Rocko, Riding Rough

It after two am on Saturday morning before the door to the motel room opened and the trick emerged.  Barely visible behind him stood Jeremy, clad in nothing but a jockstrap and tightly laced combat boots—the fucking whore.

Gritting his teeth in anger, Rocko’s hands gripped the steering wheel of the old Ford so tightly they went white.  Just seeing the adolescent cunt’s lithe body and strawberry-blond buzzcut made the killer’s rage boil over.  His mind went back to the last time he’d seen the little fuck.

It had been two weeks ago—could it really have been that long?—and Rocko had been drunk.  He usually was these days; it helped release some of the pent-up anger that was corroding his homicidally aggressive soul.  The sex with Jeremy that night was been rough—really rough—but it wasn’t like the faggot didn’t deserve it.  Or want it, no matter how much it protested.

Rocko had gotten high afterwards, and that was where he’d made his mistake.  The combination of alcohol and marijuana had left him groggy.  In fact, he’d actually passed out at one point; he’d regained consciousness at the muffled, stealthy sound of the whoreboy trying to silently close a dresser drawer.

“Wha—” the escaped convict muttered thickly.

“I’m leaving, Rocko,” the boy said.  “I can’t do this anymore.  You hurt me, man, you hurt me too many times.  You scare me, dude.  When we met, I thought…” Jeremy’s voice trailed off as he stifled a sob.

Raising his head, Rocko noticed for the first time that the homo’s smooth young face was streaked with tears and sported an impressive shiner.  The muscle-bound sadist hadn’t remembered doing that—which was disappointing.  Looked like it’d been fun as all fuck.  He also noticed that the eighteen-year-old whore was carrying the backpack in which he’d toted his meagre collection of clothing when he’d first moved in with Rocko.

“Don’t try to stop me. Rocko,” Jeremy went on, “Don’t come after me.  Remember, I know who you are.  I know you’re a wanted man.  If I so much as think I see you, I’m calling the cops.  I mean it, bro.”

And with that, the teen rentboy walked out on him.

As the memory flowed through his mind, Rocko removed his hands from the steering wheel.  One had instinctively balled itself into a fist; he used the other to cradle it, desperately resisting the urge to punch out the car window.  As furious as he was, that would be stupid.  There was another, much more appropriate target for his rage and hatred.

No one ever walked out on Rocko.  And no one ever, ever threatened him—and got away with it.

And for Rocko, “getting away with it” was defined as surviving making the threat. 

There was a liter of Wild Turkey 101 riding shotgun.  He grabbed it by the neck and deftly opened it with the thumb and forefinger of the same hand that was holding it.  Taking a couple of hefty swigs, the muscled killer closed the bottle and climbed out of his car.   The moment the thick soles of his black leather harness boots hit the pavement, he dropped the booze back onto the driver’s seat and closed the car door—very, very quietly.

For a moment Rocko stood in the shadows by the motel room door.  It was a chilly night against which the hardbodied sadist’s jeans, as faded as they were tight, and size-too-small cotton wifebeater did little to protect.  Despite that, Rocko’s body, bedewed with sweat, glistened on the rare moments a stray beam from the sodium light that stood forty feet away, illuminating the entrance to the parking lot, fell upon his bare skin.  Anger and alcohol had combined to stoke the insatiable fires within.

He moved to the door and cautiously tried the knob.  He was able to open it a tiny bit—just a little, but enough to let him see that while the knob had been left unlocked, the chain was on the door.

Stupid little cunt, Rocko thought contemptuously, It needs this.  Fuck, it WANTS this.  It’s makin’ this way too easy for it not to want it.

He raised his boot and slammed it against the door.  The cheap wood screws used to secure the chain’s hardware gave way on the door end first; a doorstop screwed into the wall behind it halted the violent movement of the door itself.  Rocko stepped into the room with perfect timing, catching the door before it could bounce back and closing it swiftly but quietly behind himself.  Just as silently, he ensured that this time, the knob itself was locked—and the deadbolt.

The scene with which he was presented was one that made his most sadistic urges begin seething.

Jeremy had been lying on his back, smoking a joint, when Rocko burst in; he’d managed to get himself propped up on one elbow before he realized what was happening and had frozen in horror.

Something was exchanged between them, something best described as a mutual recognition of the realities of the situation.  Namely, that Jeremy was now locked into a room with a man who not only bore him a grudge, not only was an escaped felon, but was also a gay serial killer.

He’d thought he’d been pretty smart about that threat to rat Rocko out.  It wasn’t that he didn’t fear Rocko—the dude scared the living shit outta him—but in his teenaged naivety, he’d assumed it’d make him reconsider long enough for Jeremy to get several blocks away.  And after that, he’d assumed, Rocko would eventually forget about it…

But he hadn’t.  He was here, oh fuck he’s here…  And he was drunk.  Even from across the room, the sour smell of fermentation was evident.

Jeremy wasn’t aware of the slackening of his bladder—largely because he didn’t piss himself.  His dick was achingly—and bewilderingly—erect.  But this commanded such a small part of his attention at the moment that it was more or less ignored. He dropped his roach on the cheap, chemically-infused carpet, where it smoldered poisonously for a minute before going out

But from the moment Rocko’s dark eyes, the visual equivalent of the black hole’s irresistible gravitational tug, locked into those of the adolescent punk—glittering, cat-eye-green, and dilated in panic—one thing was known to both of them with utter, absolute certainty. 

Only one of them was gonna leave that room alive.

And that one wasn’t gonna be Jeremy.

“You worthless little sack of shit,” Rocko said, his calm and completely clear enunciation somehow more terrifying than if he’d blurted the words out in a drunken slur.  Because he was drunk; that was obvious.  His inhibitions were lowered and the inner rage that seethed beneath his surface like magma was starting to erupt.

Except it wasn’t exploding like a volcano.  It had narrowed its focus with the intensity of a laser onto one thing, and one thing only.

And that thing was making the fuckmeat understand that Rocko owned it—and making sure the understanding lasted for the rest of its life.

It was a form of instinct that made Jeremy rise from the bed; certainly, his conscious mind was too overwhelmed by shock to react with some sort of action.  From the point of view of the teenaged whore, everything seemed to have slowed down to quarter speed, especially himself.  There was a brief sense of déjà vu, disorienting, nauseating, and vaguely frightening—he’d experienced this before in a nightmare, this sense of slowly watching his own doom without being able to alter anything in the least.

So there was no surprise as Rocko’s arm flashed towards his face.  Jeremy couldn’t even react fast enough to flinch.  The surprise was the nothingness that hit him before he could actually process the pain of the blow; the only thing he knew before the lights went out was that he wasn’t dead—yet.

Pain.  Pain, and constriction, and…and binding.  Jeremy was hurt; his face ached abominably.  So did his hands and his wrists.  As the flutter of his long eyelashes betrayed his return to consciousness, he began to untangle the sensations of profound discomfort he was getting from his arms.

He was lying on his back with his arms twisted awkwardly behind him.  He jerked them almost reflexively only to confirm the feeling of being bound—his hands were tied at the wrist.  Had he not been so dazed by being punched in the head, he might have noticed how loose his combat boots now were and realized what had happened to the black nylon laces.

The adolescent’s lucidity was in no way helped once his eyes were fully open.  Looming over him was Rocko, now shirtless, the thick, meaty muscles of his arms writhing with prison tattoos of indistinct but menacing forms.  The dingy yellow shade of the bedside lamp washed the yellow out of the hardbodied killer’s strawberry-blond goatee and buzz-cut hair, leaving it looking almost copper.

But this was all familiar to Jeremy.   That furry chest, those powerful slabs of pure male muscle, yes; he knew it well.

That cock, that monstrous shaft of meat—oh fuck, he knew what that meant.  Rocko never got that hard with Jeremy unless he was planning to hurt him.

But Jeremy had never seen Rocko so excited that his gigantic tool throbbed visibly.  And then, to the boy’s horror, a large bead of precum, as transparent and glistening as a dewdrop appeared in the center of the massive head.

The punk jerked his head up, only to catch Rocko’s malevolent grin.  The latter was holding up an object, the domestic nature of which was so discordant with Jeremy’s terror-inducing reality, that it took him a few seconds to realize that Rocko was holding an ordinary electric steam iron.

Jeremy hadn’t given the thing a second thought when he’d gotten the room.  He was no stranger to this hotel; he’d been fucked in nearly every room here.  The place occasionally got raided by Vice or the drug squad.  In a rather pathetic attempt to make it look like he ran a respectable, family-friendly establishment, the owner had added amenities like coffee makers, irons, and hair dryers to the rooms. 

None of the items matched and it was well-known that the owner expected to suffer a certain amount of pilfering from his clientele.  Every “amenity” he supplied was gotten for pennies from the local pawn shops, largely as forfeited pledges that turned out to be non-functional.  To Jeremy, these things were simply more of the background squalor in which he wasted his short life.

But now, with the way Rocko was holding the iron in one hand while wrapping the cord around the other, grinning down at him, the helpless teen slut realized that if anyone could make anything into a weapon, that dude was Rocko.

“Hey, bro, glad to see yer awake again,” the sadistic felon said.  “I been waitin’ for ya, motherfucker.  See, you gotta learn, faggot.  Now, how ya gonna learn—really, really learn—if yer fuckin’ asleep, huh?”

Rocko’s cruel glee had become almost physically painful.  And it only got worse.

“You gotta learn what happens to fuckmeat that thinks it ain’t mine.  That’s some bad thinkin’, boy.  That means yer brains ain’t workin’ right.”

Here he knelt down and delivered a knockout blow to the kid’s psyche that was every bit as devastating and much more vicious than the physical punch had been.  Rocko kissed Jeremy, deeply, forcefully, his muscular tongue probing the teenager’s esophagus and leaving behind the smoky residue of straight bourbon.  As Jeremy shuddered, his agile young hormone-filled body instinctively reacting to the older man’s powerful cocktail of pheromones, testosterone, and adrenaline, Rocko lowered his head, his five-days-worth of unshaven scruff rasping against the homo’s smooth boyish cheek, until his mouth reached the level of Jeremy’s ear.

“Don’t worry, fuckmeat,” Rocko whispered tenderly, “I’m good at resettin’ faggot brains.  I reset ‘em so good, they don’t ever forget who they belong to.  Ever.  Ya feelin’ me, my dude?  Ever.

After that, it wasn’t a fair fight.  The experienced alpha fagkiller had established his dominance right away and the young scumshit pansy wasted half its energy fighting its own terror.  More than that, though—Rocko established physical control as well.  Even as Jeremy’s lean but muscular body went rigid in instinctual anticipation of pain, Rocko leaned forward and wrapped the cord of the steam iron around the adolescent’s neck.

For the next hundred and twenty seconds, the teenaged whore struggled harder and more desperately than it ever had in its short, useless life.  The physical and psychological impacts of being strangled to death combined with Rocko’s terrifying hate/lust to spin the punk into a mindless panic.

Rocko was grasping the iron itself in one hand and the plug on the other; he’d simply looped the cord once around the meat’s neck and pulled it as tight as he could.  As his thick, manly biceps bulged with the frightening force of his psychotic anger, the cord itself gave way, tearing free of the iron.

The free end of the cord whipped around the kid’s neck, releasing the pressure on his esophagus, but flaying the skin from around his throat.  No major blood vessels were damaged, but that didn’t stop pinpricks of blood from welling up inside the quarter-inch band of raw flesh that encircled the fucker’s neck.

Now able to inhale, Jeremy came back to himself.  Now that the black vortex of abject terror had momentarily subsided, he could acutely feel all the damage done to his throat, both inside and out.  Even before the overwhelming pounding had faded from his foggy mind, he was aware—and somehow humiliated by the fact—that his thick boycock was erect and pulsing, despite everything that was happening to him.

Rocko was aware of it, too.  His laughter was raucous and cruel.  “Goddam, fuckface!  I knew—I fuckin’ knew—you were just like every other faggot I done run across.  You don’t just know ya need to die—ya want it.  Yer gonna say ya don’t an’ yer gonna try to fight me, but deep down, you know you need to die on my cock.”

With a grin that dripped pure sadistic malice, Rocko kept his icy gaze locked onto that of the fuckmeat’s as he reached down and slid his zipper down.  The traffic noise outside the sleazy motel room had died down for the moment; the unmeshing of the metal teeth could clearly be heard over the teen whore’s ragged breathing.  The meat should’ve known what was coming, but even as Rocko began probing its fuckhole with his dick, it seemed to be frozen, as if struck into silent contemplation by the escaped killer’s words.

This lack of concern didn’t last long.  As reamed-out as the teen rentboy’s ass was, Rocko’s hate-inflamed member was truly monstrous, even more menacing than it had been when they’d first met.  And this time, the muscle-bound sex murderer went in fast, hard, and dry.  Before the young homo knew what had happened to it, its sphincter had been torn and the lining of its rectum split in multiple places.  Even as Rocko’s enormous rod ground over its prostate, keeping the pansy fully erect, it was shrieking in agony.

“Shaddup, motherfucker,” Rocko grunted unsympathetically, “Yer pissin’ me off!”

The adolescent whore would have gladly shut up if it could’ve.  It had no idea pain like this could exist.  It was like being fucked by a dildo made of razor-sharp glass shards.  It continued to scream like a bitch.  And while the sound of the teenaged faggot sluit getting exactly what it had coming to it was hot as all fuck, Rocko knew he had to keep it quiet to prevent it from attracting attention.

While pumping its asshole remorselessly, the hairy, hardbodied killer reached down and grabbed the waistband of the homo’s jockstrap.  With a single upwards jerk, he tore it off the meat, snapping all the elastic bands simultaneously.  As the thrashing boywhore opened its mouth and inhaled for another scream, Rocko jammed its cum-stiffened jock as far down its throat as he could.  It was still breathing, but at least it was quieter.

And yet, bewilderingly, its own dick was not only still hard—it was leaking precum.  And no matter how nightmarish the agony it was enduring, the fuckmeat somehow maintained an awareness of what its shaft was doing.

Even after Rocko clamped his powerful hands around the faggot’s neck and started squeezing it with the inexorable relentlessness of a steel vise.

Once again, the meat struggled as an instinctual reaction to the cessation of oxygen.  This time, though, the desperate panic of its prior thrashing bore fruit; the bootlaces binding its wrists had stretched slightly—just enough for it to work its hands free.  It immediately began clawing at Rocko’s face.

The killer’s response was to sink the full weight of his bulging muscles down onto his prey, forcing it to first spread its legs, then wrap them around Rocko’s waist, the smooth firm flesh of its inner thighs pressing forcefully against the convict’s thrusting, sweat-slick flanks.

The unlucky homo could feel its tongue swell in its mouth from the constriction on its trachea.  As the pressure inside its head began to build, its eyes bulged, locking its stare onto its own boots, kicking in midair beyond Rocko’s heaving shoulders.  There was a ball of fire burning in its chest, just up under its breastbone, which seemed to be trying to eat its way out.

But most of all, there was the dick in its ass, that gigantic tool wreathed in veins and powered by an inexorable hate. 

The street whore was young.  In a pathetic sense, it could be called innocent, in that it had no concept that the pain still in store for it could even exist—but it wasn’t too innocent to know what was happening to it.

It had heard whispers in the circles in which it ran.  One day an acquaintance—not a friend, it had no friends—would stop showing up, and there would be stories.

But this young faggot had thought itself too smart to fall into a trap like that.  It still didn’t truly believe it, even though it was obvious that as far as the trap was concerned, it somewhat less intelligent than the average rat.  It was all just a nightmare, just like its own cock.  Its own treacherous, traitorous cock, erect and throbbing as it was continuously massaged by the friction and pressure generated from two male bodies locked together in an erotically violent and desperate embrace.

It was about to become unimaginably more violent.  The whore’s clawing hadn’t slackened in the least, and it was pissing Rocko off.

“Goddammit, ya stupid motherfucker,” he snarled into the adolescent boy’s tearstained face, already dark and bloated with congested blood, “You must either really fuckin’ love pain, or yer just too dumb to shut up and take whatcha got comin’, ya worthless faggot cunt!”

Straightening his left arm, Rocko pressed down on it with all his might, forcing the fuckmeat’s neck deeply into the mattress, the depression causing a deep, smooth curve to form in the yellowed, rough sheet.  In this position, he was able to keep choking his bitch to death while freeing up his right arm to use.

And use it he did.

Four blows to the mouth, dealt with the speed and force of a jackhammer. 

After the second, the meat felt both its lips split and warm blood trickle across its face, and maybe a quiver in its worthless homo cock

After the third, it felt three of its teeth being ground against the inside of its mouth by its relentlessly swelling tongue, and a definite throb in its aroused member.

After the fourth, when its jaw shattered, the bewildered piece of boymeat knew—down in some deep, sick, heretofore-unknown corner of its psyche, it knew—that it was leaking precum.

It was past trying to interpret any of it, though.  It was quickly approaching the point at which it would be past anything and everything.

Rocko’s “tough love” discipline had worked wonders, as far as he was concerned.  The scumshit had stopped trying to resist its only real reason for existing.  The sadistic killer knew that the solitary purpose for the faggot’s presence on the planet was to milk the cum out of his thick tackle as it died like the garbage it was.  

If it’d have stuck around, he’d have offed it in a day or two anyway.  That was why he was so pissed now; he’d had to wait a long time—way too long—to make the cocksuckin’ pansy suffer the way it needed.  The way it had to suffer.

By now the kid was in a mindless panic.  Its shattered jaw sagged, allowing its swelling tongue to slowly push the jockstrap out of its mouth.  As the sodden fabric tumbled down the cunt’s cheek, it was immediately followed by a foamy white trickle of spittle that had been bottled up.  The adolescent drooled like a rabid dog as it died.

“Aw yeah, take it, bitch!” Rocko barked, “Yeah, fuckin’ love this shit!!”

The hairy serial killer could feel that old familiar sensation rising from his potent, seed-filled sack.  He knew he needed to spew soon—and that meant it was time for the meat to fulfill its highest and best use.

“Almost done with ya, motherfucker,” he grunted viscerally, “It’s all over, ya stupid faggot.  Ain’t no one gonna miss ya or care what happened; ya know that, dontcha?”

Deep down inside, the writhing, dying piece of teen boymeat once known as Jeremy, likely had known that in the last few terrifying seconds of its utterly worthless existence, but the part of its brain that held that information was now dead.  It could hear—barely, over the once rapid but now staccato pulse pounding in its ears, but the ability to understand was almost completely gone.  It couldn’t see; the black blossoms that exploded like fireworks before its swollen, hemorrhaging eyes had utterly obscured its field of vision.

What it still could do—unluckily for it—was feel.  And it still felt everything happening to it.  In fact, just before its nervous system collapsed, its nerve endings became hyper-sensitive.

So when Rocko punched it in the throat hard enough to crush its larynx and collapse its trachea, it could feel the way its airway had been blocked by a mangled mass of bloody cartilage in absolutely excruciating detail.

“Aw, fuck YEAH!” Rocko bellowed as an immediate involuntary reaction made the meat go rigid on his cock.  Unconsciously, the adolescent whore clutched the sadistic sex killer in a desperate embrace as its limbs tightened around him reflexively, its arms clutching his shoulders as its legs pressed firmly against Rocko’s sides.

Wrapping his mighty paws around the teenager’s throat the buff, inked convict began to literally wring its throat, agonizingly grinding the whore’s trachea to splinters of cartilage and shreds of tissue.  As he did, the mindless fuckmeat convulsed powerfully, its smooth, flat belly rubbing against Rocko’s ripped abs, his wiry belly fur abrading the punk’s dick like steel wool.

It was too much.  It was too much.  Whatever the worthless teenaged slut had been looking for, whether emotionally or sexually, its brutal, agonizing beating, rape, and strangulation satisfied its disgusting pig soul to the point that it had an orgasm.

But that’s not entirely accurate.  To describe the final sensations that the Jeremy-meat experienced in its last few seconds as Jeremy as an orgasm would be similar to comparing an A-bomb to an H-bomb—while the impact might appear the same at first, the sheer magnitude had been exponentially increased.

In other words, the smooth, lithe rentboy’s hormone-fueled genitals expelled nearly a full pint of semen as the two male bodies clamped together in an elemental, deeply masculine embrace of pain, cum, and death.  But there was more to come—or, rather, more to cum.

Next up was Rocko.  Triggered not only by the massaging of his pulsing, oozing cock by the faggot’s death throes but by his overwhelming sense of dominance and righteousness in putting the homo whore down like the diseased animal it was, he emitted a loud, enraged grunt and began pounding to fuckmeat’s face.

“Take it, motherfucker!” he screamed, momentarily forgetting his concerns about being overheard outside the room.  “Take it all, ya worthless sack a’ shit!  Work my cum out, scumshit!  Get it! Get it as ya die! Get it—ahhAGGGH!!!!”

And the very last thing that eighteen-year-old Jeremy, a high-school dropout originally from Des Moines, Iowa, experienced in his short and completely useless life, was Rocko’s seething, potent manseed flooding his rectum and duodenum.  One last burst of warmth should have been a comforting spar to cling to as he was swept into the icy darkness of death, but his oversensitive nervous system, as part of its last function moment, let him die with the sensation of having molten lead poured into his asshole.

And then that was it, really and truly.  But Rocko wasn’t done; his balls were by no means drained.  And neither was the corpse; just because it was dead didn’t mean it wasn’t fuckable—and the postmortem convulsions were sometimes even better…

And this time they were.  Rocko collapsed onto the shuddering body; crying out inarticulately, he came again and again inside its dead asshole, slamming his fist into its face with almost every thrust.

By the time he had shot his last load and lay gasping and quivering, almost helpless, the meat’s countenance was beyond unrecognizable.  Everything between the hairline and the chin, and between the ears, looked exactly like fine-ground hamburger.

After about five minutes, the meat’s last few firing synapses had slowed to the point that even Rocko’s hyper-engorged manmeat was no longer stimulated.  Reluctantly, he pulled out, his massive mushroom-shaped head ripping out with a pop and bobbing in the air for a moment as a last few pearly orbs of his spunk dripped thickly on to the dead boy’s down-covered buttcheek.

Rocko stood up.  His body was still glistening with sweat, but his breathing was under control.  He looked down at the corpse.  It still wasn’t quite still; a limb or digit twitched roughly, about every thirty seconds or so.

“You deserved that, faggot,” Rocko whispered.  “You needed it.  Hell, you fuckin’ wanted it.”

And with that he headed to the bathroom.

Later, after having showered and redressed, he left the motel room.  He paused in the doorway and turned back.

The teenaged fag had been left splayed on its back on the bed, blood and cum leaking from its shredded asshole.  Its body still gleamed with the cold sweat forced from it in its mortal agony.   Little above the shoulders could be positively recognized as human by sight.

Then Rocko noticed something he hadn’t before—as it died, the cunt had kicked off both its boots.  One had landed on the floor a few feet away, but the other had landed on the nightstand—how had he missed that?  It must have been while he was spunking…

At any rate, Rocko now grinned in malevolent pride as he looked down on a corpse that had not only died fucked so hard that its toes curled, but that rigor mortis seemed to be setting in.  Everyone involved would see how much the cocksucking pansy enjoyed its own death.

After ensuring the door locked behind him, Rocko dropped himself into the driver’s seat of his old Ford and took half a dozen swigs from his bottle of Wild Turkey.  His dick began to swell almost automatically.  Hell, the bottle wasn’t even half-empty yet.  And it was only three in the morning; he knew of some illegal after-hour fag clubs. 

And he needed new meat.

Jeremey’s death did have an impact—but not much.  A maid found the body the next day.  The manager called the police, but both were so accustomed to finding dead whores of both sexes on the property that little fuss was raised.

Jeremy was finally identified by DNA but by that time, his parents, who were Baptist missionaries, had been killed in a plane crash in South America.

The teen whore was interred as a pauper in an unmarked grave.  Rocko had been right—no one would care that he was dead.

Tyler’s End by Den

Tyler woke with a start to find he was tied and immobile and in some sort of large run-down cabin. It
took him a couple of minutes to recall what had happened, but the sequence of events came back to
him. He’d been hiking a remote section of trail in the Ozarks; a weeklong hike camping as he went. He’d
not seen another human for a couple of days, nor any sign of habitation and was loving it. Midday he ran
into a man coming in the other direction, with just a small daypack which puzzled Tyler a bit as his map
indicated he was miles from anywhere. Like him the other man was shirtless, as the day was pleasantly
warm even in the shade of the hardwood forest. The guy was older, perhaps 25 years older than Tyler,
who’d just turned 30 the previous week. Tanned hairy and lean with a nice musculature, and obviously
well endowed, judging from the bulge in his groin, he was just Tyler’s type. Dark hair, light blue eyes and
a close-cropped beard he was not handsome, more rugged and masculine.“Hey Bud! Nice day for it.” The guy said.
“Yeah” Tyler responded, “this area is great, and you’re the first person I’ve seen in days!”
“This area is quite remote, I’m probably the last person you’ll see, if my past experience bears out. I
come here a lot. There is an abandoned road up ahead that gets you into the wilderness quickly. It’s
been bulldozed where it used to meet the main road, and the woods have grown and hidden it
completely. There’s even an abandoned cabin. Kind of cool.”
They engaged in small talk for a while, Tyler hoping the guy did not notice his increasingly tumescent
dick through his jeans. This man was so much his type he could not keep it down, and a wilderness fuck
would have been amazing. Tyler excuses himself to take a piss, walking off into the trees a short
distance. While pissing he hears the man coming up behind him, and when he turns the guy grabs him
and holds a solvent soaked rag over his face until he passes out.
“Hey! What the fuck is going on?” he shouts. He hears the guy laugh in response from the other side of
the room, and he comes over to Tyler, who is angry, confused and scared. The guy now has an obvious,
and very large hard on visible in his pants. And he rubs it, standing over Tyler’s immobile body which
rests on a beat-up mattress.
“I liked your looks and thought I could have some fun with you for a day or two. And I always walk that
trail specifically prepared for that possibility.”
“You could have tried flirting like a normal person,” Tyler responds. “I thought you were hot and would
easily have said yes.”
“Not likely you’d consent to what I have in mind buddy, though fucking you is certainly part of it” he says
smiling. “There’s at least 15 men buried in the woods around this cabin, hot guys like you, and only one
of them was into it. He was into it all the way to the end. A shit ton of fun that was, even though I also
love the usual screaming, crying and begging from the men I play with.”
“Fuck, man, what are you going to do? You think you want to snuff me?”
Tyler asks. He is scared shitless now, but both men are aware his dick is still hard, and at this point
leaking precum.
“Don’t ‘want to,’ going to is more like it buddy. Maybe you’ll be number two, from the look of your
pants. Doesn’t matter how you feel about it though, I’m gonna kill you and get my rocks off doing it. If
you manage to cum a few times in the process, that’s cool. But either way I end up dropping a huge
load, you end up dead.”
He picks Tyler up and carries him to a large steel table with a drain and spout down to a steel bucket,
and several eyelets around its perimeter. He starts to tie Tyler’s arms to the top corner, and at first Tyler
tries to struggle but a few powerful blows to his stomach knock the wind out of him. Next his legs are
tied, without much resistance. The older man takes a knife out of a nearby cabinet in which Tyler
catches sight of a bunch of similar torture tools. He’s scared, but also filled with feelings he does not
understand at all, especially his ongoing attraction to this man and continued sexual arousal. The man
cuts Tyler’s clothes off slowly and lovingly, caressing his body as he does so. As he cuts through the
crotch of his jeans Tyler’s dick springs upright and a slug of precum oozes out, and the man laughs.
“Well, looks like you are a snuffboy, and didn’t even know it! Fuckin A buddy. My second!” He grabs
Tyler’s large balls and squeezes them painfully hard in his hand, bending down to kiss Tyler hard on the
lips. To Tyler’s surprise he kisses back and sucks on the man’s tongue when it pushes past his lips. He
realizes he is totally lost, and in that instant surrenders to his captor and his own new found lust;
accepting what is coming. When the man pulls away, Tyler stares at him in amazement, licks his lips and
says “what should I call you?” The man says “you can call me Mister, buddy, and I love a verbal bottom
whether he is screaming or crying or begging me to kill him. I fucking love it when a hot guy like you
begs to be killed whether he wants it to end or wants to feel that hot death load.”
He squeezes Tyler’s balls so hard the younger man feels they might burst, but he feels the precum that
again streams out of his dickhead and just sighs. As the pressure is removed a wave of intense sexual
pleasure courses through him. “How much is this going to hurt Mister, and how will you finish me?”
“I’m gonna gut you buddy. Field dress you like a fucking deer. Gonna make you watch me cut your
entrails out and dump them in that bucket. It is gonna hurt more than you can possibly imagine, but
trust me, you’ll welcome it. I see it in you. Before this is through you will want it more than anything you
have ever wanted in your life. And you’ll ask me to kill you. Not just because of the pain, but because
you want me killing you.” He goes to the cabinet and pulls out a rig, and some crystal, gets it ready and
shoots them both up with a potent dose. Tyler has never done this before, and the rush takes him
totally by surprise. Before it even envelopes him fully his killer takes two large fishhooks and pushes
them through Tyler’s nipples. He screams and briefly struggles against his bonds, but quickly quiets
down breathing hard and moaning.
“Yeah buddy scream for me, but look at your dick. You liked it, didn’t you. You fucking need it. SAY IT!”
The man begins twisting and pulling on the hooks as blood streams from Tyler’s torn nipples.
Tyler has never felt anything like this before in his life. Confused, terrified, excited, staring at this
incredibly hot man, thinking ‘do I actually want to be killed?’ He says “Fuck MISTER, Please, I want it!”
“Say you need it!”
“Mister I NEED IT!!” and unbidden: “Do it again, please Mister. I want to feel that a second time” The
top grabs two more fishhooks and pushes them slowly through Tyler’s nipples, deeper than the first
two. He moans hard but does not struggle. “Yeah baby, that looks nice” the man as he destroys Tyler’s
nipples. He takes the pain, and hopes his captor gets pleasure from that, an emotion both confusing and
exciting to him. The top kisses him again, and then makes him keep his mouth open as he empties his
bladder down Tyler’s throat. This is not new to Tyler and he drinks it eagerly. He is speeding his brains
out, and the drug makes his nipples feel incredible. The older man asks: you been fisted before?
“Yes Mister” Tyler answers. The man unties Tyler’s legs and greases up his arm. Tyler does not struggle
now but watches and lifts his legs eagerly as the man enters him and works Tyler’s ass for what seems
like hours until he can get his sinewy arms in up to the shoulder and his rectum is heavily prolapsed. He
pounds away at Tyler’s balls, tugs and twists the fishhooks piercing Tyler’s nipples. “You know I’m
tearing you up inside, don’t you?” “Yes Mister! I feel it. It hurts bad, but it’s like I need you doin’ this. I
want you doin’ this. I don’t know what the fuck you’ve done to my mind, I know you’re going to kill me
but please mister, make it last.”
“Good boy. That is what I want to hear! You’ll know when it’s time, you’re gonna welcome that blade
into that nice flat belly of yours. You’re gonna want to feel my hands pulling out your guts.” He punches
hard into Tyler, almost to the shoulder and then withdraws a bloody arm, showing Tyler. “Look at what
you are giving me buddy. Inside and out, your body is mine.” Tyler’s dick is still hard, amazingly to him,
and the brutal top shoves his arm into Tyler again and begins to jack him off with the other hand. “Oh
fuck Mister, tear me up inside. My hole is yours, my guts are yours!” He groans as the arm probes deep
into his guts. Finally with a scream he comes, shooting huge ropes of cum as his killer’s arm is buried in
him up to the shoulder. The top pulls out, mounts Tyler’s face and fucks till Tyler passes out before
blowing his load down the younger man’s throat. Tyler comes to, and the two men just stare at each
other. The older knowing how hot it will be to finish Tyler off, the younger wondering what is in store
and how it will feel. In ten minutes, the top’s dick begins to swell again, and he shoots them both up a
second time, so they are flying high. “You want to die buddy?” he asks the younger man. Tyler is
breathing hard, his body wracked with both intense physical damage and sexual desire, as well as
warped by the drugs. “I don’t know Mister. I’m not as scared as I was. This is so fucking intense, but still
exciting, you’re still exciting. And that speed feels so good.”
“Let me show you something buddy,” the Topman says getting his Wyoming knife out of the cabinet.
Tyler knows immediately what it is for and how it is used and draws a sharp breath. “Yeah buddy, it’s my
gutting knife. Sharp as a razor, gonna feel real nice when I push that curved edge into your belly. Your
gonna love it when I get that second blade in and zip you open like a jacket. What do you think buddy?
Most of the guys I’ve killed cry when they see this.”
“Mister I’m terrified, and I’m lost. Keep me high please, and I’m willing and ready. I have regrets, but
they’re kinda minor. The taste of your piss and scum in my mouth is more immediate right now. What I
need more than anything else is for you to kiss me. And then I have a confession, I’ve never told to
anyone.” The older man kisses Tyler tenderly, than strongly, pushing his tongue as deep into Tyler’s
mouth as he can. He traces the line the knife will take with his finger on Tyler’s belly and the younger
man moans, knowing what the finger indicates. His tongue caresses the top’s tongue. And he sighs. He’s
ok with this. He’s being killed slowly and lovingly by a hugely attractive older serial killer, and it is now
OK with him. “Would you rather I was terrified, fighting you off and horrified by what was being done to
me?” he says. “It’s like you and I were fated to meet and share something incredibly bizarre and beyond
understanding to most people.”
“Like I said before, there was one guy who was into it in the past. He was not like you, but damn he was
fun. You are a huge turn on. But the biggest turn on will be you dying for me. What is your confession?”
“I have had, for many years strong castration fantasies. Giving my balls to a top. Having them mutilated
and cut off. Always thought that was really sick. But now, they’re yours. I want you to castrate me.”
“That was next on the menu buddy, so glad to oblige. They will live for years in a bottle of formalin.”
The killer brings out two long thick skewers and a bottle of poppers, and they both take hits. He takes a
thin leather strap and ties off Tyler’s balls as tightly as possible, which gets him moaning again. Another
hit and he pushes one of the skewers through both of Tyler’s balls, causing an eruption of precum and
howls of what does not seem to be entirely pain. Tyler’s eyes are wild, and his breathing is rapid and
hard, but the two are watching each other’s faces, the killer smiling broadly “Yeah buddy, that’s nice,
good job, want another one?” Tyler can hardly speak but nods. “Say it.” Says the top, gently, and then a
second time with more force. “Please Mister, another one. My balls are yours!” “Good little snuff boy”.
And hearing those words excites Tyler much to his surprise, “Oh fuck yeah Mister, I’m your snuff boy!
You have made me your snuffboy!!”
“Take a big hit of the poppers, snuff boy, Mister is gonna take those balls sac and all.” They hit the
poppers and Tyler winces and groans as a second skewer tears through his nuts. Then with no
hesitation, the killer brings out the big knife and brings it up under Tyler’s scrotum. Tyler is briefly
scared, but the feel of the blade still turns him on and he wants this so bad. “Say it! Demands the top, I
know you want this buddy. My hot snuff boy wants to give me his balls! Wants to be my steer when he
is killed!” And Tyler does, he wants that so bad now, both to be a man’s steer and to be killed. “Oh God,
PLEASE, cut my balls off Mister” he whispers. And watches as if in a trance as it happens, hearing his
own scream, feeling his manhood cut free… When the top holds Tyler’s scrotum high in the air Tyler
spontaneously erupts in orgasm. Screaming and crying. With little hesitation he accepts another shot of
speed and a shot of caverject in his dick to keep him hard. The knife is incredibly sharp so when the killer
now cuts both Tyler’s nipples off it is easily tolerated, and he is surprised at how excited he is to watch it
being done to him, almost a pleasure to see the severed nipples with fishhooks in the palm of the older
man’s hand. And finally, it hits him. He wants this final play more than he could have imagined wants it
NOW and expects the pain to be worth the accompanying excitement, surrender and pleasure. They rest
briefly, the older man caressing the man he is so eager to kill, the younger man amazed by what he has
been through and his undiminished desire to satisfy his killer as his killer has transformed him.
As if reading his mind, the older man says “Say it!”
Without hesitation Tyler says “Kill me Mister. Gut me and kill me. PLEASE”
“Fucking yeah snuffboy!” The top kisses him hard, spits in his open mouth and kisses him again, Tyler
sucking wildly on the older man’s tongue, his body roaring with pain, pleasure, fear, lust and more.
“Give me that body snuffboy. Tell me again what you want!”
“I’m yours Mister, butcher me, kill me!” Both their dicks are hard again now, and the older killer gets the
knife he has earlier shown Tyler.
“Kiss it snuffboy” says the older man, and Tyler does, feeling as if he might cum again at any second.
“Oh FUCK!” says Tyler. “Do it Mister, gut me!”
They again take big popper hits then the top pushes the first blade in just above the pubes as he kisses
Tyler hard on the lips then whispers in his ear “Take it snuff boy, tell me how it feels.Tell me what you
need.”. They stare into each others eyes, Tylers tearing up as the blade punctures the membrane
protecting his abdominal cavity. “Shit Mister, it hurts like hell, it feels so fucking good, I don’t want to
die, but please, don’t stop! Gut me man!! Kill me Mister. I need you to kill me!” The Top feels it yield and
smiles. “YEAH…” he says, “so fucking hot to kill you snuffboy, to know you need it.” He pulls the blade
out and reverses it, and Tyler arches his back with the same urgency to feel himself butchered as he
would to pull a top’s dick into his waiting ass. He exhales hard, and the pain is intense, but the urgency is
more intense, and he cries out as the blade opens him from groin to sternum in a matter of seconds.
“Oh FUCK! It hurts so bad, do it Mister, I need this so bad! Butcher me, please!” Quickly the top reaches
into him as Tyler watches and cuts the entrails at both ends tearing them out and throwing them into
the bucket. Tyler can hardly speak. He feels the hands of his killer inside his body, watches as his killer
pisses into him than quickly blows a huge load of semen into him. His killer begins to jack Tyler off and
says “Come for me, show me how much you needed this, snuffboy.”. And suddenly he feels an
enormous orgasm exploding through his body. “OH!! FUCK THANK YOU MISTER” he screams. All the
pain suddenly transmuted into an unimaginable kind of pain-pleasure. Stream after stream of Tyler’s
last sperm shoots high into the air as the two men look deep into each other’s eyes. “Kill me mister!
Finish me quick!” Tyler cries as he senses his orgasm is at its peak “Please mister, kill me! Kill me now!”
The older man quickly punctures Tyler’s jugular as he kisses him and watches as the life leaves his
snuffboy’s eyes while a fountain of blood erupts from his throat. Tyler barely has time to experience
anything but orgasmic pleasure, the last kiss, the roaring in his ears and the amazing look on the face of
his killer as everything goes black.
The older man decapitates the corpse and fucks the head, then fucks the body, experiencing huge
orgasms each time though knowing nothing comes close to the orgasms Tyler was granted from his
meeting with his killer. He pulls out a sleeping bag and air mattress he keeps in the abandoned cabin. He
will fuck the body again in the morning before burying it out in the woods, and burning all of Tyler’s
things. He will not forget this one for a while (and wishes they could all be so good). But will be out on
the hunt in a week or so for another handsome solo hiker.

Ben’s Fatal Hook-Up by EdwinJ

Nick finished his workouts at the gym. It was already 10:00 pm on a Saturday night and the Manager yelled out he was closing up in a half hour. Nick hit the shower and got dressed. He posed in front of the mirror and admired himself all dressed in black. A tight t-shirt, black jeans and black leather boots. He clinched his strong hands. Thoughts raced through his mind. These hands were going to strangle someone tonight he thought. His cock swelled in his jeans at the thought. He needed the sex tonight and he needed to kill. He was pumped and ready. The manager started shutting down the lights. Nick grabbed his bag and left. He climbed into his truck and thought about hooking up with a victim. He knew of a gay bar about 15 miles away and decided he would find someone there. He would get a Motel Room later.

The parking lot was full. He knew it would be great pickings inside. Nick entered the bar. The place was packed with young studs. The music was loud and the dance floor filled. About half the guys were shirtless strutting their stuff. Nick found a spot at the bar and ordered a whiskey. He took in the room. He eyed a few shirtless young guys that would make perfect victims.

Ben cruised the bar looking for a one night stand. He was 22, slim but muscular. He came here often and usually lucked out with getting a man back to his place for sex. His friends often warned him of the dangers of bringing strange men home. He shrugged it off and would tell them he could handle himself.

Nick spotted Ben. He knew he would be the one. Ben ordered a drink and sat at the bar to sip it down. He spotted Nick across the bar. “Whoa” he muttered to himself. Nick made eye contact and motioned for Ben to come over. Ben grabbed his drink and approached Nick. Ben could feel his cock getting hard as he took in Nick’s sight. Nick liked what he saw. He offered Ben a drink. Ben accepted and the two began to converse.

Ben looked at the time. It was now close to 1:00 am. He told Nick he had a small place not too far and asked him if he wanted to head there for a nightcap. Nick obliged. He asked if he lived alone. Ben nodded yes. Perfect thought Nick. The two would be alone. The two headed out. Nick placed his strong arm on Ben’s shoulders and led him to his truck. As he usually told his victims he told Ben the same, he would bring him back for his car in the morning. He knew Ben would never see the light of day.

Ben showed Nick to his place. Ben opened the door to his apartment. He gave a quick tour. Ben had a one bedroom apartment. Ben offered a seat on the sofa. Nick sat down as Ben headed to the kitchen to grab some drinks. Nick’s eyes followed Ben. He stared at his tight ass. His cock hardened as he thought of fucking that tight ass. He looked into the bedroom. His eyes stared at the bed. He wanted Ben in there naked, fucked and strangled. He rose from the couch and removed his shirt. Ben walked back in and nearly dropped the drinks at the sight of Nick’s muscular chest. His hairy chest was ripped. Ben stared at his huge nips peeking out from the fur. His chest hair ran down his washboard stomach to a perfect treasure trail. His biceps were as muscular as his pecs.

Ben handed him his drink. “Like what you see?” asked Nick. Ben just nodded. His cock was rock hard inside his jeans. Nick took the glass from Ben and placed it down. “Go ahead, feel them” said Nick. Ben’s hands worked his way around Nick’s chest. He placed his lips on Nick’s nipple and gently sucked. He kissed his chest and worked his way to his other nipple and down his stomach. He began to unbuckle his belt and nuzzled his face in Nick’s crotch. He felt Nick’s stiff cock beneath his jeans. He wanted it so bad. Nick lifted him up face to face and kissed him. He whispered in his ear suggesting they go to the bedroom. Nick guided Ben into the bedroom and closed the door behind them. Ben’s fate was sealed. He wasn’t getting out of that room alive.

The two embraced, kissing each other passionately. Nick squeezed Ben’s cock with his strong hands as Ben ran his hands through Nick’s fur. Ben could feel his pre cum leaking. Nick the same. A wet spot had formed on Nick’s jeans. Nick lifted Ben’s shirt up and took it off. Ben’s smooth chest glistened with sweat. Nick licked the beads of sweat off and lay Ben on the bed. He removed his shoes and socks. He undid his jeans and pulled them off tossing them to the floor. Ben lay naked. Nick stood at the edge of the bed. as he kicked his boots off. Ben sat up and undid Nick’s jeans. Nick’s cock sprung out slapping pre cum on Ben’s cheek. He climbed out of his jeans and stood naked before Ben. His cock was rock hard and stood straight up. Pre cum leaked out his slit and ran down his veined shaft. Ben took hold of Nick’s cock and placed his mouth over it. He sucked gently tasting the sweet cum. Nick moaned in pleasure, “Take it boy, suck it”.

Nick lifted Ben and guided him on the bed. Ben got on all fours. Nick got behind him and slapped his hard cock between Ben’s cheeks. Ben raised his ass higher so Nick could enter. He felt Nick’s cock slip in and out. Ben’s cock ached and dripped pre cum. Nick began to fuck Ben doggy style. He pulled him up against his chest and fucked in and out. Ben took it in. He felt the sweat from Nick’s hairy chest against his back. Nick placed his hand on Ben’s erect cock and stroked it firm but gentle arousing Ben even more.

Nick pulled out and lay Ben on his back. He hovered over him. “I’m going to do you good baby, real good” said Nick.

Ben’s arms embraced Nick’s shoulders and pulled him on top of him as he spread his legs for Nick. Nick entered his hole and started to thrust Ben’s ass. Ben wrapped his legs around Nick’s thighs. He moved his body in rhythm with Nick’s thrusts. The two were embraced chest to chest as Nick kissed Ben on his lips and neck and fucked him hard.

Nick raised himself from Ben’s chest. He placed his hands on Ben’s shoulders. His cock pounding Ben’s ass. Ben wanted to cum but held back. He could feel the orgasm inside him wanting to explode. Nick fucked harder as he stared down at Ben. Ben ran his hands across Nick’s chest. He felt the damp fur. Nick’s sweat dropping beads off his forehead and chest onto Ben’s bare skin.

Nick was ready to spew his load into Ben. He moved his hands around Ben’s throat. Ben did not take notice. He was ready to cum himself. Nick gripped tighter. His thumbs pressing Ben’s throat. Ben felt the grip. He looked up at Nick perplexed. Nick began to squeeze harder. Ben felt the constriction and began to squirm. He tried to pull Nick’s hands from his neck. Nick gripped harder. Ben now realized he was in danger. He looked up with pleading eyes. Nick looked back down at him. His face was stoic, his eyes looked deadly as he stared down at Ben and squeezed tighter. Ben’s head began to hurt. He tried to gasp for air. His legs began to kick out, heels digging into the mattress.

Ben thrashed beneath Nick. He tried to push him off pressing his hands against Nick’s chest. His body bucked beneath Nick. He tried to pry Nick’s hands from his throat. He pressed again at Nick’s chest. It was useless. Nick had him pinned under him and was too strong for Ben. Ben bucked and thrashed, legs kicking wildly. Nick got harder from the thrashing beneath. He thrust harder. His cock buried deep inside Ben. He was ready to explode. He squeezed one last time. Ben’s eyes bulged out, his body convulsed. Nick’s hands tightened around his throat with a final squeeze. Ben’s body shuddered as Nick unleashed his hot semen into Ben’s ass. He screamed out as his orgasm erupted. Ben’s cock shot it’s load. His cum cascaded up Nick’s bare chest, the white jism clinging a bit to his fur and slowly worked it’s way down his stomach. Ben’s body arched and went still, his hands slid down Nick’s chest and fell to the side of his head. His body relaxed and fell to the mattress. Ben was dead. Nick collapsed on Ben’s body as he drained the remaining cum from his cock. He removed his hands from Ben’s neck and pulled out. He lay for a bit and felt Ben’s warm cum between their chests. Nick felt good. He achieved full orgasm and satisfaction.

Nick rose from the bed and dressed back into his jeans. He slipped his boots back on and stood by the bed looking down at Ben. Ben’s naked body lay across the bed. The last of his death cum dripped from his semi-erect cock. His eyes stared up blankly at the ceiling. His head contorted and hand prints on his neck. “Thanks for the fuck” Nick whispered as he gave him a final kiss on his forehead.

Nick looked around for his shirt. He remembered he left it in the living room. Nick opened the bedroom door and looked at Ben’s body one last time. He noticed Ben’s cock spasm one last time spurting a bit of death cum. He looked for his shirt but could not find it. He didn’t realize it had fallen behind the couch. Nick thought fuck it and left the apartment

He climbed into his truck. He rubbed his chest and felt Ben’s dried cum matted in his fur. Nick started the truck and glanced at the time. It was 2:30 am. He would be home by 3:15.

The flight attendant by anon

“Ding! Ladies and gentlemen, we would like to extend our welcome aboard AmJet flight 303 with non stop service to Denver.”  

“We are a full flight today and the flight attendants serving you today are Lisa in the back, Sally in mid cabin and my name is Luke. I am the purser for our flight. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to ask.”

I hang the microphone back in its holding place above the jump seat and play the safety video for the passengers. I complete my last safety checks and make sure my galley cabinets are secured as we taxi to the runway. 

Sally is already sitting in the jump seat next to the boarding door. I glance over first class and dim the cabin lights for take off. I take my seat and fasten my safety belts over my buff chest and across my waist.

Moments later. I hear the enormous engines rawr to life, I feel the vibration crawl up my legs and my cock throbs in my tight uniform pants. Good thing our pants are black. Otherwise, my precum stains would be evident.

As we climb out of Dallas, I gaze over at the man sitting in seat 1C. He has his headphones in and is watching some boring movie. He has no idea that on yesterday’s flight, a handsome businessman from Phoenix was sitting there enjoying the same pleasures. I think his name was Bob or Bill or something. A typical businessman name. I wonder if they found his corpse yet…oh well, one less drink order. New day, new flight, new stupid traveler that no one will miss if they don’t make their return flight. This job has its perks! 

As we get to cruising altitude, I go through the cabin, recording drink orders by memory. One genitonic to the business woman in row one, whiskey coke to the asshole gold member in row 4 window. As I am going through the requests, there he is, seat 5B. A white, handsome,  slim but muscular otter with jet black hair, smiling at me. 

As I approach him, I smile with great enthusiasm. He tells me that he wants a vodka cranberry—total bottom cumdump drink—and some snacks. I let him know I’ll be right back. I race to the galley and pull up his information on my inflight tablet. I can see he is traveling alone, he is 31. His name—not that I give a shit—is Trevor Barkley. 

I make his requested drink and grab a delicious serving of peanuts, pretzels and almonds. I place the napkin on his tray table and seductively place his drink and snack on the table and ask him “is there anything else I can do for you Mr. Barkley?” 

He responds “yes, your phone number”. I smile, being coy—I always play coy at first as a lure for the stupid, sex crazed traveler. I let Mr. Barkley that I am here for his pleasure but not allowed to give out my phone number per company policy. Hmmm, I wonder if the airline knows that I fuck, strangle and off their frequent fliers on my layovers? 

As the flight progresses, I make eye contact from the galley with seat 5B and he gazes at me through the cabin. 

When we began our descent into Denver, 5B came up to the galley and slipped a piece of paper into my coat pocket. I pretended not to notice. I wanted to play hard to get. He returned to his seat and I kept going on and on with my landing duties. 

Ding!! The overhead bell chimes as I press talk on the intercom. “Welcome to Denver! We hope your enjoyed your flight as much as we did. Come back and fly with us again soon!” As I said this, I kept my eyes on seat 5B. I was the only one who knew that the piece of meat in seat 5B would not be flying with us again. 

When I got to the crew hotel. I pulled the piece of paper out of my pocket and read it. Hey! You’re cute! Fuck me at the Hilton. Text me. My cock jumped in my pants immediately. 

I pulled up my WhatsApp and texted the phone number. This way it can’t be tracked. I wrote Hey 5B!! It’s Luke from your flight today.

I waited for about 5 minutes and got a response asking me to come to his room. The crew hotel was right next door to the Hilton. He was in room 573. Fifth floor suite. He must be an important business man. At least until I leave his room tonight. My cock is already oozing precum. 

I let the stud know that I’ll be over in 15 minutes and to be ready to fuck hard. I put on my sweater and blue jeans along with a hat and Covid mask to hide my face from the cameras. Being a flight attendant in these big hotels, there are cameras everywhere. 

He responds “the door is unlocked”. I leave my phone in the crew room to avoid tracking my location and head over to his room. 

I walk past the front desk and head for the elevators. I press floor 5 and the elevator races skyward. My heart is pounding in my ears as I think about choking this cumdump with my uniform issued belt and cumming inside him while he dies. 

The elevator doors open and I walk into the hallway. The placard shows room 573 is to the right and the last room at the end. Perfect!! I’ll have a little privacy to off this waste of a human being. 

I approached the door, and arrived to him sitting ass up, face down on the bed like a common cumdump. 

I walk in, close the door, ensure it’s latched and locked. I see his huge balls hanging freely. I unbuckled my belt and lowered my mouth to his bubble butt. He ass was shaved despite his beard and otter appearance. 

I bury my face into his ass and lick his butthole raw. My tongue works his ass and he moans like a whore. While he moans, I unzip my pants and take them off. My sweater comes off next. 

He moans and says “fuck!! You know what you’re doing! Fuck me! Fuck me deep!!” 

I take that as my clearance to land in his tight hole. I had arrived commando to his room. I hardly ever wore underwear. My cock is begging to enter his airspace. I spit on my hard cock. That is the only lube this cumdump will get. 

I placed the tip of my thick head cock to his hole and began to rub my shaft gently on his hole. I teased 5B for a minute while I grabbed my pants. I removed the belt from the loops and dropped the pants to the floor. 

This stupid cumdump was so horny, he had no idea I was about to choke him to death. I looped the belt through the hook and made a noose. 

I hovered the belt over his head, ready to wrap it around his throat like a tourniquet. I pressed my cock against his tight ass, while he moaned extensively. Only if he knew what would happen next.

I shoved my 9 inch thick headed cock deep inside him. Ripping his sphincter and filling his ass with my rock hard cock. Before he could get out a scream, I placed the belt around his throat and pulled yanked it tight. Squeezing his airway shut. I bet he wished for an oxygen mask now.

To be continued…

Alfredos Asphyxiation Snuff by Alecx

10th July 2021 6am Alfredo is naked when theres theres a a knock at the door door he opens it morning Nathan says Alfredo come in  over here says Alfredo sitting down on a chair and fastening leather straps round his ankles then over his thighs ,6.15 Nathan opens a small black box he takes out a syringe what’s that for says Alfredo injection to numb your cock says  Nathan  dont want that  says Alfredo I want to feel the blade ,Nathan picks up a scalpel and slowly starts to cut round the base of Alfredo cock and slowly skins it head on or head off says Nathan head off  replies Alfredo Nathan slowly cuts through the back of the cockhead and holds up the removed skin and head, then places the scalpel against Alfredos balls skin them Alfredo says a few seconds later the balls are exposed, 6.30 theres a knock at the door  Nathan opens it, Delroy enters carrying a black case , 6.45 Alfredo asks everything ready,sure is says Nathan as he drives off after an hour Nathan pulls off the road onto a dirt track then stops at a pair of ornate gates he goes into a small gate house and comes back with a plastic bag , signed in he says passing the bag to Alfredo then getting back into the car and starts driving again  he pulls up next to a wall  Alfredo Nathan and Delroy get out of the car  Delroy picks a black case up out of the back of the car and go through a door in the wall,8.15 Nathan looks round over there he says pointing to a  30 inch curved steel frame ,Alfredo strips naked and puts his clothes into the bag  Delroy opens the black case and takes out a pair of leather shackles and fastens them to Alfredos wrists then a pair to his ankles then Alfredo walks over to the steel frame and nods Nathan comes over and cuts his balls off he then  kneels down Nathan fastens the leather shackles to the the frame  8.30 ,Delroy slips a rubber hood over Alfredos head and makes sure that the nose is blocked then fastens a rubber strap with a hole for the mouth round Alfredos head,Delroy then picks up a leather hood with a hole for the mouth and slips it over Alfredos head and fastens it under his chin ,Delroy next picks up a 3 inch deep leather collar and fastens it round Alfredo neck then fastens small straps from the leather hood to the collar  then secures the collar to the top of the frame,9am Delroy strips off his 15 inch ×2 cock springs erect he stands in front of Alfredo Nathan checks every things secured then nods his head, 9.05  Delroy pushes his cock against the mouth opening in the leather hood his cock head enters it then stops he checks all the straps securing Alfredos head to the collar and frame are still tight 9.08 Delroy pushes harder his cock slides through the hole in the gag it slowly slides through till it’s in full length  Drlroy pulls out Alfredo takes deep breath Delroy pushes back in Alfredos jaw bones break his chests heaving as Delroys cock slowly chokes him to death Alfredos breathing gets laboured as he chokes, 9.30 Nathan looks at Alfredos chest Delroy pulls out of Alfredos mouth theres spasmodic shaking then his body stops moving,dead says Nathan picking up a knife and cutting Alfresos erect skinned cock off       Alecx 

Carlos and Nick 9–Beggars Can’t Be Choosers

Carlos wasn’t used to feeling pressure—not since prison, at any rate—but it’d been three days since Nick had urged him to find a piece of fuckmeat for their latest commission.  Three long, very hot days, and nothing.  Perhaps it was the heat of high summer; maybe it was the panic over the low levels of the lake, but something was keeping useable faggots off the streets.

The operative word was “useable”.  The commission was for a video with some strict parameters.  The unknown client had requested a wrestling match leading to snuff but had also insisted on a level of realism. Carlos hadn’t been able to locate any homos with a body he couldn’t snap in half like a twig within fifteen seconds.

“What about a straight dude?” Nick had asked last night, when Carlos vented his frustrations.  “Y’know, one of those ‘gay-for-pay’ assholes?”

Carlos was unconscious of the look of rage that crossed his hard goateed face.  “Yeah, man, that works.  Fuckers say they ain’t fags, but they’ll take dick.  Goddam closeted fucks, even worse than the flamers.”

Nick’s mouth twitched, the barest fleeting hint of a smile.  His pet killer was hooked.  “See if you can find one who’ll take cash to do a nude wrestling video.  Offer it a grand.”

“That much?” Carlos asked in surprise.

“Oh, c’mon, man,” Nick said with a pained expression.  “Not like it’s gonna be taking the money with it when it leaves.”

“I know that,” Carlos replied with a snort, “I ain’t as stupid as you think, vato.  But it’s gonna ask to see the cash up front.”

“And I know that,” Nick shot back.  “Come by my place in the morning.  I’ll have the cash for you.”

So Carlos had.  Nick had lived up to his word—now it was Carlos’s turn.  But the prey pool hadn’t grown any larger.  The sadistic serial killer spent most of the day driving around in a kind of helpless rage.

He’d been in such a daze that when he finally saw the dude, he started as if woken out of a deep sleep.  It took him a moment to orient himself; he was at a red light at the intersection of Desert Inn and Boulder Highway.  And he was staring at a well-built youth in his early twenties.

The boy was standing on the median, wearing a pair of cargo shorts that came to his knees.  Shirtless, the only other apparel his was sporting were the ankle socks just barely visible over his red and white Puma hightops.  There was a small cooler by his side, on top of which was a half-empty bottle of water.  He was holding a cardboard sign reading ‘Anything helps—God bless’.

It was too hot a day for Carlos to have the top of his cherry-red Benz down.  The kid was literally glittering.  From the buzz-cut strawberry-blond hair on is head to the golden fur on his shins, sweat made him a prism in the sunlight.  Carlos wasn’t so dazzled, though, that he didn’t notice that the punk’s physique put him in prime wrestling consideration.

The buff ex-con rolled down his window.  The youth, who had been eagerly looking for exactly this kind of thing, hurried over.  The skin on his freckled face was starting to peel.  A skull and crossbones were tattooed on his right shoulder.  When he smiled, something that was almost certainly not a diamond glinted from a stud in his left ear.

“Hey, man,” he began, somewhat hurriedly, “Look, anything helps, y’know?  My girlfriend and I just got into town—I got this job offer, bro, good one too, but then the car broke down, y’know?   And I—”

“Can the crap,” Carlos barked.  “I gotta job for ya.  Two, three hours work, and you get paid a cool G, cash.  If you’re interested, walk over to that strip mall.  I’m gonna make a U and pull into the lot.”

Five minutes later, the kid opened the door and sat in the Benz’s passenger seat.  He eyed Carlos warily.  “Name’s Derek.  Look, dude, I been hit on before by fags, so I’m gonna be honest with ya—I don’t touch dick.”

Carlos managed to stifle the urge to beat the asswipe to death then and there, just for insinuating that he was a homo.  He smiled but had to swallow his pride to do it.

It tasted like bitter gall.  This cunt was gonna pay.

“Yeah, well, there ain’t gonna be no fuckin’ here, man,” Carlos lied, “Just a nude wrestlin’ video.  And you get a thousand, cash.  Tell me that ain’t gonna help ya with yer car and yer girlfriend back in the motel.  Am I forgettin’ anything?  Got a kid on the way?”

Derek smirked.  “Yeah.  The tourist marks buy it, though.”

“Tourists?  Out here?”

“I tried closer to downtown, but the cops ran me off.  And trust me, you get anywhere near the Strip and those Metro fuckers—”

“Yeah, I get it.  So?  Yeah, or no?”

Derek’s eyes slid over Carlos’s body, taking in the killer’s white wifebeater clinging tightly to his heavily muscled chest, the jeans that seemed painted on, especially over his huge groin, his loosely tied Redwing construction boots.  Despite the punk’s claim to uncompromising heterosexuality, his crotch pulsed visibly enough for Carlos to see it.

“Show me you got that kinda cash, and I’ll do it,” he said.

Long afterward, Carlos remembered that moment as a triumph of self-control.  Those eyes, those slimy, lascivious eyes, and that twitching of the dick…and then the gall, the fucking gall of asking to see the money…

But he’d known to expect all that.  And once he managed to overcome the initial detonation of rage, he was able to focus it with blowtorch precision. 

He’d have his chance.  He’d have a chance to show this motherfucking cunt what a waste of human flesh it really was—and what he thought it deserved.

“When, and where?” it asked, its acceptance of the deal depriving it of any lingering humanity it might have had in Carlos’s mind.  It was a faggot, and it deserved death.  His raging alpha personality completely disregarded his own throbbing erection that arose out of nowhere the moment the ex-con began imagining the vast amount of sheer agony he was gonna unload on this worthless cocksucking motherfucker.

Blissfully unaware of Carlos’s thoughts, Derek settled back, luxuriating in the Benz’s leather seat.  The air conditioning was almost icy against his skin, making his thick dark nipples contract and harden to an almost painful extent.  His mind turned to the half-ounce of weed and fifth of Fireball stashed in the cooler he’d had, now safely stashed on the floorboards behind his seat. 

He was already stoned as fuck (Carlos had noted it; the dude’s eyes were so red it was flat-out obvious).  Maybe he could have a drink when they got wherever they were going.  Hell, enough Fireball inside him and he might touch this hot inked stud’s cock. 

Fuck, he might do more than touch it.

Derek became vaguely aware that he was heading north out of the western side of the city.  His weed-slowed reactions registered only a faint surprise that the cherry-red Mercedes exited the highway and took an unexpected turn into an industrial warehouse district.

“Where we goin’, mang?” he quipped, grinning at Carlos.

It was almost exactly the wrong thing to say to a Latino serial killer with a raging hatred for faggots.  Perhaps it was some form of cosmic mercy that, for the rest of his life, Derek never knew how much his own words had caused him suffering.

Of course, by the time the Benz pulled into the parking lot of a non-descript warehouse with a small office attached, the rest of Derek’s life could be measured in hours—and the plural represented rounding rather than reality.

“C’mon in,” Calos said.  “Meet my partner, Nick.  I already texted him to expect us.”

Derek climbed out of the car and followed Carlos into the building, the muscles of his fit, firm body rolling easily as he strolled in, his toked-out mind lost in calculation.  Fuck, man, for a G, I could get a much Wild Turkey as I wanted.  I could pay off that spic for the meth and get more.  I could hire that hot little nigger that thinks he’s a chick to work my—

“Hey, bro, I think this one’ll work.”  Carlos’s voice broke in on Derek’s reveries.  He found himself in a large open space, clearly a warehouse.  To his left was an ersatz wrestling ring; it looked real enough, but this close, Derek could see how little padding there was.  The turnbuckles and ropes were just upright metal poles and cables.  There were pads on the concrete floor, but they were barely an in thick.  Not that any of it concerned Derek; after all, it was soft-core fag porn, not actual wrestling.

But the dude who now approached him—holy fuck.

Introducing himself as Nick, the muscled stud was as hot as the one who’d picked him up, just in a different, more clean-cut way.  In his late twenties, his thickly muscled body was forested with dark, curly fur that culminated in a recently grown but luxuriant full beard.  And even better—except for a pair of black leather wrestling boots laced up to just below his knees, the hot fucker was completely nude.  His cock, completely limp, hung more than halfway down his thigh and was more than an inch thick.  Derek immediately realized that hard, the stud must be monstrous.

“Hey, man,” Nick said, grinning.  Stepping forward, he extended his hand.  “Yeah, you’ll be great.  Don’t worry, dude, nothin’ you can’t handle.  You can strip over there; those blue boots oughtta fit ya.”

Hesitantly, Derek complied, heading for the folding chair Nick had indicated, sitting on which was a pair of wrestling boots identical to those the older man was wearing.  He kicked off his Pumas and pulled off his socks, then paused for a moment and blushed.

Well, fuck it, who cared?  Hell, he might get some kinda offer.  Lotta dough to be made in fag flicks.  The thought of money was enough to overcome his embarrassment over going commando. 

Three minutes later, Derek was totally nude except for the blue leather lace-up boots.  Turning around, he saw Carlos sitting on a chair, slipping off his boots.  His complicit leer was brief, but it was enough to trigger the ex-con again.  By then, though, Derek’s gaze had moved on to where Nick was crouched, adjusting the feet of a tripod supporting a digital video camera.

The hard-bodied stud was facing directly away from Derek; the kid had a dead-on view of his taut, muscled asscheeks.  Nick must have been twenty feet from the slut, but the lighting was good enough that Derek could make out a single gleaming bead of sweat tickle down the older man’s back, following the line of his spine until it vanished into the darkness between his marblelike glutes.

For some reason, Derek experienced a faint disquiet—so faint as to be almost subconscious.  He pushed it aside.  What did he have to be afraid of?  Yeah, these dudes were stronger than him, but he didn’t think they were actual faggots.  They seemed chill…

…and, of course, there was the money.  Nothing vague or faint about that; he’d seen it with his own eyes.  He’d be fine.

Then he turned around and saw Carlos behind him, nude except for red leather wrestling boots.  His jaw dropped and he stood gaping, stupidly.

“Well, bro, ya ready?” Carlos asked, grinning.  “Time to get it on, amigo.”

“What—uh, wh-what’s the set-up?” the punk asked nervously, trying to keep his eyes and his mind off the monstrously large cock dangling in front of him.  Derek had done…things…when he’d needed money badly, but he’d never seen a tool that huge in his life.

“Ok, pendejo, here’s how it’s gonna work.  See my pal Nick over there with the camera?  We’re gonna tag-team ya.  About a half-hour’s worth of wrestling grips and holds.”

“But no actual sex, right?” Derek asked, then paused.  “I mean, I’d hafta charge extra on account of yer huge—”

Carlos flashed the kid a look so hostile the words faded in his mouth.  “I ain’t no faggot, boy,” he hissed.

With an excellent sense of timing, Nick appeared.  With an easy and open smile, he somehow seemed to exude an air of friendliness.  Suddenly calmer, Derek was able to compare the two men side by side.

And it was needed; the only way to tell that Nick was fractionally shorter that Carlos was to see them side by side.  That was also the only way to see the Nick’s cock was an inch or two shorter than Carlos’s, but it was thicker, and uncut.

The other differences were more visible from a distance—Carlos’s shaved head and tight, narrow goatee as opposed to Nick’s noticeable resemblance to a young Kurt Russell; the way Carlos’s muscled body was covered with the art of elaborate, menacing prison tattoos while Nick’s equally hard physique had been left to nature, lushly forested with thick manfur.

Derek’s eyes swung slowly back and forth between the two, exactly like a faggot trying to decide which one it wanted to fuck it first.

The movement wasn’t lost on Carlos.  Nor was it on Nick, who realized he was going to need to rein in Carlos’s rage long enough to carry out some specific conditions of the commission.

This cunt needed to be humiliated before it died.

“Go ahead,” Nick said, nodding towards the ring that had been rented and erected in the warehouse, “Climb in.” 

Then the furry, hardbodied stud turned to his counterpart.  “Keep it cool, man,” he murmured in a soothing undertone, “You’ll get your chance to waste the fucker, but we’ve got a job to do first.  You kill it too fast, and we don’t get our commission, capisce?”

Carlos nodded grimly; he wasn’t happy, but he remembered their orders.  Part of him was hoping that the bitch was truly straight.  If it was, what was about to happen to it would be even more degrading. 

Unaware of all this, Derek negotiated his way into the ring.  The deposit Nick had demanded—he ultimately agreed to consider it an advance and deduct it from the amount due at completion—had been more than enough for him to have hired a team to erect one that was identical to a professional ring in everything but size; it was only half as big.

Again, Derek felt a twinge of rootless disquiet.  After all, he’d seen rings just like this in other softcore clips—not that he was watching them to get off, mind you—so it couldn’t be that.  Maybe it was the way the other two dudes seemed to be glancing at him surreptitiously as they spoke.  Perhaps it was the eyes of that Carlos dude, the rough-looking felon…yeah, his eyes, the way they smoldered with something intense that was about to burst into a raging inferno.

Suddenly, Derek didn’t want to be in the ring anymore.

And Nick, with the finely attuned senses of an experienced hunter, knew it.

Before he headed back to the prey, Nick gave Carlos one last piece of advice.  “Make it think this is all just softcore porn.  With maybe a little S&M, but nothing too rough.  Nothing to frighten it off.  Play nice with it—before you put it in its place.”  His vicious grin was returned by Carlos in equal measure as he turned to the ring.

He strode across the concrete floor, his hard body flexing as he moved.  Derek, hearing his footsteps, turned and found his eyes immediately drawn to Nick’s cock as it swung back and forth between his muscular thighs.  He was engrossed by it—to the point of missing a vital cue about his imminent danger.  But he wasn’t a faggot–he swore–so maybe it was just because he was coming down and he was starting to jones for something to keep the buzz going.

Either way, he never noticed that he could hear Nick’s footsteps, quite clearly—but he hadn’t heard his own.  He’d been given professional wrestling boots with soft foam soles that couldn’t cause injury.  Nick’s boots—and Carlos’s, too, which became obvious the moment he moved towards the ring—had been heavily modified.

‘Heavily’ being the operative word.  The two muscle studs were wearing boots capable of doing considerable damage in a no-holds-barred environment.

As Nick moved to the camera, Carlos strode across the concrete floor towards Derek with an air of masculine confidence and contempt that the street boy found unnerving but yet also somehow…well, attractive wasn’t the right word.  He wasn’t no fag, after all.

He was so successful at repressing his awareness of his own stiffening cock that it never truly reached his conscious mind.

Carlos parted the ropes and climbed into the ring, his hard, tattooed body already gleaming with sweat from the warmth inside the warehouse.  “Ok, go to the far end and slowly walk towards me,” Nick told him, “I want to check the lighting.”

Derek was standing near the middle of the ring.  Carlos quickly passed him on the way to the other end, but his return progress was much slower.  This gave the young punk more time to size up his adversary.  He still had a certain uneasiness about the setup, but Nick’s calm demeanor quieted him somewhat—which was a good thing, because the sheer power emanating from Carlos at such a close distance was almost overpowering.

As he passed the slut, the later found his eyes drawn to the way the hardbodied felon’s trapezius and dorsi muscles moved under his skin, but it was the rock-hard globes of his glutes, taut and furry, that seemed to capture Derek’s attention the most. 

It wasn’t due to sexual interest—he knew that; Derek absolutely knew that—but there some kind of deadly fascination in that perfect masculine ass that made the cunt have a hard time looking away.

Carlos closed in on the camera, and Nick held up his hand.  “We’re good, bro.  You can get the show on the road.”

The two opponents met in the middle of the ring in one of the most uneven matches in history.  Calos towered a good six inches over the “straight” whore and outweighed him by nearly a hundred pounds, every ounce of it pure muscle.  Suddenly Derek found himself very, very grateful that this was all a movie.  After all, these dudes wouldn’t do anything too extreme on camera, right?

He looked up at Carlos, towering over him, and gulped.  This close, the ex-con’s scent flowed outward over him in waves—the faint smell of mansweat given an extra impetus by an underlying, yet overriding, tang of testosterone.  The muscled stud’s grin was laden with a maliciousness he no longer bothered to hide.

“You ready, punk?” Carlos asked.  He didn’t wait for a response.

It came faster than Derek could have believed possible—and with more force.  Carlos’s surprise uppercut caught him on the chin with enough power to nearly lift him off his feet, but it happened so quickly that he was flat on his back on the mat before he realized he’d even been hit at all.

Groaning, he sat up, his mouth filling with a repulsive salty taste that caused him to spit instinctively.  It was only then that he realized his lower lip had been split and blood was trickling into his mouth.

“Yeah!” he heard Nick shout, “Excellent start!  Keep going, bro!  Beat that fucker into hamburger!”

Wait, what?  Sudden fear clutched at Derek’s heart with an icy hand, but he wasn’t given a chance to express it.  Before he could so much as open his aching mouth, Carlos kicked him in the stomach.

Once again, the street punk ended up flat on his back.  This time, though, Carlos was still with him, his red leather boot grinding into the boy’s abdomen.  The pain was phenomenal, but even worse was the fact that he couldn’t breathe.  Not that his lungs were compressed, but the kick had knocked the wind out of him, and now, with Carlos’s weight on his diaphragm, he wasn’t able to inhale.

His hands scabbled in desperation at the killer’s boot, the taut leather smooth under his palms, his fingers catching at the tight laces.  He could feel it all above and beyond the pain in his mouth and the agonizing ache in his gut.

He had no way of knowing that the latter was a warning.  Carlos had kicked him with such force that he’d actually managed to cause a tear at the point where the esophagus entered the stomach.  Without immediate medical attention, Derek was in imminent danger of developing life-threatening peritonitis.

Of course, he was also—blissfully—still unaware that that was a moot point.  He wouldn’t remain ignorant of the fact for long.

“Yo, man, tag me in!”  Nick called out.  The moment Carlos’s foot was off his belly, Derek rolled over, gasping desperately, and began crawling to the far side of the ring, too intent on catching his beath to notice what was happening behind him.

Nick climbed between the ropes as Carlos approached.  After a quick and quiet conversation, Nick looked up and noticed that the fuckmeat had reached the far side and was slowly and painfully pulling itself up into a vertical position on the ropes.  The long-haired stud turned back to Carlos.

“It’s a matter of timing,” he said.  “I’ll tell you when.”  Carlos nodded, cold glints of sadism illuminating his dark eyes as he took ten paces out into the ring.

Derek had managed to get himself upright.  Still gasping, he used the back of his hand to shakily wipe away the blood that stubbornly continued to trickle from his mouth.  Raising his eyes with trepidation, he saw Carlos standing more than halfway across the ring.

“C’mon, dude,” the hulking convict said sneeringly, “Lessee if you can do any damage.  Come at me, fucker.  I won’t even so much as swing atcha, I swear.”  His words carried the ring of conviction because they were absolutely true.

Of course, as any decent lawyer (and most ambulance chasers) will tell you, there’s always a loophole.  Derek had been on the streets long enough to have learned that on his own, but his pain had instilled a sense of anger and injustice that overrode his instincts.  He launched himself at the smug muscular bastard.

“Now!” Nick shouted, flinging himself towards Carlos at the same time.  As he was much closer, he reached the Latino killer sooner.  Carlos grabbed Nick’s arm and with all his might spun him in a full circle right back at the ropes.  Nick hit them with his back, stretching them back to their full extent.  They snapped back just as Derek made it to the point where Carlos had been standing.

Instead of meeting Carlos—who, knowing what was afoot, had dodged to the side—he met Nick.  Or, more accurately, he met Nick’s elbow, impelled towards him, driven into his face with the incredible power that he’d gained by launching himself off the ropes.   

This time, the damage was much worse than a split lip.  Stunned as he was by the force of the impact, Derek was still aware of that.  The pain was much, much worse.  For a moment, he choked and gagged on something hard and jagged before he was able to swallow it.  It might have been a small mercy that he never knew he’d swallowed several of his own teeth, but he was still gargling on blood.  Worse, he couldn’t breathe through his nose.  His entire face was in agony; he had no way to sort through the sensations and realize that his nose had been crushed.

Groaning, the punk raised his head from the mat.  The first thing he saw was Nick standing over him, grinning.  The muscled cameraman was immediately joined by Carlos who looked down at the street meat and sneered.

“You ain’t gonna just leave the fuck like that?” the ex-con asked indignantly.  “That’s the first thing you learn in prison, vato; you gotta keep goin’ when they’re down.  Don’t give the asswipe the chance to get up again.”

Derek heard the words, but he was frozen in horror as he stared up at the two hardbodied studs, both furry and one covered in amateur tats—and saw that both of them were fully erect, their enormous, vein-wreathed shafts dripping transparent beads of precum.

“Man, you’re outta bounds,” Nick shot back, “I ain’t tagged you in yet.”

Carlos turned and headed back to the ropes.  He wasn’t happy, Nick knew, but he also knew Carlos’s tendency to rush these things.  Nick wanted this to be, if not a work of art, then at least something more than the quick, brutal snuff Carlos preferred.

He turned his attention back to the writhing slut.  “He’s right, ya know,” he said, smiling gently down at Derek’s tear- and blood-streaked face, “You’re gettin’ fully tenderized.”  Without the slightest change in the sweet, comforting smile on his profoundly handsome face, Nick raised his black leather boot and stomped the living fuck out of Derek’s smooth, flat belly.

“HOOG!!!” the unluck whore cried out—not an intentional expression but an involuntary ejaculation of air from his forcibly compressed lungs.  As he curled helplessly into a fetal position, Nick strolled casually away.

“Ok, now it’s yours,” he said to Carlos as he reached out and tagged him.

As the powerful serial killer stalked across the ring, Nick grabbed the camera and zoomed in, focusing on Carlos’s muscular rear as the rock-hard glutes flexed with each step.  “Hey, dude,” he called out, “Do something to it with your ass.  There’s been a special request for that.”

Carlos paused and turned back to Nick.  “With my ass?” he queried, then shrugged.  “Ok, whatever.  But I’m still gonna beat the fuck outta of it.  It goddam well needs it.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Nick said with a quiet chuckle.

The punkmeat was still writhing and gasping for air when the inked ex-con reached it.  “How ya doin’, gringo?” Carlos asked with a sneer.  “Havin’ fun yet?”  As Derek looked up at the hulking stud towering over him, Carlos took stock of the boy’s tear-stained face, dark and congested from the lack of oxygen. 

“Looks like yer havin’ a little trouble breathin’ there, buddy,” the sadistic killer went on, “Here, lemme help.  Bet this’ll take the pain off your tiny faggot mind.”

And with that, he squatted down and planted his ass directly onto Derek’s face.

The hapless youth saw it coming and threw his arms up to resist, but it was a case of too little, too late.  The muscular, furry globes of manflesh descended inexorably until they clamped down onto the boy’s face, making an utterly airtight seal.  With his nose buried in Carlos’s sphincter, Derek was unable to draw in the slightest bit of air. 

Panic kicked in immediately.  As he began to suffocate, he kicked and thrashed, his booted feet drumming on the mat as he clawed at the serial killer’s back and legs.

With a wicked grin, Carlos turned and gave the camera a thumbs-up.  Nick returned it, his own dick getting stiff as the muffled cries of the terrified street rat were picked up by both his ears and the camera’s mic.

“Show that cunt who’s boss,” he called out, “Make him feel it!”

With a smirk, Carlos ground his ass into Derek’s face, squeezing his powerful glutes like a vise.  The suffering rentboy, already in a silent hell of asphyxiating darkness, now experienced the addition of crushing pressure bearing down on his head.  His struggles became more violent, more frantic. 

“Yeah, man, nice!”  Nick yelled, but thirty seconds later, Carlos bounded to his feet.  “Enough!” he shouted as Derek inhaled a lungful of air in a huge, whooping gasp, “This is too easy—it needs to hurt!”

With that, he rounded on the punk, who was just starting to sit up.  He lashed out with his red leather boot and kicked the fucker square in the head, striking him in the temple.  Derek flopped bonelessly back onto the mat, completely unconscious.

“Your turn,” Carlos said as he headed towards the ropes, “I want it awake when I’m workin’ it.  I want it to know what’s happenin’ to it.”

“Yeah, like I don’t,” Nick muttered but he climbed into the ring.  Reaching under Derek’s armpits, he hoisted the limp kid upright and dragged him towards the rope.  “Hey, go get a bottle of water out of the fridge,” he told Carlos, “Lessee if we can wake the fucker up.”

It only took Carlos a couple of minutes to come back in the water.  Nick had Derek pressed against the ropes, facing into the ring.  “Gimme a hand here real quick,” he said, “Just set the water down there where I can reach it.” 

With Carlos’s help, Nick wrapped the ropes around Derek’s arms, entangling the youth so that he was held up without needing any other support.  Nick grunted with satisfaction, opened the water bottle, and began splashing it into the punk’s face.  The third spray of water got into the boy’s nose; he inhaled it and immediately came awake, coughing and choking.

“Hey there, Sleeping Ugly,” Nick jeered, “Glad ya decided to come back!  After all, this is when the real pain starts; you didn’t wanna miss that, didja?”

And with that, he drove three ramrod-like gutpunches into the street whore’s flat, smooth belly.

Derek should have been used to the sensation of having the air beaten out of his lungs, but it still caused an involuntary panic at the lack of oxygen.  As he struggled to inhale, Nick’s raucous laughter rang in his ears.  Then he heard Carlos speak and his blood ran cold.

“Ok, bro, my turn.  The faggot’s conscious.  It needs to be beaten into hamburger—that’s my job.”

“You got it, dude,” Nick replied with a cheery grin, “Just hold off for a quick sec while I reposition the camera.”  He tagged Carlos, then climbed out of the ring and headed straight for the camera.

Slowly, almost luxuriously, Carlos strode into Derek’s field of view and stood with his legs apart, his hands on his hips.  The cheap boywhore raised his head reluctantly, his eyes tracing up from the red leather boots tightly laced up the Latino stud’s powerful shins to his knees.  Above that, the bulging, muscular thighs gave way the most massive cock Derek had ever seen, jutting out proudly like the prow of a warship and steadily dripping precum.

The punk’s terror grew exponentially.  He already knew he was gonna get hurt badly, but until this moment, he’d somehow, stupidly, failed to grasp that these dudes were actually getting off on his suffering.

He was helpless to stop the raising of his gaze, though; his eyes seemed to be impelled upwards via some force from outside.  From Carlos’s furry, ripped abs to his huge chest with its hubcap pecs and malevolent tattoos, the serial killer radiated a vicious, barely suppressed rage and a truly frightening power potential. 

Derek didn’t want to look Carlos in the eyes.  He knew it would hurt—and he was right.  But as he climbed laboriously to his feet, he couldn’t look away from those searing dark orbs.

“Yer gonna die, ya know,” Carlos suddenly said, almost casually.  “That’s what the camera’s for.  There are fuckers all over the world who hate faggots like you almost as much as I do.  They’re gonna pay us shitloads of money just to watch us kill you.  Just so you know what’s coming, asswipe.  You need it to happen.  You deserve it, you worthless piece of cocksuckin’ shit.”

“I’m good, man!”  Nick called out.  With the coldest, grimmest smile Derek had ever seen, Carlos ran at him.  The young whore had just enough time to lose control of his bladder before he learned that Hell is absolutely real and could be experienced in full while he was still alive. 

With amazing agility for someone so muscle-bound, Carlos suddenly leapt into the air, twisting into a horizontal position.  He’d secretly been practicing this move ever since they’d gotten this commission; even Nick was taken by surprise.

Derek had never even so much as heard of a flying dropkick; all he was aware of was the image of the soles of Carlos’s boots coming straight at him.  Even if the sight hadn’t immediately paralyzed him, though, he wouldn’t have been able to react fast enough to avoid the blow.

It was like taking a howitzer in the chest.  Carlos felt the shock in the tough sinews of his booted shins before he fell back onto the mat, but Derek’s experience was much, much more painful.  He not only felt the agony of three of his ribs shattering simultaneously—two on the right and one on the left–he actually heard the wet cracking sound of the greenstick breakages.  This time, the air forced out of his lungs was amplified by his tortured scream into a high, girlish shriek of terrible suffering.

Carlos grunted and climbed to his feet as he rose, Nick called out.  “Goddam, dude, that was fuckin’ hot!  Where’d ya learn to do that?”

The hardbodied convict turned to the camera—he’d learned by now to respond to the audience, not to Nick directly—and gave an evil leer.  “Taught myself, man.  Fuckin’ homos ain’t no match for a real man; you know that.  Now whaddaya say I give this motherfucker what it wants?”

“And what does the cocksucker want?” Nick asked with a grin as he zoomed the lens in on Carlos’s inked chest momentarily before shifting the focus up to his goateed, coldly handsome face.

“Aw, man you know what it wants.  They always want the chorizo, and they want it hot and spicy, Latino-style.”

“Fuck yeah, man,” Nick replied, “But ya gotta bring the meat closer.  Everyone’s gonna wanna see its face as it kicks and dies.”

“You got it,” Carlos said casually as he strode over to the spot where Derek was splayed out, flat on his back.  The punk’s face was purple from lack of air; it simply hurt too much to breathe.  It didn’t know that it was already meat; one of its lungs had been punctured and was collapsing.  It was a slow process; immediate medical attention might have saved its worthless life, but there was no way in fucking hell that was going to happen.

“You heard the man, asswipe,” Carlos said smilingly, “Gotta getcha ready for yer close-up.  Ya better smile for the camera as I give you what your faggot pig soul needs, cunt.”

With that, he bent down, his strong hands gripping the fag’s blue leather boots at the ankles.  The ex-con stood up with a jerk and began to twirl, spinning the street whore out in front of him.  Using the centrifugal motion to build up his momentum, Carlos made several revolutions before releasing the fuckmeat, flinging it in Nick’s direction.  It hit the ropes with a gurgling scream of sheer pain before flopping back onto the mat directly in front of the camera.   

By now, the vicious sadist’s enormous rod was visibly pulsating.  Nick zoomed in on it, a teaser for the audience.  He knew Carlos well enough by now to expect this; for someone with such a deep hatred of homos, the convicted killer clearly enjoyed plowing their fuckholes as he offed them.

The screaming of the pansy caused Nick to re-aim the camera.  Carlos had it on its back, legs bent up to its chest so he could fuck it in the missionary position.  He’d already jammed the cue-ball-sized head of his tool up the bitch’s rectum; Nick let the camera linger over the image of the stud’s massive, vein-wreathed shaft piledriving the meat’s colon as blood from its shredded sphincter trickled out. 

Its wailing was loud and inarticulate, a constant shriek of agony.  It was clear that whatever else the faggot had taken up its ass during its short, useless life, it had never dealt with anything on the scale of Carlos’s huge cock.  It was also clear that Carlos found its continual crying a nuisance.

He looked up at Nick—or, rather, the camera—his face twisted into a terrifying mask of rage.  “Goddamit,” he snarled,” I really fuckin’ hate screamers.”

“Why dontcha shut it up, then?” Nick asked with a smirk.  They both already knew what was coming; their banter had been for the sake of the virtual audience.  Carlos raised his arm and balled his fist, then spoke, punctuating his words with brutal jackhammer blows.


By the time he was done, there very little left that was recognizable of the bleeding piece of tortured meat that had once gone by the name of Derek.  Now it was just a dying cumdump, its feeble, agonized breathing making blood bubbles from the middle of hamburger-like face as its killer used it like the worthless sex toy it truly was.

“Aw fuck YEAH!” Carlos shouted as the sense of physical triumph merge with the release of pent-up rage to cause the semen in his enormous, puckered balls to boil over, “Take it, ya fuckin’ homo! Fuckin’ take it all and die!!”

The fuckmeat was no longer lucid but it was still alive and sensate.  It could not only feel every blast of pain it was enduring, both externally and internally, it could also feel its own erection, involuntarily stimulated by the relentless pounding its prostate was suffering. Suddenly, there was a new source of pain as Carlos’s huge hands wrapped around its throat and began to inexorably crush it.

The frantic clawing that the utter lack of oxygen triggered was purely instinctual; even had it been able to think rationally, the knowledge that this would cause more pain to be inflicted on it wouldn’t have helped.  As it was, it got no relief when Carlos let go with one hand—the single one he kept on its neck was sufficient to choke its life out.

And worse, as it now found out, the buff psycho now had a free hand with which to do further damage.

He grabbed the cunt’s right arm and twisted it backwards.  There was a gristly-sounding snap as he dislocated it at the elbow, ripping apart the tendons and ligaments with the ease of tearing a drumstick off a chicken.

The meat couldn’t even scream at this nightmarish new agony, it could only continue to drum its left fist uselessly on its killer’s muscular, inked chest.  Its lean, lithe body writhed tormentedly, the flat belly pressed against Carlos’s ripped, furry abs with its cock squeezed between, fully erect and lubed by a combination of sweat and its own precum.

“Twist it this way,” Nick directed, “I want to zoom in on its face.”

His expression so full of hate it could scarcely be called a smile, Carlos complied, putting both hands back around the homo’s neck.  Placing his thumbs up under its jawline, he forced its head to the right without relaxing his iron grip on its throat in the least.  “Yes!” Nick said, “That’s perfect!”

The buff cameraman, his own massive cock also fully erect by this point, adjusted the lens, bringing the dying punk’s face into sharp focus.  Swollen and nearly black, it was almost unrecognizable as human, much less as the street beggar named Derek.  The whites of the bulging eyes were streaked with red hemorrhages; tears leaked from the corners.  What was left of the nose looked like a squashed tomato.  The tongue, now a bright, livid purple, protruded grotesquely from its mouth—especially as most of the teeth that could have trapped it in had been knocked down the cocksucker’s throat.  Thick foamy drool trickled out past it, white as semen, and ran in rivulets down the fag’s chin.

As its brain reached the point where functionality could no longer be maintained and the synapses began firing more erratically, the dying meat still retained a sense of what was happing to it deep within its primitive midbrain.  Although the hows and whys were gone, it knew it was dying.  It could still feel sensations, but the distinction between pleasure and pain was no longer possible.  There was only a stimulus in extremis that was trigging a response to spew its seed as violently as possible in a last frenetic attempt to preserve its DNA.

Its muscles went rigid, its mangled sphincter tightened excruciatingly around Carlos’s enormous shaft.  The good left arm, which had ceased beating against its assailant and had slowed to almost a caressing motion, now wrapped around the back of Carlos’s neck, holding him tightly as if in a desperate embrace.

“Aw, man, I’m gonna unload in this cunt!” Carlos cried out in a strangulated voice, “AW FUCK!”

“Not without me!” Nick yelled.  Swiftly steadying the camera on its tripod, he climbed into the ring.  He made it just in time, standing over the meat’s head.

“DIE, MOTHERFUCKER, DIE!!!” Carlos screamed, echoing the sentiment inked onto his massive, straining bicep as his thick slab of manmeat exploded deep inside the whore’s guts.  As his huge, powerful body went irresistibly taut, he automatically dug his thumbs in and upwards and then clenched his hands.

With a single, not entirely deliberate action, he popped the fucking cunt’s head off the top of its spine with less effort than he’d have used to pop the top off a bottle.

As the base of its own skull sheared through its spinal cord, the penultimate thing the cunt felt on earth was a blast of pleasure/pain more powerful than anything its weak little mind could have possibly conceived.  The fact that it ejaculated so hard that its vas deferens ruptured was subsumed into this sensation; a huge pink puddle of bloody semen stickily coated both Carlos’s chest and its own.

The erotic popcorn-like sound of vertebral destruction was too much for Nick.  “GODDAM!!!” he practically screamed.  With his nine-inch rod pointed straight down at the fuckmeat, he spewed a massive load of hot manseed directly into its face, completely covering it with enough cum for the thick opalescent fluid to pool in its eyes.

Simultaneously, Carlos hunched over, rutting and grunting inarticulately in the grip of an intense orgasm.  Once again, the sadistic serial killer was swept up in the ultimate pleasure of filling a fucking faggot with his own potent wad while ending its worthless life.  Nothing—nothing—felt so good as making a disgusting homo cunt die on his dick.

And that was that last thing useless fuckmeat once known as Derek experienced on earth—it died covered in cum, tasting cum, and pumped full of cum.

Twenty minutes lates, Carlos strode back into the huge open warehouse area after cleaning himself up in the office bathroom and redressing himself.  Nick had already done so; now he was in the ring, stripping the slut’s corpse of its wrestling boots.

Nick looked up as Carlos entered.  “Gotta get these back to the rental place,” he said with a grin.  “Incidentally, ya did a great job, man.  We’re gonna make a shit-ton of money off that one.  Whatcha gonna do with this piece of garbage?”  The last question was asked with a nod towards the splayed-out remains of the well-used street punk.

 “Thanks, amigo,” Carlos said, replying to the comment first.  “They’re building some kinda new resort on the Strip out south of the airport.  Big industrial dumpsters; figured I’d just toss it in there with the rest of the trash.”

“Sounds like a plan.  Need help carrying it out?”

“What, this little piece of shit?  Nah, man—but do me a favor.  Grab its clothes and dump them somewhere else, wouldja?”

And with that division of duties, they parted ways for the evening.

Even though it was only nine in the morning, the blazing sun poured down relentless heat on the scene.  “Ya know,” Schweitz said, turning to Nuñez, “This kinda thing is might make us look bad if it continues.”

“Aw, bullshit,” Nuñez countered, “By this point you oughtta know good and well no one gives a shit about this crap.”  He turned to the beat cop who’d called the scene in.  “So, tell me.”

“Some bum dumpster diving found it.  No real details except that it was obviously a sex murder.  Man, I ain’t never seen a body that badly damaged in a case like this.”

“How long you been on the force?” Nuñez asked.

“Year and a half,” the cop answered.

“Stick around,” the homicide detective responded, “You’ll see plenty more of this shit.”

Heading towards the dumpster, already cordoned off with police tape, they encountered the lead CSI investigator.  “Hey, Andrews,” Schweitz said in a comradely manner, “How’s it hangin’?”

“Little to the left, har!”

“So what’ve we got?”

“Another fag murder—but ya’ll already know that.  Just like the others.  Extreme overkill.  Violent rape and torture.  Whoever snapped its neck like that much be profoundly powerful; I’d hate to meet this dude in a back alley—not that I hang out in back alleys with homos.”

“Better watch your language, Andrews,” Nuñez said with a smirk, “It’s an election year.  The libs will be up in arms if your remarks get out.”

Andrews scoffed.  “Like you dickheads don’t say—and think—the same goddam thing.  I’ve seen enough of these dead homos to know they’re practically begging for this shit.  So desperate for cock they go home with any stranger who offers it to ‘em.  You ask me, the deserve everything they get.”

“True dat,” Schweitz said.  “Hey, you free for lunch?  I found this great place out in Koreatown.”

“Won’t you two be busy with this one?”

It was Nuñez’s turn to scoff.  ‘You kidding?  Ain’t gonna take more than five minutes to fill out the basic paperwork.  You said it yourself, no one gives a shit.  The captain damn sure won’t.”

“And you wanna bitch about my comments?

“Hah!” Schweitz chortled.  “Meet, say, about 11:30?  I’ll drive.”

“Can do,” Andrews responded.  “Anyway, I gotta go let the ME know he can send the meat wagon.  No sense in you guys looking at the corpse; it’s just another reamed-out homo.  I’ll send you my report if you need it.”

“Nah, that’s ok,” Nuñez replied, “No one’s gonna read it anyway.”  Andrews headed towards his car as the homicide detectives heard to theirs.

“Y’know,” Schweitz said reflectively, “When I first joined the force, I had all these ideals about fighting crime and dispensing justice.  That was before I learned how most of the stupid fucks bring this shit onto themselves”

“Yeah, no shit,” Nuñez grunted.  “So, how do ya wanna file this one?”

“Same as usual,” Schweitz replied, “NHI—No Humans Involved.”

Rough Red by EdwinJ

Rough Red stood by the bed, bare-chested, his jeans unbuttoned, his

workboots half laced. He lit a cigarette and exhaled a few puffs as

he looked down on his latest victim. The victim he knew only as Tim.

Tim, the young kid he picked up at the bar only two hours before.

Rough Red stood with a hardon in his jeans as he looked down at

Tim’s naked body sprawled across the bed. His eyes bulging, tongue

protruding and the leather cord tightly wound around his neck. Rough

Red admired Tim’s hard death cock. Tim’s cock remained hard even

though his body lay dead. There was still a few drops of death cum

dripping out and running down his thigh. Rough Red rubbed his hard

cock and took a couple of more puffs. He continued to think about

this night.

Only a few hours before he spotted Tim sitting at the bar. The

twenty-something, blonde hair, blued eyed jock would be an easy prey

for a quick fuck and a violent strangulation. This was not new to

Rough Red. He killed many times before. First the sex and then

strangulation with a leather cord. It didn’t take long before Rough

Red sided up to Tim and convinced him to come back to his Motel room

he had rented for the night.

Tim innocently climbed into his killer’s truck. Rough Red drove them

to the Motel.. He led Tim into the room and closed the door behind

him, turning the deadbolt. He pulled the curtains closed as he eyed

Tim’s slim body in his tight jeans and white t-shirt.

After a couple of shots of whiskey in the room Rough Red had Tim

stripped and lying naked on the bed. Tim was his for the night. He

rubbed his rough hands down Tim’s shaft as it stiffened and slapped

against his firm stomach. Precum spilled out his slit. Tim was fully

aroused. He wanted Red to fuck him so bad. Rough Red felt his own cock harden in his jeans as he

formulated his plan.

He got up from the bed, unbuttoned and removed his shirt, tossing it

to the side. He kicked off his workboots, unloosened his belt and

unzipped his jeans. His thick cock sprung out as he stepped out of

his jeans. Tim eyed Rough Red’s muscular body, his cock fully erect.

He climbed on the bed and straddled Tim. He slid his hard cock into

Tim. He gave Tim a fuck of his life. He pumped his big cock in him,

filling him with his hot man seed. Tim released his load as it

cascaded out landing on Rough Red’s bare chest and dripping back on

himself. Rough Red laid himself on Tim, roughly kissing Tim and rubbing his hands through his hair.

Tim felt Rough Red’s sweaty chest and matted hair against his own smooth chest.

When Rough Red spent the last of his cum he got off the bed and put on his

jeans. He threw his workboots on and approached the bed where Tim

lay, still orgasing and rubbing the warm cum on his chest and

dripping cock. Tim didn’t take notice as Rough Red pulled the

leather cord from his back pocket.

Rough Red climbed back on the bed. He straddled Tim and rubbed his chest as he nibbled at his neck. Tim

closed his eyes and enjoyed. He ran his hands up Red’s furry chest.

Rough Red methodically wrapped the cord in his hands and looped it

around Tim’s neck. Tim’s eyes flew open in surprise as he felt his

throat close in and gasping for air. Tim struggled, kicking and

thrashing. His palms slapped against Rough Red’s bare chest. Rough

Red’s cock began to throb in his jeans as he watched death come into

Tim’s eyes. Tim grasped at the cord tightening around his throat.

His naked body squirming under his killer. Tim pressed his hands

again against Rough Red’s chest, desperately trying to push him off.

Rough Red was much stronger, his grip got tighter. Tim’s cock grew

hard as his body began to shudder. Rough Red looked down into Tim’s

terrified eyes. His strong hands tugged the cord one last time as

Tim’s body weakened and then convulsed. His cock erupted, cascading

death cum. Tim’s hand’s slowly slid down his Red’s chest and fell to

the side. He convulsed once more and went limp. Tim was dead. Rough

Red released the cord and hovered above his victim. Tim’s dead eyes

blankly stared back.

Rough Red was reliving the whole strangling all over again

He snapped back. His cock was aching as he continued to admire his

kill. Rough Red took his last puff and threw the cigarette to the

floor, crushing it with his boot. He needed to relieve the strain in

his jeans. He unzipped his jeans and pulled out his stiff cock. He

stroked his cock only a few times as his cum gushed out and

splattered on Tim’s naked body.

Rough Red chuckled as he grabbed his shirt and tossed it over his

shoulder. He gave one last look at Tim on the bed and left the motel

room. Tim was the latest victim of the leather cord, serial


He climbed into his truck and drove off. He reached over to the

glove compartment and pulled out another cord. He tucked it tightly

in his back pocket and begin to think about his next victim…… …

Boar hunt by Alecx45

Goood morning gentlemen welcome to our first boar hunt of the season says Harvey,please ensure you have all registered and paid any fees,aahh here  are the boars now says Harvey as a cattle truck pulls up a guy gets out and opens the back door,out he says  sternly  slowly 10 young guys with boar  hoods on  walk down the door,nice selection of boars says Charlie looking at the naked guys, all intact says Tobias  for naow they are says Harvey  let’s get 5 of the boars tethered says Harvey,Samuel takes a collar and fastens it round a lads neck then fastens it to a post he does the same to 5 more lads,lets have the boars into the wood says  Harvey Samual picks up a whip and cracks it towards the remaining  lads who run  dont damage the goods shout the shooters  they all laugh  rules says  Harvey first round  2 hours is using paint guns, next 2 hours boars are changed over then lunch break ,all boars then are in the woods  rifles issued  no head shots are allowed till after 5 pm all boars to be castrated after 5pm  spit roasting boars is extra fee ,let’s go shoot some boars says Harvey  the shooters run off into the woods  theres a few bangs as the first boar is found  then a scream what the hell says Harvey  as one of the shooters runs out of the wood what’s happened says Harvey one one one of the boars had dropped into a pit the guy gasps is it dead asks Harvey no but its impaled with 3 spikes,Harvey and Samuel follow the guy back to the pit ,they look down at a lad with 2 spikes through his belly and one through his chest what we going to do says one shooter Samual climbs down into the pit green paint he says  whose  green ,mine says a tall guy cut its throat says Harvey Samuel takes a knife out you want to do it asks Samual holding the knife out it’s your kill ,the tall guy climbs down into the pit he takes the knife and lifts the boars head  and slowly cuts its throat blood slowly drips from the boars cut throat,I’ll get you some help to remove it from the spikes says Harvey,continue he shouts as the shooters disperse ,theres more shots and shouts as the boars run through the woods,Harvey releases 2 of the tethered boars and leads them into the woods to the pit  get in there he says and release that boar they climb down and slowly lift the dead boar off the spikes  Samuel ties the boars arms and legs together then slips a 10 foot post through the loops ,you 2 carry it says Samuel they set off back through the woods the boars heads lolling back as they enter the meeting place  Harvey presses a air horn the shooters return  followed by the 4 remaining  boars,change boars over says Harvey Samuel releases the 5 boars tethered by their necks and sends them off in to the woods shooting starts again then another scream it’s one of the shooters shooting stops what’s the problem  shouts Harvey got my leg in a trap shouts the shooter we’ll get you help calls back Harvey,a boar breaks cover and presses the lever on the back of the trap the shooters legs released,the shooter looks at the boars collar silver he says the boar runs his left hand across his throat what says the shooter the boar moves his hand across his throat again,you gotta cut the boars throat says another shooter,but he got my leg out dont matter says the shooter,Harvey appears with Samuel what’s going on asks Harvey,boar released me says the shooter he says I have to cut the boars throat pointing at the other shooterreorieve this time says Harvey but he is your boar ,run says the shooter the boar turns and runs into the woods,theres another scream we have a trapped boar shouts a shooter Harvey,Samuel and the other 2 shooters run to the sound,theres a boar laid in a trap with 4 rows of 9 inch spikes through its body,you shoot it asks Harvey yes says the shooter,Samuel checks the shooters arm band then the boar it’s his says Samuel,Samuel hands the shooter a knife you want to cut its throat or keep it alive till after 5 keep it alive keep it alive Samuel and 2 of the shooters release the trap then drag the boar out to the meeting places air horn sounds lunch break calls Harvey the shooters eat the air horn sounds again ,collect your rifles and bullets  please gentlemen and remember no head shots till after 5pm there are 8 boars remaining all the boars are having their wrists and ankles at  tied at 6pm any boars remaining alive after 7pm will be tethered by the neck and shot in the head at point blank range ,the boars disperse then 5 minutes later the first rifle goes off the boar with a blue collar gets shot in the left leg and goes down the shooter puts the rifle against the boars head not allowed says another shooter the boar hobbled off theres more rifle shots then a scream as a boar is shot in the back,the silver collard boar had gone down it’s trying to crawl away and gets under a bush weres it gone says the shooter looking round ,theres a commotion to the shooter left what the fuck he says as another boar breaks cover the shooter holds his rifle up the boar points to a shooter lying down what the says the shooter the boar goes over and starts to check the shooter over then starts chest compressions the other shooter lowers his rifle get some help in here quickly he shouts the shooting  stops as Harvey and Samuel enter the wood looks like he’s having a heart attack says another shooter we’ll take over says Harvey to the boar,the boar moves his hand across his throat Samuel takes a knife out and hands it to one of the shooters who goes behind the boar he pulls thr boars head back and places the knife blade above the green collar you want him slow or quick the shooter asks the guy having the heart attack leave that boar alone gasps the shooter,the shooter with the knife looks at Harvey get him out of the wood says Harvey the boar can help,they carry the guy out ,spare this boar Harvey says the guy having the heart attack who are you boy asks not allowed to tell says Harvey back into the woods boar he turns and runs 5 minutes later the air horn sounds,you can now shoot the boars in the head the silver collard boar is found heres yours shouts a shooter the guy who shot the boar comes over I want to fuck it before I kill it he says undoing his trousers and shoving his cock into the boars ass the boar squeals as its penetrated squeal more says the guy the boar squeals the guy cums in its ass then gets up he picks up his rifle and places it against the boars head under it’s right ear a d squeezes the trigger the boars twitching as he squeezes the trigger twice more ,then drags the dead boar out of the wood,7 left says Harvey as another shot rings out that sounds like 6 as another dead boars dragged out the air horn sounds  the remaining 6  boars gather at the meeting place their hands are tied together then their ankles with 4 feet of rope,the boars set off into the wood 45 minutes calls Harvey as the shooters set off theres more shots ring out then a scream we have an impaled boar shouts a shooter Harvey and Samuel run into the wood to the sound the boars gone backwards says the shooter and slipped onto that stake it’s gone in his ass and out his chest what we going to do,your descision says Harvey  has your boar I want him alive says the shooter they drag the boar off and drag it to the meeting place 4 left says Harvey as the air horn goes  off the shooters and 4 boars exit the woods,tether thr boars to those posts says Harvey the shooters tie the boars by their  necks to short posts,gentlemen we have 4 boars left if the shooters who have the arm bands matching the boars collars would like to step up please 4 shooters step up the guy who had the heart attack has a green arm band  yours says Harvey take his hood off not allowed says  Harvey fuck man I’ve paid enough for this boar hut says the guy ,OJ says Harvey hese boars Samuel removes the gren collard boars hood Wayne ssys Senator Jenkins as a shot rings out   theres more shots as the rest of the boars are shot

Jake Rams It Home

Friday night—it was time to party.  It was time to hang out with friends, to relax, to enjoy the end of the work week.

It was time for another fag to die.

Jake had pulled over to the curb twenty minutes earlier.  It was a hot night, but he’d shut off the engine of his big Ford pickup and was sitting in the darkness, a thin sheen of sweat coating his taut, muscled body.  He sat as still as a hunter with prey in his sights, and that’s exactly what he was.

The whore was halfway up the block.

He’d spotted it while he was driving by and had circled the block, switching off his headlights before he made the final turn.  He wanted to take a good look at the potential fuckmeat.

It was young—no older than twenty.  Maybe not even that; it was clearly a street whore that hadn’t even risen to the level of being a rentboy escort.  That kinda life can age a faggot, Jake knew, so it was likely younger than it looked.

The cunt had a decent body but was a little short—no more than five feet six or seven.  Its long, tousled black hair had a slight curl to it.  He noted its dress with a certain ironical amusement.  In many respects, its outfit was similar to his own.  They were both wearing wifebeaters, but where Jake’s was white, the whore’s was black.  Both had jeans on, but Jake’s, while old and torn in spots, were mostly intact.  The fuckboy had converted its jeans into shorts, cutting off the legs so high up the thigh that an inch and a half of swollen boycock peeked out from the ragged edge.  And both wore boots; Jake still in his knee-high lineman’s boots from his job.  The slut sported glossy black leather combat boots. 

It was looking for dick; the way it held itself and the way it leered lewdly as every car that slowed down while driving by made its intentions obvious.  At one point a car crawled nearly to a stop in front of it and for a moment Jake thought he’d lost his prey.  Just then, a police car turned the corner behind him.  Jake slouched down in his truck, the other car sped off, and the human fucktoy slipped back into the shadows of an alley.  The patrol car followed the other vehicle down the street and out of sight.

The timing was perfect.  The street was empty.  Jake started his truck up and moved slowly down to the streetlight, where the little cocksucker had reemerged.   

He edged over to the curb; the boywhore approached immediately, with an air of eagerness—for money.  Once it saw Jake’s hard, handsome face, though, its eyes lit up with lust.  There was no doubt about it—it was a worthless homo.  He could off it and no one would give a shit.

That was good.  He wanted it to die on his dick.

“Name’s Cliff.  Whatcha lookin’ for?” the cunt asked openly.

“Just a quick fuck,” Jake replied.

“Gettin’ or givin’?” it queried.

Jake snorted.  “I ain’t no bottom.”  Inwardly, he raged at the rentboy’s presumptuous faggotry.  Once he had it in his control, it’d learn its mistake—but not until then.  Street whores were notoriously skittish, and he didn’t want this one to get away.  It needed to be snuffed in the worst possible way.

“It’s a hundred an hour for that,” it responded.

The unmitigated gall.  Fucking slut wasn’t worth even a quarter of that—but it didn’t matter.  Jake merely grinned.  “That’ll work.”

Perhaps he agreed too readily; the whore was suddenly wary.  “You got the cash?” it asked, “Show me.”

“Shit, man, I got paid today,” Jake said, trying to keep the anger from showing in his face as he dug out his wallet and showed the cunt that it was full of twenties.  It worked, though; the whore relaxed visibly and opened the door of the pickup.

“Excellent,” the faggot said as it settled into the passenger seat. “Go up the road here and turn right at the light.  There’s a motel about three blocks down.  I gotta room there.  It’s cool; they know me.  I’m in there a lot.”  Jake glanced over at the cocksucker; the info didn’t surprise him at all.  Homo had probably gulped down gallons of cum in the place.

That was gonna all end tonight.  One last load and it was lights out for the cunt.  Jake managed to get the evil smirk off his face before he pulled into the motel parking lot.

The office was surrounded by floodlights; Jake avoided it without thinking—almost a form of predatory instinct.  As he pulled to the far end of the dilapidated, single-story building, the whore nodded in approval.

“Good,” it said, “My room is this end one.  Just cause the night clerk knows me don’t mean I don’t try to keep shit on the DL, y’know?”

Jake knew.  He also knew that by the time he was done with this little fucker, there wasn’t any way of keeping the place off the radar of the police or anyone else in town.  He was gonna make it famous, if not downright notorious.

The punk hopped out of the truck as soon as the engine was shut off and led the way towards the door.  The crumbled asphalt of the parking lot crunched under its combat boots, only to be drowned out by the heavier tread of Jake’s knee-high black leather lineman’s boots.  It tried to open the door but had difficulty, fumbling with the lock.

“Whatsa matter—ya don’t want this dick?” Jake said sneeringly.  Just then, the little cumsucker managed to get the door open.

The room was small and irregularly shaped.  In a niche to one side, completely out of view from the bed, was a decrepit stand with a small TV on top of which was a cheap coffee maker; next to it was an open door that revealed a surprisingly large closet, given the size of the room.  Across from this was a desk/dresser combo unit that appeared to be bolted to the wall.  It was accompanied by a single armless desk chair with a metal frame; the seat and back were a solid unit of plastic.

Next to the entrance door was a window covered with thick, dirty curtains in a pattern that hadn’t been popular for more than thirty years.  Opposite the window was the queen-sized bed—easily the largest thing in the room, it was so big that the single tiny nightstand with its lamp and clock barely had room to fit in the corner.

The whore headed towards the bathroom door on the far wall.  “Gotta do somethin’ real quick,” it said, leering at Jake with its bloodshot brown eyes.  Jake heard its footsteps on the tile floor, then the sound of a lighter.  Swiftly and silently, Jake locked the room door behind him.  At some point, a keyless deadbolt had been added; he locked that, too.  He wanted no interruptions while he was putting the fag down like the dog it was.

As he did so, a harsh chemical smell filled the room, as if someone had spilled of bottle of cleaning solvent.  Jake recognized it right away; the homo was smoking meth in the bathroom.

A shark-like grin spread across his face as him massive cock throbbed in his jeans at this confirmation of his plans.  He could do whatever he wanted to the motherfucker.  No one was gonna give a shit if there was one less fagot methhead whore in the world.  And they damn sure weren’t gonna care how much it suffered as it was taken out.

The boy emerged from the bathroom, already sweating and twitching.  It had already stripped off its shirt and shorts; it still sported its combat boots, but they were loose and unlaced.  It’s boycock wasn’t thick, but it was nearly seven inches long and pulsing.  It approached Jake, its gaze fixed on his bulging crotch with a pathetic eagerness that filled the sadistic alpha with disgust.

It also filled him with a sense of his own power.  With an even broader grin, he reached down and pulled off his own shirt, revealing his sculpted, powerful abs, covered with fur.  The cunt was distracted enough to stare at Jake’s chest while the stud unzipped his fly and hauled out his enormous hog.

Seeing it, the fag’s mouth gaped with pleasure and anticipation.  “Oh fuck, man,” it moaned like a bitch in heat, “I want that in me so fuckin’ bad!”

“And that’s just what yer gonna get,” Jake chuckled, “So fuckin’ bad—when you’ve earned it.  Get over here and start workin’ on my nipples, asswipe.  You ain’t getting’ the D till ya deserve it.”  

It approached slowly, almost as if it was in awe, but the moment its lips touched Jake’s chest, the alpha’s disappointment began.  The cunt’s tongue worked his nipples, all right—in the mechanical, almost lackadaisical manner of a whore bored with its job, only in it for the money.

Jake, already filled with hate for the money-grubbing cocksucker, felt his anger rise within him.  But the inner rage triggered a bloodlust that made his huge member twitch and swell even more.  The rentboy, feeling the response, was sure that its actions were pleasing to the hot muscled stud.

It would learn its mistake soon enough—but not so soon as to avoid the consequences.

“Awright, enough,” Jake growled.  “Work my cock, faggot.  And do it right.”

The fuckboy scrambled to its knees and guzzled the hardbodied stud’s swollen, throbbing shaft like a pig gobbling its swill.  It certainly acted eager enough, but once again, Jake was far from impressed with its skills.  More, he couldn’t believe that it dared to demand money for them.

“You piece of utter shit,” he said in a calm cold manner the froze the slut’s blood in a way that screaming the same words wouldn’t have done, “You worthless fucking cocksucker.”

The teen fuckmeat had been on the streets long enough to know trouble when it heard Jake speak, but not long enough to develop the quick reflexes needed to survive.  It hadn’t braced itself fully when Jake clamped his hand in a vise-like grip around the back of its head and thrust forward, completely blocking its trachea with his engorged rod.

“Mmmmmph!” it tried to protest, then the conscious realization that it couldn’t breathe kicked in.  “Mmmmmmph!  Mmmph!  MMMMMPH!!!”

It eyes watered and its face darkened as it tried shoving Jake’s rock-hard, denim-clad legs away.  Realizing the futility of its actions, it was reduced to beating its fists helplessly against the sadist’s thighs.

While it was busily occupied choking on his dick, Jake slowly reached his free hand around and into his back pocket.  Stealthily, he retrieved a metallic object, a surprise he wanted to spring on the useless little homo gagging in his crotch.  If it looked up, the sheer malignancy of Jake’s grin might’ve made it piss itself.

But it didn’t look up.  And even if it had, it still wouldn’t have been able to see the brass knuckles the buff sex killer had slipped onto his hand.

Finally, Jake released the slut.  It popped off his cock like a champagne cork coming out of a bottle, gagging and drooling, trying desperately not to retch.  As it smeared away the streamer of saliva dangling from its lower lip with the back of its hand, it glared up at Jake, initially too upset to notice the alpha’s look of sadistic glee.

“Wha-what the fu-fuck ya tryna d-do?” it gasped, doing its best to speak without coughing, “Ya tryna choke me to death?”

“Not yet, motherfucker—not yet,” Jake hissed.  This time, something in his tone caught the rentboy’s attention.  It peered up, scanning Jake’s face attentively.  So attentively, in fact, that it never saw his arm swing.

The impact was unbelievable, almost literally.  The next thing the whore knew, it was on the floor, halfway across the room.  There were solid objects in its mouth and a pain as if it’d been hit in the jaw with a baseball bat.  This latter feeling was validated when it spit out the things in its mouth—which turned out to be three of its own teeth.

“Wha—” it croaked, looking at Jake in stunned disbelief.  It noticed the metallic glint of the brass knuckles on his right hand but was too dazed to follow the revelation to a logical conclusion.

“You—” it started, then paused to spit out blood, “You hit me!”

“Ya think, ya fuckin’ dumbass?” Jake sneered.  “That’s just foreplay, bitch.  By the time I’m done hurtin’ ya, death is gonna feel so good you’ll cum when I waste ya.”

The punk was still jittery and sweaty from the meth.  This sudden intimation of torture and murder accelerate its heartbeat to the point that Jake could see its pulse pounding like a hummingbird’s in its carotid artery.  He moved closer, his heavy lineman’s boots leaving deep impressions in the carpet, despite its thinness.

The cocksucker paled.  Like most of its kind, it had been aware that such things happened—but they always happened to someone else.  Not him.  He was too smart to fall into that kinda trap. 

And now that he had, he was too smart to die in it.  Not him.  He would get out, he would survive.

He would continue to deny reality until the final few seconds of his worthless life.  But he’d be utterly unable to deny the agony.  There was no escaping that—and Jake knew it.

Ruthlessly, he strode forward.  Grabbing a hank of the kid’s hair, he ruthlessly dragged it to its feet.  When he let it go, it swayed, as if it was not going to remain standing for long.  That was ok, though; he didn’t need it to stand long.  Just a few seconds would be enough to hit the target.

Hit it he did, the brass knuckles plowing into the cunt’s solar plexus like a runaway semi.

The fuckmeat curled forward, folding up like a fan.  Just as it seemed about to collapse to its knees, Jake’s right boot lashed out, the steel-reinforced toe making contact with the thick boycock dangling between the fag’s legs.  The kick had enough power to knock the boy back into the TV.  TV, stand, coffee maker, and whore all fell to the floor with a resounding crash.  The glass coffee pot shattered on the homo’s head; within seconds, tiny trickles of blood started leaking from numerous small lacerations across its face.

This time, it did puke.  In a fetal position, it vomited a thick white foam, redolent of alcohol.  Jake gave it a cheery smile.

“Don’t know whatcha been drinkin’, bro,” he smirked, “But better out than in, haw!”

Again, he approached the prone youth, slowly and menacingly.  This time, the kid was in too much pain to notice.  Its field of vision, blurred with tears, was filled with the muscle-bound stud’s leather boots, the knee-high laces laddering out of its sight. When one of the boots drew back, the whoreboy knew that it was going to be kicked again, but that knowledge did not lead to any emotional reaction.  Its psyche was too busy trying to process what it had already endured to attempt to prepare itself for any new onslaught.

And in any case, it would have been unable to prepare itself for the brutal attack that came next.  Jake kicked it hard and fast, landing a dozen direct blows within fifteen seconds.  Each time his boot made contact with the teen’s lithe, lean body, it snapped a rib or an ulna, punctured a lung, tore the liver, spleen, or intestines. The bitch rolled and wallowed on the floor, emitting a high-pitch squeal like the pig it was.  Its feet kicked and flailed, its combat boots scraping on the carpet.

Standing over it, Jake took off his brass knuckles and tossed them clattering onto the table.  Standing over the writhing boytoy, he spit on it.  “Fuck you,” he jeered, “I don’t need no help to make the likes of you suffer.  I can do it with my bare hands.”

The meat reached out, one hand grasping at Jake’s booted foot, tentatively at first, then with a firmness born of desperation.  It turned its swollen and bruised face up to the alpha, its expression one of utter misery.

Jake knew better, though.  It needed this.  Fuck, it knew it needed this.  Suffering completed faggots.  They craved it, knowing that the only expiation for their worthless existence was through pain and terror.

And in the end, no matter how much they screamed and struggled, they always blew a wad in the end.  Whatever their mouths said, their homo bodies knew the truth and their fag cocks responded.

So Jake only smirked when the teen boywhore grabbed his boot.  Quickly shaking the punk’s hand off, he stepped on it, grinding his thick heel in.  He could barely hear the faint, twig-like snapping of the cunt’s fingers over its pathetic mewling, but it was enough to make his engorged shaft ooze precum.

“Does it hurt, fuckwad?” Jake asked, his deep, masculine voice smooth as silk.  “Yeah?  Ya like that shit, dontcha?  Yer sick little queer-ass soul knows how much you deserve this. Well, don’t worry, cocksucker, we’re only getting’ started.”

He bent down and grabbed a fistful of the kid’s hair with one hand, wrapping the other around its neck.  Using them as handles, he pressed the fuckmeat back against the wall, then lifted it upwards, its back sliding up the thin sheetrock.  It clawed at Jake’s iron-hard grip on its throat—its good hand did, anyway; the other flailed uselessly in the air—as he lifted it off the ground and it started to choke.

Jake leaned in close, his hard, handsome face illuminated by an almost satanic look of malignant triumph.  “You wanted my load, right, faggot?” he whispered, “Here’s your chance to get it.  I’m gonna make you milk it outta me.”

Here his hand clenched even tighter; the pansy grimaced, its tongue momentarily protruding as the crushing pressure on its esophagus increased sharply.  “Wanna know how I’m gonna do that?” the alpha hissed. “I’ll give ya a hint—its gonna hurt like all fuck, hah!”

Things happened very quickly after that.  The whore barely had time to realize it was flying across the room before it wasn’t anymore; it had smashed into the nightstand with such force its body caved in the wall, leaving a slut-shaped hole in the sheetrock.  As the boy bounced back onto the bed, the bedside lamp—still functional despite being knocked to the floor with a crushed lampshade—thew lurid, phantasmic shadows on the opposite wall.

The whore rolled onto its side.  It didn’t have the mental fortitude to watch the slow, ominous approach of its killer—and yet, seeing his grotesquely towering shadow projected onto the wall in front of its eyes didn’t help.  It pissed itself.

Jake had enough experience as a serial killer to recognize what the acrid scent that suddenly flooded his nostrils was.  With a single deft move, he jerked the urine-soaked blanket and sheet off the bed, tossing them to the floor.  He’d acted quickly enough to avoid any of it seeping down to the fitted sheet.

The muscled sadist bent over.  Gasping the meat’s shoulder, he roughly flipped it onto its back.  “Ready to die, motherfucker?” he chuckled, his furry chest glistening with sweat and his stallion-sized cock visibly pulsating, “Cause I wanna unload this thick wad of spunk that’s boilin’ over in my balls, bitch.  You gotta die on my dick for that to happen; ya feelin’ me, faggot?  But not yet.  You ain’t suffered enough yet—”

Here the hard-bodied lineman stud bent over the battered body of his teenage fucktoy and stared straight into its terrified, bewildered eyes.

“—and trust me, you worthless piece of faggot shit, you’ll be fuckin’ beggin’ for death before I’m done.  When you finally die, it’ll feel so good you’ll cum.  I promise.  I fuckin’ promise.

He sat back and, placing his hands on the whore’s smooth thighs, parted its legs.  “After all,” Jake added conversationally, “They always do.  Ain’t like this is my first rodeo.”

As the homicidal lineman positioned himself between his victim’s legs, he begin unbuckling his belt with a menacing air.  At last, some part of the whore’s innate warning system went off; it had heard things about other sluts being beaten with belts by dangerous johns.  Needless to say, it was a case of too little, too late; all the rentboy’s delayed red flag did was increase its abject terror. 

But Jake merely removed his belt and laid it beside the teen’s firm lean bruised body.  Leaning over the unfortunate youth, he held up his right hand, balled into a fist.  The rentboy experienced a pang of fear far greater than anything it had felt before.  That fist—it looked like a mallet, it looked like fucking Mjolnir (about which he’d learned from the movies)—would destroy him.  This amazingly hot stud—there was still enough of the cockpig left to appreciate its killer’s physique—was not only capable of beating it to death but was eager to do so.

Somewhere in the very back of its semen-craving homo soul, there was an involuntary response.

“You know,” Jake said insinuatingly, his eyes glowing hypnotically, “This is the best thing that could happen to you.  You need to die in nightmarish agony.  You fuckin’ want this, yeah?  This is what you were meant for from the moment you entered this world.  You’ve always been a piece of faggot shit.  I can tell that shit by yer fuckin’ cock, dickhead.”

He reared up on his knees, brandishing his enormous member in his hand like a lethal weapon, which it was.  “Your highest and best use,” he said, smirking into the teen’s face, “Remember that.  As bad as it hurts, as scared as you get—this is your highest and best use.  You’re not good enough for anything else.”

Then he speared the homo, his massive, precum-lubed shaft piercing the kid’s fuckhole like a javelin, tearing its way through the adolescent’s sphincter as easily as if it had razor-sharp blades.  And that’s exactly what it felt like to the punk.

It damn sure wasn’t a virgin, but the length and girth of Jake’s tool was more than anything it had ever taken before.  It was too much.  It opened its mouth to scream—

—and then Jake closed its mouth for it.  His huge fist came rocketing out of seeming nowhere and smashed into the punk’s jaw just before it could vocalize its pain.  It grunted, a deep, visceral, involuntary noise as its entire body jerked under the brutal impact.

“Aw, fuck yeah!!” Jake howled in savage ecstasy, “Bro, I felt that all the way down to the root of my dick!  Goddam, we gotta do that again!  You ready, motherfucker?”

The fuckboy coughed and spat up two more of its teeth.  That was the only response it had time for before another merciless punch plowed into it so hard that the lower jaw broke with an audible snap.

“AAAAGGGGFFHHH!!” the cunt spat out, utterly inarticulate in its misery.

“That’s it, faggot, just like that,” Jake said, his voice almost seductive. “Show me.  Show me how much it hurts.”  He stared deep into the teen’s hazel eyes, the long lashes bedewed with tears, and could see fear and confusion in equal parts.

“You got only one way outta this, fucker.  Ya get me?  One way—that’s death.”  As he spoke, he continued to plow his long thick tackle relentlessly up the boy’s agonizingly torn rectum; each time his swollen hog ground its way over the meat’s prostate, the fag’s dick pulsed and oozed, despite the pain.

“And I ain’t gonna kill ya till I’m done with ya,” Jake continued, digging the toes of his lineman boots into the bed to get better traction for fucking the stupid rentboy in the guts, “You hear me, ya homo piece a’ shit?  I’m gonna use you so hard, you ain’t gonna be no use to no one after I’m done.”

He leaned over, laying the full weight of his hairy muscular body on top of the adolescent, pinning its smooth, sweat-lubed form, writhing helplessly, beneath him.  He continued to whisper lovingly to the teen whoreboy, enjoying the mindfuck as much as the literal assrape.  “You’re gonna be begging to die before I’m done with ya.  But you already know that, dontcha?  Good.  That’s good.  Cause, ya see, the only way for you to earn that death yer gonna want so bad it to milk it outta my cock.”

He bent even further, his cruel erotic face filling the street whore’s field of vision.  The punk was barely clinging to lucidity; it took a few seconds for the sensation of contact—and then pressure—on is throat to register in its brain.  But now, Jake’s manner changed.  The evil alpha was back, not that it had ever truly been gone.

“You followin’ me, asswipe?” he hissed, his face contorting with a spasm of vicious sadism that drove home the force of his words with a profound impact.  “You want the pain to stop, you gotta earn it.  Remember that, faggot.  You gotta earn death.  Only way to do that is to make me cum—and the only way to do that is take as much pain as I can give you.”

“So here’s how your last few minutes on earth are gonna go down, dude,” Jake continued, returning back to his conversational tone.  “I’m gonna choke you to death.  I’m only gonna use one hand, cause I don’t need to use two to off a worthless fag like you.  That leaves this hand free.”  He held his right hand up, again balled into a solid mass of tremendous power potential. 

“They say it takes three minutes without oxygen for the brain to die,” the hardbodied alpha said.  “It doesn’t.  Healthy young kid like you?  It’s gonna be closer to five minutes, maybe more.  Even better, you’re gonna be awake most of the time.”

Jake gave another seductive look—this time, focused on his fist.  “And I’m gonna be beatin’ the living fuck outta you the entire time, bitch.  By the time you die, yer own fuckin’ mamma ain’t gonna recognize you.  Fuckin’ hot, yeah?  C’mon, cocksucker, let’s get started!”

Leering at the traumatized youth, Jake reached down.  Without looking, his hand unerringly grasped his belt.  As he held it up, his leer darkened, became more menacing.  The slut shook its head, its eyes wide with fear, faint whimpering sounds coming from its slack, contorted mouth.

But it wasn’t just that the boy whore was terrified.  Some part of its cockpig soul was turned on and that realization was, somehow, even worse than the fear.  The way the alpha’s hard hairy body was lit at an extreme angle by the lamp on the floor emphasized the massive mounds of his pecs, the rippling roll of his fur-covered abs…

…and the erotic musk of adrenaline, sweat, and testosterone that filled the small room, some of it pumped out by the punk’s own suffering body.  Its left lung had collapsed, forcing it to gasp for air.  With each ragged inhalation, it filled its right lung with pheromones that triggered the abundance of hormones circulating it its adolescent bloodstream.

It didn’t know any of that, of course.  The chemical nature of its reactions were beyond its understanding.  It only knew that the more pain it suffered, the more precum its cock oozed.

That was wrong.  It knew it was a faggot cocksucker, but it wasn’t that perverse.  It couldn’t—

Then Jake stuck it with the belt, the buckle leaving such a deep impression in the soft, smooth skin of the homo’s flat belly that pinpricks of blood welled up from the welt.  All thoughts of what its cock was doing were wiped from the pansy’s mind; it could only think of the pain, and how to avoid more of it.

“Fuckin-A, bro!” Jake cheered with malicious enthusiasm, “Ya like that shit, dontcha?  Damn, bitch, you backed yer faggot fuckhole up on my rod that time!  I heard you cumsuckers like a good whippin’ every now an’ then.  Is that right, motherfucker?  Just another homo pervert, right?  Then yer gonna fuckin’ love this shit, asswipe—I’m gonna rip yer skin off!”

Jake didn’t literally flay it, but the rentboy didn’t know that.  And it certainly couldn’t tell by the sensations it was enduring.  The hardbodied sadist beat it continuously with the belt, each blow slamming into the helpless youth with unflinching aim and relentless force.  As the fuckmeat writhed on the bed, the twisting of its lithe, lean form torqued its colon around Jake’s engorged, leaking member planted firmly in its guts.

The kid continued to make a series of shrill, nerve-wracking squeaks and squawks.  Even in the frenzy of the bloodlust beating, the sound wormed its way into Jake’s ear and started to irritate him.  “Goddam painslut,” he barked, “I already know you fuckin’ love how bad it hurts—ya don’t need to tell the whole fuckin’ world, ya whore!”

He leaned back, almost—but not quite—completely extracting his huge tackle from the fucktoy’s hole.  With inevitably perfect aim, he snapped the belt down with the speed and precision of a bullwhip in the hands of a master artist.  The steel buckle slammed into the faggot’s balls with a force approaching that of a bullet’s.

It tried to scream; it really, really tried.  It was just too much.  The noise backed up in its throat.

And then Jake made sure it couldn’t scream, ever again.

Later on, he marveled at how neatly he’d done it.  The slut shoulda been meat, right there.  Game over.  After all, he’d punched it in the Adam’s apple, as hard as he could.  “GACHCK!” it spat out, inarticulate testimony of its suffering.  Jake had smashed its larynx—yet, somehow, had managed to avoid collapsing its trachea completely.

It could breathe.  It was still alive.  But it could no longer make a sound above a rasping whisper.

“That was it, cunt,” Jake said, his eyes glittering, his handsome face erotic in its cruel indifference, “That was your death warrant.  Time to flood your faggot guts with the hot potent seed of a real man.  Yer gonna love this shit, fucker.  This is what you were meant for, and you know it.  Yer gonna cum, faggot.  Fuck, lookit how much precum is leaking from yer pansy shaft right now, you sick-ass homo.  Yer gonna cum when I off you, cocksucker.  You need this.  Hell, you want this.”

Clinging to the last (and probably the only) shred of pride it had left, the fag whoreboy knew that it had no way whatsoever to prevent the seductive stud from following through on its threats.  But it was determined that it would somehow prove it wasn’t the complete bottom pig whore this hot psycho thought it was.

It wouldn’t cum for him.  It had made up what passed for its mind.  No matter how intense things got, it wouldn’t cum for him.

With a cocky smirk, Jake held the belt up and threaded the end back through the buckle, making a very simple—but very effective—noose.  During this display, he maintained the tempo of the deep, brutal thrusting of his hips with impeccable precision.  By now, he no longer thought of the teen rentboy as a human.  It was nothing but a cock holster, a single-use cumdump.  He was ready to unload in it and make it into meat.

The muscled alpha, his furry body gleaming with sweat, looped the thick leather belt around the boy’s throat and began to pull it tight.  “Time to die, motherfucker,” he whispered, his mesmerizing, inescapable gaze locked into the whore’s bewildered, shock-darkened eyes.  “I’m gonna put you outta yer misery, faggot.  Time to cum and die.”

The last tiny sliver of the cockpig slut’s soul that had remained human rose up rebelliously; it knew it couldn’t fight back—but it damn sure wouldn’t give this psycho motherfucker the satisfaction of watching it shoot its wad.  No.  Wasn’t gonna happen.  It’d find a way, some way—

Then Jake jerked the belt viciously, instantly cinching off the fuckmeat’s airway.  The boywhore’s attention was suddenly focused elsewhere.

Its hands came up, one of them clawing frantically at the leather strap around its neck.  The other hand flailed uselessly in the air, the broken fingers flopping back and forth like a grotesque party favor.

“Does it hurt, cunt?” Jake hissed.  As he brought his face in close, the off-kilter lighting slid a shadow over his eyes, leaving them backlit by their own internal glow—a kind of emotional lava that puddled passion, rage, and hate into a boiling pool of lust.

It was the most terrifying, most erotic thing the fagmeat had ever seen.  And as the crushing pain in its throat was matched by the burning agony in its chest and the explosive pounding of its own frenetic pulse inside its skull, the punk was vaguely aware of the way in which its body was responding.  It was following the motions of its killer, its smooth thighs, already wrapped around the alpha’s waist, would tighten and squeeze with every relentless thrust up its ass.

And its cock—it wasn’t gonna cum, it wasn’t—pulsed and oozed, hypersensitive and aching so badly the slut could feel it even over the agony of being strangled to death.  Every time the wiry fur on the killer’s belly brushed against it made the boy’s dick feel like it had been fucking steel wool.

“That’s it,” Jake leered, “Give it up.  You’re almost done, bitch.  Your short, stupid story is over.  You don’t need to be taking up space on this planet once I unload in you.  Ain’t no one gonna need you no more, faggot.”

The cocksucker heard the words but was having trouble following them.  It had stopped trying to pull the belt away from its throat; it simply didn’t have the leverage.  By the time it realized this, though, it had burned up too much of its precious oxygen in the attempt.  It transferred the attention of its good hand to Jake’s face, but with so little power or coordination that it managed little more than weak slaps.

The meat was having trouble with its senses as well.  What little it could hear over the crashing of its pulse was tinny and fuzzy, as if coming from a great distance.  Its bulging eyes had become so distorted, it could no longer focus. 

The faggot was close, so close.  Jake could feel its smooth, lean body start to tremble under him.  He knew what that meant.  It wasn’t meat yet, but it was about to be a vegetable.  The homo cunt was at the edge of brain death.

Jake lowered his head, his rough, unshaven cheek brushing against the kid’s as he murmured into its ear.  “This is the only reason you ever existed, asshole—so you could die on my dick.  Lights out, motherfucker.”

Lifting up, he could see the petechial hemorrhages stippling its eyes, which were bulging from a face so black and swollen from congestion that it was unrecognizable as the teenage whore that had climbed into Jake’s truck an hour ago. 

Its mouth dangled open, giving the purple tongue plenty of space from which to protrude.  Thick, foamy streamers of drool trickled from both corners of the mouth.  On occasion, a faint, moist grunt managed to emerge from its blocked airway.

Placing one hand over the whore’s face, Jake wrapped the belt around his other hand.  Holding the faggot down, the sick sex killer snapped his other arm back, as if he was starting a lawn mower or outboard motor.  In a fraction of a second, not only was the rentboy’s esophagus crushed into a space of less than one inch diameter, but its spinal cord had been yanked out the bottom of its skull.

It couldn’t have known—and yet it did.  The damage to the central nervous system was so severe that it couldn’t have felt its own violent convulsions.  It couldn’t feel its feel kick so violently that one of its combat boots came off, thudding onto the floor. It couldn’t have felt its hand caress its killer’s face as its torn rectum clutched his cock, squeezing it and massaging to the point of orgasm.  It couldn’t feel the searing heat of manseed hosing its intestines.  It couldn’t feel its own deathload as it ejaculated copiously and involuntarily at the moment of its death, spewing thick, ropy sperm all over Jake’s hairy chest.

And yet, somehow, in the midst of that mind-shattering blast of mortal trauma that carried all of existence before it, the teen fag knew that despite its promises to itself, it had cum.  It had been that much of a pervert.

Then it was gone, its last second on earth an event horizon composed of agony, screaming terror—and humiliation.  Its killer had been right.

The whore was gone.  Its meat wasn’t quite convinced of the fact.  Jake held on, riding the convulsing corpse like a mechanical bull, letting the dead teen milk out a second and third orgasm as its destroyed nervous system continued to short circuit.

Eventually, the muscular alpha grunted and shuddered for the last time.  Pausing briefly to catch his breath, he pulled out of the dead kid and stood next to the bed.  Looking down at the corpse, he was dismayed at the depth to which the belt had sunk into the homo’s throat.  For a moment, Jake considered just leaving it there—but he liked that belt.  It was one of his favorites.

Ruthlessly, he knelt on the bed, placing one knee directly on the boy’s face.  Digging his fingers into the meat’s neck, he managed to work them under the belt.  With slow and patient maneuvering, he was able to slowly work it loose.

As he did, he could feel the crushed cartilage of the punk’s trachea through its skin.  He could hear it, too—every now and then he had to push a little hard.  Pieces inside would break.  And every time one did, a pearl of cum would leak from his semi-erect cock…

Eventually, Jake got his belt back.  He headed to the bathroom, the tread of his boots heavy on the tiled floor.  It only took a few minutes to wipe the slut’s cum off his chest and his own cum off his cock.  Grinning maliciously, he dropped the towel into the toilet and flushed it, making sure that water was overrunning the bowl before he left the room.

He paused as he was putting his wifebeater back on, looking down at his kill.  Had it learned?  It looked like it had.  Its face was starting to fade to a bluish-gray, but it was still horrifically bloated.  A pink mix of semen and blood was leaking from its mangled asshole and staining the bottom sheet.  Its legs were spread; one foot still booted, the other clad only in a sock but its toes visibly curled in death agony.

The mark around its neck was so deep and dark it could have been mistaken for decapitation if not for the obvious signs of strangulation on the face.  The fact that it was a sex murder could not have been made more clearer—but the fact that the victim’s shaft was leaking cum drove the point home.

It looked like it had suffered enough learned its purpose.  After all, that was the whole point.  Faggots need to learn their purpose. 

And their purpose was to die for his sexual pleasure.  That was why they were on the planet.

Jake opened the door, but before stepping out of the motel room, he stopped and took another backwards glance.

So many fags that needed to learn.  So many fags that needed to suffer.  It was overwhelming.  A question started forming in Jake’s mind…

…how does one find an assistant in this line of missionary work?

“What?  ID?  What da fuck you t’ink dis is, de Ritz?  Not, I don’t ask fer no fuckin’ ID!”

The small hairy man of indeterminate nationality was evidently either the owner or the manager of the motel.  Possibly both.  His thick but unplaceable accent made it difficult for the investigators to tell.

“He come in two, t’ree days ago,” the little man continued, “He a whore.  Get lot of whores.  Girl whores, boy whores, girlyboy whores, all kind.  No, I don’t see who go in his room.

Who found?  Maid found.  Every day, she come.  This not no dump!  We keep clean!  He not dead yesterday.  Happen last night, maybe.

Unper—unpurtur—what you say?  Calm?  I calm?  Why hell I should not be calm?  Whore die here every month.  Lots fag whore die here.  Last time, cops not even here half hour.  Why you come?  Fag always die; no one care.

You go.  You go now; you bother me.  I let you know when real person die.  You go now.”

The Great Coon Hunt, part 3: Finale

Finishing his beer, Dan tossed the empty can over his shoulder and ran the back of his hand over his lips to make sure no foam remained.  He turned to Pete and the boys, surveying them with a grin.

“Ok, gents, listen up,” the Sheriff said, “We got a dozen niggers left to dispose of, right?  So I have an idea.  I’m gonna let the monkeys outta their cells and we’re gonna chase ‘em down one by one.  You catch an ape, you can do whatever you want to it.  Just don’t use a gun unless absolutely necessary.  Any objections?”

There was a brief pause, then Mike stepped forward.  “Can you give us a coupla minutes before you set ‘em loose?  There’s somethin’ I’ve always wanted to try on a coon, but I’m gonna need time and maybe a little help to set it up.”

“Whatcha got in mind?” Dan asked.  Mike approached him and whispered into his ear.  The fact that his idea, whatever it was, strongly impressed Dan was so clear to everyone in the room that Pete felt a deep pang of what could only be jealousy.

“You’re sure we’ve got everything you need?” Dan asked Mike; upon the latter’s affirmative reply, the older cop said, “Ok, grab somebody and go get it.  Pete, grab a coon from the top row and have it untie the hanging meat.  I’ll have one from the bottom drag it out to the vans.  I don’t want more than two out until the end; Mike can use one of ‘em.  In the meantime, we can all collect whatever we think will be useful for exterminating this infestation.  And remember, boys—the nigger scum needs to be punished.  It needs to suffer.

The hardbodied young man fanned out, their faces radiant and their still-exposed cocks stiff with racial hatred and malicious glee.  Nobody felt the slightest need to tuck their swollen, engorged members back into their pants, no one had the slightest trace of self-consciousness.  On the contrary, it bound them even closer.

None of them were fools; they all knew their actions were illegal and considered reprehensible by society.  But neither laws nor societies were perfect.  Both were capable of errors.  Every white man in that blood-soaked building was devoutly convinced that he was not only correcting a major error, but that the purgation of such a base, corrupted form of the human species was a crucial duty—one so important to their existence as true men that it demanded consecration with semen.

Mike went to the storeroom with Jack as the thick tread of Pete’s knee-high camo hunting boots rang echoingly on the iron stairs.  Dan headed towards the lower cells but before he reached hem, he was halted by Pete’s words from above.

“Hey, Sheriff!” the young, but already experienced killer called out, “Don’t bother getting’ any down there.  I got two big ol’ black bucks up here that look up to the job.  I’m sendin’ one down.”

After a few muffled but sharply-barked commands, a nigger tremulously descended the stairs, its eyes wide with fear.  It had a muscled, well-toned body and despite being utterly limp, it was obviously sporting major tackle.  The hardbodied Lieutenant leaned over the railing and grinned.  “The other one looks just like it—bet they’re outta the same litter!”

At that, the remaining Aryans in the hall began hooting and catcalling.  The spade shrank back in terror.  Dan sneered and strode brusquely towards it, clamping his powerful hand around its thick muscled bicep and manhandling it towards the bottom floor of cells.  “Get over here, you sack of shit,” he snarled, and pointed to a dangling ape with an abdomen so severely damaged it had practically been disemboweled. 

He unholstered his service revolver and place the barrel flush with the coon’s skull.  “When the meat hits the floor, you’re gonna drag it outside to the van.  I’m comin’ with ya the entire way.  Listen up, you worthless cockroach—you try anything, you drop the meat, you so much as look at me or any other white man, I’m gonna do the world a favor and empty your fucking skull of whatever wad of diseased tissue it uses for a brain.”

He spoke calmly and coolly, his voice even and his tone level.  It was somehow more terrifying than if had been screaming and the darkie responded by pissing itself.

“Fucking sub-human garbage,” Dan muttered, wrinkling his nose at the sour, acrid odor, “Can’t even be house-trained.  Gonna make you clean that up once you’re done with the bodies,” he growled at the trembling nigger.  “Hell, I might even make you lick it up, just for the laughs.”  His handsome face twisted into a malicious smile as he envisioned the suffering the muscled black youth could be forced to endure—but then reality set in and his face became wry.

“Of course, it all depends on how long you survive.  Maybe someone else will be cleaning up your piss—and your blood.”

The body at the far end began to jerk and twitch as the barbed wire noose that help it aloft began to be unmoored.  Pete called down, “Hey, Sheriff?  Gonna need another one after all.  This fuck ain’t strong enough to both lift the meat and untwist the wire.” 

The clank of a cell door opening was followed by a brisk series of barked orders.  “Over there!  Move!  Grab the wire and lift.”  There was a momentary pause and then Pete’s voice came again, not harsh and demanding, but with an ice-cold matter-of-fact tone.  “Grab that barbed with your bare monkey paws and lift, you motherfucking jigaboo, or I’m gonna gut you like a deer and jack off while I watch you try to keep your bowels inside you.”  Sounds of misery permeated down as the corpse rose a few inches, shuddered for a minute, then fell suddenly, hitting the concrete floor with a wet splat.

“Go get it, boy,” Jack told the coon.  He kept a bead on it as it hesitantly approached the carcass, too emotionally traumatized to do more than blubber and moan as it mindlessly obeyed.   It bent down and reached under the corpse’s arms.

“Not like that, boy, not like that,” Dan said.  The Aryans gathered around it, grinning.  “Best do as he says,” Frankie warned, giving the spade a gentle nudge with his steel-toed combat boot that barely even fractured a rib.

“Grab it by the wire and drag it out,” Dan said calmly.  The nigger looked at the barbed wire, then down at its own palms, then turned a completely blank stare on Dan.

As if on cue, a commotion from above had increased in volume enough to be clearly heard now, with Pete snarling, “I don’t care how much your fuckin’ ape paw is bleeding!  Here—”  There was a wet cracking sound, reminiscent of the snapping of a fresh green twig.  It was instantly followed by a shriek, cut off abruptly by a thick, meaty slap.  “Shaddup,” Pete growled menacingly, “Or I’ll break something worse than your fuckin’ pinkie.  Get back to work, monkey.”

Dan returned the coon’s stare.  “Your kind can only learn through pain.  And the next time you look a white man in the face, I’ll have nails driven into your eyes—unless, of course, something worse is already happening you.  Heh!”   

Tears welling in its eyes, the jigaboo grabbed the barbed wire noose and began to drag the corpse.  Almost at once, its hands began to bleed.  It stopped for a moment, bleating in pain, but Dan got it moving again with a swift kick to the ass from his steel-toed boot.

In the time it took for yard ape to haul the meat out and return, a second body dropped from above, accompanied by the agonized mewling of the monkeys.  In this way it progressed, taking twenty minutes to clear the upper tier.  The lower was done in fifteen because it wasn’t necessary to raise the dangling coons to untie them.  By the time it was over, the bodies had been cleared.  Three niggers stood in the middle of the room, moaning in fear and pain, the palms of their hands shredded to hamburger.

“Housecleaning’s done,” Dan said with a cheerful smile, “Time to have some fun.  You ready, Mike?”

“Yeah, I am,” Mike replied, stepping aside to show what he and Jack had created.  It was a harness consisting of four electrical lines wired into a set of battery jumpers.  It was connected to the overhead power cables via what looked like a dimmer switch.  Even Jack looked impressed.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” he asked.

“Worked as a trainee electrician for about six months,” Mike said nonchalantly, “Then I found out the guy teachin’ me was a half-Jew.  Jumped him in the dark one night and fractured his kike skull.  Last I heard, he was in a coma—never went back.”

“Go ahead and pick your ape,” Dan said.  “No point in auctioning them off, they ain’t worth nothing,” he added with a chortle.  Mike strolled over to the quivering trio of coons, the tread of his heavy engineer boots echoing in the concrete expanse.

“This one,” he said, nodding towards a lithe young porch monkey with a swimmer’s build.  The moment it was selected, it began to gibber in terror and back away.  Mike grabbed a zip tie from his utility belt.

“Here, someone help me snag this coon,” Mike called.  Ed was closest; he rounded on the nigger and sucker-punched it so hard, it was too busy spitting out its teeth to object to or even notice Mike binding its hands behind its back.  It wasn’t until he began to frog-march it over to the harness that it began to shriek in abject fear.

“Fuckin’ howler monkey,” Mike growled as he secured to a metal post by looping a second zip tie through the one on the nigger, then around the post. 

“Now we gotta wire it up,” Mike instructed, raising his voice over the jigaboo’s cries.  It wasn’t necessary for long, though; the spade’s voice suddenly cracked, leaving it emitting a frantic wheeze.

Mike continued, “It’s like the electric chair—ya need one connection at the head and another below the heart.  So—here.”  He clamped the red cables to the nigger’s earlobes, then with a vile grin, clamped the black ones onto its balls.

“You ready, ya fuckin’ scum?” Mike snarled as he picked up the dimmer.  “Y’know,” he said, pausing and turning to Dan with a playful smirk, “Seems to me the state owes us somethin’ for all this.  After all, this motherfucker woulda ended up in the chair someday anyways.  Think of how much money we’re savin’ ‘em but goin’ ahead and taking the coon out now!”

Then he flipped a switch on the bottom of the dimmer.  Even at the lowest setting, nigger moaned and went rigid.  Mike gave the knob a vicious twist.

“URK!” the darkie spat out.  Its lean body, slick with sweat, suddenly jerked into a rigidity so severe that it rose up onto its toes, its spine curving back in an arc.  Its eyes rolled back into its head, leaving only the bulging whites.

“Aw, fuck yeah,” Hank said, stepping forward and beating his meat.  “Ya likin’ that white lightnin’, nigger?” he sneered.  Jack stepped forward, as did Pete, both of them jacking their rods.  Soon all of them were standing around, jeering and catcalling.  Only Dan held back, as befit his position of authority—but it didn’t stop him from stroking his own powerful weapon.

“Fry, you goddam black scum,” Mike roared, jerking the dial up to two-thirds of the way while pounding his shaft.

The effect was immediate.  The coon pissed itself, the hot salty fluid an excellent conductor of electricity down its spasming legs.  Hemorrhages began to appear in the whites of its eyes and a thick, slimy trail of foam exuded from between teeth that were relentlessly clamped down on its tongue.

“Burn in hell, ya fuckin’ subhuman jigaboo!” Jack shouted, his cruelly handsome face contorted with a blend of racial hatred and a triumphant bloodlust that could only be sanctified by a release of semen. The only way of combatting the racial evil on the spiritual level was by repeated offerings of potent seed of the True White Man.

“Do it, man,” Pete gasped, obviously as close to the brink of orgasm as everyone else was, “Smoke that nigger fuck!”

Mike didn’t need to be told. He cranked the power to full and fried the monkey to a crisp.

The trickle of foamy drool became a torrent.  It shuddered in violent convulsions, its lean, chimp-like body sweating and thrashing.  Blood spewed from its eyes and ears.  Suddenly, with a violent thrust of the hips, its dangling cock rose straight up and ejaculated with explosive force.  The nigger probably would have enjoyed it if its brain hadn’t been boiling inside its own skull.

However intense its deathload was, though, it was utterly lost in the deluge of white boy cum that immediately followed.

Surprisingly, it was Dan who led the way.  “Aw, fuck,” he grunted, “Fuckin’ nigger punk getting’ what it deser—aw, fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!”  Even though he was standing some distance away, the long, ropy strand of spunk geysering from his cock managed to spatter Jack’s green Doc Martens.

Mike, having switched off the power, let fly next as the dead ape slumped to the floor, followed by Pete, whose hot, milky sperm splashed all over the dead coon’s flat belly and trickled down its abdomen.

Frankie and Hank shot simultaneously, their thick spunk coating the nigger’s feet.  Jack was more vocal than the others.

“Ya liked that, ya dead piece a’ shit?” he jeered, furiously cranking his shaft, “That’s what white fuckin’ power feels like yeah?  Too much for you, ya worthless coon!  You can’t take real white power!  Can’t take—oh, fuck—can’t take my—fuck!  Yeah, white power, bitch.  White—gah, FUCK!!!—white fuckin’ power!!!”  As he spewed his hot potent manseed, Hank joined him almost soundlessly, as if Jack’s release had given him permission to unload as well.

For several minutes, the only sounds in the abandoned jail were the gasping of the Aryans, catching their breath, and the subdued whimperings of the niggers.  The stench of cremated coon pervaded the room; it had a sickly-sweet smell, like overcooked pork.

As the group of brutal killers regained their composure, Dan spoke up.  “Hope you boys didn’t completely empty your nutsacks,” he said with a wicked grin, “There’s plenty more niggers left needing a good baptism in White Power.  Anyone got any ideas for these two?”  He nodded at the two spades standing by the staircase, their shredded hands still oozing blood.

“Aw fuck yeah,” Pete growled, “I wanna teach that one a lesson.”  He nodded at the taller of the two, which immediately started sobbing.  Edging back into the corner, it pissed itself in terror.  Pete sneered.  “I had a dog that I couldn’t housebreak.  Had to put it down, just like I’m gonna do to you, fuckhead.  Any of you gents wanna help me out and hold it down while I show it who’s boss?”

Mike and Frankie stepped forward.  Grabbing the gibbering, terrified ape by its arms, they dragged it into the far corner.  Pete followed, slipping his hunting knife from its sheath and holding it so that its nine-inch blade of carbonized steel glittered in the light.

In the meantime, Jack’ voice rang out.  “I got dibs on the other one.  Fuck, my balls ain’t drained at all.  Ed, you and Hank, bend it over that table there; I gotta go get somethin’.”  The coon squalled like a money in pain as the hardbodied Aryans, their long cocks still hard and dripping, manhandled it over to one of the metal tables and bent it over.  It was still struggling as Jack reappeared from the storeroom holding a flat screwdriver with an eight-inch shank.

Dan held back, stroking his shaft, enjoying the cruel creativity of the younger men.  He liked that they were self-starters and needed no guidance from him in these matters.  He spent a moment observing Jack.

The young skinhead was speaking to Hank and Ed.  “Y’all ever try nigger pussy?  They’re all fuckin’ fags, so their holes get reamed out.  Watch this.”  He jammed his massive rod up the jigaboo’s ass with a single brutal thrust; its agonized scream spiraled up into an octave usually reserved for sopranos, making the vicious racist grin in triumph.

“Aw, fuck yeah, take it all, ya goddam black cunt!  That white boy meat hurts, don’t it?  That’s how you know you got a real man inside ya, not just another monkey!”  As his enormous cock plunged balls-deep into the helpless coon, both Ed and Hank laughed brutally.  Still holding the ape down with one hand each, they used their free hands to slap their erect dicks in its face, smearing their thick oozing precum on its lips and in its eyes.

In the far corner, Pete slowly approached the horrified coon being pinioned by Mike and Frankie.  “Hey, boy,” he said gently, a slight smile on his face as sadism lit his pale blue eyes with a frightening glitter, “Remember how I toldja I was gonna gut ya like a deer?  I changed my mind.  Deer are noble animals; yer just a porch monkey.  I’m gonna gut ya like a pig, har!”  Without a warning, he rammed his blade into the nigger’s belly up to its hilt.

“GACKGH!” the yardape gurgled as nine inches of hardened steel sliced through its guts like they were wet paper.  “Goddam, yeah!!!” Mike cried, precum oozing from his stiff hog in a steady stream, “Teach that stupid fuck a lesson it won’t forget!”

Getting up close, Pete began sawing upwards, cutting the spade open from the navel to the base of the sternum.  He pulled the knife out; grabbing the cunt by the back of its neck, he forced its head down and wiped its blood off on its own nappy hair, then stepped back and began to masturbate.

“You can let it go,” he said.  Frankie and Mike immediately began beating off.  The coon gasping and gurling, looked own as its intestines began to spill out of the seven-inch gash in its belly.  Looking back up at Pete in abject horror, it clutched its hand over the wound in a desperate and useless attempt to keep its guts inside its abdomen.

“Ya gotta do better than that, nigger!” Frankie jeered, ginning in manic bloodlust, “Lookit—some of ya is still oozin’ out!”

 Back in the center of the room, Jack was still assraping the other coon.  “Goddam it,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “I told y’all all these fuckin’ nigs take it up the ass.  This one’s already startin’ to get loose on me.  You boys know how make nigger ass pussy tight again?  Ya gotta do it manually.  Here, I’ll show ya.”

Putting one hand on the back of the monkey’s head, he forced it down onto the table.  He took the screwdriver in the other hand and started shoving it into the pigfuck’s ear.

Slowly.  Very slowly.

Its screaming became almost unendurable as its eardrum was punctured, but once the steel shaft began to grind through the middle ear, the ape’s vertigo increased to the point that it couldn’t scream anymore.  It could only retch and vomit, its hard, muscled body thrashing in unimaginable agony.

“That’s it!” Jack cried, “Work my shaft, ya fuckin’ nigger!  You know you want my load, ya goddam faggot coon—fuckin’ milk it out as you die!”

Even though he was inching the screwdriver into its cranium, it didn’t take long to reach the point where Jack wasn’t able to inflict any more pain—there are no nerve endings inside the brain.  Jack still hadn’t cum yet, though; he wasn’t gonna let it go till he did.  He had only one option left.

He began to skullfuck the coon with the screwdriver, brutally and ruthlessly reaming the steel shank inside its head, scrambling its cerebellum into mush.

Back across the room, Pete was close to orgasm and the monkey was close to death.  As it bled out, it began to weaken.  It sank to its knees, then seemed to lose the strength to keep holding its innards in.  Its hands fell to its sides and immediately its intestines fell out in a thick, ropy pile of guts, accompanied by a thick, viscous splat.  It looked up at Pete, its mouth gaping, an agonized, pleading look in its eyes—and that was all it took.

“Fuckin’ worthless piece a’ monkey meat—aw, fuck! FUCK!  FUCKIN’ DIE, YA GODDAM NIGGER!!!”

His first jet of semen shot directly into the coon’s open mouth.  It was instantly followed by Mike’s, then Frankie’s—the latter hitting its eyes while Mike spilled his seed into its exposed and newly-vacated abdominal cavity.  The ape died in a shower of sperm, its last sight on earth that of the hate, rage and lust in the faces of the white men who’d killed it, just because they could.

Jack unloaded as he angled the screwdriver down and destroyed the monkey’s brain stem.  It began to convulse violently, its firm, hard body thrashing and kicking.  “Yeah!  Yeah!  Fucking die on my dick, jigaboo!  Take this white load and die!” 

As Jack’s shaft erupted deep in the nigger’s guts, both Ed and Hank blew thick wads of white boy cum into its face.  At the last moment, Dan stepped up.  As his orgasm built, he looked over at the coons still locked in the cells.  “This is what happens to coon who set foot in white country.  This—aw, fuck—this is why we don’t have a nigger problem ‘round here.” 

He pried the dying spade’s mouth open and shoved his massive tool down its throat.  “Take it, ya worthless jigaboo!  Swallow my cum, ya subhuman ape!”  As he unloaded down its throat, he grabbed the screwdriver from Jack and stabbed the black fuck in the back of the neck, repeatedly severing its spinal cord.  The nigger skidded into the cold screaming vortex of death with the salty taste of a white man’s semen in its mouth. 

The Sheriff, his cock still dripping, strode over to the switch that controlled the cell doors.  “All right, boys, warm-up is over,” he announced, “It’s time to hunt some coons!”  He threw the switch, opening the cells at once.  Whooping and cheering, the hyper-sexed skinheads dashed into the lower cells while Pete and Dan, smirking with evil pleasure, mounted the stairs to roust out the three niggers still left on the upper tier.

At the far end of the upper catwalk, two of the spades were huddled against the far wall, trembling in terror.  The cops disregarded them; their objective for the moment was to force the monkeymeat downstairs into the killing pit.  But one was still in its cell; they both entered to get it out.

This one looked younger than the others; it must have been about seventeen or eighteen, but it didn’t appear to be that old.  It was curled into a fetal position in a corner of the cell, whimpering and crooning to itself.

“Goddamit,” Pete muttered, “Looks like this one’s blown a fuse.  Ain’t gonna be any fun.”

“No, it isn’t,” Dan agreed grimly, “It’s not gonna give any sport at all.  Might as well off it now.”

If the yardape heard its death sentence, it didn’t react.  It didn’t react at all—until Dan and Pete started kicking to it death.

Dan led the way, slamming his combat boot down into its face, stomping its teeth down its throat.  Next, he transferred his attention to its nose, grinding it brutally under the thick tread of his sole.

The muscle-bound young Lieutenant didn’t hesitate to join in.  He drove his knee-high hunting boot into the coon’s crotch with vicious force.  The jigaboo had done nothing during all this but try to curl up in a tighter ball, but Pete’s next move changed that.  He stepped on its black balls, crushing them into the concrete floor with such relentless power that they ruptured, spurting out their contents like crushed grapes.

The nigger let out a piercing, agonized screech that sounded utterly inhuman—the sound of an animal in terrible suffering.  “Aw, fuck yeah!” Pete cheered, the bleating of the darky making his dick go hard.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Dan grinned.  “Let’s finish this scumfuck off and get back to the fun downstairs.”

It took less than three minutes to kill the nigger.  Pete’s lace-up camo boots rose and fell on its midsection, imprinting deep bruises on its belly as he stomped it so hard, he tore its intestines and stomach and ruptured its liver.  Dan continued to focus on its head, his hard-soled boots shattering its jaws and cheekbones and so utterly destroying the orbits of its eyes that the latter organs collapsed back into its sinuses.  They alternated brutal kicks to its flanks, each one rewarded with the erotic crunching of breaking ribs.

By the time they were done, both sadistic killers were completely rock-hard again.  The young porch monkey was so mangled that it wasn’t even recognizable as being primate; even dental records wouldn’t have helped.  Both of its lungs had been so riddled with bone shards from its ribs that they collapsed. As Dan and Pete watched with intense satisfaction, it convulsed violently and expelled its final breath in an agonized cloud of blood and foam that erupted from the hamburger that had once been its face.  Its useless life ended on the cold concrete in a puddle of its own blood and stinking piss.

As Pete left the cell and confirmed that the other two coons had already fled downstairs, Dan sneered as the quivering corpse.  “Fuckin’ yardape,” he muttered, “Deserved every bit of what you got for comin’ onto my turf.”  He turned and followed Pete to the lower level.

From then on, the situation devolved into an extended testosterone-soaked bloodbath.

Mike and Jack had cornered one coon near the staircase; as it held up its arms in a pathetic attempt at self-defense, they repeatedly stabbed it.  Its hands were already slashed to useless ribbons, and it was screaming and begging—until Mike got a lucky blow in to its throat.  It gagged and made a loud sound like it was blowing a raspberry, but it was the sound on a dying ape choking on its own blood.  As it spat a thick, coppery spray, Mike and Jack stepped back, cheering and jacking. 

The nigger sank to its knees.  “Feel it, motherfucker!” Mike yelled at it, “Feel what White Power really means, fuckface!”

“Aw, fuck, take it, ya nigger cunt,” Jack moaned, sweating and beating off, “Take my pure white load, ya—fuck!  Yeah, fuck!”

The spade looked up, despair and agony written large on its simian countenance, as both the Aryan shot searing loads of their potent white seed all over its face.  Then it slumped to the ground, just another pile of jigaboo meat covered in cum.

Frankie, Ed, and Hank had trapped another pair.  The coons were huddled up against a wall, with the boys forming a sort of semi-circle around them, taunting and jeering at their subhuman prey.  Both nig-nogs were in tears.  Suddenly, the one on the left tried to make a break for it.

The boys were prepared; they’d been waiting for this.  All three were armed with the wire-wrapped boards.  The two closest—Frankie and Hank—went at it like a moving piñata as Ed threatened the other.  They only got two blows in before it rejoined its companion against the well.

The three skinheads traded a salacious look amongst themselves; as they did, their thick, vein-wreathed cocks began to throb and swell visibly.  A prurient leer twisted Ed’s hard face.

“C’mon, men,” he growled throatily, “I think it’s about time these dumbass yardapes learn what happens when they cross paths with real White Men.”

“Hell yeah,” Hank replied, massaging his erect tool and looking the closest coon directly in the face, “You ready to die, monkeyboy?  Fuck no, you ain’t ready for this shit.  Yer stupid little ape brain can’t imagine how fuckin’ bad this is gonna hurt—we’re just gonna hafta show ya.”

And with that, all three Aryans waded in, swinging their improvised bats.  For a solid three minutes, the large concrete hall echoed with the thick, gruesome splattering sound of barbed-wire-wrapped wood slamming into naked flesh and ripping it open, accompanied by a rising crescendo of shrill screams of nigger agony. 

But only for about three minutes—then the screaming began to fade, as the coons’ throats were torn open.  They slowly sank to the floor, gurgling and choking, and the boys began to unload.  They didn’t even have to touch themselves to do it; as nigger blood began to flow around their boots, their orgasms were not only spontaneous but simultaneous.

There were also so intense that each of the Aryans had to reach out his hand to his brother next to him to steady himself.  With their other hands, they were still beating the spades.  Long after the monkeys had died, they were still being showered with cum and blows.

In the meantime, Dan noticed the Pete had two jigaboos to himself on the other side of the room.  The sadistic young Lieutenant noticed his boss on grinned at him.

“Hey, Sheriff,” he called, “These two say they’re brothers.  They look like littermates to you?”

Responding with a cruel leer, Dan stepped towards them.  “Well, fuck,” he drawled, “They all look alike anyway.  That’s why non one’s gonna miss ‘em—they’re like fuckin’ cockroaches.  All of them the same, and always too fuckin’ many of ‘em.”

“So we’re kinda like heroes for exterminatin’ as many as we can?” Pete asked with mock innocence.

“Yeah, we sure fuckin’ are,” Dan responded.  “Now show me what you can do with the little one there.  You’ve been working out; I wanna see what kinda progress you’ve made.”

Pete didn’t need to be told twice.  With a huge grin of sadistic lust, he reached out and grabbed the younger coon around the neck and deadlifted it straight up.

Instantly the nigger pup’s eyes, already bulging in fear, grew so wide it looked like they were about to fall out.  The young ape clawed wildly at Pete’s hands as its feet kicked frenetically a good eight inches above the concrete floor. 

The other nigger began screaming.  “Deshanté!” it bawled, “Put ‘im down!”  It lunged, but Dan stopped its forward momentum with a single, powerful blow to the face.  The porch monkey retired back to the wall to consider its broken nose and watch its brother get slowly strangled to death.

It took a while for the young one to die, but, as Dan noted approvingly, Pete showed no sign of any strain as he held it aloft and squeezed its worthless life out.  After two minutes, the young darky began to gag and drool.  Its defense attempts became slower and less coordinated, the thrashing of its legs became more spasmodic.

And after spurting out a quart of piss, its nigger dick began to swell.

Dan noticed.  “Hey, Pete, the fuckin’ retard likes it.  Look at its goddam dork.”

“Yeah?” Pete asked and glanced down.  He then stared it straight in the eyes.  “Well, it ain’t gonna like this­—but I goddam sure am!”

With an evil grin that twisted his handsome face into a vicious snarl, the hardbodied Lieutenant clenched his hands.  Within seconds, the loud crunching, crinkling sound associated with crushing a foam cup was audible—but what had been crushed was the nigger’s trachea.

The coon’s eyes rolled back in its head, showing nothing but the bloody whites.  Thick white foam bubbled over its swollen lips.  Without warning, cum began to spill from its dick—not shooting out in a geyser but flowing out in a steady stream.

It was Pete who blew a ferocious geyser of sperm, triggered by the uncontrollably erotic sensation of killing a yardape with his bare hands.  He was only vaguely aware that the screaming of the dead monkey’s brother had intensified behind him, then subsided under the meaty sound of flesh impacting flesh.

Pete shuddered as his balls emptied, then dopped the dead jigaboo.  It hit the ground like a sack of dirty laundry.  The Lieutenant turned to enjoy the view of Sheriff Dan beating the other spade to death.

The powerful older man had the ape pinned to the floor under him, his fist rising and falling like a piledriver and delivering damn near the same amount of force.  Under the brutal, relentless rain of blows, the coon was barely clinging to consciousness.  As Dan’s huge fist slammed into its face, its chest, its belly and its balls, it could only bleat in helpless agony like a sheep being butchered.

Each time his hand made contact with the niggermeat, Dan’s cock—already so engorged it was frightening—spat out hot, glistening precum.  But the strain of holding back his violence-induced orgasm was building to the point of being uncontrollable.  After a few minutes, the Sheriff reached the end of his tether and stood up, even though the nig-nog wasn’t dead yet.

His face terrifying with hate and bloodlust, Dan raised his muscled leg, holding his combat boot over the prone porch monkey.  “Die, you worthless piece of shit,” he screamed at it, “Die, nigger motherfucker!!”

He slammed his boot down hard twice in rapid secession on the coon’s neck, immediately crushing its throat and snapping the cervical vertebrae.  The ape’s smooth, muscular body jerked violently and blew a thick deathload all over its own belly—but it wasn’t anywhere near as thick or as large as the load Dan blessed it with, anointing the dead pile of nigger shitmeat with the righteous potent sperm of a true White Man.

As he stood, gasping and sweating, Dan cold hear the sounds of slaughter and lust dying away round him.  Turning back, he saw the Aryans, grinning as they caught their collective breath.  Soon the only noise in the room was the dripping of blood and the occasional thumping of a monkey’s limb as its mangles nervous system fired a mindless signal down its spinal cord.

Then, from off to one side, came a faint whimper.  Everyone, to a man, turned to see the remaining three niggers crouching in the corner under the spiral staircase.

“Aw, man, I forgot about them!” Jack said with an eager grin, “Hey, boys, the fun ain’t over yet!”

He took a step towards the cowering trio only to be blocked by Dan.

“Not so, fast, mister!” the Sheriff barked.  For a moment the two leaders stood in a face off, scowling.  But Dan’s innate authority and his visibly larger cock, still throbbing and oozing, patently reinforced his status as Dominant Alpha.  Jack wasn’t happy, but he backed down.

“They need to work,” Dan said.  “They were bred to be slaves, right?  So—” here he turned to the terrified apes “—get to work, asswipes.  You two, drag this fucking meat out and dump it in the vans.  Jack and Pete, you two oversee them.  You know what to do if they start to get uppity—no mercy, no second chances.” 

As the gibbering coons shuffled out of the corner, Jack, mollified by his own resumption of authority, began to bully them into corpse removal while Pete stood guard, fingering the trigger of his shotgun.  Dan turned to the third nigger.  “Hey, Mike, take this one into the store rom and make it fill a bucket and get a mop.  Then put it to work cleaning the floor.  Doesn’t have to be perfect; I just don’t want the smell to attract vermin.”

He paused, then added with a grim chuckle, “Room’s too full of fuckin’ vermin as it is.  At least we taught it a lesson.”

It took over half an hour to clear the old jail of dead jigaboos and their blood (and piss).  When it was over, Dan, Pete, the skinheads and the three pieces of slavemeat were gathered outside around the vans.  Dan had already shut down the generator inside the Poorhouse; it wasn’t needed any longer.  Dawn was breaking; the sky a bright gray with a piercing golden glow to the east.

It was going to be a beautiful day.

“Pete, you cuff those two; I’ll get this one,” Dan said; no one needed to ask to whom he was referring.  “One in each van.”

That done, he gave the order for everyone to pile into the same vans in which they’d come.  “You already got your bike out at the quarry?” he asked Pete.  The Lieutenant, who’d recently purchased a motorcycle nodded.  “Good,” the Sheriff replied, “I’ll take the lead.”

The vans pulled out in single file.  After twenty minutes on the county road, the lead van swung off onto a rutted, barely passable gravel road that wound through the hills.  At one point, it pulled away onto a very faint and obviously recent dirt track that detoured through the woods before re-connecting with the gravel path.  Fifteen minutes later, they came to a halt at the edge of a cliff that towered over a hundred feet above a water-filled quarry.

They all exited the vans—except the cuffed coons still trapped in the back with the apemeat.  “Ok, you know what to do,” Dan told Pete, who nodded.  “Sorry you’re gonna miss this part, but duty is duty.”

“No problem,” Pete replied with an endearing grin, “I’m sure you’ll give me plenty of chances to make up for it in the future.”  As he sauntered off to his previously-stashed bike, Dan turned to the skinheads.  “He’s going back for the truck.  We’re gonna need transportation after we dumped these in the quarry.”

Frankie peeked over the edge of the cliff.  Despite the blackness of the water indicating its prodigious depth, he remained uncertain.  “You sure it’s deep enough?” he asked, “This looks like a good make-out spot.  Bet there’s plenty of kids up here fucking on weekends.”

“The water’s over three hundred feet deep here,” Dan replied, “And no one comes up here anymore.  Remember my detour through the woods?  That was around a place where the gravel got washed out.  The road is blocked.  I made the detour myself, and I’ll cover it when we’re done.”

“These fuckin’ monkeys breed like roaches,” Jack pointed out.  “Whatcha gonna do if relatives of these ones come snoopin’ about?”

Dan’s hard, handsome face twisted with a slight sneer.  “There’s plenty of room down there for more niggers,” he said, his quiet voice alive with menace, “C’mon, lets dump this pile of scumshit.”

Dan, Jack, and Mike each opened the driver’s doors of the vans; all three had been left running.  It was an easy matter to pop the gearshift into neutral.  It was also easy enough to push them to the edge; there was a slight downhill slope.

Just was the vans began to tip, faces appeared simultaneously at the rear windows.  It was clear that the trapped live coons knew something was happening, even if they didn’t know what, and the look of utter terror on their faces was all that was needed to stoke the racist killers’ bloodlust to a new frenzy.

As the vans tumbled over and hit the water, every one of the men, Dan included, stood at the cliff edge and beat off.

The weight of the engines pulled the vans under nose first, tilting the rear doors up.  Even though they were over a hundred feet away, the pleading, tear-stained faces of the jigaboos were clearly visible, pressed up against the windows.

‘Fuckin’ die, ya worthless scum!” Hank shouted as his racial sadism boiled up; soon the catcalls from the others proved he wasn’t alone.

“Does it hurt, ya nigger cunt?  That’s what White Power feels like, bitch!”

Even Dan joined in.  ‘Fuckin’ drown like rats in a trap, you disgusting shits!” he called out, Fuckin’ die, fuckin’ yeah!  Yeah!!

They all unloaded at the same time, a thick pearly rain of Caucasian seed splattering across the surface of the water.  Dan’s massive, potent load hit the window of the left-most van—as the rear filled with water, the last glimpse the dying coon had of the surface world was smeared with hot white cum.

Then water filled its mouth and its lungs. It kicked and thrashed for a few moments, foam sewing from its mouth and nose, before it drowned like a dog, helpless, terrified and alone in a pile of dead bodies.

As the stepped back from the cliff, Dan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the still-leaking cum from his cock.  The Aryans hadn’t thought to provide themselves with such a convenience, but they didn’t care.  They shoved their oozing dicks back inside their pants, except for Mike, who remembered he had a tissue.

Just like Dan, he cleaned himself.  It wasn’t obvious that he was beginning to idolize the powerful Alpha, but the signs were there for those who know what to look for.

And Dan did.

For now, they all had to wait for Pete to get back.  Dan nodded to Mike, and they stepped aside, talking quietly as a sense of post-coital emptiness began to fill others. 

Large rocks were strewn across the site.  Jack sat heavily on one.  It had been fun, but it was over.  He was already feeling dejected, with a yearning to get home.  After all, there were plenty of niggers back there that needed offing.  And kikes and faggots and chinks, too.  Some many fucking cunts that needed to learn the true meaning of White Power.

The thought perked him up.  “Any of you boys got a smoke?” he asked.  Ed gave a cigarette and as he lit it up, Jack leaned back and contemplated the future with a smile that boded pure evil.