAH!!!” Buddy cried out, his smooth young body already slick with sweat.  For a moment, Dave was surprised the little fucker could take it, before realizing what a serious whore the kid truly was.

 

The problem with major asssluts is that even if they start out tight, they always go loose.  Dave smiled, already anticipating the enjoyment he’d take in making sure he got the fuckmeat properly re-tightened.

 

Buddy had no idea what Dave was thinking about; it was sheer coincidence that made him speak.  “Hurt me, dude,” he moaned, “C’mon, show me yer a man—hit me…”

 

“Ya like that, cunt?” Dave sneered.  “Ya like gettin’ hurt when yer gettin’ fucked?  Cause I’m about to put a serious fuckin’ beatdown on yer twink ass!”

 

Sexually supercharged by the banter, Buddy never considered the possibility that Dave was speaking literally.  “Oh hell yeah bro, make me feel it,” he grunted in erotic abandon.

 

“Ya got it, motherfucker,” Dave chuckled, and grabbed Buddy’s dog collar at the buckle, where there were no spikes.  It wasn’t tight–in fact, it was loose enough around the kid’s neck that he could easily slid his hand under it and jerk it back like a horse’s rein.  At the same time, his swung his balled-up leather-wrapped fist like a wrecking ball, giving the punk a brutal donkey-punch to the back of the head.

 

The impact was hard enough to bounce Buddy’s head off the thick window glass.  “Ahh!” the kid cried out, “What the fuck, man?!?”

 

“You said ya wanted to be hurt,” the muscle stud chuckled, not missing a beat as he pumped his tool up into the twink’s ass with a driving tempo, “Why—want more?”

 

“Not like that!” Buddy shouted indignantly, but it was too late.  Dave was swinging again.  This one was a roundhouse blow from the shoulder that swept wide and caught the youth on the side of the face.  As such, it was visible to the horny dudes watching the sex show from the street, and it was roundly applauded—well, it was an S&M convention.

 

Buddy was much less appreciative.  He squalled and yelled, jerking himself forward and managing, somehow, to get himself off the huge spear of manflesh.  He whirled around and faced Dave.  From outside, the crowd realized the show was over and several loud and distinctive boos came wafting up to express their displeasure.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the kid whispered, wide-eyed with a fear that came far too late to be useful.  He reached behind his neck and unfastened the dog collar; determined that it wouldn’t be used to snare him again, he tossed it onto the bed.

 

“You fuckin’ pussy,” Dave growled, “You wanted to be hurt?  I ain’t even started on ya, you stupid cunt.  Those were just love taps.  By the time I’m done workin’ over yer worthless fuckmeat, you’ll be in so fuckin’ much pain you’ll cum in agony.”

 

Cold terror flushed through the lithe boyslut, causing his smooth skin to pale.  He began edging towards the corner of the room as Dave started closing the distance between them.  “You—you fuckin’ stay away from me, you psycho—NO!!”

 

Buddy scrambled onto the bed.  Dave lunged at him, but the limber youth somehow managed to tuck into a somersault and roll off the bed; the move was spontaneous and amateurish and he ended up sprawled on the floor, but it bought him a precious few seconds. As Dave floundered his way off the huge bed, the terrified cunt bolted out of the bedroom, heading for the hall door.

 

Gaining the door, Buddy fumbled frantically with the deadbolt.  His fingers finally caught it and he gave a sigh of relief as the lock clicked open.  Then Dave’s hand clenched in his hair, jerking backwards and tossing him to the floor.

 

The hairy, hardbodied stud re-locked the door and turned to his victim.  From the floor, Buddy looked up at the older man, still in clad in tight black leather from his boots to his waist; only his gigantic cock was free, pulsating as it swung, erect, in the air.  Above, the boy’s eyes followed the vast, furry expanse of Dave’s broad chest and huge hubcap pecs with their dark jutting nipples.  Above that, the handsome face, that charming, cheerful grin framed by the virile black goatee…

 

…Buddy had fallen back in lust with Dave so hard and fast that he forgot what he was doing.  Dave didn’t.

 

He bent down and clamped one hand around the punk’s throat, his black-gloved fingers digging in excruciatingly as he lifted the kid into the air.  Buddy’s reverie came to an abrupt halt as his windpipe was closed off and he was hoisted agonizingly by his neck.  The young whoreboy clawed at Dave’s wrist and arm while his combat boots flailed uselessly four inches off the ground.  His bulging eyes stared directly into those of his torturer, without the latter showing the least concern—or the slightest bit of exertion, despite single-handedly dead-lifting the kid off the floor.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, ya little asswipe?” Dave asked him, the deadly gleam in his eye belying the almost conversational tone of the question.  “You said ya wanted to be hurt.  I came all the way the fuck up to this room to hurt ya, so you goddam sure better enjoy it, motherfucker!”

 

With that, he hurled the kid into the loveseat.  Buddy hit it on his back hard enough to bounce off, falling forward onto the coffee table, which promptly broke under his weight.  The kid ended up on his hands and knees in a mess of broken wood and leather—his cap and Dave’s vest—coughing and gagging, but essentially unhurt.  For the moment.

 

Staggering to his feet, the fair-haired boy glared at Dave, sullen and defiant.  “What are ya, some kinda sicko?  Lookit this shit—you gonna pay for that table?  You better get the fuck outta here or I’m gonna call—UHH!!”

 

Dave, tired of the chattering, popped the kid right in his gaping maw, knocking out a canine and shutting him up.  Buddy stared at him wide-eyed, one hand clamped over his injured mouth.

 

“Like I said, I ain’t even got started on hurtin’ ya, son.  I’m gonna hurt you so good, ya perverted little cocksucker, you ain’t ever gonna need anyone else to hurt ya again.  Ya feelin’ me, brah?  No?  You will.  Trust me, faggot, ya damn sure will.”  Almost casually, he reached out and gripped Buddy by the upper arm; before the youth even realized he’d been grabbed, Dave had spun around and flung him into the TV.

 

This one didn’t leave the punk unscathed.  The flat screen TV was totaled and a large dent left in the drywall behind it.  Buddy landed badly, wrenching his right arm.  He lay on the floor wheezing, trying to breathe, but the only thing his hazy eyes seemed to focus on were the gleaming toes of Dave’s Wesco harness boots as they came closer…

 

“On yer feet, motherfucker.  Or do ya want me to carry ya into the bedroom?”

 

The threat worked; still gasping, Buddy clambered to his feet and dove into the bedroom with an abortive plan to try and lock Dave out.  Dave was already in the room when the boy turned back—and Dave locked the door behind him.

 

“No more interruptions,” he said with a sinister grin, “And no more fuckin’ foreplay, bitch.”

 

Buddy hadn’t noticed Dave was wearing a belt; the wide leather strap with the chrome buckle had more or less blended in with the rest of his leather gear.  It wasn’t until he unbuckled it and started sliding it off that Buddy even realized it existed.  And even then, he still didn’t understand what was going on; at least, not until Dave wrapped the end without the buckle around his hand a couple of times.

 

With a screech, the young slut tried to dodge out of Dave’s reach, but the experienced killer was able to swing his makeshift lash wide.  Buddy howled in pain as the strap whipped across the smooth, soft flesh of his back, the thick buckle leaving a vicious purple welt.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah,” the buff older man crowed, “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”  With a wide grin, he slashed the belt at Buddy twice.  The first blow went across the whore’s back again; with an agonized yelp, the kid spun around just in time to receive the second squarely across his firm, flat belly, the loud slap instantly echoed by another cry of pain.

 

“You son of a motherfuckin’ bitch, I’m gonna—AAAHHH!!!”

 

Dave had swung the belt with the precision of an animal tamer’s whip, landing the buckle in Buddy’s face with enough force to break his right cheekbone—and shut him up.

 

“Close yer cocksuckin’ cumhole, faggot,” the cruel leatherman sneered, “You’re mine now.  Got that?  Ain’t no one gonna come save you.  You’re here so I can do what the fuck I want to with ya—and when I’m done, you’re done.  Understand me?  When I’m done with ya, ain’t no one else gonna have any use for ya either.  So shut up and take it, cunt, no matter how bad it gets—cause I promise you, I can always make it worse.”

 

Buddy clutched his swelling face, whimpering and cowering.  He didn’t reply.  He was still trying to figure out what had happened—how a chance meeting with a smokin’ hot stud had somehow become a nightmare of pain and fear.  That was when Dave, annoyed with losing his fucktoy’s attention, gut-punched him, sinking his gloved fist deep into the boy’s tender abdomen.

 

Buddy knelt on the floor, trying to breathe, when Dave yanked his head back by the hair.  “You pay attention when I’m talkin’ to ya, you scum-suckin’ piece a’ shit, you hear me?  Say ‘yes sir’!”

 

“Y-yessir…” Buddy managed to gasp out painfully.

 

“That’s right, asshole,” Dave growled and gave the cowering punk a swift kick with his steel-toed boot.  Buddy gave a breathless yip, then started sniveling.  The sound enraged the older man; he glared down at the huddled mass of sobbing boymeat.  “Fuck, I’m gonna be doin’ the world a favor by takin’ a worthless piece of crap like you outta it,” he muttered in disgust, “Shut the fuck up!”

 

Lost in his little world of fear and pain, Buddy never heard him.  The lithe youth with the red-gold hair continued to sob on his knees until the muscled older man, fed up with the irritating mewling noise, began to beat him with the belt again.  At the first blow—across his upper arm—Buddy came out of his despairing reverie, squalling.

 

He bolted to the door, by now so panicked that he didn’t even try working the locked knob; he beat and clawed at the door, yelling frantic gibberish.  Dave let him go at it for a moment or two, to let the meat wear itself out, then casually strode over, yanked the boy back, and gutpunched him.  Hard.

 

Buddy went limp and would have fallen to his knees again, but by now Dave’s dick was raging hard and he was out of patience.  He literally picked the boy up and threw him bodily onto the bed.

 

Buddy gave a cry of pain as he landed on the spiked collar.  He managed to twist himself sideways and get off it, but he wasn’t able to get off the bed itself before Dave was on it as well.  As the young boycunt tried to wriggle away, Dave leaned over, drew back his gloved fist, and pounded Buddy in the face.  Three roundhouse blows with the force of an industrial piston put paid to the twink’s escape attempt.

 

The faggot was still moaning in semiconscious agony when Dave parted the boy’s smooth, firm legs, climbing between them and propping the fucker’s boots on his shoulders.  With a perfect view of the kid’s puckered asshole, the hardbodied leatherstud aligned his enormous manshaft with cunt’s fuckhole and plunged straight in, going balls-deep on the first thrust.

 

Even for a reamed-out whore like Buddy, it was too much.  The window fuck hadn’t been too bad, but Dave had taken the time to ease himself in.  There was no easing this time; this was brutal dead-on rape, and Dave wanted it to hurt.

 

It did.  Once again, Buddy found himself dragged out of a dazed state by a new burst of physical pain.

 

“Fuck!  Oh fucking God, stop it!” he screamed, doubling his fists and beating on Dave’s powerful hairy pecs like a small child having a tantrum, “Stop!  PLEASE DEAR GOD FUCKING STO—”

 

Dave backhanded him across the face, then swung his arm back, slapping him.  Whimpering, the abused boycunt continued to writhe and struggle.

 

“Ain’t nothing worse than a bad fuck—except a mouthy one.  You’re both, ya worthless piece a’ faggot shit,” Dave growled angrily.  Keeping his huge rigid cock buried deeply in the boy’s guts, he reached out one hand and began to feel around on the bed.  It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.

 

“Good thing I know a way to fix both,” he said menacingly, and held up the dog collar, making sure that Buddy got the chance to focus on it and see clearly what it was.  The hulking leatherman leaned forward and began to put it around the punk’s neck—then stopped and leaned back again.

 

“Know what?” he said musingly, “I put down some dumbass twinks in my time, but yer the stupidest one yet.  Gonna need more control for a dumb motherfucker like you.  Here, it’s big enough—I’m gonna try it this way.”

 

Both of Buddy’s eyes were blackened and swollen, but he was still able to watching in incomprehensive fear as Dave flipped the collar over.  It was only when the older man leaned forward again that the kid realized he was putting the collar on inside out—with the spikes on the inside.

 

For a few moments, Buddy went wild in sheer panic but the weight and pressure of Dave on him (and in him) kept the youth, strong as he was, from moving an inch.  The sadistic killer just kept still, enjoying the way the punk’s thrashing was working his dick.  When the meat finally wore itself out, he calmly passed the collar around its neck.  There was just enough room to loop it back through the buckle with the spikes deeply indenting the tender flesh of the throat without piercing the skin.

 

“So ya like to be dominated?  Ya like to be hurt?” he sneered down at the trembling, terrified slut, “I’m gonna show ya what real control is like, you disgusting pansy.  I’m gonna show ya what it’s like to get used by a real man, faggot.  That means no matter how bad it gets, we ain’t done till I say we’re done.  I don’t give a shit how much it hurts you, ya motherfucking cunt; you’re only here so I have something to cum into.  Grin an’ bear it, asswipe, cause my dick is hard, my balls are full and it’s time to rock n’ roll!”

 

Dave placed one hand flat on Buddy’s chest—the twink could feel the leather-clad expanse of the older man’s palm across his pecs—grabbed the loose end of the dog collar with the other, and began pounding the kid’s ass like he was literally trying to fuck him in half.  As he did, he began slowly pulling the collar tight.

 

He did it so slowly that Buddy didn’t realize it at first; he could only feel the brutal, relentless way the older stud was reaming his captive ass, the way the huge engorged head tore at his rectal lining as it plunged into his colon, battering his prostate remorselessly on its way up his intestines.  And somehow, some way, his own dick was responding, his long thin boycock, slapping between his own flat abs and the hairy, ripped ones of his rapist, was getting harder by the moment…

 

…then the spikes began to break the flesh and the true nightmare of Buddy’s last few minutes on earth began to reveal itself.  Awash in agony and terror, the boy almost didn’t realize it at first; it was all part of the pain.  But as he continued to struggle, the spikes sank deeper into his flesh—incrementally, but remorselessly, the excruciating torment grew to overwhelming proportions.  There was nothing he could do to escape it, but he damn sure tried all the nothing he could.

 

Dave knew that the punk would panic and at some point he’d be having to rein in a thrashing piece of boymeat, so he was prepared when Buddy’s reaction set in.  The fucker went ballistic, flailing like a landed seabass, trying his best to fight Dave off, or, failing that, to wriggle his way out from under the horrific torture.

 

The lean, sweaty twink clawed frenetically at the hardbodied leather stud pinning him to the bed; his fingers, curled into talons, tried in vain to scratch at Dave’s face, but the serial killer was too experienced to let that happen.  As the spikes tore their way into his esophagus and his windpipe began to constrict, Buddy’s mindless terror only increased.  Unable to damage Dave’s face, the punk began scraping and digging at his chest, his fingers snagging in the thick wiry manfur covering Dave’s strong, broad pecs.

 

Undaunted, Dave planted his free hand on Buddy’s forehead, pinning the fuckmeat securely to the bed.  The hulking sadist could feel his spunk seething in his huge hairy scrote and knew it was time to shift into high gear.

 

“I’m gonna cum, motherfucker,” he hissed at the frenzied youth.  Something about it—his words, or maybe just his tone of voice—seemed to break through to Buddy.  Even though the meat wasn’t able to regain enough control to stop its involuntary flailing, Dave could tell it was hearing him.  “I’m about to coat yer guts with hot potent manseed.  Ya want it, dontcha, ya fuckin’ faggot?  Yeah, all you little homos want my load.  Earn it, asswipe.  Make your corpse a worthy receptacle for my semen.  Work my dick, fucker, milk my wad outta me!”

 

If Buddy heard him, he didn’t do anything new to indicate it.  In point of fact, Buddy did hear him, but was still in too much pain and panic to fully understand what was being said.  It didn’t matter.  What happened next would have happened in any case; it was what Dave had wanted from the moment he’d set eyes on the ginger-blond freckle-faced leather twink.

 

With one gloved hand on Buddy’s fist, Dave stopped pulling the collar back through its buckle with a slow, even force with the other.  Instead, with a single powerful jerk, he yanked the collar as tight as he fuckin’ could.  Instantly, the circumference of the leather strap decreased by more than thirty percent.  It was now so tight around Buddy’s neck that the queerboy was being strangled by the leather strap.

 

And, of course, for that to happen, the spikes had to be fully embedded in the youth’s throat.

 

It was…there weren’t words.  Buddy had never imagined such agony could exist.  The spikes were three quarters of an inch long and nearly a half-inch wide at their widest point—which wasn’t at the base, but just above it.

 

The steel spikes in the back of his neck had sunk in until they reached the cervical vertebrae.  It might have been merciful had they pierced the spinal cord; instead, they buried themselves in the bone and anchored the improvised garrote at the rear, giving Dave more leverage to choke the cunt to death.

 

In the front, it was different.  The metal points punctured first the jugular veins, then the carotid arteries on both sides.  If Dave removed the collar now, Buddy would bleed to death.

 

Dave wasn’t removing the collar now.  Increased pressure on the spikes merely drove them deeper into the blood vessels without allowing the blood to leak out.

 

As the twink endured the first sufferings of strangulation—the rise of pounding pressure to intolerable levels inside his head—he fought even harder.  There was no lucid thought involved; some instinct drove Buddy to concentrate on Dave’s arms, to try and yank them away in a fruitless effort to ease the throttling agony.  The boy clamped his hands around Dave biceps and pulled, but it was like trying to bend marble.  Deep inside, the choking faggot felt the sheer awesome power of the muscles being used to choke out his useless boywhore life, and despaired.

 

Dave bent forward, the stiff wiry hair of his goatee brushing Buddy’s cheek as the older man whispered in his ear.  “Die, motherfucker.  I’m gonna pump my load up yer guts and leave yer reamed-out corpse spread across the bed, so fuckin’ die, you homo shit.”

 

He gave another cruel, vicious jerk to the dog collar.  When the steel spikes tore through Buddy’s Adam’s apple, he could not only feel the way the sharp points ripped into his larynx, he could hear the crunching of the cartilage.

 

By now, Buddy wanted to die.  The pain, the terror was all too much.  Somewhere in the back of his fagslut brain, he was still aware of his own erection—he couldn’t ignore it; he was so hard it hurt.  He didn’t know it was an involuntary reaction to asphyxia; he could only feel his achingly rigid shaft pinned between the flat, firm bellies of two males locked in a fatal embrace.

 

As the young punk’s struggles began to fade, his faced showed the hideous effects of a drawn-out strangulation.  Already badly battered and swollen, the boy’s innocent, freckled-marked face was blackening grotesquely—long past purple, it was darkening to true black.  His eyes, bugling horribly, were streaked with red where blood vessels were bursting; Buddy could only see great black bursts of nothingness blooming in his field of vision like fireworks of eternity.  The bloody froth oozing from his choked-off throat found an outlet beside his purple protruding tongue, the pinkish foam trickling down the kid’s smooth cheek.

 

The dying boycunt was going under.  Its weak little faggot brain was suffering more and more damage; unable to hold out for much longer, it was no longer fighting its killer.  Dave grunted with exertion and pleasure—he knew that once his warm sweaty fucktoy stopped fighting and started caressing him, it was close to death.

 

“That’s it, faggot, time to die,” he whispered huskily, know the slut was too far gone to hear him.  By now, Buddy was a vegetable.  A tiny spark of his personality remained screaming in terror and pain, trapped in some small corner of a dying brain, but it could only suffer.

 

Even if the boy had been magically bestowed immediate medical care, his only use would have been as an organ donor.  Not that Dave planned on any medical care.  This was what he’d wanted.  From the moment he’d noticed Buddy, he’d planned to have the young man’s brain-damaged convulsions milking his hard shaft to orgasm—and the stupid little homo cunt had played along every step of the way.

 

What little coordinated motion the near-dead whoreboy had been able to command slipped away.  The hands that had been slowly caressing Dave face and trailing in his chest fur fluttered aimlessly for a moment, then rose to his shoulders.  At the same time, the meat’s legs wrapped around Dave’s tight waist; he could feel the firm, smooth flesh of the kid’s inner thighs pressed against his sweat-slick flanks and he knew that the final act had arrived.  He waited tensely for the signal, no longer thrusting himself into the dying fuck’s asshole.  He didn’t need to any longer, once he felt—there, that tight trembling in the rigid boymeat as the progressive damage reached a tipping point in the fuckwad’s dying brain—

 

Buddy’s death load was intense.  The violence even caught Dave by surprise; evidently, for all his whining and squealing, the little cunt had been a major pain pig deep down inside.

 

As the fuckmeat thrashed, it clutched Dave to itself with phenomenal strength, its fingers digging into his shoulders as its legs kicked and flailed with such convulsive violence that it managed to pry one of its combat boots loose, causing it to slide halfway off.

 

While this was going on, its internal muscles were convulsing as well—its colon gripping and releasing Dave’s engorged, throbbing shaft like it was deliberately trying to jack him off.  “Aw, fuckin’-A!” the brawny leather-clad muscleman grunted.  Then he felt it—the sensation, almost like an electric shock, that told him he couldn’t hold off anymore; his balls were unloading.

 

With a single brutal tug, he gave Buddy’s collar one last powerful jerk.  A loud gristly cracking sound filled the room as the young punk’s trachea collapsed, steel spikes deeply embedded in the bloody mass of crushed tissue.

 

There was just enough of Buddy left to feel the burn, and for it to trigger the disgusting little pain pig’s orgasm.

 

For Dave, this was it.  This was his reason for being—young smooth nubile boymeat thrashing beneath him in its death agony, squirting jet after jet of hot creamy spunk across his hard, furry chest, to be smeared between them as they intertwined in an agonizing, erotic orgasm.  The hardbodied older man was aware of his own inarticulate, animalistic grunts as he hunched over the dead boy’s corpse, spewing what felt like a steady stream of searing manseed into it.  As he shot his wad, over and over, Dave continued to pin the flailing corpse to the bed and beat it, driving his gloved fist into Buddy’s vacant face repeatedly.

 

By the time he pulled his dick out of the corpse and rolled, gasping, onto his back next to it, Buddy had been thrashed to hamburger.  The fresh-faced twink was utterly unrecognizable.

 

Unwillingly, the sweaty, satisfied serial killer rolled off the bed, his thick-soled boots hitting the carpet with a loud thump.  He bent down and retrieved his belt from the floor, looping it back around his waist as he went out into the living area of the suite.  Rooting about in the wreckage of the coffee table, he recovered his vest—and Buddy’s leather cap.  Dave held it for a moment, considering, then walked back to the bedroom to try it on in front of the mirror.

 

Well, fuck it—wasn’t like Buddy had any further use for it.

 

He like the look, especially worn with the brim backwards.  He hadn’t wanted to damage the expensive lining of his vest by wearing it over his sweaty, cum-covered chest, so he’d simple looped it through his belt, leaving it to dangle—and himself shirtless.  As he admired his furry ripped abs, matted with the dead boy’s sperm in the mirror, he realized he could see Buddy in the reflection—the splayed, twitching corpse on the bed behind him, cum pooling and already congealing on its flat chest, one combat boot still kicking at the twisted sheet while the other was half off.  Even now, the corpse’s face had faded from jet black to a vivid fuchsia as the blood started to drain away from the front of the head.

 

It was a fuckin’ hot scene and Dave was proud of his work.  As he watched the faggot’s limp cock continue to ooze semen after death, the buff sadist fondled his nipples, feeling them get rock-hard.  He grinned at his own reflection in the mirror, then realized his own dick was stiffening again.  He massaged it for a moment as well, still admiring his own hairy muscular body in the foreground and the twink’s mauled, fucked-out corpse in the background—then put his tackle away.  Playtime was over; he needed to put a little distance between himself and his playmate.

 

Dave locked the suite door on his way out, but otherwise left all the interior doors open and lights on; he wanted his handiwork to be viewed under the best possible circumstances.

 

Out on the street, there was still a large crowd of conventioneers still milling about; more than before, in fact, since most of the bars and nightclubs had closed and so most were heading back to their rooms.  Directly outside the hotel door, Dave bumped into a pair of twinks.

 

One, a slender homo with long blond hair, looked up at him, awestruck.  “Hey, sweetie,” it cooed with a feminine voice, “My name’s Lee.  Wanna blowjob?”

 

Dave looked at it with a sneer of contempt.  “No thanks, faggot; just got one.  Still drippin’.”  He strode of down the street, his leather-clad physique drawing appreciative stares.

 

“Just my luck,” Lee sighed sadly, “Best hunk I’ve seen all week, and I get turned down.  I can’t win for losin’.  Hey, Todd, wait up—let’s go see if Buddy got laid!”

 

 


 

 

“So, Kracznik, whadda we got?” the Sarge barked out.  “I ain’t got time for details; just gimme the basics.”

 

“Easy enough,” the beat cop responded.  “Seems those two faggots out there—” he nodded indicating where Lee and Todd were sobbing in the outer room, “—got back a few hours ago and found this faggot here—” here he nodded at the battered remains of Buddy sprawled across the bed, ‘—a little bit ago.”

 

“Jesus, what is this—another homo convention?  Fuck, just write it up and move on.  There’s one or two of these killings every time one of these conventions happens and they don’t ever get solved.  Too many suspects, most from outta town.  And it ain’t like anyone gives a shit about faggots anyway.”

 

“So ya want me to call the crime scene folks?  I already contacted the coroner…”

 

“Yeah, Kracznik, go ahead.  But tell ‘em to get here fast, I can’t wait around all day.  And you need to get down to Wabash and Wacker, remember?  There’s that big protest in front of the Trump Tower and it’s all hands on deck.

 

Swearing, the beat cop left the bedroom, telling his partner in the living area to finish up taking the statements.  The Sarge looked around, shaking his head.  It was clear from the state of the suite that there had been an explosion of almost unimaginable sexual violence.  No forced entry—the little cocksucker had let his killer in voluntarily.

 

The Sarge snorted in disgust.  Faggot probably enjoyed it, at least up to a point.  Well, he damn sure wasn’t gonna worry about it; cocksuckers got what they deserved.

 

He took a closer look at the corpse, prying at the thick leather collar wrapped tightly around the corpse’s neck.  As he tugged at it, he noticed the spikes.

 

Jesus, this one really died ugly.  Bad way to die, not that the Sarge cared.  The boy had been pounded into meat, too, but it wasn’t anything the seasoned cop hadn’t seen before.  Happened to homos all the time.  He managed to build up a good head of indignation at the pansy for getting itself killed on his watch when the ME finally showed up.

 

He already knew he wasn’t gonna be reading Kracznik’s report; it was destined to be round-filed.  But that didn’t absolve him from filling out his own paperwork.  Turning over the crime scene to the ME, he headed out to the living area and confronted Lee and Todd with an expression of extreme disgust.  “C’mon, I want you two nancy-boys down at the station to sign yer statements.  Get moving; I ain’t got time to waste on dead pansies.”

 

Behind him, the fucked-out, cum-covered corpse of the son of a Republican state supreme court judge was dumped unceremoniously into a plastic body bag.

Cuttin’ Down Ebony Woods, Part Two

Hank looked up, grinned, and nudged Frankie in the ribs.  “They’re back,” he said.

 

Frankie whirled around and caught sight of the trio of skinheads crossing the dance floor towards them.  “Shit,” the hardbodied young Aryan muttered, “Lookit how they got their hard dicks hangin’ out.  It damn sure better be our turn to have some fun; I’m about to blow my load thinkin’ ‘bout wastin’ these niggers.”  He turned and smirked evilly at the half-dozen coons that he and Hank had cornered and stripped naked.

 

The street apes huddled together in fear, their hands efficiently bound behind their backs with zip-ties.  They’d heard every gunshot, every scream of mortal agony and every gurgle of slit throats, and their terror was almost palpable.

 

It was a good thing the crew was reuniting, Hank thought, or the niggers would stampede like the cattle they were.  With their Glocks, Hank knew he and Frankie could take ‘em down before they reached the door—but where was the fun in that?

 

These faggot coons needed to suffer.

 

Both Frankie and Hank were erect with sadistic anticipation by the time Jack reached them.

 

“Fuck yeah!” Jack shouted, “Upstairs is officially nigger-free!”  He, Ed and Mike all laughed; the sound was harsh, masculine—and brutal.

 

“So what’s this big idea you got?” Frankie asked impatiently, rubbing the swelling crotch of his camo fatigues.

 

“Go to the bar and find us each some paper an’ somethin’ to write with,” the musclebound alpha said, “And I’ll show ya.”

 

At the back end of the dance floor was a small raised area—a stage for live performances.  Jack too his place on it while Frankie distributed the pencils and paper.

 

“Ok, boys, lissen up,” the young booted coonkiller called out.  “We’re gonna have us a slave auction, and here’s how it’s gonna work.  I’m gonna pull these fine specimens of monkeys up.

 

“Yeah?” Ed called out, his bass voice ringing in the large open area, “What’s gonna determine who wins any particular jigaboo?”

 

Jack’s smile became particularly shark-like; one of the monkeys saw it and started crying.  “Let’s put it this way—the most…creative idea wins.  Time to get creative, boys.  Remember, we’re sending a message to them all.  The niggers, yeah, and the faggots too.  And the spics.  Let’s show ‘em how bad white power will fuck ‘em up if they don’t clear out.”

 

He paused, then added a follow-up.  “Make it fuckin’ hurt, my brothers.”

 

They needed no further encouragement.

 

Jack strode over to the group of cowering niggers—and one piece a’ shit white faggot—and picked one out.  It was a big black buck, muscled, its smooth skin slick and rank with cold coon fear sweat.  The way the monkey rolled its wide eyes in animalistic fear made Jack chuckle.  And as evidence of the potency of his white power, it made him hard.

 

“We’ll start with this fucker—” he said, only to be interrupted when the coon dropped to its knees and wrapped its arms around Jack’s glossy Doc Martens, sobbing and begging for its life.  The hardbodied skinhead glared down at it in cold contempt.

 

“Ok, this one ain’t good for nothin’ but squealin’.  Which one a’ you proud white fuckers can make it squeal the loudest?  C’mon, start yer bids on this prime piece a’ jigaboo meat!”  Giving the nigger fag a swift kick to the face to shut it up, Jack took the folded slips of paper and began to peruse them.

 

His smile grew more malicious and his long thick manshaft pulsed visibly as he read the gruesome snuff scenarios.  Finally, he laughed aloud and tossed them aside.

 

“Ed, my man!  Bro, that’s some sick, old-school shit.  I love it.  Grab one of them pool cues and start carvin’ the tip.  Mike, you and Frankie go see if you can find some rope or wire or shit like that.  Hank, get up to that catwalk and wait for orders.”

 

The white brotherhood was vicious and rowdy, but they knew how to maintain discipline when needed—and discipline was always needed for fun.  Hell, fun was discipline—of the most brutal kind.  They quickly and quietly dispersed, following orders.

 

Mike and Frankie were the first ones back.  They’d raided the electronics for the computer-synchronized lighting effects in the DJ’s booth and had found a spool containing a good twenty-five feet of fat, sturdy ethernet cable.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Jack chuckled.  “Here, Mike, hand me one end, then toss the spool up there to Hank.  Ya ready up there, bro?” he called out.

 

“Yeah, ready,” Hank replied and Mike effortlessly tossed him the remaining cable, then hurried up to help him on Jack’s orders.  Below, Frankie was assisting Jack into fashioning the thick but supple cable into a functional noose.  Once they had it tied, the forced the fear-stricken nigger to its feet, laughing cruelly at the way the terrified coon was too scared to be able to stand upright.  Frankie held it up as Jack slipped the noose over its head—at which point the street ape pissed itself.

 

“Disgustin’ fuckin’ animal!” Frankie barked and punched the coon in the face.  “Ok, boys, haul the fuckin’ cunt up!” Jack called out.  Just as Mike and Hank looped the cable over an upper crossbar as a support and began hoisting the monkey aloft, Ed sauntered back in the room, brandishing the pool cue.

 

“Where ya been,” Jack asked.  “Thought ya were gonna miss the fun.”

 

“Eh, it took me a little bit to whittle this down just right,” the older Aryan said, his blond buzzcut glinting under the lights as he held out the cue, showing the excruciatingly sharp point into which he’d carved the tip.  “Now don’t y’all go away.  I’m gonna need the two of ya to pull its legs apart when it gets lowered back down.”

 

He advanced across the dance floor towards the choking, flailing nigger as it was slowly raised by its neck.  As he got nearer, he shot a glance towards the remaining herd of fagmeat; with a quick look at Jack to make sure he understood, Ed said loudly, “I got an idea—any motherfucker that tries to make a break for it goes last.  And last suffers worst.”

 

Jack grinned.  “Ya know it, dude.  They ain’t gonna run; fuckin’ fags are all cowards.  C’mon over here and let’s show the dumbass cunts just how bad it can be.”

 

By now the coon was six feet in the air.  Hank and Mike were leaning back on the cable, their thick, powerful biceps swollen with the effort of keeping the muscled buck dangling.  The nigger’s face was swollen and congested, its bound hands clenching and clawing vainly as its legs thrashed frantically in midair.  Its long black ape dick was swelling too, as asphyxia forced the jigaboo into an involuntary erection.  It was probably conscious enough to hear Jack’s order to start lowering it, but was unable to give a sign of its relief.

 

And any relief was illusory anyway.  As soon as it came within reach, Frankie grabbed its left leg and Jack its right, jerking them apart like they were trying to break a wishbone.  In reality, they were guiding the nigger down, lining it up so that the settling of its own body weight forced the sharpened pool cue—basically a gigantic spike—up its asshole.

 

Their aim was good.  So good, in fact, that for a moment the sense of anal penetration felt pleasant to the black faggot.  For approximately five seconds, even though it was still strangling, its cock began to drip as it felt the pleasure of a rigid object lodged in its colon.

 

Then the tip speared its prostate and began to impale its intestines.

 

Despite the lack of oxygen, the coon homo felt every millimeter of raw, cut wood piercing its guts.  As it started to struggle violently, Frankie and Jack let go and the nigger slid slowly down on the spike.  The cue ran up through its intestines, piercing its stomach twice and punching through the diaphragm.  It managed to miss the heart, but punctured its way into the esophagus, then continued up.

 

The pain the jigaboo endured as it ripped open the larynx and finally lodged in the constricted trachea was obvious.

 

“Fuck yeah, ya piece a’ nigger shit!” Ed yelled at the agonized, flailing meat.  “Goddam faggot ape—die, ya worthless motherfucker!”

 

Mike and Hank looked at each other, grinned, and simultaneously let go of the cable.  The nigger still had a foot to go before its feet touched the ground—with the release of its noose, it traveled that foot in less than a second.  Immediately, the boys upstairs caught hold of the cable hoisted it up again.

 

It had worked.  The sudden drop had forced the sharpened tip of the pool cue up through the constricted throat, punching its way through the crushed cartilage.  By the time the coon was high enough to start strangling again, it could taste raw wood and its own shit in the back of the throat where the tip was now lodged.  The monkey had been run through from its asshole to its mouth with a sharp wooden stake.

 

Hank and Mike tied the cable off, then headed back downstairs.

 

“Hey, ya worthless nignogs, you watchin’ this?” Frankie called out to the stunned group of fags—now down to five black and one white—who huddled together in abject terror at the back of the dance floor, “This shit’s just fer appetizers.  Which one a’ ya spades is gonna get carved up for the main course, huh?

 

Meanwhile Jack and Ed were focused on Ed’s nigger.  “Ya like that, cocksucker?” Jack jeered, “That’s white fuckin’ power in yer asshole, bitch; does it burn?  Does it hurt?  Yer fuckin’ pansy nigger ass can’t handle it, huh?”

 

It was only a few inches off the ground now, just enough that its feet couldn’t touch.  The way the tear- and snot-streaked face was distorted into a horrific mask showed the nightmarish agony it was enduring, but it wasn’t enough for Ed.  As it choked to death, he stood in front of it, beating on its flat ripped abs like a boxer sparring with a side of beef.  The coon suffered a few more intestinal ruptures before it suddenly convulsed, the entire body writhing as its cock rose up and spewed a hot thick load of jigaboo deathwad all over Ed’s sweaty, muscled body and splattering on his oxblood DMs.

 

As Ed retreated to the bar for a cloth to wipe nigger spunk off his face, Mike sauntered over to the captives.  “Y’know, it’s kinda a shame to torch this place when we’re done,” he told Jack in a very loud voice.  “I’d kinda like their mommas to get a chance to see what we done to ‘em.  Just so they know what we’ll do to the rest of their fuckin’ litter it they don’t learn their place.”

 

“Don’t worry about that,” Jack chuckled, “We’ll make damn sure they know anyway.  Hank, you still got that camera?  Yeah?  So we’ll take a lotta nice hi-res pics of the aftermath before we toast ‘em.  Now c’mon—we just got started on this auction.”

 

He stood in front of the petrified victims, his arms crossed, booted feet spread wide, a buff and muscular presence radiating pure hatred and lust.  “Now lessee—which one is next?  Hmm, eeny meeny miney moe, pick a nigger by the toe, if it hollers kill it slow, eeny meeny miney moe—this one!”

 

It was a young, lithe jungle bunny he dragged out of the group, his powerful hand completely circling the little faggot’s bicep.  “Ok, my brothers—give this fucker yer best shot!”

 

Again, folded papers were passed and Jack spent a brief moment considering the responses before looking up with an evil shark-like smile.  “Good job, Hank; the cunt’s yers.  Go find what ya need.  Take Frankie with ya and fill him in.  Mike, go grab that nail gun outta the storage room.  Make sure it’s loaded.”

 

At the mention of the nail gun, the young nigger began bleating loudly; Jack swung his big heavy fist almost casually, taking the coon on the chin and knocking it, stunned to the floor, where it remained, mewling and sobbing until Mike came back with the large power tool.  It took him a few moments to return

 

“Hey, remind me when Hank gets back,” the young Aryan muscle stud called out, his black engineer boots echoing on the dance floor, “That nigger he got to suck down the drain cleaner is still alive.  Y’all oughtta go see, dudes; it’s fuckin’ pukin’ and squirmin’ on the floor like a goddam worm.  Funniest fuckin’ shit I seen; had t’ stop and stomp it a few times, but it’s still kickin’.”

 

“Hope it stays alive long enough to burn,” Ed replied with a smirk, then turned to Jack.  “Well, he got the nail gun—now what?”

 

“Now we’re gonna nail the nigger to the wall.”

 

The trembling, semi-conscious darky didn’t really hear the words; once the boys grabbed it and began dragging it over to the wall, it simply began screaming as a reflex action.  Ed was still stoked enough from his own nigger kill to drive a few brutal gutpunches deep into the wailing coon’s flat belly; it at least had the benefit of knocking the wind out of the loudmouth cunt and so keeping it quiet.

 

As Jack and Ed held it up and Mike drove a nail through the palm of its left hand into the industrial drywall, it could only gasp impotently and look at its captors with eyes almost comically bulging in fear and pain.  Mike added another nail in the forearm, between the radius and ulna, for extra support.  The jigaboo drummed its black monekyfeet against the wall in agony as the vicious skinhead secured its other arm in the same way.  Within moments, the nigger had been crucified on the wall, its entire body weight dangling from two nails in each arm.

 

They left the legs free; the way the coon kicked and struggled was amusing.  They wanted to watch it suffer.  Soon, though, it was time to inflict more pain.

 

Despite his remark, Mike forgot all about the gurgling faggot in the storage room once he saw what Frankie and Hank were carrying.  They both had full armloads of pointed implements—knives, ice picks, even a post with a sharp tip for picking up trash.  Most of all, though, they had darts.  The pool room had at least twenty dartboards lining the walls, each with a full compliment of steel-tipped darts sharpened to a lethal edge.

 

“Brothers,” Hank announced as he and Frankie dumped the items onto a table, “I think it’s time we had us some target practice.”

 

For a moment, they all went quiet.  The only sounds on the dance floor were the moaning of the splayed, wall-mounted coon—and the excited dripping from their own cocks.

 

“Oh fuck yeah,” Ed grinned, “It’s on.”

 

Since Hank had won, he got first shot, with three darts.  The musclebound Aryan sadist lined his shot up carefully, squinting at the writhing coon through his right eye.  The first throw was something of a disappointment; it struck the nigger on the right side of its chest, below the big dark nipple, the point lodging in a rib.  It made the cunt squeal but did no real injury.

 

The next dart was better placed, puncturing the spade’s smooth flat belly and hanging there, but it was Hank’s third that hit the bullseye—or the brass ring.  Hank had noticed that the coon had a Prince Albert and aimed at the piercing.  He ended up spearing the thick spongy head of the nigger’s cock like William Tell’s arrow in an apple.

 

The darky fag was still screaming when Frankie took his turn.  The ex-military killer went for the muscles, leaving a dart in the coon’s left bicep, right pec and right thigh, each one sunk in deeply, leading to renewed cries of pain and trickling blood.

 

When Jack stepped up, he declined the dart and took a single shot with an eleven-inch butcher’s knife retrieve from the store room.  It had been used as a tool, not a precision carving implement, and it was rather dull, with a broken tip.  Jack still managed to flip it end-for-end with such force that it buried itself to the hilt in the jigaboo’s flat abs, impaling the fucker’s guts.

 

Ed went next.  “God, I hate you fuckin’ niggers,” he growled and flung a dart at the fag’s face that punctured its cheek.  As it screamed, the point could be seen gleaming inside its open mouth.  Ed’s next dart lodged in its scalp, between the skin and the skull—painful, but not damaging.

 

“Goddam it,” the older skinhead muttered, frustrated.  He took a little longer than usual to line up his last shot, but it was worth it.  It pierced the nigger’s left eye, the tip embedding itself into the thin orbit bone behind the eye.  As the street ape shrieked in mind-bending agony, Ed stepped away to the congratulations of his comrades, his huge grinning showing his pride at the suffering he’d inflicted.

 

Frankie, for his part, was a little more precise.  He tried to score a bullseye on the spade’s right nipple, but the way it kept screaming and thrashing made it a challenging task, and while he got two darts embedded nice and deep into the flailing nigger’s pectoral, he wasn’t close to his target.  He did better with his third shot—not actually striking the nipple, but lodging securely and agonizingly in the ape’s large black areola, making it screech even louder.

 

With so many darts hanging out of its face and body, the bleating, wailing fag looked like a pincushion.  Mike stood up, wiped his hands on his “These Boots Were Made For Stomping” t-shirt and came forward.  “I dunno about y’all, but I’m pretty damn sick of hearing this fuckin’ howler monkey,” he said casually and hefted the steel-tipped trash pole.  For a moment, he balanced it in his heavily-muscled right arm, then he flung it like a javelin.  It moved so fast, it had pierced the nigger’s throat and torn a hole through its larynx before anyone realized what happened.

 

At any rate, it was certainly before the stupid jigaboo itself knew what happened.  It kept screaming and yelling but the confused look on its face showed well enough that it didn’t understand why it could only emit gurgles and croaks.

 

“You can keep havin’ fun with it if ya want,” Jack told Hank, “But we still got more coons to auction off.”

 

“Yeah, ok,” Hank replied, “But it ain’t dead yet.”

 

“So?  Leave it hangin’; the fire’ll take care of it.  Gonna burn all this nigger shit to ashes.”

 

Hank perked up—at least, his hard, throbbing mancock did—at the thought.  Jack had returned to the end of the dance floor and dragged another darky out of the shrinking herd of corralled coons.

 

This one was young—in fact, it looked too young to be in a bar.  The little niglet didn’t look any older than eighteen, if that.  It started sobbing incoherently as Jack roughly jerked it out onto dance floor.

 

Suddenly, there was a stirring in the trembling know of faggots clustered against the wall and one burst forward—a tall buck, lithe, almost wiry, but firm.  “Andre!” it called out, “Leave my little brother alone, you assholes!”

 

Jack paused, the look on his face showing how little he could believe his luck.  Then he whirled around with lightning speed, cold-cocking the older jigaboo and putting its lights out.  As it crumpled to the floor, he turned his attention to the baby faggot he’d snagged.  “Brothers, huh?  How can ya tell?  All fuckin’ look alike to me, har!”

 

Then he turned back to the circle of sadistic racist killers, shoving the teenaged nigger out and letting it soak in an atmosphere laden with testosterone and hatred.  The cocksucking jungle bunny looked around, surrounded by hulking skinheads oozing with lust and violence—and precum.  Their massive, intimidating rods of manmeat were all pointed at it like a firing squad.

 

“We’re gonna pause our auction for this touching family moment.  Mike, you and Ed grab that one on the floor and follow me.  Frankie, Hank, round up the rest of the walkin’ dead over there and bring ‘em along.  Oh, and hand me another zip tie real quick.”

 

Tucking the thick industrial zip tie into the rear pocket of his skin-tight jeans, the hardbodied Aryan thug dragged the sobbing adolescent coon into the adjacent game room and bent it over a pool table.  Its older brother was just regaining consciousness when it was brought into the room; before it was fully awake, Jack had cinched the zip tie excruciatingly tight around its thick dangling monkey junk.  The coon’s cock was already achingly stiff before it was conscious.

 

“Brothers,” Jack said with a broad grin, “I think it’s time to bring this family of jigaboo faggots together in a truly meaningful way.”

 

The boys chuckled.  They didn’t know exactly what he had in mind, but they didn’t need to. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t just be hot, it’d be right.  The justice of white power would be served. Jack was their leader for a reason, after all.

 

“Get it up here,” Jack said motioning to the older nigger.  As it was brought closer to the smooth, taut, quivering buttocks of its teenaged sibling, the hardbodied skinhead in the Gold’s Gym t-shirt reached out and grabbed its throbbing and helplessly engorged dick, guiding it in.  “Closer,” Jack said, “Force it if ya hafta.  This coon’s gonna fuck its brother.”

 

Grabbing the spade’s firm ass, Jack shoved it forwards, forcing the darky’s dick into its brother’s asshole.  As the young pup wailed, Mike leaned forward and whispered in its ear, “Y’all do that sick kinda shit anyway, ain’t that right, motherfucker?  Ha!  Betcha you two been bangin’ each other since y’all finally figured out whatcher monkeydicks were for, huh?  Long as it’s got a hole, you’ll try t’ fuck it just like some fuckin’ animal, yeah?”

 

The older coon was in tears but was unable to resist; all five of the muscle-bound Aryan sadists had crowed around and were manhandling them both, forcing the bothers into violent, traumatic copulation.

 

Hank was holding the younger one down.  “Goddam, this one squeals like a bitch—think it was a virgin?”

 

Ed looked up from where he was helping Jack force the older one’s cock to pump even faster.  “Fuck no, bro—shit, you ever hear of a nigger over the age a’ ten that ain’t been fucked by every member of its family?  Like fuckin’ rabbits, dude.  We’re just helpin’ these two sick pervs out.”

 

“Yeah, an’ it looks like they’re gettin’ close,” Frankie muttered, “See how they’re sweatin’?  Fuckin’ reeks like stank-ass niggers in here.  Must be why they put the slave pens so far away from the owner’s house.  They knew how to handle stinkin’ darkys back in the day.”

 

Meanwhile, Jack threw a glance up at Mike, who had one hand clutching a hank of nappy black hair on the teen’s head.  “Hey, dude—gotta blade?”

 

Mike grinned.  Of course he had a blade; ya never knew when ya might be lucky enough to find a lone coon or spic in some dark alley…it was a butterfly knife with a three-inch blade that he kept whetted to a razor edge.  He quickly bent down and pulled it out of his engineer boot, his powerful arm making a graceful maneuver as he spun it open.

 

Jack already had his in his hand.  “You know when,” he said, and Mike did know.

 

The lithe young niglet wasn’t screaming anymore, it was moaning—and it was moaning in the same tempo as its older sibling’s forced thrusts.  The latter was panting, its smooth firm body slick with exertion.  It was still terrified beyond the ability to think straight, but it didn’t need to think at all to respond to the compelled stimulation.

 

Both coons were on the verge of cumming.

 

It was the younger one that blew first.  It was less experienced and its adolescent body was stewing in hormones.  It gave a loud grunt and its slim form shuddered in orgasmic spasm, then Mike jerked its head back and cut its throat.

 

As he did, the older one gave a strangled cry and ejaculated in its dying brother’s asshole.  Jack slashed its neck down to the spine, ripping open the trachea.  The stunned ape remained standing for a few moments, its eyes wide with horror as it spewed wad after wad of hot monkey cum into its brother’s guts and jet after jet of warm blood onto its back.

 

The younger coon wheezed and gurgled as air and blood sprayed from the gaping wound in its throat.  Even as its eyes rolled back into its skull and it slumped forward into coma and death, it continued to expel streams of semen onto the rail of the pool table.

 

Almost as if planned, the boys all let go and stepped back at the same time.  Unsupported, the two dead jungle bunnies dropped to the floor in a pile of niggermeat, still oozing blood and cum—and still dog-knotted, the elder’s dick buried in the younger’s ass.

 

Jack turned to the remaining live meat—two coons and one cracker fag left.  “Now that’s some fuckin’ quality time with the family, white power-style!  You worthless dumbasses ready to suffer and die?  I mean shit, you fags can’t even die good enough to make me cum.  Lessee if we can get creative enough to make it happen, yeah?  C’mon, my bothers—we have an auction to finish!”

 

There was no need to return to the dance floor; they were all gathered in the game room.  Without being told, the white power brothers had formed a circle; Jack randomly selected one of the remaining two niggers, yanking the terrorized spade into the center of the ring, where it cringed in abject, paralytic fear.

 

“Aw, that one don’t even look like it’s tryin’ to be a human,” Frankie guffawed.

 

“Yeah, we got the fuckin’ dregs left,” Jack admitted.  “Back in the day, these two fucks woulda been sold off for dog meat.  Kinda seems a shame to waste the effort to auction ‘em off.”

 

“What about the white one?” Mike asked.  The others made sounds of assent but it was the way their thick, vein-wreathed whiteboy cocks pulsed that showed their real interest in the Caucasian fag’s imminent suffering.

 

“Oh no, my brothers,” Jack responded, a cruel glint of light showing in his icy Teutonic-blue eyes, “The traitor to its race deserves special attention, and it’s gonna get it.  From all of us.”

 

There was a hushed, awed silence as the hardbodied sadistic racists considered the implications, then Jack spoke again.

 

“But we got these two to finish off first.  Mike?  Frankie?  You two are left.  Either of ya got an idea for this one?”

 

Frankie shook his head but Mike stepped forward.  “Fuckin-A, I gotta idea.  Lemme have it.  Ed, can you go get that drum auger we saw in the back there?  Leave the blade on.”

 

“What the fuck is that?” Hank asked as Ed headed, grinning, for the storeroom.

 

“Actually, it’s a power auger—even better,” Mike said contentedly.  Jack smiled and chuckled grimly at the nearly-catatonic nigger huddled at his boots but Hank and Frankie only looked confused.  That was when Ed came back and the boys realized that they were staring at a motorized commercial plumbing snake with—appropriately—a spade-shaped blade on the end used for cutting out roots that had grown into pipes.

 

“Jigaboo likes shit shoved up its ass,” Mike commented laconically, “So I thought we’d help it out.  Y’know—make sure things fit.”

 

The process was easy enough—bending it over one of the small tables, Mike sat astride its smooth, sweat-slick back, his own huge pulsating cock lying like a thick bar of hot iron in the small of the coon’s back.  The Aryan thug bent over and spread the thick chocolate bubbles of the monkey’s ass as Frankie and Hank turned the motor on and started shoving it in.

 

Within seconds, they’d literally torn the nigger a new asshole.

 

As it shrieked in nightmarish agony, they continued to shove.  “Aw hell yeah, ream that fuckin’ nigger cunt out!” Ed cheered, sneering and brandishing his dick like a club, waving it first in the screaming jigaboo’s face, then at the two sobbing, hysterical captives.

 

Mike gripped the struggling yard ape’s smooth back between his powerful thighs, feeling the jigaboo twist and writhe beneath him as its intestines were ground to hamburger.  “Yo, brothers, lookit the way the monkey’s wrigglin’—fuckin’ pervert’s gettin’ off on it.  See, I toldja the sick faggots love gettin’ put down by real men!”

 

“Does that feel good, huh?” Jack asked spade, bending down and spitting in in tear-streaked face.  “Ya like a good power fuck, ya coon-ass faggot?  That’s a white power fuck, asswipe, and you ain’t never gonna have a better one!”

 

Frankie, who still hadn’t had a nigger of his own yet, started to get aggressive, his biceps bulging as he forced the spinning metal blade deeper into the street ape’s guts.  “Take it, bitch,” he grunted, “Take it all, ya worthless nigger slut!”

 

The jungle bunny was still screaming but it wasn’t making any noise; it was too hoarse to do more than croak.  Frankie was really getting into it when Jack stepped behind him and powered the auger down.  The younger skinhead whirled angrily, saw who it was, and immediately resumed discipline.

 

“Don’t kill it,” Jack said gently, “Yet.”

 

“Besides,” Ed pointed out, “That last darky is yers.  Whatcha gonna do with it?”

 

“Well, damn,” Frankie said after considering for a moment, “My birthday was last week.  My birthdays ain’t been the same since my momma died.  I still miss the piñatas she’d put up each year…”

 

His voice trailed off into a wistful smile; the shark-like grins with which the others responded showed that they’d understood him perfectly.

 

“There’s some of that ethernet cable we used on that other one left,” Hank said, heading to the dance floor to retrieve it.

 

“There’s enough room to do it in here,” Ed added, “We can use one of those metal struts running across the ceiling.”

 

Hank returned with the cable, already fashioning the end into a noose.  “Hold it steady an’ I’ll slip this over its head,” he said.

 

“Uh-uh,” Frankie replied, “Not its head—its ankles.  We’re hangin’ it upside down.”

 

The coon evidently heard him.  It gave a loud despairing bleat, like a lamb about to be slaughtered, and tried to bolt for the door, its long dark arms and legs scrambling madly on the floor.  It only managed to skitter about two feet toward the door before Ed stepped in and put out its lights with a single strong donkey-punch to the back of the head.  Once it was down, he stomped it for good measure, his long Aryan cock swinging in the breeze as he worked the nigger over with his Doc Martens.

 

Frankie had to remind him that this one was his kill before Ed backed off and apologized.

 

“No biggie, dude,” Frankie grinned, “I can’t blame ya—once I get started on one a’ these motherfuckers, I don’t wanna stop, either.  Seems criminal to leave one still breathin’ when it’s so easy—and so fuckin’ much fun—to off it.”

 

So it was in a sense of good strong camaraderie that they looped the cable around the unconscious nigger’s ankles and hoisted it into the air.

 

“Now we wait for it to wake up,” Frankie said.  “I want it to know it’s dyin’.”

 

While they waited, they began gathering weapons.  Ed and Hank were satisfied with using pool cues, but the others went looing for something more solid, more durable.  Pool cues would break too easy.  Jack slipped his belt out from around his narrow waist; his worn and distressed jeans were too tight for him to actually need the belt anyway.  The belt was a strap of leather an inch and half wide, pierced at intervals with metal studs.

 

It was a perfect whip for lashing a nigger.  Frankie glanced at it enviously, but he hadn’t had the foresight to wear a belt.  Fortuitously, Mike found a couple of seven-foot lengths of chain in the storeroom; they were already laid out, each with a couple of padlocks on one end, ready to attach to posts at the parking lot entrances to seal it off for the night once it was empty.

 

Wrapping three feet or so of the chain around their muscular left Mike and Frankie with a nice, workable length, weighted at the end with a couple of padlocks each.  Mike swung his rapidly, listening with malevolent satisfaction to the way it whistled in the air.

 

“Goddam,” he grinned, “Time to fuck this coon up!”

 

“Frankie first, man,” Jack reminded him, but it wasn’t necessary.  Frankie was already swinging as Jack spoke; he’d noticed the monkey’s eyelids flutter as it regained consciousness.  The padlocked chain slapped across the jigaboo’s flat, ripped abs—this young buck was in its early twenties and very fit—with a loud thwack that made the nigger yelp with pain like a scalded dog and tore deeply into its dark smooth flesh.

 

“Aw, man, ya gotta whip niggers across their back, dude, dontcha know anything?” Hank jeered, swinging his pool cue like the bases were loaded.  The wooden cue left a nice, satisfying welt—but as expected, it broke off in his hands.

 

“FUCK!” Hank cried in frustration as the others laughed.  Jack took his swing.

 

“Aw, bro, it’s yer nigger, hit it where ya want,” he said just as his metal-studded belt smashed the spade’s huge scrotum.  It was a literally crushing blow; Jack’s biceps were probably the largest and most powerful of any of the five’s, and he’d been going full power.

 

The jungle bunny’s screech rose a full octave as its testicles were ruptured.  It writhed and jerked like a prize catch on a line.

 

“Fuckin’ cunt!” Frankie yelled as it, then kicked it twice in the face, his steel-toed combat boot knocking teeth out with each blow.  The darky wasn’t screaming anymore; it blubbered helplessly as it dangled.

 

That changed when Mike connected with his chain.  He’d swung at the faggot’s sweaty, heaving flank and caught it at such an angle that the chain wrapped around its torso, landing the massy padlocks right on the motherfucker’s nipple, nearly tearing it off.

 

This time, it didn’t just scream, it pissed itself.  As its reeking urine flowed down—or, rather, up to its chin, Ed stepped in front of it with the pool cue in one hand and his cock in the other.  “So ya came here looking for somethin’ long an’ hard, huh, cocksucker?” he growled at the wailing, piss-soaked coon, wagging his swollen hog at its face.  “Okay, then ya fuckin’ subhuman asswipe, here ya go—somethin’ long an’ hard!”  He swung low and fast, like teeing off on a par five, and no one was surprised when the wooden shaft shattered against the street ape’s head, stunning but not killing it.

 

It didn’t matter.  They were done with it.  There was just one left, and they weren’t going to be able to beat the piss out of it, because it had been forced to watch the entire massacre and had already pissed itself.

 

“No…” the white boy gasped in abject terror, its huge eyes darting from side to side as the five hypermasculine skinheads approached it slowly and with ominous gleefulness.  “No…pl-please, no…oh fuck no, please…”

 

“Only thing worse than a faggot, brothers,” Jack intoned solemnly, “Is a nigger faggot.  And the only thing worse than a nigger faggot is a white faggot that takes nigger dick.  It ain’t just a pervert, it’s a traitor to its race.  Someone go get some duct tape.”

 

The kid’s gray Etnies scrambled on the floor as Jack laid his hands on it, but it never had even an outside chance of getting away.  The buff young Aryan jerked the younger, slightly smaller youth to its feet and shoved it out of the corner in which it had been cowering as Mike came back with a wide roll of tape he’d located behind the bar.

 

“So the first order of business is to remind this little piece a’ shit why white cocks are so much better to begin with.  Ed, you first.”

 

And before the cracker cocksucker knew what had happened, it was bent over one of the smaller café table with four Nazi thugs holding it down with the fifth one raped it.

 

The boys were pent up and over-wrought; they’d been aching for release during the entire coon slaughter and their lust, powered by hatred and contempt, was unstoppable.  The white cunt screamed as Ed’s massive rod reamed its colon raw—every other dick it had taken, black or white, had been slowly inserted with lots of lube—but had gotten used to the relentless pounding when the older man hosed its guts with hot manseed and pulled out.

 

There was a pause, then Hank plowed his way in, brutally and remorselessly.  As the slim homo sobbed in pain, terror, and humiliation, Jack grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked its head back.  “Now ya remember what real white power feels like, ya worthless assfuck?”  He spat into the pansy’s face, his spittle blending in with the tears streaming down its cheeks.

 

“Fuck…fuck—goddam!!!” Hank grunted.  He shuddered violently, then pulled his dripping tool out, stuffed it back in his jeans and stood aside for Frankie to take his turn.

 

The ex-military brother powered through his hatefuck like he was conducting a commando strike—quick, brutal, relentlessly penetrating.  The faggot, held down on the table in the iron grip of four hulking muscleman, had the sensation that it was being raped by a jackhammer.  When Frankie blew his load, he shot a jet of semen further up the cumsucker’s guts than any of the others.

 

Mike’s style was slower, but designed to inflict maximum pain.  He was long and thick, but his most notable attribute was the huge round head of his cock.  Looking like nothing so much a purple billiard ball, he was fond off pulling all the way out, then plunging back in all the way up to his pubes, stretching and tearing the meat’s sphincter.

 

Ed was up by the faggot’s face now.  “Keep screamin’, fucker,” he said, smiling at the suffering punk, “Ain’t no one left in here to help ya.  And there ain’t no sound hotter than a fag tellin’ the world how big an’ powerful a white man’s dick is!”

 

Mike ground his dick into the kid’s asshole as he shot his wad, then slowly withdrew, leaving his still-oozing head in the fuckwad’s sphincter, keeping it fully stretched for a few moments.  But he hadn’t physically abused it; none of them had.

 

After all, this one was Jack’s.  And now Jack stepped up and claimed his nigger.  It was white, true, but it had had nigger seed inside it—and that made it full nigger.

 

Jack’s tackle wasn’t that much larger than any of the others—but it was large enough for the faggot to feel the difference.  This one didn’t just hurt—this one filled its duodenum to the bursting point; it was gonna inflict organ damage, and the cocksucker knew it.

 

The boy’s wails took on a different, more desperate tone but as the ridges of veins sheathing Jack massive rod rode over its prostate, the queerboy felt itself getting hard.  It didn’t know why; the agony and fear were nightmarish and its involuntary erection only added to the surreal hellscape.

 

Jack knew, and expected it.  He kept pumping, his gigantic tool filling the motherfucker’s intestines and creating a suction effect that felt fantastic on his oozing, engorged dickhead but was, in fact, causing major internal damage to the homo’s intestines.  With one hand, the sadistic Aryan reached around and cupped the pansy’s scrote and rod.

 

Suddenly the white coonsucker’s sobbing shifted to moans.  Jack could feel the lithe, smooth form beneath him shudder, and knew what was coming.  He felt the homo’s cock go rigid in his hand, and at the first sensation of spasm, flashed his knife with the speed of what seemed like lightning.

 

Before the faggot even felt it, Jack had sliced off its cock and balls.  The moment it opened its mouth to scream, Jack shoved the large pulsating package into its mouth, then lunged for the duct tape and slapped a length over its lips, just as sperm began to flow from the severed shaft.

 

The faggot gagged and wheezed, trying not to choke on its own cum and blood.  Blood ran down its legs, staining its Etnies and splattering on Jack’s green Doc Martens as the hardbodied skinhead unloaded his potent spunk into the thrashing, agonized homo.  When he was done, he pulled out, his hog still proud and erect as the fucked-out gelded cocksucker fell off the table and curled into a fetal ball of horrific pain.

 

Jack tucked his still-throbbing member back into his pants.  He retrieved his belt, nodding at the others.  “That’s it.  Y’all know what to do.  Hank, start taking photos upstairs first.”

 

Smiling grimly, Hank took out his camera and proceeded out to the lobby to start documenting the carnage for the sake of all the white power brothers across the country.  In the meantime, the others raided the bar.

 

It seemed a shame to waste some of the better booze, but anything that even might’ve touched nigger lips had to be destroyed.  So three bottles of Grey Goose got dumped on the dance floor alone and the white fucker, still shuddering and straining on the game room floor, had two bottles of Crown Royal all to himself, poured over his naked, bleeding body as it flailed in agony when the alcohol flowed into open wounds.

 

Everything flammable in the storeroom was utilized, too.  By the time Hank had finished the photo shoot, the air was so heavily laden with fumes that leaving became imperative.  Hank reported two still left alive—the spic in the lobby was technically still alive; at least, it was breathing.  One of the niggers in the bathroom was still alive, but it was bleeding and seemed to be paralyzed, so he left it alone.  All the other coons were dead up there.

 

“Don’t matter how many are left alive, anyway,” Jack said, ushering everyone out the back door ahead of him.  “They’re all gonna die now, no matter what.”  He grinned amiably at the nigger moaning and shuddering on the floor—the first one they’d encountered inside.  Despite being forced to drink drain cleaner, it too was still determinedly clinging to a life now drowning in agony.

 

But not for long.  Even in here, the spilled alcohol had pooled and filled the air with choking fumes.  Jack pulled out a matchbook and used a single match to light the entire book.  When he tossed it into the puddle of fuel, the roar of the initial ignition was surprisingly loud.  It wasn’t an explosion, but it was close.

 

They left the back door open to ensure a good airflow and retreated down the alley, the dead security guard still sprawled on the filthy pavement behind them.  At the end of the alley, they took shelter in the loading dock of a defunct dry cleaners and watched the inferno.

 

It took a few minutes to really get going, but just as they could see the orange glow begin to enliven the darkened ground-floor windows, music hit their ears.  An untuned, inharmonious chorus of panicked screams began to echo down the alley—the cries of the niggers they’d left alive.

 

“Aw fuck yeah, that makes my dick hard all over again,” Mike chuckled.

 

“You know it, bro,” Ed said, “Lissen to them monkeys howl!  Fuckin’ beautiful!”

 

“Yeah, this is what makes it all worthwhile,” Jack said in the contented tones of one who knows he’s done a job well.

 

Suddenly the screaming went up in pitch—they were no longer wails of fear; they were shrieks of agony.

 

“Fuckin’ niggers burnin’ alive,” Mike said, “That’ll show ‘em”

 

“Hell yeah,” Frankie agreed, “Oughtta make it clear we don’t want niggers or faggots round here.”

 

“That reminds me,” Jack said, “How did them pics come out, Hank?”

 

“Aw, these are sweet,” the hardbodied Aryan smirked, “Gonna get any real brother’s dick hard.”

 

“Good, cause I wanna send ‘em somewhere.  Got an email from a brother down south tonight, just before we left.  Seems like they’re gonna have a nigger infestation in the woods outside of town in a couple of weeks and wanted some help, so I thought I’d send these along as a kinda resume.”

 

Behind them, the screams had fallen silent.  The roaring of the flames, though, began to increase, and in the distance the faint wail of siren could be discerned.  The brothers broke up, heading back to their headquarters by different routes.  As they made their way out of the alley, it was obvious that the nigger nightclub was by now fully engulfed in flames and was beyond saving.

 

It was a white pride triumph, an erotic, orgiastic cleansing of filth by fire, and, assured of both their manhood and their superiority, the Aryan thugs separated, their shaven heads full of plans of further sadistic abuse and murder.

THE AMS NETWORK By Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

I am indebted to one of my readers not only for the core idea of the AMS organization but for some of the writing.  Part One is my work, but Part Two relies heavily on his.  I have his permission to use his ideas and such, but he did not want to be identified.

 

This story also features another reader, Cody, who had some good ideas on how he might be snuffed.  I really liked Cody’s ideas and think he will enjoy his fate (I would).  I welcome ideas and requested themes, along with any feedback – positive or negative – from readers.

 

PART 1:

ACCEPTANCE, TRAINING, AND DISPOSAL

 

1

Acceptance

William and Cody were both gay studs with amazing bodies, different in most ways but sharing an intense interest in extreme S&M male sex.  They initially found each other on ZambianMeat.com, a delightful site dedicated to male torture, snuff, and cannibalism, and they decided to connect in person after they learned the site was being taken down like so many others they enjoyed.  It took a while to set up the meeting, as William lived in New York and Cody in Silicon Valley, each with very full schedules because they were very successful in their careers.

 

When they finally met the sexual energy was intense and sparks flew.  One reason the “meeting” was a huge success, was because of the complementary nature of their differences.  William was a totally dominant sadist, and Cody was a totally submissive masochist.  There was also an age difference.  William was established, in his late 40s, with a network of colleagues built around an elite S&M society he led.  Cody was a high-tech investor in his mid-20s whose friends centered on the gay S&M bars where he hung out.  He had been orphaned in high school, and then dropped out and used the insurance proceeds his father left him to become a full-time investor when he was not chasing gay sex.  He turned the proceeds into a serious fortune with brilliant Silicon Valley investments.

 

They also differed in appearance.  William had a massive and imposing build, highlighted by the leather vest, leather pants, and steel-toed leather boots he wore not only during S&M sessions but as his regular garb. The pants had a removable leather pouch at the crotch, so he could free his massive cock for its tasks, enabling his sex partners to worship his cock and huge, low-hanging balls after they knelt before him and used their teeth to unfasten the snaps.  Then they sucked the giant cock or positioned themselves to receive it up their willing assholes (or unwilling – he enjoyed raping guys who were forced to serve him, breaking them down to become yet another of his slaves).  He kept the vest open to show off the thick black hair on his muscular chest, which accentuated his thick beard.  His mere presence was intimidating, and his dominance became increasingly clear as he used his strength and force of personality to control all the many males who served him sexually before being disposed of.  He was always the “top” – the ultimate alpha male.  Indeed, it would be technically wrong to refer to sex “partners” as there was no partnership, only dominance and service to satisfy William’s limitless lust.  There was only William, using other males merely as sex objects.

 

Cody was a nearly perfect sex object for William.  He had a slight build, although he was just as fit.  His nerdy twink look included moderate chest and body hair and a neatly trimmed beard.  He felt it made him more sexy-looking for the guys he serviced in gay S&M bars and clubs, which it did.  He often bribed the managers at gay leather bars to let him be totally naked and let the dominant males (and the eager managers) whip him and fuck him in public while he was tied up.  After all, with such a great young body anxious to be used he was an appealing fuck. And he had the money to pay for the public sex and humiliation he craved.

 

Preparations for the first session with William and Cody affirmed their roles.  When they exchanged pictures over the web.  William refused to send a picture of himself naked, offering only a head shot.  But he instructed Cody to send a portfolio of himself naked, both front and back, with his cock placid and with it hard, including one with him bent over holding his butt cheeks open to view his hole, and including one with him on his knees with his cock hard and his mouth open to receive another guy’s dick and service it.  William did not want to waste his time on someone with an inadequate body or someone who was not going to be obedient.  Then, when William had reviewed the pictures he instructed Cody to get a shorter haircut and not only to shave off his beard but to remove all his body hair.  The removal was to be permanent so William would not have to deal with the issue if he decided to continue having sex with Cody.  William was only interested in animals with totally smooth, hairless skin for his use.

 

Cody was shocked, and started to write an email protesting, since he liked the way his body looked and felt.  But there was something about William that caused him to pause and reconsider.  This was a level of domination he had never encountered, and it turned him on.  A lot.  So he did as instructed, and then arranged another, identical set of pictures with his now hairless body shown for William’s approval, including, as instructed, a series of shots showing him on his knees, cock hard to the point it was sticking straight up and leaking a little pre-cum, hands tied behind his back, a large dildo sticking out his ass, wearing a dog collar, and mouth open wide to receive his master’s cock.  That instruction alone settled any issue for Cody as to whether he wanted to proceed, and when he had a few guys at the bar he frequented take the shots Cody had no trouble achieving the erection and attitude required.  (He also got fucked a lot that night since it turned on the other guys in the bar as well.  It was a great evening.)

 

At that point William sent Cody an address and the time for his arrival, further informing him he was to strip naked and place all his clothing in a hamper near the door, ringing the doorbell once he had also achieved an erection.  There was no acknowledgement of Cody’s prior obedience.  That was what William expected and always received.

 

Cody arrived at William’s house as instructed, a massive 5-acre estate in the middle of New York Cody checked his cell phone to be sure he rang the doorbell at exactly the right time, placing the phone in the hamper as he did so.  As the door opened Cody was standing silently at attention in front of his new master. The excitement of what might lie ahead had meant there was no problem getting and staying hard even though it was a cold, snowy day.  Like so many others he was overwhelmed and thrilled by the sight of William in his leather gear, wondering but not asking what the emblem “AMS” embroidered on William’s vest referred to.  But Cody could guess the meaning of “Alpha 1” underneath it, a term Cody understood applied to William but definitely did not apply to Cody.  Perhaps what surprised Cody the most was the effect on him of no longer having any body hair.  Somehow he felt much more naked, and it was a huge added turn-on.  He realized it wasn’t how sexy he looked that mattered, but how available and vulnerable.  His prior appearance was that of a person, albeit highly submissive.  Now he appeared for inspection as what he was – a piece of male meat utterly under the control of a true alpha male and ready for whatever use was to be made of him.  Or “it.”   Cody had never been so utterly turned on.

 

Cody was a fantastic specimen of male sexuality, experienced in his role as a masochistic slave, and being naked and inspected by William had made him even more rock hard, dripping pre-cum.  William immediately took complete control and examined Cody’s body like it was a horse or cow being purchased at an auction.  But William was far more respectful of the horses he bought for his racing stable. Even the cattle on his ranch our West were better treated than his sex targets.  Cody’s skin was pinched and slapped, his mouth opened to inspect his tongue and teeth, his nipples twisted hard, his cock measured for length and thickness, and his balls grasped and harshly squeezed to gage their size and start to gage Cody’s pain tolerance.  After William finished the inspection with Cody bending over and spreading his ass cheeks so William could examine his hole, he was permitted to enter the house and followed William to a large dungeon.  William then used Cody as the sex object he was – and wanted to be.  When William had satiated his sadistic sexual lust, Cody lay on the floor bleeding form the floggings he’d received, his asshole filled with cum and piss, and his body unconscious from the breath-play William had performed, choking his new slave to the point of losing consciousness as William shot yet another load up Cody’s ass.  William had not spoken a word to Cody but Cody had taken the signals and obeyed totally and silently as he was fucked and tortured.  William had not removed any of his own clothing but allowed Cody to use his teeth to remove the leather pouch that covered William’s immense, hard cock.  William placed a leather dog collar on Cody, attached to a leash so he could lead his new sex object to where he wanted it for William’s pleasure.  William had had multiple orgasms shot up Cody’s ass and had released several loads of piss down Cody’s throat.  Cody had not cum except once as he passed out from being choked, but that orgasm had been amazingly intense for him and entertaining for William.  William loved the simultaneous thrill as the body he was fucking lost consciousness while having an orgasm, which enhanced the pleasure and sense of dominance (to William the same thing) of his own orgasm.  Cody’s orgasm was an involuntary reaction to the effect of being fucked and choked, a reaction William was aware would occur, and the pleasure Cody felt was acceptable because it was pleasurable and entertaining for William.  Everything had perfectly and naturally fallen into place.

 

When Cody returned to consciousness he thanked his tormentor for using him, apologized for having had an unauthorized orgasm, and asked if he could make a request to further express his gratitude.  Their roles had so naturally come together that Cody realized he only deserved pain, not pleasure, and that this was an appropriate way for Cody to inquire – permission of the master was inherently necessary before a slave would be allowed to speak, and when, or even it, he had an orgasm was up to William.  This was also what William expected and demanded, and he was pleased to see Cody already, and clearly. understanding their roles.  William was secretly both curious and hopeful about this new piece of young male meat kneeling on the floor with its head bowed, so he allowed Cody to proceed.

 

“Thank you master.  I have been in lots of S&M scenes, always as the victim, but nothing like this one.  I am also grateful you caused me to understand how my flesh should be presented to accentuate its nakedness and vulnerability.  We already knew we are both turned on by extreme sex, and that our natural roles are complementary.  You’re the best master I’ve ever served and also the sexiest and most dominant.  It was amazing, and I am honored and deeply grateful to have been used so viciously and completely, knowing that I don’t deserve the attention but do deserve the humiliation and pain.  I am deeply sorry for having cum without advance permission but am confident you can train me so the natural involuntary orgasm that comes from being choked unconscious will not occur if that is your wish, or perhaps accomplishing that by removing my genitals.  I acknowledge your right to neuter me to prevent me from feeling pleasure ever again.  That is your decision, as are all choices related to my body.  To clarify that reality I would like to make it formal.  I have always been decisive and make decisions quickly.  So, this is not an impulsive or random offer.  Quite simply, I offer you myself as your slave.  Completely and permanently.  Would you consider having me become your property?  I know my body wouldn’t be a gift that is worthy of you, since I’m just a worthless piece of shit, but I would be honored to become your slave if you will accept me, and I will utterly devote myself to your pleasure no matter what.  I would of course also turn over all my belongs to you as part of the transaction, which may help make up for my own worthlessness as I’ve done well financially.  You would own me to do with as you wish, and I would just be a piece of male meat, having no rights and owning nothing, not even myself.  I would be yours to use, command, or dispose of as you wish.”

 

William was pleased, not admitting that this was his secret hope.  Cody turned him on massively, more than any other slave he’d tortured and fucked.  He had already decided to make Cody his slave whether he wanted to be or not based on the emails and pictures Cody had shared earlier, but was even more turned on to have it happen voluntarily – a natural acceptance by Cody of his role as property and no longer as a person.  But William made the conditions clear.  “You are indeed a piece of shit and utterly worthless.  You deserve massive pain and humiliation.  The fact your orgasm was involuntary is irrelevant.  You did not have permission and I am tempted to cut off your cock and balls right now as punishment and to assure it doesn’t happen again.  But your body turns me on as it is, including the genitals and the orgasm you achieve as I’m fucking and choking you.  The added pleasure I feel watching you cum causes me to tolerate your brief pleasure as you pass out.  It’s an amusing and humiliating aspect of breath play.  But if you ever cum without my permission understand that you will lose your genitals, and it will be exceptionally painful for you.  You’re just a sex object – a pathetic piece of shit.  You will only feel pleasure when and it augments my pleasure.  You have no other purpose.

 

“The session wasn’t as good as it should have been, because I wasn’t sure if you would cooperate if I had decided to snuff you, torturing you to death as you deserve.  I didn’t kill you in this session, since you’re still interesting to me, with lots of torture and humiliation options to explore, but I want it clear that this is my right when I feel like doing so.  I’m not interested in ‘pretend’ slavery.  It must be the real thing.  You’ll be my property and I will do with you and to you whatever I want.  Your role is to be cooperative and grateful and eventually to die in total pain and humiliation at my hands for my pleasure and amusement  Understood?.”

 

“Absolutely, master” was Cody’s enthusiastic response.  “You own my body, and when you get tired of it you are of course free to destroy it however you want to.  To be honest, that’s part of what I want too, not that my desires are at all relevant.  If you had decided it was time to kill me in our first session, I’d have cooperated fully, and that is still your option if that amuses you now.  I know that is my eventual and appropriate fate, and it is up to my owner to decide when and how I am killed.  I’ll be your slave for as long or as short a time as you want, and when you kill me maybe I’d even be part of your meal if you think I deserve that added honor.  There are lots of good stories on the websites we both like to give your ideas, and some of them are extraordinarily painful, ending with a great meal for the owner while the meat is still alive and able to express its thanks as it is eaten.  Or sell me, alive or cut up into pieces.  Or whatever you decide.  Your whims are my commands.  I have always wanted to serve someone sexually and totally, and there are no limits whatsoever and no turning back.”

 

“Good.  I accept your unworthy offer.  You have 10 days to return to California, sell everything you own, and turn over the proceeds to me upon your return.  During this 10-day period convert your assets into bitcoin.  That way no one can ever trace it and it will be final.  Develop a story such that no one will ever come looking for you when you disappear, although I doubt anyone would care about a piece of shit like you.  You will serve me with absolute obedience.  When I feel like it you will die a horrible death.

 

“You will learn to live as a slave during these 10 days; your slavery starts now.  If you don’t obey me totally I’ll know, and you will be deprived of the opportunity to serve me.  I’ll have you killed as a random act of violence.  Return to my front door in 10 days, totally nude and with your cock hard.  Slaves should always be naked, so you are never again to wear any clothing.  Slaves are property, so you no longer have a name.  You don’t deserve that.  To remind you of your role and fate, you are now snuffslave.  That’s a category of property, not a name. Since you are the 187nd such slave property I’ve owned, you are snuffslave 187.  You are to call me “sir” or “master.”  Don’t have any delusions.  At some point I WILL torture you to death and probably eat your meat, as I have done with the prior 186 snuffslave objects.  Nor are you anything special.  You’re just a snuffslave I haven’t snuffed yet. So your name is appropriate.  When I feel like it, I’ll convert you from a living sex slave to a dead piece of slave meat.”

 

As the snuffslave formerly known as Cody accepted these terms with enthusiasm, William illustrated his points, and administered punishment for the unauthorized orgasm, by brutally kicking snuffslave #187 in the balls with his steel-toed boot.  When 187 doubled over in pain a second kick to the gut sent it sprawling onto the ground, barely able to recover its breadth.  More kicks to the vulnerable naked body caused 187 to convulse and fall to the floor writhing in pain.  The kicks were then alternated with lashes form a whip enhanced with metal tips to cause deeper lacerations as the entire body was kicked and flogged.  The beating eventually rendered 187 unconscious again, releasing the bladder and causing 187 to piss all over itself.  William left his new slave lying in its own piss, admiring his impact on the unconscious body as he pissed all over it.  Then he took a break to shower and fix himself a well-deserved drink to celebrate his new acquisition.

 

When 187 recovered consciousness for the second time, he was instructed to clean up the mess he had made by licking his piss and cum off the floor.  187 did what his master ordered, genuinely thanking his master for using him and hoping his pain and humiliation could provide further pleasure and amusement.  As he finished his thanks, the next kick was to his butt as he began licking up the piss, sending him sprawling again, so the waste was all over the bleeding body.

 

After 187 finally managed to lick the floor clean, followed by also cleaning William’s boots, William led him by the leash, doggy-style on all fours, to a room adjoining the torture playroom.  It contained a firepit that had a red-hot branding iron ready for use.  “I want everyone who sees you to know what you are,” William sneered.  He tied 187 on his back to a rack with arms and legs spread-eagled, stretching them to the point where 187 had no choice but to scream in pain as his shoulders were dislocated.  William added lashes to the belly to balance out the earlier ones on the back but didn’t apply much to the chest.  For that he walked over to the firepit and retrieved the branding iron.  As 187 screamed in pain and William enjoyed the sweet smell of burning flesh, the branding iron seared into 187’s chest its status and number – snuffslave 187.  Despite the extraordinary intensity of the pain, 187 properly thanked its master for such clear labeling of the master’s new property.  And the snuffslave formerly known as Cody realized its fate had been determined long before it had walked in the door.  William had already made the decision to make 187 a snuffslave before they even met and had the branding iron ready to confirm it, as was proper.  The only variable had been whether William would have to condition him or if 187 would accept its fate as the inherent right of alpha males like William.

 

2

snuffslave training

 

The next instruction after being branded was for 187 to go outside and wash itself off in the freezing cold with the garden hose by the front door.  187 was then to stand on the street corner until otherwise instructed, labeled for what it was.  William locked the door and called a buddy who was the local police chief.  The chief then sent a deputy to the house who arrested 187 for indecent exposure.  187 spent his first night as a slave locked naked in a cold  jail cell, with other prisoners encouraged to rape him once the cops were finished doing so.  They all laughed at his branded chest, which was a great source of ridicule.  The deputy, Duncan, was especially vicious and added a load of piss down 187’s throat, which inspired others to do the same.  Willian enjoyed the videos the chief and Duncan made  of their fun, including when they delivered 187 to the Greyhound station with a ticket for the three-day bus ride back to California.  William had arranged a bribe for the bus driver to permit 187 to be naked during the ride, remaining on the bus and consuming no food or liquids other than the piss and cum of the driver and any other interested passengers.  With the driver’s encouragement, lots of other passengers also used his body, especially his cute, available ass.  And hardly anyone used the urinal in the bus itself with availability of one that would come to their seat, kneel in the aisle, and accept their piss with gratitude.  They also laughed at his branding, commenting how appropriate it was for a worthless piece of shit like 187 to get snuffed.   They were just disappointed when the driver told them it wasn’t scheduled to happen during the bus ride.  (187, of course, had no idea when or how it would happen, just that someday it would.)  William wanted 187 to adjust to the humiliation of its new “status” and through another law enforcement friend, who was part of William’s AMS society, William also arranged for 187 to be arrested again upon arrival in Silicon Valley and kept overnight in jail for more gang rapes and humiliation. Before being  forced to walk naked back to his condo the gleeful cops had him get an erection, placed a tight cock ring on his penis, and plied him with Viagra so he would remain erect, adding a slave collar around his neck and a dildo sticking out his ass to complete the effect.  That didn’t bother 187 at all, enjoying the erection and hoping the humiliation was adding pleasure for the onlookers who laughed and made fun of him.

 

When 187 arrived the building manager let him into his unit once 187 sucked his cock to get him erect and then bent over while the manager removed the dildo, fucked him in the elevator lobby, and then rammed the dildo back in place – all to the amusement of the onlookers in the lobby.  The manager had no problem believing 187’s story that he had decided to become a nudist and move to Key West, which was warmer and had a more concentrated gay community that included S&M groups.  After all, the manager had whipped and fucked 187 many times at the local gay leather bar they both frequented.   The few people who knew 187 were aware he was a faggot into S&M, so no one would bother to verify the story when the manager spread it around the local S&M crowd, and no one would care.   When the manager asked if the brand was a joke 187 admitted it was real, saying it was a condition of the Key West S&M group he had joined.  The fact this meant he might be snuffed was of no interest or concern to 187’s “friends.”  The manager commented that he had hoped it was real and asked 187 to be sure to alert him when he was going to get snuffed so he could attend the event and join in the fun.  He figured he could watch and maybe even help torture him, and hoped it was especially painful for 187.  187 said that was not his decision but admitted he shared the hope it would be slow, painful, and entertaining.

 

187’s unit was the penthouse of the luxury condo building.  When he opened the door he was stunned to see that it was essentially empty.   There was only a wooden table with his computer and cell phone on it, and several cans of cheap dog food on the shelf in the kitchen.  Next to that were some plastic jugs that contained liquid, and he realized when he opened one that they were all filled with a mixture of piss and cum.  William had arranged for his ongoing indoctrination, and the instructions next to the computer included the time of the return bus ride along with a bus ticket and a reminder that he was to stay naked.  He was to eat only dog food, drink only piss and cum, sell everything he owned, and give the proceeds to his new master via an identified bitcoin account.  187 was impressed, grateful, and excited, quickly turning to the assigned tasks after taking a large swig of the piss/cum combo.  He was not only utterly content but sexually excited, his cock growing hard as he thought of what likely lay in store for him.  But as an obedient slave he didn’t masturbate since he did not have permission to cum.  He wondered if he would be permitted to cum at some point before he was killed and how long William would keep him alive, but 187 also realized these decisions were none of his business and certainly not his to make.  He knew this was his proper role.  He knew this was what he wanted and far better than he deserved.  He felt fortunate to have found such a fantastic master.

 

3

An AMS video event

 

Meanwhile, William was congratulating himself on creating perfect training, so his new property would understand its status and purpose and adjust accordingly.  But William had other tasks and responsibilities beyond just arranging the acquisition of his latest snuffslave, and while 187 was heading west William was hosting an event at his estate.  It took place in the large playroom where he’d tortured 187, but there was now a set of cameras and an expert film crew.  His buddy the chief of police was there, along with Duncan, who was a stud in his early thirties.  The Chief, as he was always called, was about William’s age and build, dressed in leather with a vest that featured an embroidered “AMS” under which it read ALPHA 2, identical to William’s ALPHA 1. Duncan wore a leather harness and jock strap but was otherwise naked.  Sitting in a wooden chair to which he was tied was a nineteen-year-old totally naked male twink who was fit, gorgeous, and terrified.  William smiled and addressed the main camera.

 

“Good evening members and guests, and welcome to our regular AMS broadcast – celebrating the Art of Male Snuff.  We have a fun show for you tonight, with an especially deserving and attractive award winner, so let’s get right to it.  You probably remember my co-host, Chief Nelson, who leads the AMS America’s region and has brought one of his promising young trainees, Duncan, to join us this evening” The camera focused on the Chief and Duncan, who smiled and waved.

 

“Duncan wants to join AMS, and as you know we have an initiation ceremony in five months as we celebrate the summer solstice.  That is always a huge amount of fun, and the Chief and I thought it would be nice to give a little preview.  Duncan has always been an absolute sadist, and he has had one of the best mentors anywhere.  So he’s ready to commit to our society and will pledge his loyalty at the ceremony.  Or perhaps he’ll be unlucky, and he’ll not make it past the initiation ceremony.  He’s on board either way, as are all AMS members.

 

“Tonight, we are going to induct another member of the Darwin Award Culinary Society and Duncan is going to audition by doing the honors.  As you know, this is a specially selected group of award winners.  All the AMS members pursue snuff as the art it should be, and we agree that at some point each member will himself die for the sake of that art.  AMS is a select and prestigious group of alpha males who enjoy the sadistic sex of a good snuff but honor the art more than themselves.

 

“There are others who are not deserving, and who are worthless drags on society.  One of the AMS services we provide is to eliminate them, and to do so before they breed and dilute our species.  As Darwin taught us, survival of the fittest demands their elimination from the gene pool, and as artists we perform the snuff to protect the gene pool and to advance our art, which means maximizing their pain and our entertainment.  It’s a culinary society since we don’t waste their meat and our artistry continues in the kitchen as we butcher and enjoy the delicious flesh of our award winners, always fresh and often while it’s still alive.

 

We especially appreciate and welcome our pay-per-view patrons, who help fund AMS by supporting our civic endeavors.  We hope everyone gets “off” as we “off” our award winner this evening.  We know you’ll enjoy watching the award ceremony as he dies.  He’s a petty thief, a drug addict, and Duncan has had to arrest him multiple times.  So he’s a well-qualified award winner.  And a very sexy one who should be a lot of fun to fuck and snuff.”

 

With that, the three men approached the trembling youth, who had heard William’s introduction and was now sobbing and begging for mercy.  William slapped him hard in the face to get his attention.

 

“Shut up.  You should be honored, since you’re finally about to do something worthwhile – provide entertainment for deserving viewers and generate funding for AMS.  Our viewers will get a lot of pleasure masturbating or fucking a slave while they watch you die.  After that we’ll auction off your meat and you will even provide nourishment.

 

“But first, our viewers like to know a little about the guys they are watching get snuffed, so let’s find out a little bit about you.  What’s your name?”

 

The teen was too upset and scared to answer, and Duncan filled in the information.  “His name was Curtis.”

 

“OK, Curtis.  It’s nice to meet you.  Congratulations on your award and welcome to our award show.  Let me start by explaining how we’re helping you be a better snuff star.  We’ve injected you with a huge dose of capagon, a drug that will diminish the effect of system shock as you’re tortured and help you last longer during the festivities. You also got a massive dose of Viagra that will keep your cock hard no matter what.  That’s why you have an erection now even though there’s obviously a lot of adrenaline in your body.  The dosages are much greater than what’s safe, so even if we didn’t snuff you you’d die of a heart attack anyway in a day or so.  That also could be caused by the fact we stopped the drugs you’re addicted to and you’re starting to come off your high, which means you’ll suffer from withdrawal as well as from what Duncan is going to do to you.  We don’t want the drugs you are addicted to be a barrier to you feeling the pain we’re about to inflict.  In other words, you’re going to be dead in any event, and you’re going to die in agony, so why not make it fun for everyone?  We want this to be as horrible for you as possible, since that turns us on sexually a lot.  So does hearing you scream and beg.  Please keep doing a lot of that.  Speaking of being turned on, I see the Viagra is working especially well – that’s a nice hard-on you’ve got, although it isn’t a very big cock.  Have you been naked and hard in front of a camera before, with a bunch of guys eager to watch you die?”

 

Duncan and the Chief chuckled at William’s question, but Curtis just stared and begged.  So William continued.  “I guess not.  How about sex?  Have you had sex with other guys before?  Or will this be your first time having your ass fucked?”

 

This was something Curtis hadn’t considered.  He was straight, and very homophobic.  He shook his head as he again pleaded for mercy, now adding pleas not to rape him.

 

“Well guys,” William continued, smiling and turning to the camera.  “It looks like we get to introduce a straight guy to the joys of gay sex.  If it weren’t for us he probably would have passed on his pathetic genes.  This is such a great public service!  I doubt there’s anything else interesting about him, so I guess we should get the show going.  As you know, we always start with a little warm-up action, so Duncan and the Chief are going to double-fuck Curtis’s ass.  No point having him die a virgin and it will be even more fun now that we know he’s homophobic.  Ramming those two big dicks into a virgin ass is going to generate a whole lot of pain that will be fun to watch while we enjoy listening to his screams.”

 

The three men untied their victim and dragged him to a large mattress where he was positioned on top of the Chief, who lay on his back with his large, hard cock thrust up Curtis’s tight ass.  Curtis screamed and begged as he lost his “virginity” with waves of pain, but the sexual pressure on his prostate and the overdose of Viagra assured he responded nicely with his own small cock as hard as it could get.  Then the real fun began, as Duncan removed his jock strap and positioned himself so that he could also insert his cock into Curtis, which he rammed into place.  Curtis screamed wonderfully, and the two policemen took their time enjoying the outstanding bonding experience as their cocks rubbed against each other inside Curtis’s bleeding asshole.  Nor was William left out.  He joined the fucking with his massive cock inside Duncan, increasing the sexual intensity as Daron was turned on beyond anything he’d ever experienced before, double-fucking with his friend and mentor, having the honor of being fucked by the head of AMS, and, most of all, fucking an unwilling but gorgeous young straight guy he was about to torture and kill.  If joining AMS meant this much sexual pleasure, the fact he’d someday be the target of a snuff scene was more than worth it.  And while his preferences had always been extremely sadistic, there was an aspect of Duncan’s eventual fate he found appealing.  This surprised him, as did the pleasure of being fucked by William.  But the Chief assured him (over many drinks they had together following joint rapes of attractive males they had in their jail) that this didn’t undermine his sadistic nature, it just expanded it.

 

The camera crew did an outstanding job catching all the great action as the three men put on an amazing sex show for the AMS audience.  But this was just the beginning.  After that had each shot their load, it was time for Duncan’s “audition.”  He started by ramming an electrified dildo into Curtis’ bleeding asshole, then administering a large amount of electricity as he masturbated Curtis.  The straight boy was horrified at being used as a fag, but he had no choice.  He soon shot his final load of cum for everyone’s entertainment, crying in humiliation and pain as he did so, Duncan rubbed Curtis’s cum all over Curtis’s face, and while the fag-in-training complained about that too, Daron picked up a knife and slowly emasculated Curtis, cutting off his cock and feeding it to him, then cutting off his balls and offering one each to his two companions.  William and the Chief laughed at Curtis’ humiliation and agony, then enjoyed the treats as Duncan forced Curtis to chew and swallow his own cock.

 

The main focus of the snuff then demonstrated that Duncan had even more useful snuff skills.  He announced that he wanted a souvenir of the event and proceeded to skin Curtis alive.  He cut slowly and expertly, peeling off sections of beautiful young skin that would be turned into leather and become a very special leather outfit for Duncan to wear while he enjoyed S&M sex with other guys.  There would be an ability to open the crotch, so he could free up his cock, like the design of William’s leather pants, which like his entire outfit had been made from skin removed from a live slave.  But in Duncan’s case there would also be an ability to open the rear when it was Duncan’s turn to be fucked – a feature that did not apply to William.  William was Alpha 1 – he was always the top.

 

When Duncan had removed the skin, there was still opportunity to enjoy watching the effect of Duncan’s efforts, as Curtis was, amazingly, still alive.  It was a testament to Duncan’s skill at skinning live meat.  The final screams as the twink died were even more intense than those during the emasculation and skinning, and William, Duncan and the Chief each enjoyed another orgasm, as did all the AMS viewers.  Duncan’s audition was a huge success.  Curtis had finally added some value, an entertaining death, some delicious fresh meat, and a very profitable event for AMS.  William congratulated Duncan and again reminded the viewers of the upcoming initiation ceremony, the schedule of “live” snuff video sessions, and that they could enter bids for fresh meat from Curtis’s body that would be immediately butchered and flash-frozen for overnight delivery to AMS members or other viewers who wanted to buy cuts of straight-boy steak to bar-be-cue.  It would turn out to be one of their higher-rated snuff video events, including great DVD sales.  Duncan had done well.

 

4

Slave property ready for use and disposal

 

snuffslave 187 had performed his tasks exactly as directed.  He cleaned himself off in the shower after the long bus ride but kept the water ice cold as instructed.  That was followed by a meal of dog food and piss/cum, mixed together and served in the dog dish that was the only remaining dish or utensil in the condo.  He put the dish on the floor and ate doggy-style since he was now sub-human, still wearing the dog collar that was so appropriate for the occasion.  The meal had such an appropriate menu that 187 thoroughly enjoyed it.  He had quickly realized that piss and cum were the perfect liquids to temporarily keep him alive while reminding him of his snuffslave status.  The disgusting taste turned him on.

 

187 then focused 100% of his attention to disposing of his assets, which were considerable.  He called the company that owned the condo building and offered to sell his penthouse condo to them slightly below market if they could close the deal immediately for cash.  If they didn’t accept immediately he told them he’d put it on the market and they’d lose the increased value they could get for it if they marketed it themselves.  He knew it was a risk, since he only had a few days left to sell everything, but he was an outstanding negotiator on financial matters and knew they’d accept.  Given Silicon Valley housing prices and the exceptional quality and views of his condo, they did jump at the chance, and he did well, as he expected.  He drove his new Tesla to the nearby dealership and was also able to sell that on the spot, although there were awkward questions about his nudity and branding.  Fortunately this was Silicon Valley, they knew he was rich, and people with serious money were often eccentric and always permitted to do what they wanted.  His story about becoming a nudist with a gay S&M group in Key West worked again, and he made it through that experience.  The toughest part was the fact being exposed in public in his new status as a snuffslave turned him on and he got a hard-on while he talked to the handsome dealer even without the effect of any Viagra.  The dealer clearly was disgusted and didn’t approve of all this, but he saw a chance to get a good deal on the car and took it.  The car title had been part of the pile of instructions, so he was able to complete it on the spot.  187 was relieved that no one hassled him much as he walked naked back to the condo to finish the final transactions, again getting an election as people stared and laughed at him.  One guy pointed at this branding and asked if he was ready to get snuffed on the spot, but 187 just ignored him.  It wasn’t that he objected; it just wasn’t his decision to make.

 

William had simplified things for him a lot by taking his furniture and other possessions, so the only other task of note was to sell his investment portfolio, a process he had started immediately upon returning to the condo and getting his cell phone.  It required in-person notarized signatures and a three-day settlement period.  He got that done with a visit to his condo by his personal banker along with a notary form their office.  Investment banks are happy to visit high net worth customers, and the banker wanted a chance to talk him into keeping the account.  This was the only risky part, as the banker would want to know a reason, and needed a place to send the resulting tax forms.  It took all of 187’s persuasive abilities to make it through that discussion, but the fact the condo was now empty and 187 was naked and branded helped convince the banker there would be no change of mind.  187 had also arranged a PO Box in Key West through the internet so there was a place to send the forms.  No one would ever pick them up, and they would be destroyed when the box lapsed. (He’d only rented it for a month to save money, since it was now Master William’s money.)  There would be no trace or reason to investigate by the bank. In  trying to find the money to collect taxes the IRS would face a dead end. 187 laughed as he relished the irony of that phrase relating to him.  By the time the IRS took action 187 was pretty sure he would in fact be dead and his flesh eaten.

 

When he had been a person 187 had been a brilliant and sophisticated investor. He turned the insurance proceeds from his parents into a true fortune.  As part of that process he’d learned a lot about the bitcoin phenomenon, and he already had an account into which he deposited the proceeds of the car and the condo sales.  He had his banker set the stock settlement, so it would automatically be transferred to his bitcoin account.  Then he arranged for a second automatic transfer that would drain his account and send the bitcoin to his master and owner.  There would be no way to trace the transfers.  William would receive everything with total anonymity, tax free.  This pleased 187 greatly.  A master like William should be served and worshiped, not taxed.

 

Ironically, the most difficult transaction was the one with the least value, selling his cell phone.   There was a Verizon store on the way to the bus station and 187 stopped off there on his way.  The store was crowded, and he was hassled by the clerks and other customers for being naked.  His story didn’t matter there, and the clerk threatened to call the police, accusing 187 of having stolen the phone.  Fortunately, William had returned his driver’s license, which was needed for the car sale and also as proof for the notary required on the other sales.  So he had something.  But there was no way to prove that he owned the phone, since he had swiped it clean before setting out to the store.  He could not risk someone getting access to the recent transactions he’d used it to complete.  What saved him from having his careful plans derailed was one of the customers, an aggressive young millennial seeing a chance at a good deal, who offered 187 several hundred dollars for the phone if he also got a blow job out of the deal.  The money was well below its market value, but 187 saw no other option and took the offer.  (The blow job was not a problem for him and he enjoyed that part – even the follow-on pissing down his throat as the guy kept his hold on 187’s head after he shot his load of cum down his throat.)  As he walked the rest of the way to the bus station 187 used a bitcoin ATM in a convenience store (unheard of in most places but not uncommon in Silicon Valley) to add the proceeds to the balance in his account. He then borrowed a scissors and cut up his license.  As he dropped the pieces into a trash can, he reflected on that reality that he was no longer Cody or anyone else, and he did not own anything – even his own body.

 

As he got on the bus he realized he now possessed absolutely nothing.  It was an exciting and liberating thought.  The final transfer would happen as snuffslave 187 arrived at its master’s home to add its body – now just live meat to be used and disposed of – to the property its master now owned.  The lack of ID was proper.  187 was no longer a person.

 

187 arrived at William’s door as instructed, following a return naked bus ride that was similar in terms of the humiliation, use as a human urinal, and frequent rape, but different in terms of 187’s reaction.  He was now liberated from the burden of having possessions or even being human, comfortable in his new role as disposable property.  Of course people would humiliate him, laughing at him as they pissed down his throat, taking turns and comparing experiences as they used him sexually.  Hitting him in the balls and gut was a favorite for onlookers, just for the fun of it.  Taking off their belts and using them to whip his ass reflected what he was for, and there were no limits so long as it was OK with his master.  William’s training had been totally successful.  187 had thoroughly enjoyed the bus ride.

 

The snuffslave formerly known as Cody did have one surprise for his master, a very pleasant surprise.  As 187 stood at the door William was checking the alert he had gotten as to the bitcoin transfer. He was stunned but of course did not show it.  William was already wealthy, as befit the Alpha 1 of AMS.  After all, he inherited the assets of the males he snuffed.  But he was now very rich.  His bitcoin account had just received over $100 million.  He had no idea his new snuffslave had been so wealthy.  This would put AMS into a whole new league.  There would be no “thank you” or even comment on the gift, of course.  Instead, the torture session William began as he accepted snuffslave 187’s live meat was especially painful, focused on how little 187 had received for the cell phone.  William beat the slave especially savagely for failing to get full value for William’s property.  He had been watching his property closely and knew everything that went on.  187 gratefully thanked its master for the beatings, knowing they were well deserved.  Not that it mattered if they weren’t.

 

As William finished with the fucking and beating that would be 187’s new normal, and as 187 achieved an intense orgasm as he passed out from having his throat choked, they both knew there was nothing left of Cody the person.  There was only a sub-human snuffslave ready for use and disposal by its master.  William had given 187 permission to have an orgasm as it passed out, which was particularly entertaining and pleasurable for William, to the point he overlooked the fact it was also massively intense for the slave.  William made sure orgasms that added to William’s enjoyment of sex were the only physical pleasure the slave received.  William’s pleasure was all that mattered.

 

5

An instructive party

 

After 187 regained consciousness and licked up the liquids on the torture room floor, William reattached the slave collar and leash and led his property into a nearby living room area with a large screen TV.  William was joined by the Chief and Duncan, who had been invited by William to celebrate the completion of the DVD featuring Curtis receiving his Darwin Award and the completion of Duncan’s new leather outfit made from Curtis’ skin.  They planned to spend the evening watching the DVD and enjoying a torture & sex-filled party.  Some of Curtis’ meat had been prepared for them as appetizers to enjoy as they watched.  Besides enjoying the film himself, William thought it would be instructive for his new snuffslave to watch a real snuff.  It was, and it turned 187 on massively, imagining itself as Curtis.

When asked, 187 promised to be far more cooperative and appreciative when it was his turn to be killed.  Indeed, 187 secretly hoped they would use its skin to make some sort of leather clothing but knew that was too great an honor to ask and none of its business.  187 did get a special treat for his meal, however, in the form of part of Curtis’ raw intestines soaked in urine.  He was of course very grateful.

 

The Chief had brought one of his own house slaves, who he felt would also benefit from the lessons of the movie.  He was a mature, very fit slave named Norman.  The Chief was quite pleased with him, turned on by his meek attitude and sexual submissiveness.  At 5’10” he was easy for the much bigger chief to dominate, and the slave’s head was shaved to show respect, also making a nice contrast with the dark hair on its body, especially the impressive chest.  All this made Norman quite satisfying for the Chief to fuck, and especially to fist.  But it was time for Norman to learn more about AMS and formally accept his proper role.   Duncan had also brought a slave to serve him, a young prisoner he had enjoyed fucking and beating the previous night.  He had told the prisoner, who was gay, that if he serviced Duncan and his friends well he would be released from prison and the prisoner had agreed to the deal.

 

William was in an expansive mood, aided by a few celebratory drinks following his fun with 187, and he explained a lot about AMS to Duncan.  187 and Norman also listened, on their knees ready to service their masters as instructed.  The prisoner paid no attention, but knelt in front of Duncan, his hands tied behind his back.  The prisoner would serve as the evening’s live meat entrée in due course, the ultimate release from prison, but for now he was unaware and would service Duncan’s sexual desires as the three masters enjoyed themselves.

 

Besides the social aspects of the evening, William and the Chief wanted Duncan to appreciate how much of an honor it was to be a member of AMS, and they wanted their sex objects to realize the good fortune at being owned, used, and eventually killed by the top two leaders of this prestigious group.  William liked gratitude from his slaves, as he deserved.

 

“AMS, as you know, stands for the Art of Male Snuff.  It is an incredibly select group, and totally secret.  There are only 314 senior members at any time, but there are 700 regular members and several thousand snuffslaves who are the property of members.

 

“All AMS members are alpha males, each of whom is carefully selected and each of whom has strong sadistic traits.  Each also recognizes the beautiful artistry that can be achieved during a ceremony where a male gets snuffed, especially willingly, acknowledging this art is more important than the life of any member.  All members agree that this will be their fate someday in the future, and each is assigned by lottery a date by which that will happen – the member’s lapsing date.  The exceptions are the four top Alpha males – Alphas 1,2, 3, and 4.  As Alpha 1, I am the supreme leader.  I have absolute authority over everything and everyone.  Alphas 2, 3, and 4 each lead one of the three geographies of AMS – the Americas and Australia, Europe and Africa, and Asia.  The Chief, as Alpha 2, controls the Americas and Australia.  His role as police chief is just a hobby he enjoys, mostly for easy access to prisoners like this one and to spot potential recruits like Duncan.  None of us have assigned snuff dates, and each of the three regional leaders rules absolutely in his region, subject only to me.  We work together closely to coordinate events and enforce the rules.   Running AMS is my full-time responsibility and I take it very seriously.

 

“Even when scum like 187 and Norman were people they never could have joined as a member, since they were clearly not alpha males.  Fortunately for them members take live male meat as slaves, snuffslaves, keeping them for a period to serve us sexually and otherwise.  When we feel like it we use them in wonderfully creative snuff rituals.  We treat members with respect as we snuff them when their time lapses, celebrating their life and sacrifice.  The snuffslaves are targeted for the pain and humiliation these worthless pieces of shit deserve, so they don’t have lives worth celebrating.  We just dispose of them when we’re done using them.”

 

William kicked 187 hard in the balls with his steel-toed boots several times to emphasize his point, receiving thanks for doing so as 187’s cock got even harder.   The Chief did the same to Norman, who was a little surprised but did not complain.  When Duncan did the same the prisoner objected loudly, so Duncan kicked him again even harder.  All three went sprawling as the kicks continued, but the two trained slaves quickly thanked the masters as they struggled to regain their breath.  It was an amusing interlude as William continued his explanation.  The prisoner began to listen more closely to what was being said, now starting to be very afraid.  Duncan shackled his ankles together and restored him to his kneeling position with instructions to pay attention to Master William.  Duncan was seriously aroused as he listened, his cock nice and hard as it stuck out form his sexy new attire.  He thrust it into the prisoner’s mouth with orders to suck it.

 

“I’ve personally had 186 snuff slaves prior to this one, and I dispose of them as soon as they start to show the impact of the severe physical abuse they suffer – usually a couple of months.  I have a magnificent video library of their deaths.  Some alpha males keep their snuff slaves for long periods of time, even years, but I don’t enjoy the “whipped dog” mentality that creeps in after a period of being tortured and humiliated.  It’s not as much fun for me, which is of course the only relevant criterion.  It’s up to each AMS member, and I know the Chief has kept Norman for over ten years as a sort of manservant around his house as well as a sex object and urinal.  He fills his snuff desires through ceremonies like the Darwin Awards and parties like this one.  That’s his choice.”  The prisoner was now paying attention as instructed and was therefore now terrified.  His fear added to Duncan’s enjoyment as the cock-sucking continued.

 

The Chief interrupted.  “I’ve given thought to the comments you’ve made before on that topic, and I think you may be right.  I do think I kept this slave too long and have decided to snuff him at a special celebration in the next month or so.   I don’t regret keeping him so long since I’ve been using him for a psychological experiment, much like a lab rat but without any ethical limits, as well as a fun object to fist and fuck when he’s not taking care of his household duties.  He responds to fisting, one of my favorite sports, better than any slave I’ve had and he generates a huge load of cum when he’s permitted to do so – mostly, like 187, when I choke him into unconsciousness.  Ten years ago he was just a somewhat submissive fag I hired as a domestic servant.  He dind’t mind being fucked but he was hardly eager for it, let alone being fisted and drinking urine.  Now he is a total slave and remarkably eager to please me, especially by being snuffed.  The combination of psychological and drug experiments has been completely successful and he is a willing snuffslave.  Besides, my buddies and I have fisted him so often his ass isn’t very tight and he’s not as much fun to fuck anymore.  I checked with a vet about repairing him.   He’s not worth the effort given that he’s now 60 years old and should be snuffed anyway before he starts to look his age.  (Duncan was surprised, having assumed the fit slave was at least 10 years younger.)  I know you prefer snuffing younger meat like your current snuffslave, but I enjoy more mature slaves who have grown into their proper roles and ultimate use.  It’s time to make his status official, as I mentioned yesterday.”

 

William smiled and led the group to the annex where he did slave branding.  The coals were again red-hot and there were two branding irons.  The Chief took one and, while William and Duncan held Norman still, he shaved Norman’s chest and back and then branded Norman’s chest with “snuffslave 96.”  (The Chief had not had nearly as many snuffslaves as William.)  96 screamed but quickly recovered and expressed his deep appreciation for the clarification of his role and his commitment to please the Chief in every way he could through his upcoming death.  Duncan took the other branding iron and applied it to the prisoner, who was tied to the table after trying to resist and then branded “live meat” as he screamed, swore, and cried from the pain.  He had begun to understand what was happening and began to beg, reminding Duncan of the pledge to release him from prison.

 

“Don’t worry about that,” Duncan responded, laughing.  “I already signed and filed the release papers so you’re no longer a prisoner of the city.  But life is a prison, and what better release is there than being eaten alive after being tortured and fucked?  You’re as worthless as these other snuffslaves and you deserve a similar fate.  You’ll also provide nourishment along with the fun.”

 

The three masters had gotten horny form the movie and the conversation and went into the torture room for some fun with their sex objects.  But the conversation continued, and William and the Chief provided lots more information about AMS.

 

Duncan learned about the A-Team members, who were very senior members and the next level of leadership of AMS.  While they did have lapse dates, they were always many years in the future and William sometimes extended them.  They were the ones in charge day-to-day, and while some had jobs they were all jobs that advanced AMS.  A key aspect of AMS was obtaining snuffslaves and Darwin Award victims, and this was done by close relationships with police and other law enforcement groups worldwide.  Maintaining and enhancing those relationships is a primary task of the A-Team members, but also an important role for regular members.”

 

“A regular AMS member’s life expectancy is between 3 months and 10 years, although it is extended if they become senior members and then A-Team members.”  Duncan would start as a regular member, but quickly set a personal goal of becoming an A-Team member in due course.  He assured William and the Chief that being part of AMS was such an honor and so sexually exciting he was willing to risk being snuffed himself after only 3 months.  The Chief smiled at his protégé with pride.  Duncan was all in.

 

Duncan also learned about the idyllic Caribbean island AMS maintains for members to vacation and relax, called Alpha Paradise.  In addition to hundreds of AMS members vacationing there at any given time, there are about a thousand worthless Darwin Award candidates like Curtis brought in each month to be snuffed.  There’s a ceremony every night with members each getting at least one of the Darwin candidates to help snuff.  It’s a great bonding experience for members, especially as they wander through the cages and select live meat to enjoy at dinner as well as the day’s sex, torture and snuff targets.  Access to Alpha Paradise is one of the major perks for AMS members.  It makes a major contribution to reducing crimes worldwide while it’s export of “exotic” meat is highly profitable..

 

Duncan was equally turned on by the other AMS events, which are also wonderful releases for members’ sadistic alpha urges, and always include elegant banquets featuring the neat from the evening’s snuff targets.

 

“There are a large number of applicants to join since it’s an extraordinary experience and an appealing trade-off,” the Chief stressed as he pushed his fist further up 96’s ruined ass.  “AMS members are dominant, sadistic, versatile, alpha males. In exchange for a date-limited life expectancy, they get fulfilment of their darkest desires and a chance to live pleasant, fulfilling lives knowing they are part of an elite society that performs important public service. There are no limits on what we get to do to our victims.  The only obligation is a regular and rather intensive practice of fitness to provide the best body possible for the AMS ceremonies, whether as a torturer in a snuff scene or, at some point, as a victim who will also provide meat for the feast afterwards. “

 

William took over the instruction, pausing briefly from whipping 187 front and back as it hung suspended by its wrists from the ceiling.  “What really unites AMS is our cult of snuff.  We celebrate and embrace fucking, breeding, torturing, snuffing and being snuffed, and we view cannibalism as our right.  We own slaves and treat them as the property they are.  We also help cleanse society by accepting Darwin candidates from law enforcement and other sources worldwide.  We’re a major reason crime is dropping, since there are no repeat offenders once we take control of the animals.”

 

The evening was a huge success, with Duncan more excited than ever to join AMS, snuffslave 187 utterly overwhelmed by the honor of being owned and soon tortured to death by the Alpha 1 of the group, and snuffslave 96 realizing and utterly embracing his role, hoping his death would please the Chief and determined to help plan it so it would.  The three alpha males greatly enjoyed the sex and torture sessions and were careful as they cut into their dinner meat to keep it alive as long as possible in order to enjoy its pain and humiliation as well as its flesh.

 

6

The Disposal

 

While there are other occasions when new AMS members were tested and initiated, winter and summer solstice are the major celebration days for AMS, and Duncan was excited that the time had finally come.  He thought back over the wonderful evenings he’d enjoyed over the past several months and all that he had learned about AMS, especially grateful to the Chief for his attention and instruction.  He was more determined than ever to meet its standards and become a member.  Unlike many sadists, he even recognized that it would be fulfilling even when it was his turn to die.  He was especially fascinated by the enthusiasm of snuffslave 187, who was clearly deeply grateful for the chance to be a snuffslave.  He had discussed that feeling with the Chief over many drinks, and the Chief had assured him this would not be a barrier to Duncan’s ambitions.  It just broadened his perspective and made him an even more impressive candidate.

 

The initiation was held in a cavernous basement arena at William’s estate.  Duncan arrived exactly on time and was met by a hooded leather-clad doorman who directed him to a waiting room for the candidates, where he was instructed to strip naked and store his cherished leather clothing in one of the lockers.  The room was full of other applicants, nine in total, and Duncan was impressed with the variety of alpha males assembled.  They were of all ages, from late teens to early 50s, and they were from countries all over the world.  The nine had not only been selected as worthy candidates, but as worthy to be part of this important ceremony rather than just one of the regional initiations.  Among the things they had in common were exceptional bodies that were utterly fit.  The ones who were already naked and standing around seemed to have a reasonable idea of what AMS was, and Duncan began to interact with them. Three of the males were unconscious, each naked and tied to a cot.  Duncan remembered William’s description of applicants who were not told much, or anything, about AMS but had been contacted very recently by a member after being watched through their activities over the internet (especially the dark web) and in gay S&M bars and clubs.  AMS members checked them out thoroughly and concluded they would be good candidate.  Members would engage in conversations with them to verify their attitudes toward extreme male S&M, especially snuffing other males, and also their degree of alpha sadism.  Working out with them at a gym would verify their fitness levels were high enough to meet the AMS standards.  Sex scenes at gay S&M bars would verify their sexual dominance and performance.  If the answers were positive, the prospect was drugged and brought to the ceremony.  These three were lying on cots in the locker room until they recovered consciousness.  Duncan watched one of them, Horst, a candidate from Germany for the European zone, as he slowly awakened and fiercely demanded to know what was going on.  He erupted in anger about being stripped and tied to the cot, but it did him no good.  It did enable Duncan to admire his massive, exceptionally fit body.  This was clearly a major Alpha male.  Horst and the other two males tied naked to a cot would have to make their decision on the spot at initiation, assuming they passed the tests, while Duncan and the other 5 who were already awake and just waiting for things to start had already committed to AMS.

None of them knew what was next, or what tests they would have to pass. William had given Duncan no hint on that front to assure he had no advantage over other applicants.  Duncan admired the high ethics he’d seen form both William and the Chief.

 

Very shortly, the unsuspecting applicants recovered consciousness, with varying levels of understanding and memory of past conversations, but a consistent level of alpha male anger at not being in control.  Once everyone was awake several hooded assistants entered and released the three abducted candidates from their cots, telling them all their questions would soon be answered.  The lead assistant reminded them that they had all had conversations about torturing and snuffing other males, and they were going to have a chance to join a group that performed and celebrated that art form.  They weren’t satisfied at all with that, demonstrating their alpha status, but there was nothing they could do, and they were still a bit groggy.  Soon the memory of their conversations began to return, and they were all highly intrigued at what this prospective group might be.  Snuffing other guys sounded like fun.  Indeed, as Horst and the others began to remember the conversations, they started to have hard-ons.  By the time the nine candidates left the locker room each had a sizeable erection from the thoughts of what was going on and the prospect of snuffing other males.  It was a good group of candidates that was starting to bond.

 

The hooded assistants led the group to a shower room where they each endured an ice-cold shower and an enema.  They were given a steel cock ring and a necklace with a number from 1 to 9.  They were also ordered to swallow a Captagon pill.  Duncan was very familiar with the drug, which is widely used by warriors to raise endurance and reduce system shock in battle, and also has a positive impact on male sexual aggression and performance.  It is commonly given to suicide jihad fighters but is a highly useful drug for AMS to enhance the ability of snuff victims to endure greater levels of pain as well as the aggression of those doing the killing.  It was a reminder to the 9 candidates that not all of them would survive initiation.  That made their erections even harder.

 

After the preparation, all the candidates were led to the main arena, where William was presiding with each of the regional Alphas who reported to him by his side.  They were on a stage in front of an audience of fellow AMS members, and there were many others watching on video.  The room was brightly lit so everyone could enjoy the ceremony, and there was a wide range of equipment of various sorts on the stage, most of it oriented toward torturing and killing males.  There were also several large tubs for disposal of body parts that would soon be separated from males being snuffed but weren’t good enough cuts of meat for dining.  These would be fed to snuffslaves to remind them of their fate.

 

William began with a short but complete explanation of AMS, which did answer all the questions the candidates had.  Their reaction was clearly demonstrated by the eager looks on their faces, their rapt attention, and the massive erections each of them had.

 

Next, the candidates went one after the other in front of a camera.  Facing it, they said their name, age, and country, and then declared that they were ready to face the initiation process whatever the conclusion, and willingly accept the dedication of their life to the Art of Male Snuff Organization.  Any doubts were gone, and they were all totally committed, including the three just introduced to the organization.

 

After receiving their oaths William did not turn immediately to the candidates.  He first summoned snuffslave 187 to the stage.  187 crawled up on all fours, its cock seriously hard.  187 was well aware it was about to die a humiliating and pain-filled death for the entertainment of its master and the other AMS members, but unaware how it would happen.  The “how” was irrelevant to 187 and obviously none of its business.  But 187 was honored and totally turned on no matter what, determined to cooperate in every way.  After all, this was its purpose and the death would be enjoyed by a huge number of deserving alpha males.  What more could any snuffslave wish for?

 

“As you all know, many of us own snuffslaves that are disposable property we keep alive for a time for our pleasure.  That always includes the fun of torturing them, to death, and a property trained snuff slave such as this one understands this is its highest and best use and welcomes the honor of complete service.  I have already made this sex object available for each of you to fuck as you arrived and during the cocktail reception we just finished while we waited for the applicants to be prepared.  I was pleased to note that so many of you took that opportunity, but there wasn’t time for all 150 of you to do so.  You’ll have another chance shortly.  But its next use is to entertain us with what should be a very painful and amusing snuff.  We will start our official ceremony with a demonstration of just how much fun a snuffslave is and how that fun can be enhanced with the aid of some of our torture toys.  We’ll also  show you what amazing progress we’ve made in being able to train worthless scumbags to realize that becoming a snuffslave is their proper role and to embrace it.  This live meat naturally realized its proper role, but not very many do.  That has been a serious limitation on availability of snuffslaves for our members.  But now, as a result of some outstanding research led by Alpha 2, we are adding a product line of trained snuffslaves for sale to members.  You can examine and enjoy our first batch for free during and after the ceremony.  They are lined up naked along the side of the chamber eagerly waiting for you to torture and snuff them, one for each AMS member here in the arena.  Feel free to choose one to entertain you as you watch.  Another set is ready to be the meat at our feast, eaten while still alive.  So feel free to torture and damage your snuffslave any way you like and then we’ll butcher and freeze the meat for you to take home and enjoy later.  I think it will be our best feast ever and our video catalog of snuffslaves for sale will go live right after our sessions.”  There was a loud cheer and a mad scramble to select a snuffslave, but William nonetheless continued.

 

“We also want to feature one of our new torture toys, the “fatal fist fuck enabler.”  It’s a lot of fun and makes fisting a snuffslave even more painful for the meat.

 

“Also, as you know we don’t waste fresh meat, and as we kill this snuffslave (and others) during the course of events today we will slice off the high-quality meat and serve it to our audience here in the AMS Arena.  You can use the computer tablets at your seats to select a piece that appeals to you and it will be brought to you.  Be sure to indicate if you want it cooked or raw.  We’ve set up the room with large couches to make it more comfortable and to facilitate you enjoying the snuffslaves and each other during the ceremonies.  Or feel free to examine the carcasses as they’re laid out near the stage and slice off your choice cuts yourself.  After all, today is all about sex and snuff and we want everyone to have a great time and shoot lots of cum.”  The audience again cheered loudly in appreciation.

 

Snuffslave 187 was now on stage, kneeling at its master’s feet with head bowed in a kowtow position.  William placed a noose around its neck, tightened it, and guided 187 to a table where it was positioned on its back with its ankles lifted and attached to shackles lowered rom above.  William took off his leather jacket to reveal his amazing torso and his powerful arms.  But he still wore a leather harness that was embroidered with “ALPHA 1” – as if anyone would forget his status!  He held up a “glove” and slid the fingers of his right hand into it. As he closed them into a fist the audience could see that the glove was designed to extend his reach with a very sharp, carefully designed metal knife.

 

“One of the frustrating aspects of fisting a snuffslave is that the animal’s innards get in the way of our fists as we push into the asshole.  Even the most talented fisters can’t get past their elbows before there is too much meat in the way to go further.  That not only limits our fun but it means the meat survives the session, which of course it does not deserve to do.  This clever device solves both problems.  As you can see, the knife part rotates, which is motorized.”  William demonstrated by pressing his index finger on a button inside the glove, which caused the knife to rotate, revealing that it was in effect a drill.  The audience applauded, and William also held it so that 187 could contemplate what was about to happen to it.

 

William pushed his hand into 187’s exposed and well lubricated hole, using his great strength to reach up to his wrist.  187 had been fisted many times, so this was not a new feeling.  But as William continued to push, now moving in and out with his lower arm, the pain grew exponentially.  187 screamed loudly as William activated the drill function and now continued to push in past his elbow.  He could barely be heard above the shrill screams as he added commentary for the cheering onlookers.

 

“I’m now into the lower belly, moving up the body internally past the intestines.  The drill is now starting to chew up the internal organs.  Given all the nerve endings I’m cutting through, our researchers think this is likely the single most painful torture we can inflict on a snuffslave.  Best of all, that pain wi9ll continue even after I remove my arm, but the animal will not die right away.  These wounds are fatal, of course, but it will be several hours before the internal bleeding results in its death.  Several hours of remarkable levels of pain.”  As he finished his explanation, William had inserted his arm all the way to his shoulder.  He grinned in triumph and spit into 187’s screaming mouth.  After he slowly removed his arm he bowed to the audience, who gave him a standing ovation for his fantastic exhibition.  187 fainted from the pain but was quickly revived.  Not only was he to endure the pain that would soon kill him, but he was to suffer other torture that would also be fatal and would be the immediate cause of his destruction.

 

187 was then placed on a mattress where two especially well-endowed AMS members waited with cocks ready for action.  The one with the larger cock lay on his back and 187, as instructed,  positioned itself on top of the larger male, who thrust his cock up 187’s already bleeding asshole.   After the fisting, there was plenty of room, as William observed to the amusement of the audience.   He inserted a dildo to create a tighter fit for the cock already inserted.  Then William approached the snuffslave and added his own massive cock to start a triple-fuck. After the 30 plus fucks and the fatal fisting 187 had just received, this was now the only way for alphas to enjoy a nice tight fuck.  The two males fucking 187 continued the snuff by thrusting in and out with considerable pleasure, while inflicting even more pain on the snuffslave.  The third alpha then knelt above 187’s head and fucked its face while his own ass was positioned so it nearly suffocated the snuffslave.

 

William resumed his commentary.  “We often enjoy feeling the snuffslave achieve a final orgasm as it dies, which accentuates our pleasure as we cum.  But we also enjoy well-prepared cock-and-balls snacks.  I plan to enjoy both.  The cock and balls will be cooked and eaten while they are still attached to the body.”

 

As he continued to fuck 187’s hole, William was handed several implements, including a long metal skewer that he pushed into 187’s piss/cum slit.  The thrill of being so horribly used by its master had turned on the snuffslave even more, enabling it to maintain its erection despite the pain.  The skewer went far into the hard cock well past its base, adding a new source of pain (and amusement) and assuring the cock would stay erect as it was prepared.  Next, two other metal skewers were inserted, one into each testicle.  William was then handed an electric probe attached to a 120-volt circuit.  To demonstrate how it worked, he touched the probe to 187’s left nipple, then to its right one. The screams of pain were again amazingly intense, and the nipples were literally burned off as the audience laughed.  William then rotated the probe among the three metal skewers, bit by painful bit cooking 187’s genitals. The electricity was rapidly switched on and off to increase the “shock” impact and to slow down the cooking.  A favorite part of the scene was the fact the “shocks” caused 187’s body to convulse as the electricity ran through it, rising in the air and challenging the skill of the three males fucking it.  But they managed to keep their cocks inserted in the meat as they fucked it.  The crowd cheered, clapped, and laughed as the alphas performed the equivalent of a “bucking bull” on and in the gyrating animal.

 

The precision of the effort was so expert that it was fully 15 minutes before the cock and balls were fully (and perfectly) cooked and ready to be eaten.  To the further delight and amusement of the crowd 187’s screams were loud and extreme, intensifying to the extent they didn’t even sound human.  After all, as William pointed out, 187 was no longer really human – just live meat being processed.  The crowd went nuts with cheering, laughter, and sexual excitement.  They released some of the excitement by, in turn, torturing the snuffslaves they had been provided for just that purpose.

 

As the wonderful smell of cooking male flesh fueled William’s lust, he and his fuck-mate intensified their thrusts into 187’s ass, also thereby intensifying the pressure on its prostate.  As a result, and despite the fact its cock and balls were no longer functional, 187 released the largest load of cum it had ever shot, with the thick creamy liquid working its way along the skewer in its cock to leak out the impaled slit. The skewer held the cock erect, and the liquid added to the pain form the electricity.  As the cum gushed out William slowly cut the cock off at the base, using the skewer to hold the cock while he ate it, much like a corn dog at a county fair.  It was delicious, all the more enjoyable due to the incredible pain 187 was suffering.  The two skewers cooking the balls came out next, again cut very slowly to maximize the pain and the entertainment.  Being always the generous leader, William handed one each to his two colleagues, who also greatly enjoyed the well-cooked slave-meat treats.  187 was delirious with pain, but not so much so that he failed to mumble an effort at “thank you.”  Although that was barely discernable due to the pain and the thick cock in its mouth, it generated further laughter.  187 knew its death was near, yet was overwhelmed with gratitude for how it had been used and for the honor of having its cock eaten by its master.

 

It was time for the final stokes, and as the alpha fucking 187’s throat increased his thrusts in order to achieve his own climax William moved onto 187’s chest and very slowly slit its throat, continuing until he had completely beheaded the snuffslave.  The head fell into the hands of the alpha fucking it, who shot his load down its throat as it came loose..  William took the head and held it up to the audience as the remainder of 187’s body continued to entertain the audience with its dying gyrations.

 

“While this snuffslave is now just snuffed meat, it can still be useful even beyond providing us nourishment.  Feel free to fuck the body, either in the ass or the neck.  We’ll leave in the dildo to help make the asshole tighter.  I think those of you who haven’t fucked a fresh-killed snuffslave will be surprised how much fun it is to fuck either end, or both, while the body is still warm.  I think it’s the ultimate humiliation for a snuffslave and so well deserved.  And we’ll pass the head around so those of you who didn’t get a chance to fuck it during the reception can enjoy doing so now.  I think you’ll find that is also remarkably satisfying.”

 

As the audience cheered, the severed head became quickly popular.  For example, Paul and Xavier were two AMS members who had recently met and were enjoying their new snuffslaves when someone passed it to them.  When Xavier held it up he was startled.

 

“Wow.  I think I knew this when it was human.  He had a beard then, but I think it’s the same guy.”

 

“Really?  Was he a buddy?”

 

“Hardly.  He was a decent fuck, and fun to fist, but I always thought he was an asshole.  This is going to be fun.”  With that, Xavier started eagerly fucking what was now just a masturbation  toy.

 

“What was his name?”

 

“I’m not sure I remember.  Colt, maybe?  Or Casey?  Something like that.  It obviously doesn’t matter now, if it ever did.  It was just a snuffslave.  They don’t have names.”

 

Xavier shot his load into 187, having used both the neck and the mouth to assure a fun jerk-off.  “Go ahead and take a turn – it’s really satisfying and fun to listen to all the cum sloshing inside it.  I’m going to go fuck his dead ass.  William’s right, as always.  That’s also a lot of fun.”

 

So Paul also added cum to the sex toy and passed it to the next alpha.  The two buddies then headed to the stage, turned on by the sight of the headless, dickless, and lifeless snuffslave, its neck still spewing some of its body fluids while its ass leaked out the cum with which it had been so thoroughly filled.  The animal had once been quite sexy, and in its pathetic destruction it somehow remained so.  They enjoyed fucking both holes of the warm piece of meat that had once been named Cody. Xavier observed that it confirmed the fact it’s best use was as the asshole it had been. Then they helped themselves to a couple of slices of the meat itself.   As the butchers came on stage and sliced off the rest of the meat and tossed the other remains into the large tubs, snuffslave 187 was quickly and completely forgotten.

 

PART 2

THE AMS CEREMONY

 

The audience cheered again when William regained their attention.  He was an extremely popular leader who knew how to please his members. But now it was time for the official ceremony.

 

William signaled for the room to be darkened.  There were 9 spotlights, each focused on one of the candidates, who were instructed to take a position under one of the lights with legs apart, hands behind the back, cock hard, totally still, and looking straight forward.  William asked if they were ready for the initiation to start, and they all

answered a loud YES !

 

At that same moment 9 more beams of lights were turned on revealing 9 impressive males each facing one of the candidates.  They were existing members who had applied to become part of the A-Team. Each was bare-chested except for a dog tag and a leather harness, wearing impressive tight leather pants open at the crotch to reveal their huge hard cocks.

 

For the membership candidates, after William’s display of the art by snuffing 187, AMS was no longer a concept or a fantasy. It was now reality, right in front of them, consisting of imposing slabs of male studs who were a mirror of what they could become.

 

After 5 minutes of standing still during which the men could face and contemplate each other’s perfect pack of meat under the sharp beam of light, William broke the silence once again, first addressing the A- Team applicants.

 

“You willingly offered your lives to the Cult of Snuff. You will now honor our four values:  Self-denial, Performance, Obedience, and Commitment”

 

The lights in the arena switched on as William spoke.  “I want the A-Team applicants, who are already members, to set an example and show how true AMS members exhibit these values.”

 

The A-Team applicants knew the drill and  closed their eyes.  Each took a ball from a deep jar presented by one of the assistants.  There was a moment of suspense and silence after the last one had taken his ball and William ordered: “SHOW”

 

Each applicant revealed the ball in his hand, boldly, with no expression on his face.

 

The time of the man with the black ball in his hand expired. He was a big slab of prime beef (6’8”, 280 lbs.) with a thick black beard and a furry chest much like William’s.

 

A107 (the ID that was tattooed on his left pectoral) rapidly took off his harness, his dog tag (the original lapsing day would have been over six years later), his leather pants and boots, and his cock ring.  He then stood at attention in front of William, totally naked with his cock still quite erect.  William handed  him a 6-inch sharp dagger.

 

“THANK YOU, SIR,! No mercy for my body! Take my soul , Finish me the hard way!“

 

With no hesitation he gutted himself just above his cock, expanding the wound upward, seppuku style.   Then he cut around the base of his scrotum, which enabled him to grab his cock and balls and pull out some of his intestines before falling to his knees, still fully conscious but in extraordinary pain to the extent he could not proceed further in the task of destroying himself.  A15 and A46, the applicants who had been standing on either side of A107 rushed next to him, slammed him onto his back.  They then took turns pulling out the rest of his intestines, positioning the dying body so each of the other six members could participate in cutting or stabbing some key part of him to advance the snuff.  It was an excellent example of exceptional teamwork

 

A91 spread his legs open and cut off his balls and cock, presenting them to William, who handed the thick cock and the large balls to a taxidermist who would turn them into a  trophy William could add to his collection.  A128 and A35 each took an axe and, with a loud shout, cut off his legs, as blood started to spill abundantly on the tiled floor.  A66 and A72  removed the arms near the shoulder sockets. A107 screamed in excruciating pain,  A104 opened the belly wound up to the chest and removed most of the internal organs.  But it was William who reached into the chest cavity and pushed his hand upward to where he squeezed the heart and ripped it out, still beating.  A107 was now dead, surviving far longer than would be possible were it not for the drug he and the other AMS participants had taken that day.  He had become a destroyed mass of bleeding meat.  William impaled the heart onto a nearby spike, and then cut off the head and placed it at the top of the spike.  The head and the heart would be

reminders of the AMS value of obedience.

 

It took 10 minutes only. Minutes of torment made more entertaining by the desperate screams of  A107 as he and his fellow applicants  demolished his body.  Most of the audiences both in the arena and watching on video enjoyed a massive orgasm as they watched, which is a major goal of any male snuff.  The difference in the audiences was that those in the arena could now enjoy the fresh meat that had been A107.

 

The 8 remaining A-Team applicants  returned  to their spot facing the membership candidates, having just modeled expected AMS member behavior.  William was very pleased.

 

“You have all performed as you are required to perform, including A107, who died with honor.  We celebrate his life and his death as we dine on his meat.  Also, all of you showed excellent teamwork, which is key for A-Team members.  We have already examined your qualifications and determined each of you merits the promotion.  This was your final test, and you have passed.  Congratulations and welcome to the A-Team ranks.”  The audience cheered, and the newly promoted members bowed respectfully to William.

 

The first formal event was now concluded,

The 9 candidates under their bright beam of light became the focal point for the second part of the ceremony, which would be the final selection of new AMS members.  They, too, had been pre-screened and the four Alpha AMS leaders had determined who was worthy.  Eight of the nine had passed.

 

Each AMS candidate was given a frozen cum cube to suck and swallow as William announced the event.

 

“Cum is the source of life and death.”  Life for 8 of you, sudden death for one.  Suck and swallow this precious gift.”

 

The candidates obeyed, and minutes after the last candidate had swallowed the last drop, Boris, a bulky Russian, started to convulse in the middle of the room. The doomed male’s final moments started with  5 minutes of intense pain as he fell to the floor, his body gyrating wildly with the agony. While he was still alive several assistants cut into him to open bleeding wounds, and the naked body was tossed into a pit where hungry dogs ripped him apart and ate his flesh.  Boris had not been found worthy to join.  The message of this tradition, as William explained, was a simple illustration of how some males are so worthless they are best used for dog food.  There would be no celebration of Boris, who was an alpha male but had been deemed weak.  The tradition also illustrated AMS’s casual attitude toward death.

 

William next went to a wheel and spun it., The number it landed on  (between 1 and 7) would determine how many more candidates would be snuffed  during the ceremony.

 

The wheel of death stopped: three more candidates where to be killed.  All 8 were now members, but the lesson was that a member’s fate was subject to rules of chance.  The candidates had all assumed the risk when they pledged their oath of loyalty.

 

In order to determine which candidates would die, a vote was launched electronically among AMS members both in the arena and online. The candidates were also permitted to vote, since they were all now considered AMS members even though three of them would soon die. A dashboard showed the progression of the votes and the score of each of the 8. It quickly became clear that Milom, a Romanian with an exquisitely beautiful body that cried out to be snuffed, and Horst, the imposing German who would provide such a generous helping of prime male meat, would be the top  two “winners,” followed by Duncan.

 

William directed the three to take places on the stage, each lying on his back on a table with cameras positioned to capture all the action.  They were not restrained.  There was no need for that since they knew and accepted their fate.

 

“I welcome all eight of our new AMS members and congratulate the 5 who will survive and join us for our celebration banquet.  This is always such an inspiring ceremony and it has gone well.

 

“As you all know, I have all power and no limits.  I rigged the vote so that Duncan will be one of the new members who will be killed today.  Chief Nelson and I have enjoyed his body many times and we have lusted over the idea of destroying it during this ceremony.  The 5 surviving members are to focus on the other two animals while he and I carry out our sadistic sniff desires on Duncan.  In addition to this being my right as Alpha 1, it is also the case that he is the perfect specimen to be an AMS member who is snuffed.  Duncan has been a subject of the Chief’s experiments that I referred to earlier.  He unknowingly went through the same transformative conditioning that the new snuffslaves eagerly waiting to be tortured and consumed alive during our feast went through.  But Duncan started as a total dominant sadist, an alpha male like the rest of us.  He is now also a willing masochist, suitable as a snuffslave.  He simultaneously has both characteristics, seeking both to inflict pain on others and to suffer it himself.  Isn’t that correct Duncan?”

 

Duncan had been in shock form the announcement but paused and thought.  What William said was true.  He realized he was now more turned on by the idea of being snuffed than by doing the kill, although he was excited by both activities.  He related to the dead bodies at least as much as to himself snuffing the live ones, especially the two snuff-ready new members lying on tables next to him.

 

“Yes, sir.  I now realize you are correct, and I am anxious to die as if I were a snuffslave.  I also now understand the messages the Chief was sending me, and suspect he added drugs to my drinks.  I admire how clever and talented he has been with all this. Thank you for allowing me to reakuze my alternate status and for the honor of being killed by you and the Chief in this marvelous ceremony.  My conditioning proves how effective your treatments are.  Turning an alpha sadist like me into a snuffslave will be an ability that means AMS can convert any piece-of-shit male into a useful, obedient slave anxious to be snuffed.”

 

William smiled and explained how this project not only meant a supply of snuffslaves would soon be plentifully available, but also that AMS members could now choose whether to become masochists who would better appreciate and enjoy their snuff when it was their turn, or remain pure sadists who might be tempted to resist.  It was one more way he sought to assure the members lived and died fulfilling lives.  As that reality sunk into the audience, he turned to the 5 successful candidates.

 

“Men, FREE your sexual lust and twisted libido on these two SACRIFICIAL OFFERINGS. Show us your primitive instincts. You have 60 minutes!  The only rule is that they are not to die before the time is up.  You will find all kinds of helpful and amusing tools on the nearby tables.”

 

The 5 eager new members quickly surveyed the tools available for them and were very pleased.  There was all manner of knives, huge dildos with sharp edges to cut into the sides of the assholes, , cattle prods, axes and cleavers, hammers, saws, and electric prods with a wide range of current levels.  The next 60 minutes was a masterpiece of the art of male snuff, and all three males were horribly tortured but still alive (albeit barely) when the time was up.  That allowed the cameras to catch the death throws of each animal as it then died, having endured levels of pain that were beyond measure and only possible due to the drugs injected into each of them.  Duncan was appropriately grateful, and both William and the Chief fulfilled their sadistic lust – and then some, on a willing subject.

 

William closed with comments celebrating the three snuffed new members.  There was of course no celebration of the snuffslaves.  Then the AMS members in the arena started a celebratory meal featuring not just the meat from the males snuffed that day but lots of live meat from the newly conditioned snuffslaves.  And, of course, there were other, unwilling Darwin Award nominees available just for members to enjoy and practice the Art of Male Snuff.  The ceremony was a total success and William was extremely pleased and sexually satisfied.  That, after all, is what mattered.

Meat Chronicles 20–Transformation of a Twink

He says his name’s Derek and he can’t be any older than eighteen.  He’s got glossy black hair and a brownish skin tone that makes me think he’s Latino, but there’s no trace of an accent.  And with that name; well, maybe he’s just really tanned.

 

Whatever.  He’s also completely fucked; he just doesn’t know it yet.

 

I spot him on the side of the road beside an ancient, beat-up Ford Probe.  He’s leaning back against the car, surreptitiously trying to toke on a joint as he eyes the passing cars.  His firm, lithe young body is more than adequately displayed in a navy-blue muscle shirt that shows his smooth bulging biceps.  His long, thick legs are highlighted by a pair of worn and pale jeans, skintight, that he’s tucked into his kicks—an expensively tacky pair of Nike Air Force 1 boots, bright red.

 

Of course I have to pull over.

 

He stubs out the joint shiftily and approaches the passenger side of my van.  I roll down the window.  “Need some help?” I ask, keeping my face open and friendly.

 

He brushes some stray hairs out of his face and grins up at me, his dark eyes bloodshot.  The punk is high as a fuckin’ kite.

 

“Yeah, dude, th’ POS fuckin’ died,” he replies dreamily.  “Was gonna call up some homies to come get me but m’ phone is dead too.”

 

“That’s a lotta shit to die at once,” I riposte with a wicked grin, “Get in and I’ll give ya a lift.  You can re-fire that jay, if ya want.”

 

And that’s all it takes to lure the stoned fuckmeat into my van.

 

He tells me his name and where he’s going—something about picking up booze for a party with his bros, but I’m not listening to the details.  I’m busy maneuvering through traffic towards a certain abandoned warehouse I know of, where I can find the necessary privacy.  Luckily, the teen is too fucked up to notice where we are until I actually pull into the warehouse lot and head for a secluded loading bay.

 

“Hey, man,” Derek says with a cough as he exhales a thick haze of blue smoke, “Where are we?  I was gonna have ya go by Bart’s Liquor over on Adams, it’s kinda my favorite—”

 

“Shut up, motherfucker,” I bark.  He starts, his eyes opening wide.  Then he laughs; a boyish sound, almost endearingly goofy.

 

I pull out my blackjack.  Actually, it’s just a pair of socks, one inside the other, filled with marbles.  He stops laughing and focuses blearily on it.

 

“What-what’s that for?” he asks hesitantly.

 

“It’s to put yer lights out, asswipe.  An’ once I do that, I’m gonna rape yer ass and kill ya.  Yer about to die, cocksucker.”

 

I love this part.  There’s something so erotic about the look of stunned confusion in a teen’s face as he realizes what I’m about to do to him.  And this one is no different—in fact, he’s better.  He’s so stoned it takes him some time to process my words.  I can watch him working it out, his smooth features twisting with the unaccustomed effort of thinking.

 

He’s a stupid little fuckwad.  My dick is so fuckin’ hard at the thought of putting him in pain…

 

He’s finally caught on.  “Wha—wha—wait, wha’d you say?”

 

“Time to die, twinkie.”

 

The blackjack makes a deep, solid “thunk” sound as it connects with his right temple.  Kid’s too fucked up to even flinch.  He goes limp in the seat.

 

I get out of the driver’s seat and slip into the rear to check my gear.  I don’t need much, just a box cutter for access and a pair of thick industrial zip ties.  Then I unbuckle his seatbelt and drag him into the rear—and at that point the transformation is complete.

 

Derek no longer exists.  There’s no more “he”; there’s only an “it” that exists for my pleasure.  And I’m gonna make goddam sure it pleasures me.

 

I could simply pull the clothes off but I like cutting them off.  Well, not fully cutting—I just nick the collar of the fucker’s shirt, then rip it off its smooth torso, rubbing my hands over its pecs, pinching and twisting the large dark nipples…

 

…it starts moaning.  I decide to leave the jeans and boots on.  Quickly rolling the semi-conscious boymeat over, I slice its jeans open—a straight slash down the crack of the ass that I pull wide to reveal two golden globes, covered with a faint peach fuzz and no underwear at all.

 

Having cut myself access to the teen’s fuckhole, I flip it back over.  Just as its eyelids start to flutter, I unzip its fly and pull out the punk’s long tube of dickmeat.  Motherfucker has an impressive cock—nowhere near as thick or long as mine, as it’s about to find out, but not bad.

 

I like a nice stiff piece of meat as much as the next dude.  I place one of the zip ties around the meat’s rod and scrote, tightening it past the pain of pleasure—well into the tissue damage zone.  Instantly, the teen’s shaft begins to turn purple and go rigid.

 

I don’t need any help for my own dick.  I pull off my t-shirt, and whip out my hog—but like the meat, I keep my jeans and boots on.  The treaded soles of my combat boots help me to maintain traction on the floor of the van as I raise the fuckmeat’s legs and expose its ass.

 

It’s just waking up as I plow my swollen, engorged rod into its tight teenage asshole.

 

It starts squealing and squeaking; the meat always does.  Stupid little punks are getting the best fuck of their lives, and they never appreciate it.  At least, not this early on; they need encouragement.  Time to give this kid some.

 

“Shaddap, ya worthless sack a’ fuckmeat,” I snarl and pop it in the face, hard.

 

The impact knocks the breath out of it momentarily; it can only moan and gasp, looking at me with eyes wide with fear and pain.  Well, one eye—the other is already swelling…

 

I plunge my erect cock into the kid’s colon again, the huge purple head probing deep into the fucker’s tender guts.  The virgin asshole feels so goddam good around my hard, unyielding manshaft; I can feel my tool tearing remorselessly at the boy’s fragile innards.

 

The meat shudders and sobs; it’s in fucking agony.  Good.

 

“Ya think that hurts, ya fuckin’ cocksucker?  You ain’t felt nothing yet; by the time I’m done, you’ll be in so much pain you’ll be begging to die!”

 

I lean down closer, letting my rough stubble scrape the fucker’s cheek while I whisper in its ear, “Only, ya won’t have to beg.  See, I’m gonna keep hurtin’ ya till I cum, and the only thing that’s gonna make me cum is watchin’ ya die.  Got it, fuckwad?  Then let’s get goin’; I gotta a huge wad to unload today.”

 

It starts beating at my chest.  It’s so cute, the way the twink’s fists thump helplessly against my massive pecs; it’s almost as if my fucktoy is giving me a nice chest massage.  I laugh in its tear-stained face.

 

Deep inside the red Nike boots propped on my shoulders, I can feel the little cunt’s toes curl in sexual agony as my huge, vein-wreathed manshaft reams its fuckhole like I’m snaking a drain.  The fucker’s shrieks and screams rise in pitch with every deep thrust of my powerful hips; the sound is grating on my nerves.

 

“Why is it every motherfucker I bang ends up bein’ a screamer?” I ask the meat conversationally, then punch it in the face again.  I plowed into the teen’s jaw mid-squeal, slamming its trap shut and causing it to bite its lip.  Its eyes rolled back momentarily in its head; blood trickled down its chin as it moaned groggily.

 

“Fuck, I can feel that shit all the way down on my dick,” I tell the stunned teen, “Goddam, cunt, your fuckhole gets nice an’ tight each time. Ya like that, dontcha, ya sick motherfucker?  Yeah?  Ya like a real man beatin’ yer teen face to a fuckin’ pulp?  Well, why didntcha just say so, asswipe?”

 

Like a coiled spring, my strong bicep flexes three times in quick succession, bashing the adolescent punk viciously in the mouth and nose.  The latter breaks with a wet squelch; the meat coughs up its left incisor and gurgles incoherently.

 

“Ok, cunt,” I tell the heaving teen fuck, “Enough foreplay.  I wanna shoot my load; I got other shit to do today.  Time to die, asshole.”

 

Before it can make another sound, I loop the remaining zip tie around its neck and cinch it tight.  I have to place one hand on the cuntboy’s throat and pull hard—real hard—with the other to get those last few notches through the clasp.

 

When I’m done, it’s so deep, it can’t be seen.

 

I’m kinda surprised; the teen meat reacts right away.  I thought I’d beat it down enough to accept its death and milk me with some nice convulsions, but it begins to struggle with renewed vigor.  The eyes open wide and almost immediately begin to bulge, even the blackened one.  After a few seconds, though, it becomes difficult to tell which eye had been blackened—the entire face is darkening to the same shade.

 

I hadn’t bound its hands; I like feeling my prey struggle.  At the moment, the punk’s clawing uselessly at its throat; even as the cute adolescent visage begins to distort in agony, I can still see the abject terror in the meat’s eyes.  Its smooth chest is slick with an ice-cold sweat squeezed from the pores as the nervous system begins to malfunction.

 

“Yer dyin’, motherfucker,” I jeer, staring hard into the huge dark panicked eyes and watching blood vessels burst into starburst shapes in the straining whites, “Does it hurt?  Didja expect this ta happen today when ya slipped on them expensive kicks and tight jeans—that ya’d be gettin’ fucked and snuffed while wearin’ ’em?  Fuck, dude, I knew I was gonna use yer corpse like a cumrag the moment I laid eyes on ya!”

 

My voice seems to cut through the meat’s mortal torpor.  It seems to focus on me—and then the hands come up, spastic, frantic, desperate.

 

My head bobs and weaves as I dodge the clawing fingers.  Goddamit, I thought I’d busted this fuckin’ bronco, but it keeps tryin’ to throw me.  Looks like it needs re-breaking.

 

Let’s start with the jaw.

 

Now that I’m pissed, my blows land with the force of a sledgehammer.  My build is enough to lure in any fags I wanna snuff, and the dumb cunts never stop and think about how easy it is for me to overcome them and waste their pansy asses.  Now this one is learning that lesson the hard way.  The first slug only knocks two teeth out; it’s the second that gives me that nice satisfying snap that I only get by breaking a bone.

 

It works, at least to an extent; the boymeat clutches my shoulder, wallowing in excruciating pain, a thick, choking, gurgling sound seeping from its misshapen mouth.  Without a clenched jaw to hold it in place, the punk’s swollen, purple tongue, lubed by a froth of drool, begins to protrude from between the twisted blue lips.

 

The motherfucker’s tongue isn’t the only swollen, purple appendage generating its own lube.  The twink’s long dick is not only oozing precum, it’s pulsing visibly and rapidly—it seems to be in sync with the cunt’s pulse, which is speeding as it hurtles towards asphyxia.  It’s hot, too; the kid’s dick feels like a bar of heated iron as it smacks against my ripped abs with each brutal thrust of my cock.

 

“Now yer feelin’ me, bro,” I tell the meat reassuringly, “Ya know it now, dontcha?  Ya know the only thing yer worthless fag ass is good fer is milking out my hot thick potent manseed as you kick and die, yeah?  An’ it’s gettin’ ya hard as a rock.  Stupid faggot teenagers, yer all alike—I gotta beat some sense into ya before you accept the inevitable.  But then, ya like gettin’ beat, right, assfuck?”

 

I’m fairly certain it can still understand me.  It’s taking it a long time to die, and it feels so fucking good on my throbbing shaft—the boymeat is writhing, almost undulating, as it rides me.  The hands are still on my shoulders but the grip is loosening.  The cunt is drooling heavily now; irreversible brain damage is setting in.  It gives me one last despairing look.

 

I punch it in the face again and that’s all the fucker is waiting for.  The convulsion is violent; the orgasm even more so.

 

At some point the teen’s feet had slipped off my shoulders and were now around my waist.  I’d thought nothing about it at the time but now the firm adolescent thighs tighten around my waist in a vise grip.  The arms, with a sudden jerk, encircle my neck, and before I know it the fuckmeat has me in the mindless, intense embrace of violent muscle spasm.

 

Fuck yeah, man, this is it.  This is what I was waiting for–dead smooth young boymeat milking my rod.  As it shudders, clutching me tight, I can feel its thick rigid pole suddenly pulse and spurt; an intense liquid warmth spreading over my belly oh fuck yeah dude fuck yeah FUCK FUCK FUCK

 

I cum again and again, vaguely aware that I’m raining blows on the dead kid’s face with each wad I blow up its ass.  It seems to go on forever. I cum so hard it hurts.

 

Damn, this one was good.  And it feels good to be back on the hunt again.

 

I use the meat’s shirt to wipe all the cum off me, then open the back doors of the van and toss the shirt out.  Tucking my dick back in and putting my own shirt back on, I roll the shuddering fagmeat out of the van, letting it hit the ground like a sack of garbage.  After all, no one saw me pick the cunt up, and the face is damn near unrecognizable anyway.  And I really do have things to do this afternoon.

 

One of the teen’s Nike AF boots is still twitching as I close the doors and drive off, leaving the dead adolescent sprawled on the hot, cracked asphalt under the baking sun.

 

Anyone know how long that bank over on Fifth is open on Wednesdays?  I wanna ask about financing for a new van…

 

Cuttin’ Down Ebony Woods, Part One

It was Frankie who bagged the first nigger.

 

It helped that his military-issue combat boots had rubber soles; the coon never heard him coming.  And after Frankie got there, the coon never heard anything, ever.  Period.

 

They’d met at two-fifteen on a Sunday morning in a back alley.  Sordid, filthy and dimly lit, it was filled with garbage bins and piles of trash, like most of the alleys on their turf—except this one wasn’t on their turf.

 

It didn’t matter.  A message had to be sent.  The two-story building that they met behind was filled with niggers and faggots who needed to learn the meaning of white power.

 

Jack had been responsible for collecting the guns; he had sources for untraceable small arms.  He handed Frankie, Mike and Hank nine-millimeter pistols and half a dozen extra clips each, keeping the same for himself.  Ed was the only one he didn’t provide a gun for—he had his own favorite Colt .45 and kept his pockets filled with extra shells.

 

Mike handed out zip ties, twenty-five to each Nazi—lotta apes to corral inside.  They grinned at each other and waited for their chance.

 

“We’re gonna go in quiet,” Jack had said.  “I wanna get in there and get control of the situation so we don’t have no howler monkeys screamin’ down the street.  All the shit stays inside—we can get as loud as we want in there, got me?”

 

They got him.  They all waited in patiently in the darkness of the alley—five muscle-bound skinheads, filled with rage and lust and racial hatred that was about to violently boil over.  They didn’t have to wait long.

 

The nigger bouncer was in its early twenties.  It had an expensive fade, a gold grill in its teeth and a black t-shirt with the word “security” printed across its broad, muscular chest.  It was checking the alley for the last time to make sure the bar back could empty the trash.  It wasn’t expecting trouble, and it damn sure wasn’t expecting Frankie’s bat or the powerhouse swing that connected it to its head with a loud crunch.

 

The hardbodied coon fell to the pavement and thrashed violently in a puddle of stagnant rainwater, the massive dent in its thick skull revealing the extent of brain damage it had suffered.  Quickly, Jack jumped forward and put his green twenty-hole Doc Martens to work, stomping the dying nigger’s head, kicking the open wound in in the skull with his steel-toed boots.  Soon the big ape was lying still, dead coonmeat stretched out on the pavement.

 

“One down, too many to go,” Jack growled and the thugs made their way in through back door.

 

Just inside the back door was a storeroom—and inside the storeroom were two faggots, one nigger, one white.  The boys burst into the room just as the nigger was shoving its thick black cock up the white twink’s ass.  For a moment, it was hard to determine which party was the most surprised.

 

With the guns, it wasn’t hard to determine which party was in charge.  The white punk stood up, pulling off the darkie’s thick rod with an audible pop.  They were both young—late teens, both of them.  The nigger sported back and red DC skate shoes while the white fag had gray Etnies, but were otherwise nude.

 

“Fuckin’ hell, lookit this shit,” Jack said, his face contorted with disgust, “A fuckin’ faggot gettin’ banged by a fuckin’ ape.  Almost as bad as an actual human gettin’ fucked by one.  Whaddaya say, boys?

 

“I say we off ‘em now,” Hank said, his muscles rippling under his white t-shirt as he brandished a claw hammer.

 

“Hang on,” Jack said, grinning.  “We need to do this quiet, remember?”

 

That was all the white homo needed to hear.  It opened its mouth wide and inhaled, but Jack was even faster.  He decked the cocksucker in the jaw, putting its lights out.  The nigger flinched and cowered in fear, trembling.

 

“P-please,” it begged, “Pl-please d-d-don’t hur-hurt me—”

 

Frankie noticed it had a goatee.  “Hey, look,” he jeered, pointing at the dark, curly hair outlining the jigaboo’s mouth, “It’s got pubes on its fuckin’ face!”

 

“That’s its face pussy,” Ed laughed.

 

Hank grabbed a bottle out of a nearby box; a single sniff after removing the cap showed it to be nearly pure grain alcohol.  “Ya like shovin’ things in yer coon pussyface?” he snarled at the terrified fag, “Here, shove this in!”

 

He forced the bottle into the monkey’s mouth.  Mike, standing next to him, stepped up and wrapped a muscular arm around the cunt’s head, locking it into place, while Frankie, simply but effectively, pinched its nose shut.  Within a space of fifteen seconds, Hank managed to pour almost a quart of 190-proof alcohol down the teenaged nigger’s throat.  They all held on for a full count of three minutes—just as if they were strangling it—then let go.

 

The young niglet had been carded on entry and hadn’t been drinking that night.  The booze hit it like a semi.  The coon cocksucker was still scared out of its mind, but was too fucked up to resist.  It staggered for a moment, then fell back on the pile of garbage bags that had been stacked to be taken outside.

 

“There ya go, Hank,” Jack said.  “Frankie got one outside, this one’s yours.  After all, y’all missed the fun last time…”

 

Hank grinned sadistically and grabbed another bottle.  The baby ape focused blearily on the Nazi’s black DM’s as he approached, then looked up.  “N’more…” it muttered.

 

“Aw, c’mon,” Hank chuckled, “Just one more itty-bitty drinkie-poo.”  He forced the bottle between the nigger’s thick lips and before the faggot realized that this bottle was plastic, not glass, Hank had poured three pints of commercial-grade drain cleaner down its throat.

 

The reaction was instant and explosive, but silent.  It rose up, flailing, eyes so wide the whites looked like dinner plates.  A torrent of rancid foam spilled from between its thick lips as it stared in horror and desperation into Hank’s hard, sneering face.  “Ya just swallowed a mouthload of white-fuckin’-power, ya piece a’ monkey shit.  How’s that taste, huh?”

 

The agonized coon felt the warm trickle of Hank’s spit on its face and tried to cry out but the caustic chemicals had already eaten at its vocal cords and peeled off the lining of its esophagus.  It could only foam and drool and piss itself, clutching its belly in nightmarish pain, and try to stagger away.

 

“Hey, Frankie,” Hank called out casually, “I taught the fuckin’ thing to play dead—why’ncha teach it how to stay?”

 

Laughing, Frankie stepped up, swinging his bat, low and hard.  There was the hard, wet cracking sound of a green, healthy tree limb being snapped and the nigger fag collapsed to the floor, its broken tibia and fibula folding up under it.

 

“What about that one?” Ed asked as a faint moan from the corner told them the niggerlover was regaining consciousness.

 

“Let’s save it for the party.  Mike, zip it.”

 

As Mike bound its hands behind it with zip ties, Jack and Ed dragged the stunned twink homo through a pair of swinging doors and out into an area near the back of the bar.  Behind them, the cocksucking niglet shuddered impotently on the floor.  Even had it gotten immediate medical attention, the chemicals were too strong; the young ape was being eaten away from the inside.

 

But there was no medical attention.  The teen coon could hear everything that happened in the next room.  It had the satisfaction of living longer than most of those around it, even if those extra moments were spent writhing in nightmarish agony on the cold concrete floor, alone in the dark.


The bar itself stretched off to the right.  Two buff young bucks were working there.  Both were shirtless, their smooth ebony skin glistening under the flashing lights from the dance floor.  Out on the floor were three couples—all of them nigger fags, kissing and slobbering on each other.

 

Jack was sick at the sight.  “Ok, fuckers, time to rock n’ roll.  We got us some jungle bunnies to round up.  Ed, you, Frankie and Hank get the ones out there.  Mike and I’ll grab these two.  Ready to make some noise?”

 

The boys nodded eagerly, hate and sexual excitement reflected in their masculine faces.  “White power, motherfuckers!”

 

The cry rang out among them all, echoing over the dance floor, drowning out the nigger gangsta rap.

 

“White power, motherfuckers!  White power!  White power!”

 

Jack and Ed fired their guns, aiming at the ceiling.  Even if the dry-humping nigs on the dance floor hadn’t heard the shouts, they damn sure heard the gunfire.  So did everyone else in the building, and they did exactly what they’d been told to do in live shooter situations: shelter in place.

 

They froze, waiting to be hunted down like the animals they were.

 

The boys leered at each other and the Ebony Woods Coon Slaughter got started.

 

“Awright, get over here, ya fuckin’ apes!” Jack snarled at the bartenders.  The young coons looked at each other, then approached hesitantly, trembling with fear.  One was tall and muscular, with an expensive fade and a thick gold chain around its neck, the other was slightly shorter and not a heavily built but well developed.  Both wore skin-tight satin pants that clearly showed the outlines of their thick black cocks, like male strippers, and both sported black go-go boots.

 

“What the fuck do we got here?” the vicious Nazi thug sneered.  “On yer knees, jigaboos.”

 

Behind him, Frankie and Hank had rounded up the six Sambos on the dance floor and with Mike’s help, was getting them to pull each other’s clothing off.  As each coon was stripped down to its glistening chocolate skin, its hands were securely bound behind its back with zip ties.

 

The black bartenders knelt in front of Jack, looking up at the muscled skinhead in his Gold’s Gym shirt and his Doc Martens, an overwhelming presence of hate and testosterone.  The taller one began to cry.

 

Jack pointed his Glock 17 at the nig’s face.  “Aw, is de wittle jungle bunny scared?  Eat shit, ya fuckin’ nigger!”  There was a loud pop and a hole appeared in the darkie’s forehead while its brains were blasted out a hole in the back of its skull.  It fell forward, dead, but not still, its legs thrashing in its death throes.  The white thug popped another cap into it, pithing the brainstem and quieting the monkey.

 

The other coon bartender, its face splattered with its coworker’s blood, gasped and began to wail, a high, atonal keening sound.

 

“Aw, shaddap,” Jack snapped, shooting it point-blank in the mouth.  The hardbodied black buck swayed on its knees for a moment, blinking, piss running down its leg, with its teeth blown out through the back of its neck, then it fell forward, a sack of dead monkey meat.

 

The herd of coons on the dance floor were paralyzed with terror, the white niggerlover among them.  Mike stepped over to Hank and, after a quick discussion, borrowed the claw hammer from him.

 

“Awright, Hank,” Jack ordered, his voice steely with purpose, “You an’ Frankie stay here and guard this lot.  I got somethin’ special planned for these nignogs.  Fuckin’ pansy-ass coons think they can flaunt their faggot nigger asses in our part of town?  We’re gonna show the whole fuckin’ city how white power handles this bullshit.”

 

Standing up straight and squaring his shoulders, Jack adjusted the thick, straining bulge in his crotch.  Grinning at each other, the rest of the boys did the same, shifting their straining denim-sheathed cocks to more comfortable positions.  The evening was just getting started.

 

“Ok, you fuckers, it’s search and destroy time.  Mike, Ed, you’re with me.  We’re gonna through this fuckin’ monkey hut room by room and hunt down any nigger we can find.  No fuckin’ mercy, ya got that?”

 

They got it.  They didn’t need to be told.  They weren’t looking to dispense mercy, they were looking to dispense terror and torture—and testosterone.  These were gonna be sick kills; just the thought of the horrific death about to rain down on the isolated groups of trapped coon faggots made their hard white manshafts drip with anticipation.

 

Just outside the bar was the entry and the bouncer’s nook.  There was a door to one side to a restroom; on the other side were the stairs to the second level.  Most of the second floor consisted of catwalks over the dance floor, but there was a sign next to the staircase that showed there was a smoking lounge and another restroom as well.

 

“Ok, I got this one,” Jack said nodding towards the downstairs restroom.  “You head on up.  We’ll meet back in twenty minutes.”

 

“They’re gonna get bored,” Ed said, indicating Hank and Frankie back on the dance floor.

 

“Don’t worry,” Jack said, “What I got planned will make up for it.  And anyway, they’re gonna be busy going through the wallets and stripping the bling.  Fuckin’ nigger apes think they can own property—they fuckin’ are property, goddamit!”

 

Ed grinned and Mike felt his dick throb.  They turned to head up the stairs—and at that moment, a figure moved out of the entryway.

 

It was the Hispanic bar back.  Dressed in a tight, stained t-shirt and jeans tucked into pull on work boots, he was young and swarthy with shoulder-length blue-black hair.  He was carrying a mop, but dropped it, stunned, as soon as he saw the trio of white power skinheads.  Jack drew to plug the fucker, but Mike got there first with the hammer.

 

The first blow of the steel head shattered the spic’s jaw; its hands fumbled at its face in shock and horror as Mike wielded the heavy tool again, this time impacting the beaner’s skull hard enough to shatter it.  The brown-skinned wetback fell to the floor in a coma, its boots jerking on the tiles as its damaged brain, peppered with skull fragments, short-circuited.

 

Jack gave Mike a thumbs-up as Ed slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Fuck yeah, bro. Righteous.”

 

The three hardbodied, big-dicked Aryans turned back to their cold-blooded coon hunt.

 

Jack entered the restroom with his gun drawn and his dick hard.  The room was silent, except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights.  To his left were three sinks, with mirrors over them.  On the right were three stalls with the doors closed and at the far end was a long metal piss trough.

 

The thick soles of his twenty-holed boots echoed eerily on the tiled floor as he slowly paced down the room.  The buff young thug paused in front of the first mirror and admired himself for a moment, the way his t-shirt was stretched tightly across his huge pecs, the way his long thick shaft of pure white manhood was standing to attention during his righteous purge of the niggers.

 

Whirling, he pressed the barrel of his gun against the door of the first stall and slowly opened it, the sound of metal scraping on metal loud in the silence.  As the door inched open, it revealed two coons huddled together in each other’s arms, their white eyes huge with terror.

 

Jack grinned and grabbed his scrote, adjusting his huge, cum-filled balls as he took stock of the situation.    “Well, well, looky here, a coupla jigaboo fags hangin’ out in the toilet.  Feel at home in there, ya pieces a’ shit?  Get the fuck out here.  Now.”

 

The two boys, trembling in terror, shuffled their way out of the stall.  In their early twenties, both were in skinny jeans and button-down shirt—one light blue, the other a blue and purple plaid.  The one in blue was wearing brown suede Chelsea boots; the one in plaid had a pair of Air Jordan 4 “Tattoos”.  Young, hip, slightly upscale urban fags, they were unused to violence and petrified at the sight of Jack’s weapon.

 

“Over there,” the menacing Aryan snarled waving the quivering monkeys to the far end of the restroom, next to the trough.  He opened the door to the middle stall with his gun, only to find it empty.  Shrugging, he turned to the last stall.

 

It was locked.

 

With a broad smirk on his chiseled face, Jack raised his booted foot and kicked the door in.

 

This one had gonna full gangsta thug, with a Lakers jersey that showed off its smooth, muscled arms and a pair of low-hanging jeans that looked like they’d been belted around its legs below its ass, showing off a pair of skin-tight black briefs underneath.  It had on a yellow Lakers cap, with the brim turned back at an angle, thick braided chains around its throat and a pair of untied Timberlands.

 

And the coon was so frightened, it’d lost control of its bladder.

 

Jack laughed triumphantly at this proof of his power.  He’d scared the piss outta the fuckin’ ape without even seeing it.

 

“More fuckin’ vermin,” he growled, “Goddam building’s infested.”  He reached in and manhandled the gibbering, terrified darkie out of the stall and shoved it towards the others.

 

“Here,” he snarled, handing a pair of zip ties to the nigger in plaid, “Bind their hands.  No, not in front, ya stupid fuckin’ monkey, in back.  And do it tight or I’ll bust a cap in yer worthless ape skull, ya hear me, boy?”

 

Its hands trembling, the jigaboo obeyed, cinching its faggot boyfriend’s wrists closely, then moved on to the cowering gangsta bitch.

 

“Nice, obedient coon,” Jack jeered, “Woulda fetched a good price back in the good ol’ days.”

 

Once it was done, Jack felt safe enough to set down the gun and secure its hands itself.  Then he lined all three niggers up, facing the piss trough.

 

“On your knees, you cunts,” he barked.  “Fuckin’ niggers should always be on their knees in the presence of a white man, but you faggots are so uppity I’m gonna hafta show y’all what real white power is.”

 

He’d been digging something out his pocket; it was a folding tactical knife.  The blade was only four inches long, but the forged steel was razor-sharp and serrated.  The hardbodied skinhead grabbed the nappy poll of the coon in the blue shirt and forced its head down over the lip of the trough.

 

“Time to die, ya nigger sack a’ shit,” Jack spat and, reaching up under the Sambo’s chin with his knife, began slicing its throat open.

 

“No!!!” it screamed, “O god no don’t please god no no nonono–AAAIIIIEEEAgghghg—”

 

As its shrill animal shriek of mortal agony echoed off the tile walls of the small, harshly lit room, Jack pressed his crotch against the nigger’s head so it could feel his hard cock as it gagged and choked on its own blood.  The coppery scent of righteous bloodletting began to overtake the acrid tang of nigger piss.  After a minute or so, the jigaboo stopped twitching, its brown Chelsea boots finally growing still on the stained white tiles.

 

Jack left it slumped over the trough and moved to the next nig in line, executing the homo coons with the efficiency of an industrial slaughterhouse.

 


 

Upstairs, Ed had turned right and headed into the smoking lounge while Mike went directly forward into the upstairs restroom.  The smoking lounge was hazy and dimly lit, with sofas and chaise lounges scattered about.  There was a TV showing music videos on one wall, muted, and a smaller bar, closed up, at the far end of the room.

 

There were also four jungle bunnies hiding behind the various pieces of furniture.  It took Ed a couple of minutes to round them all up and get them to bind each other with the zip ties.  Soon they were all kneeling on the floor, looking up at him in abject terror.

 

Ed was an intimidating sight.  Tall and well-muscled, his white wifebeater didn’t hide a single detail of his powerful, heavily inked arms.  His close-shaven head with its broken nose and expression of merciless hate filled the niggers with cold despair.

 

He approached the first coon on the far right—an older one, mid-twenties, well-built, with a simple black leather moto jacket, a white t-shirt, and tight jeans of black leather over white Adidas hightops.

 

“Ya good with yer mouth, faggot?” Ed demanded as the leather-clad jigaboo flinched, “Fuckin’ nigger cocksuckers oughtta get put right the fuck down if they can’t work their tongues right.  Lessee if yer worth the air yer breathin’, ya piece a’ homo shit.  Lick my boots clean.”

 

As the other Sambos huddled together, quivering with fear, the nigger hesitantly bent its head down towards Ed’s red Doc Marten boot.  “Goddam it, ya useless coon faggot, lick it!” Ed snarled, cracking the jigaboo on the back of its head with the gun.  It cried out, a hopeless bleat of despair, but it obeyed, loudly slurping the oxblood leather.

 

Ed watched for about thirty seconds, then hocked up a wad of phlegm and spit on the kneeling nigger.  Reaching down, he unzipped the fly of his tight faded jeans and pulled his huge, pulsing manshaft out, sighing loudly with relief as the massive tube of flesh was allowed room to expand.

 

Then he suddenly and swiftly drew back his foot and kicked the nigger in the face, his steel-toed boot knocking out three of the cunt’s teeth.  As it whined on the floor, its hands clasped over its mouth, Ed brandished the pistol.

 

“You suck, ya fuckin’ porch monkey, an’ not in a good way.  Get up here and wrap yer thick niggery lips ‘round the barrel of my .45.”

 

The coon looked up, bewildered and horrified.

 

“C’mon, nig boy, pretend it’s yer master’s cock and start suckin’.  Let’s see if yer good enough to suck anythin’ outta this long hard shaft.”

 

The nigger, tears streaming down its glistening ebony face, closed its eyes, opened its mouth and took in the gun.

 

“Yeah, that’s it, ya punk-ass bitch,” Ed jeered, “Suck it like a white man’s cock an’ maybe I’ll let ya feel the pure power of a white load.”

 

Then he pulled the trigger.

 

There was a loud click as the hammer came down on an empty chamber.  The nigger jumped and squealed, pissing inside its leather pants in terror and collapsing to the floor as Ed guffawed loudly and massaged his erect cock.

 

“Guess what?” he chortled.  “We’re gonna play a game.  I know you jigaboos prob’ly ain’t even able to read, but even yer dumbass ape brains should be able to figure this one out—it’s real simple.  You darkie dicksuckers are gonna take turns gobblin’ my gun like it’s a cock.  An’ if yer lucky, you get the prize of sucking a big blast of white power from my hot, hard barrel.  Sound like fun?  Fuck yeah!”

 

Grinning viciously, he turned to the next nigger in line.  “Open wide, faggot,” he smirked.

 


 

Mike had already slipped on his brass knuckles by the time he entered the upstairs restroom.  This one was smaller, with two stalls, two urinals and one sink.  The stalls had no doors—but that didn’t stop the coons from trying to hide there anyway.  Mike found two crouched in the doorway and silently motioned them out with the gun.

 

From the next stall came a series of beeps someone activating a cell phone.  Mike flung himself into the stall to find a jig in a blue satin jersey, baggy jeans and Nike Air Precision kicks on its knees, desperately trying to dial 911 through its streaming tears.

 

Without needing to think, Mike punched the nigger in the mouth, shattering its jaw.  It crumpled to the floor, whimpering as Mike ground the big black heel of his engineer boot onto the phone, crushing it before the call could be completed.  The other two Sambos hadn’t moved—they were frozen with fear—so getting them zip-tied was quick and easy.

 

The buff young Aryan pulled his thick, vein-wreathed cock out of his jeans, stroked to for a moment, then strolled into the toilet stall and beat the semi-conscious nigger to death.

 

He crouched over the coon, grinning, then rolled it onto its back.  “Fuckin’ niggerboy thinks it’s gettin’ away?  Looks like I’m gonna hafta mark it.  Ain’t gotta brandin’ iron, but these here brass knuckles will do just fine.”  Then he started swinging.

 

Each powerful impact of the hardbodied, rage-filled youth’s fist resulted in a wet pulpy crunch as the Nazi rained agony down onto the thrashing, helpless nigger.  “Hell yeah, ya fuckin’ jigaboo, ya tastin’ yer own blood?” he jeered as he punched the coon’s teeth down its throat, “That’s what white-fuckin’-power tastes like!  Have some more, boy!  Tastes just like fried chicken an’ watermelon, don’t it!”

 

As the yard ape’s face caved in, Mikes repeated blows splattered the walls of the stall with blood.  By the time the skinhead came shudderingly to a stop, the coon was still twitching, its Nikes scraping on the floor tiles, but its face was an unrecognizable ruin and it had suffered catastrophic brain damage.  As Mike exited the stall to turn his attention to his remaining targets, the bleeding inside the nigger’s shattered skull was slowly but surely becoming fatal.

 

“Ok,” he said with a demonic grin on his blood-spattered face as he pulled the claw hammer out of his belt, “Who’s next?  Don’t both y’all volunteer at once, now!”

 


 

“Oh fuck, no, please, sir, don’t—”

 

Jack laughed cruelly.  “Yeah, bitch, ya better fuckin’ call me sir!” he jeered as he forced the coon’s head down over the trough, feeling its tight wooly curls under the iron grip of his hand.  This time, Jack had taken the time to haul his enormous throbbing mancock out; it was resting on the jigaboo’s shoulder as the Nazi stud brought his knife around to its throat.  He started slicing and the coon started screaming.

 

“Ohgoddon’tnonoMOMMAMOMMAMOMMaagghurrghh…” There was a high-pitched hiss as Jack sawed his way into the trachea, then the nigger gargled its own blood for a couple of minutes as its lithe, jean-clad legs flailed and its Nike Jordan Tattoos kicked in the pools of nigger blood and piss on the floor.  Then it lay still for a moment, blood splashing into the piss trough and its hands randomly clenching as it died.  Suddenly, with a final convulsive spasm, it flipped back out of the trough.

 

Jack left the dead monkey to bleed out on the restroom floor.  He turned his attention to the remaining jungle bunny—and the fuckin’ nig bolted, sprinting for the door.

 


 

The next nigger fag in line had on a bright red t-shirt a size too small, tight black jeans, and gray Ugg Hannen boots.  Ed smirked as he slowly and deliberately thrust his gun between its lips.

 

“C’mon, cocksucker,” he chuckled, “Lessee ya get a load outta this.  Work it, you nigger fuck, suck it like it’s yer master’s dick.”

 

Closing his eyes tightly, the jigaboo worked the gun barrel with its tongue.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Ed sneered, “Now deep-throat it, you cunt.”

 

The dark-skinned ape did as it was told.  It took as much of the gun barrel into its mouth as it could.  Ed pulled the trigger and the back of the jigaboo’s head vanished in a spray of red mist.  A Jackson Pollock splatter of blood, brain tissue and bone shards spread over the wall behind it.

 

Ed jerked the gun out of its mouth.  It remained upright on its knees for about another five seconds, its dead eyes wide, smoke drifting from its open mouth and the crater in the back of its head, then it collapsed into a pile of jigmeat.

 

“Oops,” the sadistic Aryan muscleman chortled, “Guess I need to reload.”  He replaced the spent casing with a live round and turned to the next darkie homo in line.  “Your turn, motherfucker.  Suck it.  Suck it hard, faggot.”

 

This one was wearing a St Louis cap backwards, a white wifebeater identical to Ed’s, showing off its large sweaty ape-like muscles and a pair of Diesel jeans with untied Timberlands.  And this one didn’t want to play the game.  It turned its head and kept its mouth shut.

 

“Aw fuck yeah,” Ed barked out happily, “I was hopin’ I’d have an excuse to do this.”

 

He grabbed the nigger, jerking it up out of its kneeling position and threw it face down over the arm of one of the sofas.  Before it could recover, he’d yanked its jeans down past its knees.  The faggot was freeballing, of course.  Ed just smiled viciously.

 

“Man, I been wantin’ to do this shit to a nigger for a long time,” he chuckled gleefully, “I been wonderin’ how bad this’d fuck up a jungle bunny.  Stupid fuckin’ piece a’ shit!”

 

On the last word he violently shoved the barrel of his .45 up the coon’s ass and pulled the trigger three times.  The first chamber was empty—but the second one wasn’t.  Nor the third.

 

The first bullet traveled up through the street ape’s innards at a slightly upwards trajectory.  It pierced the intestines multiple times, holed the spleen, liver, and left lung, then tore its way upwards, smashing a rib and tearing an exit hole out of the coon’s back, near its left shoulder blade.

 

The second bullet moved in a straight line up the center of the body mass, ripping open the pancreas and stomach, missing the nigger’s heart but puncturing the esophagus and lodging in the cervical vertebrae, instantly paralyzing the rebellious Sambo.

 

As is lay face-down on the sofa, blood tricking from its nostrils and piss tricking into its Timberlands, slowly, agonizingly suffocating as it lost the ability to inhale, Ed turned back to the two remaining coons.

 

“Anyone else wanna get a good hard white power fuck?” he snarled, brandishing the pistol and reloading it.  His question was met with silence.  “Yeah, I thought not,” he sneered, “Worthless faggot cowards.  Get over here, you fuckin’ nigger waste, and lick yer boyfriend’s shit outta my gun!”

 


 

The two nigs flattened themselves against the far wall as Mike approached with the hammer in his hand.  One of them, a young ape in a Raiders cap, white t-shirt, black jersey gym shorts and a pair of Puma Ferrari hightops, kept darting its wide eyes about in panic.  It was sporting lots of bling around its neck, multiple thick gold chains which it kept fingering.  The other coon was older, a lean, muscular buck with a black do-rag on its head and a dark goatee.  It was in obvious fear as well but seemed to have better self-control.

 

As expected, the darkie in the Oakland cap suddenly feinted right, signaling an obvious move to the left.  Mike shifted his weight to one side, letting it begin its sprint for the door, then swung the hammer, neatly striking the coon on the side of its head, sending it into a boneless, unconscious sprawl on the floor.  The young skinhead turned to the other nigger.

 

This one, seeing the score, chose not to run.  It was a buff young thug, its black muscle shirt revealing its smooth, dark skin, glistening with nigger sweat.  It swung its arms up in a defensive posture, revealing a nice pair of biceps; its feet, in a pair of LL Bean duck boots, shuffled over the floor tiles as it tried to move into an advantageous position.

 

“C’mon, ya white-ass motherfucker!” it shouted.

 

“That’s about right, boy,” Mike sneered, “This white man’s gonna fuck yer momma right into the ground, and yer daddy too.  But let’s start with you, ya fuckin’ jigaboo.”

 

The nigger roared and lunged at Mike in a fog of fear-crazed rage.  Again, the young Aryan was able to dodge his attacker and swing the hammer—this coon got it in the face.  There was a faint pop as its cheekbone shattered, then it squealed, holding its hand up to its face as its left eye began to blacken and swell shut.

 

“Goddam,” it moaned, “Oh, fuck…”

 

It glanced up just in time to see Mike looming over it, his “These Boots Were Made for Stomping” t-shirt pulled tautly across his huge, muscled chest and his long thick manshaft drooling precum, and his powerful arm raised over his head.

 

And in his hand, the hammer had been reversed.  The head was pointed to the rear, with the claw forward.

 

“Oh fuck no—” the coon had time to gasp before the snarling Nazi swung the hammer like a pickaxe, smashing the thick steel claws through its skull and sinking them deep into its brain.  As the yard ape shuddered violently with massive cerebral trauma, Mike cranked the hammer down as if he was yanking out a nail, and peeled back the top of the nigger’s cranium, exposing the mangled gray matter.

 

“Only way to get somethin’ into a nigger’s head is by rammin’ it through its thick monkey skull,” Mike chuckled, jerking his hammer back out of the dead coon’s brain and letting the convulsive sack of jigaboo meat slump to the floor and shit itself.  Then he turned his attention to the moaning nig he’d knocked out, just now starting to stir.

 

The Aryan killer strode over to the prostrate jungle bunny.  “Hey, fuckwad,” he hissed as the spade began to blink and open its eyes, “Wakey, wakey.  I got somethin’ for yer pansy nigger ass.  Look up here, coon.  See it?  It’s my boot.”

 

As soon as the nigger focused its eyes on the upraised engineer boot hanging over its face, Mike stomped it.  Hard.

 

His erect cock pulsed with the electric sense of white power as he felt the jigaboo’s face cave under his boot and heard the crunching and squelching noises of brutal facial trauma.  It felt so good, he did it again.  And again.  And again, ramming his boot into the cunt’s face, kicking out its teeth, dislocating, then shattering its jaw, splintering the orbits of the eyes…

 

And all the time blood was flying from the Sambo’s face and precum was flying from Mike’s hard cock.

 

By the time he’d regained control of himself, the young, hardbodied skinhead had managed to avoid orgasm, but the nigger hadn’t avoided death.  There was still a faint gurgling from the ruined crater that had been its face, but that was post-mortem.  The coon was meat.

 

Having heard the popping of Ed’s gun from the smoking lounge, Mike decided to saunter in that direction to see what we going on.  Behind him, piles of ape flesh twitched randomly on the bathroom floor.

 


 

The last coon in Ed’s batch was very young—just a niglet.  It didn’t look old enough to be in the club, but it was clearly a fag.  Hair in an expensive fade, each ear pierced multiple times with diamond studs inserted, a retro denim jacket over a green t-shirt with the words “Ride Me Cowboy” in yellow, skin-tight skinny jeans faded to the same shade as the jacket and a pair of white Converse trainers.

 

It was also sobbing uncontrollably, so terrified it didn’t hear Ed’s words.  It had already pissed itself and its jeans had dark streaks down each leg that originated at the crotch.  It made no resistance as Ed forced the gun into its mouth and pulled the trigger.

 

There was a loud click.  The nigger flinched and sobbed louder, but had no other reaction.  Ed pulled the gun out and turned back to the first nig.

 

“Looks like it’s back to you, boy.  Suck my rod, you fuckin’ faggot.”

 

The nigger shuddered inside its leather gear, closed its eyes and opened its mouth with no protest—having been beaten, its spirit had been shattered.  It was ready to obey.

 

It didn’t have to obey long.  There was a muffled pop inside its mouth and a sudden jet of blood and bone out the top of its head.  The older coon in the moto jacket fell dead to the floor with the grace of a sack of dirty laundry, and Ed was alone with the baby fag.

 

“Man, yer cryin’ is annoyin’,” he snarled as he pointed the gun at it and pulled the trigger repeatedly.  Two shots were fired, aimed randomly, and hit the coon in the torso, one a through-and-through shot that pierced the spleen, stomach and liver and one that shattered a rib, punctured a lung and lodged in the spinal column.  Suddenly paralyzed from the chest down, the teenaged niglet fell forward.

 

“Comin’ in,” Mike called from outside as a heads-up, then entered the room.  Each Nazi grinned fraternally at the sight of the other’s hard, oozing cock.

 

“Check this one out,” Ed said, indicating the baby homo, “C’mere an’ watch it die.”

 

The teen coon was looking at the muscle-bound skinheads in horror as it slowly suffocated, blood pooling in its non-functioning lungs.

 

“Does it hurt, ya stupid ape?” Mike jeered as he stroked his dick, “Hope it hurts like fuck, dumbass.”

 

Its eyes bulged and drool leaked over its thick lips as it spent its last moments on earth listening to the taunts of its sadistic, sexually aroused killers.

 

“Yer dyin’, ya sack a’ nigger shit,” Ed smirked, “Gettin’ a start on wipin’ all you fuckin’ useless jigaboos off the planet.  Burn in hell, nigger.”

 

The teen coon died, Ed’s voice ringing in its ears.

 

“Let’s go see if Jack’s offed all of his yet,” Mike suggested.  “I ain’t wasted near enough coons yet.”  They headed for the stairs.

 


 

“You fuckin’ cunt,” Jack growled, his deep bass voice vibrating with rage and suppressed lust as he stood over the sprawled nigger, “You fucked up so fuckin’ bad…”

 

The coon moaned and rubbed its head; the Lakers cap had fallen off when the monkey went down.  It looked up to find itself staring down the barrel of Jack’s Glock.  The Nazi motioned the nig into the toilet stall.

 

“In there, faggot.  You like gettin’ cocks shoved down ye throat?  You like drinkin’ piss, you fuckin perverted jigaboo?  You make me sick, you sack of shit.  Lick that toilet, nigger.  Get down on yer cocksuckin’ knees and run yer fuckin’ tongue all over it, you disgustin’ homo!”

 

The spade shuddered and closed its eyes but it had no choice; it knew that it’d end up with a slug in its brain if it didn’t obey.

 

What it didn’t know was how much more merciful as slug would have been.

 

After several minutes of loud slurping, Jack suddenly spoke up: “Bite it.”

 

The coon paused, confused.  Jack bent down and whispered.  The terrified jungle bunny could feel the skinhead’s goatee brush its face and his hot breath on its ear.  “Open yer fuckin’ nigger mouth and put yer fuckin’ nigger teeth on the edge of the lip like yer gonna bite a chunk out.”

 

The thug wanna-be tried to control its sobs, but it did as it was told.

 

Behind it, Jack stood up.  He raised his knee-high green Doc Marten boot and with no warning, power-stomped the back of the cunt’s head with such force he drove the nigger’s face through the bowl, shattering the porcelain.  Coon teeth scattered across the floor like a handful of dropped coins as the toilet was flowed out over the stunned nigger’s torn and mangled face.

 

Without a paused, Jack bent down, grabbed a handful of woolly hair and dragged the jigaboo out of the stall and over to the piss trough.  He bent it roughly over the edge; there was a loud snap and the faggot went limp in his arms—he’d broken its neck.

 

But it wasn’t dead.  And it could still sense things—like the nightmarish agony of Jack’s serrated knife slowly slicing its neck open like roast beef.

 

Satisfied, Jack pocketed his knife again and left the restroom.  Behind him, the last nigger still hadn’t been luck enough to die.  The angle of its head down in the trough and the fact that the carotid artery hadn’t been pierced meant that blood didn’t reach the wound until after it had reached the spade’s brain.  It hung in the piss trough, helpless, paralyzed, blood tricking down its face and its own piss pooling in its Timberlands.

 

Jack met Ed and Mike just as they were coming down the stairs. All three Aryan grinned at the sight of each other, manfully erect and spatter with nigger blood.

 

“Off to a good start?” Ed asked

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Jack grinned and gave the boys fist bumps.

 

There was a sudden scraping noise off to the side but a quick look reassured them that it was just the brain-damaged spic bar back having a seizure.  Its eyes were rolled back in its head, blood trickled from its nose and ears and its boots scuffled on the floor.  Nothing to worry about; the wetback had been neutralized.

 

“C’mon, let’s get back to the others,” Jack said, “Time to get the real fun started.”

 

“Yeah, what’s up?” Ed asked, “You never did say what you got planned.”

 

Jack grinned and slapped both Mike and Ed on the shoulder.  “Boys,” he said, smiling, “We’re gonna have us an ol’-fashioned nigger auction.”

 

—End of Part One

Trucker 18–Trucker vs Teen Fuckmeat

It was when he got off the interstate in Holbrook that the Trucker first began to notice how the wind was picking up.  While it was true that winter driving in the Arizona desert didn’t have the same dangers as, say, the Midwest, it was still cold—and now the wind was building.

 

An even colder front was moving in, and the straight-line winds were expected to be intense for the next twelve hours.  He was headed for a little place in the national forest south of Zeniff—a small consignment load—but he didn’t need to be there till tomorrow evening.  Might be a good idea to pull over and let the front pass through.

 

And anyway, he was overdue for a kill.

 

The urge had been building in him again; he was almost surprised how quickly it’d come back.  But the need to beat a faggot to a pulp and drain his balls into its quivering meat was almost overwhelming.  Maybe he’d find a playtoy at the next stop.

 

If there was a next stop.  The empty desert receded into the darkness on all sides surrounding the Trucker’s rig; as the wind increased, though visibility decreased as dust began to billow across the two-lane state highway.  Suddenly, the Trucker noticed a hazy glow in the distance.

 

It turned out to be an intersection in what was literally a one-traffic-light town.  A county road crossed the highway; to the south was a small cluster of ramshackle frame houses.  To the north, nothing was visible in the immediate area.  All four corners of the intersection were occupied.

 

To the Trucker’s immediate left was a truck stop—a small one, not part of a chain.  It’d give him a place to park, but it didn’t appear to have many amenities.  Two trucks were already in the lot, one hauling a Walmart trailer, the other a refrigerated unit.  On the other side of the county road was an ancient motor court motel, complete with neon sign.  Most of the neon was out, but enough remained for the Trucker to make out the name “Ranch Hand’s Rest”.

 

Continuing counter-clockwise, across the highway a dollar store, now closed for the night but with its parking lot still brightly lit.  The remaining corner was occupied by a fast-food joint, also closed for the evening.

 

The Trucker eased his rig into the lot and circled in the back, pulling around so that it was facing back out.  No sense in wasting valuable time later on trying to turn the thing around.  Once he was satisfied with his parking job, he killed the engine and climbed out.

 

He paused for a moment to zip his black leather aviator jacket up against the cold wind; underneath, he was wearing nothing but a thin cotton t-shirt.  His muscled legs, wrapped in tight, faded jeans, powered him swiftly across the parking lot towards the truck stop.  The heavy tread of his black Chippewa logger boots was almost muffled by the ragged gusts of icy air.

 

The air inside the truck stop wasn’t icy, but it was far less pleasant, heavily laden as it was with grease and the scorched scent of food that had been sitting under a heat lamp for too long.  The cashier, it appeared, also had to maintain a small “deli” with offerings of hard, dry chicken tenders, rubbery breakfast tacos and pizzas pooled with red grease.  There were a couple of booths between the counter and the racks of merchandise, but the entire place seemed empty.

 

“Men’s room?” the Trucker barked at the half-asleep cashier.

 

“In the back on the left,” she said with a jerk of her head to indicate the direction, then became instantly engrossed in her phone again.

 

The doorway to the rear hall was between two wall coolers.  The hallway was short, starkly lit, paved with tile, had two doors for two restrooms—and a boy.

 

He was leaning against the far wall, near the door to the men’s room, and he was eyeing the Trucker pretty openly.  He looked young—late teens at most, way too young to be whoring himself out.  And he was dressed like a typical teenager in a white fleece hoodie, skin-tight skinny jeans and white canvas Vann SK8-HIs.

 

But the way he leaned against the wall, one leg thrust out and bent back at the knee so the sole of his sneaker was on the wall—and the deep glittering light of lust in his large brown eyes…

 

The Trucker headed into the men’s room.  No sense rushing anything.  He’d let the kid make the first move; if the little fuck was looking for some dick, well, the Trucker would be happy to oblige.  He had plenty of dick to offer, and a lot more to go with it.

 

He was still standing at the urinal, grinning and pounding out piss, when he heard the door open behind him.  He didn’t even need to look to know it was the boy.

 

“How much to suck my cock, boy?” he asked evenly.

 

There was a faint gulp behind him, then the kid’s voice stammered forth, “Tw-twenty bucks.  Up-up front.”

 

“Not in here.  You got a place?”

 

“Uh, yeah—over in the motel.”

 

Without responding, the Trucker shook off his massive hog, shoved it back into his jeans, and stepped to the sink to wash his hands.  In the mirror, he could see the boy waiting anxiously behind him.  Even in the reflection, the thick bulge in the kid’s crotch was visible, and the way the boy kept rubbing his hand over it didn’t make it any less obvious.

 

The hulking sadist saw his own smile grow more pointed.  The little faggot wanted it bad.  And bad was exactly what he was gonna get.

 

“Okay,” the hardbodied sadist grunted, “Get out.  Wait for me outside.”

 

The kid blinked and paused for a moment.  “Uh—okay.  I’ll be out on the curb.  Name’s, uh, name’s Quinn…”

 

The Trucker ignored him.  There was another pause, then the kid left.

 

After washing up, the Trucker casually strolled back into the store and bought a cup of black coffee.  Figuring enough time had gone by to disassociate him from the boy, he headed back outside, sipping at his cup.

 

The coffee tasted like diesel fuel, but the fuckmeat was exactly where he was supposed to be.  The kid seemed eager, almost bouncing on the toes of his hightops.  “C’mon, this way,” he called out as the Trucker approached him.  The boy began to cross the street.  “I’ve got the one on the end, right here.  See?  Real close.  Got an arrangement with the manager; I get the same one every weekend.  Not like there’s enough business to hafta worry about it bein’ booked…”

 

The Trucker let the punk babble away, focusing his attention on the way the kid’s tight jeans cradled the firm mounds of his asscheeks and anticipating what it’d feel like to force the swollen purple head of his cock between them.

 

“…and man, if my folks found out what I was doin’, I’d be in such deep shit.  I mean, fuck, dude, I got my big bro’s car while he’s off at school—he’d beat the shit outta me if he knew.  And my dad…”

 

The boy kept on, the silent footfalls of his Vanns drowned out by the heavy tread of the Trucker’s Chippewas, as he led the way back to his room—and to his doom.

 

As he’d said, it was the room on the end, marked with a small plastic plaque inscribed “17”.  Directly in front of the door sat a black 2010 Mustang convertible—the car the little fuck wasn’t supposed to be driving.  It was one of three cars in the lot—and one of those, parked way over by the office, was evidently the night clerk’s.

 

Inside, the quality of the motel matched its occupancy rate.  As the Trucker leaned back against the door on surreptitiously engaged both the deadbolt and the chain lock, he glanced around to take a quick survey of the room.

 

The room was unpleasantly dim, with cheap worn carpeting in a shade of dark green not popular since the seventies—from which decade the dark, splintery plywood paneling seemed to come as well.  There was a bed, covered by a scratchy polyester comforter with a gaudy floral pattern, with a nightstand that held a phone, a digital alarm clock and metal lamp with a dented shade.

 

There was a desk/dresser combo unit, cigarette burns scattered over its surface like chicken pox.  The mirror over the desk section was intact but badly warped; just looking at the skewed reflection made the Trucker dizzy.  A small flat screen TV stood on the dresser, pointed at the bed, next to it was a cable box.

 

Just past the dresser was the opening into the restroom.  Even from the entrance, the Trucker could see the cracks in the grout between the ancient white tiles.  And it didn’t take a drug-sniffing dog to determine the bathroom was the source of the overpowering scent of cheap antiseptic that almost—but not quite—drowned out the reek of stale cigarette smoke.  Not that the AC unit was helping the air quality.  Located under the front window, it rattled and clanked like a rollercoaster as it exuded fetid puffs of dry, scorching air into the already-overheated room.

 

While the Trucker scoped out the room, Quinn pulled off his hoodie, showing that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath.  The skin on his slim, boyish torso was firm and clear.  There was a faint down of hair on his flat belly, but otherwise his chest was smooth but for his large pink nipples.

 

“I get paid first, dude.  Sorry, but it’s a house rule.  Gotta have the cash up front,” he said casually as he sat on the bed and kicked off his sneakers—they were loosely laced and left untied for easy on/off action, it seemed.

 

The Trucker, in the middle of sliding off his leather jacket, grinned.  “Sure,” he said nonchalantly as he folded the jacket over the back of the chair by the desk.  He dug into his back pocket and fished out his wallet, taking a twenty out and replacing the wallet.  The kid wasn’t paying attention; he was too busy trying to peel his skin-tight jeans off.  The Trucker palmed the bill and pulled his own t-shirt off, laying it over his jacket.

 

Finally out of his clothes—he’d been freeballing under the jeans—Quinn slipped his kicks back on and stood up.  “Hey, I gotta hit the restroom real quick; you wanna—”

 

He broke off at his first glimpse of the Trucker half-dressed, wearing only his jeans and laced workboots.  The twink’s greedy little eyes went straight to the glittering point of light in the middle of the hunk’s muscular, fur-covered chest—the Trucker’s dogtags, nestled in the dark mass of wiry fur between the huge mounds of his pecs.

 

Quinn’s dick, already hard, began to visibly pulsate.  Smirking, the Trucker held out the twenty.  The boy gulped and reached out for it unsteadily, still focused on the stud’s amazing physique.  “I, uh…thanks…” he mumbled, turning and laying on the nightstand.  As he turned, he heard the unmistakable sound of the Trucker unzipping his fly.

 

He was right.  When he turned back around, the hardbodied killer had managed to extract the full length of his enormous, vein-wrapped horsedick.

 

Despite Quinn’s obvious desire to get to the bathroom, the Trucker’s cock hypnotized him like a snake hypnotizing its prey.  And though Quinn had no way of knowing it yet, its venom was just as deadly.

 

The slow, steady of movement of the Trucker removing his belt broke the trance.  The clank of the large brushed-silver buckle and the stealthy sound of the inch-and-a-half wide strap of black leather sliding among the denim loops stirred something in Quinn.

 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll be right back…” he said hesitantly, then darted into the bathroom and locked the door.  Behind him, the Trucker laid the belt over his shirt and jacket.  He could afford to be patient.

 

Quinn wasn’t as quiet in the bathroom as he thought he was; even through the closed door, the Trucker could hear the click of a lighter and the hissing, bubbling sound of the kid inhaling some kind of drug.  In a small town like this, that probably meant meth.

 

Well, that was fine.  Little fuck should be off his guard when he came out.

 

The Trucker was right.  Thirty seconds later and high as fuck, Quinn stepped out of the bathroom with a big grin on his face and a big erection between his legs.  “Hey, man, yer gonna hafta take it easy with that big dick you—”

 

The Trucker sucker-punched the teen in the jaw.  Stunned, Quinn slammed back into the bathroom door, then slumped to the floor—not unconscious, but too dazed to be functional.  He was aware that the buff older man had hit him, and had then moved away.

 

“Wh-wh-wh…” he tried to start, but speaking hurt.  A lot.

 

Then he heard a harsh slapping sound—a single slap, actually, repeated slowly and menacingly.  Painfully turning his head, Quinn tried to see what was happening.

 

He was at ground level, looking across.  The first thing he could see were the untied laces of the Trucker’s dirty, well-worn Chippewas.  Raising his eyes up the thick, denim-clad legs, he was again confronted by the sadist’s frighteningly huge cock.  But the source of the sound was above that.  Quinn looked up to see the cruel serial killer standing over him with the doubled-over belt in one hand, ginning and slapping the palm of his other hand with it.

 

“Wh-whath’fuck?” the young faggot managed to mutter.

 

“Just gonna have a little fun, dude,” the Trucker chuckled, his deep bass voice vibrating the root of Quinn’s cock, still somehow semi-hard even after the assault.  “Just gonna beat the fuck outta ya, rape yer worthless homo ass, and snuff ya—don’t that sound like fun?”

 

Quin glanced up in disbelief just in time to see the Trucker’s powerful arm snap downward.  Cringing, the lean teenager threw his left arm up to block the blow.  It turned out to be an excruciating maneuver.  Even doubled over, the thick leather strap hit the boy’s arm with such force, it wrapped itself around it momentarily.  With sadistically perfect timing, the Trucker viciously jerked the belt back towards himself.

 

The snapping of the bones in Quinn’s forearm breaking was less noticeable than the shearing sound as an inch-and-a-half wide strip of the outer layer of skin completely circling his arm was flayed off.

 

For a moment, the amateur boywhore sat wide-eyed, staring in horror at his raw, dangling forearm—then the pain hit and he screamed.  Briefly.

 

“Shaddap,” the Trucker snarled and lashed him across the face.

 

That got a quick, loud shriek, then the boy collapsed to the floor.  The Trucker stood over him for a moment, looking down, gloating, and fondling his stiff manhood.  Then he dug into the pockets of his folded jacket, pulled out his pack of Marlboros and leaned back to burn one as the punk queerboy sobbed sloppily on the floor.

 

“You lucky-ass motherfucker,” he jeered, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the already stale air of the motel room, “You get to take my load.  I was lookin’ for some hot boymeat for a beatdown and a good pump an’ dump—an’ there you were.  Course, a dumbass teen fag like you takes a lotta beatin’ ‘fore its ready for my dick.”  He paused for effect, taking another drag.  The fuckmeat was still sniveling, but it was listening.

 

Good.  It needed to know what to expect.  It needed to be prepared to receive his shaft, and that meant a good manual tenderizing.

 

He stubbed out his smoke.  “Ready, motherfucker?  I’m gonna beat ya like a bitch, just cause it gets my dick hard to hurt teenaged faggots before I dick ‘em down.  Got it?  Then let’s get started.”  Standing over the prone youth, he brandished the belt again, wielding it like a whip and brought it down on smooth, silky flesh of Quinn’s back with a sound like a pistol shot.

 

This time Quinn didn’t squeal or shriek; he flat-out screamed.  The intense, slashing pain across his tender adolescent flesh was too much to endure.  He scrabbled wildly on the floor on all fours like an animal, then, regaining his feet as if by magic, bolted right past the Trucker, heading for the door.

 

The Trucker lunged after him, more out of rage that the faggot was trying to avoid what was coming to it than out of any concern it would get free.  His experience with snuffing homos in motel rooms served him well; Quinn managed to get the deadbolt unlocked with the hand on his working arm, but maddened by pain and terror, fumbled uselessly with the chain.  The twink slut’s escape attempt was as useless as everything else in his wasted life.

 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, then was whirled around and pinned up against the door, slamming it shut again.  Then, before the young cunt could say anything, plead for its life, anything—the Trucker’s right hand shot out and clamped around its throat like a vise.  Quinn gagged involuntarily, his eye wide as his air was cut off and he was literally deadlifted straight off the floor.

 

As his hightops drummed against the door, Quinn could see the massive bicep of the Trucker’s arm bulging with seemingly effortless power while holding him off the ground.  The buff older man tossed the belt over his shoulder, then reached out with his left hand, over Quinn’s shoulder—and re-locked the deadbolt.

 

“Where ya think yer goin’ motherfucker?” the Trucker asked Quinn with a cold, hard grin on his hyper-masculine face, “This party ain’t even got started yet, you cunt.  I gotta work off a little stress before I can settle down and choke yer faggot life out with my dick up yer ass.  I toldja that already, but you small-town homos gotta have everything beaten into ya, right, dumbass?”

 

Quinn, his face purple and swelling, was in no position to answer back.  His legs and his good arm scrambled frantically as he dangled and choked in the sadistic serial killer’s powerful grip.  He pawed frenetically at the Trucker’s broad chest.  The stud’s pecs, hard as marble, suffered no visible damage from the twink’s one-handed onslaught, but once Quinn curled his fingers in the older man’s wiry chest hair and began pulling, the dying punk became a nuisance.  And when he caught the Trucker’s dogtags inadvertently and nearly yanked them off, the buff psycho had had enough.  He spun around and flung Quinn through the air with the ease of a rag doll.

 

Violent motion, an even more violent impact, then a hazy darkness filled with pain were what Quinn experienced next.  He didn’t know he’d been thrown into the dresser and that his smooth young teen body had broken the mirror and smashed the television before it fell back limp to the floor.  What he did know, when he became aware of his surroundings, was that he was in agony—and he could hear that slapping sound again.

 

The guy was coming back.  The hot, sexy guy, the one he’d wanted so bad…the one who was hurting him so bad…

 

Quinn forced his eyes open.  Again, he was at ground level.  Again, those dirty Chippewa boots were approaching…but this time, he knew what it meant.  But he’d let his mind wander.  He was only vaguely aware of the sudden movement of his assailant, and didn’t even have time to flinch as the Trucker swung the belt at him again.

 

Except this time, it wasn’t a single swing.

 

As Quinn cowered and squealed like a pig under the repeated lashes of the heavy belt, the muscle-bound sadist felt his huge, stallion-like shaft begin to pulse and ooze with bloodlust.  Every loud slap of leather on skin, every bleat of agony from the crouching, helpless teen slut, propelled another drop of hot precum out of the thick purple head of his dick.

 

Then, for a moment, it stopped.  The Trucker stepped away, fired up another smoke, and observed his prey for a moment.

 

The youth’s back was no longer the smooth expanse of pale silky skin it had been before.  The Trucker’s foreplay had left the slut covered in red, angry welts.  On at least two occasions, the violent lashing had broken the boy’s skin, and a thin trickle of blood was creeping down the whimpering kid’s flank.

 

The Trucker took another drag, walked back to the prone, shuddering punk and knelt down by his head.  He exhaled the smoke into the cunt’s face.  “Ya ready, motherfucker?” the buff killer asked jovially.  “Ready to die on my cock like a worthless fag?”

 

Quinn was swimming in a sea of pain, but he was aware enough to understand what was being said to him.

 

“N-no…” he gasped, turning his huge, tear-filled eyes up to his tormentor in desperation, “Pl-please…no-no…”

 

“You ain’t ready?” the Trucker taunted in mock surprise, “Ok, I guess I need to kick some sense into ya, huh?”

 

And without another work, he drew back his foot and kicked Quinn in the side with his steel-toed work boot, hard enough to break two of the little fuck’s ribs in several places.  The writhing cunt’s shrieks of pain began to annoy the brutal sadist; his next kick was directly to Quinn’s face, silencing the faggot by breaking his jaw.  The boy continued to sob and moan as the Trucker kicked him twice more in the flank, breaking more ribs and further shattering the ones he’d already broken.

 

By the time the Trucker stopped kicking Quinn and, shoving the toe of a boot under him, flipped him over onto his back, the teen homo was bleeding internally from half a dozen wounds to his guts caused by bone shards.  As he lay on his back, gasping, his sweet young face a bloody wreck, the Trucker leaned over him, spit in his face, then stomped him twice, leaving the imprint of the deep tread of his boots imprinted on the boy’s flat belly.  Then he bent down and ground out the glowing butt of his smoke on the whore’s smooth, tender flesh.  It sizzled for a moment before the sadistic alpha reached out for the boymeat again.

 

Quinn’s entire universe had shrunk to a tiny bubble of agony; trapped inside it, the kid wasn’t able to realize that the hardbodied psycho had picked him up by the throat again—the young cunt couldn’t breathe anyway.  And he was barely able to register the sense of flight as he was flung like garbage across the room again.

 

He damn sure felt it when he hit the wall and crushed a hole in the drywall, though.  He felt it even more when he fell back and smashed the nightstand, sending everything on it crashing to the floor.  And even as he bounced back, to lay stretched and trembling across the bed, he could hear a jangling noise that made him look up.

 

The Trucker had looped the belt around his own neck at some point—the noise was the silver buckle striking the dogtags as the powerful sadist closed in.  As Quinn watched, the older man slowly drew the belt from his neck.  Grinning with evil lust, he held the looped leather strap out as he approached the trapped, defenseless teenager.

 

And Quinn realized that the moment that strap got around his neck, he was dead.  Even if he hadn’t been injured, he was in no way strong enough to fend off the hairy, muscled serial killer he’d willingly invited in.

 

The Trucker tossed the belt down onto the bed next to Quinn’s head; the boy would have grabbed for it but for his broken arm—and the fact that he was paralyzed by terror.  The sinewy, hulking killer loomed over him, grinning with obviously sadistic intent, the slowly turned and paced to the end of the bed, letting Quinn get a look at the way his lat muscles tensed and flowed and the tight bunching of his glutes as he walked.  The man literally exuded power in his pheromones and his physique managed to inspire Quinn with both lust and despair—the latter because the more he saw of the Trucker, the more futile he felt any escape attempt to be.

 

The hardbodied stud stopped at the foot of the bed, grabbed the teen’s legs, and parted them effortlessly, despite Quinn’s best attempts to keep them closed.  It didn’t matter.  Nothing he did mattered.  And then there was a sudden pressure against his sphincter—

 

“Keep fightin’ it, faggot, I love when th’ meat squirms on my thick fuckin’ manshaft,” the Trucker sneered, and shoved.

 

Quinn screamed.  Loud and shrill, it was torn from the depths of his slim teenaged body as the older man’s huge cock plowed through his rectum like a runaway train, ripping his asshole mercilessly as it pounded his prostate and plunged into his intestines.  In the nightmarish waves of searing pain that pummeled his lithe, smooth form with each brutal thrust of the Trucker’s hips, the young homo wasn’t aware that his own tube of boymeat was stiffly slapping his rapist’s ripped abs—and was already smearing the Trucker’s belly fur with teen precum.  He just kept screaming.

 

Not for long, though.  “Shaddap, ya fuckin’ bitch,” the Trucker grunted and punched Quinn in the face, rocking his head back.  The kid moaned and peered blearily up at his assailant through his right eye—the left one was already swelling and turning black.

 

“Fuck yeah, ya dumbass cunt,” the sick stud growled as he placed the punk’s legs on his shoulders and dug his work boots into the sheets for better traction, “Now yer feelin’ me, yeah?  Huh?  Lemme know if you can feel this!”  He began to ride the teenaged slut like a bronco, pounding his shaft so hard and so fast into Quinn’s colon that his huge scrote slapped the boy’s hormone-filled balls like billiards, striking with such force that it damn near bruised the kid’s sack.

 

Instinctively, Quinn closed his eyes and tried to struggle, but the heavy mass of the muscled stud pinned him down prostrate on the bed.  He could hear a jingling somewhere but didn’t connect it to the Trucker’s dogtags until he felt the cold metal on his chest.  He opened his eyes—to the extent he could open the left—and found the older man’s hard, unshaven face next to his.

 

“It’s been fun, fuckmeat, but I gotta get some rest.  Time to blow a load and go catch some Z’s.  Time to die.”

 

He held up the belt, giving the terrified cocksucker a gentle smile that he couldn’t hold.  It broadened into a shark-like grin almost immediately.

 

“Ready to get yer pitiful life choked out, faggot?”

 

The lithe young teen was in more pain and more fear than he could have believed possible, but the thought of being released from his torment into the dark freedom of death filled him with cold terror.  “No, please,” he whimpered, “Please, don’t—”

 

The Trucker looped the belt back through its buckle, making a simple noose.  Quinn kept babbling.

 

“Oh fuck no, please, please, oh god, please, for fuck’s sake don’t do this—”

 

The Trucker grinned again.  With his enormous rod still planted firmly in the boy’s ass, he slowly lowered the leather noose over the kid’s head.

 

“Oh god no please no fuck oh shit oh fuck don’t nonoNONO—GACK!!”

 

His pleas were choked off as the Trucker jerked the thick strap tight, sealing off Quinn’s windpipe and silencing the faggot forever.

 

The young homo fought with the strength left in him; consciously, he knew it was hopeless, but the animal midbrain in his adolescent mind continued to try to claw its way to air.  Sadly for the teen slut, the fact that he was flailing both arms in panic didn’t prevent him from feeling every last agonizing grind of bone on bone as his broken arm thrashed impotently.

 

His right arm and hand worked perfectly well, though.  The Trucker watched the cunt dig vainly at the leather belt sunk deep into its throat flesh.  As the lean teen body shuddered beneath him, his wiry body hair scraped the smooth young flesh.

 

Suddenly, Quinn changed his focus.  His hand came up, fingers hooked into talons, and he began to gouge at the older man’s face. The Trucker was still pumping steadily, feeling the sperm start to seethe in his overloaded, aching balls—he had no intention of taking any shit from a goddam sack of fuckmeat that was only still alive because he hadn’t cum yet.

 

He plowed his fist into its face three times in a row; fast, jackhammer blows that squashed the bitch’s nose like a rotten tomato, with a nice satisfying squelching sound, blackened its other eye and knocked out three teeth.

 

The last impact, the one that knocked out the teeth, was to the lower jaw.  But the dying meat had been without air long enough for its tongue to start swelling, protruding from between the blue lips with a gush of foamy drool.  The hardbodied stud’s sucker-punch snapped the jaw closed; the cunt bit through its tongue, damn near severing the tip.

 

“Fuckin’ take it,” the rutting alpha snarled, spitting in the fuckmeat’s face, his spittle flowing into the pink foam trickling down the punk’s face, “Take my fuckin’ dick and die, ya piece a’ shit!”

 

As their bellies slapped together in the throes of violently forced mansex, the Trucker could feel the teen’s hard, oozing cock being pressed against his furry ripped abs.  The little fuck was nearly brain-dead, but asphyxia and the vigorous prostate massage provided by brutal assrape kept its tool stiff and leaking.

 

The Trucker was almost there.  He could feel his seed starting to boil over, the electric tingling deep at the root of his gigantic rod that let him know he was about to spew his thick potent alpha load.  The meat needed to die.  Now.

 

It was almost there anyway.  Quinn was gone; all that was left was a convulsing sack of teen boymeat.  The swollen face, bruised and black, was unrecognizable.  The entire thrashing body was covered in cold death sweat, literally squeezed out of it along with its worthless life.  The cunt’s left arm was convulsing just as powerfully as the right, the broken limb flopping grotesquely about.

 

And still the boymeat drooled and gurgled.  The Trucker had to feel it die, had to feel that final clenching of its colon as it suffered its final agony.  It was easy enough to do.

 

He jerked the belt forward, roughly, swiftly, with one hand while swinging with the other fist, deep, piston-like punches that drove the fag’s skull savagely backwards.  As the thick strap around the spine went in one direction and the cranium on top of it went another, there was a loud crackling noise—the erotic sound of the teen fuckmeat’s top two cervical vertebrae shattering and slashing through its spinal column.

 

That was what the Trucker had been waiting for—that final intense overload of the central nervous system.  Oh fuck, the way the boycunt’s rectum seemed to collapse on his tool, almost sucking his scalding semen out—

 

“Fuck!” he cried out, “Fuck! Fuck! OH FUCK!!!”

 

He hunched over, his massive, muscle-bound body shuddering and convulsing itself as he pressed the still-thrashing corpse of the teenager beneath him, cursing and beating its face in.  Despite the intensity of his release, the alpha was dimly aware of a splash of warmth against his abs and up into his thick chest fur as the meat unloaded involuntarily during its death throes.  It didn’t matter.

 

The Trucker had so much cum to drain out of his balls he spent the next five minutes hosing the dead slut’s innards with his hot manseed.  After his scrote emptied, he spent another couple of minutes relaxing and catching his breath with his cock still jammed up the dead kid’s ass.  Finally, reluctantly, he took a deep breath, pulled his hog out of the corpse, and headed to the bathroom to wash up.

 

He wasn’t in any hurry.  He wasn’t in a position to know that the boycunt had spent the entire weekend whoring itself out, but he’d figured out enough to know that the little fuck was getting banged here on a regular basis.  And he’d made damn sure no one had seen them together, or had seen him enter this room.  Or even approach the motel, for that matter.

 

It took a few minutes to scrub the thick ropy strands of boyspunk out of his chest and belly fur, but he had enough experience to know that teen boys are cum bombs, full of semen, waiting to go off at any moment.  He was an expert at setting them off, and didn’t mind cleaning up some of the mess afterwards.

 

Only some of it, though.  As he re-entered the bedroom and slipped his shirt back on, he lit up a traditional after-sex cigarette and leaned back against the door, proudly surveying his handiwork.

 

The body was sprawled face-up on the bed, legs and arms both spread wide, with the left arm bent at an unnatural angle.  He’d left the belt where it was; it was sunk so deeply into the fucker’s neck, it’d probably have to be cut off.

 

Above the collapsed section of the esophagus, there was little recognizable of the boywhore once known as Quinn.  Even the hair was matted and dark with sweat.  The face was a grotesque swollen purple mask.  The body, aside from the left arm and some heavy bruising on the torso, was relatively unmarked, but the torso was completely smeared with cum.

 

The corpse’s feet still shuddered and kicked as random signals shot down its ruined nervous system.  One of the cunt’s Vann hightops had come off and was on the floor beside the bed; the Trucker could see the toes curling in death agony inside the ankle-high ped sock.  The other hightop sneaker scraped and jerked randomly over the cheap thin sheet.

 

The room itself was mute testimony to the violence of the Trucker’s need to cum.  The TV and mirror were in pieces on the floor, the wall over the head of the bed was damaged and the nightstand and its contents destroyed.

 

The hardbodied alpha grinned and finished his smoke.  Just looking at the scene made his cock throb again, but he needed sleep.  He slipped on his leather jacket and quickly left the room, setting the lock in the doorknob to engage as he left.  Whoever entered the room next would need a key.

 

It was past two in the morning as his Chippewa boots echoed on the pavement as he crossed back to his cab.  No one was out to see him.  He gave the truck stop itself a wide berth to avoid being spotted by anyone at the counter and made it back to his rig unobserved.  He slept for five hours and was back on the road again by half-past seven.  There was no sign of any disturbance as he left; the motel across the street, at that time of the morning, was dead as a doornail and silent as a tomb.

 


 

The call had come in at ten in the morning, and it damn sure wasn’t how the sheriff wanted to start his week.  A fuckin’ murder.  He hadn’t had to deal with a homicide in this place…ever.

 

And then that scene.  His deputy had come outta the room puking, and the sheriff couldn’t blame him.  That teenaged boy with his legs spread and a thick flow of dried glazed cum that had leaked from his asshole, the sheer cruelty and viciousness of the attack…

 

And the parents.  He’d traced them through the car.  They didn’t know he’d taken it.  And when they found out what had happened to their eighteen-year-old son, what he’d spent the past year doing in that little motel…

 

And the gossip.  He’d stomped on the local paper—there was only one little weekly—and made sure that the story didn’t get spread.  But everyone knew.  A fag murder, right in their town.  Even the homo’s parent suffered.  The car was towed to be processed for evidence; when they came to town from Zeniff to pick it up, three days later, their house was vandalized.

 

Goddam faggots, the sheriff mused.  Should all be killed.  Nothin’ but trouble.